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‘Hey, leave it on,’ said O’Brien, leaning forward. ‘That’s Funeral Pyre. It’s a fucking good song. The Jam, was it? I remember when it come out.’
He whistled a bar or two of the tune.
Gerard Casey switched the radio back on, and said nothing.
Twenty years old, and about to make his name…
O’Brien grinned.
To be fair, he thought, he’d probably been like that the first time himself.
Actually, no, I fucking wasn’t. But my first really was a piece of piss. That fucking tout, strapped to the chair in that barn, crying and begging. With my old man watching.
It was eight or nine years ago now, but he remembered it well: the cold steel of the pistol in his hand, the muzzle to the guy’s elbows, then his knees, then his ankles.
Finally his temple.
Once the order was given, O’Brien had been careful to show no weakness, and no hesitation, even though he knew the guy, and his sons.
All the time, his da’ watching, expressionless: he could never have shown the old bastard up.
He leaned forward and squeezed Gerard’s shoulder.
‘You’ll be alright, Gerry,’ he said. ‘We’ll be in The Volunteer tonight and I reckon that Roslyn McCabe’ll have her knickers at her ankles for you, once she knows.’
Gerard looked over his shoulder and tried to smile. ‘You reckon?’ he said.
‘Definitely,’ said Sean. ‘Sure, I’ve fucked her sister, and the young one’s no better. Tiocfaidh ár lá, son. Now keep your eyes on that car.’
14. (#ulink_b828f677-dae5-5980-b24a-d8f2bae79c0d)
A LITTLE OVER A MILE due west, the Paras and their RUC attachment had plotted up in Clonard Street.
But whatever it was that had forced them to stay out later than expected, it hadn’t reached the Clonards.
They’d been in place for approximately fifteen minutes, but the area was as quiet as the grave.
So far they’d only had to deal with five or six cars.
Some had turned into Clonard Street and then into Odessa, blatantly avoiding the checkpoint, and, as he and John Carr stood beside the open door of Parry’s vehicle, a red Renault Trafic van did just that.
‘Doesn’t necessarily mean fuck all,’ said the corporal, out of the side of his mouth, from the vehicle commander’s seat. ‘All sorts of reasons people don’t want to get fucked about, boss. Might just want to get home quicker.’
Not for the first time that day, de Vere reflected on an unfortunate fact about the work they were doing.
Yes, they were making life harder for bad men. But they were making life harder for good men, too.
‘Not too static, boss,’ said Carr, and wandered off to the side of the road.
Stamping his feet in his boots to get some blood back into them, de Vere crossed to the opposite pavement, and took a moment to look around himself. He could just about make out his men in various doorways up and down the street, rifles at the ready, covering the VCP and the approaches. The dark made him uneasy: even now, a man might be hidden in some shadow with an Armalite into his shoulder.
But he knew that he was going to have to live with it.
Back in the middle of the road, the two RUC officers were leaning against their vehicle, their weapons held very casually, smoking.
Carr wandered over and nodded in the direction of the coppers.
‘They’ll probably get it if it’s coming, boss,’ he said, quietly. ‘Look at that one tabbing away. The end of his fag’s standing out like a bulldog’s bollocks, right in the middle of his swede. Plus their drills are shit. Standing out in the open, not moving around.’ He shook his head. ‘I suppose you cannae blame them, in a way. Same shit, day in, day out, year after year. Maybe anyone’d get complacent. Got to take your hat off to them, really. When they go home at night this disnae stop.’
Carr walked on, and de Vere watched the RUC men. It was true: the tips of their cigarettes were like bright red bullseyes in the dark street. He knew that many of the PIRA players regarded the local police as the true, traitorous enemy, the Brits being not much more than an inconvenience who would fuck off once the local opposition was scattered and broken.
Rather them than me, he thought, and immediately felt ashamed of himself.
Shaking that off, he stifled a yawn. He ached for the comfort, if you could call it that, of his room in Whiterock.
A hot shower, something to eat. His bed.
Maybe they’d finish before too long?
It was very quiet. He hoped so.
Not that it had been all that bad a day. The nervousness he’d felt that morning was gone.
Carr had been right: it was getting easier.
Good man, Carr.
The sort of man the British Army lived and died on.
15. (#ulink_2b5f0760-e0cd-5d11-9b3c-039a55bea02a)
NOT LONG AFTER six-thirty, Billy Jones Jnr handed over to the evening manager at Robinson’s, ran him through the stocktake and the till, and managed to have a few minutes in the back office with Colleen before he said goodbye.
Eventually, he walked her back to the bar, pulling on his adidas jacket, and put his foot on the brass rail.
‘It’s gonna get messy tonight,’ he said, raising his voice over the hubbub.
The place was already buzzing with several raucous Christmas office parties.
Girls with Santa hats on their heads, knocking back Malibu and Coke.
Lads with pints in hands and wandering eyes.
Wham! on the speakers.
Last Christmas.
A heart, given to someone special.
‘Shall I pick yous up at midnight, darlin’?’ he said.
‘Aye,’ said Colleen, with a cheeky grin and a twinkle in her eye. ‘Don’t be late, ’cos I have something for you.’
He blushed – stop blushing you eejit – and said, ‘Really?’
‘Uh huh,’ she said. ‘And I think you’ll like it.’
‘I’ll not be late then,’ he said, with a big smile.
A man appeared at his elbow waving a tenner, so Colleen broke off.
Billy zipped up his jacket and walked out of the pub, the smile still plastered across his face.
She was a rare one, alright. He couldn’t wait for midnight.
Five minutes later, hands thrust into his pockets against the cold, he reached the car park.
Jangling his keys.
He shivered. He knew the car would be bitterly cold inside – the heater was crap, the seats were plastic. Probably have to scrape the ice off first.
Still, only ten minutes and he’d be home and in front of the gas fire for his beans on toast or fish fingers and chips, or whatever his ma had in mind. Then he’d…
He became dimly aware of footsteps behind him, light and quick, and then – before he could turn to look – two things happened simultaneously.
There was a thump in his back – it felt like he’d been hit with a sledgehammer – and a deafening sound.
He knew right enough that it was gunfire – you didn’t spend twenty years in Belfast without recognising that sound – but he was confused because it sounded so close.
Shots always rang out somewhere over there, half a mile away. Not right next to you.
Didn’t they?
He realised that he was being pushed forwards, and then it happened again – the thump, the noise – and he staggered, felt the strength go from his legs.
There was pain too, now – real pain in his back, searing heat and stabbing sensations – and he couldn’t breathe, like he’d been badly winded.
He collapsed onto his knees.
Tried to stand up but couldn’t.
His head was spinning.
He fell forwards.
Somehow, he realised, he was now flat on the ground, his face pressed against the cold, wet tarmac.
Confusing.
What’s… How…?
The last thing that Billy Jones Jnr felt was something hot being pressed into the soft flesh behind his left ear.
Then nothing.
16. (#ulink_2aff1a81-c704-52d7-b74d-b0921ddd7551)
THE RED SIERRA nosed its way back towards the Falls Road.
At first, no-one said a word.
Gerard Casey was trembling with adrenalin, and an odd mixture of pride and shame, of happiness and grief.
He’d just killed an innocent young man, only a year older than himself.
So what the fuck did that make him?
But then, this was war, and he’d done it for the cause.
That, and Roslyn McCabe, and her knickers round her ankles…
Their route had taken them back along Great Victoria Street, passing by Robinson’s, and now they were in the evening traffic, heading north to join the Falls from the Divis Street end, well away from Springfield Road RUC.
Travelling slowly in the bumper-to-bumper flow, fighting the urge to overtake somehow, or turn off and take a quicker route.
In the cold night air, the sound of the three shots would have travelled a fair way.
Someone might already be kneeling over Billy Jones’ body.
Someone might have seen the red Sierra leaving the car park straight after the hit.
You just never knew how quick that someone could call in its description, or how quick the police and the Brits could react.
Their focus now was on ditching the car and getting it alight as soon as they were on safe ground.
A patch of scrubland off Glen Street.
The two gallon can of four-star in the boot, and a match.
Then pile into McKill’s.
Get the weapons back to Martin and Brian.
Strip.
Hand over their clothes for burning.
Dress.
