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He nodded at Freckles.
‘Evening, Freck.’
‘Ready?’ said Freckles.
‘As always.’
Martin Thompson picked up the holdall and opened it. ‘Here’s your change of clothes for later,’ he said, indicating a Tesco carrier bag. ‘And you’ll need these.’
He picked out three other carrier bags and handed them over. Each contained a pair of pink Marigolds, still in their plastic packets, and three new balaclavas.
‘You know the drill,’ said Martin. ‘Get yourselves gloved up before you touch the weapons.’
Each of the three pulled on a pair of the gloves.
‘Over the bottom of your sleeves,’ said Sick Sean to his brother, holding out a wrist. ‘Like I showed you.’
Once the gloves were on and the sleeves tucked in, Freckles produced a roll of duct tape and went from one to the other, taping the gloves in place.
‘That’s great, Sean,’ said Gerard, as casually as he could. He felt oddly talkative, and blurted out, ‘Feels a bit weird.’
His voice sounded as though it was coming out of someone else’s mouth, and for some reason a vision came to his mind: a trip to Barry’s in Portrush… What had he been? Seven? Eight? He’d got on the roller coaster, full of bravado, and then they’d locked the lap belt on, and there was no way off, and he’d pure near shit himself, and there was nothing to do but sit there and go with it and hope it wasn’t going to be too bad and just wait until it was all over because you can’t get off can’t get off can’t get off
‘You’ll get used to it,’ said Ciaran O’Brien, calmly. ‘It’ll keep the forensics off your hands. Unless you like the look of the H Blocks?’
The two new men chuckled. ‘Ah, leave him be,’ said Martin.
Nothing to do but go with it, and hope it’s not too bad.
Satisfied, Freckles stood to one side and the three men walked to the table. O’Brien picked up the AK, cleared it, then loaded a magazine and made it ready. He put the spare magazine into the inside pocket of his leather jacket. Gerard went to pick up the semi-automatic – it was a 9mm Browning Hi-Power – but Sean slapped his hand away. ‘Fuck off, that’s mine,’ he said, grabbing it, loading it and putting it into his waistband.
Gerard Casey picked up the revolver, and looked at it in disbelief.
It was a late-model Webley, liberated from an unfortunate British Army officer at some point in the previous half century.
Its wooden handle polished smooth by many hands.
Bad hands.
‘This looks like a fucking antique, so it does,’ he said. ‘You sure it’ll be okay?’
‘Better than an automatic,’ said his brother. ‘No chance of it jamming. Sure, it’ll blow that prod fucker’s brains out, I know that much. Make a hell of a fucking bang.’
O’Brien smiled wolfishly. ‘And a hell of a fucking hole in his head,’ he said. He pushed the Celtic mug across the old table. ‘You’d better load it.’
‘Is that all the bullets I get?’
‘If you need any more than that you’re a dead man,’ said O’Brien, flatly. ‘We’ll not be hanging around.’
Gerard Casey broke the pistol open and emptied the half-dozen shiny .38 brass cartridges into his gloved palm.
Trying and failing to hide the shaking of his hands, he slotted them slowly into the cylinder.
‘Where’s the car?’ said Sick Sean.
Martin picked up the phone and dialled a number; it rang once and was immediately answered.
‘Car,’ he said, and put the phone down. He turned to the three. ‘Be out front in five minutes, boys.’
Gerard looked at the pistol in his hands, and then slipped it into his waist band. He stared at the floor, not wanting to look around.
There was a knock on the door and then a voice through the wood: ‘Car’s out front, Marty.’
Gerard brought his head up.
Sean was staring straight into his eyes, and now he smiled.
‘Showtime,’ he said, his grin widening into a leer.
Gerard shivered. He had never until that moment realised just how evil his brother looked.
But there was no going back now.
12. (#ulink_8fd60f88-e87d-5545-874f-11588261f98c)
AT 18:00HRS, THE PARAS had conducted the shift change for the RUC crew, and now they were sitting in Springfield Road police station, drinking yet another round of Tetley teas.
Second lieutenant Guy de Vere reckoned he’d drunk half a dozen cups already that day, and not out of the dainty little Royal Doulton china teacups that his mother liked, but out of big black plastic Army mugs which each held about a pint. It was playing hell with his bladder.
Around him, the men were relaxing in the smoky warmth.
Mick Parry, an unlit B&H fag in one corner of his mouth, was telling one of the older Toms a filthy story about a girl he knew back in Wavertree.
Keogh and Morris were sucking Fox’s Glacier Mints and bickering good-naturedly over who was the better driver.
John Carr had his head buried deep in a dog-eared book.
‘What are you reading?’ said de Vere.
Carr held it up. ‘Chickenhawk,’ he said. ‘Robert Mason.’
‘The Vietnam book?’ said de Vere, unable to keep the note of surprise out of his voice.
Carr looked at him. ‘I might never have went to Eton, boss,’ he said. ‘But they do teach us to read, you know.’
‘I didn’t mean it like that,’ said de Vere. ‘And I didn’t go to Eton myself, either.’
‘Not posh enough?’ said Carr, with a grin. ‘The OC won’t let you in the Mess if he finds out.’
‘You read a lot of military history?’
‘A fair bit, aye.’
Pte Keogh leaned over. ‘Guess his favourite song, boss,’ he said.
‘No idea,’ said de Vere.
‘Dancing Queen,’ said Keogh, with a cackle. ‘By Abba.’
Carr grinned. ‘That’s a fucking good track, right enough,’ he said. ‘But let’s get one thing straight. My favourite song is actually Love Will Tear Us Apart.’
‘Joy Division?’ shouted one of the Toms, from across the room. ‘Bunch of poofs.’
‘Bollocks,’ said Carr. ‘It’s a fucking classic. Ian Curtis, a man gone too early. Brilliant band.’
‘I don’t think I…’ de Vere started to say, but Carr was away, singing the first few lines of the song.
‘Jesus,’ said Scouse. ‘Cover your ears, lads, what the fuck is that? Sounds like a ladyboy in distress.’
‘Get to fuck, Scouse,’ said Carr. ‘You know the birds love my singing. Gagging for it, once I start.’
‘Maybe that fat NAAFI bird up in Whiterock, mate, but no-one else,’ said Parry. ‘Oh yeah, that other fat bird in Palace Barracks.’
‘They all need loving, Scouse,’ said Carr. ‘And don’t get jealous. I’ve got a Readers’ Wives you can borrow later.’
‘Fuck off, you jock bastard!’ said Mick Parry, and the rest of the room fell apart.
De Vere smiled to himself: this was evidently a tight-knit bunch of blokes, high on morale and led by a pair of excellent NCOs. He’d begun the day feeling like the proverbial fish out of water but, to his amazement, he was already starting to feel accepted. In turn that felt like an enormous privilege.
He looked at his watch: 18:15hrs.
They were done for the day, bar the drive back to Whiterock, and he was just starting to think about getting back to his room, and writing that letter to his father to let him know how his first day had gone, when an RUC inspector stuck his head in and beckoned Parry outside.
A minute or two later, the Liverpudlian corporal returned.
‘Okay, guys, listen in,’ he said, looking at the blokes. ‘Get your kit on, and let’s get out to the vehicles. We’re not done yet after all.’
He came over to Carr and de Vere.
‘John, boss, they want us to do some extra VCPs in the Clonards,’ he said, with the air of a man who was entirely used to being fucked about by the Army, and could take more of it than they could ever dish out. ‘Down in the Lower Falls area. We’re gonna be out a bit later than we thought.’
‘Right-ho, Corp’l Parry,’ said the young officer, standing up. ‘Any specific reason?’
‘There’s something big going on, but they don’t share shit like that with the likes of us, do they? The RUC crew don’t know, neither.’
‘Thanks, Parry,’ said de Vere. He hesitated for a moment, and then dropped his voice and leaned in slightly. ‘It’s been a good day. You’ve been a great support.’
‘It’s not over yet, boss,’ said the corporal, with a broad smile. ‘Trust me, this bollocks can go on all night.’
Outside, the Toms were already waiting patiently next to the vehicles.
‘Listen in,’ barked Parry, and proceeded to give them a quick brief, pointing on his map to where they would set up the first VCP.
They would leave the RUC station and head along the Springfield Road into Kashmir Road, then right into Clonard Gardens, and finally into Clonard Street, facing towards the Falls Road.
They’d put the VCP in at the junction with Ross Mill Avenue and Clonard Street – a chokepoint that everyone had to pass through, if they were trying to cut out the Falls so as to avoid the nearby RUC station.
At 18:35hrs the vehicles rolled out of Springfield Road.
Five minutes later they were set up in the Clonards, and the VCP was operating.
13. (#ulink_d1810133-d394-500b-96f3-d55dca542cb5)
THE IRA HIT TEAM found a space in the row behind the Allegro, about six cars along to the right of the driver’s side and sitting between two other cars so that they would be shielded from Billy Jones’s view as he walked to the car.
The car park was poorly-illuminated, and the route to his vehicle kept him away from theirs, so there was no chance of him seeing them and spooking.
It was perfect, near-as.
Sick Sean Casey killed the engine and the lights, but left the key in the ignition. He rubbed his head – it was itchy under the hot, rolled-up balaclava – and took the pistol from his waistband. He hid it under his right leg, where he could get at it quick if needs be.
In the rear, Ciaran O’Brien absently patted the AK, which was lying on the seat next to him under a dark towel.
Gerard held the Webley up, staring at it in the low, orange light from the nearest lamp.
‘Put that fucking thing down, Gerard,’ hissed Sean.
If a chance RUC patrol or – God forbid – an undercover SAS team rolled into the carpark, just as Gerard was waving his frigging gun around like he’d just won it at the fair, the last thing the three of them would see was muzzle flash. Those fuckers were out there every day and every night, and if they saw a pistol in your hand it was game over.
No warning, no surrendering.
No second chances.
Murdering bastards. He looked out of the window and sighed. Be glad when this is fucking done.
Gerard slipped the revolver under his right leg like he’d seen his brother do and sat there, fingers rat-a-tat-tat drumming on his thighs.
Ten or fifteen minutes, and they would be moving.
This was the vulnerable time, the sitting and the waiting.
He leaned forward and clicked the radio on – quietly, quietly.
Some old song he didn’t know.
Something about fear, and guilt, and a fire.
He grimaced and clicked it off again.
