1979

by Val McDermid

  ‘Well, that’s shite for a start,’ Farquhar said. ‘The Boys’ Brigade, that’s a Protestant thing. You don’t get Catholics in the Boys’ Brigade, and you don’t get Protestants in the IRA.’

  ‘You know all about it, do you?’ Ding-dong challenged.

  ‘My dad’s in the Orange Lodge. I know what’s what.’

  ‘You’re wrong.’ Allie could hear Ding-dong’s frustration. ‘You know nothing. Terry grew up a Protestant in a Unionist part of town, that’s how he was in the BB. He came back here with his team three years on the trot. My mum and dad felt sorry for him, with the Troubles and all that. So they invited him to come over and go on holiday with us to the caravan at Maidens a couple of times. Terry and me, we’ve stayed pally all these years since. Then he got engaged two years ago to a Catholic lassie that he met at his work, and he got the crap beaten out of him by the guys in his own neighbourhood. He had to move out of the street where he’d lived all his days. But the Catholic community, they welcomed him in. He told me it made him realise it was his community, the Unionists, that were the problem. So he joined the IRA.’

  ‘So like I said, how come this is the first we’re hearing about this Terry?’ Malloch sounded both indignant and suspicious.

  ‘Never came up. Christ, Deke, you’re not my keeper. I don’t know half the guys you work beside or the ones you play golf with.’

  ‘Fair enough. So you think your man Terry could get us, what? Guns? Bombs?’

  ‘Only one way to find out,’ Ding-dong seemed nonchalant.

  ‘How?’ Danny said quietly.

  ‘Aye, away across to Belfast and ask him.’ Malloch ladled out the sarcasm again.

  ‘I could do just that.’ Ding-dong responded with defiance. ‘What? You think I couldn’t?’

  It was one of those cliff-edge moments. ‘We’d need money,’ Farquhar said, giving Ding-dong a chance to save face.

  ‘Well, we’re fucked then,’ Malloch said. ‘Youse all know I’m permanently skint.’

  Ding-dong pulled a face. ‘I’ve got a couple of hundred put by.’

  Farquhar scoffed. ‘That’s not going to get us far. What about you, Danny? You were quick enough to throw your hat in the ring. You gonnae put your money where your mouth is? Show you’re really on our team?’

  ‘I might be able to help,’ Danny said, appropriately hesitant. There was a pause. Allie could imagine their open-mouthed stares. What was Danny playing at? ‘I had a bit of luck on the Premium Bonds a while back. I’ve been waiting for the right thing to spend it on.’

  Allie closed her eyes. This was too far, too soon. How was it that apparently ordinary men could wind each other to this pitch over a couple of beers on a Friday night? Apart from anything else, they’d only just met Danny. How could they not suspect they were being set up? They were like children. Do you want to be in my gang? Do you speak fitba’?

  ‘So what are we waiting for?’ Malloch gave a throaty chuckle. ‘Are we going to be the kind of wankers who talk a great game then get stuck into making excuses? Or are we going to do something?’

  ‘Only you know the answer to that,’ Danny said. ‘I’m in if you are.’

  27

  The four men stopped making plans when their pizzas arrived and as soon as they’d wolfed them, Malloch insisted that they go back to his flat with a carry-out to continue their planning in private.

  All Allie could do was finish off her own calzone and head back to the horrible hotel. Before she’d even taken off her coat, she picked up the phone and dialled Danny’s room number. When the answering machine kicked in, she spoke tersely. ‘Call me as soon as you get in. I don’t care how late it is.’ She still couldn’t decide whether to applaud him for seizing the moment or berate him for his recklessness. An ‘I’ll show you all’ moment provoked, she was sure, by his anguish at what had passed between him and his mother.

  She poured herself a drink and got ready for bed. She picked up her book, but only managed a few pages before sleep overtook her and it slid from her hand.

  It was well after midnight when a noise woke Allie. It took her a dazed moment to realise it wasn’t the phone but a knocking on her door. She clambered out of bed, pulling on jeans and sweater, and headed for the door. ‘Who is it?’ she demanded. She might be groggy with sleep but that didn’t mean she had to be stupid too.

  ‘It’s me, Danny. Open up!’

  Allie let him in. He looked frozen, his face pink and pinched with cold. ‘Could you put the kettle on? It’s Baltic out there.’ She followed him in and plugged in the tiny kettle. ‘Jeez, those guys,’ he continued. ‘Talk about “light the blue touch paper and stand well clear.”’

  ‘I heard most of it. A contact in the IRA? And that Ding-dong? He just came out with it in front of you? When they’d only known you five minutes?’

  Danny shrugged. ‘I guess I was convincing. Or they’re so desperate to be the heroes of the revolution that they couldn’t resist the offer of a fighting fund.’ He grinned and sat down at the table, his hands under his armpits.

  ‘Oh yeah. And where did that come from? I don’t remember us talking about funding a terrorist cell?’ She stared him down. ‘Jeez, Danny.’

  He had the grace to look shamefaced. ‘I know. It just felt like too good an opportunity to resist. Allie, this is a great story for us. The inside track on the Scottish Republican Army.’

  ‘Is that what they’re calling themselves? For God’s sake, Danny.’ Exasperated, she dumped the last remaining teabag in the single mug.

  ‘They’re not calling themselves anything. Yet. And they seem clear enough about choosing bricks and mortar targets. Avoiding innocent victims.’

  Allie poured the boiling water and stirred. ‘All the same. This is a helluva tightrope, Danny. Are we reporters or agents provocateurs? We need to keep our noses clean here.’

  ‘I know, I know. But we can do that, we can control it.’

  She had her doubts. But this wasn’t the time to convince Danny. He was high on the excitement of the story. And probably a few beers too. ‘So what happened when you went back to Deke’s flat?’

  Danny pulled a face. ‘God, what a tip. It’s a room and kitchen off Woodlands Road. Sink full of dishes, bin spilling over with lager cans and takeaway cartons. The clothes hanging on the pulley were the only thing that looked like they’d been cleaned since we got bumped out of the World Cup. You know that thing where your shoes stick to the carpet?’

  ‘Yuck. I have to say, Danny, you don’t get lassies living like that.’

  ‘Hey, we’re not all like that. That’s not how I live, you’ll see that when you come over to mine.’

  It was the first time he’d even hinted at inviting her to his flat. Allie tucked it away to savour later. ‘Never mind the décor. What about the conversation? Last I heard before you all started stuffing your faces was Deke coming back from the phone and saying his cousin was taking the dog for a walk. Was that code, or what?’

  Danny laughed. ‘No, his cousin was actually going to take the dog for a walk down to the pierhead to find out what time the ferry goes in the morning. He rang back at Deke’s flat with the details.’

  ‘They’re going to Belfast? This morning?’ She finished making the tea and plonked it down.

  Danny wrapped his long fingers round the mug and smiled. ‘Not all of them. Just Gary. Ding-dong to you. He was adamant he had to go by himself. And I get that. If his pal Terry really is in an IRA Active Service Unit, unlike our three musketeers he’s not going to say word one to a complete stranger. Even if his old pal Gary vouches for him. So Gary’s going across on the morning ferry to see about buying some ordnance from the IRA.’ Danny shook his head, bemused. ‘These guys are absolute bams, Allie.’

  ‘How are we going to stop them?’ She gave Danny a hard stare. ‘We are going to stop them, Danny, aren’t we?’

&nb
sp; ‘Sure,’ he said casually. ‘We can work out the details later. We’ll let the cops raid them either when they pick up the explosives or when they’re about to plant them. Obviously we’ll have to tell Angus what’s going on once we’ve got the wheels properly in motion.’

  ‘Obviously,’ Allie said drily. ‘So when’s Ding-dong debriefing the rest of you?’

  ‘Sunday morning. There’s a café at St George’s Cross. Apparently does the best fry-up this side of the river. Eleven o’clock, sharp.’

  ‘I’ll get there early.’

  Danny gave her a sidelong glance. ‘I don’t think you should be there. You’ll stand out too much.’

  ‘That’s not fair. This is my story, I dropped it in your lap. You can’t cut me out of it now.’

  ‘I’m not cutting you out, no way. I just don’t want to take any risks at this point. They’re all going to be a bit twitchy. All it takes is one of them to recognise you from the meeting or the Spaghetti Factory and the ball’s on the slates.’

  ‘They’ve never seen me. I’ve sat behind them, both times. And they didn’t even glance at me in the Spaghetti Factory.’

  ‘You underestimate yourself. You’re a good-looking woman, and I bet Deke checked you out on his way back from the phone. He’s that kind of guy. He was going on and on about the waitress all the way back to his flat. He’ll have given you the once-over. It’s you I’m thinking of.’

  ‘Me and the story,’ she grumbled, reaching for her cigarettes and lighting up. ‘OK, have it your way.’

  He gave her a smile of relief. ‘Can I get a loan of your tape recorder? I can stick it in my coat pocket, they’ll never notice.’

  ‘If they do, you’re in big trouble, Danny.’

  ‘I’ll be careful. But I think they’re pretty harmless.’

  ‘They’re planning a bloody bombing campaign, Danny. They might be ineffectual but they’re not harmless. And if the Irishman is with Gary, do not attempt to record him.’

  ‘How dumb do you think I am?’ He grinned. ‘No, don’t answer that. Do you want to meet up afterwards?’ She gave him a look that would have withered a patch of brambles. ‘OK, OK, sorry. I’ll call you when I’m done, we can meet up.’

  ‘I’ll maybe take you up on your offer to inspect your flat,’ Allie said, keeping it light.

  ‘Not a problem. The cleaner comes on Thursdays so it’s still pretty much pristine.’

  ‘You’ve got a cleaner?’

  He nodded. ‘It’s the best way to keep my mum off my back.’ He spoke without thinking; his words stripped all the comfort from his face again. ‘Not that that matters now.’

  ‘She’ll come round, Danny. She’ll understand the importance of what you’re doing.’ Allie reached out and covered his hand with hers.

  He nodded, unconvinced. He cleared his throat. ‘I better get moving. What time is Angus throwing us to the polis?’

  ‘We’ve to be in the office at ten.’ She looked at her watch and groaned. ‘Less than eight hours away.’ Allie yawned. ‘Thanks for coming by.’

  He gave a bashful smile. ‘Least I could do. It’s your story, Allie. Honest, I haven’t forgotten that.’

  28

  How had he got himself in this deep? Only hours before, the Gary Bell who had hooked up in the Spaghetti Factory with his two best mates and their new pal had been an ordinary bloke with a poor man’s Rod Stewart haircut and a desire to see Scotland break free from the English yoke.

  Now the Gary Bell driving down the A77 was a member of an insurgent group committed to the armed struggle.

  Why did he always let himself be trapped by the urge to get everyone thinking he was the big man? Deke Malloch had been holding forth about the need to rise up for freedom, if only they had the means. Without a pause for breath or thought, he’d leaned forward across the table and uttered the fateful words. ‘I know a man.’

  The idle boast had somehow turned into a gauntlet thrown before young men too afraid to back down before friends. Their new pal Paul had offered to fund their expenses. So Deke Malloch had jumped up and headed for the payphone in the corner to ring his cousin in Stranraer to find out ferry times, And Gary Bell was tremulously facing his new role as quartermaster.

  *

  The Boy’s Brigade team was long behind Terry Robinson. But Gary Bell knew that his old friend still turned out every Saturday in goal for a pub team in Andersonstown. He’d never been to Belfast before and the idea of going now made his stomach hurt. All he knew of the city was what he’d seen on the news; armoured vehicles and British soldiers on the streets, rioters throwing bricks and petrol bombs, roadblocks and official buildings nested in razor wire. But if he didn’t at least make an approach to Terry, any credibility he had with the others would be lost.

  He’d considered lying. Saying he’d made the attempt but Terry had blown him out. But Deke Malloch had scuppered that. ‘I’ll buddy you up as far as Stranraer,’ he’d announced when Bell had announced his ‘plan’ to go across to Belfast on the ferry that Saturday. ‘I can go and watch Stranraer with my cousin. It’ll be a laugh, they’re that close to the bottom of Division Two, they’re bound to get gubbed whoever they’re up against. Then we can go to the pub and you can pick me up on your way back.’

  ‘I might not be back till Sunday.’

  ‘Then I’ll just have to make a night of it.’ Malloch clapped him on the back. ‘I want to hear the good news soon as.’

  And so he’d had no choice. On the long drive down the Ayrshire coast to Stranraer, tucked into the armpit of the bottom left-hand corner of Scotland, Malloch alternated between criticising Bell’s choice of cassettes and delivering a lecture on his own lurid version of Scotland’s history, with the occasional foray into complaining about the inability of women to appreciate his charms. None of it helped Bell’s nerves, already jangling like wind chimes. It was almost a relief to drive aboard the ferry. The prospect of four hours yawing and rolling across the grey swell of the Irish Sea was more appealing than another minute of Malloch’s opinions. Apart from anything else, Malloch’s diatribes were making Bell wonder why they were even pals in the first place.

  He bought crisps, Irn Bru and a pack of savoury cheese sandwiches from the grim cafeteria and found a quiet corner away from the lorry drivers, the clusters of squaddies returning from leave and the scattering of families making the crossing. Why anyone would want to go to Belfast in the dead of winter was beyond Bell. But then again, why on earth was he doing this? There was no question about his commitment to the cause. But he wasn’t a man of violence, he was a bookkeeper in a Govan shipyard. He’d managed to reach the age of twenty-five without even having had a proper fight. And would a few explosions really make a difference? There had been dozens – no, hundreds of bombs in Northern Ireland, but it was still shackled to Great Britain. All they’d achieved was to make the IRA loathed throughout the land.

  But maybe there was another way. A way to make a Scottish Republican Army have a positive impact. What had made the IRA pariahs was the blood on their hands. What if Bell and his mates genuinely managed to take a different route? What if they did what they’d sort of agreed and only blew up the symbols of the occupiers’ power? Completely avoided bloodshed? There were plenty of those symbols dotted around the Scottish landscape.

  They could start with the old Royal High School building at the foot of Calton Hill in Edinburgh, earmarked for the seat of the devolved administration that was probably not going to happen if Westminster kept moving the goalposts. Edinburgh city council had bought the building for the best part of two million, and another small fortune had been spent on tarting it up so it would be fit for the politicians. Blowing it up would send the message that Scotland wasn’t waiting to be told what to do by the London government.

  The Scottish Office in Edinburgh, that outpost of Westminster, was another target that would make the politic
ians sit up and take notice. The Scottish Secretary, Bruce Millan, was a balloon. Everybody knew he was a puppet of his bosses down south. Bell believed the Labour government’s support for devolution was a pretence, nothing more than mouth music to pacify the Scots. Devolution was like giving sweeties to a toddler. It shut them up, but it rotted their teeth in their head. With a little help from their Irish friends, maybe Bell and his mates could show they weren’t toothless yet.

  The thoughts rumbling round his head kept him occupied till he drove off the ferry into the bleak grey early afternoon. An army checkpoint scrutinised every vehicle rolling off the ship, pulling over an apparently random selection for further checks. A soldier toting what Bell thought was some sort of semi-automatic rifle stood at the shoulder of the fresh-faced private who demanded to see Bell’s driving licence. ‘What’s your business here today?’ he demanded, his Yorkshire accent defiantly broad.

  ‘I’m visiting an old friend. He’s just got engaged, I promised him a drink.’

  ‘Is he from here?’

  ‘He is.’

  The soldier frowned. ‘How do you know him?’

  Bell explained the football history and the family holidays in the sort of tedious detail that he hoped would defuse any suspicion. But still he had to get out and open the boot to demonstrate he had nothing more threatening than a set of jump leads. Finally, he was waved through. He stopped at the first newsagent he saw and bought a map of the city.

  Back in the car, he unfolded the map and drew out his route in blue ink. It looked pretty straightforward. He reckoned he’d be there by half-time so long as he didn’t run into too many checkpoints.

  He concentrated all his attention on not getting lost. The city passed in a blur of grim brick terraces leavened by the occasional vivid gable-end mural and kerbstones painted either Union Jack red, white and blue or the orange and green of the Republican colours. Constant glimpses of soldiers in camouflage, on patrol or manning checkpoints on side streets that radiated off the main drag. And then the disconcerting contrast of people going about their daily business, almost as if he was driving through one of the less prosperous areas of Glasgow. Women in headscarves against the cold, heavy shopping bags angling them to one side. Kids kicking battered footballs on waste ground. Men in donkey jackets smoking on street corners, drifting in and out of pubs and betting shops. Gaggles of teenagers, heads together, deep in whatever it was teenagers found to talk about. And the occasional pair of punks, driftwood left behind by a receding tide.