Ravenhill_Jackie Shaw Book

by John Steele

  Contents

  Title Page

  About John Steele

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Acknowledgements

  Author's Note

  Seven Skins Taster

  Copyright

  RAVENHILL

  John Steele

  SILVERTAIL BOOKS • London

  John Steele was born and raised in Belfast, Northern Ireland. In 1995, at the age of twenty-two he travelled to the United States and has since lived and worked on three continents, including a thirteen-year spell in Japan. Among past jobs he has been a drummer in a rock band, an illustrator, a truck driver and a teacher of English. He now lives in England with his wife and daughter. He began writing short stories, selling them to North American magazines and fiction digests. Ravenhill is his first novel and a second Jackie Shaw book, Seven Skins, has already been signed by Silvertail Books for publication. He is currently writing a third, set in northern Japan.

  To Tomoe and Hana

  for nine months of inspiration, and all of

  the stories yet to come

  CHAPTER 1

  1993

  Stephen Armstrong always thought of himself as a decent kind of guy, so it was a surprise when he found himself privy to a secret that could get a man killed. He mulled this revelation over as Archie Sinclair competed with the drone of the radio for his attention.

  ‘An arms haul was uncovered in a false grave during a security operation at a West Belfast cemetery late this morning. Police said a sawn-off shotgun, two handguns and an automatic rifle were among the weapons found.’

  ‘That was brilliant, like, when yer man turned into metal and all. I tell you, it’s all going to be graphics in films in the future, like.’

  Stephen looked out of the plate-glass window of East End Video, over the stream of rush-hour traffic to the Ormeau Park opposite. It was a beautiful February afternoon and slivers of light were spilling through the naked trees, bathing the paths in spears of pale golden sunshine. It was almost half five and not yet dark.

  ‘It was definitely better than that other one you recommended. I don’t usually go for science fiction but you can’t go wrong with big Arnie, like.’

  ‘Police are investigating reports of shots being fired at a taxi office on the lower Newtownards Road in East Belfast this afternoon.’

  If he squinted, Stephen could make out the tower block of the Queen’s University Ashby Building on the Stranmillis Road, above and beyond the tangle of branches in the park. He wondered if Donal might be somewhere around the tower, drinking coffee in a student hangout. Donal had mentioned last night that he studied some kind of mechanics and Stephen had a notion that the faculty was based in the Ashby. Not that he’d ever set foot in a university.

  ‘A Catholic man shot in the head in the Markets area last night has died in hospital. Detectives believe the killing was the work of the Ulster Volunteer Force …’

  ‘Wee Minty says yer man who’s the bad guy is gay, but I think that’s balleeks, like. Sure, he’s too hard to be a fuckin’ poof.’

  Oh Christ, thought Stephen, if only you knew. Here he sat, on his high stool behind the counter of his video rental shop, regarded as a strong man of the road. Tall and broad, he’d been in a few scraps through the years and carried the scars. He’d been at the same school as, and was now on decent terms with, men who had loyalist associations in the area. Men who sanctioned or carried out shootings like the one being reported on the radio.

  Men who had no idea that Stephen was assuredly and contentedly gay.

  Had they known, his business may no longer have been exempt from the protection money others on the road had to pay, and he may not have been asked to join the paramilitary crowd so many times when having a drink in one of his locals. His refusal was always light-hearted but the recruiters’ reactions were unpredictable: from amiable to aggressive. The fact was, he’d drunk in every pub on the lower Ravenhill Road, My Lady’s Road, and a couple on the Castlereagh too, just trying to get away from that nonsense. But there was one in every bar, always recruiting, always looking for the next young lad ready to fight for God and Ulster.

  ‘… the man had a Protestant girlfriend from the Lisburn Road. Police believe this may have been the reason for his murder.’

  Little did these men know that Stephen had clambered out of the bed of a twenty-six year-old graduate student this morning. A very attractive, very male, very Catholic graduate student from Warrenpoint called Donal, currently studying in Belfast, and who Stephen was falling for at a rate of knots.

  ‘Poor bastard, just because he’s a Catholic. And dear help his girlfriend as well,’ said Archie.

  Archie, too, was ignorant of Stephen’s sexuality. Archie was ignorant of a lot of things. He’d left school at sixteen without a qualification to his name. Now, at thirty-one, he was exactly one week older than Stephen and unemployed. At least, he was technically unemployed; Archie was more of a silent partner in the video shop while religiously collecting his unemployment benefits every fortnight. If any inquisitive civil servant should spot him sitting behind the counter next to Stephen, he could claim he was just keeping his friend company in the shop.

  And they were friends, Stephen and Archie. Archie’s da had been a merchant seaman and ran off when he was still a youngster, and the son had inherited the father’s short and scrawny frame. He’d always been a simple soul and small for his age, so he’d been a natural target for the bullies in school. A few of those past fights Stephen had been in were during their teenage years, scrapping to defend Archie. One of his earliest opponents was now a local member of the UDA.

  Stephen said, ‘Aye, it never ends.’

  Archie scratched his broken nose, a fleshy inverted hourglass in his guileless face. ‘I watched that film with yer man in it the other night.’

  ‘Yer man?’

  ‘You know, yer man who stopped acting and became a boxer. He was in that sexy film, with yer woman Basinger. You lent me his other one, “A Prayer …” something or other.’

  ‘Ach aye, yer man.’

  ‘Load of shite. It’s about an IRA man, right? So yer man plays him, but he’s all depressed like, because he killed all these kids by accident with a bomb. Then he’s moping about through the whole film like he’s the fucking victim. Like we’re supposed to feel sorry for him.’

  Stephen tutted. ‘The Yanks probably do.’

  By now a customer, Diane Hunter, had walked up to the counter clutching a romantic comedy.

  Archie went on, ‘And he couldn’t do the accent. Sounded mental, so he did, or like he was half-cut. Suppose the Americans think we’re drunk all the time anyway.’

  Diane joined in. ‘Is that that film about the IRA with yer man in it? Yer man’s a boxer?’

  Stephen and Archie said in stereo, ‘Aye.’

  ‘My cousin’s a peeler, right? And if an actor or somebody comes here to do research and that, the pol
ice have to give them an escort around Belfast in the Land Rover. So my cousin’s based at Donegal Pass and he has to take yer man around and they drive up Sandy Row. There’s all the usual Union Jack and UVF murals and all. And yer man says, “Why’s all these British paintings here?” So my cousin, all patient like, says, “This is a Protestant area, so these people want to stay part of the United Kingdom.” And yer man says, “I didn’t know there was any Protestants in Ireland!” Fucking eejit.’

  Archie said, ‘Pity your cousin couldn’t teach him to talk right, like.’

  Diane turned back to the shelves where two girls of around eight years old were looking at colourful, garish covers in the animation section. Archie followed her gaze and started shaking his leg rhythmically on the leg of his stool. He fiddled with a packet of cigarettes and expressions of panic, wonder and confusion struggled for supremacy on his face.

  The girls were giggling, rapidly swapping video boxes around on the shelf.

  Diane said, ‘Jane, come on you and hurry up. I’ve to get home and make your tea, and Becky Breslin, you’ve to go home to your mother before six.’

  She didn’t have to raise her voice. The shop was the combined space of a couple of small living rooms, the building one of an identical row of red-brick terraced houses standing across the Ravenhill Road like a troop of soldiers in single file. The floor above was silent, locked and empty.

  Jane and Becky hung their heads in resignation and began dragging themselves over to the counter. Jane had her mother’s hair, an unruly flame of peach-coloured curls, but her rosebud mouth and wide blue eyes were from her father’s side. Archie’s leg went into overdrive. His own small mouth tightened further.

  ‘How old is Jane now?’ asked Stephen, cocking a look at Archie, now apparently engrossed in the video box of an action film.

  Diane put her arm around the child’s shoulders and gave her a proud hug.

  ‘She’s almost eight. It’ll be her birthday next month – isn’t that right, love?’

  Jane nodded. Archie coughed.

  Archie and Diane had been an item for a brief period. It hadn’t lasted long but they’d stayed on good terms. That would have been about eight years ago. Diane had raised Jane alone, just one of the many single mothers in the area, although older than most. She’d never told a soul who Jane’s father was. Stephen and Archie had done the maths and would have laid bets on Archie as her da.

  Stephen said to the girl, ‘Beauty and the Beast, that’s a good film, darlin’. Isn’t it, Archie?’

  Archie, now looking as though he were in pain, peered over the counter at the child.

  ‘Aye, it’s a great film, Jane.’ He shot a loaded glance at Diane, then back at Jane. ‘You get it for two days if you rent it. Maybe I can come over and watch it with you, if you fancy it.’

  Diane met the suggestion with a meticulously calibrated wall of indifference. ‘That would suit me, then I could go out with Sharon for a night. What do you think, Jane?’

  The girl looked at the video box again and said, ‘Yeah. That’d be good.’ It was almost a whisper but she was smiling.

  Mark Wilson was also smiling. Over in the war and westerns section, he looked at his friend Danny Gourling. They were standing in front of a row of World War Two classics, hands in pockets, casual as you like. Two rows above the war films, on the top of the cabinet, was a selection of more exotic titles.

  Keeping their heads in line with John Wayne and James Coburn, their eyes strained upwards to check out a cover with a pneumatic blonde, arse-out and contorted over a Harley Davidson, licking her lips as though dying of thirst. Mark’s parents were away for a couple of days in Scotland visiting relatives and, at sixteen, he was deemed old enough to stay in the house alone. Except he wouldn’t be alone. Seven of Mark’s mates from school, including Danny, would be keeping him company. Naturally, this had meant bribing his older cousin to make trips to the off-licence to stock up on beer, buying an experimental packet of cigarettes, and now researching some entertainment for the evening.

  Mark and Danny weren’t alone. A tall man who looked to be in his twenties with a dark sheen of stubble was standing a couple of yards away. Unlike Mark and Danny, he was openly studying the flesh on show, occasionally glancing at his watch. His hair was tucked under a blue baseball cap and he wore a black leather jacket. He was chewing some gum, smacking his lips. He caught the boys looking at him and swivelled his gaze in their direction, his head not moving an inch. He gave them a quick wink and went back to checking out the porn.

  Mark and Danny exchanged a look and sniggered. They didn’t recognise the man but it was common for people from the upper reaches of the road, beyond the expanse of the Ormeau Park and the attached golf links, to slum it at East End Video. It was the only video shop on the road and easier than going to other, farther thoroughfares like the Castlereagh or Newtownards Roads.

  Their sniggering had attracted the attention of Stephen, who was now monitoring them from the counter at the front of the shop. Seeing this, they concentrated hard on wiping the smirks from their faces. They liked Stephen. He was well respected in the area and he treated them like adults. Like men. He was never condescending and it made them feel as if they were equals when he chatted to them about the new releases, or football, or this actor or that girl. But they’d never tried to rent this kind of video from him before and they didn’t want him thinking they were messing around in his shop. They needed him on side.

  The man next to them also turned to look at Stephen. He smiled and it was a good smile: open and genuine. Stephen returned it.

  The door of the shop opened with an electronic chime and the man’s smile hardened. To the boys it seemed as if his face actually stiffened, like a freeze frame. He didn’t turn back to the videos. Instead, his hand went inside his jacket.

  At that moment, two girls in school uniform entered the shop and the boys admitted defeat: their hunt for porn was over. The girls were Sharon Montgomery and Kim Clarke, a year below them in school and, Mark had to admit, both pretty. Especially Kim, who seemed older and more mature than the other girls in school.

  The man in the leather jacket relaxed a little but the boys could sense the tension continuing to radiate from him. He still had his hand inside his jacket. Kim gave Jane and Becky a quick pat on the head, the black shawl of her hair falling over her strong features, while Sharon exchanged a greeting with Diane. Then the two girls began walking towards the boys.

  The electronic chime sounded again.

  The man began pulling his hand out of his pocket. Sharon said, ‘Hiya, youse.’ The man’s hand was almost clear of his pocket. Another man in a bomber jacket and black jeans had entered the shop. He was carrying a sports bag and caught, then held, the gaze of the baseball cap wearer. They nodded at each other, an acknowledgement and signal. The baseball cap wearer’s jacket tightened across his body as he turned and exposed his hand. Mark noticed something black and metallic in it. The item looked heavy in the man’s grasp and the boy thought how he’d only ever seen it in films, never in real life.

  Stephen had seen it too, the man’s knuckles white against the black plastic grip. The baseball cap wearer realised Stephen had seen the object and said, ‘Fuck!’ Then he pulled the gun clear of his jacket. His finger curled around the trigger. Stephen began to rise from his stool. Diane was taking the video from Jane, who was looking at Archie with a bashful smile on her pretty little face. Becky was examining something on her finger and sucking on a couple of strands of her curly red hair. A look of shock was just beginning to flash across Sharon’s face as she noticed the gun almost levelled at Stephen. Kim was giving Danny a meaningful look with warmth in her hazel eyes. Danny was, like her, oblivious to all around him as he returned the gaze with an awkward grin.

  The man with the bag glared at the gunman and said, ‘Shite!’

  The gunman said, ‘Everybody quiet! Nobody move!’

  The bagman said, ‘The operation’s off. We’ll have to a
bort.’

  There was a flash as the sports bag ignited and the man holding it was literally ripped apart. The explosives inside tore through the shop, Stephen, Archie, Diane, Jane and Kate, before engulfing the man in the cap, Mark and Danny. The white heat swallowed Sharon and Kim as the ceiling caved in.

  In a couple of seconds they were all dead.

  Bomb on Ravenhill Road claims 11 lives

  IRA attempt to strike at UDA results in tragic loss of innocents

  By Jim Bryson, staff reporter

  An incendiary bomb exploded in the East End Video rental shop on the Ravenhill Road yesterday afternoon, killing nine civilians and two members of the Provisional IRA. Four of the victims were of secondary school age. Two were eight years old.

  According to sources, republican terrorists had inaccurate intelligence indicating that senior members of the loyalist paramilitary group the Ulster Defence Association were holding a meeting in rooms above the video shop. The rooms on the first floor of the premises were empty. RUC detectives believe the incendiary device exploded prematurely.

  Among those killed were Stephen Armstrong, the owner of the business, and his friend Archie Sinclair. Neither are members of a terrorist organisation. Kim Clarke and Sharon Montgomery (15 y.o.), Mark Wilson and Danny Gourling (16, 17), Diane Hunter and her daughter Jane Hunter (8), and her friend Becky Breslin (8) were killed when the device went off. The two bombers have yet to be identified, although the Irish Republican Army has claimed responsibility for the attack.

  The bombings have devastated the community on the lower Ravenhill Road and there has been widespread condemnation from all political parties aside from Sinn Fein, who have declined to comment at this time.

  Detectives at Willowfield and Castlereagh RUC stations have appealed for anyone with information to come forward and contact them via the Confidential Telephone line. The Chief Constable has called for calm, and warned loyalist groups not to attempt reprisals.

  CHAPTER 2

  Wednesday