by John Steele
Ruger Rainey was now detailing a cache of weapons being hidden in Cregagh Glen, paid for with funds from sympathisers in Canada. The republicans had their delusional wannabes pumping money through the IRA terror campaign from the comfort and safety of middle- and upper-class suburbs in New York and Boston. The loyalists had their counterparts north of the border in Ontario.
Ruger was the oldest of the men sitting around the table and, at thirty-seven, he was the quartermaster for much of East Belfast and the Ravenhill cell in particular. Back in the seventies he’d gotten hold of an ancient and not particularly well-maintained Ruger Blackhawk pistol for one of the trigger men of the time. The shooter’s name was Benjamin Wise, and he wasn’t one of the more gifted volunteers of the day, mentally or physically. As such, Wise felt he could impress the UDA brass by blooding himself and, being a resolute coward, targeted a Catholic civilian. A baker named Colin McCarthy regularly delivered to a café on the Woodstock Road. In broad daylight and unmasked, Wise strode up behind the fifty-three-year-old McCarthy as he unloaded a tray of buns from his van, and attempted to unload all six chambers of the Ruger into the back of the baker’s skull. The pistol was in such bad shape, however, that it misfired, parting Wise from two of his fingers. Sadly for Wise, one of them was his trigger finger and his dreams of religious and ethnic cleansing were shattered. All agreed that Wise was no great loss to the cause. An alcoholic and woman-beater, a couple of years later he drank himself to death in a hovel near the shipyards; but Sam Rainey was never to be allowed to forget the fact that he supplied the instrument of Benjamin Wise’s undoing, and had borne the sobriquet ‘Ruger’ ever since.
Not that he was unreliable now, thought Jackie as he listened to the arms described, currently being buried next to a pretty little waterfall and bubbling stream. Rainey listed a Smith & Wesson.59 semi, a Glock 17, Power Gel explosive materials and a vz.58 assault rifle. There were other items not detailed at the meeting.
Dog walkers would be strolling, ramblers hiking in Cregagh Glen. A local school used part of the glen as a cross-country running course. And all within touching distance of the lethal tools in which men like Rab and Billy traded.
In that other Belfast. The Belfast that many might hear at night, as gunfire was traded, or helicopters circled, or windows quivered to the sudden bass thunder-strike of a bomb detonation.
Billy lit up a cigarette and spoke in a low voice. ‘All right lads, some of you know Tommy here, others don’t.’
The young man seated next to Ruger Rainey nodded to them. He looked fresh-faced and clean cut. Jackie would have placed him in his late teens or very early twenties.
‘Tommy is on loan to us from our comrades over in North Belfast: Mount Vernon. I requested him because an unknown face will be useful on a wee job he’s going to do with Rab. And we’d like to promote Jackie here, put him on the team.’
Jackie was mid-toke on his own cigarette and his hand froze momentarily on the roll-up, still clenched between his lips. After the briefest of pauses he took the cigarette from his mouth and emitted a long, swirling stream of smoke.
Thank Christ I wasn’t mid-drink, he thought, or I’d have spilled it all over myself.
He said, ‘Shite, Billy, cheers.’ Thinking, Shite, I didn’t expect to work a shooting. Because if Rab was getting his hands dirty, he’d be scrubbing blood off them by the end of the job.
Billy said, ‘You done well with the peelers last week, son. It showed you’re solid and the boys feel comfortable with you being on board for this one.’
‘Well, if you think I’m ready, like.’
But I’m not ready, he thought. It’s what I’ve wanted, it’s what I’ve hoped for.
But I’m not sure I’m ready.
The cigarette had given him something to concentrate on when Billy broke the news but now he could feel the shakes coming on. He stubbed out the half-smoked roll-up and chained another, willing his mind to focus on that simple task.
‘The target,’ said Billy, ‘is James Cochrane.’
#
Back in the late seventies, the Provisional IRA in the Short Strand area of East Belfast brought the activities of loyalist paramilitaries to a standstill for a period of around six months. During that time, the acting brigadiers of the UDA and UVF were shot dead in their houses, the successor to the UDA post was gunned down while on a family holiday on the north coast, and four UVF men were blown apart when the explosive under their vehicle detonated as they were on their way to kill a known IRA member. All of these actions were sanctioned, planned and quite possibly executed by James Cochrane.
Due to the cell structure of the IRA, Cochrane commanded a small but lethal team in the republican enclave of the Short Strand. It was known that he had a senior rank in the PIRA, but what exactly it was no one could be sure. What everyone around the table in that meeting room above a small drinking club did know, however, was that he would be a tough target to hit.
Billy said, ‘That bomb in East End Video: what was that, three weeks ago? And how has our side responded?’
The men looked at each other or the scarred surface of the heavy oak table. None of themhad responded because they had been waiting on the go-ahead from Billy.
‘Jimmy Breslin sanctions some fucking cowboys from Sydenham to walk into a drinking hole in South Down and spray the place. Three Catholic civilians dead and we even manage to kill a fucking prod along with them.’
True enough. Martin Donnelly, Pat McGrath and James Dermot had been murdered in a spray of automatic rifle fire when two UVF gunmen had kicked in the doors of the country pub and raked the place. Their Protestant friend, Samuel Donaldson, had also been killed.
‘Indiscriminate,’ said Billy, ‘and the media all over it, like.’ He shook his head in despair and disgust. ‘Any fucking excuse for indiscriminate slaughter.’
That was the way most of their cohorts had always seen it. Any old taig would do. A numbers game, thought Jackie; they take out one of our community and we have to take out two of theirs, whether they’re connected or not. Doesn’t matter who, so long as they go to a Catholic chapel instead of a Protestant church. It sickened him, but until today he’d avoided any involvement in the killings, just putting in hours on the various rackets they ran to fund operations. But the East End Video bomb had taken nine lives on the Ravenhill Road. It would take a while to match that tally, never mind surpass it.
‘But we take out Cochrane,’ said Billy, ‘we avenge the attack and immobilise their operations in East Belfast. There’s no Provo activity in this area without his say so. We know he had to have sanctioned that bomb. It cannot go unanswered and we have to send a message, as much to our own community as to the republicans, that there will be consequences if we come under attack.’
And now you could be sanctioning my death warrant, thought Jackie.
The security around Cochrane would presumably be watertight. Not to mention that the target lived four doors down from Mountpottinger RUC station. He was a known IRA entity to the peelers but clean as a whistle. The cops couldn’t touch him. Which meant he was smart. And now Jackie was stuck with Rab ‘Sick Bag’ Simpson and Billy The Kid across the table.
Tyrie said, ‘Tommy here has the details of the operation and has worked out the logistics with me. He and Rab will do the trigger work. Jackie, you’re the driver.’
Jackie nodded as he eased another spool of calming smoke from his lips. He passed a sigh of nervous resignation off as insouciance.
#
An hour later they emerged from a door at the bottom of narrow stairs into a good-sized room where assorted men were giving serious attention to getting as rat-arsed as possible. The usual blanket of smoke hung heavily in the air. The walls were festooned with a Union Jack, an Ulster Flag and a couple of trade union banners. The club had been founded by linen mill and shipyard workers years ago and many of the men downing pints today were still grafting in Harland & Wolff. There were other local men scattered around, watching f
ootball on the TV on the corner wall. Jackie recognised a few. Hard-working, decent enough men gaining some respite from the daily graft with a drink.
He counted a couple of organisation hangers-on drinking in a corner: low-level teenagers asked to lend their weight to the odd riot or back up older members on ‘collection runs’ around the local businesses. The organisation offered ‘insurance’ against republican attack for a fortnightly fee.
Because the local butcher is a high-grade IRA target, of course, he thought.
Then he remembered East End Video.
He wasn’t up for a drink that night and needed to go home and think through the Cochrane operation, so he headed for the door and the clarity of the chilly night air. But he didn’t make it to the exit. The hand on his arm was firm and applied more pressure than necessary to turn him around. Peter Rafferty withdrew his hand and left it hanging by his side. It formed a clenched fist.
‘All right Jackie?’
‘All right Peter? Are you well?’
‘Ach, I’m all right, Jackie. All right for a man whose son is in prison, like.’
‘I heard Marty’s doing you proud in there though,’ said Jackie. ‘He’s standing up, like.’
Peter edged closer. ‘He isn’t standing up at the minute, Jackie. He’s lying in a bed in the prison hospital, so he is. A broken jaw and two cracked ribs.’
‘Sorry to hear that, Peter. He’s a good lad, your Marty.’
Peter cocked his large skull, heavy with drink, to one side. ‘You’ve nothing broken though, do you, Jackie? Heard the peelers gave you a kicking that night but you don’t look too bad.’ Rafferty took a step forward, his broad face and slack features scarlet from whiskey and rising anger. This could only end in one of two ways: someone stepped in to defuse the situation or the two men took chunks out of each other.
‘Do you hear me, Jackie? Our Marty’s laid out, so he is.’
Jackie was taking in as much as he could in his peripheral vision. They were almost in the centre of the room, too far from the bar to grab a glass or bottle as a weapon. A circle had closed around them at a discreet distance and the anticipation of serious violence was palpable in the air. It was like being back in Orangefield Park for an after-school fight. Sarah was right: men never did grow up.
‘Like I say Peter, I’m terrible sorry to hear about that.’ It would play better with Billy if he tried to contain this and he hoped he would step in. Come on now, Peter, that’ll do. Leave the boy.
But he couldn’t even see Billy Tyrie at this point, although he knew he was watching. For that matter, Rab Simpson and Ruger Rainey were out of sight, although Tommy was standing casually to his right, expressionless. Peter Rafferty moved another step closer, his forehead almost touching Jackie’s now.
‘See, the thing is, Shaw, I don’t think you are sorry. I don’t think you liked our Marty in the first place. And I don’t like how you’re supping in here while my lad’s in a hospital bed.’
The fight was unavoidable; Jackie’s guts went cold.
He sucked it up and drove a hard punch into Rafferty’s left kidney, then followed it up with a strong fist into the side of the bigger man’s head as Rafferty bent in reflex. Instantly, Jackie’s knuckles felt a sharp pain. The surrounding crowd swayed a little.
‘Fuck!’ A bellow from Rafferty as he swung at Jackie, catching him awkwardly on the shoulder. Jackie struggled to maintain balance.
If they went over, Rafferty would dominate through sheer weight and bulk. He could take Jackie apart at his leisure. Jackie aimed another punch at the side of Rafferty’s head. He put as much as he could behind it and followed with another hard blow to the temple. His knuckles were on fire and the second blow lost traction on the sweat covering Rafferty’s face. A blow from Rafferty caught Jackie on the chest as the bigger man, still stooped, punched upward. It stopped Jackie dead and scared him because the blow was over his heart and it fucking hurt. The big man, now straightening, swung wildly, not connecting with force but keeping Jackie occupied and off balance. Still, he had a flash of satisfaction at the sight of blood over Rafferty’s eye where the Claddagh ring had caught him.
But this had to end. Rafferty was now reaching for him, trying to get him close so he could bite, gouge and choke. The watching crowd was making it difficult for Jackie to manoeuvre. The last thing he needed was to trip over some fucker’s feet behind him.
Feet, thought Jackie, fucking feet. And mine are in size nine Dr Marten’s.
He threw his leg out with force and his right boot connected with Rafferty’s left kneecap with a sickening, dull crack. Rafferty roared but his legs buckled and he went down awkwardly on the other knee, the injured left leg straight out at a thirty-degree angle to the bent right.
Fucking knee-capping? thought Jackie. I’ll show you fucking knee-capping.
He drove the sole of his right boot, and as much body weight as he could muster, onto the damaged left knee. The image of a branch snapping shot through his mind. He began driving his right fist, Claddagh ring and all, into Rafferty’s face, over and over. Some blows bit into the skin, others glanced off the sweat. Blood slicked across the bent and screaming man’s face. It felt good.
It felt far too good.
Then someone finally intervened and strong arms encircled him, more than one pair.
He heard a voice – Rab? Ruger? – shout, ‘For fuck’s sake! That’s enough!’
Before he knew what was happening he felt the slap of the crisp, cold night air as he was half dragged, half shoved through the door of the club into the dark sodium glow of the street. He bent over, hands on knees for support, and took deep, wracking breaths. He was shaking and didn’t care who saw. He was aware of men next to him and realised they were Billy, Rab, Ruger and Tommy.
Rab erupted in a high-pitched giggle, then smiled a huge toothy grin.
‘Fuck’s sake, Jackie,’ he said, ‘you’re a fucking animal. Where’ve you been hiding?’
Billy put a hand on Jackie’s back, almost fatherly.
‘Welcome to the family,’ he said.
CHAPTER 8
Thursday
They had driven to the beach at Cloghy on the County Down coast in a convoy of three cars, Jackie’s Toyota sandwiched between an Audi in front and Billy Tyrie’s BMW behind. The country roads were quiet.
They had passed the drive in silence, one of the armed men from the makeshift roadblock in the passenger seat, another in the back seat directly behind him. Neither spoke while in the car. Also, neither knew there was a handgun and ammo supplied by Rab Simpson under the passenger seat. It is still there, but now is hardly the time to try fulfilling Jackie’s contract on Tyrie.
He stands on the hard, compacted sand in a strong coastal wind with Tyrie next to him and four men keeping watch at a discreet distance. The beach is deserted, much like the caravan park at its southern end, which they begin walking towards. Large clumps of seaweed lie scattered across the sand like shredded body bags.
‘So, the Prodigal Son returns,’ says Tyrie.
‘Prodigal Son? More like the fatted calf – right, Billy?’
Some twenty years ago Jackie had been at a small, disused factory on the outskirts of Belfast with three other members of the UDA on a midnight meet. The following day’s Belfast Telegraph, BBC Newsline and other media had reported that four members of the Ulster Defence Association had been shot dead by security forces in an operation held in the Belfast suburb of Holywood. Three quarters of the story was true: three of the four UDA men had had their lives ended that night. The remaining quarter of the story is now strolling along the beach with Billy Tyrie, who seems as blasé about the fact Jackie is breathing as Rab Simpson was. His ‘death’ all those years ago has yet to be mentioned.
Jackie suddenly feels tired and his body heavy, as though the sand is sucking him down. The last few days, the last twenty years, is catching up with him: Hartley, Simpson and now Tyrie. Only Sarah gives him hope that something good is left from
that time.
‘I don’t see Rab among the welcoming committee,’ he says. The soft whisper of the tide washing onto the beach is the sole reply. ‘How’s Eileen?’
The thought is out of his mouth before he can stop it: a potentially lethal question. Jackie hears a soft crunch and stops, turning to see that Tyrie halted a moment before and is staring at him intently.
He couldn’t know, thinks Jackie, he never knew. She never told him. Because much as she was Billy’s gleaming prize to be paraded in triumph, he would have killed her. Tyrie could never have borne the betrayal. Locked in Tyrie’s gaze, the four men also watching intently, Jackie feels the night growing colder, even as the sea breeze dies.
Tyrie says, ‘Now, why would you ask me about Eileen?’
‘Because this is a bit awkward. Because I don’t know if someone is going to find my bloated body washed up in a month or two. Because you haven’t mentioned Holywood. And because the only civilised, halfway normal topic I can think of to keep the conversation going is your good lady wife.’
Tyrie is still appraising him and speaks slowly as he mulls something over. ‘It just seems a bit strange, you mentioning Rab and Eileen almost in the same sentence. I mean, they’d hardly be a pair in word association, would they?’
Jesus, thinks Jackie. Paranoid about what the wife’s up to, Billy?
Then he remembers that he was, in fact, sleeping with Eileen Tyrie for a year.
Billy looks out to the heaving grey swell of the Irish Sea and gives a strange little sigh, then starts walking again. Their four companions fall in a good few yards behind.
Jackie says, ‘You found me through someone at the car-hire company?’
‘Aye. One of the valet boys lives in Sydenham, used to know you from the bars. He saw your name on a spreadsheet. Got your mobile number from your online booking.’
