by Mick Norman
Again, the voice came from in one of the bedrooms: ‘Come on in. You’ll catch cold standing out there.’
There wasn’t much choice. Keeping his gun ready, he pushed open the door.
As he’d expected, the room had several men in it. All but one wore the balaclavas and sunglasses of the Irish guerrilla fighter. All but one held a gun. Two had submachine guns, the rest pistols.
The unarmed man was Seamus O’C. He lay on the bed, his hands and ankles tied. He had been subjected to a heavy beating. His nose was broken, and his lips swollen and covered in dried blood. One eye was buried beneath a purple bruise, and there was a ring of small bums on one cheek.
The bad news looked worse. Not only was it a set-up to get them. It was also a death plot to get rid of O’C. There had been guarded whispers that he had fallen from favour. Now, it was obvious that those rumours were true.
‘Put your gun down on the floor, soldier. You’ll not be needing it for a bit now.’ He saw Gerry’s hesitation and laughed. ‘Come on son. You don’t have the look of a man who wishes to die here and now. Your friend downstairs will be of no help.’
There was just a chance that Gloria might have got away. But, that hope was dashed by a whistle from the street outside.
‘That’s your lady friend as well. Come on!’ This time there was the unmistakable crack of command. Gerry threw the automatic to the lino.
The man – Gerry guessed it was Sean M., regional head of operations – had them all brought in the same room as the bound O’C, and explained to them what was to happen.
It was a clever and simple plot, that would bring home to any potential traitors the risk they ran, as well as showing the army that their special operations were a dangerous hazard and could be broken.
Three out of the four of them in that room were to die.
O’C, obviously. And, two of the soldiers. The only questions was, which of them was going to live.
‘What about you? Which of you would like to live?’
None of them answered.
‘Normally, I’d spare the lady, but we think she’s an officer, so maybe she’d better go. What about you two?’
It was too much for the young Scot. He hadn’t signed on to get shot down by a laughing assassin in a Belfast backstreet. At seventeen, there seemed a lot of living to do. He pushed forward, face working with his nerves,
‘Not me! She’s an officer all right. And the other one,’ pointing at Gerry, ‘is a killer. He’s a specialist in murder. He’s killed lots of your men. And women. And children. Kill him. Not me.’
All eyes turned curiously to Gerry. His mind raced furiously, trying to see a way out of this one. Trying to think how Newman would have acted. He’d probably have suspected a trap and not got caught in the first place. Or, just lobbed a bomb through the front door and waited safely outside to pick up the bits.
‘Well?’ There was no laughter in the voice now. ‘Is it true what the boy says?’
‘Answer the officer!’
It was a toss-up. Lie and they might shoot him. Tell the truth and they might shoot him.
‘I’ve killed some of your men.’ There was a hiss of indrawn breath in the quiet room. ‘But, I see this as a war, not like most of my officers and the politicians at Stormont and Westminster. It’s war. Your men have tried to kill me, so I’ve tried to kill them back. So far, I’ve been luckier, or better, than them!’
‘Kill him!’ the words came from several of the men. But, their leader was looking at him steadily.
‘That’s a good answer. At least it’s an honest answer. You came here as a spy, pretending to be what you’re not. Why shouldn’t I shoot you?’
‘Because I’ll do you more good alive.’
‘How come?’
‘I’ll do the killing for you. After that, I’ll get out, and you’ll not see me again.’
The woman screamed at him: ‘You can’t do this to us! We’re your friends. You’re a soldier. It’s mutiny. You’re a traitor, Vinson.’
He turned to look at her. ‘I’m sorry about that, Gloria. But I’d really rather be a live traitor, than a dead hero.’
Back in Angela’s living-room, the tape hissed on, and the coffee had grown cold. Outside, it was pitch-dark. Far away through the window, Gerry could just see a light at the farmhouse of Remington, Angela’s neighbour. There was something about it that rang a bell. When he had time, he’d give that some thought.
‘Well?’
‘Well what?’
Angela tutted irritably. ‘Come on Gerry. What happened? Obviously you’re here and alive. What about the others? What happened to them?’
‘Sorry. Both Gloria and Brown got killed,’
‘Who killed them?’
‘Me.’
Despite her desire to avoid any kind of moral judgement or comment, she couldn’t hide her shock. ‘My God! You really are a hard bastard, aren’t you?’
‘Why?’
She got up and walked over to the window, trying to keep her voice level. ‘You know damn well why. To murder two of your friends. And then be so damned indifferent.’
He got up and walked awkwardly over to stand near her. The chains between his ankles clinked and rattled. He was pleased. He’d managed to get to her. Make her get involved and show weakness. That was another step in the battle.
‘First, they weren’t my friends. Brown was a cowardly little snot who shot two school kids and then claimed they’d shot at him. Paraffin tests showed otherwise. And as for Gloria. She was just a career-minded dyke who’d rat on anyone to get herself promotion. That’s one.’
Surprised by the cold note of angry triumph, Angela had spun round on her heel to face him. The only light in the long room came from a spotlight near the tape-recorder. Apart from that pool of light, the room was nearly dark,
‘Two. I didn’t shoot them.’
‘You said you did!’
‘No I fucking didn’t. You’re a psychiatrist. You’re not much bloody use when you don’t listen to what I say. I just said they got killed.’
Angela began to suspect he’d tricked her. In turn, she began to get angry. ‘If you didn’t kill them, then who did. You told me you did. Listen.’
She turned to the recorder and played it back, until she found the spot she wanted. Her voice came in, sounding flatter than it really was. She was asking what happened to the others. Gerry replied: ‘Sorry. Both Gloria and Brown got killed.’ Her own voice came back, the note of anger clearly detectable, asking who had killed them. Finally, Gerry saying simply: ‘Me.’
‘There. Now do you deny that you shot them?’
He sighed. ‘There you go again. I’ve never known anyone get her knickers in such a twist. I said that they died and that I killed them. That doesn’t mean I shot them.’
Forcing herself to keep calm under his sneering, she sat down and sipped her coffee, forgetting that it was stone-cold. ‘Come on then. How did you kill them and not kill them? Both at the same time.’
Walking like a child that has wet itself, legs forced apart by the chains, he joined her at the table. A silent witness to everything that went on, the tape spools revolved inexorably.
‘They both died when I pulled out another gun. My own. Not army issue. Things got a bit warm in the room. But, some of them had left, including their leader. They believed me when I said I’d do their executions for them, and they’d dropped their guard. But, there were still a lot of them. Gloria and Brown both got hit several times. She died at once, and he died in the ambulance.’
‘How did you get away.’
‘Through the bedroom window. I shot three of them in the room, and got two more when they made a run for it out the front. The rest all got away.’
Angela sat back. She’d learned about violence from Israel, and she’d read the books and seen films. But, sitting there in her own room, listening to this slight young man talk casually of death and torture, she began to feel a little sick. To wish she could get out o
f the room. Away from the foetid smell of the Hell’s Angel, with his rank odour of sweat and grease and other unmentionable smells.
‘O’C ?’
‘What about him?’
‘What happened to him?’
‘Well, after I got out, and shot a few of them, the rest made off like shit off a shovel, and they forgot to do anything about him. I went back upstairs, dragged him down, put him in the van and we were away. None of the locals tried to interfere. I’d have shot them down where they stood if they’d tried anything on.’
That was that then. Another episode from his past safely on tape and in her notebook. She reached out to switch off the tape-recorder.
‘Wait a minute.’
Her hand hesitated over the “off” switch, not sure whether he was teasing her or not.
‘What’s the matter?’
‘Nothing.’ He looked away.
‘Yes there is. What made you say that?’
Gerry grinned inwardly. She’s nibbled at the bait, as he’d known she would. ‘Well, I thought you wanted to know all about things that sort of shaped me. Seminal events you called them.’
‘But, we’ve finished that one. You were a hero, got your man, like the Mounties, and two other members of your unit got killed. What else is there to say.’
‘Oh, nothing. I thought you’d be interested in what happened to O’C after I got him back.’
She could feel one of her migraine headaches creeping up, and it was getting late.
‘Is it important?’
‘I thought so at the time. But, if you don’t ...’
She picked up her pencil again, ready. ‘Well, go on.’
‘After I got him back to our H.Q., they gave him a bloody long interrogation. I was in on it, and it was soon obvious that he had been a spy. And a traitor. His mates had him dead to rights. The officer in charge of the questioning was right pissed-off that they’d rumbled him, and he could hardly care about the beating the poor sod had been through.’
The pencil flew over the pages of Angela’s notebook. This could turn out to be more interesting than the actual fight at the beginning of the story.
‘After ... I reckon it must have been getting on for six hours, the officer suddenly turned all smarmy and nice to poor old O’C. Told him what a splendid chap he’d been and how grateful the British Government was for all the information he’d found out. I was surprised.’
‘Why? Surely the man had risked a lot to get information to you?’
‘Maybe. He got well paid for it. I always reckon that anyone who does that sort of informing for money is a bit of a shit.’
‘Go on.’ Gerry had stopped talking.
‘There’s not very much more to say. I went off duty, and got pissed. I never saw O’C again.’
‘Well. What on earth happened to him?’
‘He had an accident. Fell out of a helicopter on the way from the camp. From about fifteen hundred feet. They had to dig him out.’
There wasn’t anything that Angela Wells felt she could say. You read about betrayal in papers, and called it propaganda. This was different.
‘Of course, it was called an accident. But, I knew better. I’d heard the officer talking to the sergeant detailed with getting O’C out of the camp.’’
‘Why? What did he say?’
‘Didn’t hear it all. Just the phrase “from a great height”, and a lot of laughing.’
That night, she locked him away with scarcely a word. He could tell that his stories were beginning to get to her. Gerry guessed that she didn’t believe some of them but she could check all she liked. She’d find that the basic, background facts were correct, and she’d never manage to get anything on the rest.
With Israel not due back that night, he’d had the faintest of hopes that he might manage to lay the snotty Miss Wells. But, she seemed to be making every effort to avoid any sexual contact at all, and even got uptight if he made any kind of doubtful remark.
Despite that, Gerry hadn’t entirely given up hope.
His only worry was where to move next in his stories. In one day he’d got through both school and army days, and they seemed to expect him to stay for several days. That meant that there would have to be a lot on the Angels. Which was obviously what she was most interested in anyway.
Before he dropped off to sleep he heard her making two or three phone calls. Who to, and why? Gerry reckoned that she must be trying to check up, and probably reporting to Israel the progress she’d made in her first day with the patient. Was that the word? Patient? Guest? Subject? Straining not to make any noise, he crawled across the carpet of his room, holding the tinkling chain in his hand, and pressed his ear to the panels of the door, to try and overhear what she was saying. But, it was impossible. There was only the low drone of her voice. All he heard was when she raised her voice and repeated a phrase. Twice.
‘No. No, he hasn’t. No, he hasn’t.’
For his second night in the lonely Shropshire house, Gerry slept well. The sleep of the just.
Eleven – Peeking Through Her Keyhole
Dearest Izzie,
I was terribly sorry to hear from you that this wretched business in Yorkshire is going on and on. Can’t you take leave of absence? I’m only joking, really. I know that you can’t.
Seriously though, love, I’m getting worried at the amount of work you seem to be doing. Are you the only keen policeman in the whole force? I know we’ve talked about it before, but I do wish you could see your way clear to getting out. I mean, with your official retirement coming up next year. Why not take advantage of it and get out? We could get away then and do what we talked about.
Is this surveyor really as big a criminal as the papers seem to be implying? I don’t see how he could have that sort of influence over so many people for so long. Still, I suppose it is possible to fool all of the people for most of the time. Do you know yet how much longer you’re going to be on it? Not more than another couple of days, I hope.
Our phone calls always seem so difficult. I suppose that’s one of the troubles about going out with an Assistant Chief Constable. If it hadn’t been for you I’d never have suspected how many phones are tapped. With our ‘guest’ we can’t be too careful.
I expect you’re itching to know how things are going, and whether I’ve dug out anything really worthwhile. Since you insist on putting your job before me and my simple needs, I’ve got a good mind to keep you waiting and not tell you.
Don’t worry, Izzie! I’m only joking. Please forgive me. I know you will.
Well, the first day was the best, with lots about his school days and his career in the army. My God, Izzie, I honestly had no idea what I am getting into. I imagined that someone like Vinson would have some redeeming features. Not necessarily cultural. But, his indifference to human suffering is quite incredible. The first tapes reflect over and over and over again how he feels society has given him what he calls a ‘bum trip’. That since society doesn’t care about people – he has a point here – then why should he?
His whole code or philosophy of life is that he’s only here once and he’s going to make the most of it. He really is fantastic. I wish I could take him back to Oxford and present him to old ‘Collar and Cuffs’. It’d really shake the old duffer out of his dream world of ids and alter egos.
He always used to say that there could not possibly be such a creature as a totally psychotic egocentric. Yet, that’s exactly what Vinson is.
I’ve given a lot of thought to your involvement in all this and I’m sure there’ll be no problems. It is becoming increasingly clear that Vinson is on the verge of leaving the life of a motorcycle outlaw, and will not worry unduly about the way his statements are used.
The real information will start to appear in the next two days. Names and places and dates, so I suggest you ring me on Friday – after eleven, we’re working late – and I’ll give you all that I’ve found out so far. But, remember that you promised not to start anyth
ing moving your end until I’ve finished my study.
All for now, I think. Do try and relax Izzie. The last couple of times I’ve seen you, I’ve been a little worried. You’re always so tense. Relax. Please.
Must go. It’s very late, and we’ve another long hard day coming. Incidentally, I suspect that Vinson thinks his friends, his ‘brothers’, must use the right word – might come after him. You told me they wouldn’t move from their base without your men knowing. I hope you are right. I’m one gang who doesn’t want banging.
Except by you.
Twelve – I Felt the Earth Move
Friday was another lovely day.
The temperature rose to twenty-four degrees centigrade. The humidity was low, and the wind only two on the Beaufort Scale. There were no earthquakes reported in Western Europe. No rain fell.
The days had passed slowly for Gerry Vinson. Each morning he rose at the same time and ate breakfast with Angela. As time went on, he was increasingly conscious of the growing sexual tension between them, and he had done nothing on his part to lessen it. Angela Wells was an attractive lady, and it was months since Brenda had bought it. He was getting tired on the loneliness of the hand-job. Also, if he could lay her, it might help to open a door or two to his future.
Right now, he was beginning to wonder just where that future lay. Each day the digging had been a little harder and a little deeper. She had returned again and again to the school days, and to the horrors of the army years, until he finally refused to go through it yet again.
Only on the previous day had they begun to touch on the central subject of the Angels themselves. He had described how he’d met Brenda at the Young Anarchists, and how it had been her who had persuaded him to take both their lives in his hands and join the Last Heroes. She had been an idealist in those days of political frustration, and she had called them the ‘last hope for the free left’ and ‘the apostles of ultimate freedom’.
They had found a savage pack of animals, driven underground by the restrictions of a restrictive government. Gerry had fought for his life against one of them, killing him cruelly and efficiently. Brenda had qualified by pulling a train. That phrase had fascinated Angela.
