Animal Instinct

by James R. Vance

  The choice of suitable publican as genial host for a potential ‘O.K. Corral’ had to be a cross between John Wayne, Henry Kissinger and Mother Theresa. From humble beginnings in County Sligo, young Sean O'malley had matured into that intoxicating mix of grit, diplomacy and compassion, a combination, which had qualified him admirably for the position of mine host at the Barleycorn.

  He was now over forty years of age, but still carried the looks, the thick black hair, the dark flashing eyes and twinkling smile that had set him apart during his teenage years. Above all, he possessed that charm, that unmistakeable Irish charm, irresistible to every woman whom he encountered.

  At the age of fifteen dramatic events shaped his life when he was aroused from the carefree lifestyle that he enjoyed on his parents farm. On a misty November morning, he pulled back the doors of the barn to summon his father for breakfast. The pale streaks of a grey dawn filtered into the cavernous interior, revealing the barely discernable figure of Patrick O'malley by the steps to the hayloft.

  Unable to move forwards, Sean cried out and sank to his knees. His father's feet were almost three feet above the floor of the barn. A stout rope suspended from an oak beam held the weight of his father's body by the neck. The ensuing Garda investigation arrived at a suicide verdict.

  Within six months, Sean had left home to follow in his father's footsteps as a member of the I.R.A. The local commander had made it extremely clear to the impressionable youngster that the British were responsible for his father's death. It had been a reprisal for some minor fracas with the Ulster constabulary near the border at Enniskillen.

  A year later, a British army unit arrested Sean near Newry where he was interviewed by the intelligence service. There he learned a third version, a verifiable version of his father's death, when he was informed that Patrick O'malley had been a collaborator with the British. His hanging had in fact been retribution by the I.R.A. for his treachery. The confused teenager escaped (believing subsequently that his freedom was pre-arranged by his captors) but, instead of returning south, he made his way to Belfast and took the ferry across to Heysham and the start of a new life in England.

  At that time during the early nineteen seventies, Irish bar work was considered as a professional job compared to the perception of the role in the United Kingdom. Pressure from a government quango, the Hotel and Catering Industry Training Board was only just taking effect and forcing the major brewers to invest in training both management and staff in their outlets. The arrival of a young Irishman seeking bar-work was, therefore, at that time a guarantee of instant employment for the qualified applicant.

  Melting un-noticed into the North West pub scene, Sean re-invented himself, spending the next two years between Manchester and Liverpool, building his reputation as a professional barman. During this period, he met and married Julie, a receptionist at the prestigious Midland Hotel in Manchester city centre. As brewers began to develop their managed estates by bringing in talented young couples to replace ageing tenants, it was no surprise that Sean and his young wife were soon headhunted to manage a prestigious new outlet in the suburbs south of the city.

  The granting of a justices on-licence to an ex-republican terrorist would have been impossible without the intervention of MI5 who saw the potential mileage in ‘keeping your enemy close’. The Cheshire police were given the all clear to allow his appointment, on the strict understanding that he would be closely monitored.

  The demise of Sean's career was as rapid as his rise to fame within the industry. That innate recipe of talent, good looks and natural charm opened not only doors to business offers but also to numerous philandering opportunities. Julie, his wife, tolerated the harmless flirting and occasional dalliance, but when, one day, she actually caught him in bed with an attractive blonde barmaid, she walked out accompanied by her two young sons and vowed never to return.

  His problems were compounded when several weeks later his ‘bit-on-the-side’ announced that she was pregnant. Refusing to abort the baby, she threatened him with maintenance demands. Without any warning, she handed in her notice and disappeared never to be seen again. Without the support of his partner, who had returned to Manchester, he was forced to reconsider his aspirations in the licensed trade.

  Following discussions with local brewers to review his situation, his continued employment was limited to managing a series of down-market outlets and consequently his career stagnated. During this period, he developed a reputation for an aptitude in handling the more difficult venues. The Barleycorn was tailor-made.

  *****

  The incident room at Winsford police headquarters on Easter Monday morning was alive with chatter about the unfolding events of the local murder enquiry. In addition to coverage on most TV news channels, the national tabloids allotted front-page space to the story despite the lack of available information. The police had released few facts, fuelling conjecture and hearsay, which became the basis for most storylines.

  It was apparent to D.C.I. Wainwright that a statement was required based on some hard evidence. This became the theme of his address to the team assembled in the incident room.

  “I'm asking D.I. Massey to head up the investigation. You will have seen from today's media that speculation is rife and may even hinder our enquiries. It is imperative therefore, that I can issue a statement based on the facts as quickly as possible. To enable that to happen, we need initially to have a positive I.D. on the girl and to be able to notify her next of kin. That is our number one priority.

  D.I. Massey will also organise the team for other lines of enquiry and any new leads from forensic evidence gathered at the scene of crime. I shall be arranging a press conference for five p.m. today. Your deadline for bringing me up to speed is four thirty.”

  Wainwright left the room, leaving Massey to update the team with the latest available details. John Nuttall had provided a reasonable enhanced photo of the girl, which he had copied and distributed amongst the team.

  “Initially we will assume that the girl is local and so focus on an area radius of five miles. Apart from the photograph, there is very little else to go on. You will find statistical details printed on the back of the photo, giving height, weight, general description, et cetera. Forensics has also established that the young girl was pregnant. That being the case, I want every doctor, hospital, health centre and clinic visited to see if anyone recognises her as a patient.

  We will also check the missing persons register. Another team can check out shops, supermarkets, pubs and restaurants. Even if someone recognises her face, perhaps as a customer, without knowing her actual identity, we can maybe use any relevant CCTV to trace her movements. D.S. Roker will determine the two teams to cover both areas. Any questions?”

  “It's a bank holiday, sir. Not all premises will be open,” added one of the team.

  “Follow up those that are closed first thing tomorrow including banks and post offices.”

  “What about CCTV at the landfill site?”

  “There are cameras but unfortunately both point only outwards from the gate. We will be checking those tomorrow when everyone is back at work. Any information, contact me immediately on my mobile. Just do your best.”

  Massey left the incident room and headed for the D.C.I.'s office, leaving Roker and Turner to share out the workload amongst the team. Wainwright invited him to take a seat.

  “All organised?” he asked.

  “They're sorting it now.”

  “We need a result quickly, unless someone comes forward and reports her missing. Having said that, according to pathology and forensics, we're possibly now into the fifth day and nobody has yet filed a missing person.”

  “Has Nuttall spoken with you yet about the rest of his findings?”

  “The report's on my desk. Surprisingly, there appears to be quite a lot to go on, with more to come. Knowing in which direction to take the investigation is the problem. That is why it is vital to discover her identity. Where was she wh
en she was raped? Was she murdered at the same time? Is she local or passing through? Let's face it, she could be just a visitor. It is a holiday period.”

  “The bank holiday's doing us no favours,” said Massey.

  “Back to normal tomorrow, but there's still a fair amount of stuff to work on. Take the watch, for example. Someone may recognise it, especially the inscription. Work closely with the forensic team. They hold the key for now. Re-check the current scene of crime. There has to be some further evidence on site. Where is her clothing, for example? Once we have her I.D. and have notified her next of kin, we can then use the media more effectively.”

  Massey left the office with more questions than answers. He returned to the incident room and grabbed hold of Turner. “I rather think we should do some detecting amongst the local riff-raff, but first stop forensics, second stop the Barleycorn.”

  *****

  The stranger approached the bar and slipped a packet of Marlboro Lights from his pocket. He withdrew a cigarette, flicked open a lighter and gently stroked the tobacco with the flame until the cigarette end glowed red, causing wisps of white smoke to drift upwards towards the extractor fans.

  “You Sean O'malley?” he inquired.

  “Who's asking?” replied Sean.

  “Jimmy Moran,” said the stranger, extending his hand.

  “What can I do for you?” remarked Sean, ignoring the outstretched arm.

  “I hear you have rooms here…bed and breakfast.”

  Sean nodded, wondering why the man had introduced himself. Despite his name, the stranger had only a faint trace of Irish lilt to his voice. Well groomed and casually dressed in smart designer clothes he stood out from the usual visitors seeking accommodation at the Barleycorn.

  The regular bed and breakfast trade stemmed chiefly from business reps who were working the area or, especially at weekends, couples desperate for a bed to fulfil some illicit one-night stand. The cheap rates also attracted the odd gang of labourers who were often in town on some short-term construction job looking for rooms. This punter was not the norm.

  “I need a room for the night, maybe tomorrow as well. Have you any vacancies?”

  As it was a bank holiday weekend, all the rooms were available. Sean beckoned a member of staff to keep an eye on the bar and motioned the stranger towards a door marked PRIVATE at the end of the lounge bar. The door led into a hallway. At one end, a wooden door, badly in need of renovation, opened onto the main street. Turning in the opposite direction, Sean beckoned the man up a carpet-less staircase towards a first floor landing.

  “You can take your pick,” he said. “We don't get busy until after the bank holiday.”

  “How many rooms have you?” asked the stranger.

  “Eight in total, five on this floor and three on the next. Two of them are kind of en-suite. In other words, there's a shower and a bog included. Would you be wanting one of those?”

  “Sounds favourite.”

  Sean opened the door to room two, situated at the back of the building and ushered the man inside. The interior was sparsely furnished. A small chest of drawers separated two single beds with a wardrobe completing the facilities, apart from the small shower cubicle, sink and W.C. in an adjoining alcove. Flimsy floral curtains hung limply from the sash window. There was a musty smell, probably due to lack of ventilation.

  “You'll find it quieter here…less traffic noise. Got any baggage?”

  “In the car, out there on the car park,” replied the man, peering through the dusty window at the pitted tarmac area below.

  “The keys are in the door,” said Sean, “one for the bedroom, the other for the downstairs front door to the entrance hall. Come down when you're settled and I'll book you in.”

  “I can pay you now.”

  “Sort it later,” said Sean and returned to the bar, leaving the man to familiarise himself with his new surroundings.

  Fifteen minutes later Jimmy Moran re-appeared at the bar to pay for the room. He ordered a large Jamesons.

  “Can you spare five minutes, Sean?” he asked. “I have a proposition for you.”

  Sean nodded, wondering what the man had in mind. Maybe he was a sales rep pitching for business…but on a bank holiday weekend? Reluctantly he joined him at a small round Britannia-style table in a quiet corner of the main lounge area. This stranger, this fellow-countryman, intrigued him but who was he and what was the proposition to which he had referred? He sensed a deep feeling of foreboding. How did he know his name and why was he so familiar towards him? He studied the man's face but was unable to place it. He shuddered at the thought of his past catching up. The man was about to enlighten him.

  “We have a history, Sean,” began Moran. “I vaguely knew your father. He was with mine when the Brits discovered them planting a roadside bomb in Enniskillen. Your da escaped. My da was not so lucky. They shot him dead. However, your da's luck quickly ran out. They caught up with him and literally hung him out to dry in the barn where you found him the following morning. We know that Special Branch eventually convinced you that it was retribution by us. You were young and impressionable and can be excused. The truth is that it was a fuckin’ bare-faced lie.”

  Sean shuddered. The past had caught up with him. “How did I know who to believe?” he asked, wary of the man who had surfaced like a ghost from the past.

  “Maybe not at that time, but think about it. How could an ex-member of the I.R.A. be allowed to be granted a licence to run a pub on mainland Britain?”

  “They took their seats in the British parliament.”

  “Only recently. It took the Good Friday agreement and all that shite to bring about such a con trick. You wouldn't have stood a fuckin’ chance had not Special Branch sanctioned it. Besides, keeping you out of the loop was one less activist to worry about. It banked some credit for them.”

  Jimmy Moran leaned across the table. Sean felt his warm whiskey-laden breath as the stranger pressed his face closer.

  “Over here they can keep you under surveillance and one day they'll demand compensation. You now owe them, mark my words,” he whispered.

  Sean could see some logic in the man's point of view. He suspected that the stranger was also looking for some payback, but what did he want? He decided to ask him directly.

  “What's this proposition?”

  “We're looking to accommodate some students.”

  “Excuse my ignorance, but who's this ‘we’ you keep referring to?” interrupted Sean.

  “I'll come to that later. There's a new outward-bound training establishment being developed not far from here in the Delamere forest area. We have hired it exclusively over the next couple of weeks to receive a throughput of students. Unfortunately, the accommodation block is still under construction, so they will need somewhere to stay. We could wait a couple of months, but our clients have specified this particular time-slot. They have unlimited resources, so it's an opportunity for you to make a generous financial killing from the situation. In other words, charge what the hell you like.”

  “If your clients have so much financial clout, why choose here? There are numerous first class hotels in the area.”

  “They prefer not to draw too much attention to themselves and, without being rude, they should fit in quite unobtrusively with your regular clientele.”

  “They're dodgy, then,” suggested Sean.

  “We've done a deal with a group of individuals who need some training and the benefit of our expertise, but it needs to be kept low-key and we need someone, like your good self, on whom we can rely.”

  “This place is crawling with local C.I.D. If they clock what's going on and your so-called students are…” Sean hesitated. “Who are these people for fuck's sake?”

  “That's where you come in. To be sure, we know about the police presence here, but don't you see, it's perfect. Let's be honest, your pub's full of the dregs of society. A few extra ones will just blend in. Anyhow, they'll tend to stay in their rooms apart f
rom attending the training activities.”

  “They're recruits for a new cell, aren't they?”

  “As you are well aware, Sinn Fein has done a deal with the British government, but that does not mean that we have ceased to exist. On the contrary, we are still extremely active but desperately short of funding. This is merely an arrangement that will go towards solving some of our money problems. We have to be prepared when the time comes.”

  “You're a splinter group of dissident Republicans,” declared Sean, beginning to grasp the underlying truth. “But how does this ‘arrangement’, as you put it, fund your activities?”

  “I'm afraid that I cannot divulge any further detail, suffice to say that, not only will you reap some considerable financial reward, but you will also be avenging your father's brutal death. At least you owe him that. When you found him in that barn all those years ago, did you not choke on the bitter stench of treachery? Did you not crave for instant revenge?”

  The painful memories flooded back. Hairs stood out on the back of Sean's neck; a shiver coursed through his head and shoulders. The stranger continued.

  “This is payback time, Sean. This is your opportunity to support the cause in our struggle against those bastards who continue to persecute us in the name of justice. You were right about the peace process, but be honest…Sinn Fein have bottled it. The evil roots of our suffering have never left our shores. The Stormont traitors will never satisfy true patriots. The fight began with our fathers’ fathers and will be carried forward by the Real IRA. We are almost ready. As I said before, our only obstacle is finance. This will be a major step towards resolving that issue.”