Fifty Dead Men Walking

by McGartland, Martin

  ‘Hi,’ I said, surprised and a little embarrassed that I was finally face to face with White Suspenders. And I was standing there dressed in nothing but a pair of jeans.

  ‘Are you coming for a spin?’ he asked.

  ‘Hold on,’ I said, ‘I’ll be right with you,’ and I ran inside, grabbed a shirt, looked at myself in the mirror and dashed back to the car.

  Within a few weeks Liz and I would become lovers, much to the consternation of my mother. It wasn’t that she thought we were too young, but that Liz was a Protestant from the hard-line loyalist Shankill area.

  Throughout the mid 1980s, particularly in Belfast and ‘Derry, sectarian killings by both sides became an everyday occurrence with taxi drivers, in particular, being killed nearly every week.

  My mother feared what would happen to either Liz or me if the sectarian hardliners on either side discovered we were dating. She would occasionally allow Liz to stay at our house but she could never relax.

  ‘You know what the IRA will do with that girl if they find she’s staying here, don’t you?’ my mother would ask. And without waiting for a reply, my mother would continue, ‘They’ll kill her. Do you realise that?’

  I discussed the situation with Liz but we were young and in love and believed nothing could touch us. I would occasionally stay at her house in the Shankill and, before going to bed, I would push the settee against the front door in case of possible intruders. I believed that with the settee against the door I would have a few seconds or more to make good my escape through the back door and over the garden wall.

  Most evenings we would spend some time together and then Liz would take a taxi back home at around midnight. For the next few hours we would chat on the CB, lovers talking about our future together, our love life and sometimes the intimate details of our new-found sex life.

  Seven months later, while chatting late at night on the CB, Liz told me she was pregnant.

  There was no way that Liz and I could stay together unless we decided to leave Northern Ireland and live somewhere else in the United Kingdom. Once, and once only, we discussed that possibility but we were both so young, without jobs, and with virtually no money between us. We agreed that the idea would be impractical, if not impossible, and we never discussed the matter again.

  My mother took the news of the pregnancy remarkably well, but she never mentioned the possibility that Liz and I should marry or live together because she knew that both those options would be impossible. She knew, better than Liz or me, what would happen if the hard men on either side of the sectarian divide heard that we were living together and proposing to bring up a family.

  Liz and I would see each other throughout her pregnancy and we swore undying love. But in our hearts we knew that we would not, could not, stay together. After baby Martine was born in January 1987, I tried to be a good father and bought a pram, baby clothes and everything that Liz would need to care for our baby. We continued to see other but even meeting was fraught with difficulties as the sectarian violence increased and the hatred between the two communities intensified. When Liz became pregnant we had stopped our nightly chats on the CB and a few weeks after Martine was born it became obvious that the relationship could not continue.

  One night, Liz and I were walking from the Catholic area towards the Shankill because she needed to be back home to look after Martine. We came across a friend of mine, who had obviously been drinking, and who had met Liz on a few occasions. He had always been polite and pleasant, but drunk he was a different man.

  ‘Fuck off, you Shankill slag,’ he shouted at her. ‘Go and get fucked by one of your own.’

  ‘Shut up,’ I told him, threatening to hit him if he didn’t.

  ‘You should know better, Marty,’ he scoffed. ‘You should never fuck a prod – they’re all on the game.’

  Liz appeared to be on the brink of tears and we walked quickly away. But the incident would never be forgotten for it made Liz realise that we could never build a life together.

  Meeting had become extremely difficult, exposing both of us to physical danger. The IRA and loyalist patrols were becoming more vigilant and passing between the Catholic and Protestant areas meant risking exposure and punishment every time either of us made the trip. Neither my mother or Liz’s parents ever suggested that we should live together, because they knew that one day we would be discovered and our lives would be at risk. Within a matter of months the relationship faded and died. I was 16 and, during the first few months of 1987, I found that I was being stopped and questioned at regular intervals by one particular RUC officer, a friendly, middle-aged, stout man with a bushy moustache. As usual, he asked for my name, address and date of birth, where I was going and why.

  The following week he stopped me again and asked me the same questions in a similarly friendly manner. This happened a third time the following week. I didn’t like the attention because Republicans were suspicious of any Catholic who was seen talking regularly to RUC officers.

  ‘Why do you keep stopping me and asking me the same questions?’ I asked. ‘You should know me by now.’

  ‘No reason,’ he smiled. ‘Just doing my job.’

  But the officer, who told me his name was Billy, continued to stop and question me for no apparent reason and I wondered why. He would even shout after me in the street while dealing with another matter, and drop everything to come over and chat to me.

  A month or so later, Officer Billy stopped me again.

  ‘Now what do you want?’ I remonstrated, annoyed and worried in case any IRA men were watching.

  ‘I hear you’re taking driving lessons,’ he said.

  ‘That’s right,’ I said, somewhat startled, wondering how on earth he knew I was taking lessons.

  ‘When you’re ready to take your test, let me know,’ he said, ‘because I have a couple of mates who might be able to help.

  There was nothing I wanted more than to pass my driving test, buy a car and start to enjoy life. It had been my ambition since childhood and the thought of being assisted to pass my test seemed like a dream.

  The next time we met, Officer Billy told me to go to Grosvenor Road RUC base, close to the republican Falls Road, and someone would be there to see me. No names were mentioned. I was intrigued, wondering how calling at the RUC base would secure me a driving licence.

  The following evening, on Officer Billy’s instructions, a taxi dropped me off a couple of miles from the RUC base, and I completed my journey on foot. I wondered if I was out of my mind as a dozen or more RUC Land Rovers passed by on their way to and from the base.

  As soon as I arrived at the base it was clear that the RUC officers on duty had been forewarned. As I approached the heavily-fortified steel gates, I was amazed that they glided open – no one had challenged me or asked me my identity. I suspected a trap.

  I waited inside the gate and stood motionless expecting someone to challenge me. For a full minute I stood still, watching the officer inside the sangar (the fortified observation post inside the base), expecting him to question me and ask me to explain the reason for my presence. But he ignored me.

  After a minute or so I decided to walk across the square to an office with ‘Reception’ on the door. I walked slowly, deliberately keeping my hands by my side so that no one would think I was about to throw a grenade or go for a gun. I still believed I might be entering a trap, but there was no turning back.

  I walked wearily into the reception room and saw another officer sitting in an adjoining room. He looked at me and then turned away, as though I wasn’t there. He didn’t say a word either, so I sat down and waited, wondering why no one had spoken to me.

  Five long minutes later a door at the side of the room opened and a tall, well-built man in his 50s, called across to me. ‘Marty,’ he said in a friendly voice, ‘come on in.’

  At that moment I had no idea what the future would hold – I later discovered that I was about to start my career as an agent working for the Special
Branch.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  I WALKED INTO THE TINY, BARE, WINDOWLESS ROOM, not more than seven feet by seven feet, furnished with a small table and wooden chairs. The man who had called out to me shook me by the hand – his grip firm and strong, his hand seemingly twice the size of mine. The other man in the room, also powerfully built and more than six-feet tall, spoke with a strong Belfast accent.

  ‘Sit down, Marty,’ the first man said, trying to put me at ease, ‘Did Billy explain to you why we wanted to see you?’

  ‘No,’ I said, ‘he just mentioned something about a driving licence.’

  ‘Listen,’ said the first man, ‘I want to be straight with you, Marty. We will be able to help you obtain a licence but it will take some time. I’m sure we’ll be able to sort something out for you. We just want you to do some work for us, to keep an eye on some people. We’re the Special Branch and it’s our job to keep an eye on trouble-makers. From time to time we need help from local people. We thought you might be interested in helping. If, on the other hand, you don’t want to work for us, we will understand. You can just leave here and go home and you will hear nothing more.’

  Number two added, ‘If you decide to walk away you can be sure you won’t hear any more from Officer Billy either.’ With a laugh, he said, ‘Has he been giving you a hard time?’

  ‘A hard time!’ I replied. ‘He’s been chasing me up and down the street wanting to talk to me.’

  ‘Listen,’ said Number One, laughing, ‘Billy is a good man at heart. He won’t do you any harm, I promise you.’

  The two men sitting in front of me, dressed in light-coloured anoraks, sweaters and grey trousers, intrigued me. They seemed like ordinary blokes I saw everyday in Belfast and nothing like what I expected Special Branch officers to look like. I had only ever heard about the mysterious, legendary Special Branch but, to my knowledge, had never seen or met one of them before.

  ‘What would you want me to do?’ I asked.

  Number One replied. ‘All we would want you to do is keep an eye on some people in your area.’

  ‘Who are you talking about?’ I asked, somewhat mystified. ‘Who are these people?’

  He replied, ‘These will be people who we will identify to you and then you can keep an eye on them for us.’

  Number Two intervened, ‘We will show you pictures of these people who all live in your area and ask you to keep an eye on them.’

  ‘Who are these people?’ I asked again.

  ‘We will let you know,’ said Number One. ‘Could you meet us in a couple of days?’

  ‘Sure I could, where?’ I asked.

  ‘Somewhere near your area,’ said Number Two, ‘We could meet you in the Turf Lodge…’

  Before he could finish the sentence I exploded, ‘Turf Lodge! Turf Lodge! Do you think I’m fucking mad? If I’m seen there meeting you two I’ll get killed, you know that?’

  They both laughed at my outburst. ‘Calm down, Marty, don’t worry; we go in there all the time.’

  Then I think my mouth dropped open in disbelief, for I would never have imagined plain-clothes Special Branch officers daring to enter the tough republican Turf Lodge area which the IRA controlled and where RUC officers only ventured in armoured Land Rovers.

  ‘Listen,’ said Number One, ‘Walk through Turf Lodge towards Kennedy Way and we will pick you up in a car. Don’t worry. We will check you’re not being followed.’

  I looked from one to the other and they could see I was still undecided, fearing that they could never guarantee my safety.

  ‘We will meet you at 7.00pm,’ Number Two said, ‘So it will be dark by then. No one will see you.’

  Excited by the prospect, I replied, ‘OK then, I’ll give it a go.’

  We chatted for about five minutes and they asked me whether I had a job and what I did with myself during the day. I wasn’t going to tell them about my money-making activities and must have blushed. I noticed they looked at each other and both laughed. ‘We don’t want to know anything about your private life, Marty, don’t worry,’ said Number One.

  That reassured me. I began to relax and to believe that I had not entered a trap.

  ‘We’ll see you then. Seven o’clock down Kennedy Way. OK?’

  It was time to go. I got to my feet and shook hands with them, once again noting the size of their hands. I knew I would never mix it with either of them.

  As I walked back home that evening, I vowed never to tell anyone of my meeting with the Special Branch. I was learning.

  Two days later, as I walked the mile-and-a-half to the appointed rendezvous, I kept glancing at the passing cars to see whether I recognised any of the vehicles. If I had recognised a friend’s car I would probably have turned and walked straight home; but I saw no one I knew.

  I had no idea what to expect when, as if from nowhere, a, silver, four-door saloon pulled up in front of me and stopped. As the rear passenger door opened I saw another car across the road with two men inside. That scared me.

  I could feel my heart thumping as I climbed inside. ‘Shit,’ I said, hardly able to string two words together, ‘I’ve just been spotted…there’s two men in a car over there… they saw me get in.’

  The Special Branch men could see I was nervous. ‘Don’t worry,’ one of the officers said, ‘it’s one of hours.’

  Number one, who was in the front passenger seat, picked up a walkie-talkie radio, and after giving a call sign, said, ‘Everything’s OK on our side; you can return to base.’

  We drove to Musgrave Park Hospital in Balmoral and stopped in the visitor’s car park, which was nearly full at that time of night.

  ‘We’ll be safe here,’ said Number Two. ‘There’s no need to worry.’

  ‘We’re going to give you a telephone number where you can contact us 24 hours a day,’ said Number One, ‘and we’re going to give you a code name, too. Alright?’

  ‘Yeah,’ I nodded.

  ‘You can’t write down this number, you must memorise it.’

  They gave me a Belfast number and told me to repeat it over and over again until I knew it by heart.

  ‘Right,’ said Number Two, ‘now we’re going to give you a code name. It’s Bonzo.’

  ‘Bonzo,’ I said, repeating the word. ‘What’s that mean? It sounds like a dog.’

  It was at this point that the two officers introduced themselves. Number One said, ‘My name’s Dean and his name’s Jimmy. Have you got that?’

  ‘Yes,’ I replied. ‘You’re Dean and he’s Jimmy.’

  ‘Good.’

  ‘And what’s the telephone number?’

  I stumbled and made a mistake.

  ‘No, listen again,’ said Dean, and he repeated the number slowly.

  ‘Now, what’s your code name?’

  ‘That’s easy,’ I replied. ‘Bonzo.’

  ‘Good. Now give me the number again.’

  This time I got it right. At this point Dean reached over and handed me four £10 notes.

  ‘What’s this for?’ I asked, surprised, but taking the money.

  ‘That’s for you.’

  Never in my life had I been given money for doing nothing and these two men were giving me £40 for just walking a mile or so for a meeting.

  ‘I’ll meet you tomorrow night if you give me another £40,’ I said, laughing.

  They liked that. ‘Take the forty quid,’ said Jimmy, ‘but don’t come tomorrow night and we’ll call it quits.’

  Dean then told me. ‘This is what you must do. If you need to contact us you must phone the number and ask for Bonzo. Do nothing else. Then you will be put through to either Jimmy or me. Got it?’

  ‘Got it,’ I said.

  ‘We’ll drop you where we picked you up. OK?’

  ‘Fine,’ I said.

  ‘But first tell me, what’s the phone number?’

  I got it right.

  Before I left, Dean said, ‘Phone us sometime during the next few days and we’ll arrange another
meeting, OK?’

  ‘OK,’ I said.

  That night I could hardly sleep, excited by the new life that I believed lay ahead. I had made £40 and two new friends whom I felt I could trust. They had also made me feel important, a real man. I had no idea at this stage what they wanted me to do, but believed Dean and Jimmy were probably involved in catching big-time criminals, robbers and people involved in organised crime. I knew they were important because they were Special Branch, not ordinary peelers.

  A few days later, I phoned the number from a telephone box a long way from my home.

  A voice said, ‘Hello.’

  And I said, ‘Can I speak to Bonzo?’

  ‘Wait one moment,’ said the voice.

  Seconds later, Jimmy came on the phone. ‘How are you Bonzo?’

  ‘I’m OK. I’m phoning you because you told me to call.’

  ‘That’s good. Will you be able to come and see us in a day or two?’

  ‘That’s no problem,’ I replied.

  ‘We’ll meet you on the same road as before but further down. Is that OK?’

  ‘That’s fine.’

  Three days later, I met Dean and Jimmy at the rendezvous again, only this time they were in a different car. As I got in, Dean told me to lie down on the back seat. We parked in a street behind King’s Hall near Balmoral Golf Course.

  Once again we chatted for about 30 minutes before returning and dropping me. That arrangement continued for more than a month. I would phone once a week, we would arrange a meet, and sit and chat for 30 minutes or so. Each time we went to different locations and never once did they use the same car. I began to wonder what they wanted.

  During the fourth chat Dean said to me, ‘We’re going to put you on the pay-roll. ‘We’re going to pay you £100 a week.’

  ‘What!’ I exclaimed. ‘A hundred pound a week. What for?’

  ‘You’re working for us now,’ Dean replied.

  He went on, ‘While you’re working for us you’ll be paid £100 a week and we will give you the money once a month, in cash. Is that OK?’

  ‘Fucking right that’s OK,’ I said, hardly able to believe my luck earning that sort of money.