A Traitor in the Family
Page 11
‘I suppose so.’
‘Well, there you are, then. Why don’t you get yourself back home to your little house and your little wife for a week or so? Then you’ll be expected up in Donegal to help with the new boys. How does that sound to you?’
They’d organized a meal at the pub in Silverbridge to welcome him back, although Aidan was obviously off with him. He seemed cheerful enough despite what had happened. Not that he spoke to her about it, not that she could ask. She’d pieced it together from the press reports, his absence and the sympathetic looks from the other girls. Four tourists with no involvement or interest in Ireland, so the papers said. No doubt Francis would say different.
It was steak and chips and Spanish red wine. The bosses had sent some boys down to guard the pub, six of them, four posted on the corners outside looking for strange cars and strange men, checking prospective customers and peering out with baleful nervousness. The other two sat in a car, just in case. Inside Francis was greeted like a film star and she travelled in his slipstream. They sat initially man–wife–man–wife, but after the meal the men got down to some serious drinking and the girls bunched up at the table.
‘It was just bad luck, that Belgium thing,’ said Anne-Marie Shaw. A glance from Cathy, Aidan’s wife, shut her up.
‘Did you hear about poor Jackie Sullivan?’ said Patricia, from Forkhill. ‘Taken in for questioning.’
‘No,’ said Cathy. ‘Really? I didn’t know.’
‘Yes. A group of us went down the police station, but they’d sent her on to Castlereagh already.’
‘What charge?’
‘None. Just questioning. They must have thought she knew where Mikey was.’
‘She’ll have give as good as she got,’ said Anne-Marie. ‘Bastards.’
‘Doesn’t even know where Mikey is. Hasn’t seen him in seven months. Anyway, the brief went straight up there. She come out this morning, so I heard.’
‘They’ll never find Mikey. The boys’ll look after him.’
‘He’s OTR in the South too. Some post office raid. The Guards down in Dundalk were telling Aidan’s brother.’
‘They won’t find him.’
‘Hear about that tout they got up in Derry?’ said one of the other girls, Bridget didn’t know who.
‘Yeah,’ said Anne-Marie, ‘may they ever make an example out of him.’
‘Oh, they will for certain, Anne-Marie,’ said Cathy. ‘Joe Geraghty’s boys are on to it, Aidan says. They’ll tear the bastard limb from limb.’
‘It’s his wife I feel sorry for,’ said Patricia.
‘Your problem is you’re too soft, Patricia,’ said Cathy with a laugh. ‘Anyways, the way I hear it, it was her turned him in. She’ll be all right. No sympathy for that bastard, though.’
‘Anyone need a drink?’ said Bridget, and she took a moment at the bar to breathe deep and slow.
When the party broke up Francis and Bridget were driven home in one of the cars sent down from Belfast, another following behind. They swung round bends at speed, plunging into the night.
‘No hurry, boys,’ said Francis with garrulous drunken loudness. ‘No one following.’
The driver said nothing.
‘They know where I live sure enough anyways.’
So here he was, lying in a field with these impressionable young volunteers. Two boys and a girl. Nineteen or twenty, he’d guess. He didn’t know their names, though one of the boys’ accents was noticeably Derry. The other boy came from somewhere in the Six Counties, but Francis could not place it precisely. The girl was from the South: if pressed he’d say from the Midlands, but he wasn’t so clever on Free State accents. They’d each been allocated code names – Alice, Brendan and Colin. Stupid games, Francis thought.
And they did look up to him. Officially they knew him as Dave. But they were obviously in awe of him. It did not matter to him: one of this holding pattern’s small consolations was that he could, momentarily, bask in the hero’s glow.
He rode them hard, harder than they were ever likely to experience in the real glare of an active service unit on the ground. There, there would be complete vigilance but slack cut so that each member could gather himself or herself for the task at hand. Here, on the other hand, it was relentless, from six in the morning until nine at night and they were on full operational alert twenty-four hours a day. If things started to go wrong in the real world they needed to have the stamina, physical and mental. Drink was not allowed on active service training, though Francis had tested this by taking them to the pub one evening, where they had all ordered soft drinks. Francis was not sure he would have passed this test himself at their age, but training back then had involved no more than going out after last orders, borrowing an old Lee-Enfield and having a potshot at some soldiers in an armoured car from some convenient ditch.
Their quarters were in an old stable block in a secluded farm near Buncrana, in the Republic, which had been fitted out with basic washing facilities and a row of camp beds, each with its own sleeping bag ingrained with the grime and sweat of previous volunteers. It was on the farm that most of the weapons training took place, while a local helper looked out for the Gardai or other inquisitive interest. They did most of their anti-surveillance training on the rural roads of County Donegal, but had some exercises over the border in Derry City itself. They had been working for ten days now and Francis could sense the kids’ exhaustion. He found against his better judgement that he enjoyed this and was raring to go each morning, rising quietly at five thirty to get the rudiments of breakfast together and after close of play ensuring that the packing away had been efficiently done.
Tonight was a live weapons exercise over the border in the North. The task was to service a notional weapons cache, retrieving an imaginary load of Semtex and weapons to take back to their base in the farm. They were armed because Francis wanted them to experience the tension of carrying their loaded guns, and because it was standard operating practice in the North not to operate without defensive weapons. The chances of a real engagement were minimal; the greater risks were posed by one of the volunteers misfiring his or her weapon. But they were good, diligent kids, obviously committed, far too serious, and Francis had few fears on this score. Soon they would be launched.
Brendan was counting down their timing, while Francis monitored discreetly. He was playing the role of a member of the ASU. Alice was the leader of the team and shortly she would send Colin out to recce the ground.
It was cool lying next to the hedge, though not as bitter as it would have been in midwinter. Francis felt damp seeping through his camouflage trousers but this was a minor privation. It was a pitch-dark night, with a cover of dense cloud and without a sound save the rustle of small animals making their way through the undergrowth. The four of them lay in the small ditch, almost touching.
Francis could just make out the small hand signal from Brendan to Alice. It could have been still more unobtrusive and Francis made a mental note. Alice touched Colin gently on the shoulder and he began to move. Smoothly, thought Francis approvingly; starts and finishes were generally where you made yourself obvious. Colin had done well and was making his way noiselessly forward to the opposite end of the field. Colin was the country boy and he would be all right on this task.
They waited, and the wet made a greater incursion up Francis’s leg, nearing his crotch. He would need to wear his other set of fatigues the next, final day. He could hear his own breathing but not the others’. He peered and could just distinguish the motionless shapes of Alice and Brendan. He could only see them because he knew exactly where they were. So far, so good.
On his earphone Francis heard the single click from the radio that denoted that all was clear along the route to the corner of the next field. He watched Alice as she gave him and Brendan the signal to move off. They walked slowly in single file, Brendan in front, Alice in the middle and Francis taking up the rear, scanning behind for potential threats. He felt the buzz: this wa
s real but not real and it was strange once again to be the back marker on a job rather than its leader. He could hear the steady swish of the grass as they walked in time with each other.
At the edge of the field Francis noticed Colin standing in front of them. Terrible: he would be marked down for this. Readily visible against the skyline even in this dark. Then he heard two crackles on his earphone. He stopped still.
‘Yorkie, that you?’ came a man’s voice from the figure he had thought was Colin. An unmistakably English accent, Midlands probably. The two figures in front of Francis stopped still in their hunched positions. Francis said wearily, ‘Yeah, mate,’ and began to stand slowly, coughing and releasing the safety catch on his weapon. He fired as soon as he levelled it, from the hip and with less control than he would have liked, but over the heads of Alice and Brendan. He hoped Colin was safely tucked away somewhere. His semi-automatic spat and the bullets sprayed. ‘Fuck,’ came the elongated groan of the Englishman, and he went down, silent.
‘What the fuck?’ came another voice from the right, maybe fifty feet away, and Armageddon began.
Francis dived to the floor and crawled quickly to Alice and Brendan. He could see the spits from the soldiers’ weapons as they fired in panic. They must have traversed the field diagonally before encountering Francis and his trainees.
‘OK, going to have to return fire,’ he said quietly, hoping the Brits would not hear his voice in the clamour they were creating. ‘Where’s Colin?’
‘Here, boss,’ came the boy’s whispered voice.
They had the advantages of being together as a unit and of knowing where the enemy was, approximately.
A more authoritative English voice cut through the firing. ‘Cease fire. Now.’
A silence fell on the field and Francis could hear rustling as the Brits presumably reassembled and gathered for what was to come. He and his team of three lay motionless, huddled.
Nearby, he heard a whisper: ‘Sarge, are they gone?’
‘Quiet,’ came the terse reply. ‘Not sure. Let’s flush these bastards out.’
They were closer than the Brits realized. He thought he could see a hand moving, signalling. He knew he had only seconds, and a small number of them, to make his decision. There was no point just lying there. There was no point attempting to retreat without firing. They would be sitting, or running, ducks. Then he caught sight to his left of the outline of the bulky torso of a kneeling man. He tapped Alice on the shoulder and pointed. She nodded in acknowledgement. He touched Brendan on the thigh and gestured with a sweeping hand where he wanted him to concentrate his fire. Colin was already looking at him for cues, he could see. He drew his hand across to denote the ambit of his firing. The team were all obedient, attentive, waiting. So far the training had worked. Now they would discover just how far it had stuck.
He tensed his body and saw the others do likewise. He held up his hand displaying three fingers. Then two. Then one.
They stood in unison. Alice fired at the crouching figure on semi-automatic. Colin took the area to her left, spraying bullets perhaps as blindly as the Brits but under greater control. Brendan and Francis himself fired into the darkness to Alice’s right. They heard several of their shots thudding into surfaces and heard groans, but Francis could not be sure whether they were hitting their targets. In normal circumstances it would be a hugely wasteful use of resources, showing precisely where they were. But the situation wasn’t conventional, even in combat terms, and evidently they had taken the Brits by surprise. Their fire was not initially returned.
A ten-second burst and they ceased fire, without the requirement for a command, as abruptly as the firing had started. They began running, initially towards their training objective and away from where they had left the car. Francis knew the topography of the field and hoped that if the Brits chased them they could trace a wide circle and come back to the relative safety of their vehicle. Maybe if these hadn’t been novices he might have split them and divided the soldiers’ forces.
He heard voices. They would be summoning up helicopters and armoured vehicles, so he and the others had little time. There was another spurt of fire, aiming at an area of the hedge well behind them, which was welcome. The sergeant gave the command to withdraw. Francis held up his hand and his unit halted immediately. They could see nothing but heard the sound of running feet receding.
They waited for a moment, and Francis was aware of the sound of his own breathing. When they could hear the Brits no more he gathered his team together and whispered, ‘Back to the car as quick as we can. Now.’
They moved fast, retracing their steps. As they reached the point where the fighting had begun, Francis heard a moan.
‘Yorkie, that you?’
It was the soldier he had shot first. He approached him and knelt, checking carefully for weapons. But this man was beyond the use of weapons. He lay without moving, looking up with the terror of a trapped animal. ‘Fuck,’ he said.
He could only be about eighteen or nineteen, Francis thought. Downy, light facial hair. Brown eyes. In his face was fear, distilled.
The blood seeped mainly through his midriff, though Francis could see that his right arm, splayed unnaturally just above the wrist, had been broken too. He would be in shock. Francis felt in the compartments of the soldier’s fatigues and found what he wanted. With shaking fingers he tore open the field dressing and placed it on the largest entry hole, pressing. The boy convulsed and gripped Francis’s right arm with his left hand.
‘Ssh. Now, now,’ said Francis soothingly. ‘Press this to yourself, hard. Hard as you can. Hold it there.’
The boy gasped and said, ‘Don’t leave me here. Stay with me.’
Francis looked down on him and said, ‘They’ll be back for you soon, son. Won’t be long.’ But he waited a moment, his hand holding the boy’s and pressing down into the warm wetness of the wound. It was unlikely the dressing would serve any purpose other than possibly providing the boy with some comfort in these last moments.
‘Francis,’ said Brendan behind him.
‘That’s Dave to you, boy,’ he replied, though he knew it would not matter. Gently he withdrew his hand from the boy’s and wiped it on the long wet grass. He turned back to the young soldier, whose eyes had closed, then led them back to the car.
Francis drove, with no lights. He knew these back roads. They heard helicopters in the distance, then closer as he crashed the gears, trying to urge speed from the vehicle that was just not there. No one spoke and Francis was grateful. They needed the focus. They dared not cross the border at Strabane, where there would be a checkpoint, so they headed down the Urney Road towards Clady. If they saw trouble there, they would have to head still further south, towards Castlederg or even Killeter, hurtling down narrow lanes. That would be desperate. But Clady was asleep and Francis slowed the car to a crawl, the engine ticking over as it crept to safety. They crossed the River Finn and were in the Republic. Francis knew the British army or the RUC would not now dare to chase them, even in hot pursuit.
Finally someone spoke. ‘Alice’s been hit, boss,’ said Colin. He had been silent as they were making their way to safety, but all the while he’d been cradling her in his arms. Francis stopped the car and they examined her in the back seat. She was still conscious but blood spread like spilt black ink from the wound in her upper chest, near the shoulder. He cursed himself for not having taken the Brit’s remaining dressings – he would not be needing them – and stuffed a handkerchief into the fleshy hollow where the bullet had penetrated. Alice screamed.
At the next village they found a telephone kiosk and Francis rang his local contact. A doctor would be raised. Stop outside the main post office in Letterkenny.
There was a car there when they arrived, a portly middle-aged man with a full beard standing beside it. Francis drew up alongside him and wound down the window.
‘Will you be following me, then,’ said the man tersely, and climbed into his Volvo.
‘I run my practice from here,’ explained the doctor. ‘But my consulting room’s not big enough to deal with operations. From time to time we have to use the kitchen for emergencies. Now what will we be calling the darling young lady?’
‘Alice,’ said Colin.
‘Aye. Alice it is, then. What have we here?’
Francis and his two companions were the doctor’s assistants as he sedated Alice, cleaned the entry and exit wounds, stitched up the holes in her chest and back and gave her a tetanus shot.
‘She’ll be all right,’ he said to Francis afterwards, ‘though it’ll be a long old road, I shouldn’t wonder. Let’s get her off to bed for a few hours and you and your boys go off yourselves. Alice is in safe hands. Your friends will get her into a hospital discreetly down south somewhere in a few days’ time, where she can recover properly.’
They were told to lie low at the farm until further notice. The training was abandoned and they played cards all day. He learned that the boys were Bobby and Kieran. They were interested in his stories but he told them none. In the evenings the farmer’s wife brought them hot meals and beer. The alcohol embargo was not worth maintaining and at least there was the opportunity to sleep.
After four days a small saloon car pulled up at the farm. Francis could not see who emerged but told the boys to be alert. They took out their weapons.
The farmer was sent over to fetch Francis, and him alone. In the farmhouse kitchen a fire was blazing in the hearth, emitting the delicious sulphurous smell of burning peat, and Gentleman Joe sat daintily at the table sipping a cup of tea.
‘Thanks now, Harry,’ said Joe, and the farmer left the house.