‘His wife’s off running errands,’ explained Joe. ‘Kenny’s in the car looking out. So we’ll not be disturbed.’
He sat for a moment looking at his teacup. ‘The thing is, Francis –’
‘If it’s about the fuck-up we didn’t have no option. It was just bad luck.’
‘No, no,’ said Joe. ‘It’s not about that. That was a success, if we can set aside poor young Alice’s injury for a moment. She’s fine, by the way. Tucked away in Killarney for the time being. Two soldiers dead, one critically ill. Three out of five is good going, I’d reckon. You boys did magnificent. We’re proud of you.’ He sipped his tea. ‘Do you want a cup by the way? There’s still some in the pot.’
‘No thanks,’ said Francis.
‘No. It’s not about that at all. I need to ask you a few questions.’
Francis waited. Joe’s mild demeanour and his courteous manners aroused an alertness in him.
‘Now then, Francis,’ said Joe. ‘Have you had much to do with the security forces just recently?’
‘To do with?’ said Francis.
‘That’s right,’ said Joe patiently, looking mildly at him.
Francis thought of the man Richard and the encounter almost two years before in Singapore, and he tried to push the thought away. He had not disclosed anything about the pull and the conversation with Richard. On this, he agreed with him: to do so would be suicide.
Joe was well versed in sniffing out the shadow of a lie. If Francis could successfully persuade himself that he had never been approached, then he would be better placed to conceal it from Joe. But what if, despite the spook’s promise, something had crept out, from some corrupt cop or by some terrible coincidence? What, indeed, if that bastard spook had decided to leak something deliberately? There would be photographs, recordings, and despite the fact that he had rebuffed him he would be tortured and killed. He had no choice but to brazen it out.
‘Nothing,’ he said. ‘Not had any contact at all with them.’
‘Nothing on your travels?’ said Joe. ‘No one sidling up to you while you were in Germany or France?’
‘No. I don’t think I’d be killing British soldiers if that was the case.’
Joe looked at him and gave it fair consideration. ‘No,’ he said, ‘I suppose not. But then again they are devious bastards, aren’t they?’
‘The answer’s still no, Joe. We’ve not been rumbled. Ask any of the lads out there with me. It’d all have been closed down. Is this about Brian?’
‘No. Brian’s sound as a pound as far as I know. His judgement’s maybe off, but I don’t think he’s been talking out of turn. Do you think maybe he has?’
‘No. And nor have I, Joe. Not over there, not here.’
‘And Singapore?’
‘Singapore?’
Joe looked at him steadily, without expression. ‘Yes. Singapore. The trip we agreed never happened.’ He waited for Francis to reply.
‘No. Nothing happened.’
‘Nothing?’
‘That’s right. Nothing.’ He looked Gentleman Joe in the eye.
‘No pull on the way in?’
‘No.’
‘Or the way out?’
‘No. I’d have had to report it if there had been. I know the standing instructions.’
Joe chuckled and murmured, ‘Of course you do, Francis. No suspicious individuals cosying up to you at the bar? I know you like the sauce.’
‘No, Joe.’
‘No shady offers of timeshares? No fancy women with their pimps showing you the full-colour pictures after the event? No charming Englishmen? You know you can tell me. You know you have to.’
‘No. What do you think of me, Joe?’
Joe smiled. This was it. I think you and me need to go off for a couple of days with some of the boys to chat this through, he’d say.
Instead Joe said, ‘I have to ask these questions, you understand. I can’t be seen to be doing any favours for my boys. I have a job to do. You do understand?’ He was almost deferential.
‘Of course.’
‘Now, then. Have you heard from your wee brother recently?’
‘Liam? No.’
Francis was confused. Liam lived at home with his parents in Belfast. He spent most of the time in bed listening to music, it seemed, and the time he was out of his pit he was involved in petty crime. He’d been warned by Martin Dempsey more than once. Even been slapped by some of Martin’s boys. Surely Gentleman Joe hadn’t graced him with his ethereal presence just to tell him to keep his brother under control?
‘Is he in trouble again?’
‘Well, yes and no,’ said Joe, looking vexed. ‘He may be in a spot of bother, but it’s not the usual. I may as well tell you the whole thing. But I have to ask you one or two things first.’
‘Fire away.’
‘Thanks, Francis. Now, do you see much of young Liam?’
‘No. Christmas maybe if I’m at me ma and da’s.’
‘Could you put a figure on it for me for the past two years?’
‘Say, three or four times.’
Joe looked at him expectantly.
‘Oh. Let me see. I saw him at Christmas in 1989. When I got back from that job in Calais.’ Joe nodded. ‘He was there at me ma’s and then went out on Christmas Day. We went back home the next day. Then, must have been September last year I bumped into him in McLaughlin’s when I was up in Belfast on some business.’
‘All right. Do you talk about business with him?’
‘Shit, no.’
‘And?’
‘Not seen him recently. Why are you asking?’
‘We’ll come to that in a bit. What do you know about him getting involved with the boys?’
‘He’s not. Is he? He never used to be interested. Used to drive me ma and da mad.’
‘Interesting. Would it surprise you to find out he’d offered his services to Martin for the Belfast Brigade?’
‘I’ll say. He’d be a liability. He hasn’t the backbone for it. Even if he had the commitment. Do you want me to speak to Martin?’
‘No, no. All I’m doing is a bit of due diligence here. Just sorting out the detail. Best if this is between the two of us.’
‘Fair enough.’
‘Young Liam’s not been in touch with you recently?’
‘Nope.’
‘Not phoned you or had a message sent?’
‘No. He’s not interested in family.’
Joe nodded. ‘Now, would you do me a favour, Francis?’
‘Of course.’
‘If your brother does get in touch, just let me know, will you? As soon as. By the normal channels. Confidential. We should keep this between us. We don’t want anyone putting two and two together and making five now, do we?’
Before Joe left, Francis said, ‘You were going to tell me what this was all about.’
‘So I was,’ said Joe with a smile. ‘Slipped my mind. Well, you know, something and nothing. That’s all I ever seem to deal with, something and nothing. Usually nothing. Some nonsense. A couple of the boys happened on Liam –’
‘Happened on him?’
‘Yes, let’s not dwell on that, shall we? Liam seems to have become passionate about the struggle. And flush with money. Anyways, my boys saw him meeting someone in a car park. Just something that needs clearing up. You’ll see why I’m duty-bound to take an interest. Just some iffy deal, probably.’
Francis was silent.
‘I have to look into it. As I say, something and nothing. Don’t go mentioning this to anyone.’ He patted Francis on the shoulder.
1992
* * *
8
Word came that Liam O’Neill had disappeared.
Before the formal FLASH telegram arrived that was sent to every official entity that could possibly have relevant information, requesting details of Liam’s whereabouts urgently, Geordie rang Richard.
‘Liam O’Neill’s gone missing. Any ideas?’
‘Missing?’
‘Missing presumed snatched. Missing presumed shot in the fucking head. Clear enough?’
‘Don’t get hoity-toity with me, Geordie. You were at the same meeting as I was.’
‘Yeah, I know. Anyway, the major’s gone into a panic. That’s his promotion up the swanny. Freddie went white and he’s not been seen since. Not even necking gin in the mess. And I don’t think he’s mounting a one-man rescue mission. So buggerlugs here is trying to pick up the pieces. You heard anything?’
‘If I had I’d have told you straight away.’
‘I know. But when everybody’s abandoned ship and the captain’s running round shouting, “Don’t panic,” you begin to wonder. You’ll put the word about?’
‘Of course.’
‘Discreetly?’
‘Yes.’
‘It’s going to be a field day for the I-told-you-so merchants. When the cops get to hear …’
‘Not from me, Geordie. Not from us.’
‘It’s that poor fucker I feel sorry for.’
‘I know. What were they doing with him?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘His tasking. Might give us an idea how they got on to him.’
Geordie sighed. ‘Just routine stuff.’
‘That all?’
After a while Geordie said, ‘What you getting at?’
‘You know. Francis.’
‘The major was keen for him to show his worth, that’s all.’
‘And Freddie’s still got his old contacts?’
‘Not going there.’
‘Not sure I want to know anyway. Thought you lot had learned your lesson.’
‘Just because we’re mates doesn’t mean we’re friends. I’m not going to commit suicide for the sake of your fucking curiosity.’
‘Professional suicide, you mean.’
‘You heard. It’s not as if what the kid knew was worth the risk. Now Gentleman Joe’s boys’ll be all over him. Or if he’s lucky they’ll have finished.’
‘Are you sure about it?’
‘What? That they’ve got him? Who else? Fucking aliens from outer space?’
‘He could have gone to ground for a couple of days.’
‘I don’t think so, Richard. I’ve got that sick feeling. Poor bastard. Let me know if you hear something. Anything.’
In the middle of it all.
It was just at this time that things began to shift. Not imperceptibly, but not especially noticeably either. Liam’s disappearance coincided with Richard’s introduction to what Charles called the Inner Circle. Richard would not have been surprised to learn that his initiation involved rolling up his trouser legs, chanting new mantras and learning new handshakes.
It was more formally, though sotto voce, known as the Channel. Richard had been dispatched to rooms to receive secret briefings and to sign his life away on forms that swore him to eternal silence. Charles chaperoned him, as the point man until now. Then Richard had taken the baton. Something about a safe pair of hands.
Whether there was something in the air, or in the water, in the late 1980s and early 1990s Richard saw as debatable. Whether the reunification of Germany, the thaw in East–West relations and the release from prison of Nelson Mandela created a context was one for the birds. But it seemed to Richard that at almost the same moment each of the principal players in the tragic drama that was the Troubles had some impetus to put an end to it.
In the middle of its latest act – Richard could not later recall the specifics – Liam O’Neill disappeared.
They gave him water at last, though he found it difficult to swallow. He spluttered and retched, bending double. He raised his head again to see the light bulb above him swinging slightly in the breeze that permeated this building, this shed.
He had told them everything he could remember. Dates. Places. Names. Telephone numbers. Meeting instructions and drills. Car descriptions. Who and what he’d reported on. What they were interested in. Ideas about other touts. He knew it would do him no good but the fear had just made it spill out of him, like the liquid shit from his body, trapped in his underpants, that smeared him with each move he made. He could smell himself but was beyond caring. Beyond anything. It seemed just to be part of the business for them too.
Three of them. They’d worn balaclavas throughout, which was something. It must have been hard labour too, as they took turns to hold him and hit him with the end of the snooker cue, across his head, his torso. Kicked him, in the crotch, up the arse, in his midriff as he lay there. Held his hand carefully across the work bench as they broke his fingers, one by one, using a claw hammer. Panting, perspiring; if it hadn’t been for the stink of his own excrement, he might have been able to smell their sweat.
They could have made it easier on themselves. Asked nicely. He’d have given it all up. A grim smile formed but he coughed again, pain spiking in his chest, swelling through his throat and spilling out again as bloody slobber on his chin. He must look a sight. He tasted metal.
But they seemed to take a professional pride in it. Maybe it was an article of faith that a confession wrought without the use of violence had no value. Maybe they felt they must earn their volunteers’ wages. Maybe they just enjoyed it.
This was an interlude. They’d been at it for hours. Seized off the quiet street corner where he’d been waiting for Francis. They must have followed him there. Thrown into the back of a van. God knows how many hours hurtling around the roads. Then parked somewhere. Silence. Involuntary sleep like a shutter across his soul. Sudden shudder as the van started again. More bruises as he was shaken from side to side. Then silence again. Doors opened. Darkness. A hand reaching in and grabbing him by the collar. Dragged out, tumbling to the ground. Smell of grass. A courtyard somewhere. Stumbling to his feet, finding his hands were tied. When had that happened? Pushed and dragged. Here. The world had changed to a continuous dark smudge of pain and fear.
‘Hey,’ said one of the voices. Harsh, West Belfast. He probably knew the man, but it wasn’t Martin Dempsey or anyone else he recognized. ‘Pay attention.’
Someone grabbed his hair and jerked his head up.
‘Now then,’ said a softer voice, and he struggled to gain focus, and hope. He was shifted on to a broken-spindled kitchen chair that held his weight, but only just. He looked up to see a thin face, but kindly, looking down at him with concern.
‘Now then,’ the man repeated. ‘Been through the mill, haven’t ye, young Liam?’ The man wore a suit and tie. He could be his saviour.
The other men stood in the background, arms folded.
‘You must see that these boys had their work to do, right enough?’
He found himself nodding, agreeing with anything this man might say.
‘Well, it’s all over now, I can tell you that.’ The man took a handkerchief from his pocket and blew his nose carefully, delicately. He had bony white fingers, like a piano player’s. ‘It’s all over now. My name’s Joe Geraghty and you can see my face true as day. Look at me, Liam.’
He complied and moved as if to stand. He could see the men in balaclavas tense, ready to step forward. But he lacked the strength anyway and slumped back down.
Joe Geraghty said, with a tenderness that caused tears to form in Liam’s eyes, ‘You know where we’ve got to, Liam. It’s a pretty pass, but we’re here now. Your chance to find solace.’
‘Mr Geraghty, sir, I’m sorry …’
‘Shush, shush, there. No need, boy. We’re beyond that. What’s done is done and we all have to live with the consequences. You’ve no need to explain to me, or to plead. I know how you ended up here. What’s important is to find peace. No need for words. In a few minutes it’ll all be over.’
Liam looked into those reassuring eyes. There was yet hope. Joe Geraghty touched his face with the palm of his left hand and smiled tenderly. His face reached forward and Liam felt him kiss his cheek.
‘I wasn’t being quite literal when I said a few minutes,’
said Joe Geraghty, his gaze steady and warm.
Liam O’Neill had not noticed the revolver Geraghty had nimbly taken from his pocket and now it was at his temple. He continued to look into Joe Geraghty’s eyes, and felt safe.
Bridget was hanging out the washing on a breezy morning when the car with two men stopped outside the cottage. One remained in the car while the second, an older, quite distinguished-looking man with grey hair climbed carefully out of the passenger seat.
‘Sure I’m getting no younger in me old age,’ he said, laughing. ‘Would you be Mrs O’Neill by any chance?’
She considered him for a moment, her arms folded across her chest, concealing her anxiety, and said, ‘That’s right.’
‘And would your good man be around the house?’
‘I’m sure I wouldn’t know. Would you like me to go and check?’
‘That’d be kind.’ He grinned at her knowingly.
‘Who should I say it is?’
‘Name’s Joe. Joe Geraghty, Mrs O’Neill.’
She held her face impassive. Joe Geraghty, she knew the name and the reputation. Big man in the movement. Never seen him, not in the flesh, not in a photograph. She could see why they called him Gentleman Joe. Fastidious, with his smart suit and silver hair. Mannered, too.
‘Well, Mr Geraghty, I’ll just go and see for you.’
‘It’s good of you. And it’s Joe.’ He looked at her kindly.
As she approached the front door Francis came out of the house.
‘Joe,’ he said.
‘Francis. Beautiful day.’
‘You come down from Belfast this morning?’
‘It’s a lovely spot. The solitude. It must do wonders for the soul. It’s good not to be having to skulk about the place. The peelers all the time, trying to harass me in the city.’
‘They can’t quite do that round here, Joe. Almost, but not quite, yet.’
‘Aye,’ said Joe, ‘those towers.’
‘Would you like a cup of tea now, Mr Geraghty?’ said Bridget.
‘It’s Joe. Certainly I would, if it’s not too much trouble. Thank you kindly.’
‘Will you come inside now?’
She brought the tea through to the sitting room and said, ‘I’ll leave you to it, then. I’ll be in the kitchen if you need anything.’
A Traitor in the Family Page 12
