1993
* * *
10
Bridget walked with head down, closing the gate as she left the garden. Clutching her shopping bag to her, she turned off the road and on to the path by the woods. This was the shortest route into the village, though the path was not gravelled but muddy and overgrown. Few people passed this way and Bridget had to swish through the encroaching undergrowth, ducking beneath overhanging branches, laddering her tights where brambles caught her legs. She looked down; she was bleeding. She must look a mess.
She’d left as soon as the two telephone calls had come. One wrong number and a second call six minutes later from a pushy Scottish woman trying to sell her insurance. The signal. She’d learned the drills by heart, never imagining that they would be enacted in real life.
‘Whatever you do,’ Sarah had said, ‘don’t try to hide it at home. Do you have somewhere safe?’
‘Yes,’ she’d said immediately, and they’d agreed on it. It wasn’t ideal, but Francis had stopped using the place so far as she knew. She’d given Sarah the spare key. Somehow Sarah or her people had fixed up a hiding place inside it. Now the unreal secret existence she shared with Sarah was about to collide with her reality in Carrickcloghan.
She came to the track that led to her parents’ home and looked up it, pausing as she did so, before walking on down the main street, glancing around her as she went. She saw no one. Was she being watched? One of Francis’s comrades-in-arms? Or a malevolent RUC officer? Anne-Marie? Or Cathy or Patricia? Or was it the raw fear that was becoming familiar? Sarah had told her to trust her instincts but to temper them with logic. But her instincts had bled into heart-thumping anxiety and her rationality had been supplanted by a pounding headache that shot pain through the backs of her eyeballs. Eventually she stepped briskly into the snicket that divided the old post office from the next-door house and was momentarily cast back to a happier time. She could almost imagine herself entering through the back door of the shop to find Mr Kennedy standing there in his baggy mustard-coloured cardigan, teapot in hand, waiting for the kettle to boil. But fond imaginings were difficult to sustain.
She turned back and saw only light at the mouth of the alleyway. The point of no return had been passed. She was already dead or safe. The door gave immediately she pushed it. The lock, which had been broken years back, had not been repaired. Inside it was familiar, but unfamiliar. Dust covered the surfaces of the Formica worktops and the stainless-steel sink. All the furniture had been removed, though the outline of the refrigerator could still be seen on the filthy carpet tiles. Mr Kennedy had always kept it spick and span, a proud widower. His easy chair was no longer in front of the hearth, where he used to sit of a wintry afternoon while she cashed up and put the takings in the safe. The small table and chairs had gone too. This, the back room as they had called it, the only downstairs room other than the little shop itself, had always seemed overfull: the furniture, the fridge, the cooker that once filled the gap between the units, the units themselves, old-fashioned even in the early 1980s. But mainly the safe, the incongruous intruder here, sitting like a glowering gorilla in the corner. Mr Kennedy, with gentle wistfulness, used to describe it as a monument to his father’s folly.
Here it was, still. This had been the only place it could be. It was too heavy to transport upstairs and neither of the Kennedys would have countenanced its presence in the shop itself. She walked up to it and touched it as if she doubted its existence. Solid and secure it stood, giving no hints of the intervening years. There was nothing outside this room. No soldiers or policemen. No Francis. No Gentleman Joe. She took out her key. With the small clank, the outside world intruded briefly once more. She looked around but it seemed nothing had been disturbed, nothing alerted. She pulled open the door and heard the familiar slight creak.
In the bottom corner of the safe, secreted on the purpose-built shelf concealed from casual observation, where Sarah had told her to look, was the little box. She reached forward awkwardly, careful not to disturb the dusty surface, and retrieved it. Opening the box, she took out the little mobile phone and one of the three batteries wrapped in cloth.
‘Don’t connect the batteries until we need to talk,’ Sarah had said. ‘And disconnect as soon as we’ve terminated the call. It’ll save the battery. Each time we meet we’ll swap the old batteries for new.’
She slotted the battery in with a click and pressed the ‘on’ button. She’d practised this with Sarah so many times it had seemed ridiculous. The steps that back then had become automatic and simple now seemed immensely complex. And every moment spent here was a moment in extreme danger, she knew. As she fumbled with the telephone she willed herself to be calm.
The little screen lit green and the device vibrated in her hand. Another stage, however small, successfully negotiated. Another step on the way back to safety. But safety was a relative concept.
There were few preliminaries.
‘Where is he?’
Bridget could hear the anxiety in her voice. ‘I don’t know,’ she said dully.
‘Do you really not know? Or won’t you tell me?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Sorry. It’s just I’m worried that something may be about to happen.’
‘I think … uh, I think he may be your side of the water.’
‘OK. How long?’
‘He went away this morning.’
‘Were you planning on contacting me?’
Bridget paused. ‘I was … I was going to.’
‘All right. Good.’ Bridget could sense in Sarah’s voice a forced patience. ‘It’s just so important that I know. Anything at all.’
‘I know.’
‘We should meet. Soon. Meanwhile anything else I need to know right now?’
‘No.’
‘OK. Great. That’s all I need. I’ll take it from there. Shall we meet the day after tomorrow? Usual arrangements?’
‘All right.’
The day after tomorrow meant, in fact, tomorrow. She would rise the next morning and go through a series of routines when she left the house whose purpose was obscure yet on which Sarah insisted. Eventually she would take her seat in what Sarah prosaically called ‘our office’. Nothing as melodramatic as a safe house. They would talk and then, while Sarah flew back to London, Bridget would take her laborious route back home. Tedious, Sarah admitted, but safer.
She disconnected the battery, wrapped the little thing in its cloth and packed it carefully in its nook, checking again that it would not be found other than in a targeted search, shut the door of the safe with minimum noise, withdrew the key and crept out into the passageway again. She walked slowly up the street to Anne-Marie’s just as she had rehearsed, suppressing the desire to scurry home.
She sat, disguising her restlessness with a forced, almost dainty composure, drinking tea as they went through the ritualized mantras and conforming tropes of life in Carrickcloghan. How’s the kids? Oh, the weather. Did you hear Barry Flynn’s been arrested?
She alluded briefly to undisclosed medical issues – they were not yet confidantes, so would not naturally share the full gynaecological detail. This was how you built a legend, as they called it in the spy novels. This way, if she was later quizzed over her absences she would hang her explanation on this hook. She supposed that this was what she now was: a spy. It sounded marginally better than a tout.
It always comes to this, thought Francis. The waiting.
They sat in the car in leafy Leicestershire, this place they had visited several times. They knew it intimately: they had approached the house from every street, walked past, taken photographs discreetly. With characteristic bravado, Jonjo had knocked on the door the previous day with some cock-and-bull story about resurfacing the front drive. The front drive, that is, that sloped down helpfully to the garage. There’d been no answer, though. They hadn’t anticipated one. They’d watched the occupant leave earlier that morning. She’d reversed out of the garage carefull
y in her small hatchback and driven off at eight thirty. Presumably to her place of work, wherever that was. Not their concern. She wasn’t their concern. Hunched down in the passenger seat of the van parked in the cul-de-sac, Francis had watched her and then called Jonjo in using his mobile phone.
Some elements of these jobs here were easier. Try parking a van in a cul-de-sac in Portadown where some RUC officer lived and the peelers would be all over you in minutes. Try knocking on a door on the Rheindahlen base and you’d get the third degree. But this was England.
On the other hand, and on balance this was overriding, it was much harder. Getting yourself into this country without being spotted. Getting the stuff in. Getting hold of vehicles. Finding your way round, conscious that as soon as you opened your mouth you were opening yourself up to suspicion. You just bought a sandwich or filled with petrol and you thought the tosser who served you would be on the phone the moment you left.
Staying places. They had what had been called a safe house courtesy of some ‘sympathizers’, whoever the hell they were. Jesus knew whether they were reliable. So much easier in Europe. No one gave a toss about the English and everyone knew the Irish were cheeky leprechauns who drank a load of Guinness and were benign when drunk. Better still back home: you could do a job and be tucked up in your own bed within an hour or two.
Christ, the English hated the Irish. But not as much as we hate them, he thought.
Yesterday had been the opportunity for Jonjo to look at the topography, close up. He couldn’t exactly measure the angles but with his expert eye he could make a swift judgement whether it was a goer.
And it was. Old technology but reliable. Mercury tilt. It had done for Thatcher’s old mucker back in ’79 – even though that had been the other crowd – and the old go-to would see to this bastard now. Good enough for your RUC sergeant in County Antrim, good enough for some slimeball Tory MP who was cheating on his wife. After the recce walk-through Jonjo had spent the afternoon assembling the device and now all that was left was the waiting. And, of course, Jonjo not blowing himself to smithereens when he put the fucker on. But he was sound as a pound, Jonjo. He could be relied on.
Thursday nights, regular as clockwork, they’d been told. God knows where the intelligence had come from. Francis preferred not to wonder, just so long as it was accurate. Last week it had been. They’d sat in the car round the corner and sure enough right on time at eight your man had zoomed in in his flash BMW. Mikey had walked round the corner just to check it was parked where it should be, then they’d gone off to have their tea. At three they’d returned. The light had been perfect, meaning virtually non-existent. There were street lamps, but the leaves of the sycamore on the corner kept the property’s drive neatly in darkness. Francis had driven the van down the close and John Boy had driven up in the car. Jonjo had got out, sauntered up to the vehicle and placed a gloved hand on it before returning to their car with a grin.
Same routine this evening. Except Mikey was in the van. And your man was back for more. Just another Tory fat cat having an affair. The man had done a stint in the Northern Ireland Office as security minister with little distinction between two reshuffles. It had only been eighteen months and he hadn’t left a trace before he returned, a pleasant, posh-talking nonentity, to the backbenches. He wasn’t even a personal friend of the PM. It was curious why he had been picked as a target. Presumably it was mainly because the opportunity had arisen. The Brits had tightened up on personal security and the number of available targets was smaller. No doubt the recent lull in attacks had precipitated the need to do something, anything. Francis O’Neill’s was not to reason why.
He was still fair game, your man. No doubt he was entitled to protection but he wouldn’t want the Special Branch boys around when he played away, would he? Or the tabloids, come to that. So he’d be discreet even if the peacock-blue Beemer was a bit conspicuous.
Now it was about waiting.
They didn’t speak, John Boy, Jonjo and Francis in the Escort. They were parked in this clearing, listening in to the police frequencies, waiting, waiting.
The anxiety grew in Francis’s heart. It was always like this. As you homed in on the moment, as the focus became intense, all else disappeared from view. Joe inhabited a different universe. Liam was forgotten. Bridget might as well not exist. It was all about bringing this home and the trick was to be tensed to the fingertips, alive to everything, without becoming panicky. No distractions, no thinking of the historical significance of what they were about to do, no speculation whether this would be a turning point in the struggle or just another minor politician whose death would feature in the movement’s proud record. It was simply a job, like all the rest. Control was what it was about, and Francis was in command, of his team and of himself.
He did not let himself breathe faster. He did not fidget in his seat. He did not glance anxiously or indulge in feigned, unbefitting joshing with the boys. He sat, quiet like them, as the minutes passed and accumulated into an hour and more. Shortly it would arrive: the inescapable moment.
Waiting.
Mikey, sitting in the van ahead, called them in.
A pause, and Francis said, ‘Right then, John Boy. Shall we go?’
As they pulled away quietly, with minimum throttle, Francis turned to Jonjo and said, ‘All right there, Jonjo?’
‘For sure,’ said Jonjo, and Francis turned to face the front again. Jonjo was always positive.
They eased on to the main road and John Boy switched on the headlights.
It was the simplest thing in the world. Drive half a mile, turn right, then right again into the street. Stop the car in the darkness. Jonjo gets out quietly. You and John Boy keep an eye out. Jonjo does his thing and then gets back in. You drive off. Simple as.
Of course it wasn’t quite that simple. Perhaps they were waiting for you. Maybe without knowing it you were living your last few minutes. Without moving his head, Francis looked left and right as they drove forward at a stately pace. No cop cars, nothing. Francis turned the scanner down to zero volume. Nothing audible now other than the sound of the engine: low revs, John Boy never overdid it. Then the plink-tick of the indicator. John Boy held the car momentarily in the right-turn lane and pulled away smoothly and quietly. Must have barely anything on the accelerator.
Francis continued to peer. Nearing the point of no return. Until they reached the next junction they could, in theory at least, accelerate away.
John Boy indicated again and slowed to a halt as if to check for traffic. Francis noticed his glance but gave no sign of recognition in return. Francis felt the gentle nudge in his back as the car moved forward again. This was it. The engine was no more than ticking over now and John Boy allowed the car to coast past Mikey’s parked van down the slight incline of the cul-de-sac, switching the headlights off. There were twelve houses here and at the end was a large turning circle. John Boy turned in one sweep without applying any throttle and the car came to rest exactly under the branches of the towering sycamore. Neatly judged. John Boy killed the engine. He pulled up the handbrake silently. Francis saw Mikey drive off quietly in the van.
They waited a breath but there was no need for further instructions or questions. Jonjo opened the door quietly and slid rather than climbed out of his seat. He did not turn back to close the door. Francis looked about the street. The five houses at the end, arrayed round the turning circle, now looked to him like spectators surrounding the stage of an amphitheatre. How exposed they were, even under cloud with a thin crescent moon. But no lights were burning in the houses and no noise was to be heard through the open window.
They waited again, and Francis continued to watch, his eyes scanning the upper storeys of the houses. He knew John Boy would be doing the same in his seat. Neither spoke; Francis could not even hear John Boy breathing, such was his own concentration.
Minutes. Francis counted off the seconds. He was still peering and was not sure whether he should be reassured or worried b
y the fact that there was nothing, nothing to disturb this night. Not even a cat strolling past to conduct its nocturnal business, not even a breeze rustling the leaves above them. He had to fight to keep his mind tethered.
Finally a sound. Jonjo climbed back into the car. Francis looked in his mirror and saw Jonjo, shaven head and grim expression, give the thumbs up. Francis touched John Boy’s arm. John Boy turned the ignition key and the engine murmured. He let out the clutch slowly and the car coasted forward. He did not switch on the lights until they emerged on to the main road again. He accelerated gradually.
They were away.
1994
* * *
11
He remembered that job as he knelt with Mikey on the sitting-room floor, the maps and photographs laid out in front of them. It had been slick. They’d been in the car from Dublin airport when it came on the news. Your man must have got up late, as it was gone nine thirty when the thing blew. Naturally, they hadn’t been at the party. Not there to witness the explosion, the sudden flash, the bang you scarcely believed was possible, the momentary dislocation of time, the gnarled metal, the catapulting of torn limbs and organs, the spatter of gore and body parts, the smell of fire and death. It’d been easy for Francis, John Boy and Jonjo. They’d simply gone to Luton airport, parked the car and left the keys in the exhaust pipe. Someone – no idea who – would collect it and take it to the crushers. Mikey, though, had to dump the van and take the long route: a train to Dover, a boat to France, a trek to Brittany and the ferry back to Rosslare. All to avoid having to go through an English airport. His face was too well known to risk the direct route.
Francis was unaccustomed to anxiety, which implied a certain loss of reason, as opposed to a controlled sense of danger and a continuous assessment of risk. But he had long begun to feel twitchy. Mikey had been with them two nights now. He was OTR in both parts of Ireland and a known associate of Francis’s. Joe had said this was the only way. In the South the Guards were harassing all Mikey’s contacts and he was moving from house to house anyway. Mikey had the planning documents from the previous time he and Francis had visited England, well before the killing of the backbench MP, and the two of them needed to get this thing in some kind of shape. You’ll be as safe at your place as anywhere, Joe had said with his normal grin; but in his tone and expression ran a perplexity at Francis’s hesitancy, which in time could curdle to suspicion. Still, thought Francis, this is complete madness.
A Traitor in the Family Page 15
