A Traitor in the Family

by Nicholas Searle

  It was confusing. Joe was cautious. Several times over the years he’d acted as a brake on some of the more headstrong operatives and their hare-brained schemes. But these were difficult times. They were under real pressure. Volunteers were being detained on a regular basis, especially over there. Resources and money were stretched, which was one reason why Francis had been called in, so said Joe. Maybe the Brits were getting their act together. The RA needed men they could trust, in more ways than one. And there was no longer the luxury to secure secluded farms in the South at their leisure. Even the Guards were on their backs when previously the local old boy would have been biddable. In this sense, Francis guessed, the border counties must be the obvious place to retrench. Now, Mikey had been smuggled in, without the knowledge of the local lads, not even Aidan, his notional OC.

  ‘We have to get this fucking nailed down, Francis,’ Mikey was saying.

  ‘You don’t need to tell me,’ he replied.

  So many complications with England. So many moving parts. So many things to cover. So dependent on other people you didn’t know, especially if you were doing a big one.

  There was a rapid knock on the door. Bridget answered it and came quickly into the small sitting room.

  ‘It’s Thomas from down the village,’ she said. ‘He needs to speak to you, he says. He won’t say anything to me. Says it’s urgent.’

  Francis exchanged glances with Mikey, who began gathering the papers. Once Bridget had been sent back into the kitchen both men took the safety catches off their revolvers.

  Francis opened the front door and scanned the yard before looking at Thomas Smythe, the teenage son of one of the local helpers. Thomas was agitated.

  ‘Now then, Thomas,’ said Francis, ‘what brings you out here on such a windy morning?’

  ‘Sorry, Francis. Me da sent me on up. He says to tell you the peelers are on their way.’

  ‘Oh, did he now? And how might he know that?’

  ‘He says to tell you that Bernie called.’

  ‘Bernie?’

  ‘Yes, Bernie. He said for me to take yer man back to ours.’

  ‘Yer man?’

  ‘Yes. I don’t know who he was talking about. But he said to tell you not to forget his ma’s birthday.’

  ‘To what?’

  ‘Not to forget his ma’s birthday.’

  ‘I see. And did he say this was a pressing matter?’

  ‘I don’t know. But he said I should take yer man back to ours and he’d call again.’

  ‘All right. Now would you mind just waiting a moment or two here on the doorstep, Thomas, while I work out what you’re on about?’

  He did not wait for a reply but closed the door. In the sitting room he said, ‘Hear that?’

  ‘Aye,’ said Mikey. ‘Ma’s birthday. Bernie. That Joe’s code?’

  ‘Yes. It’ll be you they’re looking for. Local boys’ll know you’re here now.’

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘Can’t be helped, I suppose. Better go with the boy.’

  ‘I’ll get the papers, then.’

  ‘Leave the papers here. I’ll find somewhere to keep them.’

  ‘Fuck, Francis. You’re taking a big risk there. If they find them –’

  ‘I know, I know. Leave me to worry about that. It’d be a bigger risk for you to take them. I’ll burn them maybe. You’d better be on your way.’

  Mikey pulled on his coat. Francis went to the door and, ‘Well, Thomas, it does seem after all that I have a guest who’d like to go with you. You’ll take good care of him, won’t you?’

  ‘Yes, Francis.’

  ‘Because if you didn’t I wouldn’t be too pleased now, would I?’

  ‘No, Francis.’

  ‘Well, then. Cheer up, Thomas. It may never happen. Here’s the man himself.’

  Mikey walked wordlessly out of the house carrying his small bag and sat in the passenger seat of the mud-covered old car. Thomas blinked.

  ‘Mind how you go, Thomas,’ said Francis, and closed the door.

  ‘Bridget,’ he called into the kitchen.

  ‘Yes, Francis?’

  ‘I’m on me way out for a bit.’

  ‘All right, Francis.’

  ‘There may be visitors. Not a word.’

  ‘No, Francis.’

  He went upstairs to the bedroom, quietly opening Bridget’s bedside drawer. The large, ornate key that he’d always mocked was there. He’d not seen it in years, he couldn’t remember the last time he’d needed the safe. Why had she even kept the damn thing? For old times’ sake, she’d said. He’d laughed at her. Her idea of excitement had been doling out stamps and pensions and postal orders to the old biddies in the village.

  Though he had to admit, it’d been useful for a while. And now. He’d used the safe a few times, the last time a few years back, for handguns and radios. He didn’t deal with minor stuff like that any more. The bloody thing would still be there hulking in the corner, its broody presence evoking old man Kennedy’s part-suspicious, part-fearful glare each time he had gone down the alleyway and knocked for Bridget. No one would have shifted that bleeder after all this time.

  Best be on his way. They’d be crashing through the door any minute. She’d have to deal with that.

  Francis rushed out with a carrier bag under his arm. Bridget sat and waited. She knew what to expect. It was a good twenty minutes before she heard the helicopters. The cars and the vans would be here in a minute or two. The troops would circle the house. She shuddered. These people. These men.

  She noticed Francis’s coat hanging on the door. He’d gone out without one and would get cold. She delved in the pockets, she was not sure why, perhaps some instinct. She felt the small smooth pebble-like shape and took out his mobile phone. She put it in the pocket of her apron.

  The knock on the door came soon enough. She wiped her hands on her apron and walked slowly to the front door. There was a second, harder rap and she opened the door.

  ‘Good morning, Mrs O’Neill. Would your husband be around?’

  ‘And who wants to know?’

  ‘My name’s George Donnelly. Chief Superintendent George Donnelly. Mr Donnelly to you. You’ll not know me, Bridget.’

  Everyone around these parts had heard of Chief Superintendent George Donnelly. And everyone who had heard of him feared him, so it was said, perhaps especially those who had not yet met him. He looked at her with gleeful, almost fanatical large brown eyes, framed by long girlish lashes. He continued to grin, a man in control.

  ‘That’ll be Mrs O’Neill to you,’ she said.

  ‘Oh, pardon me,’ he said. ‘Mrs O’Neill it is, then. Well now, Mrs O’Neill. Your man about, is he?’

  ‘Social call, is it?’

  ‘Not exactly. I was in the area and thought I’d drop by.’

  ‘With your friends.’

  ‘That’s about the measure of it. Not exactly discreet, I know. Still, you and your husband will be used to that, won’t you?’

  ‘Well, he isn’t.’

  ‘Isn’t?’

  ‘He isn’t here. So if that’s all …’

  ‘Not exactly, Mrs O’Neill. We wouldn’t mind having a look round. Would we, boys?’

  Three soldiers armed with SA80s accompanied Donnelly, along with his scowling bagman. Two scanned the area while one stared straight at Bridget, his weapon crooked in his elbow facing at an angle to the ground and his finger covering the trigger. In readiness. In the muddy yard three further police officers were taking items out of a Ford Transit. Bridget could make out further troops at the edges of the property.

  ‘It’s a bit inconvenient, I’m afraid, Mr Donnelly. You see I’ve just begun me cleaning and it’s a right mess inside.’

  ‘We don’t mind things a bit untidy, do we, boys?’

  ‘No, I couldn’t. And do you happen to have your search warrant on you?’

  ‘As it happens I do, missus. We both know that by the powers vested in me under the Prevention of Terror
ism Act blah-blah-blah I don’t need one anyway. Now shall we get on with our business?’

  Donnelly brushed past her and went swiftly into the house. His sergeant was less gentle, grabbing her by the shoulders and pushing her inside. He pinned her against the wall and said, ‘Bitch.’ She smelt his sweat and tea on his breath and could feel the heat of his body. The fear that she had so far managed to sublimate in truculence almost surfaced in panic. She knew he could see it in her eyes. He smiled and said to one of the troopers, ‘Keep an eye on her. A very close eye.’

  Donnelly spoke over his shoulder. ‘Sergeant Peters is a cruder man than I am, you see, Mrs O’Neill. Billy, we’re going to have to get you house-trained. I’d keep very still if I were you, Mrs O’Neill, because that young man with the big gun is trained to be awful twitchy with Fenian slatterns. You so much as move out of turn and he’s liable to get trigger-happy. Now come on, boys. We’ve not got all day.’

  Bridget stood as the other policemen and soldiers filed past her. The young soldier assigned to guarding her held his gun pointing at her and stared intently into her eyes, as if searching for meaning. He looked so young and so aggressive yet at the same time so frightened. His helmet seemed altogether too large for him, as if he was a child playing at soldiers. How terrible it must be, standing here in the middle of the enemy’s territory, afraid that at any moment a wall of fire could end his life. She could well believe he was jumpy. The two of them stood there looking into each other’s eyes, locked in their embrace of fear.

  The clattering and the shouting went on around them for more minutes than Bridget could count. Finally the search was complete and the party filed out one by one.

  ‘Body search, boss?’ asked Peters.

  Donnelly gave it due consideration. ‘Nah, we’ll not bother. We’ll leave that pleasure until next time,’ he said at length. ‘Afraid you really will have to do that cleaning now, missus. Now get on your way, laddie.’ He shooed the young soldier out.

  Bridget stood by Donnelly at the door. ‘Now then, missus. Where would we be finding your husband?’

  ‘No idea. I’m not his keeper.’

  ‘Well, then. So you say. But I’m sure you could tell us a fair few tales about young Francis.’

  ‘And why would I be doing that, Mr Donnelly?’

  ‘So’s you don’t end up being pulled in for questioning some dark night. So’s some overzealous officer doesn’t hurt you in his eagerness. So’s you don’t have to spend a couple of nights in a stinking cell of the kind we can provide up at Castlereagh. I can protect you from all that. I can keep you safe. And you can earn a few quid into the bargain and have a life beyond that stinking pile of shite that is your husband.’

  ‘You make it sound so attractive, Mr Donnelly. But the answer’s no.’

  ‘Sergeant Peters was right. You are a Taig bitch. But if you change your mind, here are my details.’ He flicked a card on to the pile of papers scattered in the hallway. ‘And you can tell your husband I fancy him for that MP over there. I fancy him very much indeed. And I will have him. Tell him that. Or maybe I’ll just whisper in an ear or two. I’d tell your husband to watch his back if I were you, Mrs O’Neill. And you too.’

  Bridget pushed the door to and slid to her knees. It was a moment or two before they came, the sobs, and she allowed herself only a few. She stood and straightened her apron before walking through the wreckage of the RUC search, the invasion. In the kitchen the cutlery had been taken from the drawers and flung carelessly on the floor. In the sitting room the sofa cushions had been taken out and tossed casually. The television had been upended. On the stairs the carpet had been pulled back and not replaced. A floorboard had been prised up. In their bedroom all their clothes had been emptied on to the floor, along with the bedding. In the open drawer of her bedside table she could see that her key was missing. But it would not be the RUC who’d taken that.

  All the while she’d been thinking, wondering what she’d say if they found the mobile phone. Now she took it from her apron pocket and looked at it. She understood it was dangerous even to hold this thing in her hand, let alone switch it on. She realized that the implications were perilous for her, whatever she did or did not do next. Doing nothing was the safer option, for sure. But she pressed the button and the little screen illuminated. She’d had time to consider her decision, even as Donnelly and his thugs were ransacking her house and she stared into the frightened boy’s eyes. Now she dialled the number she knew by heart. Sarah answered almost immediately. When she’d terminated the call she rang Anne-Marie from the landline to ask her to come round. She had to reinforce her legend.

  Francis ran from the house, all pretence at composure vanished once he turned the corner on to the path through the woods. He clutched the carrier bag to his chest, thinking: what a fecking mess. These papers would be burned but only once the salient details had been committed to memory, and those which couldn’t be remembered transcribed in tiny scrawls on cigarette papers that could be secreted beyond discovery by the police. For now he needed the maps and the lists and the addresses and the phone numbers and the photographs. There would be no time to recce again and reconstitute all this if the documents were destroyed. Still worse, though, if they were discovered. He’d be a goner. So hand-to-mouth, against Francis’s instincts and everything that Joe Geraghty had taught him about the tools of the trade.

  He could hear the rotors of helicopters in the distance, like distant machine-gun fire happening somewhere else. As he ran the sound became louder, then suddenly imminent. He carried on towards the village.

  The noise was now deafening and he could see the dark silhouettes of their underbellies in the air, coming lower. He could make out the shapes of camouflaged legs dangling and black boots swinging with the motion of the beasts. There were three of them, evidently aiming to land close to where he was. He hoped that under the cover of the trees he remained invisible to them. He had no time to hide.

  The helicopters had landed now, though the rotors still turned and the motors continued to run. They were in the field just the other side of the hedge. He heard shouting, English accents, and smelt kerosene. He slipped his revolver out of his coat.

  Slowly the voices became quieter. It was clear now. They had come for him but he would not be there. They might look for him, so he must go on. He was almost there now and could see the road into the village ahead. He set his jaw and fixed his expression, attempting to shrink his world to just this, just the normality of it. Just the walk into the village and back.

  There was no one to be seen on the two streets. People hereabouts knew better than to show their faces when the Brits and their helpmates the RUC came calling. Make yourself scarce, that was the drill.

  Rash now beyond panic, he did not look round as he slid into the alleyway. He marched to the door through the moss and barged his way in, closing the door behind him as it scraped across the floor.

  He drew breath and looked around him in the dim light. He should have brought a torch. Would she notice the key missing? Not a chance. She was in her own world most of the time. So long as he slipped it back once he got home she’d be none the wiser, as he had done the previous few times he’d used the safe to cache things.

  He slotted the key into the lock. It would not turn. He removed it and looked at it curiously, noting for the first time in the dim light that its intricate striations and markings were not symmetrical. Inserting the key the other way round, he slowed his heart and concentrated fully. With greater gentleness, he turned it slowly and this time heard the reassuring soft clank. He pulled open the door and reached into the darkness, placing the carrier bag on the shelf. He closed the door and locked it again. He would give it a day or so before retrieving the bag, for safety’s sake.

  It was now time to put some distance between himself and the documents. He walked out of the village on the opposite side and down the track until he came to a barn, where he waited until he heard the helicopters taking off again.


  12

  Before one of his regular visits to his old stomping ground, Richard Mercer was summoned to a meeting at the Northern Ireland Office. ‘It would be lovely if you could just pop in on your way to the airport,’ was how the chirpy voice at the other end of the line put it.

  He was shown into the Permanent Under-Secretary’s office. Sir John Treanor had not been long in post and, so rumour had it, saw the Northern Ireland Office as a stepping stone to the Cabinet Office, and a pretty precarious one at that. This meeting was clearly well above Richard’s pay grade. Sitting on the opposite side of a wide mahogany conference table from Sir John was a man in his early thirties wearing an open-necked shirt and jeans.

  ‘I don’t think we’ve met,’ said Richard pleasantly, though he knew full well who the man was.

  ‘Simon Dewey,’ he said with a brief handshake but a longer look. Dewey, one of the PM’s special advisers, had been parachuted into the Northern Ireland Office to protect his master’s interests, or so it seemed to Richard.

  Dewey pointedly put down the pen he had been holding and closed his notepad. ‘We thought it might be opportune,’ he said, ‘to share notes. Sound out your views.’

  ‘Fine. About what?’

  ‘The process. The modalities,’ said Dewey. ‘The thing is, we need to know where we’re heading. We need to know whether your interlocutors are actually going to serve anything up.’