Shadow Dancer

by Tom Bradby

  The wind and rain whipped into his face, blinding him. He took off his glasses and thrust them into his raincoat pocket. He could make out a large tree behind the car and he walked towards it, slipping in the mud as he did so. He wished he had changed his shoes.

  He watched the car come. It skidded to a halt and the lights went off. The door opened. He could just make out a figure.

  Silence.

  He heard a voice. ‘Long?’

  ‘Here. Get into my car.’

  Gingy obeyed and Trevor Long walked forward and got into the driver’s seat. For a brief second, he could see Gingy’s face – pale skin, frightened eyes, ginger moustache – then he killed the lights and they were plunged into darkness again.

  ‘So, to what do I owe the pleasure of a meeting with you?’

  ‘You’ve been getting difficult, Gingy – and careless.’

  ‘Don’t send me out with amateurs.’

  ‘Your handlers are the best. It’s you that’s the problem.’

  ‘I’ve had enough.’

  ‘You’ll have had enough when I say.’

  ‘You don’t control…’

  ‘Shut up. Shut your fucking mouth.’ Long felt his power. ‘You’ll do what they tell you. They answer to me – and so do you.’

  ‘You need me now.’

  ‘I don’t need anybody. Whilst you’re useful, whilst you cooperate, you’re safe. Betray me and you’re finished.’

  Silence, but for the beat of the windscreen wipers and the hum of the engine.

  ‘Body on the border couple of nights ago. One of yours?’ Gingy’s tone was different now and Long sensed his fear and insecurity.

  ‘One of ours. Not a serious player.’

  ‘I heard Internal Security did him over good and proper.’

  ‘You’ll be all right, Gingy.’

  ‘Is that what you said to him?’

  Long sighed. ‘I never met him. He wasn’t a serious player.’

  ‘What makes you think I’ll be all right?’

  ‘Because you’re good. This boy was just a kid.’

  ‘They don’t discriminate.’

  Long tried to sound reassuring, lowering his voice an octave. ‘Come on, Gingy. We’ve been at it too long to get frightened now.’

  ‘You mean I’ve been at it too long.’

  A sudden gust of wind lashed the rain into the windscreen with extra force. They were silent for a few moments.

  ‘Perhaps we are near the end,’ Long said eventually.

  Gingy didn’t reply. Long could hear him breathing. He could smell his breath. Gingy appeared to be sitting awkwardly in his seat – right on the edge of it – and Long had to prevent himself from recoiling at their physical closeness.

  ‘There’s been an Army Council meeting,’ Gingy said eventually. Long knew, but allowed his man to continue.

  ‘It was agreed that there would be absolute discipline about targeting. We’re going to concentrate heavily on the security forces and avoid civilian casualties at all costs. The bombing campaign in London is being wound up for the moment.’

  Truth or fiction? Long asked himself. He said, ‘What about the overall picture?’

  ‘There’s a belief that the political situation is on the move. There’s a feeling the Brits are finally starting to grasp what this is about, that’s why there’s the emphasis on careful targeting.’ Long could tell he was looking at him. ‘I’m bringing people round, trying to help it along, but it’s a slow process.’

  He turned his face to the window and began to draw patterns in the condensation. Like a child, Long thought.

  ‘It’s damned difficult and it isn’t going to get any easier. Nobody trusts the Brits. We’ve broached the idea of a ceasefire somewhere down the line, but even suggesting it stirs things up. A lot of them are dead against it unless the Brits come up with some cast-iron guarantees. South Armagh, East Tyrone and even some in Belfast are already talking about the possibility of a split. They think the leadership is misjudging the climate and misjudging the political situation in London.’

  ‘So what happens?’

  ‘I don’t know. I don’t know. I’m pushing it as far as I can, but you know how it is. I’ve got to bring it along very, very slowly.’

  There was a self-congratulatory note in his voice, but Long had grown used to his arrogance and he continued to listen in silence. Gingy always exaggerated his own influence.

  Outside, the wind appeared to have died down. The silence was unnerving too. Long forced himself to concentrate on what his man was saying.

  ‘They’re paranoid about the dissenters. Gerry McVeigh is one of the main problems. He’s difficult and stubborn. He’s been working on a plan in England – something really big – and maybe he’ll get mad when they turn it down.’

  ‘What is it. Who’s the target?’

  Gingy shifted in his seat, as he always did when he didn’t know something. ‘Something big, somebody big.’

  Long’s voice was sharp. ‘Who?’

  ‘Somebody big, that’s all I know.’

  ‘You don’t know anything more?’

  ‘I wasn’t told. Sometimes it happens. I’ll find out.’

  ‘A politician?’

  ‘Maybe. Big fallout, they said.’

  ‘A royal.’

  ‘Big.’

  ‘But it’ll be turned down?’

  A pause. ‘I think it has been, but—’

  ‘But what?’

  ‘Maybe better if something … I mean if Gerry McVeigh were to meet with an accident, or were to fall victim to the Loyalists …’

  ‘No. We don’t go in for that—’

  ‘Like hell you’se don’t.’

  Long didn’t respond. He could tell Gingy was riled.

  ‘We’re not pissing about here. We get this war stopped and it goes wrong, I could be finished …’

  ‘Watch him.’

  ‘I’m warning you.’

  ‘Watch him.’

  Silence again. Eventually, Gingy spoke quietly. ‘It feels close, somehow.’

  ‘We’ve been here before.’

  ‘No, no, there’s something different—’

  ‘Has something happened?’

  ‘No, but—’

  ‘But what?’

  ‘I don’t know. They’re not going to bloody announce it … It’s just … I don’t know. Nothing has really changed, but maybe there’s a slight coldness. I can’t say anything has changed. I’m still told things. Questions are still answered, but maybe not as fully, or not as openly.’

  ‘Could it be your imagination?’

  ‘Could be.’

  Silence again.

  ‘I’m scared to shit.’

  ‘You’ll be all right.’

  ‘What the fuck would you know?’

  ‘We’ll be all right, Gingy.’

  Long groped for his arm in the darkness. ‘Get a grip of yourself. We’ve been going for a long time. It has never been more important. We’re near the end.’

  Gingy fumbled for his hand and held it. He waited for a few seconds, then let go, opened the door and walked back to his car.

  After the headlights had disappeared, Long waited for ten or twenty minutes. He tried to fight off the sense of foreboding.

  Colette felt like crying. She had held the line, but only just.

  When the two men had started to question her she’d felt bullish. She’d been questioned, abused and sometimes beaten by policemen before, and the arrival of two new tormentors had sparked a rush of adrenalin which fuelled her hatred. But she wasn’t as strong as she’d once been and their constant battering had brought her close to cracking.

  The battering had been mental and emotional rather than physical. They appealed to her conscience, her sense of family and her instinct for self-preservation. Sometimes they shouted, sometimes they whispered, but they took it in turns and kept the questions coming.

  She remained deadpan. She gave them nothing. She felt that the wall
of silence was all that lay between her and oblivion. That was her training.

  She didn’t know if they could see her weakness and she feared their intuition.

  She didn’t know what they had, didn’t know what they could do.

  She told herself, ‘Silence, silence, silence,’ but when the thin one looked at her quietly – as if to say, ‘I know you, I know what you’re thinking’ – then she wanted to talk, to let it all come spilling out, to beg for clemency.

  She wanted to tell them about her two young children. She wanted to convince them she could be a good mother.

  She wanted to say sorry.

  The fat one was easier because she knew he’d laugh at her. The thin one was harder. She thought he might understand.

  They both said if she confessed they’d do their best for her, though they could make no promises. The thin man was talking at her now, blowing smoke in her face. ‘We’ve got a long way to go. This can go on for days, as you well know. Then, of course, there are the boys from Special Branch who’ll be wanting a pop at you, no doubt, though they’re a bad lot, to be honest. Be a lot easier if you talked to us, of course. Make things a lot simpler.’ He took another long drag on his cigarette and then blew the smoke out into her face again.

  The big man stepped forward and slammed his fist down on the table, shouting. ‘I’ve had enough of your silence, you stupid fucking bitch!’

  He sat down heavily on the chair opposite her and sneered across the table. ‘I don’t know who the fuck you think you are, or who you think you represent, but you damn near killed a whole lot of people in that station there today and I’m going to laugh my little nuts off when you go down for a life sentence.’ He picked up the packet of cigarettes on the table and threw it into her face. ‘Don’t just fucking sit there. You don’t give a fuck. Mothers with babies, children, you don’t give a fuck who you could have killed. And what did they do to you, eh? What the fuck did any of them ever do to you?’

  The thin man reached out and took his colleague’s arm. ‘Hold on. I think she’s going to help us.’ His voice was soothing. He stubbed out his cigarette and took the ashtray off the table, sweeping it away briefly with his hand. ‘Come on, Colette. We know who you are. We know all about you from our colleagues in Belfast. Don’t be like this. It won’t get any of us anywhere.’

  He looked at her in silence, his eyes and expression pleading with her to speak and to break the spell. ‘Come on, Colette. We can go on like this for days, but there’s no point, is there? There’s no point in it. We’ve got you. You know we’ve got you. So why make it harder on yourself? Why make it difficult?’

  He offered her a cigarette, but she didn’t acknowledge him and he took one for himself and lit it. ‘Suit yourself.’

  He breathed the smoke in deeply.

  ‘I have to tell you what it’s going to be like. I’ve got young kids too, you know, and I have to say, honestly, I would do anything – and I mean anything – to avoid being parted from them.’

  He leaned forward again and tried to catch her eye. ‘You know what it’s going to be like, don’t you? It’s going to be fucking hell on earth. I hope you’ve got understanding parents, because they’re going to have to look after your nippers and then ship them all the way over to England just to see you. And, of course, when they get here – when they get to the prison, always supposing they can afford to come – they’ll maybe find you’ve been moved, or the visit’s been cancelled. What’s that going to do to the nippers, eh? By the time you come out, you’ll be a total bloody stranger.’

  Colette wished she could shut out the noise. The questioning went on and on and they changed the level of their voices to make it harder for her to close her mind to what they were saying. She could feel herself weakening. She felt helpless. Perhaps they were right. What was the point in staying silent now and making it harder on herself?

  Then, suddenly, they lost patience, got up and went. She didn’t feel relieved because she was sure they would be back.

  When they came back, they were more relaxed; she was more tense. She was lying flat on the floor like a corpse, her legs close together, her toes pointing towards the ceiling and her arms pressed rigidly against her sides. She didn’t know how long she’d been there because she’d lost all track of time.

  Without any visible surprise, the thin man lowered himself down and lay on the floor beside her, pushing aside the chairs and table as he did so. The hairs from his moustache tickled her ear and his voice was soft. ‘Come on, Colette. This isn’t going to get you anywhere, I give you my word on that. I don’t mind if you lie on the floor or sit in the chair. I don’t mind if you hang from the ceiling or stand on your head in the corner … It makes no difference to me. It makes no difference to me whether I sit opposite you on the table or whether I lie here on the floor beside you. In fact, to tell you the honest truth, I’m quite enjoying lying here beside you, because you’re an attractive woman. But then, I’m sure you know that, don’t you? I’m sure you’ve been told that many times. I bet questioning you is quite a treat for the boys up at Castlereagh, eh? I bet there’s quite a little celebration when they hear you’re being brought in. Not above a bit of sexual harassment when an attractive lady like you comes into their clutches … eh, Colette? That’s the truth, isn’t it? I bet it is. But I have to tell you, we’re not interested in that, you see. Don’t get me wrong, you are an attractive woman – any idiot could tell you that – but it’s not about that. We genuinely want to help you. Excuse me —’

  The man belched gently, but Colette didn’t flinch. In other circumstances, lying on the floor might have been comic, but it was a tactic she’d created years before when the questioning was becoming too much for her.

  ‘No, as I was saying, we want to help you. We’re not inhuman. I can see you’re a decent individual, an attractive woman. Two lovely kids. A lot to live for. I can see that – and what I’m saying to you is that I want to help you do that, as far as I possibly can.’

  Out of the corner of her eye, Colette saw the fat man bend down and tug his colleague’s trouser leg. She winced involuntarily as the thin man continued.

  ‘I’m afraid that’s my friend wanting another word. He’s not very gentle, is he? I know it’s a kind of cliché – nice cop, nasty cop – but that’s the way he is, I’m afraid. I don’t suppose the others are any better, are they? Lying on the floor doesn’t help, you know. I’ll grant you it’s novel, but I don’t think it helps. I’d ask you to see reason, Colette. In my opinion, you’ve got to speak to us. You’ve got no choice. You don’t want a living hell, do you? Not seeing your kids for twenty years. Christ, that’s a tall order for anyone, isn’t it? I don’t think you’d find your bosses prepared to go down for that, would you? I mean, they’ve hardly ever been in bloody prison.’

  Colette saw the big man tug his colleague’s trouser leg again and she mentally braced herself for the renewed onslaught. He’d been shouting obscenities in her ear right from the start.

  She tried to focus her mind again. This was the second time these two men had interrogated her. In between, another similar pair had taken over, and she believed the four men would be working in rotation. She knew that as soon as she was let out, the solicitors would be after the custody record, and she knew that somebody in Dublin would want to check it and debrief her in detail on exactly how the men behaved and what they asked.

  She tried to concentrate, but it was so hard.

  It was hard because she knew they were right. She was looking at twenty years. A living death.

  When the fat one and the thin one left, she slept. She knew they’d only let her sleep for ten- or twenty-minute stretches all night, but she was so tired.

  She slept deeply.

  She dreamt. The dream was incredibly vivid. It was frightening because she knew it was real.

  It was a hot summer’s day and the bright sun was sparkling off the soldiers’ helmets as they trotted slowly towards her down Hyde Park’s S
outh Carriage Drive. They were Blues and Royals troopers of the Queen’s Household Cavalry on their way to the daily mounting of the guard on Whitehall, resplendent in blue tunics, white buckskin breeches and silver breastplates, the tips of their unsheathed swords resting on their right shoulders.

  As they approached, Colette looked around her. Because of the weather, the park was full and small groups of tourists had gathered along the route to watch the soldiers’ passage.

  Colette didn’t know what to think. She felt she should hate them, but for some reason the feelings just weren’t there. She felt unsettled and uneasy and was alarmed to find she was actually enjoying the sunshine and the pageant.

  She looked at her watch. It was ten forty-three exactly and, as she looked up, the soldier carrying the regiment’s scarlet and gold standard came alongside a parked blue Morris Marina sedan.

  The car exploded with a deafening roar, filling the air with 4- and 6-inch nails which tore through the detachment, blowing the flesh of men and horses hundreds of yards into the park.

  For a few seconds she could not see or hear anything, but then her senses returned. Nobody was screaming and there was just a deathly, deathly hush. She could feel the flesh and blood on her face and taste it in her mouth. All around her, she could see the dead and the dying, their bodies torn apart. She could see a head and an arm and she wondered vaguely if they were from the same man.

  And then she heard the screaming – the awful, heart-rending screams of men in terrible pain, crying out for release. She could do nothing. She put her hands to her ears, but she couldn’t shut out the noise.

  She stood transfixed. She wanted to run, but her legs were frozen beneath her.

  Finally, she saw and heard the horses. They seemed to have appeared suddenly, their bodies torn, their faces pleading for help. She could see their eyes; hopeless, helpless eyes that tore at her heart. She wanted to scream, but she opened her mouth and no sound came out.

  Colette sat bolt upright, her body bathed in sweat. She stood and breathed in deeply.

  She heard herself say, ‘Fuck. Fuck.’

  She wanted to say sorry – not to them, because Christ knows they deserved it, but to somebody, to God – to the horses, because they were such gentle creatures.