Shadow Dancer

by Tom Bradby

  Silence. They were just by the bottom of Whiterock and she heard a high-pitched girlish laugh – in fact several – and she turned to see a group from St Louise’s on their way home. Even after all these years there was still something familiar about that kind of group. Nostalgia, she thought.

  The lights turned green and they moved off. Twenty yards further on they passed the first soldiers in a patrol and one darted across the road just in front of them. Mulgrew slowed fractionally and then speeded up again.

  ‘They say you’re going to go right to the top,’ Colette said quietly.

  ‘Do they?’

  ‘There aren’t many in your position at nineteen – or is it twenty?’

  ‘Twenty.’

  ‘April fifth, right?’

  ‘Right.’

  At the junction with Kennedy Way, he turned right off the roundabout and she wanted to ask him where in the hell they were going, but she didn’t say anything.

  ‘You remembered,’ he said.

  ‘What?’

  ‘My birthday. You remembered.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Yours is the third of September.’

  She looked at him. ‘Yes, but I’m thirty-three.’ She turned back to the windscreen. ‘Obviously not as clever as you.’

  ‘Or as ruthless.’

  She tried to laugh. ‘Or as ruthless.’

  Or as trustworthy, she thought. Everyone trusted Mulgrew. He had a reputation for calmness under pressure, already tested on numerous occasions. He was the latest rising star. Colette had seen them before. Maybe he’d go on up, maybe he wouldn’t. For now, he was dangerous. She shivered.

  They were pulling out of west Belfast. The road had turned into a dual carriageway and some of the lights overhead were broken. There were rocks all over the road because the local kids usually gathered at night on the hill to their right and lobbed bricks, rocks and bottles at passing police Land Rovers.

  At the top, just before the travellers’ encampment, they turned left, taking the back route to the airport. As they pulled up the hill, Belfast was a sea of lights beneath them. Colette felt the tension suddenly in her back and neck. She could feel the sweat in her palms and she was grateful for the relative darkness of the car.

  The road was narrow up here and they twisted and turned, the car’s headlights bouncing off the hedges. Suddenly Mulgrew yanked the car round to the left and they skidded down a gravel track. He turned the keys in the ignition and the lights died as the car glided silently to a halt.

  She could see the lights of Belfast in front of her through the windscreen. She could hear Mulgrew’s breathing.

  ‘Let’s get out, Colette.’ His voice was icily polite.

  She opened the door gingerly and stepped out. The moon was brighter than she’d thought, though it was early yet, and she could see the outline of the gravel pits around her. She could feel the dampness on her back.

  ‘This way.’

  Mulgrew led and she followed, slowly. The ground was a mixture of mud and gravel and her white trainers shone in the darkness. She could hear herself breathing now.

  He stopped and she came within a few feet of him. He had turned up the collar of his coat and was putting on a pair of gloves.

  ‘What did they tell you to say, Colette?’

  ‘I don’t follow you.’

  ‘What did they tell you to say?’

  ‘I heard. I said, I don’t follow you.’

  ‘Who did you see in there?’

  She sighed. ‘One of them was Allen – policeman – the other one called himself Jones.’

  ‘MI5?’

  She shrugged her shoulders. He’d moved slightly and she couldn’t see his face clearly. The breeze blew her hair into her mouth and she picked it out.

  ‘What did they want?’

  ‘Wanted to know why I wasn’t here for two months. Said they’d noticed my absence. Wanted to know where I was.’

  ‘What did you tell them?’

  ‘Said I was staying in the south with an aunt.’

  ‘Without the children?’

  ‘I said it was a love affair.’ She shrugged. ‘I don’t think they bought it.’

  ‘What did the man from MI5 look like?’

  ‘Tall, quite thin. Broken nose. Handsome, if you like Brits.’

  ‘You liked talking to him?’

  ‘They’re all the same. They had nothing on me.’

  ‘You think you should be red-lighted?’

  Colette thought for a moment. A trap? The idea of being taken off duty for a few months had its attractions. She shook her head. ‘I don’t think they had anything.’

  ‘Who did most of the talking?’

  ‘Ryan.’

  ‘Ryan?’ A moment’s silence before Mulgrew continued. ‘Who is Ryan?’

  ‘The Brit.’

  ‘I thought you said his name was Jones.’

  Silence for a few seconds more. Colette was conscious of the sound of traffic in the distance and suddenly of the cold. ‘Ryan Jones. He kept on using his first name.’

  ‘You were friends, then?’

  Silence again. ‘I don’t think that kind of comment helps, do you?’

  ‘Odd to use his first name, that’s all.’

  ‘It was what he used.’ She sighed again. ‘Look, it’s been a long day. Red-light me if you want, but I’m very tired. Can I go home and look after my kids?’

  Silence again. ‘All right, Colette, but I think we should have a longer chat about this another day. OK?’

  They stomped back to the car. Colette now felt there was something slightly absurd about this and she cursed herself for underestimating him. He was a clever little bastard and he’d rattled her. Stupid, she told herself. Bloody stupid.

  She felt queasy and terribly tired on the journey back and quite unable to face the house. She stood outside for a few moments, trying to gather her strength, before letting herself in very quietly.

  As she walked into the hall, she heard the murmur of voices in the kitchen once more and, opening the door, she saw Ma, Catherine and Mark standing in a conspiratorial tableau. Mark and Catherine stood in front, next to each other, and, after a moment’s silence, Catherine came forward and produced from behind her back a small white packet. She grinned nervously. ‘Jelly beans,’ she said. ‘Your favourite. Grandma said we could spend our pocket money because the soldiers were horrible and took you away—’

  Colette bent down and took them both in her arms, relief suddenly flooding through her.

  She stood up and put on the kettle.

  ‘Tea, Ma?’ she asked and her mother nodded. Colette took two tea bags out and put them in the ancient green pot. Catherine and Mark disappeared into the front room and for a few minutes she stood next to her mother in silence.

  ‘What did Mulgrew want?’ Ma asked.

  ‘Questions.’

  ‘What questions?’

  ‘The usual.’

  ‘But who was he asking about?’

  Colette looked at her mother and saw the anxiety on her face. ‘Me,’ she said. ‘Me and my time in Castlereagh. Talking about red-lighting me – standing me down for a while. That’s it.’

  ‘Nothing else?’

  Colette shook her head. ‘No, why?’

  Ma ignored the question. ‘What else was he saying?’

  Colette felt a brief flash of irritation. ‘Do you mind if we don’t talk about it,’ she said. And then, more kindly, with a hand on her mother’s arm, ‘I know you worry, Ma, but it’s all right, honest it is.’

  Colette poured herself a cup of tea, opened the back door, lit up a fag and smoked it in silence.

  Ryan couldn’t sleep in the night. He was restless again.

  At three, he got up and went to the fridge to pour himself a glass of milk. He walked into the sitting room and stood by the window, looking at the hedge and the road beyond. The odd car flashed by, but otherwise it was quiet.

  His bag was on the desk and he pulled out the
box that came everywhere with him. It was battered now, its contents well-thumbed. He didn’t always look at the letters and the photographs – sometimes went months without taking them out – but he always kept it all with him.

  It was not much of a legacy really and that thought always made him feel sad, even now, after all this time. Add it all up – the pictures, the letters, the memories – and it amounted to a few scraps of advice and a faded image. Not enough. Not by a long way.

  He still berated himself for it. The image that was strongest was of a figure standing by a rugby pitch on a rainy winter’s day. The figure was strong and warm, but the boy who approached him was selfish and self-interested. For the boy, the figure was needed, but he wasn’t concentrated on or attended to.

  And then he was gone and it was too late. There were more rugby matches on endless winter days, but the figure of strength was absent and the rock on which his life had been founded was crumbling.

  He wondered if his father would ever have guessed at the chaos he would leave behind.

  In the beginning, it had been relatively easy. Then it had all changed. He remembered the day when his mother had come down to school. The bullying was bad then and he’d wanted it all to come tripping out, but instead, she had explained that she was going to marry again. He had listened in silence.

  At the end of that term, he’d been woken to the power of literature for the first time. Sitting in the gods at a theatre in Bristol, he’d been pinned to his seat by the power of Hamlet’s soliloquy, ‘How weary, stale, flat, and unprofitable, seem to me all the uses of this world … ’tis an unweeded garden, That grows to seed; things rank and gross in nature … O, most wicked speed, to post with such dexterity to incestuous sheets…’

  For years afterwards he’d hated himself for wanting to deny his mother happiness. Now he told himself that was all done. Past history. But he hadn’t spoken to her in weeks and hadn’t had a civil conversation with his stepfather for much longer.

  He looked down at the letter that had come with the will. It was torn now and in two pieces, but it had been one single page of plain A4. A single page of love and philosophy to last a lifetime.

  He cast his eyes over the rest of the letters. ‘I hope you’re well … keep your spirits up, old boy … we’re thinking of you … glad you won the game … thought the referee was completely biased … looking forward to seeing you at the weekend …’

  The tears rolled down his cheeks.

  McIlhatton was flirting with a small rebellion.

  He was in Soho, looking at pictures of naked girls. In these streets, they seemed to be everywhere – always perfectly shaped, in leotards or suspenders or leather or nothing at all.

  He was standing outside the entrance to some kind of bar, looking at a picture of a girl dancing naked and thinking about the hard-on in his trousers. He was teetering on the edge of going in – a small rebellion because the standing orders were to do absolutely nothing that might in any way draw attention to yourself – when the woman behind the counter said, ‘Are you coming in?’

  He broke into an instant sweat and walked away, his face colouring.

  He strode down to Piccadilly Circus, pushing through the crowds on the pavement more aggressively than he needed to. At the bottom of the stairs down to the tube he fumbled in his pocket for some change and then picked up the telephone and dialled. The phone rang and he looked at his watch. Might be too late.

  Eventually, he heard the girl say, ‘Andersonstown Travel.’

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  COLETTE SAT BOLT UPRIGHT, SUDDENLY AWAKE AND AFRAID. SOMEBODY had gripped her arm and she was about to scream when she smelled the man’s breath.

  ‘Ssh. It’s me – Paddy.’

  He still had his hand on her arm and she pushed him away. ‘Christ, what time is it? What do you want?’

  He sat down on the end of the bed and spoke quietly. ‘I’m sorry. It’s six o’clock, and we need you. Kieran Doherty was picked up late last night and we need someone we can rely on.’

  Colette felt numb. There was no way to refuse. She had signed her own death warrant. They were looking out for Paddy, but they weren’t expecting her.

  She scrabbled round on the floor for her clothes, dragged on her jeans and came downstairs. Paddy was waiting in the kitchen. ‘What about the kids?’ she said.

  Paddy gave her a puzzled look. ‘They’ll be fine with Ma.’

  ‘But why do you want me?’

  A puzzled look again, as if he didn’t understand why she was questioning the decision. ‘You used to gather intelligence in east Belfast. We need somebody who knows their way round and who won’t panic.’

  ‘I haven’t been there for years.’

  ‘Is there something wrong?’ There was an edge to his voice.

  Colette shook her head. Outside, a blue Ford Escort was waiting with its engine running. She got into the back without saying anything further. She didn’t recognize the driver, but she could tell his hair was short underneath the baseball cap. He looked very young.

  They turned off the Falls onto the Springfield Road and then stopped opposite the gate in the peace wall that separated Catholic from Protestant west Belfast. The road here at Lanark Way had been closed for months, ever since the last vicious round of tit-for-tat killing. On the left, the landscape was desolated, the derelict houses making this part of Belfast look like an older, more war-torn city.

  Paddy twisted round to face her. ‘Now listen. I’ve briefed the others. It’s the attack on Henderson. You’re to drive the getaway, right? Right, Colette?’

  She nodded, not trusting herself to speak. Later, she remembered thinking that Paddy seemed excited, and she couldn’t help contrasting it with the look of fear she had seen on his face only a few days before. It was the fear that was unusual.

  ‘There’ll be two cars. The getaway and a red Sierra. Got that? We’ll be travelling to Winston Gardens, just off the Newtownards Road.’ Paddy was emphasizing his speech, as if talking to a child. ‘That’s where the bastard lives. He drives a silver Granada and he always leaves home by eight thirty. Got that?’

  She nodded, though she hadn’t.

  ‘As Henderson’s Granada comes along, the Sierra pulls directly into his path, forcing him to stop. I’ll come out of the van for the kill. By now, you are in the driver’s seat ready for the getaway. We drive out back down the Newtownards Road. Got that?’

  She nodded once more.

  ‘Sure?’ He was distracted and turned back to face the front. Two men had emerged from a side street and were walking quickly towards the car. They were both young and she recognized their faces, but couldn’t remember their names. She wasn’t introduced, but they were clearly Paddy’s men and they looked like they were pumped up with testosterone and adrenalin. They both wore baseball caps and they were both chewing gum. Colette thought they were nervous and it reminded her of the first operation she’d been involved in, ambushing an army patrol with petrol bombs. It seemed a long time ago.

  She shivered. The questions and the doubts tumbled through her mind. She felt a violent hatred for Allen and Ryan. They had promised to protect Paddy, but she realized that there was no good reason why she should trust them.

  The driver turned off the Springfield Road into Ballymurphy and stopped halfway down one of the terraced streets that ran off the Whiterock Road. A car was sitting outside on blocks, without any wheels. Paddy handed Colette a balaclava and a pair of rubber gloves and indicated that she should put them on.

  She followed him to the front door, the other two men falling in behind her.

  Paddy rang the bell once. The car disappeared off down the street and an elderly face poked suspiciously round the door. Paddy stepped forward, pushing the door gently but firmly. ‘Provisional IRA. We’re taking over your house, but you’ve no need to worry.’

  The woman didn’t seem frightened. ‘Oh, for the Lord’s sake. Why can’t you people go away and leave us in peace?’

&
nbsp; A younger man might have been unnerved, but Paddy had the confidence given by years of experience. ‘We’ll be gone soon enough and you wouldn’t want your son to get hurt now, would you?’

  Paddy brushed past her and into the kitchen, where a young man sat at the table behind a full plate of sausages and eggs. He didn’t move. Paddy pulled the pistol from his pocket. ‘You’ll not be needing your van today …’

  Paddy left one of the young men behind to guard the woman and her son. Colette and the other – a spotty, stumpy, ugly youth – followed him to the yellow Toyota van that was parked further down the street. A few minutes later they stopped outside a house in nearby Turf Lodge owned by an IRA sympathizer. Inside, she recognized two more of Paddy’s men, Seamus McGirr and Sean Campbell.

  The AK-Ms were on the table, their butts removed to make them easy to conceal. They were ugly.

  Whilst they were still talking, Colette smiled and said she needed to go for a piss. Upstairs she sat on the cracked and filthy toilet seat and tried to still the panic that was swamping her mind. She finished and was about to pull the flush lever when an idea struck her. She crept across the corridor and almost wept with relief when she saw a phone wire leading across the unmade bed.

  She called the Freephone number they had made her memorize and asked to speak to ‘the boxman’, the code name she’d been given. The operator asked her to wait a few moments and she sat in terrified silence, listening to the voices drifting up the stairs.

  She waited. The line was dead. She wanted to scream.

  She recognized Allen’s voice.

  ‘Shadow Dancer?’

  She was paralysed by fear, because down below, one voice was suddenly louder. Somebody was at the bottom of the stairs.

  ‘Shadow Dancer?’

  The man was coming up the stairs. Her voice was barely audible. ‘I’m in. Don’t shoot.’

  She put down the phone gently and stood up. The spotty youth was at the door. He looked suspicious. ‘Everything OK?’

  She nodded. ‘Yes. Just checking out front. We might have been followed…’

  He stared at her, but said nothing. She shrugged her shoulders. ‘You can never be too careful.’

  He didn’t reply and she could feel her face reddening. She dropped her gaze and walked forward, wanting to break the silence. He made no attempt to step back to allow her room and she had to squeeze past him to get out of the door.