Shadow Dancer

by Tom Bradby

  Gerry spoke for the first time and Colette took a couple of paces to her left so as to get a clear view of him. He looked calm, his curly hair tidy and well kept. He was cleaning his glasses pedantically as he spoke. He sounded almost uninterested in the debate. ‘What about our prisoners?’ he said.

  The man from Derry’s voice was becoming hoarse. ‘They’ll be released.’

  ‘All of them? The ones in England as well as those in Long Kesh?’

  ‘All of them.’

  Gerry’s voice was icy. ‘What makes you so fucking sure?’

  ‘It’s what we’ve been told.’

  ‘And you believe everything you’re told?’

  The man sighed. ‘We have the Irish behind us, and the Americans and the Brits want the war finished. They can’t afford to betray us on that.’

  ‘And our weapons?’

  ‘We’ll keep them.’

  ‘And the Loyalists?’

  ‘We’ll always defend our own communities. Always. Nobody wants a return to 1969. I don’t believe that will happen. The Irish government believes the Loyalists will come around.’

  Gerry McVeigh snorted violently and made a display of putting his glasses back on. ‘Perhaps I’m being stupid, but let me just go over the same ground one more time.’ He crossed his hands. ‘We’ve all read this Downing Street Declaration and we’ve all agreed that, on the face of it, there is nothing in it for us.’

  Kevin McKendrick had been standing at the front and he stood up and tried to interrupt. ‘Gerry.’

  McVeigh raised his hand. ‘No, let me finish. As I said, we’ve all agreed there is nothing in it for us, and as far as I can see all it does is guarantee us another thousand years of partition. It’s a new recipe for war. And you’re telling me you want to make peace on the basis of that?’

  He paused for effect and Colette noticed the irritation and hostility in the faces of his opponents.

  ‘I just don’t understand it. We have never been more effective. We can place bombs in the centre of the City in London and stage mortar attacks on Downing Street. We’re causing millions of pounds’ worth of damage all over England and bleeding their treasury dry – and you want us to stop for a piece of paper that gives us absolutely nothing.’

  McKendrick forced the interruption. ‘But that’s the point. We have to stop when we are in a position of strength. We know we’re hurting them and we know the British people have lost the stomach for the fight. It’s time to capitalize on that – and we can only do it by stopping.’

  The man from Derry spoke directly to Gerry. ‘It’s not a question of if, but when, Gerry. We have got to stop to test the Brits out, to see what they are really willing to concede. The Declaration is a teaser, it’s a carrot. But we’ve got to take the bait to see what is on offer in the long run.’

  Watch Gerry. We have to know what he is doing… Colette inched closer to him.

  Gerry was shaking his head. ‘I think you’ve lost touch. Completely. What about the Loyalists? They’re running riot already. If we stop, it will be right back to 1969, and our people will never forgive us.’

  The man from Derry held his gaze. ‘We’ve got to take risks, Gerry, or we’ll never get anywhere.’

  ‘And what happens if we don’t agree?’

  ‘We’ll persuade you.’

  ‘And what happens if we won’t be persuaded?’

  ‘You will be.’

  Kevin Murphy shot to his feet. ‘That’d better not be a bloody threat.’

  Colette looked at Murphy – a fat and lethal farmer from south Armagh. A hardliner, she knew, and very influential.

  The man from Derry stood again. He appeared to be growing tired of the arguments. ‘Nobody is threatening anybody.’ He waved his hand at Murphy, trying to persuade him to sit. ‘Look, above all else, everyone is agreed that we must avoid a split. There’s been enough Republican blood spilt by the Brits and the Loyalists and I’m sure none of us feel inclined to add to it ourselves…

  ‘But the fact is – and it is a fact – the Brits are trying to grope towards something, hinting they no longer really want to be here and are looking for a way out.

  ‘Are they bluffing? Are they conning us, trying to catch us off guard? Well, I don’t know and neither does anybody else. But we’ve got to try and push this process to see how far it will go.’

  He looked directly at Gerry. ‘Now I agree with you, Gerry, we are in a position of strength. But that’s all the more reason to see what the Brits are willing to concede. They’re not just going to sign a surrender treaty and walk out, it’s got to be much more subtle than that, and they’ve got to save face in the eyes of the world.’

  Colette looked at her watch. She’d promised the kids she would be home by eight to put them to bed.

  Gerry was looking round the room. A public pitch, she thought. She began to wonder what in the hell he was really up to.

  ‘Well, I think you’re making a big mistake. If we stop, we’ll not get it restarted. If you ceasefire, we’re finished. You may dream of life as respectable politicians with swanky apartments and fancy government cars, but the IRA’s the cutting edge of the Republican movement and don’t––’

  The man from Derry was on his feet again. ‘That’s enough bloody lecturing.’

  Gerry held his gaze. ‘There’s people out there still fighting who think we’re selling them out.’

  ‘Nobody calls me a sell-out.’

  Colette saw two little big men fighting it out in a playground. She looked round her with contempt. They were all waiting to see if either man would take it further, but McKendrick was on his feet again, talking about the need to retain unity, publicly and privately. She kept her eyes on Gerry and she saw him very distinctly nod at Murphy. A few men were slipping out of the back now and Gerry and Murphy joined them. She watched them go. She was intrigued. Murphy and McVeigh – an unusual alliance. Two men with empires that usually clashed.

  Watch Gerry. We have to know what he is doing …

  She waited. She wasn’t listening to what was being said. She thought about it and told herself to stay put.

  She followed. Out into the cold and turning back into the Falls, the wind once again cutting through her woollen coat. This winter seemed endless.

  She looked up and saw the two of them ahead. She watched them turn into Leeson Street and she realized they were going home.

  There was an ‘eye in the sky’ above them again now. She tried to resist the temptation to look up.

  She found herself slowing as she passed the Sinn Féin press office, allowing them time. She wondered what she was doing.

  She got to the front door. She fumbled for her keys and found them. She waited, watching her breath in the night air. She put the Yale key ever so gently into the door and turned it. She heard a good-natured scream from Catherine upstairs and the sound of running water. She heard her mother’s voice. She was standing just inside the hall now, a cold draught behind her and warmth ahead. She was about to shut the door when she realized she could hear the sound of voices. She held her breath and took a step forward, the draught from outside following her.

  The door to the front room was open and she could tell they were close to it. She felt she could almost have reached out to touch them.

  Gerry’s voice: ‘I can do it. It’s almost ready and, if we go ahead, it will bury this talk once and for all.’

  She found herself taking another step forwards. Murphy’s voice was soft and gravelly. ‘Fallout’d be big. Very big.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ Gerry said, ‘but it would be popular with some, popular with enough to make it work.’

  ‘All right. You’ll have our tacit backing. Not open, but people’ll know afterwards that we knew and approved. But put us in it before it happens and there’ll be hell to pay.’

  A sudden movement. Paralytic fear. She just managed to take a step back and get a hold of the door.

  ‘Colette.’ Gerry was smiling and looking puzzled. ‘I
didn’t hear you come in.’

  She turned her back to him and shut the door. ‘I’ve heard enough shite for one lifetime,’ she said. She heard them laugh and turned back. She congratulated herself on being smart and walked up the stairs without another word.

  As she walked into the bathroom and saw Catherine and Mark, she realized her hands were shaking.

  ‘Mammy, Mammy,’ they both chorused.

  She heard the front door shut and realized this was her chance. She mumbled, ‘I’ll be back in a second.’

  She walked down the stairs and into the front room. Gerry was standing with his back to her. He turned round.

  ‘What’s up?’ he asked.

  ‘Wondering about this kid,’ she said.

  He waved his hand dismissively. ‘Don’t worry about it.’

  ‘Well, I do.’

  ‘Forget it. Not your fault…’

  ‘Could you do me a favour?’

  He scowled at her – as if even the act of asking for a favour was an imposition. ‘Could you go and see him?’ she asked. ‘In fact, could we go together, just to see how he is?’

  Gerry looked confused. ‘What’s the big deal?’

  Colette sat down on the arm of the sofa and looked down. ‘You could get us in. I know it’s not my fault, but it’s hard not to feel responsible …’

  ‘Forget it, Colette.’

  She looked up at him. ‘Please, Gerry. I don’t ask many favours. I feel guilty about this kid, you know? I mean, I’d like to go and see him, bring him some comfort, maybe …’

  Gerry was frowning at her again. She noticed his glasses were dirty. He picked up his raincoat from the sofa. ‘I’ll go and find out what the score is,’ he said. ‘But don’t lose any sleep over it. There’s plenty more where he came from.’

  As Gerry pulled the front door shut, Colette leaned back on the edge of the sofa and sighed deeply. She closed her eyes. She felt sick; sick at what she was prepared to do, sick at having to deal with Gerry.

  She imagined the kid lying in his hospital bed. She wondered how she would do it. Would it be as simple as tripping a switch, or pulling a tube or … ? God, she didn’t know how easy it was going to be.

  She wondered how she would feel.

  She thought this was slipping. She told herself the youth was an ugly nothing. But he wasn’t a Brit.

  She wondered if she should ask the Brit for help. She considered how he might react. Moral outrage? Or pragmatism?

  Would he really arrange to kill the kid? She couldn’t tell. She couldn’t read him. She thought about what he’d said about loyalty and she wondered how far that went. She just didn’t know if it went this far. She imagined saying to him, ‘It’s him or me; you choose,’ and she tried to imagine his reaction. For a few moments she enjoyed the uncertainty she thought it might provoke in him.

  Solve that, you bastard, she thought.

  She heard the door open and watched as Gerry walked back in.

  ‘I’m sorry, Colette,’ he said, ‘but the kid is dead.’

  She closed her eyes for a second and, as she did so, she heard Gerry leaving again. She breathed in deeply and felt the relief flood through her.

  Ryan was lying back in the bath with a hot flannel covering his face, thinking about nothing in particular. He felt tired. It was late and he had overslept. That always made him feel tired.

  The phone rang. He ignored it, since he now had a bleeper. It went on ringing. ‘Piss off!’ he shouted, and it stopped, as though somebody had heard him.

  After a few seconds it rang again, and this time he heaved himself out of the bath and wrapped a towel around his waist. He picked up the receiver. ‘Hello,’ he said.

  ‘It’s me.’

  ‘I gathered that.’

  ‘Get here right away.’

  ‘What’s up?’

  ‘Just get here.’

  The phone went dead. Ryan took off the towel and rubbed himself dry. He rummaged around in his bag for a clean T-shirt – he still hadn’t unpacked – and pulled one on. He was just frantically searching for a clean pair of boxer shorts when the phone rang again. ‘Yes,’ he said testily.

  ‘On second thoughts, go to Garnerville.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Just do it. Know where it is?’

  He did. He finished dressing and ran out to the old blue Vauxhall Cavalier that he’d now been given. It took a few seconds to start and he swore quietly. He didn’t turn on the radio because he was too busy worrying.

  He turned left out of Malone Beeches and then right a little further down, up through Stranmillis and then down by the river Lagan. He had no idea if this was the quickest way, but it was the one he knew and he didn’t have time to get lost.

  He thought of a thousand scenarios. Mostly, they involved her death.

  The worst involved her capture.

  He cursed Allen for not telling him anything.

  He almost drove into a young woman walking across the bottom of the Ormeau Road with a child in each hand. Calm down, he told himself.

  He passed the clock tower and saw that it was eleven o’clock. The sky ahead of him was clear – blue above and to the side of the green mountain. He turned right, up over a bridge, past the big yellow cranes. They were magnificent this close.

  He imagined a bleak house in south Armagh and a woman’s screams. He thought about days spent trudging across the wet fields and hills of the border country, swept around in helicopters to a thousand bleak locations.

  And then what would they find?

  He wondered what in the hell they would do to her. Torture? Abuse her children? Threaten to? He didn’t think she would last five minutes, then he thought she might be tougher than he was giving her credit for.

  He was at the gate now and pleased that he’d found it. He pulled out his wallet, wound down the window and tried to smile. ‘David Ryan. Here to meet Brian Allen.’

  The constable at the gate pointed ahead of him to a car parked on the left-hand side of the road, its engine still running. As he drove up to it, Ryan saw the new recruits parading to the right of him. They were brilliantly turned out and Ryan wondered what on earth he was doing here.

  He parked behind Allen and got out. Allen did the same. The look on his face was quite strange. He looked sheepish, Ryan thought.

  ‘Sorry, should have bleeped you,’ Allen said. ‘Panic’s over.’

  Ryan thought Allen was a terrible liar. He wondered how he was going to deal with this. He looked across to the lines of neatly turned-out recruits waiting patiently on the parade ground and noticed the sun was reflecting off their buttons. He pointed over to them. ‘Any particular reason why we’re here?’

  ‘The boss is here. Thought we might need to see him.’

  Ryan took a step closer. ‘Want to tell me what the hell is going on?’

  Allen was silent for what seemed like a long time. He was staring at his shoes and appeared to be genuinely wrestling with himself – that fact alone Ryan found disturbing. He thought about pushing harder, but sensed it would do no good. He waited.

  ‘I just picked up something,’ Allen said eventually.

  Silence again.

  A band began to play. Allen looked over at them, apparently lost in thought.

  ‘Remember what I told you the other day?’ he said as he looked up. ‘Well, there is somebody else.’

  ‘Does that matter?’

  Silence again. Ryan felt a surge of frustration. He thought this was almost worse than dealing with Colette.

  ‘There was a rumour.’

  ‘What was it?’ Ryan asked. He was trying to keep his impatience out of his voice.

  There was another lengthy pause and then Allen seemed to make up his mind. He looked directly at Ryan. ‘The rumour was that the other tout is good – very senior. The rumour was that they were going to let our woman go.’

  ‘Who told you?’

  ‘A friend.’

  ‘How reliable?’

  Allen
scowled back at him. Ryan turned towards the building behind them and Allen grabbed his arm. ‘Where are you going?’ His face and voice were animated now.

  ‘Where do you think?’

  ‘It’s only a rumour.’

  ‘Then why the phone call?’

  Allen let go of his arm. ‘Leave it, David.’

  ‘Leave it? Leave it?’

  ‘It’s not our decision.’

  ‘Tell me something, Brian.’ Ryan was pointing at him. ‘The other day. The attempt to get me off. Is this what that was about?’

  Ryan didn’t wait for an answer. He walked across the face of the building, listening to the band as he did so. There was something ever so slightly farcical about this. As he walked up the steps, he sensed Brian Allen was beside him. Inside, he saw three smartly turned-out men in uniform with polished shoes and batons. He recognized the chief constable, but did not acknowledge him. There was a small group of secretaries and lesser officers in the corridor and they were staring at him. He remembered he was wearing jeans and a sweater. He spoke quietly, trying to sound humble, though it was the last thing he felt. ‘Excuse me, Mr Long, would you have a minute?’

  Trevor Long didn’t blink. He was quite calm, despite the fact that this was clearly an occasion of some ceremonial import. He showed them into an adjoining room and Ryan started to speak before the door was closed.

  ‘There is a rumour that our woman is going to be allowed to burn.’

  Long tilted his head to one side. ‘Why?’

  ‘To protect another source.’

  ‘Where does the rumour come from?’

  Ryan didn’t answer. He shifted his weight uncomfortably from one foot to the other.

  ‘All right. Let me put it this way. Who do you think would make this decision?’

  Allen cut in. ‘There was a rumour, that’s all.’

  Long tapped his baton gently against his leg. ‘I’ll look into it.’

  ‘With respect, Mr Long,’ Ryan said, ‘we’ll need more than that.’

  ‘Mr Ryan. With respect, I said I will look into it. You can take it that what you are referring to will not come to pass as a result. Do you understand what I am saying? Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have some recruits to attend to.’