by Tom Bradby
Slowly, a small group of men gathered outside the entrance to the Divis. They were all wearing black leather jackets, black trousers, black ties, black shoes and white shirts. As the coffin came towards them, they began to form into two lines ready to carry it. Gerry stood beside them, the collar of his green corduroy coat turned up against the cold.
Martin Mulgrew stood next to him. He turned and smiled at her now and she smiled back with studied shyness.
The RUC commander had been watching carefully, standing close to the mourners, his polished wooden baton and brown leather gloves identifying his rank and role. Now he pushed his way slowly through the men in front to where they were standing. The officer clearly understood Gerry’s rank and assumed he must be the most senior figure present. Colette instinctively moved closer to them. The officer raised his baton but spoke quietly. ‘We agreed there would be none of this.’
Colette could feel the hostility around her as the man indicated to Gerry that they should move away to discuss the problem quietly. Gerry ignored him and looked back to wave the coffin out.
The commander took another step forward. ‘We agreed there would be no paramilitary displays.’
Gerry looked back. ‘There aren’t any.’
The commander pointed his baton at the two lines. ‘That is a colour party.’
‘It’s a group of men in leather jackets.’
‘Look, I’m not playing with words. Split them up and have others carry it at the same time or nobody is moving away from here.’
The woman next to Gerry spat violently at the officer. Gerry raised his hand to stop her and the commander didn’t move. He retained his temper. ‘I repeat. Break them up, or this doesn’t go anywhere.’
Colette hated him. She knew they all did. She thought they’d enjoy killing him.
He retreated, wiping the phlegm carefully off his face and ignoring the hostile looks and mutterings of the other mourners.
Gerry, Paddy and Mulgrew disappeared inside the tower and for half an hour everyone waited expectantly in silence. Eventually they emerged again and Gerry nodded to the two lines of men and walked over to the commander. He pointed back at the men standing by the coffin who were now dispersing. ‘That’s agreed – but only out of respect for the family.’
Colette found herself thinking of the eyes of the young man before the attack and of his accusatory stares.
She felt the first twinges of guilt. She thought about what she’d been prepared to do at the hospital.
The procession moved off, led by the hearse. Colette walked behind the coffin, looking at the feet of the colour party and watching them moving slowly forwards, more or less in time.
She imagined the body in the coffin ahead of her. It was such a dislocating image and she found it as hard as ever to tie up the idea of a living, breathing being with a cold, inert corpse.
The sound froze her.
A burst of machine-gun fire and then an eerie silence. It seemed to last a long time and then another burst shattered the calm.
Colette heard screams. She felt her legs collapse under her.
The gunfire stopped, but this time there was no silence. There were shouts and screams still, and then another burst began.
Colette lay with her face against the tarmac. She could think of nothing. Her mind was blank.
It stopped again. She looked up and, to her right, saw that Gerry was still standing with the coffin on his shoulder, holding it with another man. All the others had fallen to the floor. She heard him shouting at people to keep calm, but the crowd was cowed and uncertain.
Then people were on their feet. There was a murmur around her; she heard one shout, ‘Loyalists!’ and then another. Everyone was looking down to their right, towards the peace line, and she caught sight of a car there now. Suddenly, as she watched, it moved, reversing away. Then there was a black taxi behind it, blocking its escape. The car hit the taxi and then tried to come forward. But the mourners were on their feet, some of the men standing in the front, as if daring the driver to run them over.
And then the crowd seemed to explode with rage. A few men dashed forwards and then they all surged towards the car. She could feel the anger, the lust for blood and she was swept along with it.
She wanted to tear them apart.
They were on the car now and she could see a man being dragged out of it. She saw a gun being pointed in the air. She saw him being sucked down to the ground. She was pushing to get closer when she was shoved from behind and then fell to the ground herself. She was scuffed and kicked as the policemen charged through her. She curled into a ball and lay still for a moment.
Then the policemen were past her and she stood up. She watched them beat back the crowd. She saw them dragging the man to his feet.
Then she saw his face.
He was hanging his head and she could see the blood dribbling down his cheek. He was looking at the ground as if he was ashamed or frightened of recognition.
She stared at him, scarcely able to believe her eyes.
The crowd came towards her, but she didn’t move. People passed on either side of her and she was vaguely conscious of danger, but she couldn’t drag her eyes away from him. At the back of her mind, she could feel the questions. What was he doing here? What if she denounced him? Who’d fired the shots?
She could see he didn’t have a machine-gun.
He was in front of her now and he looked up to see her. For a fraction of a second, he held her gaze.
There was another burst of machine-gun fire, and this time it was clear that it was coming from the other side of the peace line. She heard someone shout, ‘Up the UFF!’
Everyone had turned to look down the road. A Land Rover was speeding down to the wall, ten or twenty policemen in riot gear running after it. She could hear the commander shouting into his radio near her.
For a few seconds, the chaos continued. The police started trying to push the crowd back. Two policemen shouted at her, ‘It’s a Loyalist attack, get back!’ but she didn’t move. As they grabbed her and moved her away, she looked round and caught sight of Ryan disappearing behind a Land Rover. ‘What about him?’ she heard herself say, half shouting.
‘He’s not a bloody Loyalist,’ one of the policemen said under his breath.
Nobody else seemed interested. Their attention was focused on the wall at the other end of the road.
Then, as quickly as it had come, the chaos receded. The policemen let go of her and she was back in the procession. The crowd was shuffling again now. The colour party had picked up the coffin. Colette looked around, but couldn’t see him.
She walked on, but didn’t look again. She was suddenly frightened. She felt the dampness in the palms of her hands, despite the cold. She scanned the crowd ahead of her. She couldn’t see Mulgrew.
She wondered where he had been and what he had seen.
What if he’d seen the shock in her face?
The procession rounded the corner to St Peters. They were moving slowly, the anger and rage replaced by a solemn lethargy. It was surreal.
As Colette walked, she thought about the incident in the library and asked herself whether Mulgrew could or would have recognized Ryan. All he had to go on was that one brief glimpse of the newspaper cutting. Unless he had gone back to look another day …
She looked round again, but there was no sign of either of them.
They were all standing outside the church now and Colette had moved to the front to stand right beside Gerry, as though her physical proximity to him would somehow save her. Gerry himself stood facing the priest, his fists clenched by his side. His voice was icily polite, but laced with menace. ‘Father,’ he said, ‘let me repeat. This funeral cortège has just been attacked by Loyalists and, as you can see, Mrs Martin is extremely upset. Will you please let us into the church.’
Father Collins was equally polite and equally firm and Colette thought she saw something like hatred in his eyes. ‘Mr McVeigh,’ he said, ‘let
me repeat to you that I understand only too well Mrs Martin’s distress. She is a loyal and supportive member of my flock, but I cannot and will not allow Declan’s body to be brought in here covered by the trappings of paramilitary violence.’
‘Father …’ Gerry’s lips were tight, his voice strained.
‘I’ve been here a long time, Mr McVeigh. I won’t be bullied. Remove the trappings or we’ll be here all day.’
‘What about Mrs Martin, Father?’
‘Believe me, my sympathy and my heart go out to her. Where your heart is, Mr McVeigh, God alone knows.’
‘Whose side are you on, Father?’ Gerry had lowered his voice now and Colette could tell he was reaching breaking point. She looked at the old priest’s silver curls and worried brow and found herself admiring his bravery.
‘At the risk of sounding trite,’ he said, ‘I am on the Lord’s side. There has to be somebody you cannot bully like you bullied Declan Martin.’
Gerry visibly fought down his temper and turned to have a quiet word with Mrs Martin. The mourners watched in silence, enclosed in the courtyard by a solid ring of black. A few minutes later he turned back and stepped forward again to Father Collins. ‘For Mrs Martin’s sake, the cap, the belt and the beret go, but the Tricolour stays.’
For a moment the priest looked as if he would refuse him, but eventually he nodded grimly and turned to lead the procession into the church.
Colette followed, right next to Gerry. She took a pew close to the front and sat in a daze, not daring to look round.
She wondered if Mulgrew was sitting in one of the pews behind her and imagined his eyes on the back of her head. She imagined him thinking, assessing, wondering. She tried to picture what he might have seen in her face for those few moments. She couldn’t say, because she couldn’t know how much of what she’d felt – the shock and surprise – would have shown on her face. And it would only matter if he’d been watching. There were a million other things he might have been doing. She tried to take her mind off it and concentrate on what the priest was saying.
She listened. The priest talked of a life wasted; of a boy who loved Gaelic football and was devoted to his mother; of a boy who worked hard and was a good student, loved by his teachers, his friends and his family.
Mostly, Father Collins talked of the tragedy that had hurt them all, but he did not spare his audience. His voice was rich with emotion. ‘I must say now to the paramilitary leaders who sent Declan to his death: why?
‘For God’s sake, I ask you why you sent a young man to his death? What do you hope to achieve after so long, after so much bloodshed and bitterness and hatred?’
Colette looked at Gerry. He was staring at the priest impassively, but the muscles in his cheek were twitching rapidly.
‘When will it end?’ the priest asked. ‘When will you end it? We know of your pain, of your commitment to justice and to freedom, but it cannot go on. I ask you, after twenty-five years, what are you achieving with this daily litany of death?’
There was the sound of squeaky trainers on the stone floor. People were leaving and Colette took her chance. She turned round and scanned the church, sweeping across from right to left and then back again.
She couldn’t see Mulgrew.
She turned back and tried to listen. The priest went on, ‘The future lies in your hands. You have the power to stop it, to prevent other fine young men going to an early grave. On behalf of everyone in this troubled land, I beg you to have the courage to stop—’
She tried to make sense of what she had just seen. It was a Loyalist attack, so what was Ryan doing there? Accident or design? Design, surely. It worried her. It scared her.
She realized she’d been beginning to trust him.
Next to her, Gerry was sitting stock-still, staring at Father Collins with cold fury in his eyes.
She looked forward at the coffin ahead of her. She could scarcely credit these circumstances.
Out there was a Brit she had wanted to live.
In front of her lay a patriot she had wanted to die.
The worst of it was that she didn’t feel guilty.
She bent her head and found herself saying a silent prayer.
She prayed for the death of Martin Mulgrew.
She felt Gerry moving beside her and opened her eyes. He’d got up and, instinctively, she followed him.
It was bright outside after the darkness of the church and, for a moment, as they walked towards the group of men ahead of them, she found herself squinting. As they reached the group, Colette hung back fractionally to allow Gerry to join the circle – partly out of fear and partly as a recognition that she was not really welcome.
The men were from Internal Security and she wondered if they would ask her to leave.
‘One of these days Father Collins is going to get what’s coming to him,’ Gerry said.
No-one answered him.
Terence O’Hanlon stood in the centre of the group, dwarfed by the men around him. He measured 5 feet 5 in his trainers and did not like people making references to his size. He generally got his wish.
‘The greyhound attack was intercepted, we hear,’ O’Hanlon said. ‘There were arrests.’
Colette felt a brief sense of relief. She hadn’t known about the greyhound attack. But then, did they know she hadn’t known?
‘There’s no doubt you have a tout,’ O’Hanlon said.
‘It looks that way,’ Gerry replied, ‘but we’re dealing with it. Mulgrew is looking into it.’
‘Mulgrew is your intelligence officer. He’s not got the experience for a major tout hunt, so we’ll deal with it now.’
There was a moment’s silence. Gerry had his back to Colette, but she could read the tension in the faces of the men opposite her. Chico was smirking at her now and she shivered. He was so revolting.
‘I think’, Gerry said icily, ‘that we will deal with this if you don’t mind. I—’
‘We know who it is,’ O’Hanlon said. Chico was still smirking at her.
Another pause. Gerry tilted his head to one side. ‘Care to tell us who you think it is?’
‘We’re still checking. We’ll tell you when the moment comes.’ O’Hanlon smiled now and it was a chilling sight. ‘We like to be absolutely sure, Gerry, as you know.’
Gerry hesitated for a second. ‘Well,’ he said slowly. ‘You’d better be right, or you’ll regret it.’
He turned and, for a second, Colette saw the anger in his face. Then he was past her and she was following. She didn’t look back.
She could tell how angry Gerry was by the speed at which he walked. She had to half jog to keep up with him. He didn’t say anything and, as they turned back onto the Falls, she saw Mulgrew running down towards them. He was slightly out of breath and he looked at her without smiling.
‘Got a minute, Gerry?’ he said.
‘Not now, Martin.’
‘It’ll only take a second. It’s—’
‘Not now.’
He kept on walking and Colette tried to catch him up, but Mulgrew put his hand on her shoulder. ‘How’s the form?’ he asked. She was forced to slow down and Gerry began to pull away from her.
‘Gerry’s angry,’ Mulgrew said.
‘You don’t say.’
‘What’s up? Is it that greyhound business?’
She kept on walking. They were close to Leeson Street now and she saw Gerry pass the turning and head on up the Falls. ‘An argument with Internal,’ she said.
‘Ah. Well, we may beat them to it.’
Colette grunted and turned left into Leeson Street. She stopped. ‘See ya, Martin,’ she said.
‘We’re pretty sure we know who it is.’
He was looking at her. She was torn once again between finding his intensity threatening and laughable. She didn’t know whether to see him as ‘little Martin’ still.
‘Good,’ she said. ‘Serve the fucker right, whoever he is.’ She turned away.
‘Or she.’
Mulgrew was still staring at her. ‘You said he, but who’s to say it is a man?’
For a second she was frightened and she felt panic begin to swamp her mind. Then, suddenly, he changed his tone and mood. He touched her shoulder. ‘First rule of this game, Colette: never assume anything – otherwise, you end up looking in the wrong places.’ He put his arm right over her shoulder now and she felt revolted. ‘Are you going to offer me a cup of tea?’
She said, ‘Sure,’ and wished, as she said it, that she could have thought of a credible excuse.
As she opened the door a few moments later, she was conscious of the silence in the house. Ma and the kids weren’t back.
She made him a cup of tea in silence and conspicuously didn’t make herself one. He said thanks, took off his coat and hung it on the back of one of the kitchen chairs.
The room was quiet, but for the sound of him slurping his tea.
‘How are the kids?’ he asked.
‘Fine.’
Silence. There was something chilling about this, as if his presence here was somehow a violation. There was an intimacy about it that made her feel uncomfortable, frightened.
He took another noisy slurp of his tea and looked at her again, his stare naked and intense. ‘We’ve got to crack this tout,’ he said, ‘whoever he – or she – is.’
‘Yes,’ she said, whilst thinking, once again, I bet it’s you, you bastard.
He put down his tea on the side and stepped closer to her. He was only a foot away now, at most, and she looked over her shoulder at the back door. ‘Kids’ll be home in a second,’ she said.
She looked back at him, aware that this could be dangerous. He was still staring at her and she smiled. ‘How you doin’, Martin.’
‘I’ve always fancied you, Colette,’ he said.
When she looked at him now, she could see the lust in his eyes so clearly, and she cursed herself for not recognizing its intensity before, but the threat was still there. ‘I know,’ she said.
