Shadow Dancer

by Tom Bradby

  Now she was alone, she reached for the phone and dialled the number imprinted on her memory. She didn’t recognize the man’s voice. She spoke quietly.

  ‘It’s Shadow Dancer.’

  ‘OK. Five minutes.’

  When she rang back, the same man answered. ‘I’m sorry, your men are not here, but I work with them. Can I pass on a message?’

  She thought for a moment and nearly rang off. ‘Just tell them there are some arms coming in the day after tomorrow. Early morning. Going to a house in Hugo Street.’

  The man’s voice was confident and reassuring. ‘Which one?’

  She was whispering. ‘I don’t know, that’s it.’

  ‘Fine, it will be passed on immediately.’

  She was about to ring off, but held the line for a few moments more. There was genuine concern in his voice. ‘Are you all right?’

  ‘I need a meeting. Tomorrow. Same pick-up point.’

  She put down the phone and sat for a few minutes pondering whether she would tell them about London. She knew she was playing with fire – the consequences catastrophic either way – but she was almost sure now how she would proceed. It was her secret and she whispered to herself quietly, ‘Knowledge is power.’

  So much money.

  She picked up the phone and dialled another number and waited for Margaret to pick up. As soon as she heard her voice, she cut the line. They had told her always to place another call, because the IRA had once caught a tout simply by pressing last-number redial on her telephone.

  She was just about to get up when she turned and saw Mark’s face poking round the bottom of the stairs. She exhaled deeply and beckoned him closer, pulling him up onto her lap and rubbing his hair. ‘You gave me a shock.’

  His eyes still looked heavy with sleep. She wondered how long he had been sitting there. She brushed his hair to one side and pulled him close to her chest. He curled himself into a ball as if he were about to return to the womb. He spoke quietly. ‘Do you still love us, Mammy?’

  ‘I love you.’

  He nuzzled his face against her tummy. ‘You won’t go away again, will you?’

  She stroked his hair gently. ‘I’ll try not to. I’ll try for you …’

  She held him close and, before long, he was asleep. She felt the tiredness in her own eyes and slowly drifted off.

  Her dreams were vivid once again. She was back on the catwalk, wearing the same Union Jack robe, trailing it along as she walked. She was coquettish – that was the word everyone was using – and, Christ, she loved it … swaggering, swaying …

  And then she was on a different stage; it was some kind of awards ceremony and she was the queen of the hour. Somebody – no, not somebody, the Brit – was introducing her and presenting her with an award in the form of a giant bronze statue of herself draped in the flag, with the words ‘A Great British Hero’ stamped on it…

  And then she was no longer on the stage. She was in a room and everybody was suddenly quiet. It took her a few seconds to work out what was going on, but eventually she realized that she was wrapped in the Union Jack now, wrapped so tightly that she couldn’t move. She was lying flat on her back and it dawned on her that she was in a coffin. She felt the panic rising just as the coffin itself began to move, as if on some kind of conveyor belt. She craned her head back and was just able to make out the flames of the crematorium. She struggled and opened her mouth to let out a silent scream …

  ‘Colette?’

  She woke. Gerry was standing in front of her. For a second she couldn’t speak.

  ‘Are you all right?’ he asked.

  She thought and felt, suddenly, many things: panic at what she might have said in her sleep; anger that he kept on coming and going from the house as though this were still his home – holding meetings, sneaking in and out whenever he liked …

  ‘Are you all right?’ he asked again.

  She nodded. ‘Sorry, I was sleeping.’

  ‘I’ve got to go,’ he said. ‘But this thing is on. It’s happening. I need to know I can rely on you.’

  ‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘I’ve promised the kids—’

  ‘Ma can look after the kids. Please, Colette.’ He smiled and touched her arm. ‘I must be able to rely on you. Please. It’s for Pa, for Sean – for Davey. I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t truly important.’

  She closed her eyes again. For a second, she said nothing.

  ‘All right,’ she said.

  ‘Thank you, Colette,’ he said. ‘I won’t forget.’

  As she heard the door go, Colette stroked Mark’s head. He was still sleeping and, as she looked at him, she had to fight hard to prevent herself crying. She picked him up in her arms and slowly walked up the stairs. She opened the door to their bedroom and stood still for a moment whilst her eyes adjusted to the darkness. Eventually, she stepped forward and gently laid Mark down on his bed, pulling the duvet cover over him and tucking it in at the side.

  She pulled back her own duvet and stripped off. She went to the window to close the curtains fully and, as she did so, she glanced down at the alley below and got another nasty shock.

  There was a man standing there. He was dressed in a dark-green corduroy jacket. It was unmistakably Martin Mulgrew.

  He looked up, caught her eye, turned and hurried away.

  She found herself staring down at the alley, close to tears again and wishing it would end.

  She thought that, however insane, Gerry’s scheme would at least get her out of the country.

  She found herself thinking of the Brit and praying to a God she had never believed in that he would make the nightmare end and get her out.

  Out of what, she wasn’t certain.

  She lay down and closed her eyes, listening to the sound of the kids’ breathing. There was peace in the gentle rhythm of it, she thought, perhaps it was in their innocence. She tried to put the image of Mulgrew out of her mind. He’d looked so sinister, standing there, leaning against the alley wall. It was like something out of a 1930s gangster movie.

  There was a knock on the door. She heard it clearly, but could scarcely believe it. She looked at her watch. It was nearly midnight. She didn’t move.

  There was another knock, more urgent this time. She got up and began to pull on her jeans and sweatshirt. She had got to the top of the stairs when whoever it was knocked a third time and she said, ‘All right, all right,’ loudly. She got to the door and asked, ‘Who is it?’

  ‘Mulgrew.’

  She paused for a second, considering what to do. She realized she had no choice and opened the door. ‘What in the hell—’

  ‘Your presence is required, Colette – not now, it’s all right. Three days’ time. Seven p.m. The house in New Barnsley. I’m afraid you’ll have to be there.’

  He turned round before she could say any more and walked away. She shut the door and leaned against the wall, feeling overwhelmed by black despair as she did so.

  ‘So, you’re on to me,’ she told herself quietly. ‘In three days. That means you’re turning the screw … seeing what I’ll do.’

  She slid down the wall and put her head in her hands.

  *

  The following day was bright and clear and Gerry found the house easily enough, though he had only been there once before. Macauley did not like to do business at home.

  The house was small, but neat. It had been newly painted and the white walls were dazzling in the sunlight. The garden was well kept and tidy and there was little obvious sign of life.

  He knocked once and waited. The woman opened the door a few inches and poked her head round the edge, her curly, grey-black hair crushed against the wall. Gerry tried to be polite. ‘Hello, Mrs Macauley. You’ll not remember me. I’m from Belfast and was just looking for Seamus.’

  She opened the door a few more inches, but didn’t smile. ‘If you want him, you’ll have to find him.’

  Gerry thought she was being facetious and he waited for her to expand.
She looked at him for a second before continuing. ‘He’s up to the top of the hill, on the corner of the woods there. You’ll not miss him.’

  She’d been pointing up at a thin copse that ran across the top of the hill above them and Gerry turned away. ‘Thank you very much, Mrs Macauley.’

  The door slammed behind him. He turned out of the gate and found the lane that led up to the start of the hill. Eventually he came to a field and walked up the edge of it, gathering huge clumps of mud on his shoes.

  He felt uneasy. As he got to the top, he followed the edge of the copse, wondering where he’d find Macauley. At the end, he stopped and looked down over the rugged Cavan countryside.

  It was a fabulous day, but his lungs hurt from the climb and he cursed himself for being so unfit. He hated exercise and he hated the countryside. He reached into his top pocket for his cigarettes, took out the packet and lit one.

  He felt the barrel of a gun on the nape of his neck and heard Macauley’s voice. ‘Hello, Gerry.’

  He turned round and looked at him. The barrel was touching his chest. ‘Hello, Seamus.’

  ‘To what do I owe this pleasure, if pleasure it is… .’

  ‘I’m here to see you about something.’

  Gerry looked at him, feeling peculiarly nervous. He sensed this could go badly wrong. Macauley was still pointing the shotgun at him, though he’d now lowered it to his belly. ‘I know what you’re here for. What makes you think I’ll be interested?’

  Gerry smiled unconvincingly. ‘How do you know what I’m here for?’

  Macauley laughed. ‘Men talk, Gerry, as you ought to know. You know what they say about careless talk …’

  Gerry felt the nerves in his stomach. Seamus Macauley was a small man, with scruffy, unkempt, curly black hair and an even temperament. Although he lived just over the border in County Cavan in the Republic, he was head of the IRA’s Northern Command, the body responsible for running the day-to-day war in Northern Ireland. He sat on the Army Council and was enormously respected within the movement as a whole. He had a great deal of influence.

  ‘I’m here because we’re heading for disaster.’

  ‘Says who?’

  ‘Everyone who’s got any sense. I hear that you’re not entirely happy with the direction things are taking—’

  Macauley cut him off, his voice suddenly harsher, his accent stronger. ‘Who’s been telling you that?’

  Gerry paused for a moment, unsure of his ground. ‘It’s what I heard.’

  ‘Like I said, Gerry, careless talk costs lives.’ Macauley swung the shotgun off him and took imaginary aim out into the valley. ‘It’s beautiful here, is it not, Gerry?’

  ‘Yes, it is,’ he said, lying.

  Macauley started walking, turning back down towards the house. ‘You see, Gerry, in countryside like this, the Brits’ll never win. I feel sorry for them sometimes. They come over here with their armies and their helicopters, but they’ll never understand the country here. They can’t look around them and understand what’s wrong; the field that is ploughed out of season, the birds that aren’t singing in the summer. There’s always a reason. There are always signs to see if only they understood them. But they never will, you see. They’ll never understand our land like we do – and that’s why they’ll never win.’

  ‘So why are we surrendering?’

  Macauley laughed. ‘It’s not a surrender, Gerry. You know what the leadership are saying. We’re in a position of strength—’

  ‘I know what they’re saying. But just because they’re saying it doesn’t make it the truth.’

  Macauley stopped and looked at him. ‘I know what you’re up to, you needn’t worry. Murphy and I keep each other informed. I’ll not support you, but I’ll not stop you.’

  Gerry sighed. ‘It’s not support I need. I need to know there’ll be no witch-hunt if I’m successful.’

  Macauley shook his head. ‘You’re an ambitious man, Gerry McVeigh, and ambitious men need to be careful.’ He swung the shotgun round, pointing it at Gerry’s head. ‘What’s to stop me blowing your head off for treachery?’

  ‘There’s nothing to stop you.’

  ‘I’ll be honest and say I think it’s my duty to do so. My colleagues have worked long and hard – bloody years of work – to get to this point and it’s all going to be fucked by their arrogant little head of the Belfast Brigade. I think it’s my duty to stop that, don’t you think?’

  Gerry felt the first stirrings of fear. He now knew coming down here had been a huge mistake. ‘I could agree not to go ahead with it.’

  Macauley laughed. ‘A coward as well as a scoundrel. I don’t think we’d trust you, would we? Trust you no more than a tout…’ He lowered the gun and laughed again. ‘You need to watch yourself. I don’t believe in what the leadership is doing; more than that, I think what they’re doing is dangerous. But I’ll have no part in treachery or sedition. If we don’t stick together and maintain discipline the Brits will finish us …’ He paused for a moment and turned to start walking again. ‘Murphy and I have agreed we’ll keep what we know to ourselves. You’ve got that much chance, if you’ve got the balls to go through with it. As to afterwards, I’ll be making no promises. You’ll have to see.’

  He didn’t expand and they trudged down the hill in uncomfortable silence. Macauley paused once and pointed out a bird Gerry had never heard of on the corner of the hedge. He grunted his goodbye at the house and didn’t bother to wish him luck.

  On the journey back to Belfast, Gerry felt irritated and annoyed. He thought Macauley had patronized him and he hated that more than anything. He felt his resolve stiffening and he knew he had to go ahead with this now, if only to prove to the likes of Murphy and Macauley that he was as good as his word.

  He drove fast. He had a brigade meeting and he’d arranged for his key lieutenants to be there early so that he could brief them on what he was about to do.

  As he parked the car opposite Sinn Féin’s headquarters in Andersonstown, he passed the travel agents and noticed that it was closed. He felt a momentary surge of disappointment, but pushed it aside and crossed over the road to Connolly House. The iron gates were locked, but he’d long had a key and he let himself in quietly.

  The building was dark and he put on a light in the hallway and turned into the front room. It was eerily quiet and he switched on the television to break the silence.

  He sat there for fifteen minutes, lost in his thoughts, until the buzzer went for the first time. He looked out of the window and saw Joey Clarke and Martin Mulgrew standing at the gate. He pressed the buzzer to allow them entry.

  Joey Clarke went into the back to make them coffee and then they all sat around the table in the front room and gossiped quietly. Gerry looked at his watch and saw that time was running out. He lit another cigarette and then cleared his throat before explaining why he’d called the meeting. ‘We’ve talked about this before,’ he said, ‘but the time has come to do something about it. We’ve all agreed this peace process is going nowhere and it’s got to be stopped.’ He took a deep breath. ‘I’ve been putting together something in London. Something big – I can’t tell you what – and I want you’se behind me.’

  Mulgrew exhaled noisily. ‘Fuck.’

  ‘I need your backing. Both of you. There’s no sanction for this and we’re taking the chance that the mood will prevent a witch-hunt. Once it’s done, the peace process’ll be as good as dead and we can get on with fighting the war.’ He looked at them. ‘Well?’

  Mulgrew shook his head. ‘Without sanction? No official sanction? Shit, it’s risky, Gerry, know what I mean? I mean, we don’t know anything about it. Fuck, the leadership’ll go mad if it happens. They’ll go mad. There’ll be the witch-hunt to end all witch-hunts.’

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘What makes you so sure?’

  ‘I just don’t think so. I don’t think they’d dare. They’d be crushed and their strategy would be in ruins. We’d have to
build an alternative strategy based on the continuation of the armed struggle. I’m not without friends.’

  Joey Clarke interrupted. ‘You mightn’t be around to see whatever strategy anyone comes up with …’

  Gerry looked at him sourly, anger creeping into his voice for the first time. ‘I’m not without friends, but I need my own brigade behind me.’

  Mulgrew shook his head again. ‘You’ll have my backing, Gerry,’ he said quietly. ‘I just hope to fuck you know what you’re doing, that’s all.’

  The buzzer went, the noise giving them all a shock. Gerry got up and looked out of the window, pulling the shabby orange curtains aside.

  ‘All right, it’s the others.’ He turned back and pointed his finger at both of them.

  ‘Not a word to anyone. It’ll be over soon enough and then we’ll see. Right?’

  They didn’t respond and he went to the door to let in Sean Murray, the unit commander from the Poleglass area of the city. He was followed quickly by the others – Paddy was the last – and soon there were twelve men sitting around the table, almost all of them smoking. Gerry didn’t like these meetings as a general rule, because he always found himself looking round the table and wondering which one of the stinking bastards was a tout. He didn’t know who he could trust absolutely, but he usually went on instinct and largely dealt with the unit commanders he trusted most. That was why Paddy’s unit in the Lower Falls was one of the most active in the whole city. Gerry often said, ‘If you can’t trust your own brother, then who the fuck can you trust?’

  Mulgrew made some more coffee. There were not enough cups to go round.

  They began by discussing the failed attack on Henderson. Sean Murray brought the subject up and he began by swearing to deal personally with whoever the tout was. One of his own men had been involved in seizing the house and he was acting tough, as he often did.