Seeds of Evil

by Robert Kitchen

  He would not allow himself to believe that he was physically attracted to the girl but she was really special. She had listened to his problems frequently, always displaying real interest and giving advice when she deemed it necessary. Judy wasn’t like other girls, flirting and teasing at his embarrassment. Shit, why was he thinking of her at a time like this? But he knew the answer to that question as well. Although he hated to admit it, the fact remained; he needed to see if a relationship with a girl was possible. One thing was certain, he had to sever his relationship with Nathan. Thinking it was one thing, putting it into action was another kettle of fish. How do you find the words to tell someone you care deeply about that you don’t want to see them again?

  Five pages from a Basildon Bond writing pad, lay crumpled at his feet. Nothing he had tried to say made sense. No, that was a lie, it all made sense. Jason cursed his inability to compose the right words. As he read each worthless effort frustration finally won out. ‘Can’t think of the words to tell you. I’m sorry Nat,’ he whispered, ‘Forgive me for the coward that I am. I simply cannot look you in the face and tell you goodbye,’

  CHAPTER 3

  Nathan returned to an empty apartment. Jason had packed and simply vanished. There was no letter of good-bye, no explanation for his departure. He searched the house but found no clue as to where the boy could have gone. Days dissolved into weeks and it became painfully obvious that he had lost Jason forever. He lapsed into a state of despair, bordering on suicide. Business became an irritation. Something which was alien, not just personally but to subordinates at the office. Zombie-like, he reluctantly accepted the advice of a colleague and took off for a holiday in the sun. A month later he returned, tanned and relaxed but he had not forgotten Jason. He would never forget Jason, his one true love.

  For his part Jason, in a moment of confused madness, had joined the army, an occupation which most immature teenagers whose world was in turmoil would choose. After completion of his basic training at Catterick, a garrison town in Yorkshire, he felt even more disjointed. Regimen of military life had a steadying influence on the boy but it seemed to him that life was overly complicated. Jason found himself in the company of copious characters. He was thrown in with young men of every type imaginable but had been physically attracted to none. Compounding his confusion he was obliged to accompany them to pubs and discos. Girls vied for his company wherever he happened to be. It was strange to say the least. His apprehension toward the opposite sex had long since vanished, thanks to Judy. He had fled to her flat on the night of he and Nathan’s parting. As usual Judy had been a sympathetic ear. She listened intently, as he had known she would, to his sorry tale and when a tear had escaped to meander down his boyish face she could not resist kissing the pearl with a delicate brush of tender lips. One thing led to another and the inevitable happened. Jason stayed for five days at Judy’s place and they made love often but he had always known that he would abscond, sooner rather than later. Nathan may not have been the ideal partner but neither was this caring girl. Unlike his parting with Black, Jason explained his feelings to her and they parted amiably.

  His induction into the army life was as haphazard as the previous two weeks. He had been ambling around town on a wet morning merely killing time when he spotted a recruiting sergeant opening his office door. Without a moment’s hesitation he sauntered in. After completing the appropriate forms, passing a strict medical and an apprehensive waiting period, he became a member of Her Majesty’s Forces. Relationships with women were pleasant; there was no denying it yet he was never completely at home in their presence. He enjoyed it at the time but he was left feeling empty afterward and in truth somewhat ashamed. Perhaps he had been too hasty walking out on Nathan. He reflected upon their friendship a great deal over the ensuing months. At times he was reduced to tears but almost immediately cast the memory to the back of his mind. The undeniable fact was that he missed his former friend. He missed him terribly but he did not love him, perhaps he never had. After basic training, Craftsman Leonard’s first posting was issued. He was ordered to the garrison town of Borden. Hell on earth was the general consensus of the trainees. Life there was a bore with a capital B. What seemed like thousands of randy squaddies vied for the attentions of the sparse selection of local females. Consequently this led to brawling, over indulgence of alcohol or both. The woman, few of whom were worth fighting over, basked in the attention meted their way. Jason could never decipher what all the fuss was about. To him pulling women was the easiest thing in the world. Other soldiers sought his company but it was not simply for the fact that he attracted females like a magnet. Jason was straight as a die and it looked likely that promotion would come his way sooner rather than later. Important as these attributes may have been, they were not the main reasons for his popularity. He was fun to be around and he

  could bowl like a demon. His year’s training at Borden finally came to an end.

  Word of his first active service posting had came at last. With a mixture of trepidation and excitement, Jason read the orders instructing him of the location for his first tour of duty. Northern Ireland was the chosen destination. Fate decreed that it was to be his ultimate one. Three days after his arrival and two days before his nineteenth birthday, Jason T. Leonard’s short existence ceased to be. A young man without an ounce of malice became a statistic. Killed by a sniper’s bullet as his patrol was proceeding down Clonard Gardens off Belfast’s Falls Road.

  CHAPTER 4

  As usual, the month of March was miserable, cold, wet and extremely windy. Three men were discussing the prospects of an inferior national soccer squad that was about to do battle with Spain. One of the three, Billy Clements, was booked on a charter flight together with another one hundred and fifty or so fans that were loyally championing a lost cause. Clements was beating a tattoo with a pair of number ten welding electrodes whilst humming a loyalist marching song.

  ‘Jesus Billy but yer a lucky wee bollocks,’ said Davy Johnson, ‘Away to Spain no less,’ he added, as he sullenly gazed through the porthole at the thickening gloom beyond. ‘Wud ya luk at that weather,’ the man’s East Belfast accent thickened appreciably when complaining.

  ‘Agh would you stop your moanin Davy,’ chided the third man. ‘You could have been away with him, if you weren’t as tight as a duck’s arse.’

  ‘And why wud I want to go to Spain for?’ Grammar was never the man’s strong point.

  ‘Sure its only full of fenians and I wudn’t want te see them gloatin, when their team stuffs Noarin Ireland anyway,’ he grumbled.

  ‘ Noarin Ireland, Noarin Ireland,’ sang Billy, choosing to ignore the observations of his envious companion.

  ‘Christ would ye listen to that wee prick,’ laughed Sammy Caldwell, ‘He’ll hardly be singin at nine o’clock on Wednesday night.’

  ‘Hey you, less of the wee,’ smiled Billy. ‘Jesus Sammy, I can’t wait. Wonder what its like?’

  ‘What’s what’s like?’ asked Caldwell.

  ‘Madrid, ‘The Stadium of Light,’ answered Clements, in exultation.

  ‘Pretty dark I’d imagine, sure them Spaniards all have a bit of the tarred brush in them. Anyway, ye’ve got the wrong town.’ Johnson smugly informed him.

  ‘Very funny Davy. Anyway, what would you know? The farthest you ever got was Bangor.’

  ‘Nothin wrong with Bangor boy,’ argued Davy. ‘There’s some crackin cafes there. Aye and when it comes to it, I know a wee bit more than you do sonny,’ he hastily rejoined. ‘For your information, the ‘Stadium of Light,’ is in Lisbon. That’s where wee Georgie stuffed yon Eusebio’s mob, Benfica,’ he added reverently.

  ‘Jesus would you listen to him, the last of the big time spenders,’ said Sammy.

  ‘Aye he’s a regular James Bond. Your missus must think she’s in heaven.’

  ‘That’s right Billy, only some thinks it’s heaven and others
thinks its hell,’ agreed Dave sagely.

  ‘Ach sure Bangor’s not that bad,’ observed Sammy, forcing the others into peals of rapturous laughter. Such was the banter between workmates in Harland and Wolff, ship builders to the world. Three men, whose interest in the daily grind had long since evaporated, killing the last half-hour of another dreary working day. When the horn finally blew concluding their shift, the three separated. Johnson on foot to cross the Fraser Street Bridge into Protestant East Belfast. Caldwell by bus to the equally Protestant Sandy Row and Billy Clements would wend his way to the much-maligned Shankill. Ordinary working class men with a lot in common but after their daily toil, Sammy and Dave would return to a warm home and a hot meal. Billy, being single, would opt for a loyalist, drinking club in Shankill’s Hammer district. He was not just a shipyard worker. His daily employ served to give Clements the appearance of respectability. He was in fact a loyalist volunteer, recruited by the Ulster Defence Association on the twenty-second of September nineteen seventy-nine. He was barely fourteen years of age.

  Unlike Clements, who was of medium build, three inches short of six-foot and fair of complexion, Connor Tullen was tall, blessed with raven hair, elegant and above all quiet. Clements by comparison, was outspoken and quick to anger. Tullen could be relied upon to keep his own council. As an added bonus, he was single and seemingly uninterested in woman. Clements, on the other hand, could never get enough female distraction. At the last count, Tullen was responsible for the deaths of seven RUC constables, as well as three members of the British armed forces. The man was cool, calculating and in his capacity as assassin, known only to the highest ranking members of his faction within the Irish Republican Army.

  Just as the three loyalists were arguing the merits of the national side, so too were Connor, his younger brother Thomas and two others. One thing that Ulster men of both persuasions have in common, is sport. A true blue Orangeman from the Shankill Road suddenly forgets what religion Barry McGuigan is when the boxer is representing Northern Ireland in a world title fight. He could not care less which foot George Best kicks with and probably does not know the church where Mary Peters worships. The only thing he sees is a Northern Ireland man or women against the rest. They will always support the underdog no matter how slim the chance of success. Ulster sports fans stand fervently behind their team and they do not care about reputations. As far as they are concerned the big ones are there for the taking. It was therefore no real coincidence that Connor Tullen was booked on the same charter as Billy Clements. Their paths were to cross very soon and in particularly violent circumstances.

  CHAPTER 5

  Nathan Black was festering with a hatred of volcanic proportions. He had read the report on the death of Jason hungrily devouring every detail from the tabloids, a form of media he normally treated with utter contempt. He scrutinised the major dailies even arranging for Belfast’s local papers to be specially delivered. Every scrap of information regarding the fatal incident involving his beloved Jason was memorised. Loathing bubbled and boiled like a witch’s brew inside him as he read how an IRA splinter group referred to as the I.N.L.A had claimed responsibility for the death of Private Jason T. Leonard. A statement released to the press by Sinn Fein, political wing of the IRA. read,

  “The Brigade Commander regrets that a boy of eighteen years had to die. The responsibility for the young man’s death lies firmly at the hands of the British government. They must take our message seriously. The unjust occupation of the province must terminate sooner rather than later. Members of the British Army tread on Irish soil at their peril. Unfortunately the English parliament is unconcerned about the welfare of the children that it chooses to enlist in this unjust war. Private Jason T. Leonard was a mere eighteen years when enticed to a life of adventure, as promised by propaganda posing as truth. Sadly when a boy dons the uniform of the British Armed Forces he becomes a legitimate target. We implore the parents of naive children to make them reconsider before choosing the path to ultimate destruction.”

  Black had read the statement over and over and with each reading the choler that poisoned his soul screamed for revenge. Slowly he moved to the mirror. Studying his reflection he calmly uttered the chilling words. ‘As God is my witness I am going to make that god forsaken piece of shit which you call a country, pay one thousand fold for the murder of my beautiful boy.’

  CHAPTER 6

  Two days prior to his departure for the international football match, Billy Clements stood shivering in the March drizzle. He had been summoned to a meeting with John Starrett the commander of his unit. Billy, like so many others, had never laid eyes on the man but when called before him, was obliged to obey. A volunteer ordered to attend an audience with the Big man would make his or her way to a location prearranged by a go-between whom, like Clements, would not have been privy to the commander’s features. A message dispatched from England in the form of a letter, the contents of which were usually mundane, paved the way. A brother writes to his sibling in Belfast. After discussing the weather, or a few sentences complaining about the price of drink, there would be a reference to a friend. This was an equally banal inquiry such as, ‘And how is wee Billy doing? Does he still go out with Sally from Silvio Street?This was an indication that Billy was summoned to a meeting. The date was constant, always three days after the one post-marked on the envelope. The exact time for the pick up appeared in the letter, also in the form of a question. ‘Is my ma still watching Coronation Street? Nothing changes eh? This would mean that Billy was to be on the corner of Silvio Street at nine thirty on March seventeenth. ‘Nothing changes,’ meant just that, arrangements were unchanged and would follow the same procedure as the previous meeting. The rendezvous was always two hours after the scheduled start time of the television program mentioned in the letter, simple but effective and courtesy of the Royal mail.

  At exactly nine thirty, a red Vauxhall Cavalier pulled up beside him. The driver smiled and inquired the street number of Sally Moore’s house. Billy answered the code with the words, ‘Sally Moore, she’s moved to Percy Street. I’m headin in that direction, would you mind givin me a lift?’ After establishing each other’s credentials the pair set off. Up the Crumlin Road, onto the Antrim Road, through Glengormley, around the Sandy Knowles roundabout and out into the country via Templepatrick. Pulling into a lay-by the driver sneered at Clements.

  ‘Wud ya mind gettin in the back and lying down wee man? There’s a blindfold on the seat. Just pull it over your mincers and go to sleep now. I’ll wake ye when we get there OK?’ Billy nodded and obediently took his place in the rear, as he had done on numerous occasions when summoned by the commander. Taking the other’s advice he did nod off giving a yelp when the driver unceremoniously shook him by the shoulder. He awakened with a grunt slightly

  disoriented. Not fully awake he made to rip the blindfold from his eyes.

  ‘Tut tut,’ said the driver sarcastically. ‘You know the rules Billy. Regular sleeping beauty aren’t ye.’

  ‘Fuck you,’ grumbled Clements, repositioning the cover.

  ‘Touchy wee bollocks aren’t ye,’ observed the driver. ‘Here’s me doin me best to help ye out of the car and all you can say is… ‘

  ‘Just fuck up you,’ came a voice from behind a hawthorn hedge, ‘Get back in the car and drive to the end of the road. Come back in an hour pea brain,’ ordered the voice. Clements recognised the intonation, as did the driver. A cold shiver ran down the lackey’s spine upon hearing the commander’s rebuke.

  ‘Billy, just you step back son, there’s a good lad, that’s it now, wait till yer man’s gone up the hill.’ Billy Clements hated these meetings. He knew that security was vital but could not understand why John insisted on the blindfold. The bugger doesn’t trust me, was always the dominant thought in his mind. ‘Ha! He doesn’t trust me yet I’m the one who takes all the risks. Aw fuck him,’ he mumbled, as a BMW pulled up beside him.
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br />   ‘And how are you doing Billy son? How’s yer mother keeping? I hope she’s still in fine fettle.’ Billy hated the man’s patronising tone, always finishing his words with ing, ing this, ing that. In

  Belfast dialect the g is silent and anyone using the proper annunciation was treated with a degree of suspicion. It’s easy to tell he’s got a few bob the bastard, and the cheek of him looking down his nose at me. One of these days things will change thought Clements spitefully. Don’t understand why the Belfast brigade kow-tows to these pricks anyway, but answered meekly, ‘My ma’s OK John and I’m right as rain. How’s about yourself?’

  ‘Couldn’t be better Billy, couldn’t be better. I’ll just help you into the car. Mind your head now. There’s a good chap,’ said the leader gently placing a palm behind Clements’ head and guiding him into the rear of the vehicle. Good chap thought Billy. Good fucking chap. I’d like to give you a good chop.’ Once settled, Billy sat morosely in the back of the car. Nothing more was said until the vehicle drew to a halt. Billy had tried to estimate how long it would take to reach their destination from the moment they set off. It was a game he played. He had seen it in a movie, where a hostage had counted and listened for noises. He gave up after a few minutes, not because he had lost count but it was obvious that John had once again taken a new route. The bastard must be the most careful man in the business, he mused, I suppose that is why he’s in charge. Not ten minutes had elapsed before the car came to a halt.