The Killer

by Jack Elgos

  ‘But where do you think The Butchers get their finance from son? Their arms, their ammo, their finance, their intelligence - they’re supplied by the fucking U.V.F. And they, in turn, are supplied by the fucking British Government. It’s each and every single loyalist paramilitary outfit we’re fighting. And the biggest threat of all comes directly from the Brits. Without support from the British there would be no threat - without the British support your mam would probably still be alive.’

  He’d never thought about it in this way. The man’s words started making sense to him and, for the briefest of seconds, Darren’s eyes began watering a little. Quickly he blinked the tears away before looking back at his instructor. ‘If you really want someone to blame for your mother’s murder - look no further than the British: they’re your real enemy,’ Collins told him. ‘Because ultimately the blame for her death lies with them - can you see that now son?’ At the slight nod from his pupil he changed the subject, noting the sadness in the lad’s face. ‘Anyhow, enough of all that, let’s get on and make a start on today’s training.’ Striding over to another table he dragged the tarp off and announced, ‘Today, bolt action rifles, shotguns and assault rifles.’

  This specialist arms training continued for six more, very long, weeks. As he neared the end of the course Darren was happy to find that he could efficiently field strip, clean and reassemble virtually any firearm presented to him.

  ‘Well done lad,’ Collins announced as Darren completed his last rebuild, ‘but, you do realise that it won’t always be daylight when you need to strip a weapon don’t you?’

  Confused, Darren stared at his trainer. ‘Well, aye, but how do you mean?’ he asked.

  Collins pulled a long, black piece of cloth from his pocket as he told him, ‘Now, do it again - but this time do it blindfolded.’

  ‘Bollocks,’ thought Darren, but Collins had already covered his eyes in one swift movement.

  Now, unable to see anything at all, Darren sat and listened to his instructor. ‘I need you to tell me the manufacturer, type and firing rate of this weapon. I need to know the ammunition it uses, which mag it fits, how many rounds per mag. You are then to strip, clean and rebuild it. Then, make it ready for firing.’

  He couldn’t believe this. Sure what the man said made sense, but fuck, this seemed impossible. Still, he attempted to field strip the rifle - using only his sense of touch. The total blackness hampered him, to say the least, and he made a total mess of it.

  ‘Practice, practice and more practice lad. You need to recognise any weapon at hand, by feel alone - you’ll get it.’

  Two weeks later and Darren sat, blindfolded but with a beaming grin on his face, as he completed the last rebuild of the day. Now he could tell Collins everything about any weapon. From its size, weight and smell he knew each one individually as they were handed to him, one after the other. He knew them all and he could distinguish the individual ammo each weapon used. Darkness had become his friend.

  Collins was delighted with the lad’s performance. Whoever had recommended this particular young feller had chosen wisely, for the lad was a natural. He proved to be a fair shot too, but in the world of automatic weapons the ability to clear a jammed gun quickly and efficiently was far more use than precise, sniper type accuracy. This lad would do well and he would follow his career with interest and hope. Of course, they all disappeared into the shadowy underworld eventually, but he would keep tabs for as long as he could. That was the interesting part. The hope, though, went far deeper. That hope was for continued loyalty, and Collins quickly banished the memory of the one who had “turned”.

  ***

  Morals?

  His final week was fast approaching and, following their daily ritual of tea and a chat, Collins announced, ‘Today’s lesson – explosives,’ as he pulled the tarp from the last table revealing all manner of explosives, cables, timers and other devices that were completely unknown to Darren.

  He looked down at the table, then back up at his trainer. A second or two later he told him, ‘I’ll not be needing this lesson,’ adding firmly, ‘I won’t use explosives.’

  Collins returned the look with a stare. ‘What?’ he asked incredulously. ‘You won’t use explosives? Who the fuck do you think you are? What the fuck are you talking about man?’

  Darren gave him a direct, serious glare and told him, ‘Look, I won’t blow any poor fucker to bits. Sure I’ll fight them, stab them, shoot them and kill them - I have no problem with any of that. But I won’t stand miles away and kill a man like a coward.’

  ‘You will do as ordered,’ snapped Collins. ‘You will learn this and you will use them if, and when, you are ordered to - is that clear McCann?’

  ‘No sir,’ Darren said firmly. ‘I certainly will not.’

  Collins stammered. He couldn’t believe what he was hearing. ‘You will do as you are told. You are a soldier of the I.R-fucking-A. Do you fucking understand me McCann?’

  Darren held his stare, calmly replying, ‘No, I won’t - I’ll not use bombs on people. I’m a fighter, not a fucking coward.’

  ‘Back to the autos,’ screamed Collins as he pointed at the rifle table. ‘Strip, clean and rebuild every one. When you’re finished, start on the hand guns, and when you’re finished with that - do it all over again.’ Angrily, he marched out of the room, scowling all the way.

  Darren sat in front of the “auto” table and placed the blindfold over his eyes. Then he set about stripping the first rifle he picked up. ‘AK 47,’ he said to himself, before adding quietly, ‘paratrooper version,’ as his fingers fondled the rifle’s hinge and skeleton stock.

  Inside the farmhouse Collins sat stiffly. He began blowing gently onto his tea in an effort to cool his anger as much as the steaming brew. The man sitting opposite him was quiet, patiently waiting. Collins simply stared.

  ‘Well - if he won’t, he won’t, simple as that,’ the man stated.

  ‘Yes, but he’s blatantly refusing a direct, fucking order,’ snapped Collins.

  ‘Look Davy, the lad obviously has a problem with the use of explosives. He’s already told you he’s ready to kill, but only on his terms. And, like all of them, he is, after all, a volunteer. Why don’t you cut him a little slack and let him go fight - in his own way. We really do need them all you know.’

  ‘Is that your answer, to simply let him do as he likes, and miss explosives altogether?’ asked Collins.

  ‘Yes, it is. He’s finished firearms training in top form, you said so yourself. Cut him loose and send him back - there are plenty more young lads waiting. I’m sure the next one won’t be so picky.’

  ‘Is that a direct order?’ Collins asked.

  ‘Yes Davy, consider it an order.’

  ‘Fine, he’ll leave tomorrow then. You know I was starting to really like this guy, but after today’s little outburst I can’t wait to see the back of him,’ Collins told his superior.

  ‘That’s fine Davy. I’ll arrange for your next boy to be collected by the same transport he leaves on.’

  The following morning Darren left the camp near Derry. ‘Goodbye and thank you for everything Collins,’ he whispered as the van drove him away. Finally he was heading back home to Belfast and he hoped he’d be ordered directly into active service. He was ready, he was able and he was way more than willing to kill whomever he was ordered. Collins had been right – they were all his enemies. It would be nice if he could get a go at them Shankill bastards, though. He smiled in anticipation.

  3

  Active Service

  Darren didn’t have long to wait for his first orders and, over the next few months, he honed his craft, carrying out his directives efficiently. He was happiest when he worked alone. He liked to carry out his own reconnaissance, seeing the job through to the end, and he quickly had several sniper kills to his credit. The solitude part
appealed to him. Teamwork – not so much, but sometimes those were the orders.

  He was still new to the cause when he saw his first interrogation. The beating he witnessed sickened him in the beginning, offending his belief in a fair fight. A guy strapped to a chair didn’t stand a chance, yet it was effective as the man quickly admitted his betrayal and was rewarded with a swift death. At his second interrogation, Darren was more than just an onlooker. Subject number two was far more resilient and all hands were needed before he finally gave up what he knew. With interrogation number three he was fully employed and this guy gave up nothing. Darren wasn’t sure he knew anything to give up, but one thing became clear. If a man refuses to talk to you, then he talks to no one. The death of subject number three was inevitable and Darren was the one to finish the job, which he did without flinching. He knew he had changed. He’d been a tough guy to begin with, but even his dear, departed mother wouldn’t recognise him now. He wasn’t sure he recognised himself.

  It was roughly six months after he had left the training camp when Duggy Mallone came to find him. ‘Have you seen the news, McCann?’ he asked, as he scanned the small room Darren called home. ‘Where’s your TV?’

  ‘Don’t have any use for one.’

  ‘How do you know what’s going on, then?’

  ‘People like you come and tell me.’

  ‘Ah.’

  ‘Like you’ve something to tell me now?’ Darren suggested.

  ‘Oh, aye, sure. Everyone’s talking about it. You know Calum O’Connell?’ Darren nodded at the name of the well-known and highly placed I.R.A. sympathiser. ‘Well, they’ve done for him, man,’ Duggy continued. ‘Those Shankill bastards, and they really went to town. Gutted, he was, but that’s not the worst of it. They took out his wife and kid too. Slashed their throats.’

  Darren winced. That was against the code. Each man lived by what he believed and was willing to die for it. Often they were slaughtered in front of their families to make a point, but to kill the family was beyond the pale and images of his own mother, her neck slit open, rushed to his brain. ‘Bastards,’ he spat.

  ‘Aye,’ Duggy agreed.

  The police search for the culprit went on for weeks, but they would never find him. Just two days after the atrocity, news reached Darren that the boys had him and he raced to the scene. At a few minutes before midnight he entered an old, boarded up house and descended the stairs to the damp, cold cellar where the unmistakable odours of blood, sweat and human shit assaulted his nostrils. In the dimly lit interior a tall, bearded, tattooed man stood over a figure strapped to a chair, the face bloodied and beaten.

  ‘The man with the beard is wanting to extract much information before the kill,’ a strangely accented voice whispered from the shadows.

  ‘What has he said so far?’ Darren wanted to know.

  ‘Exactly nothing,’ said the voice.

  ‘Not a word?’

  ‘Oh, many words, yes, but this we already know.’

  ‘Like what?’ Darren pressed.

  ‘He is Shankill Butcher, yes. He killed the man, yes. He killed the woman and the boy, yes. He has killed many others, yes. He will tell the hairy man who they were, no.’

  Darren watched as a fist connected with the disfigured face, blood flying from the broken nose. ‘How many others?’ came the question that had clearly been asked several times before. There was no reply, just two bloodshot eyes staring defiantly from rearranged features. This man could take a beating, Darren had to acknowledge, as he stared at the first Shankill Butcher he had knowingly encountered in the flesh. He felt his pulse rate quicken as he thought of his mam and the fate she had endured at the hands of men such as him.

  Darren moved slowly into the room. ‘How many women?’ he asked from behind the tattooed arm raised in preparation for another blow. A bloodied face and a bearded face stared at him in equal surprise.

  ‘Who the fuck are you?’ slurred the bloody one through broken teeth.

  ‘How many women?’ Darren repeated, roughly pushing aside the large, imposing interrogator.

  It seemed the tattooed fist was now aimed in his direction, but another hand restrained it, offering in that strange accent, ‘Let the boy try.’

  Darren bent low, his face coming close to the one in the chair. ‘How about Mary McCann?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Mary Jeanette McCann.’

  ‘Never heard of her,’ came the reply. ‘Who was she? Some Catholic whore?’

  It was as though someone had flicked a switch in Darren’s brain. He stood away from the chair, arched his back and howled at the ceiling before reaching into his back pocket to remove the knife he always kept there for protection. In two swift movements he had slashed the Shankill Butcher across each cheek. ‘Mary Jeanette McCann,’ he screamed. ‘My mother.’

  ‘No, no. I don’t know. I don’t know her,’ came the reply. It was difficult to make out the words now through the gaping mouth, but the fear was finally evident in the voice that rose to a shrill scream as Darren reached out to hold the man’s ear and began to hack at it with the knife that was a little too blunt for the job.

  The Shankill Butcher gave up no further information. He couldn’t, as Darren slowly cut his face to pieces. Those in the room; a tall, bearded, tattooed man and three battle-hardened Provo activists, would later report having left the cellar before the job was finished, two of them even admitting to vomiting outside. Only one man, a short, stocky Spaniard, stayed to witness the whole thing. Just before midnight, Darren McCann had entered an old, boarded up building, but as the sun rose on the next day, The Butcher of Belfast emerged.

  As the weeks passed, Darren grew to dislike the name of Butch, by which he was now addressed, but he couldn’t deny the respect with which it was spoken. The legend grew around him and he heard how he had systematically removed each finger from the tortured man’s hand. Darren really didn’t think he’d done that, but he couldn’t honestly remember. The whole incident seemed unreal to him, as if he had dreamed it, but the Spaniard was there to remind him that it was all true.

  Although he never found out his real name, Darren grew to like the man, even learning some Spanish, and was sorry when he finally had to leave.

  ‘I have some gifts for you,’ said his new friend on their last day together.

  Darren accepted the book, “Speak Spanish in a month”, with a grateful smile, but his eyes widened at the second offering. A valuable antique, it had been lovingly fashioned by craftsmen a hundred years or so ago. It was an incredibly mean and savage looking switchblade, six inches long, slim, flat and heavy, with brass fittings at each end of the polished hardwood handle. In the centre of the wood a row of raised brass letters spelled out the word Matador. He was impressed with the gift, but also confused. ‘What has this to do with bullfighting?’ he asked.

  The Spaniard’s lips curled upwards forming a nasty and intimidating smile as he answered him. ‘Nothing, my friend. Matador is simply Spanish word, which means Killer. The word, it is used in bullfighting, yes, but that is just because the fighter, he kills the bull.’ For a moment longer he fingered the weapon, as lovingly as he would a fine woman, then handed it over. ‘And you are a good killer, Mr. Butch. I think you are the best killer I ever see.’

  Darren took the knife in his hand. It felt good and, when he pushed the brass release button, he couldn’t help but grin to himself as the razor-like blade flew out of the side. He fell instantly in love with the knife. From the sight of the action to the hissing sound the blade made as it shot out, it seemed they were made for each other. This switchblade, The Killer, had been carried always, and used to wonderful effect ever since.

  4

  The Execution, 1981

  Darren stood at the crumbling red brick doorway and took a quick breath of the cold, damp morning air. A quick, cautious gla
nce had to suffice as surveillance and satisfy him that nobody was watching. Gently he pushed open the dilapidated, rotten and creaking door. Thankfully everything was quiet, just as he expected. A final check and still nothing moved. He was inside in a flash, closing the door behind him as quickly and silently as possible.

  Once through the door, he froze. He stood still as a statue and held his breath as he waited and listened. Not a sound was to be heard from inside the rundown little terrace house. This dwelling was perfectly positioned, as it stood close to the corner junction of Springfield Road and the Falls Road. Breathing a little easier now he slowly, and deliberately, began creeping upstairs in the fashion of an old tomcat silently stalking his next meal.

  The instant he reached the top step he stopped dead in his tracks, barely daring to breathe as a high-pitched squeal screamed through his ears. Momentarily he froze, then continued on his way as he realised the sound was only the donkey’s years old floorboards as they rubbed together, protesting their annoyance against the intrusion of his weight. ‘Jesus, Mary mother of God,’ he whispered under his breath, quickly crossing himself. Reaching the landing at the top of the stairs he rapidly made his way to the front bedroom. Once there he slunk down as low as possible and crawled along until he arrived at the broken old sash-window seconds later.

  Lifting his head a tad he risked a quick, sly peek through the centre of the dirty broken windowpane. As he gazed along the seemingly endless rows of dilapidated old terrace houses he had a prime view of the intricate artwork each one proudly exhibited. Most of the houses and buildings had their own mural boldly painted on one of their walls, and in glorious Technicolor too, for all to see. These were actual portraits, works of art, not the tatty graffiti usually seen in the inner cities of the UK. They were brightly coloured masterpieces depicting the evergreen scenes of The Irish Tricolour, I.R.A. Sniper at work and, of course, the all time favourite stating simply, Brits out.