by Jack Elgos
‘Are you fucking crazy Thomas? You don’t just walk in on someone like that.’ Tutting in Thomas’s direction, he spat, ‘Have you never heard of knocking man? And maybe saying something like… it’s me, Thomas, please don’t stick me with that big fuck off knife of yours - thank you very much.’ Then, in a sarcastic tone he told him, ‘I should have stabbed you in the friggin’ arse, just for being stupid.’
Thomas, normally a man of few words, except when he was with his old mate Butch, gave him one of his famous “looks”, which basically said, “bollocks to you!” ‘Oh aye, that’d look fuckin’ wonderful wouldn’t it? And here’s meself knocking on the door of a fuckin’ derelict house shouting out at the top of me voice. Hello, I’m here to see the sniper who killed two Brits the other day. Oh aye and by the way, would you be needing a bit of dinner?’
‘Two of ‘em?’ Darren was shocked. ‘Must've been a lucky shot when I emptied the mag.’
‘Aye, and another one in hospital. In critical condition too, that one is.’
‘Fuck me, I never expected that.’ Darren looked his friend up and down before asking impatiently, ‘what have you brought me? You said something about dinner, where is it? And what is it? I’m fucking starving to death here man.’
‘Ham sarnies son, here you go.’ Thomas grinned as he tossed over a greasy, brown paper bag. ‘Sorry I couldn’t get here any sooner, but the place has been fuckin’ crawling with Brits. I’ve never ever seen so many of the bastards in all me life.’
Darren snatched the bag and, smiling with satisfaction, ripped it open. Sighing contentedly he quickly wolfed down the sandwiches. Finishing the last one he sat licking his lips. ‘Jesus, they were good… So, what’s the news then?’ he asked excitedly.
‘You’re as hot as they come mate. They’ve issued a “wanted” for you, and it’s got your fucking photo on it too. Been plastered everywhere it has,’ Thomas replied. ‘The word is, you’ve been called down to Cross me old son. And from there, they’re gonna fuck you off someplace else - until things quiet down a bit.’ They chatted a little longer until Thomas stood to leave, explaining, ‘Got to go to sort some stuff out for you Butch me old mate.’
When he returned around three hours later, Thomas whispered, ‘It’s me, put that fucking great dagger down will ya?’ before he poked his head round the open door.
Darren stood giggling like a schoolgirl at the sight of his friend, who was nervously peering into the darkened room. ‘I’m over here, you bog Irish cunt,’ he whispered in the direction of the door.
‘Well I still can’t see a fucking thing, it’s pitch black in here, and I’m not too sure if I want to cast me eyes on a fucking Englishman anyhow,’ Thomas replied in a mocking tone. As Darren had been born and raised in Belfast, part of a British colony, he held a British, not Irish, passport. And Thomas would never miss an opportunity to remind him of this fact.
‘Fuck you, and fuck your passport too,’ Darren snapped.
‘Always gets a rise, never fails,’ Thomas thought to himself, as he gleefully grinned in the direction of the voice. ‘Come on Butch, I’m to take you out to collect your transport, so get yer stuff together will you.’
Making their way out of the building the pair of them stood in the darkened doorway and, after a moment or two spent checking that the coast was clear, they sneaked off into the dead of night. Darren followed closely on his friend’s heels as they headed towards a brilliant-white Transit van with “Big Jack’s Frozen Pies” painted on the side in red day-glo letters a foot high.
‘Christ all-fucking-mighty, I’m glad you came in something that blends in - we wouldn’t be wanting to be standing out or anything, now would we?’
‘It’s fine; stop your moaning will you. You’re like an old woman,’ Thomas complained and then laced his voice with sarcasm as he asked, ‘are all Englishmen the same?’ Darren said nothing; he just glared back at Thomas. These bleedin’ English jokes were really starting to piss him off.
Out of town they drove, heading towards the small settlement of Hillsborough. Eventually Thomas pulled the Transit into a deserted lay-by, which was just on the outskirts of the town. As they stopped and parked, Darren noticed that they were sitting directly behind a battered, old and badly brush-painted Ford Escort van. Thomas glanced across to his mate with a smile on his face and announced, ‘There she is me old son, and a beautiful little runner she is too - only one little old lady owner, used it purely for going to church on Sundays.’ Then, with an even bigger grin, he added, ‘Honest!’
Climbing out of “the pie van”, Darren inspected his “new” transport, and sighed. ‘Holy fuck.’
‘Aye,’ said Thomas as he held out his hand. Darren took it, shook it warmly, and they said their goodbyes. Opening the rusted door he climbed into the old Ford. It sputtered and coughed as he turned the key but, miraculously, started first time. Driving off in a south-westerly direction, the van slowly disappeared into the night through a haze of blue exhaust smoke.
Despite the intense presence of the security forces in Belfast itself, the county roads heading out of the city were very quiet; so quiet in fact that Darren saw hardly any other traffic at all. Driving for around twenty minutes he had seen only six other vehicles, and two of those had been delivery trucks. He slowed a little as he approached the turn-off leading to the infamous Republican stronghold of Crossmaglen. Reducing his speed even more he turned down the small lane and began to relax. He was finally in prime “Bandit Country”.
‘There, I’m much safer now,’ he said aloud, as the “Bandits” living around here were his own special breed of people; comrades, brothers in arms and, most of all, trusted friends.
As the van slowly rattled down the tree-lined, leafy, single-track lane he passed the orange, white and green letters brazenly spelling out I.R.A. Each letter was around three feet tall and fastened to a telegraph pole. They proudly announced the boundary of the village of “Cross” itself. Just below the I.R.A. sign there was another. This one was similar to the “men at work” sign seen on roads and motorways everywhere but, instead of a man shovelling, it had the silhouette of a man with a rifle with the words “sniper at work” written underneath. He smiled to himself, amused by the obvious disregard of British authority here. Continuing down the lane, he noticed a light in the distance. A lamp was being swung, deliberately, from side to side. Slowing even more now, he cautiously approached the light. Though now travelling only at walking speed, he put the van into first gear and was ready to accelerate away in an instant should the need arise.
A single man stood in the centre of the road, his hand in the air signalling to Darren to stop. Following the man’s instruction he came to a halt at his side, then wound the window down in an effort to look the guy over. The old Ford remained in first gear, though, just in case. The dark figure who stood at the driver’s side window slowly slid out an old-looking revolver, which he pointed directly at Darren’s head as he barked the order, ‘Get out of the van and keep your hands where I can see ‘em,’ quickly adding in a stern voice, ‘and I’ll be standing for no funny business; or any of yer hanky panky either.’
Doing as he was told, Darren got out of the van whilst trying his best to hide the smile he felt growing on his lips. The man stood with only the half-light of the moon at his back to illuminate him and let out a slow whistle. Seconds later two other men emerged from the bushes to join him.
‘So, Sonny Jim, what are you doing driving around here on a dark night like tonight? Up to some no good monkey business, I’ll be betting,’ the guy asked him.
Glancing at the other two fellows, Darren saw they were armed too. One had another equally old-looking revolver and the other was carrying what appeared to be an actual Lee Enfield bolt-action rifle of the Victorian era.
‘Fuck me, I’m about to be held up by Dick Turpin and co,’ he smirked as he surveyed the three “Ba
ndits”, who looked for all the world as if they’d bought their weapons at an Antiques Roadshow discount arms auction.
‘Do you know who we are?’ asked the “outlaw” leader in a serious tone.
‘No… I’ve no idea. Who are you?’
‘Well Sonny Jim, we are the fucking I.R.A. and I’ll bet you are absolutely shitting yourself - aren’t you?’
‘Do you have a radio with you?’ Darren asked the leader.
‘What?’
‘I said, do you have a radio with you?’
‘Of course I have, you idiot. I have to use a radio to keep in constant touch with headquarters,’ the man explained importantly.
‘Give it here then.’
‘You… you can’t have it, it’s mine, and this field-radio is for official business, and to be used for incoming orders and my reports – only.’
‘OK then, report this - if you don’t mind, that is.’ Darren then reeled off D.M.B.O.B.786, which the leader reluctantly repeated into the handset. The reply came back instantly. The leader, keeping a tight hold of his radio, but holding it to Darren’s ear, could hear only one half of the call, which went something like this.
‘Yes, yes it’s me… I don’t know… yes I am… they say they’re the I.R.A. - OK, I will.’ Darren looked at the leader, telling him, ‘He wants to speak to you.’
The man looked puzzled, but took the handset anyway. ‘Hello, who is this speaking? Yes we have… but we were just… all right… OK… I mean, yes sir… I know, I’m… we’re… right away sir, yes, I know, I’m sorry… I’m very sorry… I will, yes immediately sir.’ With that he finished the call and stared at Darren for a moment. Then, eyes wide with incredulity, he stood rigidly to attention - and saluted him. His two compatriots, clearly clueless, followed his lead and did the same.
Darren slowly sauntered back towards the van past three very confused, saluting bandits. He opened the door, then turned back and faced them. As he did, he caught the last part of their low, whispered conversation, ‘… of fucking Belfast, that’s fucking who!’
‘The next time you three wankers are on patrol out here,’ (Darren's voice was dripping with sarcasm as he used the word patrol) ‘I suggest you first find out exactly who you’re talking to - before you introduce yourselves… ‘Cos if I’d been one of the Prods, all three of you stupid cunts would be as dead as doornails by now… Now, fuck off… Go and guard your sheep, or cows, or whatever else it is you spend all night shagging. Go on, fuck off I said. You’re relieved.’
The three I.R.A. "terrorists” remained rigid as, slack jawed, they continued to stare at him. The man they had threatened at gunpoint only a few moments ago had now been magically transformed into the Devil himself. The eerie reflection of moonlight had seemingly given him a pair of terrible, white-glowing eyes.
‘Go on, fuck off I said,’ Darren snapped one last time. Guns and torch now dropped, they quickly disappeared into the bushes, and the blackness of the night. Chuckling to himself, Darren got back into the van, started the engine and drove off, once more in the inevitable cloud of blue exhaust smoke.
A short while later he was driving past a high, old red brick wall, which continued as far as he could see. Eventually, though, he noticed an elaborate gateway and sharply turned the steering wheel of the old Ford. As he pulled into the drive his mouth dropped at the sight of the big old country house. It looked so impressive that he could imagine Queen Elizabeth herself living in a place such as this. Continuing down the driveway he stopped at the front of the house, turned off the ignition and parked. Climbing out of the van he noticed a light come on at the impressive old arched stone doorway. The door opened and a smiling figure came out and stood waving to him. Darren hurriedly crossed the gravel drive and saluted the man.
‘Ah don’t be bothering with all that stuff Butch me lad. Come on in and get yourself a warm.’ He led Darren by the arm, and continued through the hallway into a large living room, which had a lovely log and peat fire roaring merrily away. ‘Come on, get a warm here lad,’ said Willy, The Boss.
As he stood in the welcoming glow of the fire, Willy looked at him, ‘You know, you really made a stupid mistake the other day lad, letting that piece of shite, McQuillan, get a close look at you.’
‘Aye, I know that sir, but it couldn’t be helped. It all happened too fast to do anything about it - and I knew the Brits were closing in on me. I just had to run - and leave the bastard alive.’
‘I know, I know lad. I received a full report the next day. Oh yes, and by the way, that was good work too. You’re a fine shot Butch lad, but the thing is, now your photo’s to be seen everywhere. You’ll have to lay low for a while. Do you understand?’
‘Yes sir, I understand,’ Darren replied.
‘Well, I’ve organised a little trip for you, and you’ll have to be gone for quite a while too. This isn’t a punishment, though. I want you to understand that. It’s just that if you stay here in Ireland - well, you’ll end up in the Maze, and there’s too many of our fine young lads in the H-Blocks already. So it’s for your own sake, are you sure you understand that?’
‘Yes sir, I do understand fully,’ he nodded.
‘Good lad, now Mary’s got a nice stew prepared for you.’ Willy passed him a small envelope telling him, ‘and here’s your orders. You’re to head south after your meal, and only open them when you’re well away from here, OK?’
Saluting again he replied, ‘Yes sir, and thank you sir.’
A couple of hours later and Darren was fit to burst. He’d crammed in as much of that beautiful stew as he could, for he didn’t know for sure when he would next be able to eat. Waving goodbye to the Boss, he climbed back into the old Ford, turned the ignition key and the engine came to life. OK, so there was another cloud of smoke accompanying the initial start, but it had started, and it had started every single time, first time, every time. He was actually getting to like driving around in the old rust bucket. It was reliable after all, even if it did look a little ropey. As he drove along on the Dublin road he spotted a likely looking lay-by. It seemed quiet enough and was in darkness as there were no street-lamps. So, just before the town of Drogheda, he pulled in and, setting the handbrake, he parked up. Flicking the interior light on as he opened the envelope, he scowled as he read the instructions. He was more than a little disappointed to find that he had been ordered to report to a haulage company down in Cork.
‘Shite, that means I’m being sent across to Europe - France or bleedin’ Belgium most likely. Jesus, hope it’s not for long,’ he sat and muttered to himself. Then, after taking a quick pee in the bush, he was off again heading down south, but this time he had a destination - “A&R Transport, Kinsale, county Cork.”
5
The Englishman
Anthony was simply known as “The Englishman” by the majority of Dublin’s locals. He was a very quiet, private and sad-looking man who, though only forty-seven, appeared considerably older than his years. Passing his fellow shopkeepers he offered a polite “good morning” to each of them. No one really knew that much about him, with the exception that he was English and quiet, but most of all he seemed very lonely. He was neither liked nor disliked by anyone, including the hard line republicans who, though they hated the Brits with a passion, simply tolerated this pathetic old man.
He arrived at the door to his little antique shop and entered to the familiar musty smell of old furniture, paintings and clothing. He flipped the sign, which hung on the glass door, from closed to open as he turned on the lights. Walking to the back of his shop he went through to his office, turned the kettle on and prepared his tea. This small room had a window from which he could see anyone entering his shop.
The tea sat steaming on his desk as he packed and lit his pipe. Puffing away he sat and waited for today’s buyers. His clients were mainly American tourists who delighted in “disc
overing” the small shop, which stood at the far end of a small alley and was practically hidden from view, just off Cope Street. The Americans seemed to love the Temple Bar district of Dublin and couldn’t get enough “genuine antiques from the old country”, which they happily bought and shipped back to the States, seemingly by the ton. Sipping his tea Anthony glanced up to his wall clock. Though he always tried to avoid being alone at this particular time, today he had arrived early. It was 8.35 and, as he stared at the clock’s face, a single teardrop began rolling slowly down his cheek and he was unable to prevent his thoughts taking him back to that awful morning, almost twenty years ago.
It was the second day of his honeymoon and he had woken to find he was alone in bed, his new bride already up and about somewhere. ‘Hello and a good morning to you, sweetheart,’ he sang aloud, but there was no answer. Quickly dressing, he searched their rooms and found the bathroom door locked. ‘Oh,’ he remembered whispering. As a newly married man he was now fully aware of a lady’s need for privacy in the morning. ‘Looks like I’ll be making breakfast today.’
He wasn’t sure how long he should wait, but as breakfast began to grow cold he was starting to worry. He returned to the bathroom where his gentle knocking on the door quickly changed to frantic hammering. Eventually he was forced to break open the door, and there he found her. His beloved Katherine lay dead on the floor, a small pool of blood soaking her long, blonde hair. The doctor later informed him that it seemed she had slipped whilst getting out of the bath. Having banged her head on the tiled floor, she’d suffered a ‘traumatic head injury’. This wasn’t uncommon and was, ‘just one of those things I’m afraid,’ he remembered the faceless doctor explaining.
