by Jack Elgos
‘One day,’ Darren assured him.
‘Ah well, we’ll agree to disagree on that one, then. Anyway, it seems to me you’re more concerned with the Spanish these days. That was your kill, wasn’t it, that poor devil they found yesterday in the bushes with his throat cut?’
Darren looked at him, but said nothing. He wasn’t sure where this guy was getting his information, but it was unsettling.
‘Don’t worry, old boy. It looks as if the Spanish police are treating it as a robbery, and it’s certainly none of our business. It just seemed a little strange to me. I thought you’d joined the I.R.A. to avenge your mother’s death and I don’t really see what the poor old Spanish have done to you.’
At this Darren couldn’t avoid the small gasp that escaped his lips but Turner didn’t seem to pay it any attention, simply continuing in a gentle voice. ‘I do wish you would consider answering me old bean. I guarantee that if you act in a more civil manner it really will be of great benefit to you - in the long run. Tell you what, how about we have a nice cup of tea?’
What the f…? This was surreal. Here he was, sitting in a torture chamber and this English cunt thought it was a good time for a cup of tea? He watched in disbelief as the man walked to the door and asked the guards to bring the drinks. He couldn’t hear the reply but then Turner looked back in his direction. ‘Won’t be a mo,’ he said. ‘Looks like there’s no room service.’ And then he left.
Darren stared after him. This guy couldn’t be for real, yet he’d seen for himself how quickly he’d dispatched McQuillan and he assumed he must have considerable authority to even get in here in the first place. His intelligence was obviously good and he wondered just how long the British government had been watching him. Shit, this wasn’t good. It wasn’t good at all. Right now Darren figured he’d rather be facing McQuillan again. At least you knew where you were with a murdering psychopath.
When the man reappeared a few moments later with two steaming mugs of tea, Darren raised his head slowly. ‘Who the fuck are you?’ he asked.
‘I’ve already told you, old boy. I work for her Majesty. Now, I assumed you take milk and sugar,’ said Turner, pulling over another chair to sit next to him.
Darren nodded and accepted the brew. He didn’t want to take anything from this man and he certainly wasn’t about to give up any information, but that tea was simply too tempting to his parched throat.
They drank in silence for a while, until Turner finally pressed, ‘So, am I right? Did you join the I.R.A. to avenge your mother’s death?’
There was clearly no point in lying and he certainly wasn’t ashamed of his motives. ‘Aye, I fucking did,’ he answered through clenched teeth. ‘I joined to kill the Prods and Brits. They murdered my mammy, and I’m going to kill as many of them as I fucking can.’
Inwardly cringing at the profanities this man bandied about with ease, Turner tried his best to ignore them. Casually pulling out a pack of cigarettes from his pocket he offered McCann one. Darren took the cigarette and broke off the filter before accepting the light. Turner narrowed his eyes in concentration. He should have remembered that. He’d seen that trait a few times in similar young men of this persuasion. For some reason they preferred their cigarettes unfiltered. Mental note logged, he continued with the business at hand. ‘So, Mr. McCann, I am authorised by Her Majesty’s Government to offer you an amnesty.’
‘Fuck you,’ snapped Darren, turning his face away.
‘Please allow me to finish before interrupting again, if you would be so kind, Mr. McCann,’ Turner continued, friendly, benign, unflappable smile still in place. ‘This amnesty would, naturally, cover all of your previous crimes, but it will only be given in return for your total and complete co-operation.’ He held up his hand to forestall the dismissive reply he saw forming on Darren’s lips. ‘Not until I’ve finished, remember?
‘In short, sir, we wish to be made aware of everything that you know about the Provisional I.R.A. Its safe houses, smuggling routes, weapons storage locations, etcetera, etcetera. In fact, we need the whole picture in as far as you see and understand things. In return for this information you will, of course, be provided with a new identity, a safe house in rural England and a motor vehicle - a rather nice Jaguar actually. Plus, of course, you will receive a salary. This salary will be set equal to a level EO civil servant and your expenses will be covered.
‘Obviously you will be required to pay income tax on this salary. However, any special work you perform for Her Majesty will be recompensed tax-free. And that special work is something we will need to discuss. There, I have now paused. You may ask your questions.’
Darren dragged slowly on the last of his cigarette, eyeing the man closely. ‘So,’ he said, a rueful smile on his lips, ‘you want information and you’re offering me a job? Is that right?’
‘Spot on, old chap.’
Darren casually threw the cigarette end to the floor and slowly crushed it beneath his feet. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘in response to such a kind offer, I can only repeat: Go fuck yourself.’
‘Mr. McCann, this profanity really is unnecessary.’
‘GO - FUCK - YOURSELF,’ Darren repeated, enunciating each word for effect.
‘Have it your way, Mr. McCann, but before you dismiss the idea of working for Her Majesty’s Government, you do need to be made aware of certain facts - one of which may well change your thought process, along with your loyalties.’
‘And, as I’ve already told you, fuck off, I’ve nothing more to say.’
The smile had slowly faded from Turner’s lips to be replaced by a serious, almost sad, expression. ‘Mr. McCann, Darren, there is something you need to know, and it won’t be easy for you to hear.’
‘You can’t tell me anything I don’t already know, you idiotic English cunt,’ Darren spat at him. He paused and sighed. ‘Look, I’m not stupid. I know what you want and I know the position I’m in. It’s over for me, but I’ll die before I tell you anything. I was ready to die before you got here and I’m still ready. If you really want to help me, like you say, then put a bullet in my head now. I’d really rather not face that madman McQuillan again. I don’t know how you train ‘em, but he is, one-hundred-percent, in-fucking-sane.’
‘We do agree on one thing, then,’ Turner confirmed. ‘I really do sincerely apologise for that, old chap. You weren’t supposed to be here, you know. Some clerical error. You were supposed to be in our headquarters.’
‘Would that have been a better class of torture chamber, then?’
‘Well, we do have tea making facilities in the room,’ Turner offered.
Darren allowed himself one genuine smile at that. ‘Aye, everything’s better with a nice cup of tea,’ he agreed. ‘Look Turner, why are we wasting each other’s time? You’ve done your research, you know plenty about me and I’m not going to deny anything you’ve said. No point. But if you know so much, then you know I’m not going to break. Kill me now and then you can go back to drinking your fu… er, flipping tea.’
‘No, Darren, I can’t do that. Not until you have all the facts,’
‘Go on then, since we’re all nice and chatty like you wanted. What is it? What’s this startling piece of information you have for me?’
Turner shuffled in his chair, edging it closer to Darren and laying a hand on his knee. It was an odd gesture, but Darren ignored it. ‘I’m sorry, son,’ Turner began, ‘ but you’ve been lied to and you’ve been used.’
Darren stiffened and moved to throw the man’s hand from his leg, but Turner strengthened his grip, squeezing the knee. ‘You need to hear this,’ he said softly. ‘Your mother was not killed by the British, or the U.V.F or any…’
‘Fuck you,’ Darren began.
‘LISTEN TO ME!’ Turner raised his voice for the first time and surprised Darren to silence. ‘She was not killed by any Pr
otestant group or any British affiliation in any form,’ Turner continued, his voice immediately low and controlled once more. ‘She was murdered by your very own organisation, son, the Provisional I.R.A.’
Darren stared at the man opposite him, his eyes narrowing, the taste of bile rising to his throat as he grappled with such a dirty trick. Did this idiot before him really think this would work? Did he honestly believe that using his sainted mother for a pawn in his evil game would win him over? The stupid, cruel…
His anger boiled over then. ‘Fuck you, you lying British bastard,’ he yelled, lurching to his feet and turning over the desk next to them, crashing his injured hand into the side. ‘AARGH, JESUS FUCKING CHRIST, FUCK ME, THAT FUCKING HURTS,’ he screamed at the top of his lungs as the searing pain coursed through his body.
Turner physically recoiled in his chair and the door flew open as the guards rushed in.
‘Shit, Bastard, Fuck,’ Darren continued, holding his arm to his chest and dancing round in agony.
Turner quickly recovered, dismissing the guards with a frantic wave of his hand and rushing to Darren’s side. ‘Deep breaths, deep breaths, old man,’ he advised as he held him by the shoulders. ‘That has got to sting.’
‘Sting? Sting? Fuck me,’ said Darren, squeezing his eyes together as he waited for the pain to subside.
‘Yes, well, under the circumstances, I can understand the swearing…’
‘And fuck you,’ Darren returned. ‘You and your British lies. How dare you use my mother like that? How fucking dare you?’ God, his hand hurt, but maybe it was just what he needed to focus his mind. He’d let this man get under his skin a bit. Time to put an end to that.
Turner took a few steps back. ‘I see you are not convinced.’ Darren’s cold stare suggested he didn’t even think that worthy of a reply, and Turner nodded slowly. ‘Yes, personally, I don’t blame you. Not without proof anyway. I would insist on hard, irrefutable proof too, were I in your position. Would you like that proof, Mr. McCann?’
‘You have no fucking proof because it’s all lies,’ Darren spat at him. ‘I know how my mammy was killed. I know the signatures. I know who did it.’
‘Yes, well I can see how you would think that, but…’
‘Get the fuck out of my sight,’ Darren hissed.
‘I’m afraid you’re in no position to issue the orders here, Mr. McCann. Have you forgotten where you are? You will listen to this proof. You have no choice.’ Turner’s voice was once more low and commanding.
‘I’m not listening to another word from your lying mouth,’ Darren threw at him.
‘No, no, not me, old bean, I’m done for a while. There’s someone else you should listen to.’
Darren blinked and took a step backwards. ‘Who? You got someone else here to try to fuck with my brain?’
‘Please bear with me,’ Turner continued. ‘Now, I told you this would be difficult to hear, but hear it you must.’
Until then, Darren hadn’t noticed the briefcase standing against the wall. Turner reached into it now and produced a cassette player. He righted the desk and set the device upon it. ‘You should sit,’ he advised, and Darren followed the instruction as he experienced his first moment of doubt. Turner sat next to him, smiled sadly, and pressed “Play”.
A hard, Belfast accent emitted from the machine, and Turner watched Darren’s reaction. ‘I see you recognise this man’s voice,’ he said quietly. Darren slowly nodded his head. He knew the voice all right. It was Johnny O’Leary, a trusted, well known and hard-core member of the Provisional I.R.A. More than that, he’d been a close childhood friend. A year above him at school, he’d always seemed “likely to succeed” in his chosen profession. Darren sat in silence as he listened to his friend reel off a list of his crimes. It was a very long list.
Obviously he had been turned and was in the process of gaining an amnesty of his own. Hard as that was to believe, Darren maintained a neutral expression as the voice continued. Then, his jaw dropped and his eyes flew wide open at the mention of one particular killing.
‘Douglas James Mallone - shot in the head. Order issued by Falls Road Brigade. Kill order approved by the committee, Belfast,’ said the voice.
Darren winced, and the reactive ‘Fuck me,’ escaped his lips before he had time to stop it.
Turner paused the recording. ‘You knew that man?’ he asked.
‘I’ve known a lot of people who are now dead,’ Darren recovered quickly, and it was true. But this was Duggy he was hearing about: Thomas’ younger brother, a republican through and through. Of course he already knew Duggy was gone, Thomas had told him, but why would his own side have killed him? He managed to keep the thought to himself.
‘Shall I continue?’ Turner asked.
Darren nodded. He didn’t want to hear any of this, but now he knew he needed to listen to the rest of that tape, not that Turner was giving him any choice in the matter.
The recording started again and the voice continued. The next couple of names meant nothing to him, but then Darren froze as the voice reported, ‘Mary Jeanette McCann, throat cut. Order issued by Crossmaglen. Kill order approved by the committee, Belfast.’
Turner stopped the playback and looked at the man in front of him, the face frozen. ‘I genuinely am sorry old chap,’ he whispered as he stood. ‘I’ll organise some more tea for us, eh? No doubt you’ll be needing a few moments alone to consider things.’ Slowly he left the room and the door was locked behind him.
Darren felt the colour drain from his face and a tremor ran through his body as he sat in stunned silence. At first his mind went blank and he found it impossible to construct a thought. Then, slowly, the words from the tape seeped back into his consciousness. The guards in the corridor remained with their backs to the door as they heard the long, low animalistic wail. It was the sound of a tortured and deeply damaged soul.
When Turner eventually returned he was carrying tea and had managed to rustle up some biscuits from somewhere. He kicked the door shut behind him and laid the fare in front of Darren. ‘Not sure when you last ate, son.’ Neither was Darren, and he was suddenly starving. He wolfed down several biscuits in silence.
‘Fucking murdering bastards,’ he screamed at one point to no one in particular, and then he was quiet again. Turner sat patiently and waited. He’d played most of his cards and was confident of his position, but the next move belonged to his opponent. And this was one scary man, Turner had to admit.
The silence continued and it was going on too long. Turner’s instinct, combined with long experience, warned him that they were at a dangerous pass. The tension and anger in the man opposite him were obvious and understandable, but there was something more and Turner decided he had to force the issue. ‘Would you care for another cigarette Mr. McCann?’ he offered, thrusting a pack of Senior Service, plain, no filter, towards him as he silently thanked that Kenny Allen lad for his choice of brand.
Darren considered the pack for several seconds. Then, with trembling fingers, he took a cigarette, lit it and sat with his eyes tightly closed, a single tear rolling down his cheek. His lips began to move, though no sound escaped them, but Turner knew the moment was approaching and he afforded himself a moment of congratulation as he waited for his latest defection. Stupid, he realised just one second later.
‘Lies.’ The word was so quietly spoken that Turner wasn’t sure he had caught it.
‘What was that, Mr. McCann?’
‘Lies!’ Darren repeated, more audibly this time as he raised his head and stared at the man opposite.
Turner felt himself recoil at what he saw in those eyes. The anger was to be expected, but this anger was directed at him, he could feel it. He had only a second to react before Darren lunged in his direction and he narrowly avoided a punch to the face. ‘Guards,’ he yelled, and the door flew open, the two large
men rushing to grab Darren before he could strike again.
‘Lying English cunts,’ Darren yelled as he struggled in the arms of the men holding him. ‘You made that tape yourself. You must think I’m a fucking idiot. Jonny O’Leary? Holy fucking Christ, he’d never turn. Never!’
Turner was at the door. ‘Leave him,’ he ordered the guards. Within seconds Darren was alone in the cell once more.
Over the next few hours the Englishman returned to the cell several times, but he didn’t enter, simply observing Darren through the grill. He had badly mistimed his last visit and he wasn’t about to make that mistake again. There was an ace he still had to play but he had so hoped to avoid it. It seemed too cruel beyond measure, and Turner wasn’t a cruel man. Beyond that, it was dangerous. He watched as Darren paced the tiny cell, ranting like a mad man at the walls. ‘Fucking Shankill Butchers, that’s who,’ he deciphered from one visit and ‘Every fucking Brit,’ from another. The recording hadn’t done the job he had hoped and Turner considered his last remaining move. If that didn’t work, then Mr. Darren McCann would not receive the bullet to his head that he had requested. Instead he would stay exactly where he was, no clerical error involved this time. He would become an inmate of Her Majesty’s Prison: Maze, once again at the mercy of that madman McQuillan.
One of the guards summoned him for another visit to the cell and Turner observed Darren seated once more, slowly rocking back and forth in the chair. All was finally quiet. It was disturbing to Anthony Turner to see a man so horribly broken, but that was his job and this time he was sure he was judging his moment correctly.
Darren was exhausted and raised his head wearily as the door opened. Turner entered first, but it was the second man who caused him to jump from his seat in panic. ‘No, man, no,’ he managed in ragged breaths as he staggered back towards the wall.
‘Sit down, Butch, I’ve something to tell you,’ Jonny O’Leary said quietly.
