Once A Pilgrim. James Deegan

only sound was the relentless tick of the plastic clock on the wall behind Sick Sean’s head.

      Ma Casey stuck her head in and said she was off to the Co-Op.

      Sean frowned and nodded curtly.

      She meant the pub. An hour or so, and she’d be drunk; two hours, and she’d be oblivious.

      Gerard came back into the warmth of the kitchen, rubbing his freezing hands together.

      ‘Let’s have another go through the plan,’ said Sean.

      ‘I know the plan,’ said his younger brother, sharply.

      ‘I didn’t fucking ask if you knew it, boy,’ spat Sean. His body had tightened and his fists were suddenly bunched. ‘I said let’s go through the fucking plan.’

      Gerard stopped in his tracks. When his brother was in this mood, you didn’t push his buttons unless you liked hospital food.

      ‘Listen, Gerard,’ said Sean. His voice was a little calmer, but his teeth were gritted. ‘Sitting here and talking about it, that’s the easy bit. The next easiest bit is killing the fucker. D’you know the hard bit?’

      Gerard nodded.

      ‘The hard bit’s not getting fucking caught and spending the next thirty years in Long Kesh. So let’s go over the fucking plan one more fucking time.’

      The younger man nodded again, a mental image of Billy Jones Jnr entering his head. The three of them had spent hours and hours over the last two months in surveilling their target, and by now he knew Billy’s face and his movements better than the back of his own hand. A week earlier, he’d even stood at the bar in Robinson’s and made sure to be served by Billy, so that he could see his face right up close, and really know the detail.

      He’d looked into the lad’s eyes, and had seen his own reflection.

      Seemed a nice enough guy, no different to himself.

      Don’t think like that.

      ‘He leaves Robinson’s at the end of his shift between six and six-thirty,’ he said. ‘He takes about ten minutes to get to the car park.’

      ‘What’s he wearing?’

      ‘Black trousers, white shirt, and he always has that red adi jacket on.’

      ‘Car’s he driving?’

      ‘Dark green Austin Allegro. W reg.’

      ‘Where will we be parked?’

      ‘Behind his vehicle – not directly behind, but somewhere we can cover all approaches, and enough distance so’s I’ve time to react when we see him.’

      ‘Good,’ said Sick Sean, unclenching his fists and relaxing slightly. ‘Okay, we see him walking up. What then?’

      ‘When he’s near the driver’s door, I get out the car, walk straight towards him. Ciaran gets out and covers my back with his AK. You get ready to start the engine.’

      ‘You missed something.’

      Gerard Casey thought for a moment. Then he said, ‘Sorry. When we see him we all pull our balaclavas down.’

      ‘Bingo. Carry on.’

      ‘I walk straight to him, slow and steady, take my time, no running. I get to just beyond arms’ length, and stop before I fire. I put two rounds in the middle of his back. When he goes to the ground I put the barrel to his head and put another round into him. Then I turn around and walk back to the car, with the gun down by my side.’

      Sean nodded. ‘You never run,’ he said. ‘Never. Nice and steady. Remember that. Okay?’

      Gerard nodded. ‘I get in the car, and Ciaran gets in after me. Then we drive slowly out the car park and head back.’

      ‘Balaclava?’

      ‘We lift them when we’re in the car and away from the area.’

      ‘Some hero gets in your way on the way back to the car?’

      Gerard Casey hesitated. Had they discussed that possibility? He couldn’t remember.

      ‘What you going to do, son? Fucking think.’

      ‘Show them the pistol and tell them to fuck off.’

      Sick Sean shook his head. ‘You kill them, Gerard,’ he said, emphatically. ‘Stone cold. Man, woman or child, I don’t give a shit. Got it? I’m not doing that kind of time for no-one, understand?’

      Gerard nodded.

      ‘We’re going to give his old man an early Christmas present, alright,’ said O’Brien, with a big grin.

      ‘He’s definitely not a player?’ said Gerard.

      ‘No,’ barked Sean, ‘but that doesn’t fucking matter. Don’t go fucking thinking about it too much. He’s guilty by association.’

      There was a heavy silence in the kitchen.

      A dog barked outside.

      Gerard Casey got up and patted his pocket.

      ‘I need to go and get some more fags,’ he said. ‘I’ll be back in half an hour.’

      ‘Fifteen minutes,’ said Sean. ‘And Ciaran’s going with you.’

      ‘Why?’

      ‘Because I fucking say so, that’s why. This is a military operation, and we have procedures. I’m not having you phoning your handler and warning off the Special Branch.’

      Gerard gawped at him. Eventually he blurted out, ‘I’m no fucking tout.’

      ‘I know you’re not, son,’ said Sean, flatly. ‘It was a joke. If you was, sure you’d be dead by now, brother or not. Now go and get your fags, and then we’ll go over the plan again.’

9.

      LESS THAN HALF a mile away, LCpl John Carr’s Land Rover led the three-vehicle Parachute Regiment/RUC patrol in through the big steel gates to Woodbourne police station, and parked up.

      It was just before 13:00hrs, and within a matter of minutes the ravenous Toms were wolfing down police canteen sausage and chips, full of cackling and abuse.

      Lt Guy de Vere carried his metal tray to the table and sat down opposite Scouse Parry and John Carr.

      ‘Not the sort of scoff you’re used to in the Officers’ Mess, boss,’ said Parry, shovelling a forkful of chips into his face, and winking at Carr. ‘But I bet you’re hungry.’

      Carr chuckled. ‘Aye,’ he said. ‘All that nervous energy, eh, Scouse?’

      De Vere smiled: after a morning in their company, he was just starting to get used to the soldiers’ gentle piss-taking.

      ‘I was more scared of Private Keogh’s driving than the PIRA,’ he said, cutting into a fat sausage.

      ‘Fucking hell, boss,’ said Keogh, next to him. ‘I’m the best driver in the battalion!’

      The other driver – Morris – shouted something abusive from the other end of the table. They all dissolved into raucous laughter, and de Vere started eating.

      When they’d all finished, Parry disappeared off and John Carr wandered over to the hatch and fetched them both a huge mug of steaming tea.

      ‘We’ve got five minutes, boss,’ he said. ‘Get your laughing gear round that.’

      ‘Thanks, Corp’l Carr.’

      They sat there, the tall, blond, well-bred Englishman and the dark, hard-faced Scot from the sprawling Edinburgh council estate: wildly different in