Once A Pilgrim. James Deegan

Army–RUC mobile patrol was approaching, moving between one exercise in fucking up people’s lives and another. The front driver slowed, and the top-cover in the tail vehicle gave them a long stare, his SA80 rifle held at the ready. A tall, slim officer, he was new in the Province, but he was a diligent man, and he’d spent hours poring over mugshots of the main players. He might well have recognised Sean Casey and Ciaran O’Brien, had the light been better, and that would have been enough to get them a tug. Worse still for the IRA team, the soldiers were Paras, which quite possibly meant hours of being pissed about, and the job off for that night.

      But in the gloaming and the drizzle the top-cover couldn’t make them out, and the Land Rovers rumbled and trundled on their way.

      A few minutes later, the three of them walked in to McKill’s. It was early and empty, and the barman was polishing glasses. One man sat nursing a pint at a table by the wall – a low-level player who nodded respectfully to Sean and Ciaran. Gerard Casey, his stomach light and queasy, threw a strained half-smile at the barman, and got a quizzical look in return before the fellow went back to his polishing; something was clearly up, but he knew better than to see or ask anything.

      They headed straight through to the office at the rear of the building.

      The door was locked.

      Sean rapped on the flaking green paint with his knuckles.

      It was opened – slightly, at first, then wide – by a dark-haired man in his mid-thirties who was wearing dungarees and a thick jumper.

      Gerard realised to his surprise that he knew the guy – his name was Martin Thompson, and he coached a kids’ Sunday football team down on the Rec there.

      Gerard had had no idea that he was a member of the RA.

      The cell structure, in action.

      They stepped past Thompson, and the door was locked behind them.

      The room was empty apart from an old table, a few chairs, a sports holdall, and a telephone.

      Sitting on the table was another man, late twenties, a ginger bog brush on his head, and a face full of freckles – Brian ‘Freckles’ Keogh, Gerard knew his rep alright.

      Next to Freckles was what Gerard recognised in the glare of the single bare lightbulb as a folding stock AK47, with two of its distinctive curved magazines lying beside it. There were also two pistols – he couldn’t have named them, but one was a modern-looking thing and the other an old revolver. Next to the revolver was a mug which bore the Celtic FC crest and contained a magazine for the automatic and six rounds for the revolver.

      He realised with a jolt that both of the men were wearing pink washing-up gloves. In his state of controlled panic, the incongruity made him want to giggle, but he fought it back and kept his silence.

      ‘Alright, fellas,’ said Thompson.

      ‘Alright, Tommo,’ said Sean.

      He nodded at Freckles.

      ‘Evening, Freck.’

      ‘Ready?’ said Freckles.

      ‘As always.’

      Martin Thompson picked up the holdall and opened it. ‘Here’s your change of clothes for later,’ he said, indicating a Tesco carrier bag. ‘And you’ll need these.’

      He picked out three other carrier bags and handed them over. Each contained a pair of pink Marigolds, still in their plastic packets, and three new balaclavas.

      ‘You know the drill,’ said Martin. ‘Get yourselves gloved up before you touch the weapons.’

      Each of the three pulled on a pair of the gloves.

      ‘Over the bottom of your sleeves,’ said Sick Sean to his brother, holding out a wrist. ‘Like I showed you.’

      Once the gloves were on and the sleeves tucked in, Freckles produced a roll of duct tape and went from one to the other, taping the gloves in place.

      ‘That’s great, Sean,’ said Gerard, as casually as he could. He felt oddly talkative, and blurted out, ‘Feels a bit weird.’

      His voice sounded as though it was coming out of someone else’s mouth, and for some reason a vision came to his mind: a trip to Barry’s in Portrush… What had he been? Seven? Eight? He’d got on the roller coaster, full of bravado, and then they’d locked the lap belt on, and there was no way off, and he’d pure near shit himself, and there was nothing to do but sit there and go with it and hope it wasn’t going to be too bad and just wait until it was all over because you can’t get off can’t get off can’t get off

      ‘You’ll get used to it,’ said Ciaran O’Brien, calmly. ‘It’ll keep the forensics off your hands. Unless you like the look of the H Blocks?’

      The two new men chuckled. ‘Ah, leave him be,’ said Martin.

      Nothing to do but go with it, and hope it’s not too bad.

      Satisfied, Freckles stood to one side and the three men walked to the table. O’Brien picked up the AK, cleared it, then loaded a magazine and made it ready. He put the spare magazine into the inside pocket of his leather jacket. Gerard went to pick up the semi-automatic – it was a 9mm Browning Hi-Power – but Sean slapped his hand away. ‘Fuck off, that’s mine,’ he said, grabbing it, loading it and putting it into his waistband.

      Gerard Casey picked up the revolver, and looked at it in disbelief.

      It was a late-model Webley, liberated from an unfortunate British Army officer at some point in the previous half century.

      Its wooden handle polished smooth by many hands.

      Bad hands.

      ‘This looks like a fucking antique, so it does,’ he said. ‘You sure it’ll be okay?’

      ‘Better than an automatic,’ said his brother. ‘No chance of it jamming. Sure, it’ll blow that prod fucker’s brains out, I know that much. Make a hell of a fucking bang.’

      O’Brien smiled wolfishly. ‘And a hell of a fucking hole in his head,’ he said. He pushed the Celtic mug across the old table. ‘You’d better load it.’

      ‘Is that all the bullets I get?’

      ‘If you need any more than that you’re a dead man,’ said O’Brien, flatly. ‘We’ll not be hanging around.’

      Gerard Casey broke the pistol open and emptied the half-dozen shiny .38 brass cartridges into his gloved palm.

      Trying and failing to hide the shaking of his hands, he slotted them slowly into the cylinder.

      ‘Where’s the car?’ said Sick Sean.

      Martin picked up the phone and dialled a number; it rang once and was immediately answered.

      ‘Car,’ he said, and put the phone down. He turned to the three. ‘Be out front in five minutes, boys.’

      Gerard looked at the pistol in his hands, and then slipped it into his waist band. He stared at the floor, not wanting to look around.

      There was a knock on the door and then a voice through the wood: ‘Car’s out front, Marty.’

      Gerard brought his head up.

      Sean was staring straight into his eyes, and now he smiled.

      ‘Showtime,’ he said, his grin widening into a leer.

      Gerard shivered. He had never until that moment realised just how evil his brother looked.

      But there was no going back now.

12.

      AT 18:00HRS, THE PARAS had conducted the shift change for the RUC crew, and now they were sitting in Springfield Road police station, drinking yet another round of Tetley teas.