Provo. Gordon Stevens

of the engine constant, the back doors held open by bungees and the bulbs of the brake lights removed. The van passed them and they began to run, the van not slowing. Bags in back, scramble in after them, Nolan pulling the signaller in or the signaller pulling Nolan, neither of them was sure. They were in, jerking the doors shut and settling down. There were two sleeping bags on the floor; they crawled into them and tried to warm themselves. Hereford in forty minutes, she thought, a hot shower and a mug of tea. Four hours’ kip then the finish of the course and the train to The Fort. She snuggled deeper into the sleeping bag. Bloody well made it, the realization drifted through her head as sleep came on her, her mind and body relaxing. The van was swaying slightly. She ignored the movement, put her arm under her head and fell asleep.

      The van crashed to a halt. Nolan was thrown forward with the impact, body and mind trying to tear themselves from sleep. She was still tucked deep in the sleeping bag, enjoying the warmth. She heard the shots and the clang as the back doors opened, heard the voices. Kalashnikov, she suddenly realized. Out, the men were yelling, dragging her and the signaller from the sleeping bags. Her mind was still spinning, still trying to wake. Irish accents: she jerked awake and saw them. Four, five. Black balaclavas with eyeholes cut in them. She was pulled outside and saw the cars, the lorry pulled across the road in front of the pick-up truck, the rain still streaming down and the night still dark. She glanced to the left and saw the driver, half-kneeling, half-crouching on the ground, trying to fight back. Heard the shots and saw the moment his body jerked then crumpled to a heap. She and the signaller were being separated, one to each car, the men holding them, others frisking them, roughly rather than efficiently. The engines of the cars were running; she was pushed in the boot of one of them and it pulled away.

      SAS, part of the bloody exercise? Or IRA? The fear pounded through her. A Provo kidnap squad. The car was being driven fast, sliding round corners in the wet and the mud of the Brecons, Nolan being thrown from side to side. How would the Provos know? They were going downhill, the road surface suddenly changing. She tried to brace herself and look at her watch. The road surface changed again and she knew they were on a larger road, knew they were trying to clear the area before Hereford realized what had happened. Calm it, she told herself, work it out. There was no way the Provos could know, no way anyone could know other than the course instructors. Part of the course, she told herself, let you think you’d finished, let you relax, and then they hit you, put you through the wringer. The car lurched right, across some broken ground, and slammed to a halt. The boot was opened and a hood was pulled over her head. Out, she was told, heard the accents again. South Armagh. All part of the exercise, she struggled to tell herself. She was bundled across the ground, tripping once, and into the boot of another car. The boot slammed shut and the car pulled away. What the hell was happening? She made herself calm down, told herself to get her hands in front of her body, pull the hood off her head. But keep the hood handy so she could put it on when the car stops again, try to see their faces but don’t let them know. Don’t let them see that you’re thinking. The car slowed and stopped. Not a sudden halt. Traffic lights. She pulled the hood back and checked the time: 0430, two hours after the pick-up; the rendezvous point was only forty minutes from Hereford, so she had been in one boot or the other for at least an hour and thirty minutes. The road was changing again, motorway or dual carriageway. Was rougher again. She checked her watch, her head thumping and her body aching. 0700: she’d been in the car another two and a half hours. The car slowed, turned right, and bumped across what she thought was a field. Then it stopped for thirty seconds, the engine ticking over, and pulled forward. She barely had time to drag the hood down before the boot opened and she was manhandled out. The hands were holding her and the hood was pulled off.

      She was in a barn, bales around the walls. The men round her wore balaclavas, eyes looking at her through the holes. Still part of the exercise, she tried to tell herself, still part of the Hereford refresher. Kalashnikovs. Anybody could have AKs, but two of the men were wearing Spanish Star and Czech CZ. SAS would carry Browning Hi-Powers.

      The interrogation began.

      You were in the front car at Beechwood Street. Who were you with? RUC or Army? How did they know about Beechwood Street? How did they know about McKendrick and Rorke? She was against the wall. The gunman asking the questions was short, not much more than five feet, thick Irish accent that even she could barely understand. How did they know about Tommy Reardon and the attack on the Crum?

      The SAS know this, she told herself. This could all be part of the course. These men don’t have to be Provos, they could be SAS.

      The gunman moved quickly, as if he understood what she was thinking, hitting her across the face, all the power of his body behind it. She reeled over. One of the others pushed her back up and the interrogator hit her again, her head jerking back with the force. He hit her again, in the stomach, doubled her up, the air pushed violently out of her lungs. She was pulled across the floor, someone grabbing her hair. She was pushed down, almost kneeling, her head thrust forward and her face into the water. Her lungs were already screaming for air and her head was spinning. She tried not to breathe, knew she was going to. Her head was wrenched up and she opened her mouth, was pulling in the air when her head was pushed forward again, mouth and nose below the water and the rim of the bucket or the trough – whatever it was – cutting across her windpipe. She was struggling, trying to fight back. Her head was pulled up again, pushed down again.

      Who told you about Beechwood Street? How’d you know about Reardon? Who told you what site he was working on? Who’s the source in the Provos? How high up is he? What’s his name? If you don’t know then who would?

      She was against the wall, had no idea how long she had been questioned. Abruptly the interrogator nodded and she was thrown into a corner, bales on three sides and straw on the floor. The interrogator and three others left, leaving two guards. She half-turned, tried to look at her watch. Part of the exercise, she still tried to tell herself, these men aren’t Provos, these men are really SAS. It was 1700 hours, five in the afternoon. She should have left Hereford at twelve, was due at The Fort at eight the following morning. Her face was bruised and bleeding and there was a pain down her right side as if her ribs were broken.

      The interrogator came back in, balaclava still on, and the questions began again.

      Who was she with? Army or RUC? Military Intelligence or Special Branch? If she was sitting in a stake-out car then she would be E4A. Which meant she was RUC. Or on secondment to E4A from Military Intelligence. So who was the leak in the Provos? Where was the leak in the Provos? Where did the order come from to stake out Reardon’s house in Beechwood Street? What time did it come? Who told her what about it?

      He hit her again; face, body. Especially her body. Especially where they’d already broken her ribs.

      It was night, morning again. She’d had two hours’ sleep, nothing to eat or drink. At least she was dry, she told herself. The men pulled her up and led her outside. Make a break for it, she told herself, try to run. It was dark, therefore still night, felt as if the dawn was about to break. No way she would make it, the men all round her. The gunmen pushed her against a concrete wall and turned the hose on her, the water cold and the jet strong. She’d been against the wall five minutes, probably ten, was wet through and shivering. The gunmen took her back inside and the interrogation continued.

      Who was she working with at Lisburn? Who else was on the squad? Who was the driver in the surveillance car?

      It was midday. Past the time she was due to start at The Fort. It was as if the interrogator knew. Not knew the details as much as sensed that she had suddenly weakened. These men can’t be SAS, she tried to fight back the thought, these men really are Provos. They threw her into the corner, left two men to guard her, and went outside.

      She curled up and tried to sleep, tried to escape from the fear in her mind and the suffering in her body. Her hands were still tied behind her back. She bent her knees and pulled her hands forward. Two of them, she knew, no way she would get away with it. She curled up again and felt the piece of wood under her body. Not quite under her body, in the straw to the side. She moved slightly, ignored it. Tried to sleep. Felt for it beneath the straw. Not a piece of wood, the realization crept upon her, more like a handle. She turned slightly, made sure the guards weren’t looking at her, and felt along it.