Bandit Country. Peter Corrigan

He paused. ‘Well done, lads. This was a good one.’

      ‘Bit of a payback for those poor bastards in Armagh,’ Haymaker said. He nudged one of the broken bodies with his foot.

      ‘You’re playing with the big boys now, Paddy.’

       3

      Armagh

      It was good to be out of the city, Early thought. Belfast was a depressing hole at times, as claustrophobic and as deadly as some Stone Age village in a jungle. There were all the little invisible boundaries. One street was safe, the one next to it was not. This was Loyalist, that was Republican. This was a safe pub, that was a death-trap. So much depended on names and nuances, even the way the people spoke, the things they said, the football teams they supported, the sports they played.

      Not that Armagh was any different. He must remember that. But it was good to see green fields, cows grazing, tractors meandering along the quiet roads. Hard to believe these places were battlefields in a vicious little war.

      He took the bus from Armagh city, through Keady and Newtownhamilton, down to Crossmaglen – ‘Cross’ to soldiers and locals alike. Early preferred travelling by bus. It was less risky than using a car, and fitted in with his identity as an unemployed bricklayer.

      The bus was stopped at vehicle checkpoints three times in its journey south, and soldiers who seemed both tense and bored got on to walk up and down the aisle, looking at faces and luggage, and occasionally asking for ID. At two of the VCPs Early was asked his name, destination and the purpose of his journey. It amused and relieved him that the soldiers seemed to find him a suspicious-looking character. The other passengers stared stonily ahead when the bus was checked, but when the soldiers had left one or two of them smiled at him, commiserating. Early shrugged back at them, smiling in return. His false ID, his accent and his motives for travelling to Crossmaglen were impeccable. He was Dominic McAteer, a bricklayer looking for work with Lavery’s Construction in the town.

      Lavery’s offices were in a small estate called Rathkeelan, to the north-west of Crossmaglen. Early got off the bus and stood looking around, hands in pockets, his duffle bag on his back. He bore no ID, but strapped to the inside of his right ankle was a compact Walther 9mm semiautomatic; not as effective as the Browning High Powers the SAS usually carried, but far more easily concealed. It could fit in his underpants if it had to.

      Early passed beautifully painted murals on the whitewashed walls of the houses, the silhouettes of Balaclava-clad men bearing Armalites, and on one wall the recently repainted tally ‘Provos 9 Brits 0’ and below it the slogan ‘One Shot, One Kill’.

      His jaw tightened with anger for a second. His brother was one of those included in that score.

      Then he recollected himself, and headed for the door of the nearest bar, whistling ‘The Wild Colonial Boy’.

      It was dark inside, as all Irish pubs were. He dumped his duffle bag with a sigh and rubbed the back of his thick neck. A cluster of men sitting and standing with pints in their hands paused in their conversation to look at him. He smiled and nodded. The barman approached, a large, florid man wiping a glass.

      ‘What can I get you?’

      ‘Ach, give us a Guinness and a wee Bush.’

      The barman nodded. The conversations resumed. Good Evening Ulster had just started on the dusty TV that perched on a shelf near the ceiling. Early pretended to watch it, while discreetly clocking the faces of the other customers. No players present. He was glad.

      The Guinness was good, as it always was nearer the border. Early drank it gratefully, and raised his glass to the barman.

      ‘That’s as good as the stuff in O’Connell Street.’

      The barman smiled. ‘It’s all in the way it’s kept.’

      ‘Aye, but there’s some pubs that don’t know Guinness from dishwater. It’s the head – should be thick as cream.’

      ‘It’s the pouring too,’ the barman said.

      ‘Aye. Ever get a pint across the water? They throw it out in five seconds flat and the head’s full of bloody bubbles.’

      The barman looked at him and then asked casually: ‘You’ve been across the water, then?’

      ‘Aye. But there’s no work there now. I hear Lavery’s has a job out here in Cross and needs some labourers. I’m a brickie meself, and sure there’s bugger-all up in Belfast.’

      ‘Ach, sure the city is gone to the dogs these days.’

      ‘You’re right.’ Early raised his glass of Bushmills. ‘Slainte,’ he said. He thought the barman relaxed a little.

      ‘So you’re down here for the work? This isn’t your part of the world, then.’ Early thought the other customers pricked up their ears at the barman’s question. He was being cased. He doubted if any of these men were Provisionals, but they no doubt knew people who were, and in a small village like Crossmaglen, every outsider was both a novelty and a subject for scrutiny.

      ‘Aye, I’m from Ballymena meself, up in Antrim.’

      ‘Paisley’s country.’

      Early laughed. ‘That big cunt. Oh aye, he’s my MP. How’s that for a joke?’ Again, the slight relaxation of tension.

      ‘If you’re looking for work, you’ve come to the right place,’ the barman said. ‘The army never stops building in this neck of the woods. Their bases are as big as the town is. They’re crying out for builders.’

      Early scowled. ‘I wouldn’t fucking work for them if they paid me in sovereigns. No offence.’

      The barman grinned.

      ‘Would there be a B & B in the town? I need a place to stay – if these Lavery people take me on.’

      The barman seemed to have relaxed completely, and was all bonhomie now. ‘This is your lucky day. I’ve a couple of rooms upstairs I rent out in the summer.’

      ‘Ah, right. What’s the damage?’

      ‘Fiver a night.’

      Early thought, frowning. He had to appear short of cash. ‘That’s handy, living above a pub. Wee bit pricey though. How about knocking it down a bit, since I’d be here for a while, like. It’s not like I’m some tourist, here today and gone tomorrow.’

      ‘You get this job, and then we’ll talk about it.’

      ‘That’ll do. I’m Dominic by the way.’

      ‘McGlinchy?’

      Early laughed. Dominic McGlinchy was the most wanted man in Ireland.

      ‘McAteer.’

      ‘Brendan Lavery,’ the barman said, extending his hand. ‘It’s my brother you’ll be working for.’

      Early, blessing his luck, had been about to walk out to Rathkeelan to see about the job, but Brendan wouldn’t hear of it. His brother, Eoin, would be in that night, he said. There was no problem about the job. Dominic could look the room over and have a bite to eat. Maggie, their younger sister, would be home from work in a minute, and she’d throw something together for them.

      The room was small and simple but well kept, with a narrow bed, wardrobe, chair, dresser and little table. Through the single window Early could see the narrow back alleyways and tiny gardens at the rear of the street, and rising above the roofs of the farther buildings, the watch-towers of the security base with their anti-missile netting and cameras and infrared lights. He shook his head. It was hard to believe sometimes.

      The door to the room had no lock, which was not surprising in this part of the world. Ulster had little crime worth speaking of that was not connected