Bandit Country. Peter Corrigan

and escape routes. It had become second nature to him to view each place he stayed in as both a fortress and a trap. Satisfied, he went back downstairs.

      The pub was filling up. Brendan Lavery was deep in conversation with a group of men at one end of the bar. Early immediately clocked two of them: Dermot McLaughlin and Eugene Finn, both players, and almost certainly members of the Provisional IRA’s South Armagh brigade. Finn was an important figure. He had been a ‘blanket man’ in the Maze in the late seventies, before the Republican hunger strike that had resulted in eleven prisoners starving themselves to death. The Intelligence Corps believed that Finn might be the South Armagh Brigade Commander. McLaughlin was almost certainly the Brigade Quartermaster, in charge of weapons and explosives.

      There was a woman at the bar: quite striking, dark-haired and green-eyed – a real Irish colleen. She seemed to be selling newspapers. When she saw Early she immediately approached him.

      ‘An Phoblacht?’

      ‘Eh? Oh aye, sure.’ He bought an edition of the IRA newspaper and she smiled warmly.

      ‘Brendan says you’ll be staying with us for a while.’

      ‘Aye, looks that way, as long as the work appears.’

      ‘It will. I’ll have the dinner ready in an hour. Why don’t you have a chat with the boys?’

      ‘You’re Maggie, right?’

      ‘That’s right. And you’re Dominic, from Ballymena. We don’t get many Antrim men down here.’

      ‘Maybe it’s the climate.’

      ‘Or the Brits.’ She laughed teasingly. She was disturbingly attractive, Early thought. He did not like that. He did not want any distractions.

      ‘You know, I haven’t bought this for ten years,’ he said lightly, holding up the paper. ‘I’ve been across the water, building and digging all the way from London to Glasgow.’

      ‘Ach, I thought maybe there was something in your accent.’

      Early’s blood ran cold, but he smiled at her and said: ‘You pick these things up. Now I’m home I’ll get rid of it. It’s nice not to have some bastard calling you “Paddy” all the time. If there’s one thing gets up my nose, it’s that. Bloody English never stop to think we’ve names of our own.’

      ‘You’re right there – sure, they haven’t a clue. It’s a roast for tea, and spuds and cauliflower. That suit you?’

      ‘Depends on how it’s cooked.’

      She laughed. ‘Ach, don’t you worry about that, Dominic. I’ll keep the flesh on you.’ Then she left, exiting via the door behind the bar.

      Early wondered if he had been wise with his remarks about England. He didn’t want to lay it on too thick.

      He leaned on the bar.

      ‘How about a pint there, Brendan? And sure, have one yourself. I have to keep me landlord sweet,’ he called.

      The barman laughed but Finn and McLaughlin did not. They were appraising Early frankly. He buried his face in An Phoblacht. Two ‘volunteers’ had been killed on active service in Tyrone. The SAS were suspected. It was, the paper said, a typical SAS assassination. The men had been unarmed; the weapons they had been found with planted on them after death.

      ‘Bastards,’ Early said softly, shaking his head.

      ‘Aye, those fuckers get away with murder,’ said a voice at this elbow.

      It was Finn, standing beside him.

      Early remained sorrowful and angry. ‘It never stops, does it. Young boys dying in ditches. Will they ever leave us alone?’

      Brendan Lavery set the brimming Guinness on the bar. ‘Ach, sure, we’re a good training ground for them. They don’t give a damn. We’re a nation of murderers to them.’

      ‘Ireland unfree shall never be at peace,’ Finn quoted, and drank from his own glass. Then he addressed Early again.

      ‘You and me’s going to be working together, Dominic.’

      Early started. ‘What?’

      ‘Eoin – Brendan’s brother – he’s hit the big time, hasn’t he, Brendan? He’s taking on the world and his wife at the minute to build these bungalows they’ve contracted him for. Hiring all round him he is, like some Yank executive. Mind you’ – Finn laid a finger against his nose – ‘it’s all on the QT. Most of the men working for him will be doing the double.’ He meant that they were also on the dole. Finn and Lavery laughed together, and Early forced himself to smile.

      ‘If it comes to that, the taxman doesn’t know I exist, either.’

      ‘That’s the way it’s meant to be, Dominic. Take all you can off the bastards, and give nothing back. So how did a Ballymena man hear about a job in Cross?’

      ‘Ach, a man in the Crown in Belfast told me,’ Early said, quite truthfully.

      Finn nodded. ‘A black hole, Ballymena. You’d not get a job up there, if you’re the wrong colour.’

      ‘Bloody right,’ Early agreed sincerely. North Antrim was a Unionist stronghold in the same way South Armagh was Republican. He sipped at his Guinness, realizing he was being cased again.

      ‘But it’s different down here. There’s always a welcome here for the right sort of man. Isn’t that right, Brendan?’

      The barman’s reply was lost in the growing hubbub. The evening crowd was gathering and the TV was blaring at what seemed like full volume. Early would have liked to scan the crowd for familiar faces, as he had studied the mugshots of all the South Armagh players before travelling down. But he did not dare with Finn standing next to him.

      Finn was a tall, slim man, grey-haired but fit-looking. He had a narrow, ruddy face with deep-set eyes that seldom smiled, even if the mouth did. He was responsible for a spate of sectarian murders in the late seventies, but all that had been pinned on him in court was possession of arms and IRA membership. He had once been quartermaster of the Armagh bunch, but had been promoted on his release from the Maze. An experienced man, he had many years’ practice in killing, extortion and gunrunning. He knew who the Border Fox was, without a doubt, but it was unlikely that the sniper was Finn himself. He had graduated into a leader, a planner. He was a survivor from the early days of the Troubles, and hence the object of much respect in the Republican community.

      Early would have liked to take him out behind the pub and put a bullet in the back of his fucking head, but instead he offered him a drink.

      ‘Na, thanks, Dominic. I’ll take ye up on it some other time, but tonight I have to keep me wits about me.’

      Was there an op on tonight? Early wondered.

      Finn leaned close. ‘You’re new here. Let me give ye a wee bit of advice. Don’t let the bastards provoke you, or you’ll get hauled in the back of a pig. They’re pissed off at the minute because things have been a wee bit hot for them down here, but believe me, that’s just the beginning. Now just keep your cool.’ Finn looked at his watch, and then winked at Early.

      The door of the pub burst open, startling those sitting next to it. A glass crashed to the floor in an explosion of beer. Men got to their feet cursing.

      British soldiers were shouldering in through the door. They were in full combat uniform, with helmets and flak-jackets and cammed-up faces. An English voice shouted: ‘Don’t you fucking move!’

      Eight soldiers, a full section, were in the pub now. Lights from vehicles outside were illuminating the front of the building. The crowd had gone silent.

      ‘Turn off that fucking TV!’ the English voice yelled, and Brendan pressed a button on the remote control, muting the volume.

      ‘What the fuck?’ Early said, genuinely surprised.