Once A Pilgrim: a breathtaking, pulse-pounding SAS thriller. James Deegan

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 many ways, but brought together by the uniform and pride in their work.

      Carr watched him sip the hot, sweet tea. He looked knackered, but then the special stresses and strains of walking the streets of Belfast in a British Army uniform did take it out of you, and it was worse when you were the FNG and trying to catch up. Young Guy de Vere would have learned more in this half-day than in his entire Army career to date. The episode with Conor Gilfillan… they didn’t teach you stuff like that at Sandhurst, thought Carr.

      It was as though de Vere had read his thoughts.

      ‘At least there’ll be no junior Gilfillans,’ he said. ‘After what you did to his bollocks.’

      Carr grinned. ‘There’s about a dozen of the little fuckers already, sadly,’ he said. ‘But the greasy wanker will remember you, alright, boss. Nasty wee shite.’

      ‘All those tricolour-painted kerbstones and murals,’ he said, leaning back and looking at Carr. ‘And the graffiti. Fuck the Brits. Troops Out. It’s not the most salubrious city, is it?’

      ‘Come again?’ said Carr.

      ‘Belfast. It’s a bit rough.’

      Carr picked at his teeth with a match. ‘Where are you from?’ he said.

      ‘Marlborough,’ said de Vere. ‘Well, a village not far from. My family has a farm there.’

      ‘Nice part of the world,’ said Carr, laconically. ‘I can see why you’d think Belfast was not very salubrious.’ He picked a bit of sausage out of his teeth, looked at it and put it back in his mouth. ‘But Belfast is better than where I’m from. See these semi-detacheds and nice rows of terraces?’ he said. ‘We dinnae have too many of them. Where I’m from, it’s all fucking tenements.’ He chuckled. ‘And we dinnae have the polis and the Army keeping order, neither. It’s dog eat fuckin’ dog.’

      He watched in amusement as de Vere blushed slightly.

      ‘So where are you from?’ said the young officer.

      ‘Niddrie, boss. East Edinburgh.’

      ‘I don’t think I know it.’

      ‘You wouldnae. Shitehole. Good for heroin, stabbings, single mums, and dogshite. That’s about it.’

      ‘Family all up there?’

      ‘Yeah.’

      ‘Girlfriend?’

      ‘Nah. I mean, I’ve got a bird, like, but I met her over here.’

      ‘Planning to get married?’

      ‘To Stella?’ Carr laughed, and then was serious. ‘Tell you the truth, I’ve not thought about it.’

      ‘Father in the Army?’