by David Hough
He spoke firmly. “We’re pretty good at guessing which warnings we can trust, and which are hoaxes.”
The little man leaned forward again. “That’s ’cos most o’ them hoax calls come from kids who don’t know the right code words. This’ll be different. This time the bombers themselves’ll be out to fool ye. Ye’ll have to believe every call, and ye won’t have the men to cope with it. Ye’ll get all the blame ’cos ye won’t be able to cope. That’s what I heard them sayin’.”
“Which bombers? And who’s masterminding this attack?”
Jimmy Fish lowered his voice to a hoarse whisper. “Ye know well enough who’s who in charge of the Provos’ Belfast brigade, Mr Evans. Ye know that as well as I do.”
“The top man?”
Fish looked away and kept his voice low. “I heard them say ’tis the man with the Thompson sub-machine gun who’s gonna be in charge on the streets.”
“McGuinness?”
“Ach, ‘twas ye who said that, not me, Mr Evans. But the final say will have to come from higher up. The very top. ’Tis gonna be that big.”
McIlroy suddenly swung round in his seat and grimaced at Will. He nodded to indicate he would take back control of the questioning. “And you heard all this in a bar, Jimmy, but you won’t tell us which bar.”
Fish turned to face the senior policeman and twisted his beret in his lean, tremulous hands. “Honestly, Mr McIlroy, if it got out that t’was me what grassed about this one, I’d be dead before nightfall.”
“How does this information help us?”
“Ye mustn’t be too quick to react to every call ye gets, even if it sounds real. Ye’ll need to think about every call as it comes in. And ye’ll need the army to back up the peelers on the streets. As many troops as ye can get hold of. Ye’ll need to warn them now to be ready when it all starts.”
“And when will it start?”
“Today.”
“Today? That’s all you can tell us?”
“It’s as much as I dare tell ye. But ’tis enough, ain’t it? Worth the money?”
McIlroy sighed. “All right, Jimmy. I believe you.” He pulled an envelope from an inside pocket and held it in the divide between them. “Don’t spend it all on drugs. Get yourself a decent meal.”
“Ach, ye keeps on tellin’ me that, Mr McIlroy.” The little man’s eyes lit up and he reached for the money, but McIlroy held on to it a little longer.
“And you keep ignoring me, Jimmy.”
Fish tugged at the envelope. “I’m clean now. Honest, I am.”
“As clean as sheet of used bog paper.” The policeman kept his grip on the money. “One more question. What’s the word on the streets about the murder of Detective Constable Dunlop?”
Fish looked thoughtful for a few seconds. “Ach, well now. There’s some serious stories goin’ about that one, fer sure there is. I could tell ye somethin’, Mr McIlroy, but…” He chewed at his lower lip. “… but it would be worth a few more pounds, so it would.”
“Talk, Jimmy.”
“Another twenty, Mr McIlroy. I owe this money, ye see.”
“No.”
“Ten, then. Just another ten.”
“All right. Ten and no more.” McIlroy released his hold on the envelope and pulled out his wallet. He drew out a single ten-pound note and held it in front of the informer’s face. “Now talk, Jimmy.”
“Ach, so difficult this is, Mr McIlroy. So difficult. The thing is… I’d be grassin’ on a sort of relative. If ye know what I mean.”
“Come on, Jimmy. When were you ever slow to tell on anyone? For ten pounds, give me a name.”
“Can’t do that. Can’t grass on a sort of relative, even one like this. Me conscience wouldn’t let me. But I can tell ye this… ye’re good at diggin’ up names, ain’t ye, Mr McIlroy? Ye’re good at doin’ the diggin’ and findin’ out fer yerself.” He adopted a coy expression. “I’m not givin’ ye a name, but I reckon ye can ferret around a bit and come up with somethin’. Someone… sort of related.”
“A relative, you say?”
“A sort of relative. That’s as much as I’m sayin’ and ’tis worth the ten, so ’tis. Do the diggin’ and work it out fer yerself, Mr McIlroy. But I ain’t givin’ away any names. Me conscience is clear on that.”
“As clear as the shit on your boots, Jimmy.”
McIlroy nodded and released his grip on the note. Within seconds the informer had exited the car fast. Maybe he thought the policeman would change his mind.
When he was gone, McIlroy and Will sat regarding one another.
“Who do you think he was referring to, boss?” Will said. “Which of his devious relatives would have reason to kill Johnny Dunlop?”
“Fitzpain. It has to be him. And I wouldn’t put it past him, Will. Sad bastard that he is.”
McIlroy put the car into gear and drove off with a squeal of rubber on the rough ground. He stared straight ahead and spoke calmly as if weighing up the evidence with a measure of care. “Jimmy Fish and Fitzpain are cousins. They grew up in that same village; Ardglass. Time was the Codd family and the Fitzpains were thick as thieves. They fell out years ago, but that’s history. If it was Fitzpain who killed Dunlop and I was in Jimmy Fish’s shoes, I’d also be very wary of naming him outright.”
“Nothing he’s said will stand up in court.”
“Right. But the more I think about it, the more I’d like to get Fitzpain into an interview room. I think Jimmy Fish may have given us a useful tip-off despite his reticence over a name. Something we can keep in mind for future use. He’s probably earned the price of a meal.”
“He’ll spend it on drugs.”
“His choice.”
Will thought about it. “We’d better report this straight away, boss. After that, it’ll be up to either Superintendent Boyle or the Oldpark guys to decide whether or not they want to talk to Fitzpain. My feeling is they’ll want something more positive first, something that can be conclusively pinned on him before they haul him in.”
“You’re probably right. In the meantime, the bomb is more important, and we don’t know where it’ll be planted,” McIlroy said.
“Bombs, boss. Jimmy said bombs. Plural.”
“You’re right, Will. Plural it is. If that bit of information is correct, we’re in for yet another hell of a day.” He rammed his foot down on the accelerator as he turned back onto the main road. “One hell of a day.”
Will settled back into silence.
Bombs.
Plural.
Bombs meant dead bodies, mutilated bodies, grieving families. Yet more anguish and misery in a province overloaded with anguish and misery. Will’s thoughts wandered. Riots, mortar bomb attacks, car bombs, IRA ambushes. Was it any wonder the RUC had not only the highest murder rate, but also the highest rate of suicides amongst any police force in Europe? Overworked policemen who couldn’t take any more of it.
Maybe Milly was right.
Maybe it was past the time he should have been thinking of getting out. More than just thinking about it. And then his vision blurred again for a few seconds.
That damn knock on the head!
***
October 1980
I bought Will another double whiskey, a Jameson this time. He downed it in one and rose from his seat.
“Going already, Will?” I asked. I had many questions running round inside my head and hoped he would be able to give me some clear answers.
“I promised Milly I wouldn’t stay more than an hour.” He glanced at his watch. “She’ll be getting dinner ready. Give me a call in a few days and we’ll talk again. You’ll have other interviews lined up in the meantime?”
“I’m seeing Martin Foster the day after tomorrow.”
“Oh yes? Where does he live now?”
“He’s still in Belfast. Never did join the army. I’ll be seeing Sorcha again while I’m over there. It makes sense to see them both on the same visit.”
“The Mulveny girl? Good
luck with that one. I doubt they’ll ever let her out of prison.”
“Maybe. Maybe not. She’s changing, Will. I’ve seen the signs of it.”
He shook his head. “She’s too devious by far. Don’t get taken in by her.” He didn’t look back as he walked away.
Chapter Six
October 1980
Martin never left Northern Ireland. Instead, he took a clerical job with a firm of accountants before he married his cousin. I thought he was right to steer clear of the army, but foolish to stay in Belfast. However, it was his life. I called on him at the house his aunt had once owned. She was now five years dead and Martin lived there with his wife, Emily. They had one daughter who was now four years old. As I entered the house, she stood close beside her mother, staring at me through big, round eyes.
Martin had aged noticeably since I last saw him, at the trial. He had grown a moustache and his hair was prematurely grey. He was dressed in faded jeans and a tartan shirt that might have given the wrong impression in some parts of the city. He wore an air of suspicion to begin with, as if he was unsure of my motivations in writing the book. Emily must have been equally suspicious because she eyed me warily. She said little, made a pot of tea and then she left Martin and me to talk in the small front parlour room. It had a claustrophobic air about it, as if the dead aunt was still there; a ghost lording over life in her absence.
“You have a nice family,” I said as a way of breaking the ice. “Are you happy now, Martin?”
“How can anyone be happy as long as the Troubles continue?” It sounded like a deliberately evasive reply.
“You decided against moving to England.”
“Emily persuaded me to stay,”
I waited for further explanation, but none came, so I asked, “Did you ever contact Sorcha after the trial?” It was time to give the discussion some positive direction.
He nodded but kept his gaze away from me, as if he was afraid I might question his actions. “I wrote to her soon after she began her sentence. She wrote back and told me not to get in touch with her again.”
“Did you do as she said?”
“No.” He looked up and his voice took on an angry tone. “I wrote again and again. She never replied to any of those letters. I tried to arrange a prison visit, but she refused to see me.”
“But you still think about her?”
“What do you think? It’s been eight years now since Bloody Friday, and barely a day goes by when I don’t think about her. Emily understands that. She’s a great comfort to me. I don’t know what would have become of me without her support.”
I took a moment to consider my next words. “You understand what I want to learn from you?”
“The Bloody Friday bombs? That’s all in the past. It no longer bothers me.” A slight tremor in one hand gave the lie to his words. How could anyone in Belfast assert that it was ‘all in the past’?
I kept my voice unruffled. “Not specifically the bombs, Martin. I’ve already gathered enough information about the bombs. What I want to know is how that day affected you and Sorcha.”
“You want more of the personal angle?” His voice was steadily growing calmer.
“Exactly. The things that never came to light in court. Are you willing to talk about that?”
He shrugged. “When you phoned me, I said I’d tell you everything.”
“Okay. Why don’t you begin with the moment you first saw Sorcha on that Friday morning?”
“Don’t you want to know how we first met?”
“Of course, but I want to write that part of the story from Sorcha’s viewpoint. I don’t mean to be rude, Martin, but this is more her story than yours.”
“Because she ended up with a life sentence?” There was a new hint of acrimony in his voice. The past bothered him still, despite his denial.
“No. Because the story all comes together through her. She’s the only one who can never be cut from the final manuscript. So, begin with what happened that Friday morning when you met her. Tell me all you can remember.”
“Everything?”
“Everything.”
***
Friday 21st July 1972
0855 BST
Aunt Judy was unusually quiet that summer morning. Martin understood why, and he made an effort not to draw attention to himself. It was because of his father’s brother, Uncle Alfred Foster. He had been a corporal in the British army, a proud young Belfast man who was newly-wed when he was sent off to fight in the Korean War. Alfred Foster spent just one week with his bride, Judy, and they never saw one another again. He was killed exactly twenty years ago: the 21st July 1952. Aunt Judy never really got over the loss of her husband. She probably never would, Martin figured, even though she now lived near the heart of another war, one that was playing out on the streets of her home city.
And more young Belfast men were dying.
Martin escaped the heavy silence at the breakfast table and shut himself in his bedroom. He had a letter to post, one he did not want Aunt Judy to know about; not until it was too late for her to do anything about it. It was his application to join the army. An office job, not a fighting job. He could never bring himself to lift a rifle and shoot another human. However, he was old enough to enlist; nineteen last March, and he didn’t need Aunt Judy’s consent. But he was unemployed and that irked him.
He sat at a small table beside the bedroom window and stared out at the neighbours who were on their way to work. There were fewer of them than there had been before the Troubles began. He envied the younger men who had beaten the odds and managed to get employment in a city at war. He wasn’t any sort of layabout, he told himself. He had ‘A’ level certificates, and hard work didn’t put him off. A career in accountancy would be his first choice, but he just couldn’t find a Belfast company willing to give him a chance, a step on the ladder. He had tried and tried again, but the political and religious divisions didn’t make the interviews any easier. He couldn’t always be sure of the interviewer’s affiliations.
They always began with the same question: “What school did you go to?” It was a recognised code for the unspoken question; are you a Catholic or a Protestant? Give the wrong answer and the interview was terminated there and then. Half of his answers had been wrong. Well, it seemed like the army might give him a better chance, and he was anxious to take advantage. A chance of a job and a chance to escape from Belfast.
He sealed the envelope, licked a stamp and fixed it to the front. Then he slipped the application into his coat pocket. As he did so, he detected one of Aunt Judy’s church collection envelopes. She insisted he contribute to the Reverend Ian’s church even if he never entered the building. Martin humoured her. It saved a lot of bother.
The letter with his application form would go into the post box at the end of the street, outside the shops. One of the few boxes that had not been vandalised or repainted Republican green as an act of IRA defiance.
Oddly, it wasn’t Uncle Alfred he had in mind as he tip-toed down the stairs; it was his parents; killed in a motor accident when he was still at primary school. What would they think about him becoming a soldier? He hoped they would have understood had they been still alive, even if they didn’t fully approve. Not after what happened to Alfred.
His other worry was Sorcha, and that was even more of a problem.
He was at the foot of the stairs when the front door opened and his cousin, Emily, came in. A quiet, seventeen-year-old with a constantly friendly smile, she daily helped Aunt Judy with her housework. Tall for her age and pliantly slender, she paused inside the door and gave Martin a querying expression. Her full lips were pursed, almost as if she expected a kiss.
Martin put a finger to his own lips and nodded towards the dining room. “Aunt Judy is in one of her silent moods,” he explained softly.
Emily gave a nod of understanding. “You think I should come back later, Martin? Mammy says there’s a lot of tidying up to be done in here. And the bedclothes to
be changed.”
Martin never liked to see the girl used this way, almost as if she was an unpaid skivvy. He replied in whispered tones. “Your choice, but this is no way for you to be using your school holiday. You should be out enjoying yourself with your friends.”
“Mammy says I have to help in here.”
“Well, don’t stay too long. These silent moods can be tiring.”
“Do you have to go?” She adopted a wistful expression, as if she was disappointed to see him leaving.
“Yes. Sorry. Something important.”
“Something or someone?”
“Don’t be so suspicious, Emily.”
He hurried on out of the house before her sad look could unnerve him.
Harold Street, a branch off the Crumlin Road, was almost empty when Martin posted the letter. The paper shop was equally quiet when he strode in to buy Aunt Judy’s newspaper. The few early customers had gone to their workplaces. Later customers, the ones with no work to go to, were likely still in their beds. Martin bought a Daily Express and studied the front page as he left. MPs Split, said the banner headline. He had no interest in that division, whatever it was.
He was back in the Crumlin Road, idly turning the page when Sorcha ran out from an alleyway and fell into step beside him. She grinned at him with eyes that were brown and playful. She didn’t kiss him. There was no telling who might be watching: Republican or Loyalist.
“I didn’t see you coming.” He smiled as he closed up the paper and stuck it under one arm. He hadn’t expected to see her today, but she could be just what he needed after Aunt Judy’s silent behaviour. She wasn’t wearing her new clothes, the clothes she bought on the day they first met. Instead, she wore a white tee shirt that was moulded around well-formed breasts, a denim mini skirt that only just hid her panties and a lightweight cotton jacket that only just reached to her slim waist. He glanced down at her long, shapely bare legs and felt a tingle of pleasure. Sex oozed from her body like sweat from an athlete, but far more welcome.