by John Steele
Shanty smiled.
‘Anyway. I drank most of the two bottles, so I did. I managed to spit a bit out and a bit came out natural with me coughing and retching, but most of it went down. Afterwards, I couldn’t stand up. They took me down the back stairs to a car. It was dark, so I must’ve been in there for hours.’
A small pulse flickered near his ear. His eyes were red and moist, but he wasn’t crying and Jackie knew he was fighting hard to make sure it stayed that way.
‘I never said a word. I mean, they never asked me nothing but I didn’t shout, or cry, or beg them bastards. I never wet myself either. I was fucking scared, but I didn’t want to give them anything, any excuse to laugh at me or give me a worse kicking.’
Good lad, thought Jackie.
‘I’ve no idea where we went in the car. I was too hammered, but we were driving for a while so I don’t think it was East Belfast. Maybe the Shankill. They carried me out of the car and took me into this building and a room. Really bright, like. I could smell disinfectant and they put me in a chair, like a dentist’s chair, and held me. I couldn’t have moved anyway, I was so drunk. I closed my eyes and thought I was going to die.’
He rubbed his eyes with nicotine-stained fingers.
‘I heard them laughing and felt a pain. Like I was stung or something. That was it. Can I’ve another fag?’
Jackie offered the pack. Cigarette in mouth, Shanty took off the jacket. He was wearing a Guns ’n’ Roses T-shirt underneath, black with just the name of the band written across the chest in red.
But his arms were a patchwork of Ulster flags, red hands, stars and crowns. There were Union Jacks, a St Andrew’s Cross and crossed Armalite rifles. His arms had been tattooed from shoulder to wrist. For God and Ulster unfurled across the left, scrawny bicep. Jackie rubbed the single UDA tattoo on his forearm distractedly, the most permanent aspect of his undercover work. He hoped.
Finally, Shanty lost his battle with the tears.
‘Bastards,’ he said, ‘“So you won’t forget”. That’s what Simpson said. They branded me so I won’t forget my crimes.’
CHAPTER 18
Saturday
Stuart Hartley is sitting in an ergonomic office chair nestled behind a large oak desk in what had been a warehouse overlooking the Lagan River downtown. Now it is an office building with large panoramic windows and views of the river, with the lights of the city centre glittering off its lazy murk and the brooding hulk of Cave Hill beyond. The mist has begun to lift, leaving a delicate film of moisture clinging to Belfast. Hartley is fiddling with a paperclip as Jackie is led into the room by his three minders.
As they enter the large space, all stripped-back red-brick walls and natural wood flooring, the broad-accented Belfast man, leader of Jackie’s escort, gestures for him to take a seat opposite Hartley. Jackie declines. Hartley nods and motions for the three men to step back.
‘Mr Shaw, how delightful to see you again.’
Hartley looks older under the stark strip-lighting. Jackie is dog tired. It’s been a long day.
‘What the fuck do you want?’
‘My, we have rediscovered the vernacular, haven’t we?’
Jackie sighs heavily, then sits down as heavily again in the chair.
‘Your boy there isn’t the same as the clown at the hotel – Mr Oilskin,’ he says.
‘No. Darenth is on secondment with me from Thames House. He graduated, as did I, from Cambridge and Sandhurst. Ray here is local talent.’
Jackie turns and says, ‘Well, Ray, you’re a lot more convincing than Darenth from Thames fucking House.’
Ray’s face betrays nothing.
‘Any weapons?’ asks Hartley.
Ray shakes his head. They’d frisked him before getting into the car and Jackie had breathed easier knowing the SR9 was in the attic of his father’s house, taped behind the water tank twenty minutes earlier.
‘You’ve been a busy boy, Jackie. Two Estonian gentlemen, rather the worse for wear, were seen stumbling out of Belvoir Forest Park shortly after you’d been there for a stroll. Seems you visited a local “character” named Shanty McKee this afternoon, too. A couple of meetings with Eileen Tyrie and a visit to a local club this evening. All on the day of your father’s funeral. Let’s not forget an hour in a drinking club with Rab Simpson and a trip to Clocky with Mr Tyrie on Thursday.’
Jackie says, ‘Next time I’m abducted by local paramilitaries, feel free to step in at any point. That’s what I pay my taxes for. And it’s Cloghy, not Clocky.’
‘And what grounds would the security services have had for interfering? You appeared to go with both parties of your own free will. There was no violence involved. Times have changed: we don’t have stop and search privileges any more.’
‘Your lot never did, far as I know. Isn’t it more about reading the nation’s post and emails between watercress sandwiches and cream teas?’
Hartley heaves a sigh, the disappointed patriarch. He fiddles with a pen, grasping for control of the situation but plainly intimidated by the presence of men who have been to the places he has glimpsed in memos and heard stories of in the club at lunch. Jackie throws his car keys on the desk with a sudden clatter and watches Hartley flinch.
He says, ‘I’ve been under surveillance. You may have seen me meet Simpson and Tyrie; more likely you got the intel from sources. The forest park was a black spot because there aren’t any cameras. I’ve hardly used my mobile, so not much to track there. There was heavy mist and a general melee outside Club Realm, so my guess is you lost me and sent this team to my da’s house thinking I’d end up back there at some point. Maybe Darenth from Thames House was at the La Mon with another team. You’ve searched the room but found nothing out of the ordinary, you think Morgan could be dead by my hands and so you decided to move on me. I am more tired than I can remember for a long time and I really need a couple of hours’ kip so, once more with feeling, what the fuck do you want?’
Hartley leans back in his chair and Jackie catches sight of the great glass dome of Victoria Square, brightly lit like a giant firefly’s arse, behind him.
‘What do we always want, Jackie? Information. What did you discuss with Simpson?’
‘Old times. The weather. The price of milk.’ Jackie crosses his legs and says, ‘I’ve a question of my own. These boys – Simpson, Tyrie, the players – are all still walking around without a care in the world. They may be smart enough to keep themselves distanced from their rackets now, they might not be a big enough threat for your lot to bother with any more, but you have enough from the old days to put them away, surely? Why aren’t they locked up?’
‘Haven’t you heard, Jackie? The war,’ Hartley’s face contorts in a wry grin, ‘is over.’
Jackie remembers Shanty McKee beaten and branded for life. James Maguire losing the business he had built and loved. Others dead, maimed and destroyed by Tyrie, Simpson and the rest.
‘Bygones are bygones, eh?’
‘Yes. Who knows, one of them could be deputy First Minister in a couple of years. So, no hard feelings towards you?’
‘They claim they knew I was alive but don’t know why I disappeared. They suspect I was a grass. Nobody seems that eager to extract their pound of flesh yet.’
There is a pause and Jackie is struck by how silent the city is in these wee small hours: no choppers, no sirens.
‘The dissident republicans have been stirring again,’ says Hartley, ‘mostly North Belfast. A couple of explosives finds, isolated shots fired at PSNI patrols, but nothing major. We want to know if there are stirrings on the loyalist side. The UVF, through the usual channels, has assured the government their ceasefire will hold.’
Hartley tosses this out with the insouciance born of privilege: doesn’t everyone know the usual channels?
‘Your Billy Tyrie is still a bit of a firebrand, however, and the UDA have been more active recently in their pursuit of criminal enterprise so the weaponry, manpower and expertise is rea
dily available for a loyalist response.’
Jackie looks at the ceiling in thought and then says, ‘No. Simpson is too busy working on his fake tan and selling heroin to give a shit. It was always more an excuse to kill a couple of Catholics and throw his weight around than the whole Quis Separabit waffle. Tyrie seems occupied with his wife sleeping around and keeping an eye on Simpson. So long as nothing major kicks off in East Belfast, he’ll stay under the radar.’
‘Good to know,’ says Hartley, adding, ‘and Eileen? You met her. Anything important?’
‘Nothing. She just offered condolences at the funeral. We had a short meet at Belfast Castle where she talked about her kids, a wee bit about Billy, our past. She told me about Simpson, why he looks a bit … different these days.’
‘Yes. Ironic, isn’t it?’ Hartley shifts his weight in the chair and says, ‘We’ll keep an eye on you for your own safety and because a rogue element like you has the potential to upset the applecart. What I said at La Mon stands: lay low and go home in a couple of days.’
Jackie considers mentioning Sarah, asking if the machinery of the state will keep an eye on his sister and her family, but any extra activity around them could tip off Tyrie or Simpson that something’s amiss.
‘Oh, and by the by,’ says Hartley, ‘Shanty McKee is dead.’
Something warm begins to kindle in Jackie’s centre and spread throughout his body. He is charged and, for a moment, believes he can light the whole city with his anger. He tenses in the chair and, despite the knowledge that Ray and the other two men are behind him, launches himself across the desk at Hartley.
He connects with a strong right to the bridge of Hartley’s nose, the Claddagh biting into skin, then makes a grab for the back of his head. Ray gets to him before he can slam Hartley’s face into the desk with full force. He still manages to glance the man’s temple off the edge of the polished oak. With satisfaction he sees a gash on Hartley’s smooth, pink skin, the nose off-kilter, as Ray yanks his head back in a vicious lock. Another man rabbit-punches him in the side and he feels as though his kidney has just popped. He crumples in the chair.
Ray relaxes his grip a fraction. Enough for Jackie to butt him with the back of his skull. He hears a grunted ‘Fucker!’ from behind before a blow is delivered to the side of his head, leaving his mind wading through mud. He makes a final lunge, the fire still glowing in his belly, but his limbs have turned to lead. A strong hand grips his shoulder and pins him to the chair.
There is what seems like a long moment of silence; the only sound is some harsh breathing and a soft murmur from Hartley, nursing his nose. His face is difficult to read. Then he speaks.
‘I’d heard of your reputation for violence. I’d hoped not to encounter it first-hand.’
‘With some men it’s drink, others violence,’ says Ray. Jackie turns his head to look at him and feels a deep, dull ache in his skull. Ray continues, ‘Get started and there’s no stopping them until they’ve had their fill. That’s our Mr Shaw, I think.’
Hartley dabs at his bloodied temple with a linen handkerchief. He is trembling from fear and adrenaline and finding it difficult to meet anyone’s eye. The others are breathing evenly again. Jackie is studying a bruised knuckle. He can sense the bodyguards standing directly behind him. Professionals to a man, this is just another day’s work.
‘You are angry about McKee,’ says Hartley. ‘I know you tried to help the man when he was younger. But his death is not my or the British government’s responsibility.’
‘He’d be alive if the likes of Simpson and Tyrie were off the streets.’
‘Don’t be so bloody naïve, Shaw. The Troubles had to end and that meant compromise, on both sides. The terrorists may be free but so are the people they once terrorised.’
‘You want to tell that to the people on the Newtownards Road. The Shankill and the Falls. Derry. But don’t worry, Stuart. In a year or two you’ll be back to the house in Surrey, the seven-thirty to London and lunch at the club with Darenth. Then you can continue to plot what’s best for the people of Northern Ireland with a thirty quid glass of single malt in your hand. You patronising cunt.’
Hartley’s face is grey. His hand is shaking as he dabs at his ruined nose. There are flecks of blood on his tie.
‘Harry and Tom will drive you back to your hotel. Get some sleep, keep your head down and, on Sunday, go home.’
Jackie bit the lining of his cheek during the fight. He flashes a scarlet smile, his teeth smeared red as the goons behind lift him from the chair.
‘I am home,’ he says.
CHAPTER 19
1993
Jackie’s mother had been a great believer in the benevolence of the Almighty and regularly went to converse with him at Ravenhill Presbyterian Church. His father was less conscientious in his dealings with Our Father, although he regularly invoked the Lord’s name, if often in vain.
Jackie was somewhere a little further down the scale. Having been dragged to church until his teenage years, he had a firm grounding in the burning bush, but hadn’t exactly been giving the faith the attention his mother would have liked. But he had to admit, someone might have been looking out for him the night of his discovery that Shanty McKee had been branded with paramilitary tattoos by Rab Simpson.
He trawled the bars of the Ravenhill and Woodstock roads, full of piss and vinegar, hungry for a fight. He burned with the desire to take Simpson’s tombstone front teeth and ram them down his putrid throat, then crush his larynx with his boot while the bastard choked on them. He was ready for a brawl with any of them: Simpson, Tyrie, Rainey, or Tommy if the pond scum was all he could find. Fuck them, fuck the job, fuck Gordon Orr and his sanctimonious peeler shite. Jackie needed to crack a few heads, do this old style and stop another life being damaged or ended by these gangsters.
But in every bar, they were nowhere to be found. The Lagan Lodge, the Crown Jewels, the King James, the Lagan Village club. Jackie asked at the counters, his rage crackling in the air. He got drunk. He tried to pick fights but was known to be connected and no one was biting. And finally he slunk home and collapsed on his bed, staring at the spinning ceiling until his fury burned itself out and he drifted into a restless sleep.
It was, of course, just as well. He awoke with a head full of Lagan mud and a stomach lurching like the ferry to Stranraer. He heard his father whistling in the kitchen. He smoked a couple of cigarettes out of the open window of his bedroom – a habit picked up in his teenage years – then gagged as the tobacco had a violent disagreement with the alcohol and Chinese takeaway still swilling around his guts.
Shanty had wept for a time on the swing, then begun bawling when he heard the fate of his dog. Jackie had sat mortified, waiting for the tears to run their course. After a time, he’d told Shanty to get out of the city for a spell. The lad had family on the north coast and Jackie had given him some cash to help him get there.
Making his way gingerly down the narrow stairs in his father’s house, he could hear the TV babbling from the small living room and the whistle of a boiling kettle in the kitchen. He shuffled into the living room and peered through the open kitchen door.
‘All right, son? Fancy a wee cup of tea?’
‘I wouldn’t say no, thanks, da.’
Five minutes later they were supping. His father was in his favourite armchair. Jackie was on the sofa. He could see the street through the front window behind his father. It was a fresh spring day and Mrs McCutcheon across the way was out scrubbing her front step. Edna Withington joined her, en route to pick up her pension . Both exchanged a greeting with Winslow McCartney, something of a local celebrity as the only black guy on the road.
Life goes on, thought Jackie.
His father was in a good mood. He had managed to pick up a little work from the shipyard and would be going in next week to do some welding on an oil tanker in the massive dry dock. Better still, he’d won a few quid on the Down Races and treated his mates to a couple of rounds last nig
ht.
‘Where were youse?’ Jackie asked. ‘I was in a few places and didn’t see you.’
‘We saw you,’ said his father, ‘up at the counter in the Crown Jewels. By the look on your face I thought better of talking to you.’
‘Aye, I wasn’t in the best of form last night.’
His father turned to the TV. Silence passed between them for a time. His da slurped his tea.
Jackie was about to broach the eternal leveller of football when his da said, ‘Why’d you look so angry last night, son?’ He held up a placatory hand. ‘I know you don’t like talking with me about what you’re up to. God knows I don’t want to know half of it but you’d murder in your eyes.’
‘Ach, I was a bit wound up. I’d had too much to drink and wasn’t handling my booze too well.’
His da gave him a smile that didn’t reach his eyes.
‘Don’t be worrying, Da. You don’t know what I’m doing because I want you away from it.’
‘Son, I live on this road. I can’t get away from it. Look at Harry Clarke. Decent man lost his wee girl in that bomb. And now I have to keep him from doing something stupid.’
‘Something stupid to Billy Tyrie?’
‘That’s enough,’ said his father. Jackie felt a pang of shame at the realisation that his da didn’t trust him enough to continue.
‘You know, Da, if there’s something I need to know about Billy Tyrie, you can tell me.’
His father shook his head and said, ‘There’s nothing.’
‘I’m your son. You can tell me.’
‘There’s nothing!’ The anger had a frightened edge.
Jackie couldn’t remember the last time his father spoke to him like that. He sank further into the sofa, a reflex left over from his younger years. If he’d had a tail it would’ve been between his legs.
He stood to put his mug in the kitchen and have a smoke in the back yard, but his father said, ‘Don’t go.’ It stopped Jackie dead in his tracks.