Ravenhill_Jackie Shaw Book

by John Steele

  ‘For a while everybody thought I was dead, too. Why was Rab so convinced I shot Tommy?’

  Eileen leans back into the soft upholstery of her sofa, increasing the distance between them. The lines which bracket her wide, full mouth set sharply and she says, ‘I don’t know. You’d have to ask Billy.’

  Jackie stands again with a groan. He searches in his pocket for a mobile phone and tosses Rab’s on the sofa next to her. ‘Aye,’ he says, ‘I suppose I will.’

  CHAPTER 25

  1993

  He’d avoided the Windsor on Templemore Avenue as if his life depended on it, which it probably did. Instead, he’d checked for a tail and driven along the Down shore of the Lough, past Bangor and on to the village of Groomsport. As he had passed Bangor, Jackie had wondered if Gordon and his wife, Rebecca were at home, curled up on the sofa with the kids.

  At Groomsport, he’d sat in front of Cockle Row with the old fisherman’s thatched cottages at the small harbour. His head was low, shielded by the collar of his dark blue jacket from the cold night air that had swept in unexpectedly. The glow from his cigarette warmed his hands against the biting chill and he moaned to himself about the weather. Late April and he was freezing his bollocks off. Mind you, there’d been snow in mid-May one year. He’d come here in his last days of school, heartbroken by a local girl, to brood. Not much had changed, in the village or himself, other than the Walther pistol in his jacket pocket.

  Jackie had always found it strange how the men and women of the force took it as read that, at any time, they could be shot in the back or blown to smithereens by PIRA or INLA. Gordon checked under his car every morning and took a different route to and from work each day. He knew a uniformed officer who refused to give his kids a lift anywhere, fearing they might be caught up in an ambush. Marty Jess had been shot in bed next to his hysterical wife. But the vast majority of officers hated keeping a personal protection weapon in the house for fear of an accident involving their children. Alcoholism and depression were common and divorce rates high, along with casualties. The uniforms took the brunt of it, one of the reasons Jackie had opted for Branch work when the opportunity arose.

  Undercover with Tyrie’s mob, he had never considered the possibility of becoming a republican target. Presumably the Provos didn’t know he was RUC, and his position wasn’t that high profile in the UDA anyway. He wasn’t even recognised as a player by many of the rival UVF.

  He’d informed Gordon of the IRA threat, who’d passed it on and E3A, the intelligence division dedicated to republican groups, were looking into it. In the meantime, E4A were conducting static surveillance on his father’s house, but when he was out and about, he was on his own. Police manpower couldn’t extend to shadowing individual officers in their daily tasks and routines. If it did, the RUC Widow’s Association wouldn’t have such a burgeoning membership. In any case, the rank and file thought they were surveilling a low-level loyalist in the hope of snatching a Provo hit team.

  He thought back over the last weeks and months, recalling victims of the UDA’s East Belfast Brigade. Everyone he could think of who’d suffered at UDA hands recently was a local and unionist, loyalist or just didn’t give a shit. Shanty, Harold, James Maguire, Shanty’s wee girl, Eddie McMaster.

  That was it.

  But the night Billy savaged Eddie’s hand in the cashbox at the pub, a young Catholic fella was shot dead at the junction of Mountpottinger and Albertbridge in East Belfast. Unclaimed, but it had to have been UDA or UVF. That must be it: somehow, Cochrane and Short Strand PIRA had his name and pinned it on him. He was the tit-for-tat hit. Jackie lit a cigarette and had a quick, hungry smoke. He flicked the butt in the froth lapping onto the slipway in front of the cottages, gave the Walther a pat in his pocket, and headed for home.

  #

  Back in Bendigo Street an hour later, he padded up the stairs and checked in on his dozing father like a parent with a child. Sarah had popped in: there were flowers in the living room and a note on the hall table, asking him to give her a ring and telling him to buy milk. It was a little after eleven. Time to head for the arms dump at Cregagh Glen where he was scheduled to meet Sam Rainey.

  They loved all of this, Rainey and the rest. All this cloak and dagger bollocks, creeping around in the middle of the night while the good people of Belfast slept. It made them feel like outlaws, living on the outside.

  He pulled out of the street onto the Ravenhill Road, the heater of the car a low roar, and turned right heading out of town.

  It was as the Ravenhill joined the Ormeau Road at a Y-shaped junction that he realised he was being followed. A roundabout regulated the traffic coming from the three routes and he completed two circuits, even though the road was empty. The green Sierra followed suit, then began gaining as they straightened out onto the upper Ormeau Road. He breathed out, long and slow, maintaining control. The car was probably stolen and would be found burnt out on waste ground in the morning. He prayed his body wouldn’t be in it.

  Dropping a gear to force acceleration, Jackie swung left into the Rosetta area, heading back into the east of the city. The Sierra followed about fifteen yards behind, the interior dark, concealing how many were inside. He killed the heater in the car: he needed to think, stay sharp. The sound of the Escort accelerating and shifting gear growled at him. The Sierra followed.

  The roads were deserted. Even the customary choppers weren’t up and Jackie thought madly that it might be a conspiracy. He slammed the steering wheel with the palm of his hand, spat and muttered to himself like a maniac, and fought a rising panic. His chest was tightening and he felt totally, utterly alone. Aside from the car following silently behind. He barked at himself to get a grip.

  Then he grimaced and prayed for a passing police patrol as he approached a T-junction. The eastern ring road sliced through the city like a belt and cut across his current route, leaving him no choice but to turn left onto the one-way system. He came to a hard stop. A white van was approaching from his right on the ring road on the inside lane, the one closest to where Jackie would emerge. No police. The Sierra was slowing gradually behind him, now about ten yards away. The van was moving at speed on the two-lane ring road. It was approaching fast where Jackie sat stationary, waiting to turn onto the lane. The Sierra was coming on steadily, now closing on five yards. A burst of automatic fire could do some real damage at this range.

  Jackie shoved the gear into first. The van was almost passing him. The Sierra was almost behind him. The interior of the car behind was still dark.

  He prayed the van driver was alert as he stamped on the accelerator and shot into the inside lane. A horn blared and he glimpsed a flash of white shimmer for a moment in his line of sight. As he steadied the wheel he saw the van had swerved into the outside lane, the driver still leaning angrily on his horn. Then Jackie was increasing speed on the ring road, the van braking hard on the outside as he passed it. The Sierra was behind and gunning to stay within range.

  His hands gripped the wheel and gear-stick hard. It stopped them from shaking. His heart hammering, he told himself – willed himself – to calm down. He checked the mirror and could see a little more of his pursuers on this well-lit route. There were definitely two men in the front. It was likely that there was a third in the back seat: a typical PIRA team. They were now approaching traffic lights at the junction of the ring road and Castlereagh Road.

  The lights were red.

  He heard the Sierra revving its engine behind.

  There was a slip road on the left with no filter light and he took it faster than he should, hugging the kerb with a squeal of tyres. The Sierra, the driver surprised by the exit on the left, slowed a little to take the turn. There was an angry growl as the pursuit car dropped gear and surged to gain lost ground.

  Jackie was approaching the turning onto Ladas Drive, home of Castlereagh Police Station. He could drive right up to the gates. Even ram them. But if he tried that, he could be riddled with bullets by the officers in th
e observation sangars armed with automatic rifles. If he drove up to the gates, the hit team behind could still strafe his car as they passed. If not, they’d be suspicious of a paramilitary, in their view a killer, seeking sanctuary in the very place where suspects were held. Word would get back to the loyalist paramilitaries, his cover would be blown. He took the turning anyway, and drove at a decent speed with the Sierra now following, again at a distance of about fifteen yards. A taxi passed them. It was the only vehicle he’d seen aside from the van since he’d spotted the tail. He thought of all the work to infiltrate the East Belfast Brigade, the hours spent with Tyrie and his hoods, running with those animals. All for nothing if he sought protection within Castlereagh station.

  He passed the police station.

  A large 24-hour petrol station stood a short distance ahead on the right. Jackie slowed and turned into the forecourt at the entrance, a couple of taxis and a pizza delivery car standing idle at the pumps, and stopped. He saw the clouds of breath in the chill from a couple of motorists standing at the pumps. He kept the car in gear, his foot poised on the bite of clutch and accelerator as the Sierra turned into the forecourt at the entrance. The harsh neon of the station’s sign silhouetted the interior and Jackie saw he had been wrong: it was a four-man team.

  He let the clutch out and turned back onto Ladas Drive at speed, continuing towards the Cregagh Road. The Sierra followed but he felt calm now, despite the odds. He knew how many he was up against and he had the edge of less weight in his car. He took the Cregagh, then cut down Ardenlee Avenue back onto the Ravenhill Road. The streets remained empty.

  Turning back onto the Ravenhill, Jackie put the Escort to work. The 88 horsepower engine strained in a low gear and approached seventy miles per hour. Jackie knew the Sierra was more powerful, but gambled on its extra weight slowing it down. A distance opened between pursuers and pursued and, as he took the bend leading to the large, ornamental gates of the park, his tyres screaming in protest, the Sierra’s lights were two angry insects on the road some hundred or so yards away.

  Jackie grabbed a blue football scarf lying on the back seat and was relieved to feel the weight of the 32 ACP Walther PP semi-automatic in his jacket pocket. He jumped from the Escort almost before it came to a complete stop and mercifully didn’t have to fiddle with his keys in locking the doors. He didn’t want to return to the car and find an explosive inside. If he returned at all. Next to the high gates was a low brick wall topped by railings around head height which circled the park. He took a run at the wall and used it as leverage to get up on the railings and place a knee between the metal spikes, gouging himself, then eased over as the Sierra took the corner.

  He sprinted into the park, the football scarf trailing from his right hand like a streamer. His jacket was a darker shade of blue than the scarf, but his jeans were pale; as camouflage went, it was pretty poor. A kids’ playground was on the left, a large flat grassy expanse on his right, and no cover. Running on the path into the park interior, there was a distance of about three hundred yards ahead before a clump of large bushes and a cluster of trees. Jackie felt naked, his feet pounding on the concrete to match his heart as he sprinted towards the huge black forms of beech, oak and evergreens ahead. He heard, above the jagged wheeze of his breathing, the sound of a car drive off at speed. One of the team must have left rather than have the stolen vehicle sitting outside the park gates. The fourth man would probably rendezvous with the other three at another entrance on the Ormeau Road side.

  Risking a look back, he clocked three figures behind, one just clearing the railings, two still clambering over. Jackie couldn’t make out any rifles and assumed they had handguns. The men looked awkward and heavy as they hauled themselves over the metal spikes and he felt a flutter of hope that he might actually come through this. Then he stumbled and collapsed on the hard concrete. He landed on his knees, skinning them for sure, but recovered quickly and set off again. The Walther was mercifully still in his pocket.

  The chase was almost soundless in the total still of the park. Not a rustle of wind. Jackie could hear his trainers slapping the path, the angry rasp of his breath and the indistinct hum of a city at sleep. And the grunt of men behind.

  Jackie glanced back again and saw three clouds of breath gaining. Ahead was the towering black wall of heavy foliage and shrubbery. There was a tall slim silhouette resembling a gallows too: the park bell, hanging from a high pole, rung each sunset to warn the public that the gates would soon be locked. He willed his legs to move faster, work harder, and used the cold burn of the chill night air in his throat to stay sharp. The closer he got to the treeline, the harder it would be for them to see him. Moving at a crouch he went deeper into the shrubbery, then settled on his haunches and tied the football scarf tightly around his nose and mouth.

  He heard the three men come to a cantering halt off to his left. They held their tongues and he knew they were padding as silently as possible on the path. Jackie quietly eased the Walther from his pocket. The triggermen were hiding their positions well and he couldn’t account for two at present. But the third was a couple of feet to his left. There was the soft wheeze of a smoker regulating his breathing after a bout of running and Jackie was thankful the scarf was muffling his own breath. The scarf gave him another edge: a small fog of condensation was rising lazily into the night air, drifting up from the gunman’s nose and mouth. Jackie’s breath was trapped and dissipated by the football scarf.

  The first man’s white mist of breath was joined by a second. They were silent and likely communicating with hand signals and gestures. Now they were directly in front of him. He could have reached out and touched them at a stretch. Their clothes were just visible through the bushes. One wore blue jeans and a leather jacket and was big but with no gut. The other was in a camouflage jacket with black jeans, the cam pattern straining against a heavy-looking belly. Crouching at hip level, Jackie could open fire and probably hit both at this range, but how decisive the wounds would be was another matter. And he didn’t know where the third man was.

  He almost yelped when the third man appeared suddenly on his right, again almost within touching distance. This one must have circled around the trees out of sight. He was wiry and wearing a thick black sweater with black jeans. Jackie hugged the gun to his body to stop his hand from shaking.

  After a short time, two of the three moved off. The remaining man paced a little and then seemed to decide there was no immediate threat and lit up a cigarette. Jackie made a mental count to two hundred before shifting his position. It seemed to take an age to settle flat on his stomach. Peering under the shrubbery for a view of the surrounding area, he couldn’t see the other two triggermen. Either they had pushed further into the interior of the park or were somewhere behind, in the direction from which he’d come. This one, black jeans and sweater, wasn’t going anywhere soon.

  Jackie had learned patience in his undercover work. Many times he had contemplated quitting, walking into Branch offices and telling them he wanted out of Tyrie’s crew. But he had learned to endure. Now in the cold, maintaining a fetal position with a pistol gripped tightly to his body and shaking despite his best efforts, he could wait no longer. It was unbearable, a man standing within touching distance with the intention and means to kill him. He might lie here all night and live until morning, but it was more likely he’d give himself away soon. He had been lucky thus far that it hadn’t occurred to the gunmen to search the bushes. Jackie’s nerves were at breaking point and he knew that the panic bubbling inside was in danger of erupting. And with panic came loss of control. And then, he knew, he would die. Better to act and take your chances.

  He unwrapped the scarf from his face, aching with the effort of controlling his movement and breathing shallowly, and moved a fraction to the left. The gunman dropped the butt of his smoke on the concrete path, so close a spark stung the back of Jackie’s hand, now snaking out.

  As a boot ground out the fag end, he gripped the man’s le
ft ankle with his left hand, hooked his right, still gripping the Walther, around the man’s right ankle and yanked hard. The body toppled with a gasp and landed awkwardly on its shoulder. There was a clatter as the killer’s pistol skittered across the concrete. Jackie grabbed his scarf and launched himself at the man, now on the ground next to him. He went for the man’s face, wedging the scarf into the gunman’s mouth. There was a muffled cry and Jackie prayed the others were some distance off. They wrestled, rolling on the path. The man’s boots scraped concrete as he kicked and thrashed, Jackie’s gun waving madly in the air as the killer gripped his right wrist and pushed the pistol away from them both. Jackie felt sure the others must hear. They were breathing hard and a cloud of breath surrounded them. The man was twisting Jackie’s arm inward and he gave it a sudden jerk. Jackie pushed his midsection upwards in an inverted v-shape as a spasm jolted his hand. There was a sharp crack and the killer’s left foot exploded with a wet slapping sound. The scarf was still wedged in the man’s mouth as his head jolted forward from the pain of the bullet, butting Jackie in the face. The Walther went skating across the path.

  There was a shout of ‘Declan!’ and Jackie stood in time to wipe his stinging eyes and see both of the injured man’s companions running towards his position from the direction they had all come a short time before. The direction of the gate and Jackie’s car.

  There was a flash and another crack, louder and heavier.

  There was no choice. Jackie had to run further into the park interior.

  The path split in three and he took to the grass between the middle and right trails, where tree cover was heaviest. Here were great horse chestnuts weighed down with leaves and huge willow trees, their branches almost touching the ground. He heard cursing and screaming and hoped the wounded man would force one of the others to abandon pursuit. Declan wouldn’t be walking out of the park without help and they would want to get away soon. It was unlikely the shot had attracted much attention as they were already a fair distance from the road, but PIRA always got in and out as quickly as possible.