by Jack Elgos
‘Shite, Thomas, I’m so fuckin’ sorry,’ he cried. ‘I don’t want to leave you here like this mate, but I’ve no choice. I know you’d understand. Look, someone’ll find you soon and they’ll be able to give you a proper burial. They’ll not know I was with you. They’ll not know anything. You’ll get your wake. Oh, Christ, I don’t know what to say. But you’ll be with your Ma now mate. And look, I promise you, I’ll get those bastards. I’ll get ‘em for me Ma, I’ll get ‘em for your Duggy and I’ll get ‘em for you, mate. You have my fuckin’ word.’
He wiped the tears from his eyes and scanned the park. He couldn’t hang around here, but he certainly couldn’t go back out on the road in the Granada. There would be Provos looking for the car by now. They’d be up and down the road first, but it probably wouldn’t be long before they’d try places like this too. The Jags or the Beemer would get him out of here fast, but they were conspicuous and he wanted to blend in. The Ford was the obvious choice and he needed to work quickly.
He grabbed Thomas’ overnight bag from the Granada and then raced to some bins he saw in the far corner of the park, checking back to the windows of the hotel to make sure he was unobserved. There was no sign of life yet. He rifled through the waste and found an old spark plug and a short length of scaffold pipe. That would do. He smashed the plug, collected the broken porcelain insulators and the pipe and headed back to the car where he flicked the bits at a rear window making only the tiniest noise. It was a trick he’d learned from a thirteen-year-old thief, Jimmy the Jammer, and the glass silently crazed over. A little push on the damaged surface and the window gave way easily and quietly. He reached through to the front, opened the door and he was in.
He felt around behind blinds and in pockets in case someone had left the keys in and noticed a zipper in the middle of the headlining. That could mean only one thing – a siren bolting. Fuck, this must have been a police car at some point. He imagined an educated person would call that irony. To him it was just fuckin’ weird. He had no luck finding keys so he brought the scaffold pipe down hard and fast on the ignition lock, breaking the plastic cowling, and a small amount of pressure and leverage forced the switch barrel from the steering column. The Killer blade was his last piece of equipment and he inserted it into the bottom of the damaged switch, turned it clockwise and crossed his fingers as the starter motor spun. The engine spluttered noisily to life, cylinder by cylinder, and he could risk only a quick look back at his friend before he drove away as quickly as he dared. ‘I hope to see you in the next world, Thomas – but not just yet,’ he whispered.
He arrived back at the entrance to the club and slowed to walking pace. This was the dangerous time. Once out on the road this old rust bucket wouldn’t rate a second glance, not when the Provos were looking for a Granada, but it might seem just a bit suspicious if anyone saw it driving out of here so soon after an incident at a roadblock. Everything was clear and he pulled out. He would have to ditch this car too before it was reported stolen, but he should have given himself a breathing space to get away unnoticed. Just a few minutes along the main road a car approached at speed and went straight past him. The driver paid him no attention and Liam breathed more easily.
The Sunday traffic was light and he drove on without incident passing turning after turning. He really wanted to be off this road, but he needed to put some more distance between him and the incident. He knew the Provos wouldn’t take kindly to being fired on at one of their roadblocks and when they found the Granada they would widen their search to the surrounding area. He needed to be far enough away from “surrounding”. Eventually he saw a sign for Tullyallen that looked like just the kind of small town that he was after. He carried on to a rough looking housing estate and saw a small gang of youths loitering about. Perfect. He parked round the corner so as not to be too obvious, collected his bag, pocketed the .38 and a handful of shells, left the rest of the arms where they were and walked away from the car. ‘It’s a jammer for sure,’ he thought and he was still within earshot when it was “stolen”.
That was one problem out of the way, but now he had no transport and was miles from where he needed to be. He also felt on edge and he made a conscious effort to walk casually, though a door slamming close by caused him to duck and he couldn’t shake the memory of the gunshots that had taken his friend. ‘Snap out of it Liam,’ he told himself sharply. ‘If they’re going to shoot you, they’ll fuckin’ shoot you and there’s nothing you can do about it.’
He walked for quite a while until the area looked more upmarket and finally rounded a corner to see a hand written sign offering Bed and Breakfast. Just what he needed. Within minutes he had secured a room and something to eat as he spun the landlady a tale about going to see his sister but having car trouble. She was very sympathetic and organised a hire car for the following day. He considered ringing Turner, but decided against it. The payphone downstairs was a little too public. Besides, that English bastard who had flown off with the chopper and left him stranded had been under Turner’s orders and, right now, he didn’t feel like trusting anyone but himself.
He lay on the bed and tried to take a siesta, that wonderful habit he had picked up in Spain, but it was useless. He paced restlessly round his room, constantly checking through the window and listening for anything that sounded out of place. A car driving up at speed, raised voices, anything to suggest the Provos might be searching this town. He should be far enough away, but he daren’t allow himself to relax just yet. He moved the .38 from under the pillow to the dresser, to his pocket and then back to the pillow throughout the day, always wanting it at hand. A shout from outside had him racing to the window, but it was just a couple of lads playing in the street. A creak or groan from the rickety stairs of the old boarding house saw him poised, gun ready and aimed at the door. Every tiny sound stretched his already frayed nerves and he knew he would have no rest until he was out of Ireland and back in Derbyshire. He had no great love for the old manor house, but right now he would give anything to be there. When he finally did doze off as night came, it was a short, fitful sleep filled with images of Thomas, his face covered in blood, and the words of his dead Ma who had always made him promise to stay out of the Troubles. Stay out of them? He was in them right up to his neck.
The following morning finally arrived and he had a quick breakfast, hoping he presented a calm exterior, while he waited for his car. A spotty youth arrived with a Toyota Corolla, apologising that it was all they had left. ‘It’s fine,’ Liam assured him.
‘On holiday are you mister?’ the lad enquired pleasantly.
‘Aye, just off to Cavan to see my sister and then onto my brother’s place in Sligo.’
‘Phew, that’s quite a drive.’
‘Aye, well, it’s only once a year,’ he said, handing back the completed paperwork before climbing into the car and heading off.
The shiny Toyota went smoothly down the road attracting no attention whatsoever and Liam finally began to relax a little. He was heading to Cork to find Grant’s pub and ask for a man called Laa Laa.
15
Cork: The Pub and Meeting the M...M…Man
It was a long drive south but Liam finally arrived in Cork as night was falling and followed the signs straight into the city centre. A quick enquiry of two pleasant passers-by produced directions and he was soon entering Grant’s bar. It was a dingy, old-fashioned place and the dark interior pleased him. It was unlikely that any civilian here would know of him, but he was still on edge. He ordered a pint of Murphy’s and waited at the end of the bar.
Several men came and went, ordering drinks and taking them to their seats. He wished Thomas had given him a physical description of the man he was looking for because this place was pretty full and it could be anyone, if he was even here at all.
‘Gimme a p…p…pint p…p…please Steve,’ said a voice to his left and Liam saw a slim built man clad in denims, a leather jacket and cowboy boots. Not quite what he’d expected, but sure
ly that had to be him.
‘Nice little pub isn’t it?’ Liam asked him as he noted the classic dope smoker’s scars and blisters on his fingers.
‘Oh yes. This is m…my f…f…favourite p…p…pub. I l…l…love it h…h…h…h…h…’
‘Here?’ offered Liam.
‘Yeah, and they g…get good bah bah bands playing at n...n…night too.’
‘This seat’s free,’ Liam offered, pushing a stool in the man’s direction.
‘Oh, thanks,’ said the man, holding out his hand. ‘The name’s Laa…Laa…Larry.’
‘Butch,’ said Liam in return and it felt strange using his old name again. ‘I’ve been looking for you Larry.’
‘What the fer…fer…fer…fer…fer…fuck fer…fer…fer…fer…fer…for?’ The stutter swung into full gear and Liam remembered what Thomas had said about eye contact making matters worse. Trouble was, he needed to look at the man’s face to gauge his reactions and his reliability.
‘Thomas sent me.’
‘T…T…T…T…Thomas M…M…M…M…M…M…M…’
‘Malone, aye, that’s right.’
‘H…h…h…h…how i…i…i…i…i…’
‘Is he? Not so good I’m afraid. The R.A. shot him dead yesterday.’
‘Wh…wh…wh…wh…wh…wh…wh…’
Liam broke eye contact then and deliberately looked at his pint. It was one thing trying to weigh a man up from his facial expressions, but it would take all night at this rate. ‘I’ll give you the details later, but right now I’m in trouble and Thomas said his friend called Larry could help me.’
‘T…T…Thomas told you to ask fer…fer…for Laa…Laa…Laa…Larry?’
‘No, actually he told me to ask for Laa Laa. I was just being polite.’
‘Ah, th…th…that’s b…b…better. Wh…wh…what’s your n…n…name again?’
‘Butch.’
‘You’re th…th…that B…B…Ber…Ber…B…B…B…Ber…Ber…B…’
‘Aye, I’m that Butch.’ Eye contact or not, the realisation of who he was talking to had sent Laa Laa’s stutter into overdrive and Liam felt like he was listening to Morse code. He waited patiently for the man to get a grip,
‘Fuck me,’ said Laa Laa finally.
Ah, that was better. ‘So, can you help me then? I need to get over to England.’
‘Is th…th...this to do w…w…with T…T…Thomas getting sh…sh…shot?
‘That’s part of it.’
‘Wh…wh…who you say k…k…killed him?
‘The R.A.’
‘You m…m…mean the I.R.A.?’
‘If you like.’
‘Then wh...wh...why…do you c…c…call…’
‘Look, Thomas said you’re English, right? So what do you call the your army?’
‘Th…the army.’
‘Exactly. You don’t call them the English army because you are English. So I call ‘em the Republican Army because I am Irish.’
‘Ah. I g…g…get it.’
‘Anyway, I don’t have much time Laa Laa. Thomas said you have a boat and can get me out of here.’
‘Yes, th…th…there’s a run to W…W…Wales tom…m…morrow.’
‘Wales?’
‘Well it’s n…n…not Ireland.’
‘Good point.’
‘Fuck me. T…T…Thomas dead. Fucking b…b…bastards.’
‘Aye. To Thomas,’ said Liam as he raised his glass.
Laa Laa returned the toast. ‘You know, h…h…he said you were like ber…ber…brothers B…B…Butch.’
‘Aye. Different mothers, but brothers none the less. I friggin’ loved that man. By the way mate, could you do me a favour and call me Liam? The name Butch is a little dangerous for me over here.’
Laa Laa drained his pint. ‘OK.’ He leaned over to his companion and whispered, ‘Jesus, I need a smoke. Come on Butch, er Liam. Come with me.’
‘You should whisper more often,’ Liam returned in the same conspiratorial tone.
‘Why?’
‘Because you didn’t stutter once then.’
‘I d…d…didn’t?’
‘Oh, I give up.’
Liam followed Laa Laa from the pub and they headed down Hanover Street where the Englishman found a bench and lit a potent smelling spliff. Liam refused a hit, preferring a regular cigarette. The evening was surprisingly pleasant for the time of year and they smoked in companionable silence for a while until Laa Laa suddenly sat bolt upright.
‘Fer…f…f…f…fer…f…f…f…fer…f…’
‘Fuck?’ guessed Liam as four muscle-bound skinheads approached.
‘It’s that stuttering old cunt from last night,’ the lead guy said in a thick Liverpudlian accent. ‘Got a little friend with you this time?’
‘You looking for trouble?’ Liam asked as he rose from the seat to stand before the man who was twice his size.
‘And what are you going to do about it?’ asked the skin, grinning over his shoulder at his friends.
‘I’m going to suggest that you kindly fuck off.’
‘Oh, is that right? Youse and whose army?’
‘It’ll just be me.’
‘Maths a bit cack-handed with you is it, you carrot-crunching Paddy twat? Stop mithering me. This fucker did me ‘ead in last night with all his st…st…stuttering.’
‘I find you rather unpleasant,’ Liam said and a small laugh escaped him as he realised he had sounded just like Turner.
‘What’s so fucking funny?’ The man was rapidly becoming angry, which suited Liam just fine.
‘Nothing you’d understand you Paddy bashing spastic. Pick on the Pakis back home as well, do ya?’
A muscled arm rose and aimed straight at Liam’s face, but within seconds the arm was twisted behind the broad back and its owner lay on the floor clutching his free hand to a broken nose. The rest of his face and several of his teeth hadn’t fared too well either. The other three men stared and Laa Laa managed a stutter-free, ‘Fuck me, that was some move.’
‘Too much time pumping iron in the gym, and not enough speed-work,’ Liam offered in explanation as he let go of his victim’s arm and casually pulled The Killer from his pocket. ‘Now, how ‘bout the rest of you friggin’ Scouse gits? You fancy a go, do you girls?’ Apparently they didn’t as they shook their heads and reached to collect their injured friend. Only a minute later and they had skulked away.
‘Fuck me, T…T…Thomas said you were a handy b…b…bastard, b…but I c…c…can’t believe that. Too fa…fa…fa…fast to be true. How’d you d…d…do that?’
‘Just practice. Listen, we need to get away from here. I don’t see anyone else about, but I could do without attracting attention right now.’
‘You have anywhere to s.. s.. s.. sleep tonight?’
‘No, not yet
‘I’ve got a sp…sp…spare room at my p…p…place. You’re m...m…more than welcome.’
‘Thanks Laa Laa. That’d be fine.’
***
Chez Laa Laa proved to have a good supply of Jameson’s and the two men drank a couple of rounds to their departed friend. They chatted as much as the stutter would allow and Liam filled his new mate in on the basic details of Thomas’ death. He left out his own reasons for being there and Laa Laa didn’t ask. It was still early when they retired and Liam managed to catch up on some of his missed sleep from the night before. Here felt a lot safer than his previous billet, but he still couldn’t truly relax until he got out of the country.
Long before dawn the following morning the men were in a Transit van heading for Bantry. ‘Because it’s T…T…Tuesday,’ Laa Laa had explained and Liam decided not to push for more detail. He liked this man, but asking for further information proved exhausting. It took forever. Tuesday meant Bantry, and that was fine by him. He had been curious about one thing though.
‘Thomas told me you work out of Spain.’
‘Yes.’
‘Do you speak Spanish?’
‘Do you stutter?
‘Not as m…m…m…much.’
‘Weird.’
They arrived at Mizen Head and Laa Laa drove to the end of the point, leaving his headlights on to illuminate the coast and the sea. It wasn’t long before the sound of powerful outboards interrupted the peace and quiet of the morning and Laa Laa took the van down a dirt track ending at a small, rocky cove. Liam had been a little disappointed to learn that it wouldn’t be Laa Laa himself who would take him over. The fewer people who knew about his presence, the better, but he had been assured that he would be in safe, trusted hands. The sound of the outboards continued to grow until a large RIB, or rigid-inflatable boat, came into view, slowing just before it beached, and two men climbed out, stopping short as they saw the stranger.
Laa Laa went to meet them and they huddled together for what seemed an interminable length of time. Liam realised that it would take Laa Laa longer than your average drug-runner to explain the situation, but finally the two men approached him with smiles. ‘Lippy,’ said one, holding out his hand, ‘and this here’s Driver.’
‘The driver?’ asked Liam, shaking the offered hands. Strange, he wouldn’t have thought you drove a boat.
‘No, his name’s Driver,’ Lippy explained. ‘Favourite weapon’s a golf club, you see.’
Liam smiled and nodded. It sounded like he was in good company, then. He lent a hand to transfer the bales of dope from the RIB to the Transit and then Lippy and Driver jumped into the boat and strapped on their harnesses. Laa Laa handed him a scrap of paper. ‘Give m…m…me a c…c…call anytime,’ he offered.