Once a Pilgrim

by James Deegan

  ‘I think you are. And I’m not old enough to be your father.’

  ‘You’re not far off.’ She rubbed her eyes and ran a forefinger over his chest and up onto his chin. ‘Who did this to you?’ she said, tracing the upside-down crescent of the scar below his mouth.

  ‘A guy,’ said Carr.

  ‘How?’

  ‘He threw a grenade into a room I was in.’

  ‘What terrible manners.’

  ‘It was a bit cheeky.’

  ‘What happened to him?’

  Carr looked at her, sideways. ‘I happened to him,’ he said.

  The girl chuckled. It was a breathy, filthy sound, and Carr felt his heartbeat quicken a little.

  ‘Where was it?’ she said.

  ‘That’s classified,’ he said. ‘Sorry, love.’

  She chuckled again. ‘You don’t even know my name, do you?’ she said.

  Eeny meeny miny moe.

  ‘Emma.’

  ‘Uh huh.’ Her hand was off his chin now, and was resting on his pectoral muscles.

  He tensed them slightly in response: no point doing all that work at the gym if you didn’t get the pay-off.

  She laughed, reading him like a cheap paperback.

  ‘I have to be honest, John,’ she said. ‘I don’t normally go for men with tattoos. But you can be my bit of rough.’

  Carr looked at her sideways again, an eyebrow raised. ‘Is that so?’ he said, with a slight grin.

  ‘I’ll have to housetrain you, of course,’ she said. She pointed to one of the designs. It showed a winged figure holding two swords. ‘What’s this one?’

  ‘St Michael,’ said Carr. ‘Patron Saint of the Airborne.’

  ‘Really? How fascinating.’

  He rolled out of bed, naked, and walked to the bedroom door.

  Her eyes followed him, taking in the artwork covering his upper arms and back. To her eye, it meant nothing; to Carr, each tattoo told a personal story, of death, and sin, and other regrets.

  ‘Must have cost you the earth,’ she called after him. ‘Nice arse, by the way.’

  He heard her dissolve into giggles as he padded out into the hallway.

  A quick piss, and he was in the shower.

  She joined him a few moments later, and they did it all over again under the hot water.

  Later, in the kitchen, he made her a cappuccino and himself a mug of strong tea, and stood there looking out of the window.

  Chewing paracetamol for his head, wondering why he felt uneasy.

  Below him, Primrose Hill looked a picture in the dawn light, the bare branches of the trees picked out by a rare hoar frost.

  The girl stood next to him, swamped by his ivory bathrobe, warming her hands on the coffee cup.

  ‘I’m going to have to go to work in my going-out clothes, thanks to you,’ she said. ‘I’d borrow a shirt, but I think you’d get three of me in one of yours.’

  ‘Sorry,’ he said.

  ‘Is there a Mrs John?’

  ‘Used to be.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Divorced a while back. We drifted apart.’

  ‘Oh. Children?’

  ‘Boy and a girl.’

  ‘Tell me more.’

  ‘George is in the Army, Alice is in her first year of A levels.’

  The girl snuck an arm around his waist. ‘And is there a woman in your life?’

  ‘Women,’ he said. ‘Plural.’

  ‘Well, that’s not very gentlemanly, is it?’ she said, with a smirk.

  ‘I never said I was a gentleman. I’m not into being tied down. Tried it once.’

  ‘I’d like to see you again.’

  He turned to look at her, eyebrow raised. ‘Of course you would, darlin’,’ he said. ‘You don’t see this walking down the street every day, do you?’

  She laughed. ‘I like a man with confidence.’

  ‘I was taking the piss,’ he said. ‘A bit.’

  She put the coffee cup down, and went to get dressed.

  When she came back he was still standing, looking out of the window.

  ‘I’ve written my name and number down on your pad,’ she said, handing it to him, and grinning. ‘And where did you get fucking Emma from?’

  He looked at the notepad.

  Her name was scrawled above a mobile number.

  It said ‘Antonia de Vere’.

  He looked up at her, staring closely now, the realisation slowly dawning.

  Regimental balls and summer barbecues and Hereford parties over the years…

  Everyone bringing their families.

  Wives, sons.

  And daughters.

  Oh, shit.

  ‘Yes,’ she said, giggling. ‘I didn’t think you recognised me. But then I suppose I am all grown up, now.’ She leaned forward and kissed him lightly on the cheek. ‘Don’t worry,’ she whispered, into his ear. ‘I won’t tell daddy if you won’t.’

  And with that she was gone.

  22.

  AS CARR SCREWED up the piece of paper with Antonia de Vere’s name and number on it, and dropped it in the bin, his mobile rang.

  Alice: his seventeen-year-old daughter, calling from school, before first lesson.

  She was in the lower sixth at Cheltenham Ladies’ College, something he could never quite say without laughing – or larfing, as Alice would have put it, now that the faint Norn Iron twang she’d inherited from her mother had been educated out of her. Half of her friends were foreign royalty or the offspring of hedge fundies and supermodels: no-one else there with mongrel Niddrie and Bangor blood, that was for sure.

  ‘Hi, sweetheart,’ he said. ‘How much?’

  ‘Come on, daddy,’ said Alice, exasperated. ‘I don’t only phone about money, you know.’

  ‘I know, darling. But how much?’

  She chuckled. ‘I need fifteen hundred pounds, dad,’ she said. ‘Someone’s dropped out of the ski trip and my name’s next on the list.’

  ‘Oh aye?’

  ‘You knew all this.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘First week of Easter. Matilda and India are going.’

  ‘Easter? Shouldn’t you be revising for your end-of-year exams?’

  ‘All under control, dad.’

  It probably was, too. Alice had inherited his own mania for organisation, and was always on top of her schoolwork.

  ‘Fifteen hundred quid, though? Are you going skiing or buying the mountain?’

  He and his ex-wife had struggled financially in the very early days of their marriage, a young trooper’s wages not being all that great, but it was a long time since Alice had wanted for anything, and he was keen that she should know the value of money.

  And, to be fair, fifteen hundred quid was fifteen hundred quid. A bright girl, she’d won a scholarship to Cheltenham from her prep school near Hereford, but the fees were still murderous and he was glad of the cash he’d salted away in his eighteen months on the Baghdad–Kabul circuit, and the six figures he now earned as head of London security for the Russian billionaire Konstantin Avilov.

  He smiled to himself.

  Standing here in his handmade, fifty grand, Smallbone of Devizes kitchen, thinking about fucking school fees.

  His old man’s red-under-the-bed head would have exploded if he’d lived to see it.

  ‘What does your mum think?’

  ‘She said it’s up to you. Pleeeaaase.’

  ‘When are you next over seeing your mum?’

  ‘I’m flying over next Friday for the weekend.’

  He was silent for a moment.

  ‘Dad? You still there?’

  ‘Just messing with you. Email me the payment details.’

  There was a loud squeal on the other end of the phone.

  ‘I’ll be checking with your mum, though.’

  ‘You do that, dad. Got to go now, bye!’

  Carr looked at his phone and shook his head in amusement.

  Then clicked through and dialled Stella, his
ex-wife, at her home in Crawfordsburn, a few miles outside Bangor.

  Their divorce had been amicable enough, not least because they’d both been determined to stay civil for the sake of the kids, and they got on better now than they had for most of their time together. He couldn’t quite remember why they’d ever got married – it was a long time ago, and he was certainly very different to the boy he’d been back then – but she was a good person. Most importantly, as far as he was concerned, she was a very good mum.

  She answered almost immediately, and she knew exactly why he was calling.

  ‘I’ve said it’s up to you,’ she said, laughing. ‘I know you’ll have said yes, mind. She can twist you round her little finger, that girl.’

  ‘It’s not cheap,’ he said.

  ‘Sure, you’re rolling in it, so you are,’ said Stella. ‘Careful of them moths when you open your wallet.’

  ‘As long as you’re happy?’

  ‘She’s only young once.’

  ‘True.’ He scratched his stubble. ‘Has she mentioned that boy recently?’

  ‘Which boy?’

  ‘The lad she was talking about who she met in Cheltenham at her friend’s eighteenth.’

  ‘Nick? Aye, she has.’

  ‘Is he her boyfriend?’

  ‘Ach, I think they’re just pals.’

  ‘Because I want to know what his plans are.’

  There was a peal of laughter down the phone.

  ‘His plans? Sure, I’d say they’re the same as your plans was when we started courting, John Carr,’ said Stella.

  ‘They’d better not be. She’s too young for anything serious.’

  ‘Is she now? She’ll be fifty years of age and Prince Charming will come calling for her, and you’ll be there on your Zimmer frame telling him to piss off,’ said Stella. ‘No-one will ever be good enough for your wee girl.’

  ‘I’m not…’ said Carr.

  ‘John, you’ve to face facts. Kids grow up. Look at George, in the Paras. I believe they even let him hold a gun, sometimes.’

  Carr had to smile.

  ‘Fair enough,’ he said. ‘But keep an eye on her. How’s things with you, otherwise?’

  ‘Can’t complain,’ she said. ‘House feels empty sometimes with just me and David rattling around in it, but his work’s going well and I keep myself busy. Sure, you should come over some time. It’d be nice to see you.’

  ‘I might do that, Stel,’ said Carr. ‘Listen, I’d better be off. Take care of yourself, yes?’

  He ended the call, and looked at his watch.

  Five to nine.

  Time for the gym.

  He grabbed his kit and left the flat.

  When he reached the bottom of the stairs he bumped into his neighbour, a young estate agent called Daisy, who was just leaving the ground floor flat she shared with her boyfriend.

  She looked very tidy in her tight grey suit – curves in all the right places, he’d always thought.

  ‘Morning, Dais,’ he said. ‘You look knackered.’

  ‘Thanks,’ she said. ‘Someone kept me awake half the night.’ She looked at him, pointedly, and grinned. ‘Who was the lucky girl this time?’

  ‘Sorry, Dais,’ said Carr, and felt himself flush slightly. ‘I thought we were quiet.’

  ‘I’ll forgive you if you buy me dinner at the weekend,’ she said. ‘James is away on a stag do.’

  Her eyes stayed on John Carr’s just a beat longer than necessary, and then she said, ‘Christ, I’m going to be late for work.’

  ‘After you,’ he said, opening the communal front door.

  He stood and watched her wiggle away in her tight skirt.

  And grinned.

  And thought about Friday.

  23.

  AS JOHN CARR watched Daisy wiggle away, four men were sitting around a beige table in a grey conference room at the Police Service of Northern Ireland’s headquarters in Knock, Belfast.

  Charles Hope, assistant chief constable of the PSNI, and the man in overall command of the force’s criminal investigations division, sat below a large abstract painting.

  On Hope’s left was Gary Baxter, deputy director of the Public Prosecution Service for Northern Ireland and widely tipped as a future UK DPP.

  On Hope’s right was Conor Maguire, civilian head of the PSNI ‘media directorate’. Maguire had spent his twenties as a Sinn Fein member, and had flirted with PIRA itself, though he’d had neither the stomach nor the balls for the dirty work. Back in the RUC days, the only way he’d have got inside Knock was in handcuffs: now he was one of many who had been appointed to significant roles in the transition from the old force to the new, as part of the plan to bring the Province’s Republicans onside.

  Facing them was Detective Superintendent Kevin Murphy. Murphy had joined the RUC in the mid-1980s, a rare Roman Catholic in those days, and had spent most of his career in the Branch. He was closing in on three decades of cheap suits, bad coffee, and strip-lit offices, of bombs, bullets, and bullshit, but the finishing tape was in sight. His brother ran a fishing business in the Yukon, and he’d asked Kev to join him as a fly-fishing instructor for the summer. Four months to go, and then he was on a flight to Calgary. A hop to Whitehorse, then two hours’ drive north on the Klondike Highway, and he’d be in a log cabin, with all this nonsense behind him. He could almost taste the salmon.

  But desperate as he was to leave the depravity and death behind, Kevin Murphy was a conscientious police officer, and it was that dedication which brought him to this meeting room early on a cold February morning.

  A constable put down a tray of bottled mineral water, coffee and biscuits, and left.

  ACC Charles Hope cleared his throat. ‘Right, gents,’ he said. ‘Let’s get straight into it. Detective Superintendent Murphy, the floor is yours.’

  ‘Thank you, sir,’ said Murphy. ‘The purpose of this morning is to bring Mr Maguire up to speed on an operational issue that may attract significant media and political attention.’

  The media man narrowed his eyes and put down the pen he’d been clicking.

  ‘And, Mr Maguire,’ said Murphy, ‘I must stress that none of what I’m about to tell you can leave this room.’

  Maguire’s face darkened a little, but he nodded. ‘Fine,’ he said.

  ‘As you know, my team works on major cold cases from the Troubles,’ said Murphy.

  And, God knew, there were enough of them. Hundreds of serious unsolved crimes, from murder to punishment-rape and torture, to kidnapping and armed robbery. The RUC had usually known exactly who’d committed these offences, but getting the evidence to secure convictions had often been impossible. When the reward for talking to the police was a 10mm masonry drill bit through every major joint, followed by a 9mm round in the forehead, witnesses tended to forget important details.

  ‘We’ve been investigating the murder in 1984 of a young UDR soldier taken from his home in Newry at night, and found dead on the border two days later,’ he said. ‘It’s common knowledge that the man who killed him was a fellow by the name of Sean Casey, brother of MLA Patrick Casey.’

  Conor Maguire leaned forward, pushing his spectacles up on the bridge of his nose with a fat forefinger.

  ‘Sean Casey was a very violent man,’ said Murphy, ‘known as “Sick Sean”, though not to his face. I suppose you mind your ps and qs with a man who enjoys torturing people to death, especially if he’s PIRA royalty. Which he was. His father, his uncle, his brothers, all players. And I include Pat Casey in that.’

  ‘Never proven,’ said Conor Maguire.

  ‘All sort of things are never proven,’ said Murphy. ‘Pat Casey put at least a dozen men in the ground, take my word for it.’

  ‘He’s a member of the Assembly,’ said Maguire. ‘You should watch what you say.’

  ‘I assume I’m amongst friends and can speak freely?’ said Kevin Murphy. He looked at the media man for a few moments, and then continued. ‘Anyway, Sean Casey was put before the cou
rts twice but he was untouchable.’ He sipped his water. ‘Now, Casey’s been dead some years, but one of his pals from those days has decided to co-operate.’

  ‘Who’s that?’ said Maguire, sharply.

  ‘I’m sure you understand that I can’t share the identity of witnesses.’

  The man in question was in the end stages of terminal liver cancer, and had decided to make peace with his conscience. But releasing his name into the wild… well, he wouldn’t be dying from the cancer, that was for sure.

  ‘Word gets around,’ said Murphy, ‘and once you start turning over rocks, memories get stirred, and other fruit falls from the tree. Two days ago a woman attended the PSNI station at Strandtown and spoke to the desk sergeant concerning another matter, which occurred on the evening of Thursday, December 21, 1989.’

  ‘Which was?’ said Conor Maguire.

  The detective perched a pair of reading glasses on his nose and opened his file. ‘Getting old,’ he said, with an apologetic grin. ‘That matter was the death of Sean Casey’s younger brother.’

  24.

  THE OTHERS LISTENED as Kevin Murphy outlined the events of that day, finishing with the moment when the woman had been bundled back into her kitchen by John Carr, on the orders of Mick Parry.

  He was expecting a reaction, and he got it.

  ‘Jesus Christ,’ said Conor Maguire. ‘That’s not how I’ve heard it.’

  ‘No,’ said Murphy, drily. ‘I imagine not.’

  The legend – told late at night even now, in the right clubs and pubs – was that the three men had died heroically. Depending on how late it was, and how drunk the storyteller, it had taken anywhere between thirty and fifty Brit soldiers to kill them, and only then after they’d shot dead an entire SAS team, with the whole thing hushed up to avoid embarrassing Margaret Thatcher.

  ‘I’ve heard the same stories,’ said the detective. ‘Truth is, O’Brien opened fire on the COP vehicle and wounded one fellow. Sean Casey only got off four shots, which went into the bedroom of a little girl opposite and took out her My Little Pony collection. Gerard never fired his weapon at the soldiers at all.’

  ‘All this stuff about pressing his chest so he bled out, and refusing to call an ambulance,’ said Maguire. ‘Are you saying we have evidence that Gerry Casey – Pat Casey’s brother – was murdered by the British Army?’