Once a Pilgrim

by James Deegan

  He was confident he could exploit the weaknesses in Casey.

  107.

  PAULIE MCMAHON LEANED against the silver Volvo outside Stormont, inspecting his nails.

  It was good to be back working for Pat, even if it was only short term, until this business with the Brit soldier blew over.

  It got him out of the house, he enjoyed the banter, and Pat had promised to see him right.

  True, it was a pain in the backside having to drive up and down between Stormont and the farm outside Camlough, where Pat was staying for a wee while.

  Especially given that Pat insisted on taking the weirdest routes, and driving round every roundabout three times, and pulling all sorts of other stunts.

  But even with all that it only took ninety minutes each way, give or take, and Pat had been very clear that he had to carry on with his Assembly work.

  It was tough keeping everything hush-hush, too – sure, people knew he was driving for the big man, but Pat had been insistent that he told anyone who asked that it was on account of his bad back. No-one – but no-one – could know the real reason, or that Paulie was carrying. It was a pain in the arse, but, Jesus, five hundred quid a week was good money, and Pat had to have his reasons.

  And it was only a brief visit today – a meeting at 10am, another at midday, and some internal Sinn Fein event after dinnertime. Unless there were any delays they’d be away at just after 3pm and Paulie could be back in Belfast by six-ish.

  He was idly wondering about starting on his sarnies, when a guy walked up to him.

  Stocky, short, greying hair.

  A hard-looking bastard, but some sort of manbag over his shoulder and a camera round his neck, and a stupid grin on his fizzog.

  Tourist.

  ‘Excuse me,’ said the guy, in some sort of thick foreign accent.

  French?

  German?

  Paulie had no idea.

  ‘I was just on tour of building and I find this on floor over there.’

  He pointed into the middle distance.

  Paulie looked down.

  The guy was holding an iPhone.

  Latest model.

  ‘Aye?’ said Paulie.

  ‘Yes, I find this. I want to give to someone but now my wife she wait for me down there. I wonder, is possible I give to you, you give to someone?’

  ‘Aye,’ said Paulie. ‘I’ll hand it in to lost property for you.’

  The man beamed at him. ‘Very kind,’ he said. ‘Thank you very much. Now my wife…’

  He shrugged and rolled his eyes, in a universal gesture which said: I’d better get a move on, or else she’ll have my guts for garters.

  Paulie nodded curtly, and the man hurried off in the direction of a coach.

  If Paulie had bothered to watch him go he would have seen that the man didn’t get on the coach but instead just disappeared around the back of it. He might then have wondered why the man had chosen him, out of several drivers who were hanging around, to hand the phone to.

  But all Paulie was thinking was, This is an iPhone. Looks brand spankers, too. And the fucking thing’s not even locked.

  He had no intention whatsoever of handing it in to any lost property department.

  The only question in Paulie McMahon’s mind was whether he was going to flog it for a hundred quid down the pub – he might even get two hundred for it – or give it to his missus for her birthday.

  On the other side of the coach, Oleg Kovalev pulled a cap, a pair of shades and a dark jacket out of the bag, and crossed the road to observe the driver.

  He was just in time to see the man slip the iPhone into his trouser pocket.

  Oleg smiled.

  ‘Khoroshiy mal’chik,’ he said, under his breath.

  108.

  ONCE AGAIN, CARR had lain low during the hours of daylight.

  He finally left his bolthole an hour after sundown, and headed into the city to buy a copy of the Belfast Telegraph.

  Conor Maguire’s untimely death was reported on an inside page, under the headline, PSNI PR CHIEF FOUND DEAD.

  It wasn’t a long piece, and it contained the line Carr was looking for.

  A post mortem will be carried out tomorrow, but at this stage police believe Mr Maguire’s death was a tragic accident.

  That post mortem would show asphyxiation; with the alcohol and the vomit, the conclusion would be irresistible.

  They’d waste some time trying to work out who ‘Nicky’ was, and why Maguire had called to get the number from his missus, but that was a blind alley and if it slowed them down then so much the better.

  Carr turned west and headed for the Falls.

  The Vollie was only a few minutes’ drive away. The route took Carr past the Clonards, bringing back memories of that night almost thirty years earlier, and on past a dozen other streets which held personal significance for him.

  Past the Davitts, where a grubby tricolour hung limp in the February night.

  Past the Beehive, and the Red Devil opposite, and down past the West Belfast Sports and Social Club… places etched into his memory, where plenty of decent people were to be found, but among whom was a layer of the worst that mankind had to offer, men and women who sat and drank and plotted murder and misery.

  His pulse was steady, and his mind was hyper-alert, but he could feel the hair on the back of his neck standing on end.

  And then The Volunteer came into view.

  Now Carr fought the urge to keep his foot down and drive on, and on.

  You’ve made your point.

  They’ll work out what happened to Maguire, even if the police don’t.

  You’ve scared them off.

  Go home.

  But then he remembered the lads who’d died over here – from his own regiments, and others.

  He remembered Kevin Murphy, and Scouse Parry, and their families, and poor Marie Hughes, and the countless others whose lives had been taken away by these bastards.

  And he remembered Dessie Callaghan’s dying words: Plenty more where I come from. Crawfordsburn’s a small place.

  He turned left down Donegall Road, pulled to the kerb and stopped next to a house with a thick privet hedge.

  He couldn’t go into The Volunteer with a pistol. There was every chance that there might be a few players inside, and if one of them decided to pat him down… He might take a few of them with him, but they’d get to him in the end, and he didn’t fancy being beaten to death in a cellar somewhere. So he got out of the car, had a quick look around, and placed the Browning in the guts of the privet hedge with a gloved hand.

  Easily available if he found himself out in the open.

  He walked up towards the Falls Road, his heart beating a little quicker now, his mouth dry, and turned the corner.

  The last time Carr had been into the Vollie had been in late 1994, a few years into his career in the Regiment.

  He and another guy had gone into the place several times over a two-month period while imposing surveillance on some fucker whose name he couldn’t remember.

  It had been a very dicey operation.

  Back then, the place had been heaving with players, and he could still taste the adrenalin and feel the trepidation – actually, call a spade a spade, the fear – he’d felt on walking through the door.

  Carr and his oppo had needed to front it out more than once, and he’d been glad when the op had come to a premature end, as a result of the guy they were surveilling falling victim to an unhealthy concentration of lead in his skull after the UVF caught up with him outside his house one night.

  And now, as he paused outside, looking up at the ornate frontage to the pub, he felt that same fear rise once again.

  Back in 1994, he’d had a major team backing him – though, even then, he’d probably have been a dead man if compromised.

  Sure, the modern-day RA were not quite the force they’d been.

  But he felt very alone.

  Still, he’d come this far, and he wasn
’t going home without achieving his objective.

  He pulled on the brass handle to the big wooden door and walked in.

  He hadn’t known what to expect, but what he found was exactly what he’d expected.

  There were flat screen TVs everywhere, now, and the fag machines were gone, and with them the fag smoke, but otherwise it hadn’t changed much.

  Same old high ceilings and dark wood panelling.

  Same faded pictures of Republican heroes.

  Same orange, white and green flags, and Gaelic writing on the posters.

  Same crowd – or the sons and daughters of the same crowd, at least.

  He pushed his way – carefully – through the early evening drinkers and stood at the bar.

  Music playing, something mournful with the singer wishing he was in Carrickfergus.

  The barman was over quickly enough, and Carr ordered a pint of Guinness.

  As he sipped it, he scanned the crowd as casually as he could.

  He couldn’t remember Freckles’ face. He’d spent a lot of time studying mugshots, but it was twenty years ago.

  So, not ideal. But he did know a few things.

  He knew his real name, Brian Keogh.

  He knew he was looking for a guy with a pot belly, a pale face – freckles, obviously – and thinning ginger hair.

  And he knew that he was a senior figure in the movement, so he was highly likely to be treated with respect by the normal punters – deferred to and given a wide berth, or surrounded by hangers-on, either or both could apply. What he wouldn’t get was ignored, or pushed past, or dismissed.

  There were maybe twenty people in the bar.

  None of them fit the bill, but it was early.

  Carr studied his pint, wondering if this was stupid.

  He’d never known an IRA man yet who wasn’t in love with the drink, but there were plenty of pubs and clubs this scumbag might use.

  All he had was the say-so of Conor Maguire.

  He’s in the Vollie most nights.

  A quarter of the way down his Guinness, he tapped the guy next to him on the arm.

  ‘Where’s the bogs, mate?’ he said, although he knew very well where they were.

  No point trying to change his accent or hide the fact that he was a stranger, people would realise soon enough.

  He followed the man’s directions to the gents’, and stood there at the urinal.

  Ears straining for any sound behind him.

  Back then, this was where they’d come to suss you out.

  Sure enough, he heard the noise of the door opening, and the music from the bar beyond getting temporarily louder.

  A scuffle of feet, rubber soles squeaking on the old tile floor.

  A guy, stocky, in a Gaelic football shirt, stood next to him.

  Coughed, looked over.

  Said, conversationally, ‘Alright there, big man?’

  Eyes a bit too firm.

  Carr looked back at him, made sure to let his own eyes drift off.

  Now was not the time to be confrontational.

  ‘Aye, not so bad, mate,’ he said. ‘You?’

  ‘Where you from, then?’

  All friendly-like, but the fact that the question was asked at all told Carr all he needed to know.

  Years ago, he had created and absorbed a detailed Army cover story which had him coming from Glasgow, but those details were hazy now, and Niddrie was ingrained in him. He could stand up to questioning about that area all night.

  ‘I’m frae Niddrie,’ he said, allowing his accent to thicken. ‘In Edinburgh. How’s aboot yoursel’?’

  ‘I’m local,’ said the man. ‘So what brings you here, then?’

  ‘Och, I met this bird online,’ said Carr, with a wide grin. ‘Bloody Tinder, eh? I swiped right, she swiped right, ye ken?’

  ‘Aye?’

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘What’s her name?’

  ‘Angela. She works up at the hospital, like.’

  Carr finished at the urinal, did up his fly, and turned round. For the first time, he noticed that they were not alone: another guy was leaning on the door, arms folded.

  He felt his skin go cold: what if he’d somehow been made for who he was?

  But as soon as it came it was gone. It was a while since he’d worked these streets, and if they’d recognised him he’d already be fighting for his life.

  ‘Lives round here then, does she?’ said Folded Arms. ‘This Angela?’

  ‘No, she lives out in… Anderstown, is it?’

  ‘Andersonstown.’

  ‘Aye, that’s it. She lives out there and she dropped me off when she drove in to start her shift. Why’re you asking?’

  ‘Come over to visit her, then, did ye?’

  ‘Aye, too fucking right ah did,’ said Carr. ‘She’s a cracking wee lassie. Ah’m no’ daft. I work on the rigs, like, and I had a week off, and nothing better tae do.’ He made a gesture with his hands, as though he was cupping a pair of melons. ‘Fuck me, the chebs on her,’ he said. ‘Mind, she can’t half talk, like. She’s gone off to work tonight and I’m glad o’ the break. Fucking women, eh?’

  And suddenly the tension was gone, both men laughing and raising their eyebrows in agreement.

  The one who’d been standing next to Carr stuck out a hand. ‘I’m Shane, pal,’ he said, ‘and this is Callum.’

  Carr shook it. ‘John,’ he said. ‘Good tae meet you fellas.’

  ‘Got any ID, John?’ said Shane.

  ‘Not on me pal, no.’

  He’d sanitised himself before leaving the mainland, and he’d been expecting this question.

  ‘Not a credit card nor nothing?’

  ‘I’ve only got cash. Mah missus reads mah fucking bank statements, like.’

  He flashed a broad smile as he said it, but somehow the words sounded lame.

  He kept the smile nice and confident, but he prepared himself for things to go bent. He was reasonably confident he could take these two out, especially if he struck first, but the noise, and the men in the bar beyond the door… Could he do Shane and Callum, and be out of the bogs, and then the bar, and then away, without being stopped and dragged down?

  Truth was, he didn’t know.

  He kept his gaze level and steady, but he tensed his feet inside his trainers and slid his right foot back a few inches, ready to spring forward and nut the nearest guy.

  Shane looked at Callum.

  Callum grinned. ‘Gone over the side, have ye?’ he said. ‘Ye dirty hooer, John.’

  Shane looked back at Carr, and now he was smiling too.

  ‘Your missus the jealous type, is she?’ he said.

  ‘Jealous? She’ll cut mah baws off wi’ a rusty hacksaw if she finds out,’ said Carr.

  The two men chuckled.

  ‘I’d get rid, me,’ said Shane, with a grin. ‘So listen, we get a lot of undesirables in here, so we’d like to give yous a wee pat-down just to make sure that you’re not somebody who wouldn’t fit in.’

  ‘No offence,’ said Callum, ‘but this is a Republican bar.’

  ‘Aye,’ said Carr. ‘Ah’m no’ daft. Ah seen all the pictures, like. I dinnae get the whole politics thing, but I’m a Hibee masel, if y’ken what ah mean.’

  ‘Aye? We all have our faults,’ said Shane. ‘Celtic all the way for us.’

  ‘Mah old man’s team,’ said Carr, opening his arms. ‘Anyway, nae problem, guys. Ah’ve nothin’ to hide, you just crack on.’

  Shane performed a rudimentary search – but one which would have picked up the pistol, had he carried it.

  Then he stood back, and smiled. ‘Ach, you’re okay, pal,’ he said. ‘Enjoy your night, eh?’

  ‘Aye, ah will.’

  The two men led him out of the toilet, and rejoined the crew they were drinking with.

  Carr resumed his place at the bar. He didn’t look round, but he knew they’d be nodding to one or two faces, letting them know that this stranger was alright.

  Not
that it meant he was safe.

  He’d bought himself a little time, that was all: sooner or later someone a little more paranoid would take a longer look at him.

  About this nurse, then, big man…

  So where are yous staying…

  How come you’ve no fucking ID…

  He sipped his pint – it was what they’d expect him to do – and looked amiably about him.

  No-one that looked like they might answer to ‘Freckles’.

  A guy came up and stood next to him.

  ‘From Niddrie, are ye?’ he said, holding out his empty pint pot for the barman.

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘Which street?’

  ‘Why, who’s asking, pal?’

  A fine line, between confidence and aggression.

  Get bolshy, you could be fucked up very quickly.

  Show weakness or uncertainty, and it can all go very wrong equally quickly.

  ‘Sure, I’m asking,’ said the man, with a smile. ‘I’m only being friendly. I know Niddrie. That’s where my cousin lives.’

  ‘Aye?’

  ‘Aye. He lives on an estate where all the roads are called the same thing. Sure, I can’t remember it. Funny-sounding name?’

  Carr nodded. ‘Niddrie Marischal, probably?’ he said. ‘I stay on Duddingston Road, overlooking the golf club. I work as a North Sea fitter, my middle name’s Jim, and ma old man wears gorblimey trousers and he lives in a fucking council flat.’ He smiled, broadly, openly. ‘What’s this, the fucking third degree? I only come in for a pint, not the Spanish Inquisition.’

  Confident.

  Not aggressive.

  ‘No-one expects the Spanish Inquisition,’ said the guy, with an equally broad smile. ‘Niddrie Marischal, that’s it. Real rabbit warren of a place. Bit of a shitehole, Niddrie.’

  ‘Hey, that’s ma home town you’re slagging off,’ said Carr, with a grin. ‘But I cannae argue wi’ you.’

  The guy collected his pint, and punched Carr playfully on the shoulder. ‘I’ll see yous, big man,’ he said.

  Carr winked over his own Guinness, and concentrated on keeping his posture relaxed and his hand steady.

  He felt as though every eye in the bar was on him; every sinew and muscle in his body was tight and coiled, every connection in his brain firing.

  But he’d bought himself a little longer, and when he looked casually around himself he saw only people chatting, laughing, swilling drinks.