by James Deegan
There were guys with their backs to him, though.
Could he be one of them?
He wondered.
Thought, Just play it cool.
Pulled out his mobile.
Dialled the number Conor Maguire had given him.
Casually looking round the bar to see if anyone picked up a phone.
Three rings.
Four rings.
No-one touched a phone.
And then the door burst open and in came a fat man with short, ginger hair, a pink, freckled face, and an expression of puzzled irritation.
Looking at a mobile phone.
And Carr recognised him straight away.
109.
BRIAN ‘FRECKLES’ KEOGH killed the call and put the phone back in his jacket, muttering about people he didn’t know calling his personal fucking mobile.
John Carr pressed red, making a small show of leaving a quick message on some imaginary answer machine, but his mind was back in the nineties.
He’d seen this man on celluloid and in person many times before, the last time back in about 1995.
The IRA’s 1994 Ceasefire had been in force, but there was a great deal of uncertainty as to how things would develop, so the Republicans had continued to amass arms and explosives.
The SAS and the RUC had targeted a number of importation routes and had made significant seizures, including a car boot full of Zastava rifles and machine guns, bought by Keogh and destined for various caches in and around Belfast.
The European connection and the driver of the car had been arrested, but Freckles – a clever man indeed – had been very careful, and there was no evidence to lay before a court.
Carr remembered photographing him outside a fish and chip shop on the Springfield Road – right up close, using a hidden camera – to provide an up-to-date image.
The intervening twenty years had added a good three stones to his frame, and his ginger bog brush had died a death and was slowly sliding backwards off his head, but the freckles, and the eyes, and the cadence of the walk… Even in a bar, even older and fatter, his walk gave him away.
A slow, vulpine lope.
Predatory.
He looked at Carr, looked through him, and stood next to him at the bar.
Shoulder to shoulder.
Carr could smell aftershave, and cheap soap, and the brown leather of his jacket.
The barman literally broke off halfway through pouring someone else’s drink and hustled over.
‘Pint, Brian?’
‘Aye,’ said Freckles. ‘And a chaser.’
He stood there waiting, hands spread on the mahogany bar.
Carr looked at the hands.
Fat and pink.
How many men had they sent to their deaths?
110.
CARR RECOVERED THE pistol and walked back up on to the Falls.
Surveillance in tight-knit areas is a difficult business. You can’t sit around in a car drinking coffee and taking pictures with long lenses, unless you want to get yourself head-jobbed, because no-one sits in a car for very long and it gets you made. And you do everything you can to avoid target fixation. This is the biggest mistake anyone can make in this world: you’re so tuned in to your man that you don’t see the third parties watching you, and the next thing you know you’re blown.
Blown away in west Belfast, more than likely.
So Carr stayed on foot, and tried to look like he belonged.
First thing he did was get himself a bag of chips and gravy from the Chinese takeaway just up from the bar.
He could hang around outside eating them and not look out of place for quite a while.
Not to mention, he was starving hungry.
He managed to eke the chips out for half an hour, and then he crossed over and wandered further up the Falls and did it all over again at a chippy.
Another half hour – this time, he didn’t eat many of the chips – and still no sign of Freckles.
With few other options, he found a spot on the road where he could cover both the side entrance and front entrance of The Volunteer while standing back in the shadows and pretending to be making a phone call.
How long he could keep that going he didn’t know, but it was all he had.
Carr spent the time productively, searching his memory.
Now that he’d seen Freckles in the flesh he recalled a lot more about him.
Could almost see the old files, hear the intelligence briefings.
Born in London to Irish parents, he’d moved with his family to Northern Ireland when he was a young teenager. Perhaps out of necessity – boys with English accents didn’t get welcomed with open arms round this way back then – or perhaps simply because he enjoyed it, he had rapidly developed a reputation as a thug and a bully.
In his late teens he’d joined the RA, and was suspected of the hands-on murders of several people – Carr couldn’t remember who, or how many, but that was not the point.
He’d really gone up in the world after marrying Róisín Cafferty, daughter of legendary gunman Coilm and sister of the revered – and very, very dead – bomber Diarmuid.
Róisín was a deeply evil woman in her own right, Carr remembered, and a significant terrorist.
She’d started out throwing dirty nappies and bricks onto the heads of soldiers walking past the Divis Flats, and tarring and feathering ‘collaborators’ – that being an elastic term which included anyone who so much as spoke to anyone they shouldn’t. From there, she’d progressed through storing weapons and ammunition at her home, to procuring local girls to lure off-duty soldiers and RUC and UDR men to their deaths. According to intelligence reports, she’d taken part in several torture murders herself.
Including one which was very personal to John Carr.
Once Freckles was tied into the Caffertys, his position was all but unassailable, his authority almost unquestioned.
On the orders of his father-in-law, who had correctly identified his son-in-law as being brighter than the average, he’d been taken off ‘active service’ and put to work as an under-armourer. As time and the depredations of the Brits worked their magic, Freckles had moved up the tree, until he sat near its very top, armourer to the Belfast Brigade, and the best friend of and right-hand man to Pat Casey.
Carr shifted on his feet, and saw the door of The Volunteer swing open.
Freckles stepped into the street.
Had a quick look around, then started walking off heading east.
Carr turned on his heel and walked into Donegall Street, and waited.
Saw Freckles pass by on the other side of the Falls.
That familiar, loping gait.
Carr doubled back onto the Falls and fell in behind his quarry, on the opposite side of the road, about fifty metres behind.
As he did so, he kept his head down and his phone to his ear, laughing, and mouthing a conversation. Walking neither quickly nor slowly, every step and every swing of his arm shouting that he had every reason and every right to be there, he gradually gained on his target.
He was within twenty yards when Freckles suddenly crossed over.
Carr couldn’t break stride, so his own walking momentum took him on so that they almost bumped into each other on the pavement.
‘Watch where you’re fucking going, pal,’ said Freckles, but he just loped on down Fallswater Street.
Carr slowed, made a thing of gesticulating – the imaginary guy on the other end of his phone giving him some sort of directions – and watched Freckles walk in through his front door, a few doors down.
Bingo.
Carried on along the Falls.
He knew this area like he’d grown up here, knew that Nansen Street was next, and that at the bottom was Iveagh Street, which took you back into Fallswater.
So he turned down Nansen.
Put the phone away.
Half way down, in the quiet dark, he knelt down by a van.
Took a small roll of black gaffer t
ape from his pocket.
Quickly tucked his trousers into his socks and taped them in place.
Put on a pair of gloves.
Taped his black shirt sleeves down over them.
Felt the pistol grip for reassurance.
Put his balaclava on like a beanie.
Carried on walking.
111.
RÓISÍN KEOGH LOOKED up from the telly as Freckles came into the room.
‘You’re back early,’ she said.
‘Sure, there was no-one in,’ he said, flatly. ‘Is there anything to eat?’
‘How should I know?’ said his wife. ‘Have a look in the bleeding fridge.’
‘What do you mean, how should you know?’ he said, the three or four beers and chasers he’d put down making him belligerent. ‘You do the fucking shopping, don’t you?’
‘Ach, ballix to you,’ said Róisín, angrily.
Freckles moved towards her.
‘Don’t you come another step closer,’ she said. ‘Not if you want to see the morning. I can pick up that phone now and have you sorted out, big as you think you are.’
He stopped.
It was true: his wife’s family were nasty, and violent, and fiercely loyal.
‘Ach, fuck you,’ he spat.
‘Not likely,’ said Róisín, with a mocking smirk. She picked up her wine glass, downed it in one, and waved it at him. ‘And you can get me another of these.’
She cackled as he went, muttering, into the kitchen.
And turned the television volume right up as he handed her the refilled glass.
Which was why they didn’t hear the knock at the door, at first.
Outside, Carr, black balaclava now pulled down over his face, was looking up and down the street.
Thinking, Come to the fucking door, as he pressed himself into the doorway.
He knocked harder.
The sound of shouting and then a hall light clicked on.
Shit.
He’d have preferred darkness, but the cards were the cards.
He took the Browning from his waistband
Held it down between his legs.
There was a time when a man in Freckles’ position would never have opened a door to anyone, but the war had been officially over for a long time, and the main threat – Loyalist hit squads – was all but gone.
He had grown fat and complacent.
The door opened.
Freckles.
‘Who the fuck are you?’ he said, staring at the black-clad figure in front of him. ‘What…’
He got no further before Carr pushed him backwards with a gloved palm to the chest, brought up the pistol to his forehead and was into the house.
He closed the door behind him with his heel, eyes never leaving Freckles’ eyes.
‘Mother of God,’ said Freckles, all the colour gone from his already pale face. ‘This is it.’
Carr levelled the semi-automatic at his left eye, and walked him backwards, Freckles stumbling with the adrenalin rush which had left him uncoordinated.
Back, back.
Into the living room.
The telly on way too loud.
Róisín sitting on a green velour sofa, half-pint of wine halfway to her open mouth, staring.
Carr pushed Freckles down onto the sofa and stood in front of them both, Browning switching from one to the other.
‘Who’s this?’ said Róisín.
‘Who are you?’ said Freckles. ‘Can we talk about this?’
‘We’re going to talk, don’t worry,’ said Carr.
He looked beyond them into the kitchen.
Said, ‘Both of you get on the fucking floor, face down, hands behind your heads.’
Freckles was on the floor remarkably nimbly for a man of his size and age.
‘Do yous know who we fucking are, you eejit?’ spat Róisín. ‘You’re a fucking dead man.’
Carr stepped forward and punched her square in the face, sending her wine glass flying.
Said, ‘Get on the fucking floor.’
This time, Róisín did meekly as she was told, her nose streaming blood and snot.
Carr said, ‘Hands behind your head. Now stay there, and do not move a fucking muscle.’
Went into the kitchen and came back out holding a knife.
Back in front of them.
Said to Freckles, ‘Anyone else in this house?’
‘No.’
‘Kids?’
‘No.’
‘Because I’ll fucking kill you and her and them if you’re lying to me.’
‘No, I swear. The kids left home years ago.’
Carr pointed at him. ‘Just you. Get up, turn away from me, and lean against that wall, arms at full stretch.’
Freckles did as he was told.
‘If you turn around I will kill you,’ said Carr.
‘I won’t turn round.’
‘Turn over and lie on your fucking back,’ said Carr to Róisín.
Black eyes burning up at Carr with pure hatred, she did as instructed.
Carr looked down at her and rolled his balaclava up.
‘Róisín “The Machine” Cafferty,’ he said. ‘As-was. I knew your brother.’
‘Diarmuid?’
‘That’s the fella. Shame what happened to him.’
‘He was a good man, a brave man.’
‘If you think it’s good and brave to blow up defenceless people. He killed a mother and her two kids in Strandtown, didn’t he?’
‘That bitch worked for the occupation forces of the British Army,’ she said, defiantly. ‘She deserved what she got.’
‘She was a cookhouse cleaner,’ said Carr, smiling. ‘And her children? Did they deserve it, too?’
‘Casualties of war.’
‘Aye, that’s one way of looking at it.’ He looked over her shoulder. ‘Don’t you turn round, Freckles,’ he said. ‘I’m not playing games here, pal.’
‘Oh, my,’ said Freckles, a tremor in his voice.
Back to Róisín.
‘Speaking of the occupation forces of the British Army,’ said Carr. ‘Do you remember a guy called Chris Murray?’
Her mouth said, ‘No,’ but her eyes said Yes.
‘Aye, you do,’ said Carr, nodding. ‘I joined up with Chris, and we were in the same battalion. 3 Para. Lovely lad, he was. You’d have said he was too gentle to be a paratrooper, but he was a hell of a soldier. Only child, too, which made it worse for his folks. They were so proud of him.’
Róisín looked like she’d seen a ghost.
‘Chris would be married with kids by now,’ said Carr. ‘Might even be a granddad. But none of that happened, did it? Because you got that tart from Turf Lodge to bring him down here on a promise, and then you gutted him alive, didn’t you?’
‘I never did nothing.’
‘Och, I’m not saying you held the knife, Róisín, but you set the whole thing up, and you watched, didn’t you?’
Silence.
Freckles started making a choking sound as his breathing rose.
‘He was a brave man, Chris, but I bet he begged for mercy. Didn’t he?’
‘Aye,’ said Róisín. ‘He fucking did. He was…’
She got no further.
In one swift movement, Carr knelt down and rammed the knife through her neck.
It cut through her trachea and her spine.
Her eyes bulged in surprise as blood began bubbling from her mouth and nose.
Her mouth opened and closed wordlessly.
And then she died.
More mercy than she’d shown Chris Murray.
‘What have you done?’ said Freckles, half-turning his head.
‘Keep your eyes on that fucking wall,’ said Carr.
Covering Freckles with his pistol, he withdrew the knife from Róisín Keogh’s throat.
Picked up her hands and made numerous defensive wounds on her palms and wrists.
Gave her one good puncture wound in the shoulder,
and leant on her chest with his gloved hand to get her lifeless body to bleed a little.
Stood up.
Went to Freckles.
Pressed the gun behind his ear.
Whispered, ‘I’m sure you’ve guessed, Freckles. I’m John Carr.’
Freckles’ knees buckled slightly.
‘Aye,’ said Carr, with a chuckle. ‘That’s a bit shit for you, isn’t it?’
‘I didn’t…’
‘Wasting your breath, mate, I’ve heard it all before. Now’s the time for listening.’
Silence.
‘Good. Now, Róisín and me had a personal score, on account of my mate and all that. Funny thing is, I’d never have thought of settling it until you bastards decided to come after me. Big fucking mistake, eh?’ He laughed. ‘Anyway, it’s different with you. I’m happy to let Róisín’s old man and his connections deal with you.’
‘Can I…?’ said Freckles.
‘No, you can’t. What I’m going to do now is I’m going to pass you a knife. You’re going to grip the knife nice and tight, for a count of three, and then you’re going to drop it. Understood?’
Freckles nodded.
‘Before we do that, you know who I am. I’ve put more men in the ground than you and your mates could dream of. Do as I say, and we’ll just have a wee chat. But you try anything, and your brains are up that wall.’
‘Okay,’ said Freckles.
He was trembling.
Carr knew he would comply.
He did.
A few moments later, the bloodied knife hit the grubby carpet with a thud.
‘Now,’ said Carr. ‘Please believe me when I say this. If you do not give me the answer I want to the next question, you’re dead. Do you believe me?’
‘I do, aye, I do, honestly I do.’
‘Where is Pat Casey now?’
‘At his uncle’s farm near Camlough.’
‘Where on the farm?’
‘I believe it’s an empty cottage near the farmhouse.’
‘You sure?’
‘I promise.’
Carr looked at him.
Decided he was telling the truth.
‘What’s the name of the farm?’
‘Cairbre McKilty is the name of the uncle. I don’t know the name of the farm, I’m sorry. Probably it would be McKilty’s.’