by John Steele
But the East End victims are beautiful, smiling as if from a family album: Stephen Armstrong, Archie Sinclair, Diane Hunter. The two wee children: Jane Hunter and Becky Breslin. The schoolboys: Mark Wilson and Danny Gourling. And the two schoolgirls: Sharon Montgomery and Kim Clarke. Jackie had known Stephen pretty well, could pass the time with him. He was a strong character who’d commanded respect in the area with his decency and obstinate rebuffs to join the UDA or UVF. Diane had been a good girl. Big-boned and honest to the point of bluntness, she’d doted on her daughter Jane and was popular with a lot of the kids in the area. The pupils from the primary school had left wee mementoes at the bombsite in the days after it happened. The teenagers he hadn’t known but he’d seen Kim from time to time about the road and had looked away from her gaze on occasion. There were times he’d thought that gaze was a wee girl trying to grow up too fast. Her father had been a good friend to his da but he’d locked himself away after losing his daughter.
The memories fog his mind and he barely registers the movement behind until the three men are within a couple of yards. Black leather jackets, black jeans, black Dr Martens. Their faces are uncovered but it is difficult to discern features in the dim canopy of mist. Still, he judges them to be in their mid-thirties. They stand three abreast, a yard or so apart.
The man in the centre says, ‘Mr Shaw, if you’d like to come with us.’
The voice is quiet and the accent broad. The tone is polite and reasonable. They are under orders to treat him well.
Jackie says, ‘And if Mr Shaw doesn’t want to come?’
The man says, ‘Kempey,’ and his companion takes his hand from his pocket to show a solid black object. A handgun.
Jackie says, ‘Now this presents us with a problem. See, I don’t want to be going anywhere with youse. And youse have orders to pick me up, but you’re not supposed to rough me up.’
The two men on either side look to the centre man. The leader says, ‘I guarantee you’re not going to be hurt. Someone wants to talk to you and we’ve just been told to come and pick you up. That’s it.’
‘Simpson or Tyrie?’
‘Neither. Now you can drive your car and I will accompany you with one of these men. No one’s going to hurt you while you’re at the wheel. The other man will follow behind.’
Jackie thinks the men are praying he’ll go easy; there will be consequences if he’s molested in any way. He nods and makes for his Corolla parked another two streets away, beckoning the gunman and his companion to follow with a wave of his hand.
CHAPTER 17
1993
Life goes on.
It was a favourite refrain around the road, around the city, the country.
The length and breadth of Northern Ireland, families watched the news: today, three painters shot dead by the IRA because they were contracted to paint a police station; a suspect device detonated by an Army bomb disposal robot near a telephone exchange in the city centre; a weapons find next to a children’s play area in a park; and a man and woman gunned down in a shopping centre in Newtownabbey, believed to be a case of mistaken identity. The woman was pregnant.
After the shocked comments, the condemnations and cries of shame, people ate their breakfast, or lunch, or dinner and said, ‘Life goes on.’ What else was there but to plough on and hope the next day had a lower body count?
The question now was, did Shanty McKee’s life go on? Jackie sat in a car in the early hours of the morning watching Shanty’s sister’s house. The condensation on the windows gave him a glaze of anonymity but interfered with his view of the small semi-detached across the street.
He saw shadows pass in front of the windows of Charlene McKee’s house, neatly sliced by venetian blinds. Jackie would meet Gordon Orr in another couple of hours and didn’t want to hear that Shanty had been found in an alley with a bullet in his brain. So he had sat watching, in his car, through the night. Now, in the freezing early light, he kept his vigil. This was where Shanty had hidden when the kneecapping was ordered.
Jackie was about to run around the corner and find a quiet spot for a piss when a stooped, hooded figure stumbled into view, lurching down the gentle slope of the street. Grasping for the odd gatepost or garden fence for support, it took ten minutes for the figure to cover twenty yards to the patch of lawn at the front of Charlene McKee’s house. There it paused, almost bent double over the small iron gate. A flutter of movement at the front window, and Charlene appeared at the front door. Her hand went to her mouth. She ran to the figure, opening the gate and almost collapsing under the weight of the human ragdoll as it fell onto her.
Jackie’s hand went to the door handle of the car; then he cursed under his breath. He shouldn’t make himself known just yet. He had to wait a little longer, ensure that no one had followed Shanty, for it must surely be Shanty. He wasn’t keen on being seen by anyone, the sister included.
As Shanty and his sister retreated into the house, the paperboy sauntered by, casually tossing newspapers into gardens between slugs of Coke. Other kids in various school colours left doors with a wave and hooked up with neighbourhood friends to trek grimly towards the day’s study. Some jumped into cars with harassed-looking parents. Men and women in suits rushed to Fords, Renaults and Toyotas. And, finally, Shanty’s sister edged out her front door. She locked it, touched the blistered wood for a moment with her fingertips, and walked to a small Fiat Panda parked on the street a couple of doors down from her house. Jackie watched as the car turned the corner up the gentle hill at the top of the street, and checked his watch.
It was eight fifty-five and he was due to meet Gordon in an hour. The meet was at Smuggler’s Cave, Whitehead, on the other side of Belfast Lough. He had to leave.
The figure had to be Shanty and, satisfied that McKee was alive and safe for the time being, Jackie coaxed his car to life and pulled out into the morning tumble of the city.
#
The concrete was slick with water where they stood on the Blackhead path. The choppy grey sea surged madly towards the rocks a short distance in front of them, while Smuggler’s Cave yawned behind.
‘So, the lad’s turned up safe and sound?’ said Gordon.
‘Well, he’s turned up. In what condition, I don’t know. Judging by the state of him, he’ll not be going anywhere for a while so I’m hoping I can catch him when he leaves the sister’s.’
‘Lucky wee boy,’ said Gordon, his shoulders hunched against the cold wind blowing in off the Irish Sea. ‘Looks like he got away with a slap and a warning.’
‘As I said, I don’t know what state he’s in yet.’
Gordon was swaying on the spot, as if standing on the rolling deck of a ship. It was a habit he claimed to have picked up from his father, a merchant seaman on the north Atlantic convoys during the Second World War. But he was agitated, too. ‘He’s luckier than yer man Maguire anyway.’
Jackie turned sharply.
‘What?’
‘Maguire. Och, he’s all right, physically, but his shop’s gone.’
‘Gone? What the fuck do you mean, gone?’
Gordon’s eyes flared with blood and thunder at the profanity but he let it go and said, ‘The shop was burned down last night. Looks like a firebomb. Caused some damage to the properties on either side.’
‘And the uniform patrols? Where the fuck were they?’
‘Keep your voice down.’
Jackie spat, ‘The man’s lost his livelihood.’
‘Ach, catch yourself on. He could’ve lost his life if you hadn’t been with Simpson and reported to me. You know yourself we haven’t got the manpower to dedicate uniform patrols for protection work on an indefinite basis and his home address was still being monitored. He’ll claim on insurance and set up somewhere else.’
A young boy appeared at the corner of the path on the Larne side with a dog in tow. They waited, Jackie fighting against the wind to light a cigarette. After several drags on his fag, Jackie said, ‘Sorry, Gordon, you’re
right.’
Gordon nodded. Jackie went on, ‘There’s something I need to tell you.’ He related the details of the Cochrane hit, and of Tyrie’s fury at Cochrane’s mistress being moved to a ward with an RUC protection detail.
‘What’s the craic? Is there another asset among the Ravenhill players?’
Gordon shook his head. ‘Not that I’m aware of – and I don’t think CID would have any grass in there. If we had someone in the group I’d think we’d have been told, but I’ll look into it.’
‘Cheers. You don’t think Cochrane’s a protected bird, do you?’
‘If he’s an asset, he’s not one of ours.’
They began walking back to the car park as the wind picked up whitecaps offshore, rolling them into the angry swell and hurling them back onto the rocks next to the path. Jackie could taste the salt in the air. It was a fresh spring morning, the kind of day to blow cobwebs away.
As they reached their cars, Gordon said, ‘Play it careful, Jackie. If we don’t have an asset in East Belfast Brigade and CID aren’t running a source, it could be Army Intelligence or Five. If it’s MI5, they’ll do anything to keep their asset in play. Watch your back.’
Jackie lit another cigarette as Gordon’s car pulled out of the empty car park. He smoked it to the filter to put some time between their departures, then climbed in behind the wheel and headed for Belfast.
#
He got back to Chesham just before one. When he pulled into the kerb a couple of doors down from Charlene McKee’s house, on the opposite side of the street, he swore softly. Her Fiat was parked out front. She must have come home during lunch break and might have let Shanty leave, if he was up to it.
Jackie settled a little into his seat when he saw two shadows move behind the venetian blinds and cursed that he hadn’t picked up a sandwich on the drive back. He considered lighting up again but his mouth tasted like ash and he was sickened by the tobacco. Drinking too much, now smoking too much, he thought.
He felt for Charlene and the fear and concern she must have felt for Shanty. Brothers had an infinite capacity to visit stress and worry on their sisters and he wondered if Sarah had any sleepless nights fretting over the tightrope he walked in his job.
Thirty minutes later, Charlene McKee left the house and drove off. Another thirty minutes passed and Jackie became restless. If he dropped off the radar for too long, Simpson and Tyrie might get suspicious. He’d have killed for a coffee.
Around forty minutes after his sister had driven off, Shanty walked out the front door and slammed it behind him. Shanty had a short start on Jackie as he fumbled with his door handle and, as quietly as possible, climbed out and locked the Escort. He crouched next to the car and prayed Shanty didn’t recognise the Ford.
Jackie followed him at a jog, controlling his pace and keeping it steady. He turned the corner in time to see Shanty follow the bend of Earl Haig Park towards the shopping thoroughfare of the Cregagh Road.
It was difficult to maintain a discreet distance without alerting Shanty, and the smokes weren’t helping. Jackie’s breath was already ragged and there was a dull burn in his chest. Shanty was almost at the top end of Titania Street now, the first in a small grid of terraced housing running parallel to the Cregagh Road. They were less than five minutes’ walk from where James Maguire’s shop had stood. Jackie was swallowing hard and another ragged breath caught him. He tried to clamp his jaws shut and swallow to fight off a cough but he lost control. A harsh, angry bark escaped him.
Shanty turned at the sound. His face was frozen for a moment in an expressionless mask, then moved up through the gears of confusion, recognition and comprehension. He bolted, taking off at pace. Jackie had to leg it around the corner and give chase fast. Shanty could duck down one of the narrow streets splintering off like ribs from a spine and be lost from view. The pavement was deserted but Jackie could see and hear the bustle and noise of the busy Cregagh Road at the end of the terraced streets as he passed them.
Running at full pelt, Shanty looked at ease.
Jackie was finding a rhythm for his breathing now, his back already soaked in sweat. As they neared a T-junction ahead, his legs began to ache from pounding on the split and chipped concrete.
Shanty still looked comfortable up ahead and capable of another gear.
There was a primary school on the corner and Shanty veered left and out of view, almost bowling a couple of kids into the path of a post office van. An old lady walking past with a shopping trolley stopped to check on the kids and yell a reprimand. Jackie lost sight of Shanty behind a hedge and high wooden fence in the moments before he turned the corner, and ran onto the road to avoid the woman and kids. A small car clipped him and screeched to a halt.
He ran on.
Shanty was once again in his sights up ahead, perhaps seven yards in front. The wee bastard was headed for the Cregagh Road, was almost there. A steady stream of traffic was buzzing past up ahead. More kids were being picked up by mothers and grandparents as they finished school. Shanty ran onto the Cregagh Road, literally on the road, to dodge the crowd milling in front of the school.
Jackie followed.
Car horns blared as the two men recklessly headed towards the highest concentration of shops. Someone connected to Billy could easily see them as soon as they neared the local cafés, greengrocers and butchers, Jackie thought. But then Shanty suddenly veered right across the oncoming traffic, heading for a narrow street.
Jackie hissed, ‘Shit! Shit! Shit!’ as he pelted over the broken white line in the middle of the road. A saloon car hit the horn and swerved, and he had the mad thought that he’d die a road traffic statistic. Then he was almost losing his footing as he half tripped onto the kerb on the other side. Thank God there was not an RUC Land Rover in view. The last thing he’d need was interference from a uniformed patrol.
He cursed again. They were leaving the busy road for narrow Ladas Way – which was about 300 yards long and leaned crookedly to the right. At the end of it was the thoroughfare of Ladas Drive. And on Ladas Drive, opposite the end of Ladas Way, was Castlereagh police station. One of the biggest and most heavily fortified RUC stations in Belfast and first port of call for any suspected terrorist to be interrogated. Shanty was headed for the cop shop to seek safety. This could blow Jackie’s cover and compromise him with fellow officers who didn’t know he was undercover Branch. If he were recognised in the station, Shanty would know he was SB. And much as he hated to admit it, there was always the outside chance that one of the rank and file could leak his cover to the UDA.
He sprinted hard. The smokes, the aching legs, the burning lungs were gone. All that remained was the figure ahead, the hood of the jacket bouncing crazily. There were about five yards between them. Jackie’s hands punched the air as he gained. He could almost see the station.
Five yards became three. Jackie forced his legs and lungs to cooperate.
Two yards. The green hood bounced in front of him. The railings of a small playground were coming up on their left. He could hear Shanty’s breathing, now more desperate than his own. The high, blast-proof wall of the station compound was in view at the end of the street. In another couple of moments the upper floors of the station buildings would be in sight. He reached for the hood.
For a moment it went slack in his hand as he grasped it and he thought it had come away from the jacket. He saw Shanty in his mind’s eye sprinting the rest of Ladas Way and heard shouts from the officers on duty in the security sangar lookout posts. Then he realised his momentum had almost overtaken Shanty; the hood was still attached to the jacket and the jacket was still on Shanty. He yanked it hard, swinging the teenager left and into the playground railings, then shoved a hand over Shanty’s mouth and went close to his face.
‘Quiet, now,’ he wheezed. ‘I’m not going to hurt you.’
Shanty’s eyes stared back. Had he heard? Was he too frightened to take in what Jackie had said? There was no one around but a small block of flats sat
opposite, and anyone looking out of an upper window would see them.
‘I’m going to take my hand away from your mouth, okay? Don’t run. I don’t want to hurt you.’ He took his hand away.
Shanty said, ‘What do you fucking want, then?’
‘I saw you being snatched yesterday from Connswater. I’ve been looking for you – I was worried.’
‘Why do you care about me? You were going to kneecap me a while ago.’
‘I was under orders. I didn’t want to do it.’
Shanty gave him a quizzical look. Jackie said, ‘It could bring trouble for the organisation.’
‘Some organisation,’ said Shanty, his face screwed in a sneer. His contempt was almost a physical force.
Jackie took a hold of the zip at the front of Shanty’s jacket and zipped it up to the teenager’s neck. He then grabbed a fistful of material at the back of the jacket and said, ‘Walk into the playground.’
A minute later they were sitting side by side on a pair of children’s swings, rocking gently to the soft groan of the chains hanging from the frame. Shanty began to talk and Jackie lit a cigarette, offering one to the teenager who took it with a nod.
‘It was Rab Simpson, so it was. You saw, they picked me up in Connswater: him, Sam Rainey, some fella called Tommy and another fella – Danny something. They drove me to a bar in Lagan Village and took me up the stairs to a room with a broken oul’ chair in the corner.’
Jackie remembered the night in the drinking club when he’d taken on Peter Rafferty and won the respect of Simpson and the rest.
‘They didn’t touch me at first, like. Just started getting rounds from the bar downstairs. When they’d had a few, they began to slap me about a wee bit. Then Rainey disappears down to the bar and comes back up with a couple of bottles of whiskey. I thought they were going to get full, then really go to town on me.’
He drew deeply on the cigarette and flicked its glowing remains on to the grass a couple of feet away. He exhaled the rest of the smoke in a smooth, continuous stream and shivered, despite the warmth of the spring afternoon.