The junior party official who expressed these rather too-frank opinions was replaced a few phone calls later by someone with more tact and experience at handling this sort of thing; but the damage had been done. Evening editions of newspapers reported in outraged tones that according to the CD party, McDonald “had it coming”, and even a television appearance by Big Sam - the CD leader, the grim-faced but well-respected Samuel Christie - failed to halt the tidal wave of public censure.
*****
“You really think they’re going to do it?” asked the junior minister. “People like that are always talking big and making threats, aren’t they? Surely it’s just that they have an inflated sense of their own importance. They know they’re the last piece in the Ulster jigsaw.”
“There’s no telling what they’ll do,” said the intelligence officer. “They’re all a bunch of psychos. The peace dividend means nothing to them.”
“But the possibility they’ll use the stuff can’t be real, can it?” demanded Jun Min. “Surely this is just hot air - they’re trying to intimidate each other-”
“Sir,” said Int Off, “the bombs have been built. There’s no doubt about that. And they’re certainly capable of detonating them, in my judgment.”
“But why now?” wailed Jun Min. “Why now? Just when things were so hopeful -”
“I can’t tell you anything more,” said Int Off in a cold voice that seemed to imply disapproval of his superior’s lack of control. “Our intelligence on this is cast iron.”
Jun Min paced up and down wringing his hands, muttering what might have been prayers or oaths. “If only McDonald wasn’t out of the picture!” he said. He stopped suddenly and announced decisively: “This is too big a matter for someone of my limited authority to handle. I’ll ring Crispin - no, wait - I’ll leave it for another hour. If it all turns out to be a false alarm, it’ll make me look very bad, and if the press should get hold of it -”
“Sir!” said Int Off in a voice that was not far short of a parade-ground bawl, “We cannot afford to waste time! A decision has to be made right now! I need your permission to get a couple of teams in there and take those madmen out before something happens that will make any further consideration of your career profoundly pointless!”
Jun Min retreated before the fire in the other’s face. “Can you do it?” he asked desperately. “Can you get rid of them cleanly?”
“It might already be too late,” said Int Off. “But we’re the only hope there is now.”
“Okay,” said Jun Min. “Do it.” As his subordinate turned to the door, he added: “Wait!”
Int Off hesitated.
“What about the general public? Should I have some kind of warning issued?”
“That,” said Int Off, “is not my problem. Sir. If your people have been doing their jobs, there should be procedures worked out in advance for that sort of thing. Whether there are or not - well, how should I know?”
The door slammed.
“Procedures,” said Jun Min to himself. He turned to a row of filing cabinets and opened the bottom drawer of one that was hardly ever touched. He lifted out a folder near the back of the drawer, and a handful of faded leaflets entitled Protect and Survive fluttered to the floor.
*****
Barry McCandless went to the same pub the next evening.
The first people he saw as he walked in were the brunette and the redhead, both looking absolutely stunning and both, unfortunately, appearing to recognise him. He did not suppose he could regard their smiles as in any way encouraging.
The first thing he heard, apart from the usual background noise of the pub, was a large number of the clientele joining in a chorus struck up by Tompo of “Shot Down In Flames”.
Barry turned around and walked straight back out.
*****
Carson Rodden lay on his back in his sleeping bag, watching wisps of cloud drifting across the stars. He had begun the night inside his tent, but a growing feeling of restlessness had driven him out to settle in a hollow in the ground next to the remains of his campfire; being able to see the night sky gave him at least some sense of connection with the rest of the world. He could neither see nor hear the city that was just over the horizon.
He had his radio earbuds in, but the little speakers were silent; radio reception was both poor up here in this particular nook of the Cave Hill, and the only stations he could find were broadcasting fidget-inducing music or chat radio so banal that he was amazed the participants themselves could sustain any interest in their conversations. He had tolerated this for a couple of hours, hoping to hear a news report of a major terrorist incident having been foiled; then his patience was exhausted and he turned the radio off.
Even without looking at his mobile, he knew it must be well past two in the morning. Sleep stubbornly refused to come. It is not easy to relax when you believe that this night might be your last.
He was not at all confident that the Police would take his tip seriously; an oblique reference (in a conversation he heard only in snatches) by a man whose habit it was to threaten his enemies in hyperbolic terms was not much for detectives to go on. Carson was not even sure if his anonymous message had even been heard by anyone yet, and the more he thought about it, the more that seemed likely: messages left via the Police’s confidential phone line would surely be played back at the beginning of the next duty period, wouldn’t they, rather than piecemeal, as they came in?
Well; if Belfast was in the sort of trouble he thought it might be in, the far side of the Cave Hill seemed to him to be as good a place as any to ride it out. If nothing happened, then he’d had a night out under the stars, and could size up the situation in the morning. If the cops did swoop, though, and the Bossman put two and two together, a discreet little cave somewhere in the mountain might be the best place for a grass to be.
But the outlook surely wasn’t completely grim. Even if (God forbid) the Big One happened, he could see there might be a bright side: streets upon streets of shops just waiting to be plundered, flashy cars waiting to be driven away, and opportunity for any number of scams; people would need all sorts of things, and he could see himself stepping into the role of Mr Fixit very nicely.
A lot of things were going to need fixing. As long as he wasn’t one of them, he’d be alright.
*****
The poster party was enormously successful. Less than forty-eight hours after the idea had first occurred to him, (prefaced, naturally, by a celebratory toast or three to his barbed wit) Gerry Marshall and his fellow members of the University Of Ulster’s Anti-bull Society were creeping around each of the towns in the Triangle, pasting their piece de resistance to every lamp post they passed. (At least, they began by creeping; it is, of course, quite difficult to maintain discreet behaviour as one becomes progressively more drunk, which was one reason why the party retired to Gerry’s lodgings at about 3:00 AM.) Identical notices were being posted in The Big Smoke too, and in half a dozen other places between here and there.
From the moment the party began, Gerry’s mood was never less than one of elation. The fanatics were at last going to find out just what reasonable people thought of them. It was time for a zero tolerance policy.
At about four o’clock, someone turned on Gerry’s portable TV just in time to hear the fag-end of a news report about what had happened to McDonald in Paris; preoccupied through most of the day before, the Society had missed everything.
Gerry’s mood would certainly have been dampened by the news, but he didn’t get to hear it; by 4:00 AM he was fast asleep, and when he finally woke up, his TV didn’t seem to be working.
*****
Half an hour later, Barry McCandless was ambling home from a drink-and-video session at Tompo’s flat. The last bus had long since gone, he didn’t have enough money for a taxi, and Tompo would neither lend him cash nor put him up for the night.
He stopped to look at one of the posters and fumbled in his jacket pocket for a black marker
he sometimes carried, supposing the bill to be an announcement about some political meeting or an advertisement for a local no-hoper rock band’s latest album. The marker seemed to deliberately evade him; he read the poster while he searched for it.
In the end, he gave up and walked on, his destructive urge frustrated.
*****
It was around 5:00 AM that people began to be disturbed by messages announced via bullhorn from roaming Police cars: “Attention! Remain in your homes. Lock all doors, keep all curtains drawn, and do not panic.” So, did they remain calm? Well, what do you think?
Folks in North Belfast heard a bit more than they were meant to when someone forgot he still had his finger on the button.
“Have you read this? ‘At the earliest opportunity, report for census to the nearest municipal building still standing and staffed-’ ”
“Here, you’re not supposed to announce that page.”
“I’m not, I’m just – oh!”
After a moment’s embarrassed silence, it resumed with a short squeal of feedback: “There will be radio bulletins bringing everyone up to date on the current situation later this morning, and further announcements made as matters develop. Um, ignore the bit before this. Nobody go anywhere. Yet. Just stay at home, I mean. Until you’re told different. Over.”
*****
Victor Grimley got out of bed crossly, trudged over to the window, and pulling one of the curtains aside, squinted beyond the streetlamp immediately outside his house. He could see that people in other houses were pulling curtains or tilting blinds to get a better look at what was going on; but whoever was making the announcement was by now cruising along the next street, and there was nothing to see.
Behind him, his wife stirred. “What is it?” she said. “Who was that? Is it the Water Board again?”
“No,” said Victor. “They’re not called that anymore.”
Mrs Grimley knew her husband was deliberately trying to exasperate her, and replied in kind. “The Northern Ireland Aqueous Affairs Department, then. Is it them?”
He gawked one last time at his neighbours before turning away from the window; they gawked right back. “Practical jokers. Go back to sleep.” He climbed into bed, muttering: “Characters like that should be strung up, annoying decent people for no good reason - I’m going to write a letter to somebody about this.”
The letter was never written, of course. Victor and his wife had no idea what hit them.
*****
A rather sorry-looking figure stumbled in through the doors of the Royal Victoria Hospital’s A&E unit. He attracted less attention than he had anticipated; most of those present mistook him for a wino tramp, and made a deliberate effort not to notice him unless he passed by too closely.
Even the receptionist declined to lift her head more than once when checking him in. She had seen some pretty grim things in A&E over the years, and had learned the best way to cope was not to look too closely. “Name, please?”
“I’ve been burned,” he told her.
Somehow, without him being aware of her approach, there was a nurse at his elbow. She led him to a curtained-off booth and made him sit down. “Scalded, you mean?”
“No, burned,” he insisted.
“Those patches on your face look like scald marks to me,” the nurse said, scolding: “and they didn’t happen this morning either! Why did you wait so long before coming to have them seen to?”
“They conned me,” he muttered.
“What’s that?”
“What a mug I’ve been,” he said, this time even more indistinctly.
The nurse had little time to waste listening to this sort of thing; in her opinion a story that couldn’t be heard wasn’t worth telling. “Where else have you been scalded?” she asked, brisk and businesslike.
“Burned everywhere,” he said. “Burned inside and out.”
She took off his coat and began unbuttoning his shirt.
“I volunteered to stand guard over it,” he said, his eyes glazing. “I thought I was taking the easy duty. I wondered why they were so surprised and pleased with me.”
The nurse considered it unprofessional to gasp at a patient’s injuries, so contented herself with staring for a little bit longer than she really ought. She gathered herself again. “Well! A wee bandage isn’t going to do here! I’m going to fetch the doctor now, okay? I’ll be back in two ticks.”
“That’s all I want,” said the man. “That’s all there is left.”
“Sorry?”
“One last lie down,” he said. “Peace and quiet. Medical treatment while it’s still available.”
“Right,” said the nurse. “I see.”
He took her by the arm; fresh blood from under his nails smeared along the sleeve of her uniform. He looked at her with one bloodshot eye and one blood-filled one. “You’ll be in demand soon. More than you can cope with.” His fingers relaxed and his eyes glazed again. “If you make it.”
PART 2: Nuke
REWARDS OFFERED
Your country is suffering.
We are facing the most serious crisis we have ever confronted. Our right to sensible, just self-government is being seriously undermined - and not merely by enemies from without, but by filthy traitors within our midst.
The “Lemming” attitude to life, with its repressively Victorian rules and regulations, long recognised by experts as mind-cramping and fascist, has been allowed to persist too long. Its true tendencies have become plain for all to see. Our land is on its knees because of these people. Don’t be fooled by their pseudo-liberal talk of tolerance. TOLERANCE IS COUNTER-SURVIVAL.
The only way to avoid toppling into the abyss we are facing is to be bold and ruthless. The Government is now offering generous rewards to those courageous enough to take the appropriate action. We are determined to be free of these fanatics once and for all. Regrettably, the only way forward is a “Dead Or Alive” policy.
Declare war on this crippling blight.
ZERO TOLERANCE!
*****
“WAR - there always seems to be another just around the corner, doesn’t there? True, the human race is continuing to make progress generally, but until I’ve seen a bit more improvement in this area, I’d advise you to exhibit a healthy scepticism towards anybody who tells you that the meek will inherit the Earth.”
- from “Instant Wisdom” by G.C. Campbell.
*****
The start of the war (most commentators agreed afterwards) probably had something to do with terrorists… Surprise, surprise. The Irish paramilitaries had probably confided about their new acquisition to old Libyan acquaintances, who whispered to the Islamic Fundamentalists, who made false boasts about similar capabilities to intimidate their enemies, who raised an alarm that was not heard by enough of the right sort of people (never mind taken seriously) - though some of the wrong sort, such as those on the Indian sub-continent who sat itching to use their shiny new nuclear missiles, could see a marvelous opportunity to obliterate some rather annoying neighbours if everyone else was either preoccupied with blowing themselves into orbit or quite sensibly hiding, like the East European Mafiosi who had, according to rumour, started the ball rolling by supplying the Irish terrorists with weapons-grade plutonium and a little technical advice.
The question of who was responsible was, in the end, entirely academic. It was impossible to be certain, because too many of those in the know were not subsequently available for interview. Interviews with corpses do tend to be unfruitful.
Yet there was consensus about one thing at least: Lewis McDonald could have prevented it all, or at the very least minimised the scale of the disaster. No matter how difficult a situation was or how abrasive the antagonists were, his cool, sharp-minded approach had never failed to have a beneficial effect.
But he was lying at death’s door, and everyone knew whose fault that was.
*****
Dermot Reilly was not a terrorist - at least, not in his own opinion -
and certainly to suggest he had any part in beginning the war would have been a vile calumny. How could he? This honourable, principled, dedicated man, who believed in peace, justice, and freedom, hadn’t finished the last one yet.
True, he was rather resisting something of a tidal wave in trying to stand firm against all this blether about leaving the past behind, especially since it was not just a done deal, but a done deal with cobwebs on. He knew he and his few like-minded colleagues were isolated; historical detritus that hadn’t been washed away yet. Still, it seemed utterly unbelievable to him that the leadership had even been able to entertain the notion of setting aside the armed struggle after all this time. How could they have done it when victory was just around the corner? How was talk and co-operation going to bring a United Ireland? If only they had waited a little longer - just given the Brits a few more firm boots up the rear...
So much, he thought bitterly, for all that tough rhetoric about seeing the North destroyed utterly before giving in to the enemy. It was apparent to him now that only the crazies in the hard-line splinter groups had ever really meant it. He remembered the rumours of a few years back that somebody had somehow managed to get hold of three or four pounds of plutonium. It was too bad that they were only that: rumours. A shiver went up and down his spine as he thought of what might be done with stuff like that. Just imagine turning the North of Ireland into the biggest Ulster Fry of all time!
Dermot did not have the ear of the right people, which was the reason why he was where he was now: taking matters into his own hands just like Pearse, Connolly and the other heroes of the 1916 Easter Rising. He and a few others, with the help of a handful of weapons “borrowed” from a certain source, were about to take up where a weak-willed leadership was leaving off. It wouldn’t be long before another state-paid hood was away for his tea.
Fanatics: Zero Tolerance Page 3