Dedication
for Enda and Denis
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Dedication
Crisis
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Nellie
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Dog
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Henry
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Pig
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Pat
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Achill
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Chapter 69
Chapter 70
Chapter 71
Chapter 72
Chapter 73
Chapter 74
Chapter 75
Chapter 76
Chapter 77
Chapter 78
Chapter 79
Chapter 80
Chapter 81
Chapter 82
Chapter 83
Chapter 84
Chapter 85
Chapter 86
Chapter 87
Chapter 88
Chapter 89
Chapter 90
Chapter 91
Chapter 92
About the Author
Copyright
About the Publisher
Crisis
1
Fury. Pure fury. The blood was up. Lost the head completely.
Achill, the man from the west. The best sniper the IRA ever seen. All called him Achill, but his name was plain Liam O’Brien. After the da, Big Liam O’Brien, who came out of Achill Island and bore the name before him. So the son was called Achill in his turn, though he was born and reared in Castlebar and he’d never set foot in the place, for the da always said it was a fearful hole.
What was the start of it? The whole wrecking match, that sent so many strong souls roaring down to hell, dogs chewing up the guts ground into the road, birds pecking at the splattered bits of their brains. The way London wanted it to go. The way it always is.
Here’s what. Pig and Achill fell out. The OC and the trigger man. Bad, bad news.
And whose fault was that? Here’s who. One particular Prod farmer from up the country, a man all knew as Crisis Cunningham, who owned the land where they were prepping the job, that Pig had been renting since the ceasefire was called. Ninety-six, this was, the year just turned. The farmer motored down to get back his daughter, for the girl had disgraced him by running away and flinging herself at Pig, after he called in to the house to settle his account the week before. She was shacked up now at his place, doing his washing, cooking his dinner. Whatever else.
So this man Cunningham sent word to Pig and his brother Dog, and he was told to come on down to the farm for a wee chat. The whole squad gathered to hear, round the side of the barn, ducked in under the jut of the roof in case a chopper went over. Stamping away the cold, puffing into their hands.
The old man said his piece, laid it all out. The whole recitation of his credentials and bona fides. No interest in politics of any colour or creed, you pays your money and no questions asked. But he knew better than to frig around with lads the like of them. He hadn’t come empty-handed, no sir. A bag full of cash for Pig, big bundles of sterling twenties, English notes. The keys to his own Merc. The promise of a prize bull, once the next season was done, worth ten or twelve grand itself.
Then it started. The man begged, he plain begged for the young one back, weeping and whining, down on his knees in the wet dung of the yard. ‘She’s hardly fourteen, the light of my life. Please don’t touch her, big man. Not yet a while. Give her a couple more years to be a wee girl. I buried her mother and my mother both this past year. The heart is already tore out of me. I can’t stand losing the last bit of joy I have.’
Nobody knew where to look. It would scunder you to see a grown man like yon choking on his sobs and snotters. They all nudged other, and the mutter went round. ‘Go on there, Pig, let the girl go back home with her da, and we’ll have no more said about it.’
Not Pig. He laughed his big dirty laugh, right in the poor man’s face. ‘Away and shite. I take no orders from muck-savage Orange bastards. The girl stays where she is, and she’ll be doing my ironing and plenty besides till her pubes turn grey, if I want her to. Now get to fuck out of this before you’re carried out.’
He drew his short, snapped off the safety. And away the old man skedaddled, hoofing it down the back lane at a fair old lick.
But the minute he got in home, he lifted the phone to a certain individual. ‘You know I take no sides,’ he says, ‘and I never ask for nothing. But family is family, and I bring in the vote for you here in the townland every election. So this one time, there’s a wee favour you can maybe do for me.’
2
Next thing, the power was off at the farm. And the phone. No sign of anything tampered with. No problems anywhere else. One of them things. Sit it out.
The day after, the water too. When they went to head out to see what was what, a patrol was spotted nearby, rooting around in the bushes. They had to duck back in and lie low, couldn’t take the risk. Word came up that it wasn’t safe below in the town either. The place was suddenly crawling with Brits and peelers, and every one of them lads was on the list. Pig made it known they were to stay out of sight, no matter what. No exceptions.
Fucked, every man jack of them. Stuck on that wee farm up the back of beyond. No plan B neither. Nobody knew they were there, do you see. They daren’t send word to the local Shinners, for fear it might leak out what they were scheming at. Petrol nearly done. Fags running low. The mobile phones out of juice. Rationing the Calor. Three days. Four. Living on stale biscuits and mouldy bread. Hoking through the bins for any oul bit of real grub. Drinking dregs of rainwater. Half of them sick as dogs by the end of the week. Puking up their rings, sweating and raving.
Sitting around in the wet and the cold of the barn and the rotten old house, the boys were at the end of their rope. Time to call off the job and get out of this forsaken shithole, steal away to America to disappear for good. The old talk came back now, of giving up the whole armed struggle as a bad job. It had been going nowhere fast this long time. Cash out and let the fucking Shinners jaw the
ir way to the table, good luck to them.
Pig stayed out of it, away in the back room with his young one. Nobody knew what he thought. Nobody dared go near him.
Achill couldn’t stick it. He took the chance, went up that evening to the box at the crossroads and phoned down to the parochial house. There was a tame curate below he knew could be relied on. The priest said he’d make some enquiries, get to the bottom of things, head up the next day and fill them in. Achill told him he’d be met at the top of the lane and driv up to the farm.
He got all the lads together in the barn, first thing. Dog, Sid, Budd and the Other Jack, Macken, Merrion and old Ned. Pig too, still in a sulk. Sitting there squinting at Achill, saying not a damn thing. The Superser was lit and the kettle on the camping stove and the last of the Jammie Dodgers laid out, the full treatment. They lit their fags and waited. Not a peep out of one of them. Just waiting.
The priest showed up, on the dot. He’d been searched first, then a spud sack over his head and hid down in the back of the car, a blanket across him. Knew exactly where he was heading, but never said a word. He’d done the like a dozen times.
Led into the barn, the spud sack lifted away. Nipping pickles of muck off his jumper, nodding and smiling, hemming and hawing.
‘Now, boys. Before I begin. I’m here as a man of God and a man of peace, to pass on a message and nothing else, and before I do, I want a solemn promise that neither me nor my church will be touched if it’s news that’s not welcome, either now or in years to come. There are some here present who are known to lose the head when things go agin them, or if they don’t, then to hold a grudge till they find a quiet wee time to pay it off, and I want none of that nonsense.’
‘I’ll guarantee your peace,’ says Achill. ‘No fucker, beg your pardon, Father, no bastard here will go near you, not now nor never, so long as I’m alive, even if it’s the boss man himself you lay the blame at.’
‘A good spake,’ says the priesteen. ‘And I’ll hold you to it, for he’s the very one.’
Well. The loudest silence ever you heard. Like the air itself was sucked out of the place. All eyes went to the floor, nobody dared steal a glance nor half a glance at Pig.
‘That man Crisis Cunningham,’ says the priest, ‘who owns this land we’re standing on, and came down here looking his daughter back. You all know he’s a Protestant. And it seems he’s been in contact with a certain politician on the other side of the house that you know and that I know, and who happens to be married to a second cousin of his. A man by the name of Mr Paul Bright. Yes, him. No specifics mentioned, but that man has been asked to pull a few strings, get your water cut off and your power cut off. The security forces told there might be something afoot in the local area, and now you daren’t stir abroad. It looks like you picked the wrong man to pee off. Unless it’s settled pretty damn quick, he’ll spill the beans entirely, is my own opinion, and you’ll be lifted by the RUC in short order, rotting in the Maze for the next twenty years, or else filling up the graveyard before your time like so many of your old compadres, if the army gets wind of what you’re about, ceasefire or no.’
Shitting themselves now. All eyes looked to Pig, but Achill got in first. ‘Don’t be shy, Father. Work away. What have we to do?’
‘My personal advice,’ says the priest, ‘is to take the girl back to the da quick march. Accept nothing off him, but send her home with any cash money you can gather, good clothes, make-up, records, whatever she wants and you can lay your hands on. Get back in the good books as soon as you can, any way you can, and then he’ll call off the dogs, that’s the message I was told. Nothing political, nothing sectarian, just a small personal matter. Your OC there is the only man to blame. Nobody else.’
Well if you’d seen Pig. Rared up and flung his chair at the wall. Toe to the table and Jammie Dodgers flying everywhere. Waste of good biscuits. Tea as well, he near scalded his own brother Dog. Everybody bit their lips and sat tight. Because, what else do you do?
And if you’d heard him. Guldering and gurning. Gnashing and spitting. Rounding on the lot of them.
‘The fuck is this shite? A fucking Jaffa sending a fucking priest down here to tell me where to point my fucking prick? Every volunteer among us has a young thing on the go, and that’s his right as a man on the run, and as a soldier of destiny kept away from his home place night after night while he’s fighting hard for his nation. And now I’ve to give up mine? Well it’s not fair lads, it’s not fucking fair! I’m fond of that girl. And she’s cracked on me. If I’d to choose, I’d take her over my own wife, any day of the week! I tell you this. Priests never bring good news. Never have, never will. The Catholic Church is a blight on the Irish people, worse than the fucking Brits! I curse the black day St Patrick came ashore in this country!’
That took the lid off. The lot of them all started in now, waving their arms and shouting other down.
Pig smacked his blackthorn on the tin wall, rap rap rap, shut them all back up.
‘Would youse let me finish, to fuck! Can a man not let off a bit of smoke without a crowd of oul women start yabbering round him!
‘So.
‘Listen up.
‘Fair or not, I know the score. If it’s for the good of these men and the good of the cause, then you’ll get no argument from me. Back she goes to her fucking da.’
Well, the looks of them. Like bold children you’d just told that Santy was coming after all.
And that should have been the end of it. They would have gone to their beds happy, and all concerned would be alive today to tell their own tale.
No such luck. This is Pig we’re talking about. ‘But I’ll tell youse what else.’ And there was whisht again. ‘No way am I doing without. Away off now and find me another, and look smart about it.’ That wiped the stupid smiles off their gobs. ‘You hear confessions, Holy Joe, you know well who the Provie sluts are in this here place, the ones that cream their knickers every time a Brit gets plugged. I want names and addresses, wrote out. Hair colour, size of tits, what school, the ma and da and the whole connection. When the heat’s off I’ll drive around and scope them out, make my choice. And when I have, you may go down yourself and bring the glass slipper.’
My God. If you’d seen the goes-ons of the priest. Hopping and stammering. Sweating like a sow. And the men no better.
All looked to Achill. None other dared a word, not even Dog.
‘Well houl on, Pig,’ says Achill, raising his hands, easy enough, only making a point. ‘Houl on there one wee second, just. No entanglements in the local area, you know the form. Word gets about, people ask questions, stick their noses in. We’re to lie low, draw no attention. Now, once we’re finished our business, it’s a different story. You can have any girl you want that time. Line them up and take your pick. When this here job is done, they’ll be flinging themselves at you. Three and four at a time, if you want them. Don’t you worry, there’ll be no shortage of easy women after.’
Pig stood his ground, laughed his hard oul laugh again. ‘Typical devious backhanded talk out of you, Achill. Connaughtmen are all the same. You get to keep your piece while I have to do without? No fucking way. If there isn’t a girl to be had round here, then I’ll just have to requisition Sid’s girl off him, or Budd’s. Aye, or why not your own wee Brigid?’
Achill. The face on him.
But Pig wised himself up, turned his back. Kept the head. He could when he needed to.
‘No more rowing in front of the stranger,’ says Pig. ‘Time enough for that. There’s serious business here. Sid, Achill, some of you, take that young one of mine back to her fucking da, say what needs to be said. Get us back up and running by first light tomorrow, or I’ll want to know why not.’
‘You treacherous, backstabbing cunt,’ says Achill.
The mercury dropped a few more degrees. Nobody moved a muscle. Nobody took a breath.
They’d all been waiting on the like. This one was coming a while.
Oh,
the blood was up now. The famous fury boiling in his belly. You could near hear it.
‘Say that again,’ says Pig. Real cool and calm, keeping his powder dry.
‘Pig by name,’ says Achill, ‘and pig by nature. Stubborn as you’re filthy.’ He spat, and stepped round Pig, facing him now, toe to toe, nose to nose. ‘I say it to your ugly phiz, once and for all. You’re not fit to lead this squad. You’re nothing but a crooked oul culchie hoor, same as the rest. Thinking of nothing and nobody except yourself, your wallet, and your dick. And here you prove it in the sight of all. How is any soldier of Ireland meant to take orders from a self-centred ignorant fat coward like you?’
That was the priest out the door.
Nobody else so much as twitched. All knew the two of them were carrying. This might go any way at all.
‘The fuck are you whingeing about now?’ says Pig, soft as you like. ‘Did Mammy forget to change your nappy?’
‘You say you’ll take my girl away,’ says Achill, ‘and I tell you plain, I won’t have it. My own wee girl, who came after me, of her own free will, because of what I done. Yes, what I done! Not what you done! I’m the trigger man! I’m the one any decent Irish girl wants to ride, plain and simple! Your skanky wee bitch only hangs round you because you hang round me, that’s the truth you can’t face hearing!’
And that was him off the lead. No road back. That man had no reverse.
‘You’ll do exactly as I order you,’ says Pig, ‘and you’ll say Thank You Sir at the end of it.’
‘I’ll tell you what else,’ says Achill, the fury flowing free in him now. ‘I’m the one getting blood on my hands in this here squad, and a life sentence hanging over my head! I’m the one that’s kept the Brits off these roads this nine long years, shiteing themselves in case the Border Sniper gets them! I’m the one that means the peelers won’t come within a hound’s gowl of us, for fear of the same! And all through them nine long years, any time we done over a post office or a bookies, you reported a half the amount and kept the most of the haul for yourself! You’ll tell me every OC does the same, and the men are glad to get what they get. And I’m not arguing that. But what’s given me is mine! What little comes my way from this shitty way of life, I mean to keep a hold of! And now you say you’ll take the girl off me, do you? And I’m supposed to sit here like a child and take that, am I? Two words for you. Just. Try. And while I’m at it, here’s two more. Fuck. You. Up your yellow fucking hole.’
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