Chico from the 1970s nicknamed him ‘Budgie’, because he sang to the RUC when arrested in 1977 for his part in the attempted murder of a Major in the Gordon Highlanders. He was sentenced to 12 years’ jail.
Some staunch IRA members believed he should have been dismissed from the organisation with ignominy, because he had breached the IRA’s part 1 orders for accepting the authority of a British court and pleading guilty to attempted murder, wounding an officer and possessing a rifle and ammunition. Most IRA men brought before British courts refuse to accept the court’s authority, and do not utter a word.
I also knew his companion, James ‘Jim’ McCarthy, a slim-built man in his 30s with a moustache, who also had a reputation for organising and taking part in punishment beatings. Some years earlier he had also been disciplined, undergoing a kneecapping by an IRA punishment squad. He was known as one of the men who would interrogate victims before deciding their punishment. He also liked to think he had the reputation of being a ladies’ man. In reality, most women despised McCarthy for they believed he would take advantage of his authority to try and seduce them. In 1977, James McCarthy had been found guilty of possessing arms and ammunition and was sentenced to five years jail.
Both Hamilton and McCarthy have since become the most trusted henchmen of Sinn Fein President Gerry Adams, employed as his personal bodyguards. They would accompany Adams to Dublin Airport at the start of his controversial ‘peace’ trip to the United States in September 1994.
Jim asked me, ‘Marty, are you waiting for Podraig?’
‘Aye, I am. Why?’
‘Podraig sent us to tell you that he’s sorry he can’t see you now. You can either go away and make another appointment or we could take you to see him now?’
For two seconds I thought about the option. I knew that if these two fellas tried to take me away I would beat the shit out of them and walk away with only a few bruises for they were both all mouth and no trousers. I also thought that if Podraig was happy for me to come back another day then the matter couldn’t be that serious.
‘OK, I’ll go with you,’ I said, and walked out of the office and down the steps to the road. On the way out Jim McCarthy asked, casually, ‘Marty, did you have a car with you?’
‘No,’ I replied, ‘I took a black taxi.’
But that question alarmed me, for I remembered what Felix had said.
The three of us walked out of Connolly House and around the corner to a white, four-door Ford Fiesta. Jim McCarthy drove, Chico sat in the passenger seat and I clambered in the back.
Jim drove faster than I expected, speeding through traffic lights that had just turned red, making it difficult for a pursuing car to keep up. But I knew that Felix’s SB-trained drivers would have no difficulty in keeping track of me. But the fact that Jim drove so furiously worried me. I began to feel I had made a mistake. I should have decided to return another day.
Deliberately, I never looked behind me because that would have given the game away. I kept looking at other vehicles, wondering if any Branch men were in them, expecting a car to ram us at any moment, so that in the confusion I could be separated from Jim and Chico and spirited away. The further we drove, the more lonely, isolated and vulnerable I felt.
Chico never stopped talking throughout the ten-minute journey, pretending to be chatty and friendly, obviously trying to put me at ease. They both knew that I had a reputation for violence if I was ever in a desperate situation.
We drove out of Andersonstown, through Suffolk and into Twinbrook, a mainly residential area south-west of Belfast. We came to a halt outside a small block of four-storey flats in Broom Park, a quiet road which seemed deserted.
Jim McCarthy jumped out of the car, slammed the door and ran into the block of flats.
Chico said, ‘Come on Marty, follow him,’ and I got out and I walked behind him into the block.
IRA graffiti covered the walls and doors in different coloured chalks and paints and the block smelt of stale urine. I walked through the brown front door of a flat on the third floor and closed it behind me.
I noticed another man, a stranger, in the kitchen talking in a whisper to Jim McCarthy. Jim came out and said, ‘Marty, Podraig isn’t here yet but he won’t be too long.’
The three men walked back into the kitchen and I stood there waiting. Then they turned and came out again.
‘Listen,’ said Jim, ‘Provisional IRA. You’re under arrest.’
I could see them shaking. Then McCarthy pulled out a hand-gun. ‘Lie face down on the floor,’ he said, ‘and don’t try anything,’ as I felt the stub of the automatic pushed against my head.
At that moment, I thought they were about to pull the trigger and I was a goner.
Seconds passed and I was still alive. Then I felt one of them pulling off my trainers.
‘Empty your pockets,’ I was told, and did so with considerable difficulty, as I was lying on my stomach.
‘Jesus Christ!’ someone shouted, fear in his voice. ‘Fucking car keys. I thought you didn’t have a car with you.’
‘I didn’t,’ I lied. ‘They belong to a lorry.’
In one of my pockets I had a bundle of 50 £10 notes, and my driving licence. They told me to get up, walk over to the settee and lie face down. I could see Chico taking the laces out of my trainers. He could hardly remove the laces he was shaking so much and kept telling me, ‘Don’t try anything, Marty; don’t try anything.’
Chico tied my hands together in front of my body but fumbled when he tried to tie the knot. Then he tied the other laces around my ankles, binding them together. I realised that with very little effort I would be able to release the laces.
At the time, I was amazed how inefficient and disorganised they were, having to use my own laces to tie my hands and feet. I wondered how they would have tied my hands and feet if I had been wearing a pair of casual slip-ons that day.
I suddenly saw the whole ghastly business as a comedy – Jim and Chico shaking and nervous, fiddling with my laces, unable to tie a knot, and Jim, waving the hand-gun about, telling me over and over again not to ‘try anything’. I began to laugh at the thought, perhaps from nerves. But I did laugh and I looked at them. They looked at each other in disbelief, not knowing what to think was going on.
‘Get a blanket, get a blanket,’ Jim said and Chico left the room, collected a blanket and threw it over my head. It seemed to reassure them that they couldn’t see my face any more.
Five minutes later, McCarthy disappeared and I presumed he had gone to telephone someone to tell them their mission had been accomplished. Chico, meanwhile, sat on the end of the settee and every few seconds told me, ‘Remember, Marty, we’ve got a gun in the kitchen, so don’t try anything.’
The room became stifling and I could hardly breathe under the blanket. After ten minutes or so, Chico
got up, went to the kitchen and returned with a newspaper. From under the blanket I could now see most of the room and the young lad who was sitting in a chair opposite me, reading a book. I could hear a radio, tuned to a music station, and I listened to the love songs and melodies and thought of young people leading happy, carefree lives, enjoying life and in love with someone. And, unbelievably, I found myself smiling at my present predicament, tied and trussed like a turkey, waiting for a bullet in the back of the head.
Chico had fallen silent and, as the time dragged on, I could hear the sound of young children playing in the street below. My thoughts turned to little Martin and Podraig and I bit my lip, desperate to quell the tears that swelled in my eyes as I became convinced that I would never see them again.
I cursed myself for stepping so pathetically into the trap, agreeing to come to see Wilson. I should have known when McCarthy asked whether I had brought a car to the meeting that my days were numbered.
Three hours later, I asked whether I could have a glass of water. The young lad went and found a glass and brought it to me. Still lying on my stomach, the lad fed me the water which I d
rank with difficulty, and which tasted stale and tepid. At no time, however, had either of them threatened me or given me a hard time – McCarthy had still not returned.
As the minutes ticked away I began to lose faith in Felix and the Branch. I believed that if they had intended to rescue me, they would have intervened before now. I knew they must have known my whereabouts precisely, and I could not understand why I had heard nothing – no helicopters, no RUC sirens, no army activity.
I could not imagine that Felix would simply throw me to the wolves after all we had been through together. I had trusted him with my life and now that I needed him, he had let me down, doing nothing to rescue me. Only that morning he had promised to keep a watch over me and protect me. He had claimed that no harm would come to me and now when I needed him … nothing. I had never felt so alone in my life.
At least twice in the hours I lay there, I heard Brian Adams’ famous song, Everything I do, I do for you, the song that Angie and I loved listening to during our drives into the country together. I could feel my chin twitching as I fought to hold back the tears that filled my eyes.
I think it was about four or five hours later that I heard a helicopter hovering over the estate and I looked up through the net curtains to see the chopper above us. Outside, I heard an army foot patrol and a dog bark. I heard an English voice shout, ‘Shut up,’ and my heart leapt with hope, convincing myself that rescue was at hand.
I waited anxiously for someone to come bursting through the door, but nothing happened. The chopper flew off and the sound of the foot patrol disappeared into the distance. My hopes dropped once more.
Thirty minutes later, I heard someone coming up the stairs and a knock at the door. The young lad answered it and I thought my time had come. I expected loads of people to come in, members of the IRA Civil Administration Team, but it was only McCarthy returning. And he was alone.
He said, ‘There’s fucking Army and DMSUs all over the place. I had to hang about outside before I came in, waiting for the fuckers to go away.’
They all went into the kitchen and I could hear Land Rovers driving around outside the block of flats. I knew then that Felix was doing everything in his power to find me, but I also knew that he would not have known my precise location. It had become a race against time.
I heard the radio announcer say it was 5.30pm and I realised that I had been lying on the settee for nearly seven hours.
I was desperate to go to the toilet and decided to ask them.
The young lad came in, untied my hands and showed me where it was. My ankles were still tied so I hopped to the lavatory.
As I hopped into the bathroom and approached the toilet, I noticed the bath, full to the brim of crystal-clear water. I knew that one of the IRA’s favourite tortures was putting a man’s head underwater and keeping it there until the man was barely conscious. Then they would bring him out, question him again and force his head back into the bath, keeping the ritual of torture going until the man passed out completely or gave them the confession they demanded.
I realised then that if I did not escape from the flat, I would be faced with that horrific torture and probably others. I doubted whether I would have the strength to survive, to keep denying that I had ever worked for the Branch. I knew then that it was only a matter of time until the Interrogation unit walked in and began their deadly work, using whatever methods at their disposal to make me talk. They were experts; they didn’t care what they did to a man as long as he confessed. It didn’t matter if the man was innocent or guilty. By the time they had finished, they would either have a confession or the man was dead.
I told myself that if I stayed in the flat, death was a near certainty and I convinced myself, in my terror, that I would be unable to take the beatings, the cigarette burns or the torture without confessing. And I knew that the moment I confessed, I would be shot in the back of the head.
I looked at the sitting-room window, wondering exactly how far I was from the ground. I tried to remember how many floors we had walked up that morning. I had no idea what was below that window – concrete, parked cars, trees, shrubs or grass.
All I could see as I looked out of the window was the horizon, no trees, no houses, not even a block of flats. That screamed at me that I must be 40 or more feet above ground level. It didn’t matter. I decided that I would risk all and throw myself through the glass, risking probable death rather than face the tortures who would do all in their power to make my death as long and agonising as possible.
At that moment I thought of my sister, Kathy, who had died when I was just a kid. ‘Jesus, Kathy,’ I said under my breath, ‘if you’re looking down, take care of me.’
I glanced in the kitchen and they were still looking out of the window, watching the army activity below. I said to myself, ‘This is your only chance, Marty … take it, take it.’
My feet were still bound together, so I hopped out of the bathroom, across the hallway and into the sitting-room. Before me was the window and I jumped as high as I could, hurling myself head-first at the window pane.
I don’t even remember hitting the glass …
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
I CAN REMEMBER A WOMAN HOLDING MY HEAD IN HER ARMS, saying ‘you’re going to be OK, love, you’re going to be OK.’
I looked around my body and all I could see was blood, blood everywhere – my shirt was covered, my trousers were covered, and I could feel blood pouring down my face, the taste in my mouth and in my throat. My mind was swirling as I struggled to remain conscious. But I knew I had survived. I awoke in a room to see Felix and Mo standing by my bedside looking down at me. Though somewhat concussed, I can remember feeling a great sense of relief that my Special Branch friends had finally arrived and my life would no longer be in danger.
‘Are you awake, Marty?’ I heard Felix say.
‘Aye, I think so,’ I replied.
‘Don’t say anything now,’ he advised. ‘You’re OK; you’re in hospital; you’re safe; we’ll see you later.’
I slept again and awoke not knowing how many hours or days had passed. I began to look around me, felt pain and throbbing in my left arm and realised that I had been roughly stitched. My head was stitched and heavily bandaged and I tried to recall what had happened and how I had arrived in hospital.
Nurses and doctors came to see me and talk to me. They told me that I had been found on the ground outside a block of flats, and they had been told that I had fallen from a third-floor window. I listened to what they said, but my mind was fuzzy and I wasn’t sure what had happened. They told me that they had had to cut all my clothes from my body.
After consultations with the doctors, I was taken by ambulance from the Royal Victoria Hospital to Musgrave Park, a hospital which I later learned was permanently guarded by the RUC. The doctors who examined me at Musgrave told me I was fortunate to be alive and lucky not to be suffering from any life-threatening injuries. They told me that I was suffering from a deep wound to my left side, caused when I crashed through the window; I had wounds and lacerations to my head, a fractured jaw, broken teeth and severe concussion from the impact of hitting the grass head first after leaping from a height of 40 feet. They also told me I had been unconscious for ten days.
Some hours later, I was again examined by doctors who told me that the Special Branch had asked that if I was well enough they would prefer me to be moved to Palace Barracks, Holywood, a secure army base where British army families live during their tour of duty in the Province.
The doctors gave permission for Mo to take me in his car, because there were armed SB officers in two other vehicles. They were taking no chances. I was wrapped in nothing but a hospital blanket and, as Mo drove, I had no idea where we were going. I would regain consciousness for a couple of minutes and then drift back into sleep throughout the journey. With us in the car were two more armed SB officers.
First I was taken to Castlereagh, and spent two or three hours sitting in an armchair in a Chief
Inspector’s office while senior officers decided where I should be sent. Still in a daze, I was put in another car and driven to the army barracks where a senior Special Branch officer I had never met before came to see if I was OK. Before he left, he gave instructions that I should be moved once again because he considered my accommodation to be too near the perimeter fence and vulnerable to possible attack.
Throughout the next week or so, Felix and Mo would come to see me and chat, and I felt myself growing stronger and more in control. My brain began to clear and, slowly, I pieced together everything that had happened.
Felix told me what happened that day. During the car journey from Connolly House the Branch pursuit cars had lost me in traffic but knew I was somewhere in the Twinbrook area. He had ordered up two helicopters to hover over the area, and they directed the army and RUC foot patrols. They were drafted in not only to search for me, but also to ensure that an IRA interrogation team would not be able to infiltrate the area to question me. His plan had worked, for no other IRA personnel had managed to reach the block of flats where I was held.
He told me how the three IRA men holding me had raced down the stairs after I had jumped, and began to drag me across the grass by my legs in an effort to get me back into the flat. Something, however, had alarmed them, and they instantly dropped my limp body, ran to a waiting car and made good their escape. Whether the three men believed me to be dead or whether the arrival of an army patrol had scared them, he could not say, but Special Branch sources later discovered that the men had immediately fled across the border to Dundalk.
Later, I heard what had happened on the day I had been kidnapped. My mother, Angie and other relatives toured hospitals in and around Belfast trying to find me. But the Special Branch had taken away all my hospital records in case the IRA tried to find me and kidnap me again. In the past, IRA squads had sometimes been known to walk into hospitals, threaten the staff with guns and abduct someone they wanted to interview.
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