A Traitor in the Family

by Nicholas Searle

The walk into Carrickcloghan took just over half an hour. It was a desolate, mean little place now, with everything gone, stripped down, malevolent as it waited to die. Perhaps it had always been like this, but her recollection was different. It had never been a place to come to unless there was a specific reason, but it had been comfortable, to her at least, familiar, quiet and safe, where a body would greet another body and share the time of day. This was how she remembered it. Until the Troubles erupted. Bridget knew her history. What Irish child didn’t? The British had been unspeakably unjust and cruel to her people, she knew, and could not be trusted. But all this violence. She had no idea how to compute the politics of it – if politics was something to compute – let alone to explain her continued contact with Sarah. She reduced it to the small picture, knowing all along that that was selfish, an enterprise to see herself out of this place. At other times she thought of it as a small gesture against all this misery and death, an inchoate part of a whole she did not remotely comprehend. Then it came down to a simple choice between two people: did she trust Francis and his way more than Sarah and hers?

  Nothing quaint about this place now. The British soldiers no longer patrolled here, not for a long time. Nor did the police. When the security forces came to town it was a heavily armed, green-and-khaki, grim circus. They set up their checkpoints, though, clad in their body armour, pointing their guns at you while you fumbled for your papers. They watched from their outposts, which were sprouting all along the border: heavily defended towers crammed full, it was rumoured, of cameras and telephoto lenses, of infrared sensors and video recorders, of notebooks and computers on which the smallest movements of each inhabitant were recorded and logged. Each man, woman and child had a separate file, whether innocent or guilty or in-between, so the story went, and she could well believe it. A measure of the oppression, so Sinn Féin had it. Yet beneath this scrutiny somehow normal life carried on. Cattle were milked, bread was baked, boys and girls went to school and came home again, machinery failed and was repaired, cars were bought and sold. Still the Provos prospered, as much because of security force attention as in spite of it. Regulation and the rule of law were more the IRA’s province here than that of the putative governing authority.

  She took the narrow rutted track to her parents’ small house, in the middle of a terrace of similar dwellings, built ninety or so years before. She smelt the tobacco, the comforting aroma from her childhood of all those smoked cigarettes, as she walked through the unlocked front door into the sitting room. Her father sat in his armchair, his newspaper open on his lap.

  ‘Hello, da,’ she said.

  He grunted.

  Patrick McNeish had had a grudge against humankind since he had been laid off at the foundry some forty years earlier. Welfare payments, together with the cash earnings of his wife when she cleaned, had seen them through. Bridget had never known a time when her daddy was not in that armchair with a newspaper before him and a grimace on his face.

  Her mother was in the kitchen peeling potatoes.

  ‘Your bread’s over there,’ she said by way of greeting.

  ‘Hello there, Ma,’ said Bridget. ‘Cup of tea?’

  Accustomed over the years to not hearing a reply, Bridget switched on the kettle and fetched the pot from the cupboard above the sink. She warmed the pot with almost-boiling water before setting the kettle on again, swilled out the pot and put the tea in. Two spoons and one for luck. A cup and saucer for her mammy and daddy and a mug for herself. Her mother abhorred mugs. They represented the opposite of refinement, whatever call there was for refinement in Carrickcloghan.

  ‘Your man’s not back, then,’ said her mother, but it was more a statement than a question. ‘Where’ll he be now?’

  ‘He’s off looking for work, Ma. He’s probably down south somewhere.’

  They sustained this fiction sufficiently that they could talk to each other, but both knew the truth. Francis O’Neill was a man rarely seen in this house, owing largely to the disapproval of Bridget’s parents and partly to his scorn for them. It was not so much the fact that he was a volunteer, her mother had explained, though they were Nationalists, not Republicans. It was that he was an incomer from the big city. She understood what they meant. Cocky to the point of boorish, direct and unsubtle: the qualities in Francis that had repelled her parents and attracted her.

  ‘Hmph,’ her mother said, and that was an end to it.

  They drank their tea at the kitchen table in virtual silence and Bridget picked up her bread and left. On her way home she stopped by the small house next to the garage where Stevie and Anne-Marie Shaw lived.

  ‘Will you be having a cup of tea now, Bridget?’ asked Anne-Marie.

  ‘No thanks. Just had one at me mam’s.’

  ‘Your man back?’

  ‘No. Not yet.’

  Unlike Cathy Murphy, with her airs and graces and make-up and hair-dos and black leather boots, Anne-Marie was a large, matronly woman. Her four children were at school and she worked in her steamy kitchen. She kneaded the bread dough muscularly before wiping her hands on her apron.

  ‘How’s Stevie?’ said Bridget.

  ‘He’s all right. Busy.’

  Bridget did not ask. Stevie’s work would be to acquire and conceal vehicles, preparing them for the boys. The mere fact that he was busy would be of interest to Sarah, but Bridget did not dare probe further.

  Guilt percolated inside her, along with the fear. Anne-Marie was a good-hearted woman, guileless and devoted to her family. Her hostility to the Brits was unquestioning. And here was Bridget, collecting scraps of information and already calculating their value to Sarah.

  ‘Well, I can see you’re busy,’ she said.

  ‘No, stay awhile. The pot’s still warm. Grab yourself a chair.’

  ‘No thanks. Better get going.’

  On her way back she felt tired beyond her years as she walked up the small hill to the cottage. Francis was home, unannounced. The Ford stood in the courtyard.

  She fried some eggs for his lunch.

  ‘Where you been, Francis?’ she asked, feeling bolder than she once had.

  He stopped eating and held his hunk of bread in his hand, looking at her. ‘Here and there,’ he said, and mopped up the yolk.

  When he had finished she took the teapot through and they sat in the front room.

  ‘Listen, Bridget. It’s been a tough time. And I’m going to have to go away again soon.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘I don’t know. Soon.’

  ‘You won’t be … It’ll not be dangerous, will it, Francis?’

  ‘No. Do I ever get in trouble?’ he said with a smile.

  ‘That’s good. About before …’

  ‘Before?’

  ‘Liam and all that …’

  ‘Yeah, well, I was tired. Should have kept me mouth shut. I’ve had time to have a bit of a rest.’

  She said absently, ‘Will you have another drop of tea, Francis? I think we can squeeze a little bit out.’

  ‘Not for me. Anyways, I feel better now.’

  ‘That’s good. Were you down south on your travels, then?’ He looked at her again and she said, ‘What? I’m sorry for asking. I know I shouldn’t. It’s just that I want to know you’re safe. Dublin can be a terrible violent place. When you’re off out of the city and down country I feel much happier.’

  He thought before speaking. ‘Aye, well, we were only in Dublin for a day or so. Nothing doing there. Then we went down to Wexford.’

  ‘And did you find work there?’

  ‘Sure, I wasn’t looking for work there. Just had a few meetings. Political stuff. You’d not be interested.’

  ‘No, I suppose not. I’m sorry for asking.’

  He grunted.

  ‘I’m sorry, Francis. I do understand. It won’t happen again. I worry about you, though.’

  He did not answer, saying instead, ‘Shall we go upstairs, then?’

  ‘No,’ she replied slowly.
r />   Somewhere in this conversation they had reached a point and gone beyond it, irrevocably.

  ‘Please yourself.’

  She saw him clench and unclench his fist. But he did not move from his seat. Eventually he went to the kitchen to get a beer and she hoped she had remembered to get sufficient cans in. Sarah came to her mind. Should she contact her? Did she dare?

  Richard found Chief Superintendent George Donnelly a frightening man. Broad-shouldered but beanpole-tall, he had an incongruous crop of black hair that, depending on how much of the gossip among his junior colleagues you believed, spoke of either an iron will and a clear conscience or the liberal use of hair dye. He walked with a pronounced limp owing to his false leg and also had a prosthetic left arm. He tended to glare, fixing you with what you’d thought previously were rather spaniel-like brown eyes, and speak loudly. From his post in the Special Branch, with a grim resolve and a highly attuned cunning, he ruled over the RUC in the border counties like an imperious king, bending his knee to headquarters only when it suited. His superiors were just slightly less scared of him than the suspects who came under his gaze. Richard counted Donnelly as a kind of friend, and thought his feelings were reciprocated with the same equivocation.

  The IRA had tried to kill George on more than one occasion, hence the artificial limbs, the result of the closest call – if you can describe it that way – when his car was booby-trapped. He’d chosen to drive that Saturday rather than sitting in the passenger seat and his wife was killed instead. He’d mellowed over the years but this was a relative thing.

  Francis O’Neill, back then relatively new to the area, was Donnelly’s number one suspect for his wife’s murder. If his loathing of the IRA was personal, his hatred of Francis was intimate. Richard had never established whether Donnelly’s suspicion of O’Neill was founded on evidence or even spurious reporting, or whether Francis, the cocksure terrorist, was simply the closest available target for Donnelly’s rage. Whichever was true, Donnelly’s desire to crush the IRA was surpassed only by his zeal to see harm come to Francis O’Neill.

  Now Donnelly sat in Richard’s office.

  ‘What swanky restaurant will you be taking me to for lunch now, Richard?’ he said.

  ‘I’m sure you’ll tell me all in good time. Been swotting up in the guides on the way over? How long are you in London?’

  Donnelly laughed. ‘Until tomorrow, at least. If I can string it out to two nights, so much the better. Charles was always good for that. But you’ll come over all efficient and businesslike on me. I know you. You don’t know how to charm us simple Irish folk like your man Charles.’

  It was Richard’s turn to laugh. ‘Why don’t we just grab a sandwich from the canteen for lunch? Have a chat, then you can be off to whatever meetings you have and do your shopping. I’ll pick you up from your hotel at, say, seven and we can go for a bite after that. Paying our own way.’

  ‘Oh, the Met boys will claim me this evening, Richard. Unless you want to join us?’

  ‘I can’t think of anything nicer,’ said Richard. ‘Sadly, I have an appointment with a ready-meal and the television that I can only shift if it’s for a one-on-one with you.’

  ‘Can’t stand the pace now, Richard?’

  ‘Never could. If I ever had any drinking boots I lost them long ago.’

  They bought sandwiches and coffee in the canteen, brought them back to the office and sat at the table.

  ‘Now then, Richard,’ said Donnelly, ‘Liam O’Neill.’

  ‘What of him? A bit off your patch, isn’t it? Aren’t Belfast running with that one?’

  Donnelly feigned a splutter. ‘Aye. So they say. But I fancy his brother for it. I like his brother very much for it.’

  ‘Sounds unlikely to me. His own brother? Where was he found?’

  ‘Under the bridge on the A5 just south of Bready. He’d been there a couple of days maybe before the call came in. Terrible state. Poor bastard.’

  ‘The family?’

  ‘Refuse to have anything to do with the business. Burial and all that. We could expect as much from Francis. But his mother and father? What goes through these people’s minds?’

  ‘They’re probably ashamed. Scared of reprisals.’

  ‘I know. But your own son … So Her Majesty’s Government is in charge of the burial.’

  ‘Could be some criminal thing. He was mixed up in all sorts, so I’ve heard.’

  ‘You have taken an interest, then. Criminal thing, as if. Look at the timing. Just after he’s taken on by your army pals –’

  ‘They’re not my pals, George.’

  ‘Of course not. No one’s your pal.’

  ‘Except you, George. Naturally.’

  ‘Ha. What did you think of him anyway?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Liam. Or are we going to play twenty questions all day?’

  ‘Depends whether this is an interview under caution, George.’

  ‘You know as well as I do that PACE doesn’t apply in the same way on my side of the Irish Sea.’

  ‘So you’re the investigating officer for Liam’s disappearance?’

  ‘No. Let’s just say that I decide what the investigating officer investigates. So what was Liam like?’

  ‘That would be saying.’

  ‘It would, wouldn’t it? Word is, you didn’t think much of him. Told the army to drop him before they got their fingers burned. Of course they ignored you.’

  ‘Why bother asking if you know it all?’

  ‘Because it’d be nice to hear your version. Let’s just say I like the sound of your Oxbridge voice.’

  ‘Never went to Oxford or Cambridge. Strictly a red-brick student, me.’

  ‘What do you make of the rumours that it was Joe Geraghty who had Liam seen to?’

  ‘I don’t deal in rumours, George.’

  ‘Sure you don’t. What if I told you that I’d seen a top-secret report suggesting that Gentleman Joe Geraghty and his boys took Liam?’

  ‘It wouldn’t exactly be headline news, would it now? The Security Team does fall to Geraghty, doesn’t it? It’s their job.’

  ‘See, I don’t buy it,’ said Donnelly. ‘Sure, Gentleman Joe would know about it, I grant you. But he’d manage it differently. Besides, from what I hear Joe is looking to step back from the front-line stuff. Has other fish to fry.’

  ‘Interesting.’

  ‘More involved on the political side, so they say.’

  ‘They being?’

  ‘People. Thought you’d know. You’re pretty plugged in.’

  ‘I refer my honourable friend to my previous comments about rumours,’ said Richard.

  Donnelly sighed and said, ‘Anyways. Francis was Joe’s protégé. He’d say to Francis: you sort out this mess in your back yard. And Francis would have done.’

  ‘You may be right.’

  ‘I notice you don’t say that I may well be right. You think you know better. So what are your people saying?’

  ‘My people?’

  ‘Your touts. Agents, whatever you call them. All those that you don’t tell us about.’

  Richard looked hurt. ‘George,’ he said. ‘I’ve nothing remotely useful to you. All the available reporting has reached you through the correct channels.’ All literally true and not unduly, he thought, economical with the actualité.

  ‘That sounds a bit legalistic,’ said Donnelly.

  ‘Does it really? I’d have thought by now you’d have got used to how we constipated pen-pushers speak. Why do you reckon Francis O’Neill abducted his brother anyway? It hardly seems probable. PIRA would be unlikely to entrust that kind of thing to the man’s brother.’

  ‘All the available reporting has reached you through the correct channels,’ Donnelly said. ‘And this is Ireland.’

  ‘Ah,’ said Richard. ‘OK.’

  ‘And what’s young Francis been up to recently?’

  ‘How should I know?’

  ‘You seem to be pretty well plugge
d in on him.’

  ‘Do I? And why are you so interested?’

  ‘We wouldn’t want an unfortunate accident to befall the sainted Francis O’Neill, would we? Three brothers, now that would be negligent. Just a friendly interest is all. And do you know you have this habit of answering a question with a question?’

  ‘Do I?’

  ‘Ha.’

  Donnelly seemed as bored with this as Richard and the pubs would by now be in full swing. The games they were sometimes compelled to play, thought Richard, he hated them.

  Just before he left, Donnelly said, ‘A little bird told me that friend Francis went off for a holiday a few years back.’

  ‘Oh yes?’ Richard said.

  ‘Somewhere in the Far East, I heard.’

  ‘Really? We missed a trick there, then.’

  ‘I also heard that you were seen at Heathrow around then, waiting for a flight off to one of those places. Hong Kong or Bangkok or somewhere similar.’

  ‘Oh, did you? Really?’

  ‘Advice, Richard. Never shit a shitter. Now, is Francis O’Neill one of yours?’

  ‘Wish I could say he was, George. Strictly between us, of course. But I can’t.’

  ‘So he’s fair game?’

  ‘Depends what you mean. But as far as I’m concerned, fill your boots, George. Within the parameters of the law, of course.’

  Donnelly looked at him with grinning distaste.

  ‘Of course.’

  The thought crossed Richard’s mind once more that George Donnelly was a frightening man. He had no idea whether Donnelly’s investigation of the death of Liam O’Neill, or rather the latest chapter in his pursuit of Francis O’Neill, was officially sanctioned by his bosses. No doubt it was a case of force majeure and in the RUC at the time there was no force more majeure than Donnelly.

  By now Liam O’Neill’s disappearance had become a case. It was little different from others.

  This person, this once warm breathing being, Liam: what was he really like? He’d found him quite endearing actually. Dealt a pretty shitty hand, he had at least tried to do something with it, however doomed and misguided his efforts. Richard had liked him because in life Liam was so … unregarded.

  Now he would continue to be. Liam had been hopelessly ill-equipped to survive in the world. And survive he did not.