Felix urged me to get the local paper and search through the ‘Houses for Sale’ notices to see what the current prices were for modern, three-bedroomed houses in and around Newcastle. Later I would tell him that to buy a good, modern house in a respectable area of Northumberland would cost about £50,000 but that older, cheaper houses in less salubrious areas could be bought for about £40,000. Some weeks later I was informed that the RUC department responsible for resettling agents and informants in England had decided to permit to buy a modern, three-bedroomed house for about £50,000. I began looking around again and found a brand new home at South Beach, in a new private development in Blyth. The cost was £52,000. The RUC agreed to purchase it for me and we moved in during May 1992. Angie and I had great fun buying everything for the home with the £6,000 we had been given to furnish the place. Angie seemed happier and more loving and relaxed than ever. She loved the new home and felt this was the right place to bring up the boys, a good, clean, tidy and hygienic house where she didn’t feel the boys to be at risk. But that same month, 48 hours after Angie and the boys had spent the day shopping in the MetroCentre, Europe’s biggest shopping complex south-west of Newcastle, the place was fire-bombed by an IRA active service unit. Seven fire-bombs exploded in seven separate shops, causing minimal damage but striking fear into the 120,000 shoppers who were there at the time. Three other incendiaries were discovered and successfully defused in three other department stores at the Centre. But the fire-bomb attack would have been far more serious if an off-duty RAF serviceman had not spotted an incendiary device – something ordinary shoppers would not have noticed – at a sports shop. That night, news of the MetroCentre bombing was splashed on every TV news with pictures showing the damage and the risk to shoppers and passers-by. Anti-terrorist police chiefs believed a team of four IRA bombers – two men and two women – had travelled across from Larne to Scotland and then by train to Newcastle in exactly the same way Angie had come over with the boys only a few months before. The police chiefs believed the active service unit had been staying in a safe house somewhere in the north-east of England, probably around the Newcastle area, where they had been handed the fire-bombs and trained how to prime them. Angie sat on the sofa that night and I could see her shaking, trying to control her fear and emotions. There were tears in her eyes and I felt so terribly guilty that I had been responsible, utterly responsible for persuading her to share her life with me. I had never asked her permission to work for the RUC as a secret intelligence agent; I had never even hinted to her that I had joined the IRA. She had known nothing of my double life and had never asked me. Now, here we were hundreds of miles from the bombs of Belfast and it seemed the IRA bombers had followed us to where we were trying to live in peace and safety. Those fire-bombed unnerved Angie. In her years of growing up in Belfast, where fire-bombs and massive explosions had often been a weekly occurrence, the torching of the MetroCentre in Gateshead sent shock waves through her. ‘What are we going to do?’ she said looking at me, sounding both miserable and sad. ‘There’s nothing to do,’ I replied. ‘Those bombs weren’t aimed at us.’ ‘But it means the IRA have people living here in Newcastle. They might even be in our neighbourhood, in our street and we wouldn’t know. But if they see you and recognise you then we’re done for.’ ‘Don’t worry,’ I said, trying to reassure her, desperate to rebuild her confidence. ‘But I can’t help it, Marty,’ she continued. ‘I can’t help worrying. I have a fear that they’ll never give up; they’ll continue to chase and to hound us forever and I can’t take that. I don’t think I would be able to live with that, fearing that at any time they might plant an under-car booby trap, killing or maiming Martin and Podraig, or put a fire-bomb through our letter-box. You know what they can do, Marty, you’ve seen it time and again in Belfast and it’s always the innocent who get injured, maimed and killed.’ ‘But it’s much worse in Belfast,’ I protested, ‘It may be,’ Angie said, ‘but somehow I can face the troubles and the violence in Belfast. It’s my home, Marty, and I don’t seem so vulnerable there. Here I wake at night and stay awake for hours worrying myself about what might happen to us. It’s just me, Marty, I can’t help it.’ ‘I understand,’ I told her. In fact I understood too well. I knew that night that Angie would return to Belfast and take Martin and Podraig with her. She knew she was risking being interrogated by the IRA but I didn’t try to dissuade her from returning. To have stopped her would have been unfair, especially if I had been taken out. It would have been even worse if the IRA had got one of the boys by accident. She would never have been able to forgive me for stopping her returning home, telling her that everything would be fine in England when, in reality, I had no idea whatsoever that she and the boys would be safe with me. In some ways I agreed with her thoughts because I knew I was a prime target. I had been told so by Felix and other SB men. I also knew that the IRA would never stop looking for me and that was a hell of a lot of baggage for Angie to carry around with her for so many years. It was bad enough for me but it had been my decision to work for the RUC and now I would have to learn to live with it.
But after a few weeks I noticed that Angie still had that faraway look in her eyes and the worry returned to haunt me. It was nothing Angie said to me but I saw the fear and felt her slowly but irreparably drawing away from me. I would sometimes drive out alone to Kielder Water during those spring days and go for long walks trying to think of the right words to say to Angie that would persuade her to stay in England. But I always came up against the same difficulty and could find no way round it. I felt that I wasn’t safe in Newcastle and so I didn’t have the conviction to tell, or even try to tell, Angie that she should stay with me. I wanted her to stay more than anything else and I knew that I would miss the boys horribly if they went back. I wanted us to remain together as a family, and so did she, but she couldn’t take the risk; she simply couldn’t risk the lives of the boys. A few nights later Angie returned to the matter that we had both deliberately refused to speak of since the fire-bombing of the MetroCentre, a subject I hoped she would never refer to again. But that had been wishful thinking. ‘I want to go home, Marty,’ she said, speaking quietly as we sat in the sitting-room which we had furnished together. Angie was looking at the carpet as though not wanting to look me in the eyes. I was glad she did that because I was so close to tears. ‘I thought so,’ I told her. ‘I’ve felt it for weeks.’ I didn’t want to tell her that I knew for months past that she would one day give me the news I didn’t want to hear. In my innocence I hoped that by not raising the subject she might, just might, forget about the matter and come to accept that life was quite safe and quite happy in Newcastle, away from the violence of Belfast. But the bombing of the MetroCentre had been the final straw. Then she turned and looked at me and as I looked at her I fought back the tears that were choking in my throat. I felt so vulnerable and so helpless because I knew there was nothing I could say that might persuade Angie to change her mind.
‘Can I say anything, Angie?’ I asked, feeling wretched and incapable.
‘No, Marty,’ she said. ‘I’ve made my mind up.’
‘But we haven’t discussed the issue,’ I said, now feeling somewhat desperate. ‘We must talk about it for Martin and Podraig’s sake.’
‘There’s nothing to discuss, Marty, nothing left to say,’ she said, speaking quietly. ‘I’ve thought about it for months but I can’t stay here. I feel so vulnerable somehow.’
‘But you’ve been here seven months and nothing’s happened,’ I said, trying to sound confident.
‘But they haven’t caught the bombers who live in or around Newcastle,’ she said.
‘But in Belfast there would be dozens of bombers and loads of gunmen, Angie, but you’ve never seen one.’
‘I know, I know,’ said Angie, ‘but I can’t help the way I feel. I can’t stop worrying. Every night I finally fall asleep worrying about you and the boys. Marty, you know they’re after you and I just fear that one day they will get you.’
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br /> ‘There’s no way they’ll find me. You don’t have to worry about me,’ I said, not meaning to sound selfish but desperate to find any chink in her armour that might persuade her to stay.’ ‘Even when we’ve made love and you’ve gone to sleep,’ said Angie, ‘I lie awake worrying what might happen to you. I couldn’t face seeing you taken out by the IRA and I wouldn’t want the boys to witness such a thing. It would affect them for the rest of their lives. And that’s not fair either, Marty.’ There was silence for a minute and I found myself fidgeting, wanting to find a solution that would persuade Angie to stay. ‘But it doesn’t mean I don’t love you,’ she said. ‘You’ve been a wonderful father since we came over here and I do love you, Marty. You’re always so kind and generous.’ Suddenly I felt her voice break with emotion and I looked across and saw the tears dropping slowly from her eyes on to the carpet below. I didn’t know whether I should pretend not to notice or put my arms around her to comfort her. I decided to hold her, as tightly and closely as I could, to show her how much I loved her and how much she meant to me. But the closer I held her, and the more I kissed her hair, the more the tears flowed. Her body began to shake, gently but uncontrollably, and the tears that had been silent were now more anguished and clearly audible. I knew in that moment, if I hadn’t known before, that Angie truly loved me. In those minutes I knew that I would be capable of facing the fact that Angie was leaving me because she had shown she truly loved me. I hoped too that, once back in Belfast, she might realise she and the boys missed me so much they wanted to return to England. I didn’t want to contemplate anything else for that gave me the strength to stop my tears and dry my eyes. That night together was one of the most emotional I had ever experienced in my life. It was also one of the most traumatic.
The following day I asked Angie just one question. ‘Are you definitely going back?’
‘Aye,’ she said, ‘I think it’s for the best. You know how much my family fear for the kids if I stay here. Marty, I’ve got no choice. I have to go.’
‘I’ll arrange everything,’ I said, ‘leave it to me.’ I knew there was no point in prolonging the agony either for Angie or myself. I drove to Kielder Water later and walked slowly around the almost deserted place trying to gain inspiration, hoping that I could think of some magic formula which would convince Angie that it was safer for her and the boys if she stayed with me in Newcastle. But every argument I could think of ended in dust as I came to realise that I was the problem because I had made fateful decisions earlier in my life to try, in my small way, to bring some succour to the lives of the people of Belfast, thwarting the IRA’s attempts to kill and maim innocent people. The evening I drove Angie and the boys back to Scotland was the worst of my life. One hour out of Stranraer and with plenty of time to spare we stopped at a lay-by. The boys were fast asleep in the back seat. Angie became so emotional and asked me, for one last time, to make love to her. Silently we kissed and hugged each other and finally made love. Outside the night sky was filled with stars, the Milky Way clearly visible.
Dead Man Running: A True Story of a Secret Agent's Escape from the IRA and MI5 Page 7