‘Would you like a cup of tea?’ she asked.
‘No, that’s all right,’ I said, ‘I’m fine.’
‘Could you spare a few more minutes?’ she asked. ‘I only live a few miles down the road but it’s along a lane where no one goes. I wouldn’t want the car to stop down there.’
‘Do you want me to follow?’ I asked.
‘Well, if you’ve got the time,’ she said. ‘I would feel better. You know, just in case it stops again.’
‘Aye, come on,’ I said. ‘You drive ahead and I’ll follow.’
We drove in convoy a few miles further down the road towards Derry and turned off left, driving down some country lanes until finally driving more than half a mile down a dirt track. At the bottom, almost hidden by trees and shrubs, was a small single-storey cottage which had seen better days. Outside in a small field sheltered by trees and broken down fences were a dozen or more chickens pecking around in the dirt, searching for food. As we parked and got out of the cars two black and white cats came up to the old woman, rubbing themselves around her legs as she made a fuss of them, chatting away to them as if they were human.
‘Now, you come in and have a cup of tea or a drink of water,’ she said. ‘I’m not having you drive away with nothing after helping me.’
I sensed she was feeling lonely and somewhat vulnerable, having lost some confidence when her faithful old Escort had let her down. So I decided to stay for a short while and have a cup of tea.
‘Do you live alone?’ I asked.
‘Aye,’ she replied, ‘I’ve lived alone for more than ten years since my husband died. I live here with my cats and the chickens. It gives me something to keep me busy and my little cats keep me company. It can be very lonely out here.’
‘Do you have any children or any other relatives who come and visit you?’ I asked, trying to make polite conversation.
‘I used to.’ She said as she pottered about the kitchen merrily chatting away to her cats at the same time as making the tea, taking out her best china, milk and sugar and putting them on the kitchen table. ‘But they moved away and I hardly ever see them. There’s not enough room for them to stay here because my daughters have children of their own.’
She asked, ‘Do you often come this way then?’
‘Sometimes,’ I said. ‘I’m all over the place.’
We sat down in the kitchen and had a cup of tea and a few biscuits which she kept in a multi-coloured cake tin which looked more than 20 years old.
‘What’s your name?’ she asked.
‘Marty,’ I replied. ‘I live in Belfast; born and bred there.’
‘I can tell that from your accent,’ she said. ‘Everyone who lives in Belfast has such a strong accent, so different from country people like me.’
‘Do you think so?’ I asked.
‘Just listen to yourself,’ she said. ‘It’s the life you all lead in Belfast. It’s so fast and furious.’
‘And what’s your name?’ I asked.
‘Peggy, just call me Peggy,’ she said. Everyone does.
‘How much room do you have here?’ I asked, a thought crossing my mind.
‘Just two bedrooms, a living-room, this kitchen and a bathroom,’ she said. ‘Come with me and I’ll show you.’
This little house seemed in some need of repair and more than a lick of paint both inside and out. It seemed no redecoration could have taken place for nearly a generation and yet the rooms seemed clean and the furniture old but comfortable. I thought what a wonderful place this would make for me as a hideaway. Sometimes I had felt like escaping from the pressures of working for the SB while living my life among Republican sympathisers and mixing most days with leading IRA activists. Leading a double life can sometimes drive a man half-mad remembering never to make a mistake, ever. Sometimes, of course, I had made the odd remark which had been out of place, which could have betrayed my double life, but I had managed to cover up the mistake, often with a laugh, though I must confess they had been nervous laughs which I hoped and prayed had not been detected by the people I was with. And there had always been the worry of Angie, for she had no idea of the double life I was leading and that worried me. The last thing I wanted was for the IRA to discover my double life and that would mean there would be no one to look after and care for Angie and the baby she was expecting. But here, in this little tumble-down cottage I had felt instantly safe away from the hurly-burly of Belfast, the SB, the IRA and the madhouse of bombs and shootings and the impossible devious life I was leading, deceiving everyone but myself.
‘Do you ever take in lodgers?’ I asked.
‘No, never,’ she said. ‘I don’t trust no one, especially since the Troubles began.’
‘Do you trust me?’ I asked cheekily.
‘Aye, I trust you, Martin,’ she said. ‘I know you’re a good lad at heart.’
‘Sometimes, when I’m passing this way, could I pop in and say hello?’ I asked.
‘Of course you can,’ she said. ‘It would be nice to see you. You would be a friendly face. Come any time you want; just drop in, we’re always here.’
‘We,’ I asked, fearful that I had missed something.
‘Yes,’ she replied, ‘me and my cats.’
‘Oooohhhh,’ I said laughing. ‘I didn’t understand. Well, I’ll be away now. Should I phone you before I drop in?’ I did not want to shock the dear old pensioner if I should just drop in unexpectedly.
‘That’s a good idea; perhaps that would be best,’ she said and she went and wrote down the number on a small piece of paper and gave it to me. I asked to use her toilet and memorised her phone number before ripping it up and flushing it down the lavatory. It was one of the tricks of the trade that the SB had taught me; never tear up a bit of paper with information on and throw it away in a bin but always rip it up and flush it down the toilet for in that way no one can ever find it.
During the following two years I had visited my pensioner friend on more than a dozen occasions and after my first couple of visits she had asked whether I wanted to stay over. I jumped at the offer for it gave me the most ideal hideaway that not even the Special Branch knew anything about. Staying at Peggy’s place was wonderful for I would manage to eight or nine hours’ sleep, something I never managed in Belfast, where I always slept lightly, waiting for that knock at the door which I was convinced would come one day.
Peggy would make me cups of tea and cook a meal for me in winter. I would phone and say I was coming over and she would tell me to try and make it by a certain hour, usually 6 p.m., because that’s when she would have her one meal of the day. In return, she would ask me to feed the chickens, mend a fence around her farm, and sometimes cut down trees that were overgrown and which she believed could be dangerous. And she would always ask my advice about her car, and when to have the Escort serviced, for now she believed I was an expert car mechanic which was far from the truth. In a way Peggy became something of a surrogate mother to me and in the end she would be offering to wash my clothes, darn my socks, treating me like the son she never had. And the more I visited her the more generous she became, encouraging me to come and stay more often. I would usually arrive with a small box of chocolates for her and she appreciated not only the chocolates but, more importantly, loved the fact that I had arrived to see her with a small present. Undeniably we did form quite a good mother-son relationship but she never had the slightest idea that she was providing me with a sanctuary which helped keep me sane.
The pressures I was facing at that time were increasing almost daily. The SB were pushing me to get as close as I could to IRA activists and Republicans who were now forever asking me to drive them to various places in and around Belfast almost on a daily basis. More importantly, my lovely Angie was pregnant and, understandably, fearful of bringing a baby into a world where people were getting blown up, shot or wounded nearly every day. And in the back of her mind she believed that in some way or another I was directly involved in the Troubles, thou
gh she kept all those fears and those thoughts to herself.
One night in October 1989 Angie’s family became central characters in a desperate IRA attempt to free IRA remand prisoners from Belfast’s Crumlin Road jail. At the time Angie and I were at our flat in Beechmount Pass, West Belfast, when there was a knock at their front door in Norfolk Parade 150 or so yards from the heavily guarded Andersonstown RUC station. At home that night were Angie’s parents, along with five of their six children. One of their young sons answered the door to find a man holding a gun standing outside. The man pushed past the lad and burst into the living-room where the family was sitting, watching TV. ‘Provisional IRA,’ he yelled. ‘Everybody listen to me and nobody will get hurt.’
‘Angie’s father, a tough, strong man in his forties jumped to his feet and confronted the gunman, courageously shouting and remonstrating with him. But it was to no avail.
‘If you don’t shut the fuck up and sit down I’m going to blow your fuckin’ head off. Now sit down.’ He yelled.
Angie’s mother pulled at her husband’s trousers, urging him to sit down and keep quiet, fearing that the IRA gunman would have no qualms about blowing his head off. The young kids were scared out of their wits and some were crying for they know what men with guns did to people in West Belfast. The gunman told everyone to sit quietly and say nothing and Angie’s mother comforted the younger ones. For ten long hours the family were made to stay in that room, never being permitted to leave the room for any reason whatsoever, not even to go to the toilet or fetch food or water, not even for the little ones. Meanwhile they could hear a number of other men in their kitchen and people coming and going throughout the night. They could only guess that those people were bombers, terrorists who were known on occasion to take over people’s homes and spend the night making huge bombs. In this instance the bomb team put together a 500lb bomb which they packed into two wheelie-bins that had been stolen locally. Occasionally during the night the family heard one of the bombers speaking on the phone, chatting to others, whom, it became apparent, were indulging in making more bombs in various other people’s houses across Belfast. What they didn’t know was the bomber’s target.
In fact, Angie’s family were now inextricably involved in one of the most daring IRA jail-break plots ever planned. The bombs constructed in Angie’s home were transported to Crumlin Road jail in Angie’s father’s Transit van and there placed in the bucket of a JCB digger which trundled along to the intended target. The IRA planned a mass breakout of the 300 prisoners then held at the jail. A 2lb semtex bomb, which had been smuggled into the jail, had been placed by the prisoners at the yard door, ready to be exploded as the huge 500lb bomb was detonated near the perimeter wall. The prisoners planned to escape into nearby streets where hijacked getaway cars had been parked with keys already in the ignition. The breakout plot was foiled when police discovered the bomb in the JCB digger. As a result, 15 IRA men were accused of taking part in the planned mass escape but in November 1992, three years after the plan, the men were acquitted.
Angie and I knew nothing whatsoever of the family’s involvement until later the following day when we had arranged to go together with Angie’s mother to buy a pram for our baby. Angie’s mother told of the family’s role in the bombing while they were walking around Park Centre, a West Belfast shopping mall. When they came over to me I could see that Angie was upset and I asked what was the matter.
Suddenly her mother said, ‘Marty, I’ve got something to tell you. Last night the IRA came to our house and held us at gun point all through the night. They were treating us like animals, not letting us go to the toilet and damaging our new kitchen. We have no idea what they were doing because they locked us up, all of us, even the little ones.’
At the time I decided not to tell Felix what had happened to Angie’s family for I feared that the RUC might come and interview the family, searching their house looking for clues and maybe do even more damage. I also feared that the family might put two-and-two together and realise I had been responsible for informing the SB. And I couldn’t risk that. However, what the IRA had done to Angie’s family, a totally innocent family caught up in the Troubles, was inexcusable. It was yet another reason why I gradually came to the conclusion that I should become more deeply involved in helping the SB stop the IRA’s plan to achieve their aims at any cost, even though many of their dangerous plots resulted in harming, injuring and sometimes killing decent, innocent Catholics whom the IRA were supposedly protecting.
All these memories flashed through my mind as I travelled north towards Peggy’s home wondering if she was still living there or, indeed, whether she was still alive. It had been six years since I had last seen her and she had then been as strong as ever. I hoped she would still be there otherwise my plans for a 48-hour stay in Belfast would be in disarray. I know that I should have had a secure back-up plan but, at that stage, I didn’t have one, risking that my luck would hold. I turned off the A6 and held my breath as I dialled Peggy’s number.
‘Hello,’ the voice answered and I realised in that instant that Peggy was alive and well.
‘Hello, Peggy,’ I all but shorted, ‘it’s Martin. Do you remember me? I used to come and stay with you way back in the early nineties.’
‘Oh, Martin,’ she said, sounding somewhat taken aback, ‘it’s lovely to hear your voice again after all these years. Are you coming to see me?’
‘Aye, I am that,’ I replied, ‘if that’s all right with you?’
‘That will be very nice,’ she said. ‘When will you be here?’
‘I’ll be there under the hour,’ I said.
‘Shall I put the kettle on?’ she asked, and in that moment my heart went out to the poor, lonely woman who had shown me nothing but kindness since the moment we met.
‘That would be wonderful,’ I replied. ‘I’ll see you soon.’
I climbed back into my hire car and drove on to Peggy’s place.
She wasn’t standing by the door ready to welcome me, which caused me some alarm, and I wondered whether she was too ill to even come to greet me as she had always done in the past. I hurried inside to check, concerned that she was unwell and alone, and she was standing by the cooker watching the kettle boil. When she turned towards me, however, I could see that the years had finally taken their toll and although I had no exact idea of her age I guessed she must now be well over 70 and she looked it.
‘How have you been?’ I asked
‘Not so well of late, Martin?’ she replied and I could see the strain on her face. ‘I’ve got terrible arthritis in my leg and in the winter when it’s cold and wet I can’t even get out of bed in the mornings. And I’ve been suffering with my chest too. The doctor says it’s living here that causes the trouble.’
‘You don’t look that bad,’ I said, in an effort to cheer her up.
‘Don’t you think so?’ she asked, trying to smile. ‘That’s good news.’
‘And where are the chickens? I asked.
‘They had to go. They got too much for me. I had to get rid of them.’
‘And there’s only one cat,’ I said.
‘Aye,’ she said, ‘poor Suzy had to be put down, she got so old. I didn’t like having to do it but the time came. I was being kind.
‘I’m sure you were,’ I said, trying to comfort her.
‘Are you going to stay a while?’ she asked.
‘Aye, if that’s okay by you.’
‘It would be lovely to have you stay, just like the old times. I would like that very much, Martin. Then you could tell me all you’ve been up to.’
‘I’ve been leading a very boring life, Peggy,’ I replied. ‘I haven’t been to see you because I’ve been living on the mainland for some years now.’
Later Peggy would tell me that a friend from a few miles down the road would pop in to see her every other day, keeping an eye on her, making sure she was okay and taking away her washing which she would return on her next visit. ‘She’s a swee
t young girl and she’s married but I’ve never met her children.’
I made my own bed and went out to buy some fish and chips which I brought back and heated in the oven because they were almost cold by the time I returned. But Peggy seemed to enjoy them and that’s all that mattered to me. I went to bed that night knowing I would sleep soundly but realising that the next few days were likely to be far more dangerous. I knew I was taking my life in my hands but I also knew that I had no option. I had to discover the truth.
Chapter Nine
The following morning I set off for West Belfast with the words of Peggy ringing in my ears. ‘Take care of yourself,’ she said. ‘You never know what can happen these days. Don’t trust anyone, Martin. There’s all sorts of trouble about.’
I was searching for my old friend Pete, a lad a few years older than me, someone whom I knew I could trust absolutely. We had been to the same school, messed around the streets of Belfast together as young tearaways and always supported each other whenever trouble loomed. We had also fought some battles together on the streets of West Belfast against young hoodlums who wanted to cause trouble. It was a long-standing relationship based on trust. Indeed, we had never lost touch ever since I moved to England in the autumn of 1991. We would talk on the phone every few weeks and he would keep me up to date with the latest developments in Ballymurphy. Like me, Pete was from Catholic West Belfast. He had also come to hate the way in which the IRA controlled the lives of everyone in their district; they ruled the entire area with a rod of iron, handing out punishment beatings as though they had the power of life and death over young Catholic boys.
Dead Man Running: A True Story of a Secret Agent's Escape from the IRA and MI5 Page 17