Modern Gods

by Nick Laird

  No bother.

  He felt himself clam up, his throat close down. He coughed and swallowed.

  Can you just talk us through your involvement with the UFF? Your childhood, et cetera?

  My childhood, et cetera?

  Stephen tried a wry smile, but David was working at the Dictaphone. He watched David lean forward slowly and set it—red light flashing—on the coffee table.

  You happy enough for me to use this?

  Oh aye. It’s not going to be played anywhere, is it?

  Just in the archives. But it won’t be available, obviously, until you’re dead.

  Cheerful.

  We’re all passing into history.

  David gave a small smile at last and handed a stapled contract and a biro across to Stephen.

  I’m the undersigned?

  You are.

  He squiggled his name on it—one of his names—and handed it back.

  You done many of these?

  David smiled again. It appeared he was beginning to get the hang of this cheeriness business.

  I’m not at liberty to disclose that.

  Fair enough. Stephen touched his nose as if they were in on a secret.

  —

  They’d been back two days and Alison’s only trip out in public was dropping Isobel at her nursery that morning. The staff treated Alison normally—all smiles—but they knew, they must know. After she’d driven back home, she sat in the car and rang Judith, and cried a bit on the phone and asked her to pick Isobel up after nursery, just for today. “It’ll get better,” her mum said. But why would it? Nothing could change.

  Now she pushed the buggy purposefully past the Ancient Order of Hibernians’s Hall, the Ballyglass Furniture Centre, O’Neill’s Butchers. It was half eleven on a Wednesday, the town was sleepy. Three smirking, mitching schoolboys in Ballyglass High blazers went past and she felt a sharp pang of nostalgia for the uniform, the rough polyester of the blazer, the narrow slippery tie. A black Honda Civic went past and beeped its horn. Was it at her? She didn’t know. But it shook her, the long sounding of the horn, and she began to lose her nerve. She could easily go and sit in the kitchen without disturbing Stephen. Sure, she’d promised not to listen to the interview but she should listen. She should hear it. Wasn’t it important that she know?

  She unlocked the back door quietly, left a sleeping Michael in the utility room, draping a towel out of the drier over the front of the buggy, and sat down quietly at the kitchen table, by the radiator, still wearing her coat. She held her purse. If he came in she could show him that she’d just come back for it, that she was on her way back out again.

  The door to the living room was closed, but she could hear everything easily.

  —

  I mean, a Protestant background but nothing so unusual. My dad was in the forces for a while.

  The army?

  UDR reservist.

  And you were from Derry? From Londonderry?

  Prods from the Cityside. My granny lived on the Foyle Road and a few days after Bloody Sunday there was a knock at her door and four men in balaclavas came in and trashed the place. She was given a day to get out. Sixty-six years old and they forced her on the floor and one of them stood on her back. We lived in the Fountain area until I was ten, I think, and then we moved out to the countryside, out to a wee farm of about three acres near Limavady. It used to be my uncle’s and he left it to my mother.

  What happened to your granny?

  Lost everything. Moved in with her sister in Coleraine. The IRA kicked twenty thousand Prods out of the Cityside of Londonderry in that month or two after Bloody Sunday. They lost everything. My granny got two hundred pounds from the government for her house—which was all paid off and worth four thousand. When she went back to get her stuff two days later, the Official IRA were there moving another family in. When she asked the man for her belongings she was told it was all dumped. All gone.

  Was your father involved?

  Well, you have to remember where we were. The Fountain area’s surrounded by republican enclaves. I wasn’t born yet but my dad would have been . . . lightly involved, let’s say—like all the men. He wasn’t in any organization. He wasn’t in the UDA or anything, but he would have been defending the area. Everyone was.

  What happened to him?

  He joined the UDR as a reservist. He wasn’t particular as to the Union or anything. He joined for the money. You got well paid and it let him run the farm. He’d do some lorry driving too for a while there. Haulage for a crowd over in Eglinton. Anyway, the Provos got him when I was thirteen. They were waiting out behind the barn when he went to feed the pigs on a Sunday night, and they shot him twenty-six times. We all heard the shooting and tried to run out, but my ma blocked the back door of the house. Sure, there was almost nothing left of him.

  There was a long pause.

  He was a good guy. He always thought the Catholics had a just argument. He’d say, You can’t treat anyone like a lesser citizen and expect them to put up with it. You’re sowing dragon’s teeth. A religious man. I’d come into the bedroom at night and see him on his hands and knees at the end of the bed. I asked him once what he was doing. I was only a wee lad. And he said, What do you think I’m doing? I said, I think you’re talking to God. And he laughed and said, I’m negotiating. Is that working properly? The light’s flashing on it.

  I put new batteries in it . . . Let me check.

  Click. Click. Stephen’s voice, smaller, tinnier, came out—the light’s flashing on it.

  What was your family life like?

  What do you mean?

  Were you a happy family?

  Couldn’t say that exactly. Not unhappy neither. There was five of us in a three-bed terraced in the Fountain. Me and my brother Roy shared a room. Bunk beds. My sister Susan, she was a bit older, she had her own room. But my mum and da fought like billy-o. Not often. But when they went at it, they really went at it, if you know what I mean.

  Did you join the UFF because of, because of what had happened to your dad?

  Well, you know, I’m sure that was part of it. But when we lived in the city, in the Fountain and on the Waterside, well it was part of the local culture. I mean you knew who the local bigwigs were, who the men were you didn’t want to cross, and you admired them in a way. They had power. They were the ones who could sort stuff out, if you know what I mean. And I wanted to be a part of that. And you have to remember what was going on then. I was looking around and we were being killed left, right, and center, you know? It was tribal. There was no pushback. It was all one way. I was just convinced that it was time for me to do my part.

  And what age were you then?

  Eighteen, nineteen. It was 1990, 1991, that kind of time.

  And how did you get involved? What steps did you take?

  I was back in the Waterside by then, staying with a friend. Looking for work. Not very successfully—or thoroughly, I might add. I began selling magazines to raise a bit of cash for the LPA.

  Which was?

  The Loyalist Prisoners Association. We’d set up a stall on the Twelfth and the Last Saturday and all that. Loyal Men and True—that was one of them. The Defenders, that was another. We’d sell badges, magnets, scarves. Aye, and we had tapes and CDs of Paisley giving it what for to the Papes, and pipe bands, and bands singing loyalist songs. That sort of stuff. Would you like a heater in that tea?

  Alison stood up to hide in the toilet. Her chair gave a tiny scrape, but David answered.

  No, no, I’m good, thanks. But if you want to make yourself a cup?

  Aw no, I just had my breakfast. Too much tea gives me the shakes.

  And then what happened?

  Well, I waited for a year or so. I was in no hurry to rush it, you know. But I was sure in my heart of hearts that I wanted to do it, you know, to
go further. And then a man asked me did I want to join. Obviously I won’t be telling you any names.

  You understand this is sealed.

  Well, that’s as may be but you never know what’ll happen now, do you? I don’t know you from Adam. And I’d just as soon not mention any names. Some of these guys are possibly still in the game, and some are respected members of the community, as it were. So let’s just say a man asked me did I want to join.

  And you said?

  I said I did. Because I did.

  Alison found her stomach was cramping up. The voice was Stephen’s but it didn’t sound like Stephen. He was very sure of himself. She looked at the fridge, the magnet saying ONLY BORING WOMEN HAVE TIDY HOUSES, at Judith’s recipe for lasagna, at the primary-colored magnetic letters Isobel had used to spell out MICKEE, MVMMY, ISOB3L, LOVE.

  This was the UFF, you understand. And this fella asked me was I sure, had I given it thought. He said that there were things that I would be asked to do. But it was a question of belief. I had faith in the Union, in the fundamental right we had to be British. And I accepted we were at war. In war people had to do difficult things.

  What else did he say?

  You know, detailed the things. Handling explosives, hiding guns, moving shipments, all that stuff. Just what you’d expect.

  David nodded. He capped his pen and uncapped it.

  And you said?

  I said yes, I accepted that.

  Was there a ceremony? A swearing-in or anything?

  Nothing like that. Myself and another man just had to go to a wee house—I won’t be saying where it was—and meet some people. And that was that. Some shaking hands and then I was told, Well now, you’re in, you’re a member of the Ulster Freedom Fighters.

  And then?

  Well, nothing, not immediately. After a few weeks there was a phone call and I had to drive a few lads to a house to give someone a beating then take them home again. I waited in the car. Then I had to pick up a bag and deliver it. Small things, you know. And there was a weekend in weapons training, on a farm in Carryduff.

  Do you know the name of the people you killed?

  What do you mean?

  I just wondered if you knew the names?

  That’s not really the . . . I mean . . . What’s that got to do with it?

  I was just curious. You were saying—

  There was the Shankill bombing. You remember. They killed nine Protestants in the fish shop. And Adams carried the bomber’s coffin—Begley, it was, who’d got himself killed. I mean when I heard about the bombing I was shocked, you know, but then afterwards there was this rage. They were just killing Protestants. It was genocide. It couldn’t have been more nakedly sectarian. I wanted revenge. You know, at that time. Everyone wanted revenge.

  Right.

  And a few days after the bombing we were summoned to our CO’s place and—

  The Mexican?

  Ah, the Mexican. You know about that?

  That’s what the judge called him.

  You’ve done your homework. No comment. I can’t be saying anything about that.

  —

  Stephen thought of him: Patton Andrews. He answered the door and they followed him into the living room. Little porcelain figures of Disney characters on a side table. Photographs of children in blue school uniforms. Two girls and a boy. Andrews was a tall bald guy in glasses but with dark eyes so deep set and penetrating they suggested a certain natural force. He was used to being listened to. He congratulated Stephen and Lenny. He told them he was proud of them. Andrews would move to a much bigger house in Ballycastle, buy a villa down in the Algarve, drive a BMW. And never spend an hour inside.

  Just strange, now, so long afterwards, that they never got the guy who ordered it, you know. You served two years, and the guy who told you to do it, who sent you in, got off scot-free.

  There was a long silence.

  Well, it’s like this. When you sign up, you know what you’re getting into.

  What were you told?

  Just that there was to be an operation. We were going to see action, you know. Something would happen. You were taken to a location and told what weapons you’d be using. But we didn’t know where. We’d be told the target on the day. I mean, we knew already this wasn’t going to be an IRA member or a Shinner. This was eye for an eye, tooth for a tooth. We were going to hurt the Nationalists for protecting the IRA.

  You mean Catholics?

  We were going to be indiscriminate like they were indiscriminate.

  When did you find out about the Day’s End?

  We were told to go to a certain place and we stayed the night there. On the morning of the shooting we were picked up and split into twos. And that was so if there was an informer among us they wouldn’t have a chance to contact the army or the police. And then we were told the target would be that pub in Eden.

  The Day’s End.

  Aye.

  And what was the plan?

  Simple enough, like. We were to head in and spray the bar from top to toe with gunfire and kill as many people as possible.

  Alison found her breath was coming very quick and shallow now. Her lungs were refusing to cooperate. Three blue tits kept alighting on and leaving the feeder by the kitchen window. Flashes of blue and black and yellow, little flurries of peck and displacement. They seemed to have a freedom she longed for, right now: the power to leave.

  As many as possible?

  Yeah. We made a recce, myself and Lenny McAteer. I mean that’s public knowledge. We stopped off at the bar about seven p.m. to see the layout, and there were only a few people there. We headed into the wrong bit at first. The lounge bar. There was only a young fella getting set up. So we went out and went back into the front bar. Ordered some food—

  What did you eat?

  What did I eat? Stephen laughed, but the laugh was only to cover a terrible fluttering inside.

  I mean, I don’t know. Fish and chips I think. We just generally looked around, you know. After we got our food we upped and left. Didn’t eat it, you know. Too nervous, too excited. And we realized we’d have to go into the lounge bar later, really. The front bar layout was too difficult. We could get cut off and blocked in too easy. We went back to the safe house, just sat round and waited. By the time we actually left it was about nine o’clock and by then we were running a bit late. Because we had to go to where the weapons and boiler suits were.

  Where were they?

  At another house, not far from the bar, actually.

  How were you feeling when you were doing all this?

  Well, it’s funny. When we got to the pub I was in a kind of trance. Mind more or less empty. You’re going into war, you know. Like over the trenches. I mean over the top of the trenches. The body takes over.

  Not quite war.

  David Boyd had not looked up for a while. Stephen noticed now that the researcher’s left leg was jiggling up and down. Too much caffeine.

  How do you mean?

  Well, you weren’t going to fight anyone.

  Boyd’s face was pale and Stephen saw dark circles under his eyes he hadn’t noticed before.

  Yeah, but see your body’s wired. It’s flooded with adrenalin!

  Sure.

  Things seemed like a dream kind of thing. Like you weren’t really there. Everything made no sense and a very real sense. Do you see what I mean?

  Not really.

  Maybe it sounds mad, but that’s the best way I could tell it—we were all hyped up and crazy. Laughing and on edge, butterflies. When the driver—

  Mark Agnew—

  You know it all already. Yeah, when Mark pulled into the car park we’d gone silent. We had to get down to business. John and Lenny and I pulled our masks on and got out and went in.

  Alison knew it was a mist
ake now, this not leaving. How could it ever be the same again? It was like floating down a river, the Niagara River, and something was coming. The river was speeding up, there was a rushing sound, a hissing in the distance. She sat there rigidly, hands holding the purse on her lap, powerless.

  Not running or anything. Calm as you like. And I remember one of the customers in there, an ould fella, telling us to wise up and put the guns away or something. Like he thought they were toys. And Lenny just shot him in the face with his pistol. That was it. We were away. I walked into the middle of the dance floor and just whirled around and around, letting the semi off. But you know everything was quiet. Things were going in slow motion. I mean, I knew there was gunfire happening but I couldn’t hear it.

  Stephen couldn’t get it into words. Even if he was the instrument. Even if he was the one doing it, moving from thought to action, abstract to concrete, intention to execution, intention to execution—he couldn’t quite believe that it was really real, not then or now. The people screaming, falling, crying. The Guinness mirror behind the bar exploded, and the disbelief broke into an understanding of this new clarity he was forcing on the world. His finger ached upon the trigger. His whole body roared.

  Could you see what you were doing? Could you see the people in the bar?

  I mean I could see it. It was like a video game, you know. Unreal. The people were just crumpling up. There was a lot of blood but it didn’t seem real, you know. It didn’t seem like I was doing it. They were just falling over and this blood was coming from them. But it wasn’t anything to do with me.

  Although it was, of course.

  It seemed to last for ages but of course it couldn’t have. A minute, two minutes tops.

  In the kitchen Alison was falling out of one life and into another.

  Were you picking victims out? Were you aiming at people?

  I just had my finger on the trigger and was trying to keep control of the gun. The kickback on an AK-47 is pretty stiff. I managed to get two magazines out.