by Tom Bradby
She looked up. ‘Is that a threat?’
‘It’s the reality. This is not a game. It’s not in my control. Your life is at risk.’
‘And yours.’
‘Is that a threat?’
‘It’s the reality.’ She looked at him and then smirked. ‘You’re a ’Taig, aren’t you?’ She saw confusion, and perhaps anger, in his face. ‘You’re a Catholic, I can––’
‘I heard you the first time.’
Silence.
‘Well, are you?’ she asked.
‘That is the most stupid, irrelevant question I’ve ever heard. What difference could it possibly make?’
‘It’s a start.’
‘It’s loyalty that counts.’
‘For Queen and country?’
‘Fuck Queen and country.’
She raised her eyebrows. ‘I see.’
He was looking down now and she studied him again. His hair was glossy and clean and, from this angle, his face looked exceptionally narrow.
He looked up again and she met his eyes. They were a pure clear green. There was no shyness about him, no embarrassment at looking at her. He seemed to have an unreasonable strength and self-confidence and she found herself wanting to humiliate and embarrass him, to see the certainty fade from his face.
‘For the record,’ he said gently, ‘I am of Irish Catholic stock. My mother was born and brought up in County Mayo. But, as I have tried to explain before, there is only one kind of loyalty that counts. If we do not trust each other, neither of us will be around to regret it.’
She felt her annoyance fade. Suddenly, he didn’t seem so invincible.
She looked down.
Silence again.
‘There’s something soon, maybe even tomorrow,’ she said eventually.
‘Where?’
‘I can’t tell you.’
‘It’s important.’
She shook her head.
‘Come on. We have to make this work.’
Colette said nothing for a long time. Eventually, she spoke quietly, as if whispering to herself. ‘I can’t. It’s Paddy.’
‘Paddy’s involved?’
She paused again and took a deep breath. ‘Yes. But, please, please, don’t hurt him. You’se mustn’t. It must be part of the deal.’
He leaned forward again. ‘It’s all right. Don’t worry, we can fix it. Who is the target?’
‘I shouldn’t know this.’
‘Right.’
‘I shouldn’t know it.’
‘I understand.’
‘It’s only by accident that I found out.’
‘How? You overheard a conversation?’
She shook her head. ‘No, Paddy told me, but he shouldn’t have. Sometimes he tells me things he shouldn’t. We’re very close.’
‘Who did he say the target was?’
‘I don’t want him to suffer.’
‘I understand.’
‘You won’t hurt him. You swear to God you won’t hurt him?’
‘I give you my word. Now, who is the target?’
‘A policeman. The man who put me away before. He’s from CID – Henderson, I think his name is.’
‘Henderson?’
She nodded.
‘Do you know where and when?’
‘No. At his house, I think, as he goes to work. That’s all I know, just that it is planned and is to go ahead soon.’
Ryan got up. ‘Just a minute, please.’
‘Where are you going?’
‘I’m afraid I’m just going to have to get my colleague.’
‘Don’t.’
Ryan frowned. There was a note of panic in her voice.
‘Why not?’
‘He’s a Prod. I don’t trust him.’
‘Well, I’m a Brit and you seem to trust me. He’s all right, Mrs McGraw; he’s a good man. He’s a professional.’
She looked at him stony-faced. ‘That’s what I mean.’
She waited. She stretched out her legs, looked up at the ceiling and closed her eyes. She suddenly felt terribly tired.
Ryan brought the fat man back in. This time, his tone was much more friendly, though she was still wary of him. He took her gently through all the same questions, making notes as he did so. Ryan stood behind him and, every time she looked up at him, his eyes were on her. Once again, she found his scrutiny, or attentiveness, reassuring.
Allen strode down the corridor at speed and Ryan almost had to jog to keep up. He stopped outside a blue door marked with the sign ‘Source Unit’ and turned abruptly to face Ryan, his hand settled on the door handle. ‘Wait here, please.’
‘No.’
Ryan watched the irritation flash across Allen’s face.
‘I’m sorry?’
‘I want to learn. I won’t if you exclude me.’
‘This is not the time for egos.’
‘It has nothing to do with ego.’
Ryan thought Allen would insist, but his expression softened. ‘All right, but just don’t fucking say anything.’
Before Ryan could reply, they were in the room and striding towards an office at the far end marked ‘Chief Inspector’. Allen clearly knew the man well and he didn’t bother to introduce him. Ryan listened as he outlined what they knew. Allen asked that they be present at the meeting that would decide what action was taken, but the man refused and would brook no argument.
Allen took them to a room further down the corridor, where another man typed the details they had into the computer, without making any significant comment. He printed out a sheet on the laser printer in the corner and handed it to Allen to check.
Ryan needed the loo badly and decided not to bother asking where it was. He didn’t know what word to use and he thought the choice of word might be divisive. Loo? Gents? Toilet? Easier not to ask.
He turned left at the end of the corridor, went up two small steps, through a swing door and into a long, wide, well-lit corridor with large drinks machines at the end. He found the Gents by the machines, had his piss and then returned to the office. He strolled the last few yards slowly and, without meaning to listen, heard Allen say clearly, ‘Of all fucking people —’
Then he was in the door and there was a brief silence. Allen looked awkward. He stood up and pointed to the roof. ‘Upstairs.’
He took them to a corridor on the floor above. They approached a door marked ‘TCG meeting room’ and waited outside. They could hear the murmur of voices inside, but nothing more.
Of all fucking people … What did that mean? Perhaps he was being paranoid.
Allen didn’t speak – he seemed angry – and Ryan tried to get his own thoughts together. He knew the TCG – Tasking, Coordinating Group – had been set up in 1978 to allow the different arms of the intelligence community in Northern Ireland to liaise and plan operations based on specific information. It was staffed by representatives of the Army and the RUC who analysed all the information being gathered on terrorist subjects throughout the greater Belfast region. It acted as the permanent liaison office for all the commanders responsible for running agents or sending out surveillance teams. The information was fed into the senior level meetings, like this one, where decisions were taken on how each attack might be prevented.
The wait seemed to go on for ever and they stood in silence, Ryan’s only attempt at conversation brushed aside. When the men did finally come out, Allen fell into step with the chief inspector, his manner and tone aggressive and hostile. ‘Well?’ he asked.
The man continued to walk. ‘We await a report back.’
‘Don’t fuck about, Desmond.’
‘Arrests.’
‘No.’
He stopped. ‘You knew it was going to happen.’
‘Come on, Desmond. That’ll finish her and you know it.’
‘That’s not the case.’
‘Yes it is and you know it.’
The other men were filing out of the room now. The chief inspector looked at them and then
continued, speaking quietly, ‘It was inevitable, you know it was. With players like Paddy McVeigh involved, we’ve got to make arrests. We’ve been trying to get him for years.’
‘If you go that road, she’s finished. I tell you—’
‘Look.’ A note of irritation had crept into his voice. ‘I know your concerns – and the information was good – but we’ve had snippets from all over the place about this attack. This was the final confirmation, that’s all, and there is no reason under the sun to think this will be traced back to her.’
‘Like hell there isn’t. With the new rules on disclosure, she doesn’t stand a chance if any of the players end up in court – and you know it. If Paddy McVeigh is arrested, she’s finished.’
‘I think you’re being paranoid. He’s not going to suspect his own sister. It’s not without risk, sure, but then what in the hell is? We can’t let this number of players go. We just can’t. And you know that as well as anyone.’
Allen was angry now. ‘What I know is that this woman is close to people who count and that she has real potential, particularly at this time, and that you’re throwing her away so that this will look good on your bloody records.’
‘That’s enough.’
‘It’s the bloody truth.’
‘Suggest an alternative.’
‘You could move Henderson. You could stick out some extra patrols and force them to abort.’
And what happens if they come back another time and don’t bother to tell your woman?’
‘If this is for political reasons, Desmond, don’t try to justify it to me.’
‘I’m not justifying anything. I’m telling you there is no alternative.’ He pointed back to the meeting room. ‘There was no debate on this in there. It was clear-cut. It was a simple decision.’
Allen sneered. ‘What does that tell you?’
The chief inspector turned. ‘I think this conversation has gone about as far––’
‘She’s too good to lose, Desmond. Honestly.’
The chief inspector looked tired. ‘Brian, I’ve lost count of the number of times a handler has said that to me. You’re not going to lose her.’
‘That’s bullshit.’
The chief inspector turned again and began to walk.
‘I’ll have your skin if she goes, Desmond.’ And then to himself as he walked in the other direction. ‘I’ll have your bloody skin.’
They both blinked as they came out into the light. For a moment, they stood still. Ryan thought, once again, that this was a strange place for an interrogation centre – a Portakabin in a car park behind the police station, or, as Allen had enjoyed telling him, a temporary solution for a temporary problem.
It was a red Granada this time and Ryan stepped forward and opened one of the back doors for Colette. She seemed distracted and dazed now, and he noticed that, as in London, the fight had gone out of her.
He wondered if she was really strong enough to cope. He didn’t know what he could do about it.
They pulled out of the gates of Castlereagh and turned left and left again. He saw a Union Jack flying proudly above the factory on the corner. He turned to her. Her face was white and he thought she looked pale and frightened. ‘You’ve got it clear in your mind. Colette?’
She looked at him and he could see the fear in her so clearly. She seemed to be wanting – wanting what? Reassurance? In this moment, he thought he really felt for her, and couldn’t quite remove a distant feeling of relief that it was her and not him.
‘You understand?’
She nodded, but he could tell she wasn’t concentrating. He turned himself towards her, putting his left knee on the seat. He saw the ugly concrete Central Station building behind her and knew that time was short.
‘You saw Detective Sergeant Allen and Mr Jones. Mr Allen was from the RUC, Mr Jones, you don’t know, but you assume he was from MI5. OK?’
She nodded again, but was looking out of the window at the line of new red-brick houses that formed the edge of the Republican markets area.
‘What was the drift of our questioning?’
Colette spoke mechanically. ‘You … they wanted to know why I had been absent from Belfast for so long, where I was, what I was doing—’
‘Did we know you were in England?’
‘You suspect … constant questions. Wasn’t I here, didn’t I do this—’
‘OK.’ He tried to make his voice sound as firm as possible. ‘OK. Remember, we brought you in, we suspect you, but we’ve got no proof. We were rough, but we were clearly only working on general suspicions. You’ve got to get this right. We don’t want you red-lighted. Understood?’
She nodded again and this time he thought she might be close to tears. He didn’t know what else he could do. He thought of saying, ‘You’ll be all right,’ but thought better of it. He wasn’t sure she was going to make it, but he knew he couldn’t find the strength for her.
They drove into the multi-storey car park at the Castlecourt shopping centre and checked carefully to make sure they were not observed.
At the top, Ryan leaned over and gripped her arm hard. He held her for what seemed like a long time, then she looked away from him and put her hand on the door. From that moment, she didn’t look back.
He watched her walk away.
They waited twenty minutes and then drove down to the bottom and out again. Ryan could feel the release of tension in his body. She was on her own.
It was the afternoon rush hour now and a few specks of rain were falling against the window. Outside, it was dark and he could see people scuttling along the pavements. He imagined her walking in the darkness up towards the Divis monitoring point and tried to imagine what reception might be awaiting her. He felt guilty he had not been able to give her something more tangible.
He wondered how he would have felt if that was him – how he would have coped. He thought now that, after everything, he was quite tough.
As they inched past the front of the city hall, Ryan looked down at the shopping precinct to his left. It was busy, the umbrellas now up, and people were jogging to get out of the rain. He could see a newspaper board, but couldn’t make out the headline.
Once again, he had a surprisingly strong mental image of his father. He thought that was where the toughness must come from. Don’t run with the crowd, he’d said, and Ryan didn’t. It was an article of faith.
There was another piece of advice and he thought of it now. Learn from your mistakes, the advice ran. If he made a mistake this time, he knew the price. He thought of the one-line entry in the Service accounts: ‘Asset: Shadow Dancer. Controller: Ryan, D. Eliminated. Entry deleted.’
Eliminated.
He wondered how she was doing.
Colette was walking at speed, as if the pace of her progress would somehow prove something. She was cold and missed the warmth of the car.
She looked up and saw an Irish Tricolour hanging from a window on the Divis Tower above her and billowing in the wind. She almost, but not quite, smiled.
She thought of the flag, of patriotism, of childhood history lessons and heroes. She saw the faces of Patrick Pearse and James Connolly and Maude Gonne and she muttered under her breath. She thought of the poem on the Easter uprising – Yeats’s poem – and she thought of the line, ‘All changed, changed utterly:’ only this time she did smile. ‘Right, Mr Yeats,’ she told herself.
The front door had been temporarily patched up with plywood and she pushed it gently. It wasn’t locked. The house was warm and she could hear the sound of voices from the kitchen. She took off her coat and hung it on the stairs. She stood for a few seconds without moving. Today, it felt like home.
She could make out Gerry’s voice in the kitchen. As she got to the door, she heard him say, ‘I’m not for splitting––’ He broke off. ‘Who’s that?’
She was in the doorway. ‘It’s me. Where are the kids?’
They were all staring at her. Clarke, Mulgrew – four or five of the
m. Gerry looked shifty. Colette felt angry. They seemed to hold so many of these meetings here now. No wonder the Loyalists were targeting them. ‘What happened?’ Gerry asked.
‘The bastards did me over. Where are the kids?’
‘They’re over at Margaret’s. Ma’s upstairs. You all right?’
She wanted to say, ‘What do you fucking think?’ but she didn’t. She turned to go.
‘You’d better see Mulgrew.’
She turned back and tried to sound irritated. ‘Now?’
‘Best get it over with. Ma can look after the kids.’
She thought it was a good thing he didn’t see the look on her face. Mulgrew was on his feet and in the corridor, jangling his car keys. He waited whilst she put on her coat and she deliberately kept her back to him. She suddenly felt terribly tired. She wondered if she should go up and see Ma, but decided she was probably sleeping.
Mulgrew drove a battered old white Escort and he let her in the passenger side first. As he started the engine and moved off she tried to gather her strength. He was young, sharp and ambitious, but he’d always fancied her – had once asked her out – and she told herself it would be all right.
‘Bastards broke in, they said.’
She turned to him and smiled. He was a pleasant-looking man, with ginger hair and a large chin. She told herself this was going to be simple and she almost smiled as she remembered what her friend Roscheen always used to say. Colette’s in minxy mode…
They stopped at the traffic lights at the junction with the Springfield Road. The streets were busy – children still making their way home from school and mothers doing their shopping. She half expected to see Ma and Catherine and Mark.
‘You’ve come a long way, Mr Mulgrew,’ she said, smiling at him.
He smiled back. ‘I don’t think so.’
‘I remember when you were desperate to carry my shopping home, and me married then and all.’
‘Seems a long time ago now.’
‘You’re damned right it does.’ She smiled at him again. ‘You were rather sweet.’ Even in the darkness, she felt sure he was blushing.
‘I was thirteen,’ he said, almost to himself.
‘You were, but you were rather sweet – and bright then, let’s not deny it.’