‘I swear Graves, if ye had any brain’s ye’d make a great bowl of sheep’s head broth’.
‘Aye true enough,’ agreed his companion, spraying a mouthful of Guinness over Tullen in the process.
‘Ye know it’s true what they say about you Derry men. If them apprentice boys hadn’t closed them gates. Ye still wud have tried to scale the walls anyway.’
‘That’s great craic wee man, it’s about as funny as a no entry sign on a brothel door.’
‘Listen Gerry, isn’t that Jane Kerr over in the corner,? observed Tullen, nodding in the direction of an attractive girl who was having an animated conversation with another young lady.
‘Sure enough, so it is,’ assented Graves. ‘Haven’t seen her around for a while. Hey do you remember the times we had with her and her sisters up the glen?’ smiled his companion, lustfully.
‘Christ aye, listen I want ye to do me a favour.’
‘Oh and what might that be brother?’ asked his friend ,warily.
‘If ye think I’m gonna go for that refugee from Battersea dogs home that Jane’s talkin to, ye’ve got another thing coming.’
‘No Ger, yer one ugly bastard but even Quasimodo had standards.’
‘Ha fuckin ha,’ snorted the big man glumly. ‘Well what is it ye want then?’
‘I’m gonna take a leak. I want ye te get Moira over here. Buy her a drink and then when I come back, let on that ye’ve just clocked Jane and leave me alone with yer cousin.’
‘Fancy her a bit do ye Con boy?Well let me tell ye somethin, yer wee woman is a real gem and she’s got nine brothers. If ye’re thinkin of any monkey business ye’d best forget it. Oh aye, I wouldn’t be too pleased neither by the way.’
‘Agh away an shite wud ye. Just do me a favour and cut the crap. I’m away for a Jimmy. I’ll be clockin ye from round the corner, OK?’ ‘Aye alright Con but I meant what I said,’ confirmed Gerry. Tullen positioned himself behind a pillar to covertly survey his friend’s progress and true to his word, Gerry managed to draw Moira away from her companions over to the bar. Connor gave them a few minutes before limping over to join them. ‘Oh, I see we have the new Derry City centre forward with us,’ he said, nodding to the girl.’
‘Ye’ll hardly get a trial for the paralympics the way yer hobblin around. Are you never better yet? Jesus you Belfast boys are the soft yins aren’t ye,’ retorted the girl, which was Gerry’s cue to beat a retreat.
‘I’d like to stay and mediate on the rematch but one fight a week is all me union will let me referee. There’s big Jane Kerr in the corner. Think I’ll mosey over and check out the colour of her knickers,’ added the big man, with a wink.
‘She’d be in dire need of an optician if she were to drop them for ye,’ shouted Moira, after her cousin who answered her slight by extending the middle finger of his right hand. Ignoring the gesture Moira turned to Tullen casting an anxious glance. Is your leg really bad? I don’t even know yer name. Ye can tell me now and I promise I won’t kick or bite ye for at least tonight.’
‘My name’s Tullen, Connor Tullen and as ye can see by my sartorial elegance, I hail from Belfast.’
‘Oh sartorial elegance,’ she mimicked, ‘Proper toff aren’t we. My name is Moira Lavery, from lovely Derry. Now that we have been introduced properly I want te say thanks for stoppin the row. I was makin a right eejit of meself and yer woman isn’t a bad auld soul really. I’ll have te learn te control me temper, it’ll be the end of me one of these days.’ Tullen bought her a drink and they stayed together for the remainder of the evening. Playing the gentleman Connor walked her home and was afraid to steal a kiss in case she rejected his advances. ‘Goodnight Moira I had a great night. I was wondering if I could see you again.’
‘Ye’ll not be seein me again, if ye walk away without givin me a goodnight kiss.’ With that she grabbed him by the shoulders and planted a long lingering kiss on his mouth. ‘See you in a couple of days. Gerry can give ye me number, night Douglas Bader.’ In a flash she was gone.
The relationship blossomed quickly. They grew closer, became a couple and inevitably lovers. Tullen drove up to Derry every weekend and sometimes during the week. He was unashamedly in love. Months sped by and turned to a year. As suddenly as their whirlwind romance had blossomed, his world came crashing down around him. Arriving at Moira’s door one evening, he was greeted by her mother who informed him that Moira had been employed as a nanny for a couple in Boston. His reason for living had flown to America the previous day. No explanation was offered, not so much as a note. She had been wrenched from him without reason. Stunned and unable to speak he turned and in a daze drove back to Belfast. Emotionally he was a wreck, filled with anger that he directed against the British. Part of Connor died on the doorstep that night. Nearly six years in the distant past she had driven a sword through his heart and here she was again threatening to rip his soul apart for a second time. Tullen could not come to terms with her seemingly unfeeling comings and goings. He dreaded their first contact but feared even more the option of never seeing her again. A man used to being in control Tullen had adjusted to life without her but her image had never strayed far from his mind. Why was she doing this to him? Tearing at his heart, opening wounds which had never really healed. The thought of seeing her again gnawed at his soul. Tullen had no choice for deep down he knew that, on Saturday, wild horses could not keep him from sinking into the beckoning pool that is Moira.
CHAPTER 17
It was raining. George Blackmore looked to the heavens and uttered an obscenity. Kissing his wife on the cheek, he made off into the gloom, promising to be home in the late afternoon. She knew something was about to happen, sensing the familiar tension in her man, which mysteriously manifested itself periodically, only to disappear without rhyme or reason. She had become accustomed to his mood swings, choosing to ignore them rather than argue. Her husband was not an easy man to live with and was not averse to lifting his hand when pushed into a corner. Still, he was a good provider and thankfully his aggression was usually short lived. George had made love to her, in the early hours, with the intensity of a raging bull. She resented the way he entered her without ceremony, hardly waiting for her to stir. Thrashing away in a frenzy until he was sated then casting her aside like a ten-pound whore. His wife smiled as he set off down the street knowing, that when he returned, he would be plain George again. Violation of her body usually heralded the end of his foul mood. She tingled with anticipation assured that her man would be receptive to her advances, their lovemaking had never been an earth shattering experience but in his own way he tried to please her, showing a tenderness which, at times, made her yearn for more. Frequently she had, as the magazines put it, faked an orgasm. Clara smiled at the thought, making a mental note to try and inject some excitement into their nocturnal activities.
Blackmore’s face was set in an expression of deep concentration. He had allowed himself enough time to make it to Carlisle Circus where his accomplices had arranged to meet him. Nodding grimly as the car pulled up beside him, he sauntered toward the vehicle. ‘Great fuckin day for it, eh lads,’ he groaned, as he entered the rear of the vehicle. ‘How are yous all doin?’ he enquired.
‘No probs.’ replied Neil.
‘Same here,’ added Harris but Houston the third man just stared grimly through the window’
I asked ye a fuckin question,’ growled Black-more, gripping Houston’s shoulder and shaking him angrily.
‘For fuck sake I’m OK, if I wasn’t I wouldn’t be here. Take it easy wud ye, ye nearly dislocated me fuckin shoulder,’ grumbled Houston.
‘Aye take it easy George, sure this is a walk in the park, didn’t ye say so yerself’?’ interjected Harris, attempting to calm Blackmore’s mood.
‘Sorry, I’m a bit tense you know how it is.’Neil nodded sagely in agreement.
‘Did yous have any tro
uble half-inchin the wagon Bruce?’
‘Naw’, replied Neil. ‘Piece of piss really. Some bastards shouldn’t be allowed to own a car. Do ye know, the door was ajar and the parking ticket was sittin on the dash. Mind ye I had te pay thirty bob to the wee man at the kiosk. Do ye think I can claim expenses?, he joked, relieving the tension that they shared collectively.
‘Ye can take it out of the proceeds,’ laughed Blackmore. ‘We’ll be there in about ten minutes. Yous all know the score. Run it by me one last time. You first Houston.’
We pull up outside the Post Office I’m out of the car and pulling me weapon. I shout, down if there’s a queue. If not, I allow you to open the door first and follow ye in. If anybody tries to be a hero I waste them givin ye the time te reach yer man.’
‘Good,’ said Blackmore. ‘Now what about you Harris?’
‘I follow the two of ye and guard the door in case we get visitors,’ answered the third. ‘Great, now all we have to do is send Mr. Riley to hell,’ exhorted Blackmore, visibly relaxing now that the operation was underway. His change of mood was infectious. The others began to settle and George Blackmore smiled inwardly. It’s gong to be like falling of a log, was his last indulgent thought, as the car pulled up outside the Post Office. There were four people outside the shop. The rain must have kept some customers at home. Four pensioners braving the weather to collect their weekly allowance. Three got down in the wet as the hooded man shouted the order. The other, a seventy-five year-old ex-army sergeant, tried to intervene only to be contemptuously swept aside. Houston feigned to the left and brought the butt of his rifle across the old man face sending him reeling. It was as if the scene was being filmed in slow motion, the old man covering his face with both hands, blood gushing between bony fingers that he kept clamped to his face as he tumbled to the ground. Blackmore was through the door in a flash.’Get the fuck down, on your fuckin faces,’ he screamed. As he had predicted there was utter chaos. Panic-stricken mothers blindly thrashed around trying to locate their offspring. ‘Get fuckin down, or by Christ ye’ll all get it,’ he screamed again. This time the message got through. People threw themselves to the ground as if pole-axed by some giant invisible hand. ‘Right you fill the fuckin bag now. Come on hurry up, hurry fuckin up.’ Riley grasped the bag and began to fill it working feverishly to comply. ‘Everything,put it all in, stamps, postal orders hurry the fuck up,’ screamed Blackmore, becoming more agitated.
‘Yes, yes just calm down, I’ll give you it all but please don’t harm the people now,’ begged Riley.
‘Shut up and work or your fuckin dead,’ growled Blackmore. Finally James Riley completed his task and handed the bag to the assassin. ‘Here that’s all there is, please leave.’ he pleaded.
‘That’s not all by a long chalk,’ mouthed Blackmore. ‘Ye’ll not be sendin any more cash to yer murderin cronies,’ scowled the terrorist and with that he raised the gun and shot James Riley through the temple. The man was flung backwards. What was left of his head smashed against the tiled floor. Blackmore took a long look at his victim, slowly took aim and calmly fired another into the helpless victim. He smiled wickedly, turned on his heel and calmly retreated through the door. The three loyalists entered the car, which with a squeal of burning rubber hurtled away from the scene. As the car turned the corner it came directly into the path of an army troop carrier. The young driver, seeing the masked men, spun the vehicle sideways causing Neil to swerve violently to the left. He could not recover quickly enough to avoid hitting a wall driving the steering column up through his sternum killing him instantly. Houston rolled unsteadily from the wreckage still holding his weapon. ‘Drop your weapon and lie face down,’ ordered an unmistakable Liverpudlian accent. Ignoring the warning Houston tried to bring his weapon to bear but was cut down by a single burst. ‘Out of the vehicle with your hands up,’ shouted the soldier. Receiving no response the patrol slowly edged forward fully alert to pending danger. As they inched painstakingly closer it became apparent that the occupants of the vehicle were either dead or unconscious. An ambulance was summoned and the terrorists were rushed to a nearby hospital. Three were pronounced dead on arrival, the soul survivor being George Blackmore. His wounds were superficial and he was kept under police guard until he was able to be removed to a holding cell.
Martha Blackmore in anticipation of George’s better mood had left the children with her mother. Unaware of the morning’s events she had set about making herself ready for her husbands return. Her hair was in curlers, her face expertly made up and a new frock, which she had purchased the previous Saturday, lay casually across the settee. She was in the process of finalising her preparations when the front door exploded. RUC. constables were through the house like a tornado. ‘What is it, why are you doing this. Stop, please stop,’ she begged.
‘Are you Mrs. Blackmore, Mrs. George Black-more?’ asked a tall, balding man, in a grey suit.
‘Ye, yes,’ stuttered Martha. ‘What’s wrong? Has something happened to George?’
‘We have a warrant to search these premises. Please do not attempt to deter the officers. Constable Wilkie will take care of you during the performance of our duties Mrs. Blackmore,’ she was casually informed. The security forces ruthlessly ransacked the house leaving a distraught Clara Blackmore weeping in the centre of the lounge, which by now resembled Beirut. After gutting her home the police left as quickly as their arrival, giving no explanation for the invasion. Two hours later the phone rang informing her that her husband had been arrested and advising her to call a lawyer. WPC. Violet Bonner had taken pity on her, imparting the knowledge of her husband’s arrest before ringing off. Martha was thankful for the call but never discovered who had made it.
‘What a fucking mess, Christ a simple hit and we have lost three volunteers.’ Starrett was beside himself. ‘I want to know who is responsible. I want a complete shutdown of all operations. I want a meeting with Wilberforce the day after to-morrow. If there was a leak, I want to know about it. The tout must suffer for this. Do you understand me?’ he growled. His second in command nodded his approval.
‘I’ll get on te it right away John. What about Blackmore?’
‘Oh yes, send word to his wife that George has friends. Tell her not to panic and not to worry about a lawyer. Let her know that she has friends who will help her through the crisis. Oh by the way Tommy, find out if George was into pillow talk. See just how much Mrs. Blackmore knows about his involvement. I don’t think she
will know anything but better be safe than sorry eh.’
‘Good as done John. I’m on my way.’
‘Good man Tommy. Call me in two hours.’
News of the incident reached Connor Tullen exactly twenty two minutes after it’s conclusion. He was summoned to a meeting in a republican, drinking club on Belfast’s Falls Road. At the assembly Tullen was in the company of some of the highest, ranking members of the movement. Their purpose was to ascertain a reason behind the assassination of an innocent member of the public. Tullen was invited merely as an observer and acted accordingly. He listened intently to all that was said and it became abundantly clear that no member of the organisation had heard of Riley. The civil servant’s killing was purely sectarian had been the general consensus of opinion but Tullen was a long way from being convinced. If it was as they deduced, why stop at Riley?Why would he be singled out and shot in what was obviously a professional manner?No this had the hallmark of a hit, the robbery was just a bonus. He had formed his own opinion but opted for anonymity for the present. After the conclusion of the meeting Tullen decided to have a discussion with his brigade commander. He needed time to ponder on what facts he had gleaned at the meeting. Arguably everything pointed to a sectarian killing but questions gnawed away at him. He decided to sleep on it and discuss his apprehensions fully the following evening.
There was no doubt in Billy Clements’ mind, he knew for certain that
the job was a hit. It had all the hallmarks of earlier projects and he had been involved in a similar incident the previous year. No doubt Riley was a target. He was sure that he would find out soon enough why the man had to die. But the cost was too great. Three men dead and one in custody. ‘What a fuck up,’ he pronounced.
Maurice Scott listened to the communications between the patrol and the powers that be. Witnesses were being gathered and their statements recorded. He listened to the speculation amongst his colleagues. The majority had come to the conclusion that the motive was robbery. Bunch of lazy bastards, he thought, discernibly smirking as a detective sergeant nodded agreement with his subordinates. This will be very quickly wrapped up. It’s as straightforward a case as I have dealt with in many a year. Pity the Brits. hadn’t topped the lot of them. It would have saved us a great deal effort not to mention paper work. What’s the survivors name again? Aye Blackmore, I think we have a file on him. Bit of a would be UDA man isn’t he?Ah yes,’ he blustered, pompously punching the keys of his terminal. ‘George Blackmore, here he is. Member of the UDA for at least five years. Arrested for causing a riot at Ballyhackamore in nineteen ninety-two. Three months is all he got. Well I think he’s going to get a bit more time on this one eh,’ he bellowed. The rest dutifully laughed at their superior’s remark. ‘Yes indeed, armed robbery and murder to boot. Quite a packet he’s copped for himself there.’ Scott had heard enough, deliberately he sidled from the room and made for his own little sanctum. He, as Tullen and Clements had done, concluded that this was no armed robbery. There was a hell of a lot more to it that that. Blackmore had been under observation for some time. Maurice knew the man’s history. He had been seen in the company of many known members of the organisation and had changed his allegiance to the UVF. Our George is no petty criminal, no sir, Blackmore is one crafty wee bugger, mused Scott. Surveillance on the man had to be aborted on countless operations because the trailing officers had been slipshod and easily eluded. Reports also stated that he seemed to enjoy stringing the surveillance crew along. Sometimes acting suspiciously darting down alleys, fleeing through back doors of retailers, only to enter a betting shop or bar without meeting a sinner, then calmly walking up to the officer with a greeting or simply smiling as he passed. To Blackmore the RUC special branch carried no threat, if anything they seemed to be a source of amusement. I’m sure if the smug bastard had wanted to commit a robbery he would have picked a more lucrative business.
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