Remote Control (55 page)

Authors: Andy McNab

BOOK: Remote Control

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Where did I go from here? No fucker was going to move against me because they’d know that I still had the files. If the plan worked, Euan’s package would sit in the sorting depot now there was no-one to deliver it to. The killing of Simmonds would be covered up, no matter what. If some zealous policeman started getting too close to the truth, he’d get stitched up. John Stalker wasn’t the first it had happened to, and he wouldn’t be the last.

It all made sense to me, now, that every time peace talks began PIRA, or someone claiming to be PIRA, had dropped a soldier or policeman or bombed the mainland UK. And why? Because it was good business to keep the Troubles alive.

There were plenty on our side who profited from conflicts like Northern Ireland and didn’t want them to end. The RUC is probably the highest-paid police force in Europe, if not the world. If you’re its chief constable, it’s your duty to say that you want an end to the war, but the reality is that you’ve got a massive police force under your command and limitless amounts of resources and power. Within that force there are mini-empires that have evolved purely because of the Troubles, each of them getting whatever material and manpower they ask for to further their fight against terrorism.

Even if you’re a twenty-four-year-old RUC constable, married with two kids, why would you want the Troubles to stop? You earn enough to enjoy a high standard of living, have a nice house, take foreign holidays. Why would you want to see peace and, in turn, redundancy?

The British army doesn’t want it to stop, either. The province is a fantastic testing ground for equipment and training ground for troops – and, as with the RUC, it means the army gets a bigger slice of the cake. Every year the Army has to justify its budget, and it’s up against the Navy, who are asking for more funds for Trident submarines, and the Air Force, who are banging on about needing to buy the Eurofighter 2000 or at least replace the flying coffin, the Tornado. With Northern Ireland on the agenda, the Army can talk about a ‘now’ commitment, an operational imperative – and nobody’s going to argue against the need for funds to fight terrorism. As for the squad-dies, they don’t want to lose the chance of six months a year in Northern Ireland on extra money, with free food and accommodation. After all, they joined the Army to go on operations; that was what I had done and I thought it was great.

British industry stood to lose substantially from a ceasefire. Major defence manufacturers designed equipment specifically for the internal security role and made fortunes out of the operational conditions. Equipment that was battle-proven in Northern Ireland was eagerly sought after by foreign buyers. No wonder the conflict had made Britain one of the top three arms exporters in the world, with beneficial effects on the UK balance of payments.

I knew now why McCann, Farrell and Savage had had to die. Enniskillen. The backlash against PIRA. People signing books of condolence. Irish-Americans stopping their donations. There must have been a real danger of a time of dialogue and reconciliation. Simmonds and his mates couldn’t have that. They had to create martyrs to keep the pot boiling.

And me? I was probably just a very small glitch in a well-oiled machine. Come to that, Northern Ireland was probably only one item among many in their company accounts. For all I knew, these guys also provoked killings and riots in Hebron, stirred up Croats against Serbs, and even got Kennedy killed because he wanted to stop the Vietnam War. As Simmonds had said, it was business. There was nothing I could do to stop them. But I wasn’t worried about that. What was the point? The only thing I had achieved – perhaps – was revenge for Kev’s and Pat’s deaths. That would have to be enough.

I got off the motorway and onto the dual carriageway to Abergavenny. The rain had stopped, but it was a stretch of road notorious for repair works. Euan’s house was about ten miles the other side of the town, on the road towards Brecon.

I weaved in and out of the traffic, other drivers hooting and waving their fists. Then, in the distance, I saw the red of brake lights. The morning rush hour had started. I slowed with the volume of traffic heading into the town and eventually came to a complete standstill. The jam was caused by resurfacing work and it looked as though there was a mile-long tailback.

I drove onto the hard shoulder. As I sped past them on the inside, stationary motorists honked angrily. The noise alerted the workers laying the tarmac up ahead. They ran and shouted, trying to wave me down, gesticulating at the roadworks sign. I didn’t even acknowledge them. I only hoped I didn’t get caught by the police. I dropped a gear, made speed and changed back up.

I got to Abergavenny and stayed on the ring road. I got stopped at a long set of traffic lights and bumped up onto the kerb, edging my way to the front of the queue.

Once I was over the other side of the town I started to come into open countryside and the road narrowed to a single carriageway. I put my foot down and bombed along at seventy to eighty, using the whole road as if it was my own. Seeing a left-hand bend, I moved over to the far right-hand side. I could hear the hedgerow screech against the side of the car. From this position I could see more of the dead ground round the bend. Not bothering with brakes, I banged down through the gears to second just before turning. Once on the bend, I put my foot down and made use of rubber on tarmac. Out of the bend, I block-changed to fourth and kept it there.

After a mile, a slow-moving truck was taking up most of the road. Its large container of sheep on two floors had a sticker on it asking me if I thought the driving was OK – if not, to ring head office. I had plenty of time to read it, labouring behind the fucker at 20 m.p. H.

The road twisted and turned; he could see me in his mirrors, but there was no way he was going to pull in for me to overtake. The speedo dropped to 15 m.p. H. and I looked at my watch. It was 9.35 and I’d been on the road for just under three hours.

I kept pulling out, looking and tucking back in again. Even the sheep were looking at me now. The truck driver was enjoying himself; we had eye-to-eye in his wing mirror and I could see he was laughing. I knew this road, and I knew that unless he let me overtake I was doomed to several miles of driving at his pace. By now the road had a 2-foot mud bank on each side, then trees and hedges. It was wet and slippery, with small streams running along each side. I’d have to take a chance and just hope that nothing was coming. On this road, all corners were blind.

Preparing for the next bend, the truck driver shifted slowly down through the gears and I accelerated past him on the wrong side of the road. If there was anything coming round the bend we’d both be killed. He flashed his lights and honked, probably doing his best to distract me and force me off the road. For the first time today I was in luck. The road was clear and I’d soon left the truck far behind.

A quarter of an hour later I was at the turn-off for Euan’s valley. I threw a left and, within 100 metres, the road petered out into a single lane. If I came up behind a tractor or farm machinery there would be few passing places, but luck stayed with me and there was nothing ahead. Another 20 minutes and I got to the valley. And as I approached the brow of the hill I could already see the spiral of smoke.

The walls were still intact, but most of the roof had collapsed and there was smoke and scorch marks around the window frames. Two fire engines were in attendance and the firemen were still damping down. They looked wet, tired and stressed. On the other side of the house was an ambulance.

A handful of people had gathered, locals in their Barbours and wellies, who’d driven from the other side of the valley to rubberneck.

I drove on and stopped by the gate. A couple of firemen turned round, but they didn’t say anything; they were too busy doing their work.

I got out of the car and ran across the road to the small copse about 50 metres away, hollering and shouting like a madman.

‘Kelly! Kelly!’

Nothing.

‘It’s me, it’s Nick! You can come out now!’

But she wasn’t there. Deep down, I’d probably known all along that she wouldn’t be. She’d been dead from the moment she’d picked up the phone.

I turned away and walked slowly up the track towards the throng of spectators. They gave me the once-over, obviously not liking the look of my damaged face, then turned back, more interested in the remains of the house.

‘Was there anyone in there?’ I asked nobody in particular.

A woman spoke. ‘His lights were on last night and the ambulance crew have been inside. Oh, it’s such a shame. He was such a nice young man.’

I walked beyond the group and a fireman came towards me, lifting a gloved hand. ‘Excuse me, sir, if you could stay well back. We haven’t made the area safe yet.’

‘Radio Wales,’ I said, trying to make myself sound official. ‘Can you tell me what happened?’

I looked over his shoulder. Other firefighters were dragging out charred contents of Euan’s house and placing them on a pile that was being damped down. I could now smell the burning.

I looked back at the fireman. He said, ‘It looks as if there was a fire and then the gas bottles blew up. If you could move back, sir.’

‘Was anyone killed or injured?’

As I asked, something one of them threw on the pile caught my eye. It was Jenny or Ricky, one or the other, I could never tell which was which. Not that it mattered now. Whichever one it was, it was burned black, with only half an arm left.

‘It will take some time before we know for sure, but no-one could have survived that blast.’

He was right. In any other circumstances, it would have been an explosion to be proud of.

Kelly was dead. Maybe it wouldn’t be too bad. It would be a fucker, but I’d get over it. What could I have offered her?

Kelly would have been in shit state when she realized what had happened to her and would have needed psychiatric treatment. Besides, she’d been starting to like the way we’d been living. Her death would tidy things up. I wouldn’t have to protect or worry about her any more.

I turned and started back towards the car, deep in my thoughts. What was done was done; I couldn’t change it, couldn’t turn the clock back. I’d find out more from the news.

Behind me, in the distance, I heard the squawk of a bird, maybe a crow. It almost sounded like my name.

I stopped and turned.

And there she was, running towards me from beyond the trees.

I started to run towards her, but checked myself. I wanted to make it look casual, even if my insides were shaking off the Richter scale.

She flew into my arms and buried her face in my neck. I pulled her back and held her at arm’s length. ‘Why weren’t you at the trees?’ I was half angry, half relieved, like a parent who thinks he’s lost a child in a crowd, and then finds her again and doesn’t know whether to give her a good old bollocking or just a hug and a kiss. I didn’t know what to do, but it felt good.

‘Why weren’t you by the trees where I said?’

She looked at me in disbelief. ‘As if! Because you always make sure you stand off and watch. You told me that!’

I got hold of her hand, grinned and said, ‘Yeah, fair one.’

Still smiling, we carried on along the track. She was soaked, her hair matted to her head.

We reached the car and got in without exchanging another word.

I looked at her in the rear-view mirror. We had eye-to-eye. She smiled and I snapped, ‘Put your seat belt on!’

I turned the key in the ignition and we drove off.

THE END