The Journeyman Tailor (17 page)

Hegarty was the most popular man on the mountain, no doubts. He could bring down from his barn the oldest and dirtiest cooker, and if he was asked he had the skills to make it spark like it was a death trap. Not last year, would have been the year before, Hegarty had carried around his pride and joy, his very worst cooker. Fourteen families had taken in the cooker in the one twelve-month, and then gone down to the Department of Social Security in Dungannon, and demanded the Inspector come out, and had received the grant for a new cooker. The Inspector had caught on after seeing the cooker only twice, but he didn't want his car torched so he signed the grant papers. The original cooker back in place, Hegarty back up the mountain with his filthy dirty cooker; money for the bar and the horses or for a deposit on a new car.

It was said that Hegarty was the best-read man on the mountain, and not a day of college education in him, and that when he could be bothered, he went down to the priest's house and beat the man at chess.

She made tea for all those who were in the house and helping her.

Jon Jo's name was never spoken. It was Attracta's surprise that kind Mossie Nugent had not been back that day.

As the darkness fell across the mountain she waved them all away from her door. Her parents, and Mrs Rea and Gerry Brannigan. and Sean Hegarty. Hegarty tweaked her cheek with his sharp fingers.

" They’ll be an answer for this, Missus, there'll be a debt paid." She kissed the rough stubble of his cheek.

Attracta shut the door, she leaned back against it, her eyes were closed. Kevin was beside her, not touching her and not crying. Kevin had never cried since his father had gone away. She yearned for Jon Jo’s return... God forgive her, and she yearned for the body of a soldier, dead, torn, bleeding, brought to her door as payment.

They were in the shed at the back of the Riordan house, where Jimmy Riordan kept his caged cannaries.

The O.C paced as he talked, and twice when he faced away.

Nugent had stolen a glance down at the watch on his wrist, because time was running out.

The O.C. talked fast.

"... If there's a tout here then they'll think we'll lie down. They'll think we'll go to ground. It's the best time to hit them, you with me, Mossie? There's a 50-calibre coming up from Monaghan. Look at the map, see, we can get inside the house and we're right across from the barracks. The big house in the barracks is where they're at for lunch.

And the beauty of it is, the house is right in the middle of the estate, what's they going to fire back at? You and me knows, no other beggar.

No one else has the picture, Mossie. The lads who do the shooting, the drivers, they won't have the target and the routes out until my say so.

You'll be in charge of the house, Mossie. Just you and me, Mossie, we're the only ones who'll know. Tight as a duck's arse, that's how it'll be. You with me? . . ." The door opened.

Patsy Riordan came in. He smiled. He held two mugs of tea. He put the mugs on the bench where his father kept the canary seed. He let himself out.

There was the O.C.'s savage glance at the closing door. "How long was that little bastard there . . . ?"

Fifteen minutes later and Mossie was away, driving fast because he was late.

There were two unmarked cars assigned, three men to each car. They were parked up now. There was a disused quarry near McCready’s Corner off the Armagh road. The radios of both cars were tuned to the frequency that had been given them. They knew the drill. One car was north of the quarry in the direction of Blackwatertown the second car was off the winding lanes to Bally-troden, to the west. The policemen, heavy in their anoraks and waterproofs, smoked in the cars. No talk. To have talked might have meant missing the call on the radio frequency.

They
thought the
quarry was secure. They had driven past it twice, each of them, and they had cruised the lanes and seen nothing that was suspicious. It was part
of the work of theE.4 section of the R.U.C. that they should provide
back up for handlers out in the night to meet a player. The engines turned over quietly. It would have taken the one car four minutes to reach the quarry if the handlers' panic button had gone, it would have taken the second car forty seconds longer. Tense, quiet, waiting.

Bren had heard the car a long way off, coming at speed.

The bastard had not shown. Because Bren was frightened then Song Bird was the bastard. He hated to be afraid, had done all his life.

Bren had pulled the Browning from his pocket, checked the safety. A black and cold night, rain in the air, and Cathy's hand had fallen on his wrist and she had muttered that it was Song Bird's car, she knew it was Song Bird's car because she could hear the distributor problem and the missing of the engine. The car had swept into the quarry, too fast, and skidded to a halt, and for a moment he and Cathy had been lit by the headlamps. He'd cringed and she'd cursed when the light beam had found them. The lights had died, the engine had been cut.

She had gone forward, Bren had been left beside their own car. He was conscious of the tautness of his arm that held the Browning.

She was ten, twelve, paces from him. Bren could see the outline of their bodies. The man seemed to dwarf Cathy. Bren's arm was rigid at his side, the Browning was clamped in his hand. He couldn’t hear what was said. The wind swirled down from the dead bracken above the quarry.

'Come here, come on."

Her sharp command.

He went forward.

He was blinded by her torch light. The beam was straight into his face. He held the pistol behind his back. Then the darkness again, and he blinked to find his vision.

"That's him, got the face? That's Gary. Gary, this is Song Bird."

Bren couldn’t shake hands, if that had been the proper thing to do, because he had a Browning pistol in his hand.

Cathy said quietly, "You want me and I'm not on the line then you'll get Gary."

"If you say so."

"It's what I say . . . What's the bloody fidgeting about? You need to piss, then get on with it."

The soft Irish of the country voice. "I want an answer, I want to know how long."

Cathy said gently, "As long as I say, Song Bird, that's how long."

"It's my neck . . ."

Cathy whispered, "Fuck me about, and I promise it'll be your neck."

"What I told Siobhan, you're a hard bitch."

Cathy chuckled, "Always had a way with words, didn't you, Mossie?"

"What I told Siobhan . . ."

"Shut up, Mossie . . ." She had turned to Bren. "He's been crying on his Missus' shoulder. Good thing or bad thing? Take time to tell. She'll have told him to quit . . ."

"Don't you understand anything,
Miss?"

Cathy had her hand up in front of his face. Bren watched. The snap was in her voice. She would count the points off on her fingers. "One, you've nowhere to go without my say so, if you quit and run then they'll find you, nut you. Two, you're damn well paid, and you will continue to be well paid, and you're set up for the future when I agree you can split. Three, you mess me and you're into Crumlin Road court, and P.I.R.A. intelligence officers tend to be looking at twelve years minimum. Four, you've missed the amnesty and don't forget it, you go and ask for your own crowd's protection and tell them you're sorry, you wouldn't last a week, and when you're pushing up daisies the lovely Siobhan and your kids will be ostracised with a traitor's stain.

Five . . ."

Her finger yanked at her thumb, ". . . Five, you know I'll look after you, Mossie, you know with me you're safe."

He was sheepish, she'd clattered the fight out of him. "So what do I do?"

"What I've told you to do, just that. And you wear the bloody clothes I've told you to wear."

Bren listened. He understood only a little of what was said. They talked names and places, sharp questions from Cathy, rambling answers from Song Bird. He could make little of it. The names were Attracta Donnelly and Vinny Devitt, and Patsy Riordan with mugs of tea, and the Brannigan kid. There was O.C. and Q.M. Talk of a hide being dug that would hold a flame-thrower if they could get it up from the south . . . She dominated Song Bird. She could make him laugh and she could make him cower. Song Bird was Cathy's marionette . . .

She had him in the palm of her hand. At the end, the bastard thanked her.

He was gone, his car coughing away into the darkness.

Two miles down the road, when she told him to, Bren used the radio to pull off the back-up cars.

Bren said, "You were pretty hard on him."

She turned her head away, as if she didn't want to hear him. "Just trying to keep him alive."

8

He watched the major ease back into his chair. The map of the operation plan that he had drawn was left on the easel. The Assistant Under-Secretary knew all their names, bar the one. Hobbes, scratching the side of his face. The Assistant Chief Constable, making his notes.

The colonel of Army Intelligence, paring his nails. Howard Rennie, gazing out of the window. The young woman was the only outsider, and she stared throughout at the ceiling.

The Assistant Under-Secretary of the Northern Ireland Office tilted his head to see the map better through his bifocal spectacles.

The Special Air Service always drew good plans. There was the Killyman Road where it ran out of Dungannon towards Maghery.

Below the road was drawn the web of streets of the housing estate.

Above the road was the shaded line marking the perimeter fence, and the square block in red was the old house round which the barracks had been built. It was a good map and it had been a concise briefing.

The question before the Task Co-ordinating Group was whether to sanction the plan. The final approval rested with the Assistant under-Secretary.

The young woman had made no contribution to the meeting, and twice had to conceal her yawns. Rennie had started to excavate the bowl of his pipe and used his coffee saucer for the debris. The major sat patiently, his arms folded. The Assistant Chief Constable and the colonel, wily and experienced men, were content to wait on the Assistant Under-Secretary.

Hr shuffled his papers. All their eyes were on him now.

"Isn't there another way . . . ?" His voice was high-pitched, sibilant, They gave him no help. It was only the fourth time that he had sat in on Task Co-ordinating Group. They seemed to mock him, the Assistant Chief Constable and the colonel, as if he were merely squeamish. The major met his questioning glance and didn't respond, as if
his
job was completed. Every time there was an ambush shooting his Secretary of State was forced onto the defensive. Rennie, billowing smoke from his new-filled pipe, screened himself. A community worker had told him recently that Special Air Service ambushes were the best recruiting sergeant the Provisionals had. The man from Five, Hobbes, looked back at him, through him, as if no possible alternative existed to the action that was proposed.

There was this young woman sitting behind the man from Five.

". . . There is always an alternative way, surely?" The Assistant Under-Secretary fixed on her. She was yawning again. He thought she yawned because she was tired, not because she was bored. She was appallingly dressed. A skirt that was too short, a hideous mauve blouse, a cardigan that was too large, and a handbag in which he could comfortably have hidden his briefcase. He had not been introduced at the start of the meeting. Clearly not a secretary because she had no paper, no pencil, just a rather lovely smile that went with the yawn.

Like his own niece, who'd back-packed round Australia, who couldn't abide . . .

She looked at her watch, said decisively, "No, there isn't."

"I beg your pardon . . ."

She said brusquely, "There is no other way."

What he had wanted was for the debate to start. Debate he could influence. He turned away from her. "I think we might explore alternatives. We are looking, after all, at a situation in which lives are . .

."

‘’Listen...’’.

He turned sharply to face her.

‘’Please don't interrupt me . . ."

I said for you to listen."

He saw that her eyes were a very pale shade of blue. He thought her hair to be truly golden. She had a clear voice, not loud and not hectoring. He felt afraid of her.

She said, "I'm what's called a handler, I handle an informer. Are you with me? My informer is always at risk, and my greatest priority is to protect that man. There is going to be a heavy-calibre machine-gun attack tomorrow on the Dungannon barracks. My informer is going to be a part of that attack. His boss - that's the Officer Commanding East Tyrone Brigade - knows the exact time, and the place. My informer also knows the time and the place. There is a strong suspicion in the East Tyrone Brigade of an informer in their ranks . . . therefore the O.C. will not brief the remaining members of the active service unit until the last moment. To protect himself my informer must go through with the attack.

"So explore your alternatives to our proposal . . . We can do nothing.

We can allow P.I.R.A. to take over the home of a 71- year-old woman and blast the daylights out of the camp, and have them laugh themselves sick at our lack of preparedness. Or we can set up roadblocks round the town. That will cause them to abort, hold another inquest, check who knew, identify and eliminate my informer. Or we can watch them into the house, surround it. lay siege to it, starve them out and arrest them all, in which ease my informer goes to prison where he is of little use to me

. Or, we can let matters run their course, as outlined to you. I cannot agree to anything that jeopardises my informer."

The Assistant Under-Secretary looked round the table for support and found none. He saw the fresh skin of the young woman's face, and the eyes that showed no doubt. He assumed she used so large a handbag the better to conceal a firearm. He believed he saw a young woman of quite terrifying certainty, and that he was watched by every one of the men round the table for his weakness and for his strength.

He said, "You want my blessing for the killing of three, or four, young men . . ."