PAT CASEY SAT IN HIS usual seat in the corner of The Volunteer on the Falls Road and tried to look vaguely interested as another greasy sycophant paid his respects and offered to buy him a pint.
The eldest of the three Casey brothers, it was common knowledge that Patrick was a senior figure in the Belfast Brigade command structure.
This being one of Belfast PIRA’s favourite pubs, there wasn’t a man alive could drink the beer Pat Casey was offered on an average night.
There probably wasn’t the beer in the bar to make good on all the offers.
He waved the guy away with a half-smile, keeping his eye on wee Roslyn McCabe as she sat at the bar sucking down something with a pink umbrella in it.
Fuck, but she was a great wee ride, all legs and arse in that tight little white miniskirt.
She smiled at him, and he just stared back at her.
He’d fucked her in the alley round the back of the bar last week, and he’d a mind to do it again tonight.
See how things go, eh.
Dirty wee whore. Not marrying material, but...
Pat Casey’s status might have been common knowledge, but proving who he was and what he’d done, to the satisfaction of a court, was a very different matter. He was a clever man who’d never been caught and who seldom got his hands dirty these days. Not that he was frightened to: he’d done his time as a foot soldier, and had earned the nickname ‘The Brain Surgeon’ for his close quarter assassinations.
Breathing down your neck, only ever one round to the head – that was how he liked it.
But that was in the past. Violence was a big tool in the box, but the real means to the Republican end was political, not military. Pat had the gift of the gab, he could turn on the charm if required, and he had no criminal record. Those in the highest echelons had identified him as a good man to have in place when the bloodshed eventually forced the hands of the Brits.
He tore his gaze away from Roslyn’s legs and looked at his watch. Sean and Gerry should have been here by now, but they were probably taking it nice and careful. He felt a slight sense of unease, but pushed it away. Sure, they’d be in any minute, and he’d be toasting them with the rest of the fellas.
He thought about his brothers.
Sean was an experienced lad but too hot-headed and unpredictable, and Pat had little doubt that one day he’d make a martyr of himself.
But Gerry – Gerry was smart, and cautious.
A bit young, was all. All he needed was experience. Once he had that, the youngest of the three Casey brothers looked to Pat to have the potential to become a significant player.
Pat had personally sanctioned the 1st Battalion operation on Billy Jones Jnr. This was west Belfast, not the Wild West – you didn’t just rock up and kill people willy-nilly, there were procedures and rules, and a strict code of conduct. Junior men thought up jobs and brought them to the table. Senior men turned most of them down as impractical, or too dangerous, or too expensive, and gave a few the green light. Sean had brought up Billy and suggested Gerry as the shooter, and, after a little thought, Pat had agreed to the killing.
It went without saying that he’d have much preferred to have hit Billy Senior, but that cunt was too wily to get caught out. Young Billy would fit fine, would send the right message to the prod bastards.
And then, as he’d been driven over to The Volunteer a couple of hours earlier, the BBC radio news bulletin had been full of a shooting in the city centre near the Europa.
An unidentified male killed by unknown assassins.
Of course, he’d known what the craic was, and he’d felt elated.
He was looking forward to shaking young Gerry’s hand, and seeing the surprise and pride on his face. It wasn’t common practice for senior figures to go round back-slapping the ASU members, and it would all have to be very unofficial, but, sure, this was his younger brother. To congratulate him in person, and bring him into the Brigade… Well, it was a good day for the Casey family.
He threw back half his pint and winked at Rosyln. She tried her best to look demure, but she didn’t have it in her. Later…
He noticed the clock over the bar behind the young woman.
Now they were late.
What the hell were they playing at?
His eye wandered round the bar, and it landed on the TV in the opposite corner.
And he went cold all over.
A reporter was standing in the darkness of the Lower Falls, his camera crew’s lights showing a red Ford Sierra.
Crashed into a wall.
‘Jimmy,’ shouted Pat, looking briefly at the barman. ‘Shut the fucking music off and turn that up, will you.’
The barman complied as if his life depended on the speed of his movements.
‘On the record, the police are staying tight-lipped,’ the reporter was saying, ‘but they believe the men may have carried out that earlier shooting in the city centre. It was on their way back into west Belfast that they were identified by an Army patrol. They ended up here in the Clonards, where all three men were killed by the security forces. At this stage…’
Pat Casey stood up, knocking over the remains of his pint, and the chair he’d been sitting on.
He shook his head, feeling nauseous.
Surely fucking not.
Not bothering to put on his coat, he hurried from the bar, which was suddenly quiet, a sea of eyes and gaping mouths.
He passed out onto the street, through the security cage placed there to delay unwanted visitors, and straight towards his waiting driver. The engine was running by the time he reached the car.
‘The Clonards, Paulie,’ he said.
‘What is it, Pat?’ said the driver.
‘I think my brothers are dead. And Ciaran O’Brien. Murdering Brit bastards.’
‘Mother of God, Pat,’ said Paulie, crossing himself. ‘I am so fucking sorry.’
‘Just drive.’
THE CLONARDS WAS CLOSED off by a number of Army and RUC vehicles.
Blue strobe lighting bounced off the houses.
Soldiers, rifles at the ready, stood on a cordon and watched a large crowd of locals from dark eyes under helmets.
There were shouts of abuse, and every now and then someone lobbed a stone from the back of the crowd.
Pat Casey got out of the car and approached the police cordon. He could see forensic officers in white suits clearing the area.
He approached the first RUC man he saw and said, ‘Who’s in fucking charge? Get him over here.’
The constable walked over to a detective inspector and pointed back towards Pat.
The DI walked casually over. ‘Good evening, Mr Casey,’ he said, with a broad smile. ‘And how can I help you?’
‘Someone told me that’s my brothers dead there,’ spat Pat. ‘I want to fucking know.’
‘That’s interesting, Mr Casey,’ said the detective. ‘No names