The women.
Who hardly gave him a second glance, now, but would be all over him like a rash once he made his bones.
But he also knew that he was crossing a line.
Right here, right now, he was just another wee civvie standing in his back bedroom.
By the time he was back in this room tonight he’d have crossed over into another world, a world from which there was no way back.
He felt anxious.
The paranoia was back.
AT EXACTLY THE MOMENT that Gerard Casey opened his window, another alarm clock sounded.
This one was on a cheap Formica bedside table, next to the head of a young man in a very similar bedroom, in an all-but identical terraced house, about five miles distant as the crow flies.
Only five miles, but Northland Street was a world away from Lenadoon Avenue. It might as well have been a different country, and in a way it was: to get there, you’d to wade through rivers of blood.
The young man in Northland Street – William ‘Billy’ Jones – opened one eye, clicked off the alarm clock, and groaned.
He was glad of the money that came with his recent promotion, but he missed the extra couple of hours’ kip.
Rubbing the sleep out of his eyes, he half-rolled, half-fell out of bed and onto his knees.
From there, he stood up and stumbled into the bathroom for a piss, and then stumbled back to his bedroom to pull on his uniform.
Black trousers, white shirt.
He fished a badge saying ‘Assistant Manager’ from his trouser pocket, and pinned it on his chest.
Stifling a yawn, he crept slowly downstairs to the kitchen, trying to be as quiet as possible.
His da’ would have been out with the boys until the wee small hours, and he was not a man to annoy when he was hungover, his da’.
Not a man to annoy at any time: Billy Jones Senior was a leading commander in the Ulster Volunteer Force, and a violent man with a hair-trigger temper and a light-heavyweight’s physique. He wasn’t shy of using his hands, even now his son was twenty.
Billy Senior was a dyed-in-the-wool bigot, for whom the only good Catholic was a dead one. Billy Junior bore no such hatred. He’d flatly refused to get involved with the UVF, and Billy Senior had made it quite clear that he despised the boy for it. He was a coward, a traitor, a taig-lover…
Christ. Billy Junior smiled guiltily to himself as he reached up for the cornflakes. If only the old bastard knew.
He was seeing a Catholic girl, a pretty wee thing called Colleen who worked in the bar. They’d had to keep the whole thing secret – his da’ would kill him if he found out, definitely kick him out the house, and hers wouldn’t take it much better. The sooner the two of them could save up the money to get the fuck out of this Godforsaken city, and move in somewhere together… London, maybe. Maybe the States. Somewhere that it didn’t matter whether or not you believed in the Virgin Mary, or thought the sun shone out of King Billy’s arse, or cared what football team anyone supported.
Colleen had hinted that she wanted to get married, settle down, have kiddies.
He imagined a big family wedding.
His old man would go proper mental.
A fucking papist wedding in a fucking Fenian church?
Red-faced, veins bulging, steroid-popping eyeballs sweeping over everyone in the other pews.
And then the reception… Billy Senior and his brothers on the lager and scotch, her da’ and his brothers on the Guinness and vodka chasers…
Fuck me, but it would be a bloodbath.
Nah, they’d be living together. Somewhere a very long way away.
Hey, maybe they’d get wed in Vegas? Just the two of them.
An Elvis wedding.
He grinned, put his bowl in the sink and slipped on his favourite red adidas jacket.
Upstairs, he could hear the old man snoring.
He’d see Colleen tonight when their shifts overlapped.
Not for long. Just a kiss and a wee cuddle.
Five minutes alone.
Go back later to walk her home.
It wasn’t much, but it was better than nothing.
And it wouldn’t always be like this.
BILLY HAD LET himself in at the front of Robinson’s just after eight.
Switched on the lights and the heating.
Ran his hand down the length of the dark wood bar to check it wasn’t sticky and breathed in the mixture of stale fags, spilt beer, and Pledge spray polish.
He walked to the office at the back of the pub.
Looked at the notebook to see if the night manager had left anything.
They were running short of Carling Black Label.
One of the bar staff had given her notice, but temporary cover was being arranged – one of the lads, his younger sister had done a bit of bar work before.
All good. No problems.
Humming tunelessly to himself, he went into the kitchen and from there down into the cellar to double check the lager stocks.
At just after nine o’clock, he went back to the front door to let in Stephen and Laura, the cook and barmaid who were on that morning.
‘Alright guys?’ he said, with a broad smile. ‘Is it cold enough for ye, is it?’
For a moment, he stood in the doorway, smelling the frosty air, and looking up and down the street.
His last morning on earth, and he had no idea.
LATE MORNING, and the Paras and their RUC colleagues were pulled up in the middle of Ballygomartin Road, right on the western edge of the city, putting in a VCP.
John Carr had finally allowed 2Lt de Vere to come down from top cover, and now the two men were standing side-by-side.
De Vere was standing to Carr’s left, watching him out of the corner of his eye, and mimicking his stance and movements, sometimes consciously, sometimes without even knowing he was doing it.
Carr in turn had been watching the young officer all morning, assessing him, looking for weaknesses.
He was no-one’s idea of a class warrior – though his father was a staunch Communist – but he was only human, and he defied any working class Scotsman not to get a wee bit ticked off by the chinless Old Etonians the Army kept putting in charge.
But it was like anything: some were shite and some were okay, and, to be fair to the beanpole next to him, this one didn’t seem too bad.
Completely fucking clueless, obviously, but there were just a few signs that he might have the makings.
For starters, he’d stayed up top throughout without even the hint of a complaint, and when they’d gone down Kennedy Way he’d got a proper game face on, his rifle into his shoulder, covering his arcs. True, he hadn’t had any filthy nappies lobbed at him, but there’d been a few stones thrown