Once A Pilgrim. James Deegan

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.’

20.

      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 have been released yet, so why would you think it might be your brothers?’

      ‘Don’t get fucking smart with me, you bastard. I want to know.’

      The DI looked at him for a moment. Then he said, ‘Sure, why don’t you come with me, Mr Casey?’

      He lifted the tape, and Pat ducked under.

      The two men walked to the wrecked Sierra.

      ‘I don’t know if you recognise this man?’ said the detective, when they reached the vehicle.

      Sean Casey lay on the ground, his ruined head in a pool of blood and pulp, sightless eyes staring into the drizzle of the night.

      ‘Fuck me,’ said Pat Casey.

      ‘Can you positively identify this individual as your brother, Mr Casey?’

      ‘You know full well that’s Sean, you fucking cunt.’

      ‘Oh, dear,’ said the detective inspector, allowing a look of great sorrow to settle on his face. ‘May I say on behalf of the Royal Ulster Constabulary that I am terribly sorry for your loss, sir.’

      ‘Where’s Gerry?’

      ‘Ah, yes. We do have two more bodies. If you could help us with identification that would be grand.’

      ‘Show me, you bastard.’

      The inspector shone his torch into the car. Ciaran O’Brien’s bloodstained corpse lay wedged between the front seats.

      ‘Now, is that your Gerard?’

      Pat Casey looked at the police officer. ‘If you don’t stop fucking me around, I swear…’

      ‘Please calm down, Mr Casey,’ said the inspector, ‘or I shall have to have you arrested. We do have one further individual dead in that house there, but I’m afraid I can’t let you go in there because it’s a potential crime scene. If you’d like to hang around the body will be moved shortly, so you can see it then.’

      ‘You fucking…’ said Casey. ‘Someone’ll pay for this.’

      The detective smirked. ‘It does look as though someone’s already paid for something tonight, Pat.’

      Casey put his face close to the police officer’s. ‘What did you say?’ he growled.

      The detective stared back at him, poker-faced. He was a veteran of nearly twenty years of this shit, and he was not easily intimidated. When he’d woken up that morning his life had been in danger, and when he went to sleep that night nothing would have changed. He’d lost several colleagues to the likes of Casey, and would quite cheerfully have pulled out his sidearm and shot him in the face there and then.

      ‘What did I say?’ he said. ‘What I said, Pat, was that Gerard died crying and begging for his life. Three-nil to the Parachute Regiment, I believe. I’m going to have a few drams the night toasting this lot into hell. Now, fuck off out my sight. And pass my condolences to your mother. When the old cow’s sober, mind.’

      Pat tried to stare him down, but the policeman just winked at him.

      ‘You’re a dead man walking.’

      ‘We’re all dead, Pat, even you. It’s just the when bit that we don’t know.’ He chuckled. ‘Ask your brothers.’

      ‘You’re a dead man. Whoever did this is a dead man. As long as I live.’

      ‘You take care now, Pat, you hear?’ said the detective. ‘Your poor ma wouldn’t want to lose all her boys in one night, would she?’

      Casey turned on his heel and walked away, passing within twenty feet of Mick Parry and John Carr, who were now part of the cordon securing the area.

      Back in his car, he looked at Paulie the driver.

      ‘They’re all dead,’ he said. ‘Sean, Ciaran, Gerard. All of them head-jobbed. Fucking murdered by the SAS.’

      ‘Scum, Pat,’ said Paulie. ‘Scum. They don’t play by the rules. It’s that shoot-to-kill, that’s what it is fucking is. That bitch Thatcher. It’s her death squads.’

      Pat Casey clenched his fists so hard that his nails nearly drew blood from his palms.

      ‘As God is my fucking witness,’ he said, ‘I swear I’ll find the fuckers that did this. If it takes me fifty years I will have their fucking lives.’

PART THREE

       LONDON MODERN DAY