‘Thanks, Carr,’ he said. ‘Much appreciated.’
‘Nae problem, boss. Just another day. It gets a lot easier after this one.’
‘John,’ shouted Scouse Parry, from across the yard. ‘Get ready to roll.’
‘Aye, Scouse,’ yelled Carr. ‘Two minutes.’ Then he looked at the soldiers. ‘You lot!’ he barked, in his thick Edinburgh growl. ‘Let’s start fucking sparking! First three to the loading bay!’
Three Toms made their way over and stood pointing their weapons casually into the bay.
‘Load!’ said Carr.
The soldiers went slickly through the drill, checking their safeties, inserting a magazine, securing their pouches, hands gripping front stocks.
‘Make ready!’
The sound of three SA80s being cocked, racking a live round into the chamber. Three sets of eyes and thumbs re-checking three safety catches.
‘Mount up!’
They stepped away from the loading bay and walked to their vehicle.
‘Next group. Come on, get a frigging move on!’ snapped Carr. He looked over at de Vere. ‘Then it’s you and me, boss!’ he shouted, in a voice that almost sounded like an order. ‘Let’s get weaving. No time to think about your girlfriend.’
‘I don’t have a girlfriend, lance corporal,’ said de Vere, his voice higher and reedier than normal.
He realised immediately that he had responded too quickly, too sharply.
He hadn’t meant it, but stress does funny things to people.
‘Boyfriend then, is it, boss?’ said Carr, with a broad grin. ‘I mean, equal opportunities and all that. And you being a public schoolboy.’
From across the yard, Carr heard Scouse Parry cackle.
He saw de Vere open his mouth to speak, and then shut it, and force a grin.
Good boy, he thought. You’re learning.
A moment later, Carr and de Vere made their own weapons ready, and Parry walked over.
‘My vehicle first then, boss,’ said Parry, to de Vere. ‘Then the RUC, then you and Carr. Eyes on stalks, eh?’
Parry walked off to the front Land Rover, whistling tunelessly, nodding at the RUC and chivvying his driver and Toms aboard.
Carr watched Guy de Vere bend his tall frame to get up on top and then climbed into his own vehicle.
He looked at his driver, a young Cornish private called Shaun Morris.
‘This new rupert’s shitting himself, Shaun,’ he said, with a chuckle. ‘Long way from the playing fields of Eton.’
‘Where’s that?’ said Morris.
‘Never mind,’ said Carr.
Up ahead, Parry was running through a final check, making sure everyone was on-board.
Then he looked toward the men manning the gate.
‘Get it open,’ he shouted, and stepped into the vehicle, shutting the armoured door behind him.
And then his driver put the vehicle into gear, and they all headed out through the gates.
IT’S A BIG THING, to kill a man in cold blood.
So Gerard Casey had slept badly in the little back bedroom in the terraced house in Lenadoon Avenue, a mile or two distant from Whiterock.
He’d woken up at 5am in the middle of some kind of sweating nightmare, and since then he’d been sitting on the edge of his bed, watching the red digits on his clock radio move slowly onwards.
Nearly six now.
He sparked up another Red Band and grimaced as he sucked down a lungful of cheap, bitter smoke.
Right leg jiggling on the frayed carpet.
Sure, you’ll be fucking fine, Gerry, Sean had said, a day or two earlier. The first time’s the hardest. But after that it gets easy.
His older brother, ‘Sick Sean’ Casey. An Active Service Unit member, a soldier in A Company in the 1st Battalion of the Provisional IRA’s grandly-titled ‘Belfast Brigade’, and a proven and tested killer.
Gerard stared at the U2 poster hiding the peeling woodchip paper on the wall opposite.
Bono, in that fucking silly hat and them fucking silly shades.
I can’t close my eyes and make it go away, either.
Guts churning, he stubbed the fag out in the loaded Harp ashtray on his little bedside table and stood up, pulling the grey kecks out of his arse.
Went to his chest of drawers and took out a pair of jeans.
He looked down at his hands. They were shaking slightly.
‘Get a grip,’ he said to himself. ‘Fucking twelve hours yet.’
He put the jeans back and selected another, older pair.
He’d be burning every scrap of clothing on his body later on, and he didn’t want to be getting rid of his only pair of 501s.
The old Wranglers, they could go.
He bent down, stepped into them, and pulled on a plain black T-shirt.
Looked out his bedroom window.
Four days to Christmas, and there were trees and lights in half the front windows in the street.
Across the rooftops he could see the raised security tower of Woodbourne police station.
Things had been different in the area since the Paras had taken over. Those bastards didn’t fuck around, and God help you if a patrol caught you late at night. They’d kicked the shit out of one of the main players the other week, put him in hospital good and proper. Then they’d spray-painted the wall of his house with 3 PARA WE OWN THE NIGHT.
The police had done fuck all about it, even though an official assault complaint had been put in.
The peelers laughed about it, so they did. He’d heard talk of it in the Davitts.
Treat us like second-class citizens, so they fucking do.
He looked at the tower and shivered, and for a moment he had an eerie feeling that he was being watched.
He shook his head.
Paranoia.
Better get used to that, Gerry.
He was brought back to reality with the banging of a fist on the front door.
A second later, another bang.
Louder this time.
‘Would you ever piss off!’ yelled Gerard’s mother, from her pit down the landing.
‘It’s alright, ma,’ shouted Gerard. ‘It’s just Sean.’
His mother said something muffled and angry, the hangover making her head thump, but Gerard had already cracked open his window.
‘Stop banging the fucking door,’ he hissed. ‘I’ll be down in a minute.’
In the dawn-dark street below stood Sean, hopping from foot to foot, blowing on his hands, dressed for the cold.
Sean was Gerard’s way in to the RA.
His recruiting sergeant.
He wanted it, did Gerry. He wanted to