Once A Pilgrim: a breathtaking, pulse-pounding SAS thriller. James Deegan
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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 and more than a few insults shouted in his direction, especially when they’d been down by the Bombay Street peace line early doors, and he’d taken it all in his stride, unflinchingly. Carr had known plenty of new ruperts who’d shown a lot less backbone.
They’d been doing VCPs for four hours now, give or take, and had pulled over plenty of cars. Sometimes the vehicles were searched, and sometimes the drivers just got spoken to for a few moments and then waved on. Carr could see that the apparent randomness of it was confusing de Vere, but at least he had the honesty and good sense to realise that he was out of his depth. Credit to him, he was doing his best human sponge act, trying to soak up the signs and tells and little indicators that Carr, Parry and the police officers were working on.
Their vehicle was in the middle of the current checkpoint, pushed out into the opposite side of the road to create a chicane between the police Hotspur to the front and Mick Parry’s Land Rover to the rear.
The traffic was light, and in a lull Carr turned to look at de Vere.
‘Alright, then, boss?’ he said, surprising the officer. ‘Coping, are we?’
‘Just about, corporal,’ said de Vere, gripping his SA80 a little tighter. ‘Thank you.’
‘We got shot at down here last week,’ said Carr, casually. He nodded at a distant block of flats. ‘Fella with an Armalite had a pop from over there.’
De Vere followed his gaze.
‘Missed the top of Keogh’s head by three or four inches,’ said Carr, deadpan. ‘Now, someone as tall as you…’
De Vere looked at him, careful to stand at his full height.
‘I don’t…’ he started to say, but Carr cut him off.
‘Customer coming, boss,’ said Carr. ‘We havenae time to stand here gossiping.’
An old purple Morris Marina up ahead was being flagged down by the RUC, and its driver was pulling over as directed – a sensible move, with the eyes and rifles of several stony-faced members of the 3 Para multiple trained on him. Enough people had been shot for driving through checkpoints that you had to be off your face on drugs or drink, or deeply stupid, or a member of PIRA with weapons on board and no other options, to try it.
Carr waited until the car had come to a halt and the driver had switched off the engine and was showing his hands.
He looked at de Vere. ‘This one’s an old hand, boss,’ he said. ‘Conor Gilfillan. Bomb-maker. He’ll have nothing on him, but we should fuck him about a bit. You can have a word. Off you go.’
De Vere swallowed hard. ‘Right-ho,’ he said, and walked over to the Marina, making a wind-your-window-down motion with his hand.
He