Once A Pilgrim: a breathtaking, pulse-pounding SAS thriller. James Deegan
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said Mick Parry, and the rest of the room fell apart.
De Vere smiled to himself: this was evidently a tight-knit bunch of blokes, high on morale and led by a pair of excellent NCOs. He’d begun the day feeling like the proverbial fish out of water but, to his amazement, he was already starting to feel accepted. In turn that felt like an enormous privilege.
He looked at his watch: 18:15hrs.
They were done for the day, bar the drive back to Whiterock, and he was just starting to think about getting back to his room, and writing that letter to his father to let him know how his first day had gone, when an RUC inspector stuck his head in and beckoned Parry outside.
A minute or two later, the Liverpudlian corporal returned.
‘Okay, guys, listen in,’ he said, looking at the blokes. ‘Get your kit on, and let’s get out to the vehicles. We’re not done yet after all.’
He came over to Carr and de Vere.
‘John, boss, they want us to do some extra VCPs in the Clonards,’ he said, with the air of a man who was entirely used to being fucked about by the Army, and could take more of it than they could ever dish out. ‘Down in the Lower Falls area. We’re gonna be out a bit later than we thought.’
‘Right-ho, Corp’l Parry,’ said the young officer, standing up. ‘Any specific reason?’
‘There’s something big going on, but they don’t share shit like that with the likes of us, do they? The RUC crew don’t know, neither.’
‘Thanks, Parry,’ said de Vere. He hesitated for a moment, and then dropped his voice and leaned in slightly. ‘It’s been a good day. You’ve been a great support.’
‘It’s not over yet, boss,’ said the corporal, with a broad smile. ‘Trust me, this bollocks can go on all night.’
Outside, the Toms were already waiting patiently next to the vehicles.
‘Listen in,’ barked Parry, and proceeded to give them a quick brief, pointing on his map to where they would set up the first VCP.
They would leave the RUC station and head along the Springfield Road into Kashmir Road, then right into Clonard Gardens, and finally into Clonard Street, facing towards the Falls Road.
They’d put the VCP in at the junction with Ross Mill Avenue and Clonard Street – a chokepoint that everyone had to pass through, if they were trying to cut out the Falls so as to avoid the nearby RUC station.
At 18:35hrs the vehicles rolled out of Springfield Road.
Five minutes later they were set up in the Clonards, and the VCP was operating.
THE IRA HIT TEAM found a space in the row behind the Allegro, about six cars along to the right of the driver’s side and sitting between two other cars so that they would be shielded from Billy Jones’s view as he walked to the car.
The car park was poorly-illuminated, and the route to his vehicle kept him away from theirs, so there was no chance of him seeing them and spooking.
It was perfect, near-as.
Sick Sean Casey killed the engine and the lights, but left the key in the ignition. He rubbed his head – it was itchy under the hot, rolled-up balaclava – and took the pistol from his waistband. He hid it under his right leg, where he could get at it quick if needs be.
In the rear, Ciaran O’Brien absently patted the AK, which was lying on the seat next to him under a dark towel.
Gerard held the Webley up, staring at it in the low, orange light from the nearest lamp.
‘Put that fucking thing down, Gerard,’ hissed Sean.
If a chance RUC patrol or – God forbid – an undercover SAS team rolled into the carpark, just as Gerard was waving his frigging gun around like he’d just won it at the fair, the last thing the three of them would see was muzzle flash. Those fuckers were out there every day and every night, and if they saw a pistol in your hand it was game over.
No warning, no surrendering.
No second chances.
Murdering bastards. He looked out of the window and sighed. Be glad when this is fucking done.
Gerard slipped the revolver under his right leg like he’d seen his brother do and sat there, fingers rat-a-tat-tat drumming on his thighs.
Ten or fifteen minutes, and they would be moving.
This was the vulnerable time, the sitting and the waiting.
He leaned forward and clicked the radio on – quietly, quietly.
Some old song he didn’t know.
Something about fear, and guilt, and a fire.
He grimaced and clicked it off again.
‘Hey, leave it on,’ said O’Brien, leaning forward. ‘That’s Funeral Pyre. It’s a fucking good song. The Jam, was it? I remember when it come out.’
He whistled a bar or two of the tune.
Gerard Casey switched the radio back on, and said nothing.
Twenty years old, and about to make his name…
O’Brien grinned.
To be fair, he thought, he’d probably been like that the first time himself.
Actually, no, I fucking wasn’t. But my first really was a piece of piss. That fucking tout, strapped to the chair in that barn, crying and begging. With my old man watching.
It was eight or nine years ago now, but he remembered it well: the cold steel of the pistol in his hand, the muzzle to the guy’s elbows, then his knees, then his ankles.
Finally his temple.
Once the order was given, O’Brien had been careful to show no weakness, and no hesitation, even though he knew the guy, and his sons.
All the time, his da’ watching, expressionless: he could never have shown the old bastard up.
He leaned forward and squeezed Gerard’s shoulder.
‘You’ll be alright, Gerry,’ he said. ‘We’ll be in The Volunteer tonight and I reckon that Roslyn McCabe’ll have her knickers at her ankles for you, once she knows.’
Gerard looked over his shoulder and tried to smile. ‘You reckon?’ he said.
‘Definitely,’ said Sean. ‘Sure, I’ve fucked her sister, and the young one’s no better. Tiocfaidh ár lá, son. Now keep your eyes on that car.’
A LITTLE OVER A MILE due west, the Paras and their RUC attachment had plotted up in Clonard Street.
But whatever it was that had forced them to stay out later than expected, it hadn’t reached the Clonards.
They’d been in place for approximately fifteen minutes, but the area was as quiet as the grave.
So far they’d only had to deal with five or six cars.
Some had turned into Clonard Street and then into Odessa, blatantly avoiding the checkpoint, and, as he and John Carr stood beside the open door of Parry’s vehicle, a red Renault Trafic van did just that.
‘Doesn’t necessarily mean fuck all,’ said the corporal, out of the side of his mouth, from the vehicle commander’s seat. ‘All sorts of reasons people don’t want to get fucked about, boss. Might just want to get home quicker.’
Not for the first time that day, de Vere reflected on an unfortunate fact