Once A Pilgrim: a breathtaking, pulse-pounding SAS thriller

13.

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.’

14.

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 about the work they were doing.

Yes, they were making life harder for bad men. But they were making life harder for good men, too.

‘Not too static, boss,’ said Carr, and wandered off to the side of the road.

Stamping his feet in his boots to get some blood back into them, de Vere crossed to the opposite pavement, and took a moment to look around himself. He could just about make out his men in various doorways up and down the street, rifles at the ready, covering the VCP and the approaches. The dark made him uneasy: even now, a man might be hidden in some shadow with an Armalite into his shoulder.

But he knew that he was going to have to live with it.

Back in the middle of the road, the two RUC officers were leaning against their vehicle, their weapons held very casually, smoking.

Carr wandered over and nodded in the direction of the coppers.

‘They’ll probably get it if it’s coming, boss,’ he said, quietly. ‘Look at that one tabbing away. The end of his fag’s standing out like a bulldog’s bollocks, right in the middle of his swede. Plus their drills are shit. Standing out in the open, not moving around.’ He shook his head. ‘I suppose you cannae blame them, in a way. Same shit, day in, day out, year after year. Maybe anyone’d get complacent. Got to take your hat off to them, really. When they go home at night this disnae stop.’

Carr walked on, and de Vere watched the RUC men. It was true: the tips of their cigarettes were like bright red bullseyes in the dark street. He knew that many of the PIRA players regarded the local police as the true, traitorous enemy, the Brits being not much more than an inconvenience who would fuck off once the local opposition was scattered and broken.

Rather them than me, he thought, and immediately felt ashamed of himself.

Shaking that off, he stifled a yawn. He ached for the comfort, if you could call it that, of his room in Whiterock.

A hot shower, something to eat. His bed.

Maybe they’d finish before too long?

It was very quiet. He hoped so.

Not that it had been all that bad a day. The nervousness he’d felt that morning was gone.

Carr had been right: it was getting easier.

Good man, Carr.

The sort of man the British Army lived and died on.

15.

NOT LONG AFTER six-thirty, Billy Jones Jnr handed over to the evening manager at Robinson’s, ran him through the stocktake and the till, and managed to have a few minutes in the back office with Colleen before he said goodbye.

Eventually, he walked her back to the bar, pulling on his adidas jacket, and put his foot on the brass rail.

‘It’s gonna get messy tonight,’ he said, raising his voice over the hubbub.

The place was already buzzing with several raucous Christmas office parties.

Girls with Santa hats on their heads, knocking back Malibu and Coke.

Lads with pints in hands and wandering eyes.

Wham! on the speakers.

Last Christmas.

A heart, given to someone special.

‘Shall I pick yous up at midnight, darlin’?’ he said.

‘Aye,’ said Colleen, with a cheeky grin and a twinkle in her eye. ‘Don’t be late, ’cos I have something for you.’

He blushed – stop blushing you eejit – and said, ‘Really?’

‘Uh huh,’ she said. ‘And I think you’ll like it.’

‘I’ll not be late then,’ he said, with a big smile.

A man appeared at his elbow waving a tenner, so Colleen broke off.

Billy zipped up his jacket and walked out of the pub, the smile still plastered across his face.

She was a rare one, alright. He couldn’t wait for midnight.

Five minutes later, hands thrust into his pockets against the cold, he reached the car park.

Jangling his keys.

He shivered. He knew the car would be bitterly cold inside – the heater was crap, the seats were plastic. Probably have to scrape the ice off first.

Still, only ten minutes and he’d be home and in front of the gas fire for his beans on toast or fish fingers and chips, or whatever his ma had in mind. Then he’d…

He became dimly aware of footsteps behind him, light and quick, and then – before he could turn to look – two things happened simultaneously.

There was a thump in his back – it felt like he’d been hit with a sledgehammer – and a deafening sound.

He knew right enough that it was gunfire – you didn’t spend twenty years in Belfast without recognising that sound – but he was confused because it sounded so close.

Shots always rang out somewhere over there, half a mile away. Not right next to you.

Didn’t they?

He realised that he was being pushed forwards, and then it happened again – the thump, the noise – and he staggered, felt the strength go from his legs.

There was pain too, now – real pain in his back, searing heat and stabbing sensations – and he couldn’t breathe, like he’d been badly winded.

He collapsed onto his knees.

Tried to stand up but couldn’t.

His head was spinning.

He fell forwards.

Somehow, he realised, he was now flat on the ground, his face pressed against the cold, wet tarmac.

Confusing.

What’s… How…?

The last thing that Billy Jones Jnr felt was something hot being pressed into the soft flesh behind his left ear.

Then nothing.

16.

THE RED SIERRA nosed its way back towards the Falls Road.

At first, no-one said a word.

Gerard Casey was trembling with adrenalin, and an odd mixture of pride and shame, of happiness and grief.

He’d just killed an innocent young man, only a year older than himself.

So what the fuck did that make him?

But then, this was war, and he’d done it for the cause.

That, and Roslyn McCabe, and her knickers round her ankles…

Their route had taken them back along Great Victoria Street, passing by Robinson’s, and now they were in the evening traffic, heading north to join the Falls from the Divis Street end, well away from Springfield Road RUC.

Travelling slowly in the bumper-to-bumper flow, fighting the urge to overtake somehow, or turn off and take a quicker route.

In the cold night air, the sound of the three shots would have travelled a fair way.

Someone might already be kneeling over Billy Jones’ body.

Someone might have seen the red Sierra leaving the car park straight after the hit.

You just never knew how quick that someone could call in its description, or how quick the police and the Brits could react.

Their focus now was on ditching the car and getting it alight as soon as they were on safe ground.

A patch of scrubland off Glen Street.

The two gallon can of four-star in the boot, and a match.

Then pile into McKill’s.

Get the weapons back to Martin and Brian.

Strip.

Hand over their clothes for burning.

Dress.

Then off to The Volunteer, and a nice cold Guinness, and then…

Outside, it was sleeting and Baltic cold, but inside the vehicle heating was turned down low.

If the car misted up a little, so much the better.

Sick Sean driving slowly, not wanting to attract any undue attention, just another guy going about his business.

A big, fuck-off grin on his face.

Occasionally looking at Gerard.

Who was the first to speak.

‘Christ,’ he said. ‘Christ!’

‘Fucking outstanding,’ said Ciaran O’Brien, from the back seat. ‘Fucking brilliant!’

‘I told you the wee man would be fine,’ said Sean, over his shoulder. ‘It’s in the blood. He’s a stone-cold killer. Did you see the way the big sack of shite went down?’

‘I did,’ said Ciaran, from the back. ‘A good operation, Gerard. Well done. Proud of you, son. No hesitation. Straight in there. UP THE RA!’

He shouted the last, and punched the seat in glee as the car turned left into the Falls, moving with the ebb and flow of the traffic.

‘He was the same age as me, near enough,’ said Gerard, half to himself.

‘He had it coming,’ said O’Brien. He clapped Sean on the shoulder, and hooted in delight. ‘Billy Jones’ fucking son! What a fucking result!’

‘Yeah, his old man’s going to go fucking bananas when he finds out,’ said Sean.

‘He’ll…’ said Ciaran.

Then, suddenly alert: ‘What’s that? Is that a siren?’

It was. In the distance.

Sirens, plural.

‘Ach, it’s miles away,’ said Sean, after a moment.

But it was a timely reminder to them all.

Keep focused.

Don’t relax.

They were still in play, and any number of people in this miserable, benighted city would kill them on sight, if they got the chance.

The UDA. The UVF. The UDR. The RUC.

Even INLA, if the mood took them.

And of course the fucking SAS, or ‘the men in cars’ from the Det, 14th Int Coy, who were often mistaken by their targets for the boys from Hereford.

They were fiendishly good at what they did.

Sure, them bastards could be behind them right now.

Or ahead.

Or both.

Just waiting for a radio message to take down three men in a red Sierra.

Sean glanced nervously in his mirror.

‘Keep your eyes on the road, Sean,’ said Ciaran O’Brien from the back seat. ‘You look out for checkpoints, let me worry about who’s following us.’

Gerard Casey now slumped in his seat.

All that nervous energy gone.

The car drew level with Leeson Street.

The traffic was slow.

Must be the lights at Springfield Road Falls junction.

That’s all it is.

We’ll be on our way in a jiffy.

But fate was not on their side.

Unbeknown to them, Margaret Thatcher had landed at Aldergrove forty-five minutes earlier, and the security services were on high alert: twice the normal number of regular Army, twice the RUC presence, not to mention spooks, undercover SF and various others.

And just then the red Sierra rolled to a stop behind a bus – right under a fucking streetlamp, of all things.

17.

SICK SEAN CASEY looked out of his window and met the eyes of a man behind the wheel of a car stuck in traffic on the opposite side of the road.

Six feet away.

No, four.

Lit up by the same streetlamp, and the lights from the car behind the IRA team.

Big guy, probably six-two, moustache. Scruffy bastard.

Sean Casey habitually noted faces; he had a good memory for them which had helped keep him alive, until now.

He didn’t know this guy.

But there was something about him – for all that his gaze was casual – and Casey sensed it straight away.

And he felt his guts lurch.

‘Your man there…’ he said softly, almost to himself.

Moustache’s shirt and pully and jacket looked like an Oxfam scarecrow’s hand-me-downs, and his hair was collar-length and unkempt.

But it was all too carefully done – too studied.

It looked like an act, and it didn’t hide his bearing, which was fit, and strong, and confident.

Military.

Sick Sean would never know it, but he was spot on.

The man was a lance-jack in 3 Para Close Observation Platoon, dressed in civvies and driving an admin vehicle from a resupply visit to his mates at Springfield Road RUC, where they were pulling extra hours for the visit of the Iron Lady.

Bastard fate had brought Sick Sean and the man with the moustache together, separated only by a few millimetres of glass and a white line.

Moustache’s passenger and vehicle commander were idly looking out of their own windows in the opposite direction from the stolen vehicle, visually covering their arcs while stopped, oblivious for now as to who was on their right.

But Moustache was suddenly wide awake, eyes narrowed, trying to place the face, flicking into the rear of the Sierra.

That guy looks familiar. Who the…?

Sick Sean could almost see his cogs turning, his mind’s eye flicking through mugshots and briefings.

Then he saw it click into place.

Sean Casey.

Sick Sean Casey.

At that point, Moustache should have yawned and broken his stare – he’d had it hammered into him enough times by the SAS instructors at Hythe and Lydd – but even the best of men can fall victim to the shock of the moment.

Instead, he turned to the vehicle commander.

‘That’s that cunt Sean Casey, opposite,’ he said, under his breath. ‘And it might be Ciaran O’Brien in the back.’

The commander snapped his head around and locked eyes with O’Brien.

‘We’re made,’ said Sean, a flustered edge to his voice. ‘The fucking SAS!’

The soldier said something to his passenger, and reached down.

That was enough for O’Brien. A split second later, he brought up his AK47 and opened fire from the back seat.

The blinding muzzle flash lit up the interior of the vehicle, but it was the noise which really shocked Gerard Casey. It was thunderous, the pressure from the long burst resonating through the car and erupting out of the destroyed window.

In his panic, O’Brien fired off almost a full magazine. They were unaimed shots, the weapon jumping around in his grip, but even so it was a minor miracle that only one round found its target. That round took the COP lance-corporal in his right shoulder, split and scored and shattered its way down his humerus, and exited near his elbow, putting him completely out of the game.

O’Brien was shouting, ‘Drive! Drive! Drive!’ but Casey was already on his way.

Gunning the engine, swerving round the bus, battering and scraping his way past the traffic behind the Army car.

The carburettor sucking in air.

Behind them, the COP vehicle commander had stepped out onto the tarmac, his Heckler and Koch MP5K raised.

He fired two short, aimed bursts into the rear of the moving vehicle, which was now ahead of the bus and accelerating away, sliding left and right, wheels squealing.

The back window frosted from the impact of the rounds, but, with civilians in cars and on foot, he was forced to hold his fire as the Sierra got beyond thirty metres.

But one of his rounds had done its job.

It had entered the rear right side of Ciaran O’Brien’s neck and had exited the front left side, opening the jugular vein as it passed through flesh and muscle, blood and matter spraying over Sean and Gerard. O’Brien was thrown forward and released the AK, and it clattered and slid past the gearstick and into the front passenger footwell at Gerard Casey’s feet.