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Ulster. March, the same year.
“I won’t, and you can’t fookin’ make me.”
“You ‘fookin’ will. This comes down the chain. This is a direct order from the bloody Army Council. They says you do it so you do it. No questions, no back chat.”
“Well he can go stuff his-self, can’t he.”
The two men glared at each other. The taller of the two, who was also the older and more senior, spoke first. “Do you really think the Army Council gives a steely damn what you want? They asked it be done, they even asked for you. I asked you nicely. Now I’m tellin’ you.” He paused, his voice becoming slow and deliberate. “You are going across the border. You are going to take a crate of armalites and one of AK47s and a load of ammo, and you will hand them over to a certain Billy Regan just outside Armagh, then you are going to bring about a dozen people back with you no questions asked. They will arrive here safe and unharmed. You will pamper them and you will protect them.” There was a pause. “Do I make myself quite clear Patrick Brennan?”
Pat Brennan looked both defeated and angry. “But Roddy, that’s the enemy. Regan’s a Proddy, a Brit. We shouldna be givin’ the enemy guns. We should be killin’ them.”
Rod Mooney stared at the younger man with irritation. “You know damn well why we’ve called a temporary halt.”
“Well I didnae agree to it, so why should I abide by it?”
“Because you agreed to follow the commands of the Army Council when you were inducted into the organisation. Are you going to disagree with that now? Are you going to change your mind now? You know what the consequences are if you do.”
Brennan paled. “No,” he whispered. “I’m not going to change my mind.” The consequences mentioned would have been a bullet in the back of the head, and his corpse left somewhere it would cause his family heartache, always supposing it was ever found. Brennan may have been a lot of things, including a thug and a murderer, but stupid wasn’t one of them. He would do this, for now, but he would find a way of turning it to his advantage if he could.
Roddy’s glare softened. “Look Pat, ultimately we both want the same thing. We want a united Ireland run by us. Sinn Fein are far too far right wing, and ultimately we’ll take them down as well.” For virtually its entire existence, the IRA had been an extreme left wing organisation. At various times it had even had extreme Marxist leanings, at other times only marginally less so. Both men were full members with the blood of at least two dozen people each on their hands.
“So why are we giving these to the Brits then?” Brennan wailed in despair. “And to Billy Regan, you know what he is. He’s a fookin’ mad man. Please! That’s just takin’ the piss.”
Roddy sighed. “I know Pat. It’s hard. But it’s the right thing to do. We both know this swarm is coming. We both know they’ll land on the mainland first. They’ve got to beat the Brits first. If the Brits fight and die protecting us and weakening these swarm, maybe we won’t get troubled at all. They’ll weaken the Brits for us. We’ll be the ones ruling them for a change.”
Pat nodded. “Yeah. I suppose. Still feels hard.”
Roddy put his hand on the younger man’s shoulder. “I know. But the more they defend, the more they are helping us. And the more we arm them, the longer it’ll be before these aliens get to us. It won’t be too bad.”
Pat nodded. “Just so long as the weapons get to the mainland and don’t stay with Regan.” He frowned. “Why don’t we just take them over to England ourselves? We’ve done it in the past.”
“You know damn well why. The Brits have closed their borders.”
“So do what we did in the past and use small boats.”
“Maybe that as well in the future. This way right now though. Plus it gives us the opportunity to bring people to safety.”
Brennan was silent, frowning in both irritation and frustration. “So who’re these people I’m bringin’ back then?” he eventually growled.
“Just some patriots we want safe. We’ve been contacted by some Catholic organisation that says it is outside the Confederacy. They’ve got their own Pope an’ everything. We want these people out of the way of the Brits, this organisation reckons they can get them into space and away from both the Confederacy, and from the Brits, so we’re going along with it.” Both Rod Mooney and Pat Brennan were nominally Catholic, but neither was a believer.
Pat frowned. His next statement showed not only how bright he really was, but how well read and up-to-date he was. “The Cosca? But they’re wops. Why would they be helping us?”
It was Rod’s turn to frown. “The Cosca? You sure?”
“Aye. It were on RTE three or four year ago. Don’t you remember? They are refusing to have anything to do with the Confederacy. A whole load of Mafia Dons from New York or Chicago or somewhere.”
There was a long pause as realisation dawned. “Oh fook,” gasped Mooney. “Yeah, I remember that. You’re right. Bastards! Someone’ll cop it for this.”
“You know what’ll happen. They’re not patriots. They’re just gangsters. Fascists. Drug dealers. Protection...”
“I know, I know,” interrupted an irritated Rod. “I know what the Mafia is.” He conveniently forgot the protection rackets the IRA got up to on both sides of the border.
“Well it’s the only non-Confederacy humans out there.”
“Apart from the Arabs,” noted Rod slowly.
There was a pause as Pat just looked sceptically at Rod. “Well it won’t be them,” Pat pointed out eventually. “It must be the Cosca.”
“Italian American Mafia takin’ Irish Republican patriots? There’s definitely sommat wrong there. Our people will end up as servants if they’re lucky. Slaves more like.” Rod looked thoughtful. “It’s a good call. Never even occurred to me. I’ll have to pass that thought up the line.”
He clapped Pat on the shoulder. “Carry on as asked for the moment. I’ll try and contact you if anything changes.”
Pat nodded and sloped out of the barn. Long experience had taught him to be careful, and even though he had been told the Garda were explicitly looking the other way today, he didn’t trust them, and he certainly didn’t trust the Brits not to be watching this place. They weren’t and he left safely, tense with anger at what he felt was the shortsightedness of the IRA’s Army Council.
About eighty miles away, in Armagh, Billy Regan was having an almost identical argument with his superior in the UVF.
“Patrick Brennan is a fuckin’ murderer,” he was shouting. “He’s wanted for the murder o’ my uncle eight year’ ago, and for the cold-blooded killin’ o’ that constable near ten year’ ago. He were only seventeen then, an’ he’s got worse since. He’s suspected o’ bein’ involved in at least three bombin’s in the last five years alone. Even when officially they were in a cease-fire. How can you possibly trust him? His da were as bad and I thank god someone over there put a bullet in him. If you make me go anywhere near Pat Brennan, I’ll put more ‘n one bullet in him.”
“No you won’t, Billy. I may not trust him, in fact I don’t trust him, but we need those rifles he’s bringin’ over, and this agreement goes higher than you or me or him. Live with it.”
“He’s a dead man if’n he comes anywhere near me! We need him dead afore we need them guns,” shouted Billy, his eyes bulging. His face was red and spittle flew out of his mouth in his fury. He shoved his face even closer to the hard faced woman in front of him. “I fuckin’ won’t allow it.”
“You won’t allow it?” asked Mary Connor coldly. “You will not only allow it, but if needed you will even shake his hand.”
If looks could have killed, anyone else would have died at that moment with the look of sheer hatred that Billy directed at her, but Mary was a harder woman than she looked and ignored the implied threat. She personally had killed four innocent Catholics just because she felt like it, and no one outside the organisation, and only a few inside, knew or even suspected it. Billy wasn’t one of them. She had ordered the death of a PSNI police officer who had arrested members of her gang, had blown up a Garda car killing its two occupants and had planted a bomb in the centre of Dublin. That it hadn’t killed anyone had been pure chance. An articulated HGV lorry, with a full load of white goods: washing machines, tumble dryers, dish washers, fridges and freezers, had parked up just in front of where the bomb had been placed, while the driver went across the road to get his breakfast. It had shielded the main road from the majority of the blast, though the truck and its entire load were completely destroyed. Even Billy Regan didn’t know exactly what type of person he was dealing with.
“I want him dead too,” Mary told the raging Billy, “and when the time is right, he’ll die. But not right now. Now it’s more important we get these guns.”
“But sending those people? He’ll kill them.”
Mary smiled a quite unpleasant smile. “Yeah. Maybe he will, but since they are people we want to kill anyway, why worry about it?”
“Huh?”
“I had an idea last night. If we’re careful we might get him to do some of our dirty work for us. Everyone knows there’s an underground out of here to get people south. Let’s send some cats with him, but tell him they’re our people.” ‘Cats’ was a common, if slightly derogatory, nickname given by some of the protestant extremists to the general Roman Catholic population of Ulster.
“But they’ll just tell him different.”
“Not if we plan this right. Not if we plant it into their heads he’s one of us, but also plant it into his head aforehand they’re our people. Then even if they do tell, he’ll think they’re just trying to escape what he’s about to do. We’ll tell him the first group is our lot, the second group is his lot. He’ll kill what he thinks is our people, and let through those he thinks of as his people. With any luck, his own masters will find out and do our work for us.”
Billy stared at her for a moment, then grinned. “I do like that idea. You’re an evil woman Mar...”
For a moment Billy saw stars. The powerful uppercut that Mary had delivered had caught him unprepared. He realised he was on his back on the cold floor and, with a shake, raised his head to stare blearily at her. “Wha?”
Mary stared coldly at him, her voice vicious. “Do not ever think you can insult me, Billy Regan. Brennan is evil. I am just a defender of my people.”
“I’m sorry. It wasn’t meant as anything.” He stood slowly, watching as she slowly clenched and unclenched her right fist. It looked manacing to Reagan, but Mary was just trying to release some of the intense pain in her fist.
“You will go and borrow the farm shed I told you about,” she told him severely, “and you will wait there for Brennan. You will not kill him. You will not insult him. You will be polite to him. Even friendly to him. You will offer him your hand in friendship. If he takes it, you will shake and nothing else. If he doesn’t take it, you will not be insulted. Let him be the petty one.”
Billy just nodded slowly. He’d always been a little in awe of her, but until now he’d never actually been afraid of her. Now he was. After a moment he asked quietly “What about those two Safety Patrollers?”
“What Safety Patrollers?”
“There’s two of them that seem to patrol just that little area. Dunno much about them other than it doesn’t matter what time of day or night you go down that way, they allus seem to be there and stare at you. Give me the creeps they do.”
Mary just shrugged, her interest gone. “Kill them.”
“Uh. Okay. Uh. Will the people going the other way be ready?”
“They’ll be ready.”
“Tomorrow night. Yeah?”
“Two am. Make sure you’re ready. And make sure it’s Brennan and not anyone else. He’ll be alone. You’ll be alone. There’ll be a dozen or so Cats for him to take out and hopefully kill. But whether he does or not is his call, not yours.”
Billy nodded. He would obey, for the moment. But there was no doubt in his own mind that he would bend the rules as much as possible, and if Brennan died so much the better.
Thirty-one hours later, that particular bit of subterfuge failed at the first hurdle. As soon as Pat Brennan entered the remote barn, the first person he saw was someone he knew. “Auntie Jackie,” he said, shocked.
Jacqueline Pearce was his mother’s baby sister, only twelve years older than Pat himself, and someone who had babysat him when he was a child. Although it was over ten years since he had last seen her, he recognised her instantly. “Patrick,” she said, surprised. “We were expecting someone else. We’d been told we might be being taken across by a Brit, and if so to pretend we were Brits, just for our own safety. I’m so glad it’s you.”
“Who told you that?” asked Brennan suspiciously. “It wasn’t Regan was it?”
Jackie shook her head. “No. Some woman in the Bogside.”
“That’s odd, because I was told I was getting Prods tonight, and our people tomorrow or the next day.” He stared angrily at Regan.
Exactly like Brennan, Billy Regan was many things, but not stupid. In fact he was very fast on the uptake, realising instantly that their little trick had failed. That was okay. Something else might come up later. “Who told you that?” he asked, feigning puzzlement. “We told you the first two or three batches would all be Cats, Catholics,” he hurriedly amended Cats to Catholics when he saw Brennan’s face darken in anger. Regan continued. “And we said there’d be a Protestant or mixed group probably next week or the week after.”
Brennan and Regan stared at each other, hatred literally pouring off both of them. Despite orders, neither man could bring himself to offer his hand to the other. “Your weapons are in the boxes by the back of the mini-bus,” ground out Brennan after a moment.
“Take your people and git,” muttered Regan.
“Thank you,” Jackie Pearce said softly to Regan. “May god bless you.” Others in the group of nine civilians also thanked Regan for his ‘hospitality’, not that he’d been particularly friendly or caring; but he had ensured they were safe.
Regan stood, his hands clenched into fists as he watched Brennan backing slowly out, neither man turning his back on the other until Brennan was a long way clear of the barn.
When Regan eventually left the barn, he found four crates piled on the ground next to his ancient long wheelbase land-rover. It took him over an hour first to check that his land-rover hadn’t been tampered with, then to load it, as all the crates were just too bulky for a single person to sensibly lift. Despite the bitterly cold weather, he was hot and sweating by the time he had finished. Cursing and muttering he eventually drove off, his back aching with the effort he’d had to put in.
The following morning, Mary just shrugged when he told her what had happened. “Ne’er mind. It was allus a long shot. At least them Cats are out of our country now.”
“I had to tell him that the next couple of groups were Catholics as well.”
“Mmm,” Mary thought. “That should be possible, though not sure I can arrange for tomorrow’s quite that quickly. I think tomorrow’s group is already lined up. I’ll get back to you. Where are the weapons now?”
“In the pit.”
Mary just nodded. ‘The Pit’ was a hole dug in the side of the fell not far from Armagh, and covered with a board, itself covered with turf. Over the top of it was placed a cattle feeder, though cattle hardly ever used that field, and never in winter when the feeder might have been needed. “Right, well the Safety Patrol that’s based in the central police station. I want it taken out. It’s hampering my dealin’s. The PSNI were bad enough, but these ones, they’re just nasty. They don’t even follow their own rules. They’re tryin’ to muscle in on my operations.” By this she meant they were out-competing her in her small criminal enterprises.
Regan nodded. “I haven’t checked out what Brennan gave me yet, beyond just seein’ they are what they said they’d be.”
“Uh huh. Don’t worry about that. I’ll check ‘em over tonight. You’re to concentrate on the police station and the Safety Patrol.”
Regan nodded once more. “How do you want them taken out?”
Mary shrugged, uninterested. “Dead,” she added after a few moments.
“That’s not helpful. There’s usually over a dozen of them in there at any one time, along with what’s left of the armed police, and you know what sort of defences it’s got. The fuckin’ IRA saw to that.”
“Well sort it out then,” Mary said, a hint of anger and irritation in her voice. “I’m sure a man of your experience doesn’t need me to tell him how to do it.” She glared at him.
Regan just gave her a blank stare, then turned, shaking his head slightly and left. “Arse,” he muttered.
“You be careful what you say and how you say it, Billy Regan,” called Mary. “I have good hearing you know.”
“Bitch,” thought Billy, but this time he was wise enough not to say it out loud.
He sat in his car and thought for a long time on the best way to deal with the Patrollers. No matter what plan he could come up with, he felt he’d need an absolute minimum of ten, but better fifteen or even more people with him. That should take a few weeks of planning, but Billy knew Mary wanted them gone quickly. That was a way to get dead, and Billy quite liked living.
He wondered whether he could get the Moran twins involved. They were two brothers, not actually twins, but born two years to the day apart, and as alike as peas in a pod, most of the time. Like him they had been known to target known IRA sympathisers, and a few years earlier they had planted a bomb to go off during the funeral procession of an IRA ‘martyr’. That bomb had killed seven, and injured many more, but it had not killed any of the gunmen surrounding the coffin. If he could get them in on it, that might cut down on the number of people he needed, they were a whole squad in themselves. Problem was, he didn’t know where they were.
It took three days to set up, with Mary banging on at him all the time about sorting it out, but Regan refused to be any more rushed than he was, and he felt this was far too fast. Fortunately other contacts had found the Moran twins for him, which made his life a little easier. As far as he was concerned, three days was far too short a time to make proper plans for something like this, but eventually he set the trap.
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