Gerald Seymour - The Journeyman Tailor

It was a miracle that Howard Rennie had climbed to superintendent rank, because he had sought no favours on the way up. There was no other man in Northern Ireland that Hobbes would have rather had on his side than the huge wide-shouldered Ulsterman, from whom a civil word was hard, bloody hard, to coax.

"I was sorry you lost your player."

"Water under the bridge, Howard."

"Wouldn't have been lost, not if I'd been running him."

‘’I don't doubt it."

There was Rennie's smile, not the smile of a man who was amused If Rennie had had his way, then Hobbes and his kind would have been on the shuttle flying home There would have been just one Source Unit, his, the Royal Ulster Constabulary's. No players handled by Five or by army intelligence…

"I suppose you shipped out that Faber? I didn't rate him."

Hobbes gathered his papers. "You'll surprise me one day. Yes, we sent him back."

"And you'll replace him?"

"We already have," Hobbes said curtly.

"What's your new baby like?"

Hobbes looked into the grey eyes of the policeman. "Oh, the usual thing, another Englishman who doesn't know his arse from his elbow sent to interfere in the war that the R.U.C. have presided over so successfully that it's been running more than twenty years…"

"Fuck you, Hobbes." There was a clout across Hobbes' back.

The story was part of police headquarters folklore. Rennie, new to E4, and meeting for the first time his opposite number from army intelligence. The military boasting that they were running a hundred players. Rennie, all humble, saying that he only had ten… and then very quietly going down the army's list of a hundred, pointing out some who were dead, and several who were in gaol, and one who was in Australia… Everybody at police H.Q. told Hobbes that story, except Rennie.

"Remind me, Howard, where's Jon Jo Donnelly from?"

"He's East Tyrone. Spreading a touch of panic over there, is he?

Tweaking the old lion's tail, eh? Up Altmore mountain. A few little bombs, a few hits, it's too sad. Tell them what happens over here every day. His wife's there…"

"Hassling her, would that bring him back?"

"Doubt it. More likely make him bomb a bit harder, shoot a bit siraighter. They're tough people there, hassle washes off them."

"Be a start, though…"

Rennie was at the door. "Don't try giving me instructions, Mr Hobbes."

" Just a request, Howard, and make it good and heavy hassle."

"Christ Almighty, you're not in bloody insurance…"

Her clothes were old and dirty. He had put on well-pressed grey flannels, well-polished shoes, a check shirt with the collar undone and a lambswool sweater that his mother had sent him his last birthday, and his anorak.

"We're only going for a drive, aren't we?"

"… 'only going for a drive', Jesus! Down there they scent everything that is out of place. They know the faces and the cars that have the right to be there. That I can't help. But I can help that you don't look like you're trying to sell a policy at the weekend. Get those off." And she was gone.

He could smell the clothes the moment she came back through the door.

There was the mischief smile on her face. "Get those on."

"From downstairs?" The trousers were caked in mud.

"Correct."

"He's not there." There were still sweat patches under the armpits of the jersey.

"Second-class lock," she said.

"Don't they have baths down in Tyrone?" The anorak was torn in the sleeve, too large for him, looked to have been rolled in sheep droppings.

She stood back. "You are so wet behind the ears we could shoot snipe off you. Dear God." The smile was back on her face and she reached up and ruffled her fingers through his hair, wrecking the parting. It was the only morning that she hadn't called to take him out to run. He didn't think she had slept on any of the other nights. He saw her bite at her lips, as if that were the way she regained her control of herself.

There was a Subaru pick-up outside the house. It was filthy. There were two bales of hay loosely roped down in the back.

"What's this then? Local colour?"

She told him to drive. She unlocked the car and passed him a Browning pistol from the glove compartment and a magazine, told him to put it inside the anorak. She showed him the map and told him where to go.

She was asleep before they were out of Belfast.

It was the story that the child loved best, the story that had no ending.

"The length and breadth of Ireland, wherever men yearned to be free, they spoke the name of Shane Bearnagh Donnelly. There were few enough priests left living by the English, and they were thrown into filthy prisons and starved, and many were tortured then hanged. There was the walking gallows. A huge man, an Englishman, used to walk Ireland. He wore on his shoulders a harness on which four men at a time could be hanged. But the priests were brave in their faith, and they prayed for the safety of Shane Bearnagh…

"For year after year, Shane roamed on Altmore mountain. The men with him were gradually hunted and killed by the English, but Shane, they could never capture. More soldiers were sent to Altmore barracks that’s now in the bracken and trees where the road runs on to Pomeroy, where we get the blackberries…

"Shane took cattle from the English, and hid them up in the caves on Altmore, and the caves are still called Shane Bearnagh’s stables. Shane used to watch the soldiers searching for him from the high ground, and some old people like your Grannie would call that Shane's chair, and sometimes Shane's Sentry-box. Shane had a wife now and a fine small boy. his wife gave up her home, and she came to live with her man on the mountain, shared his dangers. He was the greatest Patriot that ever came from the mountain, and never forget that he was a Donnelly. He was cheeky with the English dragoons, he played games with them, and all they could do was curse al him from a distance..,

‘’The English farmers complained bitterly to the English soldiers; how could one man for so long outwit all their soldiers? So a new officer was sent from England to hunt Shane. His name was Black Jemmy Hamilton. He was the cruellest of all the officers who ever came to Altmore. He tried to terrorise the native Irish into betraying Shane Bearnagh, but they never knew where he was. One of Shane's tricks was to colour the coat of his horse so that they would not recognise him. One day, when Black Jemmy Hamilton was away searching with his horsemen, Shane came down to the unguarded barracks and he was fed by the wives of the English soldiers. He took everything that he wanted. It was as if the wives of the English soldiers were shamed by the way their own men behaved to the downtrodden Irish folk.

Hamilton and his soldiers came back from another wasted day on the mountain tired and angry and found that their larders were empty. His fury was terrible. All of the wives were beaten, and Hamilton swore that he would not rest until Shane Bearnagh Donnelly was captured and hanged…"

"Did they ever catch him, Ma?"

It was the story that never ended… She told him it was time for them to go to feed the cattle.

Ernest Wilkins had done it before, and he would do it again.

The afternoons of a weekend were a good time to reach the Prime Minister's aide. The Principal Private Secretary could always ensure that a brief message reached his man.

He had travelled into London from his home.

"… The Prime Minister made a quite excellent suggestion at our last meeting. I would like him to know that it is already being acted upon.

We are starting rather a vigorous programme this evening. You'll make quite certain that this is reported to him? I am very grateful

…"

All the way into London at a weekend, into the near-deserted Curzon Street building, to make one secure telephone call. It was the way he had advanced to Desk Head. Within ten minutes of entering the building he was leaving it.