Gerald Seymour - The Journeyman Tailor

Bren had heard the car a long way off, coming at speed.

The bastard had not shown. Because Bren was frightened then Song Bird was the bastard. He hated to be afraid, had done all his life.

Bren had pulled the Browning from his pocket, checked the safety. A black and cold night, rain in the air, and Cathy's hand had fallen on his wrist and she had muttered that it was Song Bird's car, she knew it was Song Bird's car because she could hear the distributor problem and the missing of the engine. The car had swept into the quarry, too fast, and skidded to a halt, and for a moment he and Cathy had been lit by the headlamps. He'd cringed and she'd cursed when the light beam had found them. The lights had died, the engine had been cut.

She had gone forward, Bren had been left beside their own car. He was conscious of the tautness of his arm that held the Browning.

She was ten, twelve, paces from him. Bren could see the outline of their bodies. The man seemed to dwarf Cathy. Bren's arm was rigid at his side, the Browning was clamped in his hand. He couldn’t hear what was said. The wind swirled down from the dead bracken above the quarry.

'Come here, come on."

Her sharp command.

He went forward.

He was blinded by her torch light. The beam was straight into his face. He held the pistol behind his back. Then the darkness again, and he blinked to find his vision.

"That's him, got the face? That's Gary. Gary, this is Song Bird."

Bren couldn’t shake hands, if that had been the proper thing to do, because he had a Browning pistol in his hand.

Cathy said quietly, "You want me and I'm not on the line then you'll get Gary."

"If you say so."

"It's what I say… What's the bloody fidgeting about? You need to piss, then get on with it."

The soft Irish of the country voice. "I want an answer, I want to know how long."

Cathy said gently, "As long as I say, Song Bird, that's how long."

"It's my neck…"

Cathy whispered, "Fuck me about, and I promise it'll be your neck."

"What I told Siobhan, you're a hard bitch."

Cathy chuckled, "Always had a way with words, didn't you, Mossie?"

"What I told Siobhan…"

"Shut up, Mossie…" She had turned to Bren. "He's been crying on his Missus' shoulder. Good thing or bad thing? Take time to tell. She'll have told him to quit…"

"Don't you understand anything, Miss?"

Cathy had her hand up in front of his face. Bren watched. The snap was in her voice. She would count the points off on her fingers. "One, you've nowhere to go without my say so, if you quit and run then they'll find you, nut you. Two, you're damn well paid, and you will continue to be well paid, and you're set up for the future when I agree you can split. Three, you mess me and you're into Crumlin Road court, and P.I.R.A. intelligence officers tend to be looking at twelve years minimum. Four, you've missed the amnesty and don't forget it, you go and ask for your own crowd's protection and tell them you're sorry, you wouldn't last a week, and when you're pushing up daisies the lovely Siobhan and your kids will be ostracised with a traitor's stain.

Five…"

Her finger yanked at her thumb, "… Five, you know I'll look after you, Mossie, you know with me you're safe."

He was sheepish, she'd clattered the fight out of him. "So what do I do?"

"What I've told you to do, just that. And you wear the bloody clothes I've told you to wear."

Bren listened. He understood only a little of what was said. They talked names and places, sharp questions from Cathy, rambling answers from Song Bird. He could make little of it. The names were Attracta Donnelly and Vinny Devitt, and Patsy Riordan with mugs of tea, and the Brannigan kid. There was O.C. and Q.M. Talk of a hide being dug that would hold a flame-thrower if they could get it up from the south.. . She dominated Song Bird. She could make him laugh and she could make him cower. Song Bird was Cathy's marionette…

She had him in the palm of her hand. At the end, the bastard thanked her.

He was gone, his car coughing away into the darkness.

Two miles down the road, when she told him to, Bren used the radio to pull off the back-up cars.

Bren said, "You were pretty hard on him."

She turned her head away, as if she didn't want to hear him. "Just trying to keep him alive."

He watched the major ease back into his chair. The map of the operation plan that he had drawn was left on the easel. The Assistant Under-Secretary knew all their names, bar the one. Hobbes, scratching the side of his face. The Assistant Chief Constable, making his notes.

The colonel of Army Intelligence, paring his nails. Howard Rennie, gazing out of the window. The young woman was the only outsider, and she stared throughout at the ceiling.

The Assistant Under-Secretary of the Northern Ireland Office tilted his head to see the map better through his bifocal spectacles.

The Special Air Service always drew good plans. There was the Killyman Road where it ran out of Dungannon towards Maghery.

Below the road was drawn the web of streets of the housing estate.

Above the road was the shaded line marking the perimeter fence, and the square block in red was the old house round which the barracks had been built. It was a good map and it had been a concise briefing.

The question before the Task Co-ordinating Group was whether to sanction the plan. The final approval rested with the Assistant under-Secretary.

The young woman had made no contribution to the meeting, and twice had to conceal her yawns. Rennie had started to excavate the bowl of his pipe and used his coffee saucer for the debris. The major sat patiently, his arms folded. The Assistant Chief Constable and the colonel, wily and experienced men, were content to wait on the Assistant Under-Secretary.

Hr shuffled his papers. All their eyes were on him now.

"Isn't there another way…?" His voice was high-pitched, sibilant, They gave him no help. It was only the fourth time that he had sat in on Task Co-ordinating Group. They seemed to mock him, the Assistant Chief Constable and the colonel, as if he were merely squeamish. The major met his questioning glance and didn't respond, as if his job was completed. Every time there was an ambush shooting his Secretary of State was forced onto the defensive. Rennie, billowing smoke from his new-filled pipe, screened himself. A community worker had told him recently that Special Air Service ambushes were the best recruiting sergeant the Provisionals had. The man from Five, Hobbes, looked back at him, through him, as if no possible alternative existed to the action that was proposed.

There was this young woman sitting behind the man from Five.

"… There is always an alternative way, surely?" The Assistant Under-Secretary fixed on her. She was yawning again. He thought she yawned because she was tired, not because she was bored. She was appallingly dressed. A skirt that was too short, a hideous mauve blouse, a cardigan that was too large, and a handbag in which he could comfortably have hidden his briefcase. He had not been introduced at the start of the meeting. Clearly not a secretary because she had no paper, no pencil, just a rather lovely smile that went with the yawn.

Like his own niece, who'd back-packed round Australia, who couldn't abide…

She looked at her watch, said decisively, "No, there isn't."

"I beg your pardon…"

She said brusquely, "There is no other way."

What he had wanted was for the debate to start. Debate he could influence. He turned away from her. "I think we might explore alternatives. We are looking, after all, at a situation in which lives are.. ."

‘’Listen…’’.

He turned sharply to face her.

‘’Please don't interrupt me…"