Shaun Clarke - Death on Gibraltar

Small wonder that caught between the Brits and the IRA, ever vigilant in their own way, the Catholics in these streets had little privacy and were inclined to be paranoid.

Turning into a side-street off the Falls Road, Mad Dan made his way to a dismal block of flats by a patch of waste ground filled with rubbish, where mangy dogs and scruffy, dirt-smeared children were playing noisily in the gathering darkness. In fact, the block of flats looked like a prison, and all the more so because up on the high roof was a British Army OP, its powerful telescope scanning the many people who loitered along the balconies or on the ground below. One soldier was manning a 7.62mm GPMG; the others were holding M16 rifles with the barrels resting lightly on the sandbagged wall.

Grinning as he looked up at the overt OP, Mad Dan placed the thumb of his right hand on his nose, then flipped his hand left and right in ironic, insulting salute. Then he entered the pub. It was smoky, noisy and convivial inside. Seeing Patrick Tyrone sitting at one of the tables with an almost empty glass of Guinness in front of him, Mad Dan asked with a gesture if he wanted another. When Tyrone nodded, Mad Dan ordered and paid for two pints, then carried them over to Tyrone’s table. Sitting down, he slid one over to Tyrone, had a long drink from his own, then wiped his lips with the back of his hand.

‘Ach, sure that’s good!’ he said.

When Tyrone, another hard man, had responded with a thin, humourless smile, Mad Dan nodded towards the front door and said: ‘I see the Brits have some OPs on the roof. Do they do any damage?’

‘Aye. They’re equipped with computers linked to vehicle-registration and suspect-information centres, as well as to surveillance cameras. Also, the shites’ high visibility reminds us of their presence and so places a quare few constraints on us. At the same time, the OPs allow members of regular Brit units and 14 Intelligence Company to observe suspects and see who their associates are. This in turn allows the shites collecting intelligence at Lisburn and Brit HQ to investigate links between meetings of individuals and our subsequent group activities. So, aye, those bastard OPs can do us lots of damage.’

‘Sure, that’s a hell of a mouthful, Pat.’

‘Sure, it’s also the truth.’

‘Do those OPs have any back up?’ Mad Dan asked.

‘Ackaye’. Each of ’em’s backed up with another consisting of two to four soldiers and located near enough to offer immediate firearms support. If that weren’t enough, those two OPs are backed up by a QRF…’

‘Sure, what’s that if you’d be writin’ home?’

‘A Quick Reaction Force of soldiers or police, sometimes both, located at the nearest convenient SF base. And that QRF will respond immediately to a radio call for help from the OPs. So, no, they’re not alone, Dan. Those Brit bastards up there have a lot of support.’

Mad Dan nodded, indicating he understood, but really he wasn’t all that interested. He was there to receive specific instructions for the forthcoming evening. It was what he now lived for.

‘So what is it?’ he asked.

‘A double hit,’ Tyrone informed him. ‘A bit of weedin’ in the garden. Two bastards that have to be put down to put them out of their misery.’

‘A decent thought,’ Mad Dan said. ‘Now who would they be, then?’

Tyrone had another sip of his Guinness, then took a deep breath. ‘Detective Sergeants Michael Malone and Ernest Carson.’

‘Two bastards, right enough,’ Mad Dan said. ‘Sure, that’s a quare good choice. Tonight, is it?’

‘Aye. They’ll be in the Liverpool Bar for a meetin’ from eight o’clock on. Just walk in there and do as you see fit. We’ve no brief other than that. Just make sure they stop breathin’.’

‘Any security?’

‘None. The dumb shites think they’re in neutral territory, so they’re there for nothin’ else but a quare ol’ time. Let the bastards die happy.’

‘Weapon?’

‘I’ll give it to you outside. A 9mm Browning, removed from an SAS bastard killed back in ’76. Appropriate, right?’

‘Ackaye, real appropriate. Let’s go get it an’ then I’ll be off.’

‘Sure, I knew you’d say that.’

After finishing their drinks in a leisurely manner, the two men left the bar. Glancing up at the OPs and fully aware that the pub was under surveillance, Tyrone led Mad Dan along the street and up the concrete steps of the grim block of flats. He stopped on the gloomy landing, where the steps turned back in the other direction to lead up to the first balcony. There, out of sight of the spying Brits, he removed the Browning and handed it to Mad Dan, along with a fourteen-round magazine.

‘That’s the only ammunition you’re gettin’,’ he said, ‘because you’ve only got time for one round before hightailing it out of there. That also means you’ve no time for mistakes, so make sure you get them fucks.’

‘Sure, that’s no problem at all, Pat. I’ll riddle the bastards and be out of there before they hit the floorboards.’

‘Aye, make sure you do that.’ Tyrone glanced up and down the stairs, checking that no one was coming. ‘So,’ he said, ‘I’m goin’ home for a bite. Off you go. Best of luck. I’ll see you back in the bar in forty minutes.’

‘I’ll be there,’ Mad Dan said.

As Tyrone turned away to go up the steps to his mean flat on the first floor, Mad Dan loaded the magazine into the Browning, then tucked the weapon carefully down the back of his trousers, between the belt and his shirt, hidden under the jacket but where he could reach round and pull it out quickly. He walked back down the stairs and out into the street, in full view of the OPs up above. Bold as brass, he walked alongside the waste ground as the street lights came on to illuminate the dark evening. Emerging into the busy Falls Road, he turned right and walked down the crowded pavement until he reached the nearest parked car. When he bent down to talk to the driver, he was recognized instantly.

‘Sure, how did it go, Dan?’

‘You know Tyrone. Eyes like cold fried eggs and yammerin’ on about the Brits, but he gave me the go-ahead and the weapon.’ Mad Dan checked his watch. It was five past eight. ‘They’ll be in the Liverpool Bar and they should be there now. So, come on, let’s get goin’, lad.’

When Mad Dan had slipped into the seat beside the driver, the latter said: ‘Sure, would that be the Liverpool Bar on Donegall Quay?’

‘Aye, that’s the one. Drop me off there, keep the engine tickin’ over, and get ready to hightail it out of there when I come runnin’ out. Then don’t stop for anything.’

‘I’ll be out of there like a bat out of hell. Sure, you’ve no need to worry, Dan.’

‘Just make sure of that, boyo.’

As the car moved off, heading along the Falls Road in the direction of Divis Street, Mad Dan felt perfectly relaxed and passed the time by gazing out of the window at the hated RUC constables and British Army soldiers manning the barricaded police stations and checkpoints. He had no need to feel concerned about the car being identified because it had been hijacked at gunpoint on a road just outside the city, and the driver warned not to report the theft until the following day. The stolen car would be abandoned shortly after the attack and, when found unattended, it would be blown up by the SF as a potential car bomb. The unfortunate owner, if outraged, at least could count himself lucky that he still had his life. To lose your car in this manner was par for the course in Northern Ireland.

It took no time at all for the driver to make his way from Divis Street down past the Clock Tower, along Queen’s Square and into Donegall Quay, which ran alongside the bleak docks of the harbour, where idle cranes loomed over the water, their hooks, swinging slightly in the wind blowing in from the sea. On one side the harbour walls rose out of the filthy black water, stained a dirty brown by years of salt water and the elements; on the other were ugly warehouses and Victorian buildings. Tucked between some of the latter was the Liverpool Bar, so called because the Belfast-Liverpool ferries left from the nearby Irish Sea Ferry Terminal.