Peter Corrigan - Bandit Country

The Guinness was good, as it always was nearer the border. Early drank it gratefully, and raised his glass to the barman.

‘That’s as good as the stuff in O’Connell Street.’

The barman smiled. ‘It’s all in the way it’s kept.’

‘Aye, but there’s some pubs that don’t know Guinness from dishwater. It’s the head – should be thick as cream.’

‘It’s the pouring too,’ the barman said.

‘Aye. Ever get a pint across the water? They throw it out in five seconds flat and the head’s full of bloody bubbles.’

The barman looked at him and then asked casually: ‘You’ve been across the water, then?’

‘Aye. But there’s no work there now. I hear Lavery’s has a job out here in Cross and needs some labourers. I’m a brickie meself, and sure there’s bugger-all up in Belfast.’

‘Ach, sure the city is gone to the dogs these days.’

‘You’re right.’ Early raised his glass of Bushmills. ‘ Slainte ,’ he said. He thought the barman relaxed a little.

‘So you’re down here for the work? This isn’t your part of the world, then.’ Early thought the other customers pricked up their ears at the barman’s question. He was being cased. He doubted if any of these men were Provisionals, but they no doubt knew people who were, and in a small village like Crossmaglen, every outsider was both a novelty and a subject for scrutiny.

‘Aye, I’m from Ballymena meself, up in Antrim.’

‘Paisley’s country.’

Early laughed. ‘That big cunt. Oh aye, he’s my MP. How’s that for a joke?’ Again, the slight relaxation of tension.

‘If you’re looking for work, you’ve come to the right place,’ the barman said. ‘The army never stops building in this neck of the woods. Their bases are as big as the town is. They’re crying out for builders.’

Early scowled. ‘I wouldn’t fucking work for them if they paid me in sovereigns. No offence.’

The barman grinned.

‘Would there be a B & B in the town? I need a place to stay – if these Lavery people take me on.’

The barman seemed to have relaxed completely, and was all bonhomie now. ‘This is your lucky day. I’ve a couple of rooms upstairs I rent out in the summer.’

‘Ah, right. What’s the damage?’

‘Fiver a night.’

Early thought, frowning. He had to appear short of cash. ‘That’s handy, living above a pub. Wee bit pricey though. How about knocking it down a bit, since I’d be here for a while, like. It’s not like I’m some tourist, here today and gone tomorrow.’

‘You get this job, and then we’ll talk about it.’

‘That’ll do. I’m Dominic by the way.’

‘McGlinchy?’

Early laughed. Dominic McGlinchy was the most wanted man in Ireland.

‘McAteer.’

‘Brendan Lavery,’ the barman said, extending his hand. ‘It’s my brother you’ll be working for.’

Early, blessing his luck, had been about to walk out to Rathkeelan to see about the job, but Brendan wouldn’t hear of it. His brother, Eoin, would be in that night, he said. There was no problem about the job. Dominic could look the room over and have a bite to eat. Maggie, their younger sister, would be home from work in a minute, and she’d throw something together for them.

The room was small and simple but well kept, with a narrow bed, wardrobe, chair, dresser and little table. Through the single window Early could see the narrow back alleyways and tiny gardens at the rear of the street, and rising above the roofs of the farther buildings, the watch-towers of the security base with their anti-missile netting and cameras and infrared lights. He shook his head. It was hard to believe sometimes.

The door to the room had no lock, which was not surprising in this part of the world. Ulster had little crime worth speaking of that was not connected to terrorism, and this was, after all, Lavery’s home he was staying in, not a hotel.

At the end of the long landing was the bathroom. Early ran his eyes over as much of the upstairs as he could, noting possible approach routes and escape routes. It had become second nature to him to view each place he stayed in as both a fortress and a trap. Satisfied, he went back downstairs.

The pub was filling up. Brendan Lavery was deep in conversation with a group of men at one end of the bar. Early immediately clocked two of them: Dermot McLaughlin and Eugene Finn, both players, and almost certainly members of the Provisional IRA’s South Armagh brigade. Finn was an important figure. He had been a ‘blanket man’ in the Maze in the late seventies, before the Republican hunger strike that had resulted in eleven prisoners starving themselves to death. The Intelligence Corps believed that Finn might be the South Armagh Brigade Commander. McLaughlin was almost certainly the Brigade Quartermaster, in charge of weapons and explosives.

There was a woman at the bar: quite striking, dark-haired and green-eyed – a real Irish colleen. She seemed to be selling newspapers. When she saw Early she immediately approached him.

‘ An Phoblacht ?’

‘Eh? Oh aye, sure.’ He bought an edition of the IRA newspaper and she smiled warmly.

‘Brendan says you’ll be staying with us for a while.’

‘Aye, looks that way, as long as the work appears.’

‘It will. I’ll have the dinner ready in an hour. Why don’t you have a chat with the boys?’

‘You’re Maggie, right?’

‘That’s right. And you’re Dominic, from Ballymena. We don’t get many Antrim men down here.’

‘Maybe it’s the climate.’

‘Or the Brits.’ She laughed teasingly. She was disturbingly attractive, Early thought. He did not like that. He did not want any distractions.

‘You know, I haven’t bought this for ten years,’ he said lightly, holding up the paper. ‘I’ve been across the water, building and digging all the way from London to Glasgow.’

‘Ach, I thought maybe there was something in your accent.’

Early’s blood ran cold, but he smiled at her and said: ‘You pick these things up. Now I’m home I’ll get rid of it. It’s nice not to have some bastard calling you “Paddy” all the time. If there’s one thing gets up my nose, it’s that. Bloody English never stop to think we’ve names of our own.’

‘You’re right there – sure, they haven’t a clue. It’s a roast for tea, and spuds and cauliflower. That suit you?’

‘Depends on how it’s cooked.’

She laughed. ‘Ach, don’t you worry about that, Dominic. I’ll keep the flesh on you.’ Then she left, exiting via the door behind the bar.

Early wondered if he had been wise with his remarks about England. He didn’t want to lay it on too thick.

He leaned on the bar.

‘How about a pint there, Brendan? And sure, have one yourself. I have to keep me landlord sweet,’ he called.

The barman laughed but Finn and McLaughlin did not. They were appraising Early frankly. He buried his face in An Phoblacht . Two ‘volunteers’ had been killed on active service in Tyrone. The SAS were suspected. It was, the paper said, a typical SAS assassination. The men had been unarmed; the weapons they had been found with planted on them after death.

‘Bastards,’ Early said softly, shaking his head.

‘Aye, those fuckers get away with murder,’ said a voice at this elbow.

It was Finn, standing beside him.

Early remained sorrowful and angry. ‘It never stops, does it. Young boys dying in ditches. Will they ever leave us alone?’

Brendan Lavery set the brimming Guinness on the bar. ‘Ach, sure, we’re a good training ground for them. They don’t give a damn. We’re a nation of murderers to them.’

‘Ireland unfree shall never be at peace,’ Finn quoted, and drank from his own glass. Then he addressed Early again.