Peter Corrigan - Bandit Country

‘You and me’s going to be working together, Dominic.’

Early started. ‘What?’

‘Eoin – Brendan’s brother – he’s hit the big time, hasn’t he, Brendan? He’s taking on the world and his wife at the minute to build these bungalows they’ve contracted him for. Hiring all round him he is, like some Yank executive. Mind you’ – Finn laid a finger against his nose – ‘it’s all on the QT. Most of the men working for him will be doing the double.’ He meant that they were also on the dole. Finn and Lavery laughed together, and Early forced himself to smile.

‘If it comes to that, the taxman doesn’t know I exist, either.’

‘That’s the way it’s meant to be, Dominic. Take all you can off the bastards, and give nothing back. So how did a Ballymena man hear about a job in Cross?’

‘Ach, a man in the Crown in Belfast told me,’ Early said, quite truthfully.

Finn nodded. ‘A black hole, Ballymena. You’d not get a job up there, if you’re the wrong colour.’

‘Bloody right,’ Early agreed sincerely. North Antrim was a Unionist stronghold in the same way South Armagh was Republican. He sipped at his Guinness, realizing he was being cased again.

‘But it’s different down here. There’s always a welcome here for the right sort of man. Isn’t that right, Brendan?’

The barman’s reply was lost in the growing hubbub. The evening crowd was gathering and the TV was blaring at what seemed like full volume. Early would have liked to scan the crowd for familiar faces, as he had studied the mugshots of all the South Armagh players before travelling down. But he did not dare with Finn standing next to him.

Finn was a tall, slim man, grey-haired but fit-looking. He had a narrow, ruddy face with deep-set eyes that seldom smiled, even if the mouth did. He was responsible for a spate of sectarian murders in the late seventies, but all that had been pinned on him in court was possession of arms and IRA membership. He had once been quartermaster of the Armagh bunch, but had been promoted on his release from the Maze. An experienced man, he had many years’ practice in killing, extortion and gunrunning. He knew who the Border Fox was, without a doubt, but it was unlikely that the sniper was Finn himself. He had graduated into a leader, a planner. He was a survivor from the early days of the Troubles, and hence the object of much respect in the Republican community.

Early would have liked to take him out behind the pub and put a bullet in the back of his fucking head, but instead he offered him a drink.

‘Na, thanks, Dominic. I’ll take ye up on it some other time, but tonight I have to keep me wits about me.’

Was there an op on tonight? Early wondered.

Finn leaned close. ‘You’re new here. Let me give ye a wee bit of advice. Don’t let the bastards provoke you, or you’ll get hauled in the back of a pig. They’re pissed off at the minute because things have been a wee bit hot for them down here, but believe me, that’s just the beginning. Now just keep your cool.’ Finn looked at his watch, and then winked at Early.

The door of the pub burst open, startling those sitting next to it. A glass crashed to the floor in an explosion of beer. Men got to their feet cursing.

British soldiers were shouldering in through the door. They were in full combat uniform, with helmets and flak-jackets and cammed-up faces. An English voice shouted: ‘Don’t you fucking move!’

Eight soldiers, a full section, were in the pub now. Lights from vehicles outside were illuminating the front of the building. The crowd had gone silent.

‘Turn off that fucking TV!’ the English voice yelled, and Brendan pressed a button on the remote control, muting the volume.

‘What the fuck?’ Early said, genuinely surprised. Finn gripped his arms tightly. ‘Don’t move. The fuckers are just trying to annoy us.’

While four soldiers remained by the door, rifles in the shoulder, two pairs were walking through the pub, looking at faces. One of them kicked a chair over, receiving murderous looks, but no one said a word.

A soldier stopped in front of Finn and Early. He had a corporal’s stripes on his arm.

‘Hello, Eugene, me old mucker,’ he said brightly. ‘How’s things, then?’

Finn looked him in the eye. ‘I’m fine, thanks, Brit.’

The corporal grinned, his teeth bright in his darkly camouflaged face. ‘Who’s your friend? Any ID, mate?’

He was addressing Early. The SAS man tensed, then said clearly: ‘Fuck off, you Brit bastard. Why can’t you leave us alone?’

The soldier’s grin vanished.

‘That’s not very polite, Paddy.’

‘My name’s not Paddy.’

‘Give me some ID now, you fucking mick,’ the corporal snarled.

Early produced his fake ID, a driver’s licence issued in Coleraine. The corporal looked it over, then stared closely at him.

‘You’re a long way from home, Paddy.’

‘So I’ve been told.’

The soldier nodded at Finn. ‘I’d keep better company if I were you.’

‘I’ll keep the company I fucking well choose to. This is my country, not yours.’

‘Have it your own way, arsehole. Outside now – and you too, Eugene. We don’t want your friend getting lonely.’

Finn looked weary. ‘Why don’t you just drop it?’

The corporal gestured with the muzzle of his SA-80. ‘Fucking outside – now . You can get there on your own two feet or you can be carried out – it’s your choice.’

For once, Early was unsure what his reaction should be. He hesitated, but Finn gripped his arm again.

‘Let’s get it over with. Sure, all this wee shite wants it to put the boot in, and there’s no point in wrecking Brendan’s bar.’

‘Don’t you worry about my bar, Eugene,’ Brendan called out. ‘I’ll claim the fucking lot back in compensation.’

But Finn and Early trooped out unresisting into the night. Army vehicles were parked there, their headlights blindingly bright. A hand shoved Early in the small of his back.

‘In the fucking wagon, mick.’

Someone tripped him and his palms went down on the tarmac. A boot collided with his backside, sending him sprawling again. He felt the first stirrings of real anger. These pricks would certainly win no hearts and minds in this town.

He was pushed and shoved into the dark interior of an armoured Landrover. He heard Finn shouting, the sound of blows, and was dimly aware that people were pouring out of the pub into the square. There was a ragged surf of shouting, the beginnings of a mob. Then the metal door of the Landrover was clanged shut behind him.

A light flicked on. Sitting in the vehicle grinning at him was Cordwain.

‘Well well, John,’ Cordwain said. ‘We meet again.’

They were not alone in the back of the Landrover. A third man sat there on one of the narrow seats in an SAS-pattern combat smock. He looked young, pink-cheeked, and he stared at Early with obvious fascination.

Cordwain, as always, was breezy and confident. He helped Early off the floor. Outside there was the sound of people screaming and yelling. Stones rebounded off the armoured sides of the vehicle and it swayed at bodies pushed against it. Cordwain tapped the partition that divided the driver’s section from the back, for all the world like a millionaire signalling to his chauffeur. The engine roared into life and the vehicle began reversing.

‘Sounds as though we’ve stirred up a bit of trouble,’ Cordwain said. ‘But that’s all for the best.’

‘Who are this lot?’ Early asked. ‘Greenjackets?’

‘Yes. They’ve been here for four months, and they’ve lost four men.’

‘Well, they’re fucking heavy-handed.’