Jonathan Lee - High Dive

‘Heard it was pretty loose.’

‘No,’ Dawson said thoughtfully. ‘ Verbal incontinence, that’s Gerry’s main issue. My own idea of a CEO? Leave a bit more to the imagination. Be a bit more like God.’ He took his asthma inhaler from his trouser pocket and twirled it in his left hand. Then he pocketed it again and took a nimble drag on his Newport. He said, ‘Forget Patrick’s job. This other one I’m putting you on is plenty big. Large impact, high value. But simple, for a man of your skills.’

‘They’re all simple in the strategy rooms. It’s when you’re there, sweating into the Semtex, peelers approaching you east, south and west — that’s when it gets tricky.’

‘You go north, in that situation, no? Simple. Easy. I tell you, for me it’d be a fucking relief to go north. Instead I’m stuck at home, strategising, with a one-eyed woman who’s always nagging me to go south.’

Dawson waited for the laugh, accepted it with a wave of his hand, smoke creeping out of his mouth. ‘I disgust myself daily,’ he said, crouching to press his cigarette into a paving stone. ‘Also, you’re the expert, but it’s not advisable to sweat into the Semtex.’

‘You’re thinking of a car charge, I suppose.’

‘There’s been enough charges under cars,’ Dawson said. ‘There’s been enough Nissan Sunnys and Land Rovers. This one’s an arty kind of operation. Right up your street.’

‘Local.’

‘Everything’s local. The wonders of transport. This one’s across the Irish Sea. Larne — Stranraer ferry. You must be familiar? It’s being used — you’ll like this — to move fifteen Brit Army trucks a fortnight. Fifteen . Two-or three-ton trucks, it seems. Ones bringing blankets and uniforms from Scotland. Supplies for the Province troops. Comforts, so they can be well rested when they kill us.’

‘You’ll never get the kind of volume of fertiliser, or whatever you’re wanting, onto one of those.’

‘ We are on there. That’s the point. Not fertiliser — a human presence. I know that’s tough to grasp for a robot like you. For a guy who fiddles with wires for a living. I’m a people person. Our army is full of them. It’s only your area that’s chilly. So I’m talking about a flesh-and-blood volunteer, Danny, a civilised human person, someone who doesn’t operate at a remove from reality. Sixteen-year-old lad, very mature, cousin of McCluskey C. He’s a ship’s hand and — screw Mick’s mother — he’s noticed a pattern. He’s noticed that the fifteen trucks get loaded at Stranraer every other Saturday morning, arriving at Larne in the afternoon. The last three of the trucks are, he says, packed with soldiers.’

‘You’re just giving me facts,’ Dan said, refusing a second cigarette.

‘You asked for facts.’

‘I asked for nothing.’

‘None of us does. Óglaigh na hÉireann. The Army of People Who Ask for Nothing.’

‘Objectives,’ Dan said, but at that moment Dawson’s eyes widened. Voices were coming through the fencing: the home of Ancient Jones.

A second, two seconds, and Dan recognised these voices as the talk of people on TV. Muffled but neat. Scripted. Ancient Jones was ninety-four and the best kind of Protestant around, but he liked to have the volume as high as his heating. Twice Dan had helped replace blasted component parts, fried audio elements. When he was hot, Jones opened his windows wide. He sat there flooding half of Belfast with sound waves from obscure wildlife programmes, repetitive weather reports, golf. An alternative to taking off one of the jumpers his bulky niece kept knitting.

‘Elderly,’ Dan explained.

Dawson frowned. ‘Objectives. The objectives will become clear when you hear the plan. The plan is to plant one of your speciality packages at the side of the road and take out the last three trucks on a Saturday afternoon in two weeks’ time. Ones that will be packed full of soldiers returning from Scotland. Sitting ducks. Quack quack quack. No need to get our gear on the actual ferry.’

‘Single-lane traffic.’

‘Yes.’

‘Parked cars.’

‘No.’

‘Lay-bys.’

‘One.’

‘Civilians.’

‘Not a touch.’

It sounded doable, possible. Certainly not off-the-scale absurd, which he realised now he’d been hoping for. Because how could he refuse a clean, high-impact job like this? He was enjoying his lighting work at the moment. That and the plastering and driving, and trying to learn his Spanish for a half-hour each night. Puedo, puedes, puede, podemos . Secret operations gave a buzz and as a result they wore you away. With languages he’d keep his options open. Widen out the places he could live and work if things got worse. Spain. France. He’d have enough money in a few years to get out of here. By then he would have done his bit to save the place, he’d be able to pay someone to look after his mother, maybe take Bobby with him, clumsy deaf Bobby, get him out of St Shitpit. And at the same time the idea of the ferry job was swelling in his mind now, taking on detail and colour, and there was an ugly excitement to it all — a challenge to be met.

‘What would you need, Danny? What doings to make it happen?’

Dawson had moved closer, the pearly buttons of his shirt giving off a gleam. Ancient Jones’s TV was blaring facts about sharks.

‘I’d want a caravan.’

‘Caravan?’

‘As though a family is having a weekend away.’

‘Good,’ Dawson said. His features had settled into a look of grudging respect. ‘And what would you need, in that caravan? Three trucks to take out, remember.’

‘One thousand five hundred of mix. Home-made. Get one of your more competent Red Light lot to make it.’

‘Good. Clear. Now the detonators.’

‘If I do the job, which I’m not saying I will —’

‘You’re briefed. It’s agreed.’

‘If it’s something I can do justice to —’

‘Listen to yourself! You sound like a bloody pub singer down the Shankill! Five years ago —’

‘Six.’

‘— you were an innocent babe. I like innocence. I pay a premium for it.’

‘I’ll bring my own detonators. I’ve had it with the quality of detonators being produced. You risk everything and then the operation whimpers into nothing. It’s stupid there isn’t a standard agreed testing procedure, in advance. It’s not rocket science.’

‘And I’m not the Pope,’ Dawson whispered, crouching to stub out his cigarette. ‘When you’re appointed Chief Explosives Officer, you can issue these decrees, can’t you?’

A hot pause. ‘Patrick’ll be in place for years.’

‘Unless he goes out with a bang.’

‘I want in on it,’ Dan said.

‘You what?’

‘The job that Patrick’s doing.’

Why? Why had he said it? Why had he offered himself up? He didn’t know himself well enough to say. Career progression? Pursuit of a thrill? Misguided loyalty to Patrick? Wanting to be at Patrick’s side if risks were to be taken? Patrick who’d also lost friends on Bloody Sunday. Patrick who’d trained in Libya and knew all there was to know. Patrick who said one night as they sculpted Semtex in the warehouse that he and Dan were joint captains of a submarine. You put a periscope up, you see an enemy warship, you know your job is to sink that ship. Focus on the target. Remember it’s a target. Planting a bomb or pressing a button below deck. Same thing. Identical. In wars people die every day.

Dawson looked at him with dire eyes and said, ‘Pushy. Where did your modesty go, my little choirboy?’ Then he sighed, chewed his thin bottom lip, glanced at the gate. ‘It’s a seaside jobbie. You know Patrick’s been involved with some mainland thinking, yes?’ He was barely audible now; Dan leaned in. ‘Beach towns, cities. Stoking a few fires.’