Once A Pilgrim: a breathtaking, pulse-pounding SAS thriller. James Deegan

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СКАЧАТЬ been in place for approximately fifteen minutes, but the area was as quiet as the grave.

      So far they’d only had to deal with five or six cars.

      Some had turned into Clonard Street and then into Odessa, blatantly avoiding the checkpoint, and, as he and John Carr stood beside the open door of Parry’s vehicle, a red Renault Trafic van did just that.

      ‘Doesn’t necessarily mean fuck all,’ said the corporal, out of the side of his mouth, from the vehicle commander’s seat. ‘All sorts of reasons people don’t want to get fucked about, boss. Might just want to get home quicker.’

      Not for the first time that day, de Vere reflected on an unfortunate fact about the work they were doing.

      Yes, they were making life harder for bad men. But they were making life harder for good men, too.

      ‘Not too static, boss,’ said Carr, and wandered off to the side of the road.

      Stamping his feet in his boots to get some blood back into them, de Vere crossed to the opposite pavement, and took a moment to look around himself. He could just about make out his men in various doorways up and down the street, rifles at the ready, covering the VCP and the approaches. The dark made him uneasy: even now, a man might be hidden in some shadow with an Armalite into his shoulder.

      But he knew that he was going to have to live with it.

      Back in the middle of the road, the two RUC officers were leaning against their vehicle, their weapons held very casually, smoking.

      Carr wandered over and nodded in the direction of the coppers.

      ‘They’ll probably get it if it’s coming, boss,’ he said, quietly. ‘Look at that one tabbing away. The end of his fag’s standing out like a bulldog’s bollocks, right in the middle of his swede. Plus their drills are shit. Standing out in the open, not moving around.’ He shook his head. ‘I suppose you cannae blame them, in a way. Same shit, day in, day out, year after year. Maybe anyone’d get complacent. Got to take your hat off to them, really. When they go home at night this disnae stop.’

      Carr walked on, and de Vere watched the RUC men. It was true: the tips of their cigarettes were like bright red bullseyes in the dark street. He knew that many of the PIRA players regarded the local police as the true, traitorous enemy, the Brits being not much more than an inconvenience who would fuck off once the local opposition was scattered and broken.

      Rather them than me, he thought, and immediately felt ashamed of himself.

      Shaking that off, he stifled a yawn. He ached for the comfort, if you could call it that, of his room in Whiterock.

      A hot shower, something to eat. His bed.

      Maybe they’d finish before too long?

      It was very quiet. He hoped so.

      Not that it had been all that bad a day. The nervousness he’d felt that morning was gone.

      Carr had been right: it was getting easier.

      Good man, Carr.

      The sort of man the British Army lived and died on.

15.

      NOT LONG AFTER six-thirty, Billy Jones Jnr handed over to the evening manager at Robinson’s, ran him through the stocktake and the till, and managed to have a few minutes in the back office with Colleen before he said goodbye.

      Eventually, he walked her back to the bar, pulling on his adidas jacket, and put his foot on the brass rail.

      ‘It’s gonna get messy tonight,’ he said, raising his voice over the hubbub.

      The place was already buzzing with several raucous Christmas office parties.

      Girls with Santa hats on their heads, knocking back Malibu and Coke.

      Lads with pints in hands and wandering eyes.

      Wham! on the speakers.

      Last Christmas.

      A heart, given to someone special.

      ‘Shall I pick yous up at midnight, darlin’?’ he said.

      ‘Aye,’ said Colleen, with a cheeky grin and a twinkle in her eye. ‘Don’t be late, ’cos I have something for you.’

      He blushed – stop blushing you eejit – and said, ‘Really?’

      ‘Uh huh,’ she said. ‘And I think you’ll like it.’

      ‘I’ll not be late then,’ he said, with a big smile.

      A man appeared at his elbow waving a tenner, so Colleen broke off.

      Billy zipped up his jacket and walked out of the pub, the smile still plastered across his face.

      She was a rare one, alright. He couldn’t wait for midnight.

      Five minutes later, hands thrust into his pockets against the cold, he reached the car park.

      Jangling his keys.

      He shivered. He knew the car would be bitterly cold inside – the heater was crap, the seats were plastic. Probably have to scrape the ice off first.

      Still, only ten minutes and he’d be home and in front of the gas fire for his beans on toast or fish fingers and chips, or whatever his ma had in mind. Then he’d…

      He became dimly aware of footsteps behind him, light and quick, and then – before he could turn to look – two things happened simultaneously.

      There was a thump in his back – it felt like he’d been hit with a sledgehammer – and a deafening sound.

      He knew right enough that it was gunfire – you didn’t spend twenty years in Belfast without recognising that sound – but he was confused because it sounded so close.

      Shots always rang out somewhere over there, half a mile away. Not right next to you.

       Didn’t they?

      He realised that he was being pushed forwards, and then it happened again – the thump, the noise – and he staggered, felt the strength go from his legs.

      There was pain too, now – real pain in his back, searing heat and stabbing sensations – and he couldn’t breathe, like he’d been badly winded.

      He collapsed onto his knees.

      Tried to stand up but couldn’t.

      His head was spinning.

      He fell forwards.

      Somehow, he realised, he was now flat on the ground, his face pressed against the cold, wet tarmac.

      Confusing.

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