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

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СКАЧАТЬ was applying the field dressing onto the wound on his collarbone when Parry reappeared.

      ‘What the fuck are you doing?’ he said. ‘We’re not saving this cunt’s life, John.’

      ‘We’re better than them,’ said Carr, through gritted teeth. ‘He needs an ambulance.’

      ‘Fuck that,’ said Parry. He squatted down next to Casey, pulled off the dressing and threw it across the room. ‘Three of my mates were killed at Mayobridge the other day by your mob, pal,’ he said to the groaning man. ‘Young lads, blown to pieces by cowards. If you think I’m calling yous a fucking ambo you must be confusing me with somebody who gives a shit.’

      The blood was spurting more slowly, now, so Parry pressed his hand on Casey’s chest, making it flow quicker.

      ‘How does that feel?’ he said. ‘Does it sting a bit?’

      ‘He’s going tae bleed out, Mick,’ said Carr.

      ‘Yeah,’ said Parry. ‘That’s the general idea.’

      Just then, they heard a stifled sob behind them, and turned to see the homeowner standing in the kitchen doorway, hands over her mouth.

      ‘Get her back through there, and tell her to fucking stay there,’ said Parry, to Carr. ‘Then get outside and tell the boss I’m giving this wanker first aid.’

      Carr hesitated for a moment.

      Then ushered the sobbing woman out of the room and into her kitchen, and left the house to do as he was told.

      An ambulance was finally called ten minutes later.

      By that time, Gerard Casey was unconscious.

      By the time it arrived he was dead.

18.

      BILLY JONES SENIOR sat in the Long Bar on the Shankill Road, surrounded by a gang of his shaven-headed cronies.

      The TV in the top corner of the pub was on about some shooting in central Belfast, but he paid it no particular mind. He was sipping his whisky chaser and trying to decide between another pint of Carling or a move on to Strongbow, when two uniformed RUC men walked in, faces nervous, flat caps in their hands.

      Someone walked hurriedly out of the bar, head down, and through the open doorway Billy briefly saw flashing blue lights and the camouflaged tunics of a group of soldiers.

      The RUC men’s eyes swept the room and settled on him.

      They walked towards his table.

      ‘Evening, Billy,’ said one of them, respectfully. ‘We’ve been trying to get hold of you. Can we have a word in private, please?’

      Billy Jones looked up at them with the dead gaze of a reptile. ‘Anything you want to say to me you can say in front of the boys,’ he said. ‘We’ve no secrets here.’

      ‘Only, we tried your house, Billy,’ said the officer. ‘Couldn’t get an answer, couldn’t find your wife, so… Well, we thought you’d be in here.’

      ‘Spying on me, is it?’ he said with a mocking grin, and a suck on his teeth. He shook his head, almost sadly. ‘You fucking peeler bastards.’

      ‘Billy, I really think it would be best in private.’

      ‘Spit it out.’

      The two officers looked at each other. The one doing the talking sighed.

      ‘Okay,’ he said. ‘Have it your way. It’s about your son. Billy Junior.’ His eyes flicked up at the TV, which was showing a car park, now brightly lit and crawling with police. ‘He’s the one that was killed tonight.’

      Billy looked at him. Not a flicker of emotion.

      He casually picked up his Bells and threw it back.

      ‘Is that yous?’ he said, with a grimace at the heat of the spirit. ‘Are yous done?’

      ‘Aye.’

      ‘Then get the fuck out,’ he shouted. ‘Go on. Fuck off!’

      ‘We’re sorry, Mr Jones, our condolences, we…’

      ‘Fuck off, you fucking wankers!’

      The two constables turned on their heels and walked away, heads down, hands resting lightly on their sidearms, Billy Jones’ eyes burning into their backs.

      When the door was shut, the men at the table exchanged looks.

      ‘Billy,’ said one. ‘I’m sorry. He was a good kid.’

      Billy Jones Senior looked at him in disgust. ‘You what? He was a fucking embarrassment, so he was, and you know it. If you can’t speak the fucking truth to me, you’re no fucking good to me. You can get the fuck out as well.’

      ‘Yes, Billy,’ said the man, and hurried out without finishing his drink or putting on his coat.

      Jones looked up at the bar. A man in a blue Rangers shirt put down his pint, walked casually over, and bent his head.

      ‘You and Tam McDonald,’ whispered Billy Jones Senior, hoarsely. ‘You get fucking out there tonight and kill two fucking Catholics. Any fuckers, I don’t care, but it better be on the news first thing in the morning. Cut their throats.’

      The man nodded, and walked out of the bar leaving half a pint on the counter.

      Billy sat back, looked at his cronies and belched. ‘I reckon I’ll go on the Strongbow now, boys,’ he said. ‘Davey, you’re in the chair.’

19.

      PAT CASEY SAT IN HIS usual seat in the corner of The Volunteer on the Falls Road and tried to look vaguely interested as another greasy sycophant paid his respects and offered to buy him a pint.

      The eldest of the three Casey brothers, it was common knowledge that Patrick was a senior figure in the Belfast Brigade command structure.

      This being one of Belfast PIRA’s favourite pubs, there wasn’t a man alive could drink the beer Pat Casey was offered on an average night.

      There probably wasn’t the beer in the bar to make good on all the offers.

      He waved the guy away with a half-smile, keeping his eye on wee Roslyn McCabe as she sat at the bar sucking down something with a pink umbrella in it.

      Fuck, but she was a great wee ride, all legs and arse in that tight little white miniskirt.

      She smiled at him, and he just stared back at her.

      He’d fucked her in the alley round the back of the bar last week, and he’d a mind to do it again tonight.

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