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Sláinte Mhaith: Good health (traditional drinking toast)
Chapter Seven: Glass Bubbles
By the time they reached the foot of the Newtonards Road, ready to turn off into the city centre, the rain had started. In the beginning, those first few tear drops of rain were barely substantial enough to leave a streak of dampness against Harry's passenger window. But he grinned in remembrance of the Ulster weather and started the countdown in his head: three … two … one … cloudburst! Then it was as though someone had torn a hole in the sky as the rain came thundering down. Over the drumming of the rain against the roof of the car, another vehicle's horn blared. Startled, Harry almost dropped the newspaper he was carrying and looked up to see Beth Bailey beaming at him from the car beside theirs, waving enthusiastically at him from behind the wheel. He didn't get a chance to wave back before the traffic lights changed and they pulled away in different directions. The hire company had provided her with a metallic purple VW Beetle, the sort of thing Ruth might like.
Driving through Belfast city was like hearing an old song you thought you knew the words to. The tune was familiar but Harry found himself stumbling over the words and memories as they passed down old streets and highways that seemed to have rearranged themselves in his head. Once, there were large metal gates at the entry and exit of every road, even small alleyways. Now they were gone, with not even a trace of running rust stains to mark where they once stood. Gone too were the metal detectors in the entrances of every shop. They were no soldiers; no military vehicles or checkpoints. Two police officers of the PSNI, a man and a woman, ambled casually down the high street, chatting quietly to each other and drawing no untoward attention. Beneath their high-visibility jackets, handguns were discreetly tucked away. Ten years ago, they wouldn't have dared go anywhere on foot and those neat little guns would have been fully automatic machine guns, cocked and ready to fire at a moment's notice. The thought occurred to Harry then that, in another ten years maybe, they might not be armed at all. He watched as they passed, their young faces utterly unconcerned about anything.
It was only the layout of the streets, and the grand city hall looming over them, that remained the same. Enough to strike that resonant note of familiarity, but Harry would never have guessed where he was, otherwise. They passed a coffee house, outside which a waiter was hurriedly dragging aluminium chairs in from off the pavements and out of the rain. There were no coffee houses back in the day. No one stayed. A cowed and terrified public dashed into this city under siege and straight back out again. Smoking ruins had given way to glittering, glass-domed shopping centres complete with water features and stores selling designer labels. It would have been a cliché to imagine the phoenix rising from the ashes, but in that moment Harry could think of little else to compare it to. Like Cold War Europe, the Belfast in Harry's memories simply no longer existed.
As they reached the City Hall, they turned left and followed the one-way traffic system so they could eventually take the right-turn they needed to emerge on to Great Victoria Street. As with so many major cities in the UK, Belfast's traffic system appeared to have been redrawn by a posse of vengeful cyclists. When the driver did emerge on to the main hubbub of Great Victoria, the Europa Hotel loomed large on the right hand side of the road. It's adjoining train station now also remarkably free of security. Once, it had been the most bombed hotel in Europe. Harry recalled how it used to be stuffed full of bright-eyed journalists, waiting with baited breath and – probably – swelling erections as they anticipated the next explosion and a big, juicy body count to slavishly detail in their next report. Oh, how he had wanted to slap them all.
They drew to a halt outside the Europa, where Harry grabbed his brolly and opened it out like a great blossoming flower of black nylon to ward off the torrential downpours. After thanking the driver, he shoved the door closed and set off for the pedestrian crossing outside the train station. Waiting to cross, his brolly seemed magnetically drawn to all other brollies as crowds amassed, all getting tangled up amongst each other and causing a flurry of apologies and weather related wise-cracks all round.
As soon as the little green man flashed his signal, they all surged over the sodden road huddled beneath their newly liberated umbrellas. Harry turned right again, passing Robinson's Bar and the bookmakers, before pausing outside the Crown Liquor Saloon. He decommissioned the brolly while stood between the two ornamental marble pillars that formed part of the bar's ostentatious entrance, before heading inside. Established well over a century ago, it was a relief to see it still open for business despite the ever changing city that surrounded it. Inside, it was much the same as he remembered. Chromatic tiles on the floor, stained glass windows and a mosaic of a crown in the centre. Most of the public bar was comprised of intimate snugs, where diners and drinkers could have their own little space within a bustling space that was as likely to comprise the local drunks and bums as it was the journos, writers and artists that seemed to swell this part of the city.
At that hour of the day, however, it contained almost no one but the bar staff gearing up for the day and night ahead. Selecting the snug farthest from the bar, he deposited his brolly and coat before ordering real coffee from the barmaid who came bounding over to his table, almost indecently enthusiastic for the hour. But not long after the coffee arrived, so too did the person he was meeting. He almost bumped into the barmaid. "I'll have one of those as well, if you don't mind sweetheart."
Harry watched him as he slid into the seat opposite his. The years had been relatively kind to him. Unlike Harry, he still had all his hair (albeit more grey than black); he was still lean, but not as lean as he was in his youth. Wrinkles lined his bright blue eyes, the harshness of his Belfast accent was still tempered with the softer southern lilt; a sort of voice girls in England went weak at the knees for. But if Harry had been there to dispense fashion advice, he would point out that that moustache was pure 1970s. After this mental run down of Sean Mallon's aged appearance, Harry realised the ex-IRA man was returning the looks with equal curiosity.
"Well, Sir Harry Pearce, welcome to back to Belfast."
Casually, Harry stirred his coffee for a second before setting the teaspoon back on the saucer with a soft 'chink'. "I wish I could say I've missed you. But I'd be lying."
Mallon raised one greying eyebrow. "Wouldn't be for the first now, would it?"
"Touché," Harry laughed, despite himself. "How's Dearbhla? I do hope she won't be identifying your body tonight, after you've spent today talking to me."
As always, Mallon seemed to almost relish going to head to head with an old adversary. The thinly veiled caution was met only with a widening of the smile.
"Haven't you heard, Harry? The war's over now. Have you seen Belfast? Did you go through town?" He paused there, just as the bar maid brought his coffee over. Once she had vanished again, Mallon watched her go before resuming. "Seriously though, you and I have common enemies these days. The goal posts have shifted and the rules rewritten, and the bastards didn't even see fit to consult the likes of you and I before they did it."
Intrigued, Harry sat back against the back wall of the snug and watched the other man. He would have been a god send to the Dissidents, but he adhered to the peace process like super glue. Or, he seemed to. Harry hadn't forgotten his late night weekend 'visitor' and fully anticipated raising the issue very soon. But first, their common enemies.
Beth parked the VW outside the Odyssey Arena and stepped out of the car, despite having neglected to bring an umbrella. All she could do was pull her scarf up over her head and silently curse as she took in her surroundings. She hadn't expected the Docklands to be quite so public. Besides the Arena, itself a vast and sprawling complex that played host to some of the biggest bands on the planet, there was a Titanic Museum; fully functioning film studio that at that very moment was churning out another series of Game of Thrones; bars and riverside apartments as well as vast boats moored nearby from all over Europe. Her eye alighted on a giant statue of a bright blue fish on the opposite side of the lough, peering at it through a mist of persistent rain. At least someone was feeling more at home in this weather.
As she recalled that morning's conversation with Nathan, about the perils of meeting strange men in abandoned places, she took out her phone and turned back towards the Museum, arena and film studios, before snapping a quick selfie as a bus full of tourists zipped past. She texted the image to Nathan, along with the words: "now stop worrying". By the time the message's delivery report came through, a large and soggy greyhound had come bounding over and started sniffing hopefully at her jacket pockets. It was followed by an ageing gentleman huddled beneath a brolly, wearing a large jacket.
"Lady Jane!" he called, "Janey, come back!"
Beth scratched at the dog's ears, all the same. Besides, she recognised the man from his MI-5 file. Jim McDowell, a sixty-four year old ex-UDA gunman. It was hard to equate the man in the file with what she saw before her now. These days, he just looked like someone's granddad out walking his dog. There was no flashing signs; no identifying mark.
"Sorry, Missus, she gets a bit lively in the rain," he explained, bringing the greyhound back under control. "You must be Beth?"
"And you must be Mister McDowell," Beth replied, extending a hand. "Jo handed me your file before she left."
Jim smiled and returned the handshake, before hoisting the umbrella over to the other shoulder, so it also covered Beth. Just about. Then, they continued Lady Jane Greyhound's dockside walk as they followed the path along the waterfront. Instead of going towards the city, however, they followed the path out past the Arena, to where the shipyards once stood. Beth watched as the dog sniffed at the increasingly wild undergrowth, picking up the scent of canines gone by.
"Is this about the talks?" asked Beth, once they were well away from any crowds.
Now that she had umbrella coverage, she lowered her sodden scarf, sending freezing water running down her back.
"I can't say, specifically," he replied. "But the UDA are on the rise again. That worries me. They knew that MI5 would be coming here-"
"They could have guessed that, surely?"
"Of course, but they knew well in advance," he further explained. "It's the East Belfast brigade you need to watch out for, because I think they're planning on turning rogue."
Beth fell silent for a moment, mulling it over. The UDA ceasefire had been tenuous, even in the best of days. They still organised protection rackets, intimidated Catholic enclaves and shot the kneecaps out of any young buck they didn't like the look of. There had been several bitter feuds fought between internal factions within the organisation, only getting away with it because it was seen as private business, rather than both sections of the community fighting against each other. But lives had been lost, including innocent civilians who had been caught in the crossfire.
Soon, the path they walked along gave way to little more than a dirt track that led to warehouses that looked as though they had been abandoned long ago. But it was in these more desolate parts that Jim seemed to open up more.
"Before, it was the West Belfast brigade who turned rogue. The Brigadier in that area got too big for his boots and was running all sorts of drugs rackets and petty criminal gangs. When the North Belfast Brigadier tried to curtail him, the West Belfast guy arranged to have him murdered. Had him shot dead as he drove off the boat from a Rangers game in Scotland. Well, one UDA brigadier is never going to get away with having another assassinated like that. So the rest of the organisation united against the rogue elements in West Belfast and had them all driven out of the country. I'm sorry to say it, Miss, but I think they're all in Manchester now," he explained.
Beth stifled a dry laugh. "We know about them and we're watching them. Don't worry about that."
"Well, this is different," he stated, pausing to whistle to Lady Jane. As seemed to be the dog's habits, she ignore her owner entirely and continued to cut her own path. "Now, where we're at, the UDA…. No, scratch that, the working class Protestant areas think the Catholics are getting all of the benefits of the peace agreement at their expense. Patently not true, it's just natural sour grapes and all that. But that's the feeling on the streets, and it's leading to bad blood. In East Belfast, that bad blood is being exploited by the UDA leadership who're looking to capitalise on it and start another conflict."
"And what better way to do that than hit the talks that are being held?" Beth asked, guessing at where this was all leading.
"It's highly likely," he concurred. "But from what I've heard, there's already been some successful hits against the British Security forces."
Beth frowned, almost reeling against the revelation. She had heard nothing of it. "Like what?"
Jim paused as they reached a disused warehouse that was already half-consumed by the swelling lough.
"I can't say," he admitted. "I just assumed you would know and that it'd been kept out of the papers, or however you fellas deal with these things. But I heard they already had scored a hit against the Security Forces and that it would give you a good shake. Whether you can tell me or not, you can guarantee that if there's been one, there will be others."
Not having the highest of clearance levels, Beth had to admit that there could well have been something she didn't yet know about. But to compound how seriously Jim was taking it, the old man leaned in closer to her, whispering low in her ear.
"If truth be told, I feared it was wee Jo," he confided. "She is really only on holiday, isn't she?"
Beth stumbled over a rock jutting from the ground at that moment, but she steadied herself quickly and smiled. "Oh, she's fine honestly! She's soaking up the sun."
But Jim was already dead by the time she had finished explaining. The resounding crack of the gunshot and the old man's brains being blasted out occurred almost simultaneously and Beth had no time to react. His blood sprayed hot and sickening across her face as she screamed and jumped back again. Falling against a sodden grass verge, she only succeeding in sliding back down the bank and landing in the mud on her hands and knees. She rolled over on to her back, trying to work out where the gunshots had come from, while simultaneously pulling out her phone. But the freezing rain had numbed her hands as she tried to call the last number she had texted: Nathan. Cursing in frustration, she dropped the phone altogether just as it began to ring, but the world turned black before she could find it. A rough sacking bag thrown over her head as she felt her hands being forced behind her back and tied. Frantically, she tried to fight back, only for something hard to connect with her temple, seeing stars before her eyes before everything really did turn dark.
"Right … right … right a bit more; no! Left again!"
Nathan sighed in exasperation before glaring down the step-ladder at Ruth. She was craning her neck to look back up at him, attempting to direct where the bug should go.
"Can you at least try to be concise here?" he asked. "I can't go both left and right."
Immediately, Ruth was on the defensive. "I'm trying, but your idea of an inch is everyone else's idea of a yard!"
They were rigging up the rooms destined to be inhabited by a number of high ranking Irish Republicans. Lucas had already dealt with the phones, which they were probably too wise to actually use anyway, and managed to get a hidden camera inside the TV screen. So it was left to Ros to wade in on the latest one.
"Stand aside, both of you," she commanded, stepping into the breach. "I'll bloody well do it."
Gladly, Nathan hopped down off the ladder and relinquished control to Ros. Meanwhile, Ruth continued to steady the step-ladder. While he was up that ladder, his phone had been vibrating madly in his pocket, but his hands were occupied with the damn listening device.
"That was Beth," he said to the room at large as he went outside to call her back.
"Did she leave a message?" asked Lucas, putting down his latest phone tap.
Nathan opened up the text she sent, seeing the selfie alongside the museum and film studio. He grinned at the message, feeling like a fussy old man over what he'd said to her that morning.
"Oh, it's nothing. She just said not to worry," he explained, slipping the phone back into his pocket. "Right, what's next?"
Before anyone could answer, the door was shoved open and a towering man of well over six feet was stood on the threshold. His dark grey hair was swept back and under one arm was a battered, leather bound bible. He glared at them all, each in turn as he stepped into the room without offering explanation of his presence. They all turned to look at him in bewilderment.
Ruth was first to gather her wits. "First Minister McCracken, welcome-"
"It's been brought to my attention," he cut over her, "that attending these talks are, as follows: four fornicators, three communists, two homosexuals-"
"And a partridge in a pear tree," Ros half-sang, half-shouted over the rest of his sentence.
Ruth didn't quite manage to disguise her laugh as a cough. But then, neither did the others. Still, the First Minister drew a deep breath as he made a gesture of surrender. "The Big Man just wanted me to point this out. Don't shoot the messenger."
"No disrespect, but we're not the morality police," Lucas put in, gently. "Fornicating, gay communists is another department altogether."
Nathan was rather more blunt. "The Big Man?" he repeated dumbly. "You mean, God told you all that?"
McCracken turned a withering glare on to Nathan. "Don't be ridiculous, boy. I meant the Reverend. He can't come up here, so he's waiting downstairs and demanding to see Harry Pearce about it. Especially the Communists. The Reverend is ninety-three, you know?"
Still on top of the ladder, Ros looked faintly perplexed. "Since when has Communism rated above fornication on the mortal sin scale? Or have I just been going to all the wrong parties?"
McCracken sighed heavily. "Can Harry Pearce please come and allay the fears of the Reverend? What rates as a sin in your books is a matter for your own conscience."
Ruth, as ever, acted as the conciliator. "I'm sorry, Harry is at an important meeting in Belfast. Can I help?"
The First Minster looked Ruth up and down, testily as though trying to decide which of the three big sins applied to her. All the way along, Ruth tried to keep the benign smile on her face. But it slipped occasionally, as though she was trying to guess which of the three new deadly sins he was pinning on her. Eventually, she passed.
"Very well, but be gentle with him. He's ninety-three."
An amazed silence descended over the room as Ruth and the First Minister left together. All three of the remaining inhabitants carried on watching the door, long after it had closed again. Eventually, Nathan cleared his throat and pointed to the spot where the Minister had recently been standing.
"That's the guy I have to take to Dublin tomorrow? Four hours, trapped in a car with that nut."
"I'm sure you'll get along like a heretic on fire," said Ros, stepping down from the ladder. "We deserve a break after that. Come along!"
Harry poured the last of his coffee into his cup while Sean Mallon continued explaining. So far, it sounded suspiciously like MI5 were being asked to share intelligence with the IRA, of all people. But, he knew their tactics; they always opened up talks by demanding the impossible and Mallon no more expected Harry's agreement than he was willing to give it. But when he did speak again, he recalled the masked man who showed up at his house.
"Coincidentally," he pointed out. "This uninvited guest showed up within hours of you calling me at the Grid."
Mallon, however, looked blank. "Nothing to do with me. All I wanted to tell you was that the Real IRA are planning a hit on our esteemed First Minister, Kyle McCracken, and that it's happening during these talks."
Harry remained sceptical. "And why are you telling me this? They'd kill you if they found out; even if you are telling the truth about our visitor."
"No they wouldn't," Mallon countered. "Listen, we have as much interest in suppressing the Dissidents as you do. We're on ceasefire, Harry. We want peace. We want this to be a success. What did I ask you earlier, about driving through town? What did you see? Compare it to what you didn't see."
Harry pondered the question for a long moment, thinking back over his recent trip through town. Things had changed, no one could deny it. Given that the PM who brokered the peace deal here was the same one who tore the lid off the Pandora's Box in the Middle East, the slowly strengthening peace in Ireland was almost ironic.
"You people are every bit as bloody obtuse as ever," Mallon sighed. "But right now, it's like I'm living in a bubble made of tinted glass, looking out at these Dissidents; I'm banging my fists on the glass but no one can hear me. I can't do anything, except watch them repeat the same mistakes we made, back in the seventies. Do you know how scary it is to think those same mistakes could yield the same consequences? Do you know how frustrating that is? Because I think you do."
Harry had been in that glass bubble. He had been the one slamming his fists against the sides and screaming mutely at the dumb world, blindly traipsing to their deaths. But it was the likes of Mallon who put him in there. Mallon was the one who made the damn glass bubbles to begin with, when he was last here. Was this a natural transition? From paramilitary to peace maker, seemingly on the turn of a hair. But it never was as simple as that. All this had taken fifteen long, agonising years of step-by-step peace building.
"We're already watching the Dissidents, what more can we do?" he asked, shortly. "We have our own surveillance techniques, as you well know."
The two men fell silent, each looking daggers at the other. Until Mallon backed down and started toying with a condiment tray. Harry could tell he was still mulling things over.
"Everything I did," he said, speaking low. "I did because I thought it was the right thing to do. I did it, because we had a clear goal in mind: a united Ireland. Because Ireland is one country, just like you regard Britain as one country. Or three nations in one country. Each, you recognise, as a country unto itself, free to exist. But Ireland… That's another matter. What is it we have that you people want so bad, anyway? You have no need for access to the Atlantic, air travel sorted that out. You know you don't need our farm lands anymore. Face it, Harry, your people and your government would drop Northern Ireland like a red hot brick, if only it wasn't for the Loyalists holding you over a barrel."
Harry felt as though he had had a secret part of his soul revealed to himself for the first time. But even that didn't come without an extra downside.
"But you also know that the Irish Republic wants this Province like it wants a hole in the head," he pointed out. "No, really, the Dail is more than happy to let London sort out the Irish Question-"
Mallon laughed. "Poor you, Harry, someone expects you Brits to mop your own mess for once. How dare they!?"
Harry sighed heavily, quickly pulling back from getting further drawn into a slanging match. Once in that mire, he would never get out again. Meanwhile, Mallon calmed himself down by ordering two single Irish Whiskeys from a passing floor girl. When they arrived, he nudged one over to Harry.
"The fact remains is," he stated. "I am working for Ireland's interests and you are working for Britain's interests. Right now, they're the same thing. You and me, Harry, we could almost be each other. The only difference is that you once had a license to kill."
He held the glass aloft, tilting it towards Harry. He looked at it for a moment, before raising his own glass. The problem with making peace was that you could only ever do it with enemies.
"Sláinte mhaith," they chorused.
Their glasses chinked together, the amber liquid slopping from one glass into another. If it was poisoned, it would take out both of them now; in theory at least. Once, he told that to Connie James and he tried not to think of her now, as they both knocked the whiskey back in one. Harry set his glass back down on the table and looked Mallon square in the eye. "So," he said. "In this new found spirit of peace and reconciliation, perhaps you care to explain what happened the night Paul Kendall died."
