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Chapter Ten: I Can't Believe It's Not the IRA

"You're still awake." It wasn't a question. Harry knew Ruth was still with him, bodily and consciously. But the hour was late. Still dark, but with dawn fast approaching. He himself had been slipping in and out of slumber. What few snatched moments of sleep he did get, brought with them memories of the days between Bill's abduction and his remains being dumped at the barracks front gates.

Instead of an answer, Ruth turned over in bed so that she was facing him. Alert and keen-eyed, he wondered whether she had slept at all. Now that his anger and frustration had subsided, he felt almost ashamed at having dumped the corpse of his own personal history at her feet. Worse, he almost let it tear them apart. Again. But when he looked in her eyes, he saw no recrimination there. Nor the judgement he so feared. There was just a mutual, unspoken, understanding that this was not the end.

"All I want now is," she began, then faltered. "All I need is a message, for you to tell me when it's done."

Beneath the blankets, his hand slid up to her hips and rested there. "Yes," he promised her. There was no talk of her coming with him. "I'll keep you informed."

"Then it'll be over," she added.

"I rather think it will be," he agreed.

What more could they possibly do to each other that hadn't already been done a thousand times? Truth and reconciliation was all well and good, but sometimes the wounds were too deep to heal. In those instances, he knew there was only one option left. It was either that, or let the wound suppurate again and again. Never healing, only slipping into an uneasy remission before the cycle starts again. A gift that keeps on giving.

"Did talking to Will help at all?" she asked.

"Yes."

It was no miracle cure, but he had to admit it felt better. Over thirty years spent harbouring a painful secret, carrying it around, nursing its slow acting poison had been purged in the course of one afternoon. But still a man of few soul-bearing words, he could think of no better answer than just 'yes'. In reality, he felt as though he had only just managed to grab an overhanging tree branch while be swept down a river. Well now that particular storm had quelled into an uneasy peace of mind.

"I never intended for you to take the blame," he said, at last. Sorry was always the hardest of words. "Nor the emotional fallout of it all."

"It's all right," she answered. "It'll all be over soon. That's all that matters now."

Maybe each act of revenge further corrodes the soul. But Harry was willing to take the chance. He raised a pained smile and kissed her full on the lips. He wasn't leaving until late in the evening, an overnight ferry from Liverpool with Will. The exact same journey he had undertaken with Bill, all those long years ago. Ros and Lucas had already created legends for them both: building workers visiting Belfast to help plan the construction of a new shopping arcade in the city centre. Just in case anyone in officialdom asks, which was unlikely in the new climate of peace and reconciliation.

Ruth rolled over on to her back, sighing heavily. "I can't believe that bastard McLoan is still out there and still trying to wage war." Instantly, she seemed to regret it. "I'm sorry; it's not for me to be all bloody indignant."

"But you're right," he was quick to assure her. But he soon lapsed into his own thoughts, trying to make sense of it all. "Maybe he doesn't know how to not wage war? Maybe he's been doing this for so long now that he doesn't know any other way. It'd be like me just stopping being a spy and becoming a nursery school teacher, or something. It'd be like teaching a fish to drive. And violence is addictive but it's not like smoking. You can't just nip down a chemist and get some violence patches to help wean you off it."

"It's not for us to psychoanalyse the man, Harry," said Ruth. "Dissident Republicans are mainly active in areas of community policing and racketeering. It's not even ideological any more. It's just money, power and control. Do people like McLoan even remember why the war began in the first place? Have they forgotten that their country is divided?"

Harry stifled a laugh at 'community policing'. Blasting the kneecaps off kids who smoke a little weed or make a little too much noise while out on the town. That sort of community policing. Once upon a time; long, long ago, he used to listen to Sinn Fein banging on about the evils of the forces of occupation and the British state, using it to justify acts of terror that would shame the devil itself. Two wrongs don't make a right, but what about three or four or five? It used to make him want to vomit. Now it was all bloodshed without the pretence of ideology. At least they were honest. At least they weren't at a negotiating table and shaking you by the hand while pointing a gun at your head with the other. But the Dissidents were not wanted. They were not supported, not even by those they claimed to represent. They had taken it upon themselves to continue a war the people on all sides no longer had the heart for. Self-appointed and acting as judge, jury and executioner. Peace and reconciliation was all very well, when it was what all sides wanted. But Brendan McLoan and his ilk didn't want that and he had made his choice. As Harry now made his.

"Do you think I'm a coward?" he asked.

Ruth's breath hitched in her throat. A gesture that seemed borne of surprise.

"Why on earth would I think that?"

"Because I let Bill go," he explained. "I watched him walk into the jaws of a lion, and cowered in a flat for the best part of a day. I could have gone out there. I could have fought, like he fought. But I didn't. He walked away and vanished. In the end, he was just gone. There was no blazing shoot-out, no Butch Cassidy moment. He was just … taken away. I never even saw them leave."

He heard no car engines, nor voices. Only the rush of his own blood pumping through his veins. Fear and adrenaline. But mostly fear. Followed by guilt. An all-consuming guilt that crusted over his every thought, fuelled his every fear and dictated his every decision since then.

"The thing is, Harry, Bill took that decision out of your hands," she said, after a long pause. "He didn't give you a choice. From the moment he decided to try and negotiate, he seems to have also decided that you would not be a part of those negotiations. In fact, if I recall your words rightly, he was using your supposed death at their hands as leverage. Sort of like him walking up to them and saying: 'okay lads, you killed my colleague, now we're even so let's talk.' It was always a longshot, but it could have worked. The Provisional IRA were never beyond reason and they were always open to talks. Christ, Harry, the British Government started talking to them back in 1972."

She was always a sensible woman.

"But I was so afraid-"

"Of course you were," she cut over him. "Any human being would be. Being afraid doesn't make you a coward. If you had gone charging after Bill you both would have been killed instantly. If I was in Bill's place, I would have banked on negotiations with the gunmen and feeding them half-truthful intel to play for time and build up a rapport. In the meantime, you who were still both alive and at liberty, would raise the alarm and organise the search and rescue team. Which is what you did. You did what he needed you to do and you didn't fail, you just ran out of time."

"Running out of time is still a failure," he countered. "Worse, it cost Bill his life."

The mattress dipped as Ruth shifted her position, then she wrapped her arms around him. For a long moment, she simply held him.

"I'm not contradicting you," she said. "I'm not arguing for the sake of being obstinate. But you did everything that was in your power to do. No one can ask for more than that."

He wasn't psychic. He had no way of telling where McLoan and the IRA had taken Bill. Not with all their rural hideouts scattered from the glens of Antrim to the killing fields of South Armagh. It was like the proverbial needle in a haystack. But the feelings and sadness lingered on, even if beginning to grow less potent.

That afternoon, the atmosphere in the meeting room was calm. Ros and Lucas sat facing each other from opposite sides of the table, while Ruth squeezed in beside Harry at the end. No one else was involved. No one else needed to be dragged into Harry's own past. But he could see the rest of the team passing back and forth outside, each person absorbed in their own work and paying them little heed. It was probably for the best.

On the table, between Ros and Lucas, a stack of papers had been fanned out. An empty box was sat beside Lucas's elbow and he was currently absorbed in an old report that he'd unearthed in the paper archive. Harry watched his brow furrow as he focused on the small typing, his free hand covering his mouth. Eventually, he passed it over to Harry.

"The La Mon Hotel bombing," he said, keeping his voice low. "You were right, Harry, McLoan was involved. But it was us who covered it up. What do you want us to do about it?"

"We covered it up only because we thought McLoan was providing information for us," he answered. "If it ever came out that enemy bombers were being protected, it could cause a scandal. If it ever came out that we protected enemy bombers who were actually double-crossing us, it could tear our organisation apart." He paused and held up the bombing reporting for all three of them to see. "I want this destroyed while I'm away dealing with McLoan."

That was the problem with all informers, really. Most of them came singing to MI5 because they had become disillusioned with whatever organisation they represented. They had their own axes to grind and they were playing you as much, and as fluently, as you were playing them. They were all just pieces on a board, being moved according to the whims and caprices of the player. The IRA were no different. McLoan came to them because he felt over-looked and under-appreciated by the IRA. The IRA made him a better offer.

"Harry, if the IRA…" said Ros, trailing off and scowling as she struggled to recall some minor detail. "Sorry, what IRA is it he's a member of now? The Real IRA, the Continuity IRA, I Can't Believe It's not the IRA or whatever the fuck they're calling themselves these days. If they knew McLoan had been an informer – for whatever reason and however long ago – they would do this job for you. All we have to do is make sure they find out."

"That isn't the point," he answered, flatly. "This is between me and him."

"Does he think you're still dead?" asked Ruth.

Harry hadn't even considered that. The question jolted him and he turned to look at her. "I hope so."

Lucas laughed drily. "The element of surprise, Harry. I like it."

Even Ruth smiled. "He probably won't recognise you, so make sure you jog his memory before …" she trailed off, considering how best to phrase it. "Before it is done."

He reached over and covered her hand with his own. "Oh, I will. Don't you worry about that."

"Well then," said Ros, once more exerting her authority. "We've arranged a meetup for tomorrow night, ten pm at the East Belfast docks, close to where you disembark at the sea terminal. He thinks you're going there to discuss drug imports from the East End of London, seeing as that seems to be their main source of income these days. From there, it's up to you."

Before Harry could respond, Lucas cut in. "I'm still not happy about you going in alone, Harry. What if something goes wrong?"

Harry shrugged. "Then it goes wrong and no one else but me gets hurt."

Beside him, Ruth suppressed a shiver and distracted herself by sweeping the papers into a haphazard stack. Harry caught it from the corner of his eye, but it did not deter him. Deep down, he knew she understood. But it was hard for her and he knew he would have some serious making up to do once he returned. His hand found hers and brought it to a standstill again. "It'll be all right," he whispered, so that only she could hear. For all he was worth, he tried to reinforce the message with a smile.

Before he left that evening, Lucas was waiting for him by the pods. His jacket over his shoulder, ready to go. Harry met his eye, wondering why he hadn't followed Ros and the others.

"Lucas," he greeted his Senior Case Officer. "Still here?"

"Nothing gets past you," he replied, drily. He made no move, even as Harry caught him up. "Are you sure you're okay to do this alone? I don't mind catching a flight and giving you some back up. Same goes for Ros. We've already talked about this."

"That's very kind of you both," he answered, genuinely touched by the offer. "But, as you know, there are some old scores that can only be settled the old fashioned way."

He had not meant to drag the John Bateman and Vaughn Edwards scandal up again. But it was the closest comparison Harry could find. And he knew Lucas, of all people, would understand what it was to have your past follow you home like a flea-bitten, stray dog.

"At least let me offer you some advice, then," said Lucas, setting off for the pods. "Just shoot the bastard. No messing around, no trips down memory lane. Just give him the bullet and get back home."

Harry leaned in close to Lucas, just as they came to a parting of the ways. "I would," he said. "But that's more than the bastard deserves."

Lucas raised a pained smile. "Good luck, Harry."

When Will first conceived the idea of travelling to Northern Ireland, he took it for granted that a flight would be involved. An hour in the air from Heathrow and they'd be on Irish soil before they knew it. Alas, Sir Harry had other ideas. Ideas that struck him as odd. But as he made his way to the deck of the ship and looked out over the approaching sea, he had to admit it was different. He lit a cigarette and stood by the cold steel rails, eroded by sea spray and salt, breathing in the nicotine and clean air. It was, he recalled, the precise same journey that his father and Harry took, all those years ago.

If he looked back, the Albert Docks had vanished from sight. If he looked ahead, there was only the vast expanse of shivering seas. But the night was calm and silent. The vessel barely rocked and there wasn't even a breeze to help speed their journey along. But it was the calmest he had been since his mother died. Out there, drifting through a dark and empty expanse of water seemed to wash his mind clean. If he looked up, the stars spread out in the night skies. Away from the scourge of light pollution, he could see every last one of them. He looked for the biggest and brightest of them all, recalling the words of an old school teacher. They shine like that when they're about to implode and open up a brand new black hole. Most of the stars you're seeing now are already dead. The universe is infinite, but life is not.

He drew on his cigarette and leaned over the rails. The ship's prow cut through the small swells, churning up a pale foam in its wake. He saw no fish big or small, much to his dismay. Four hours into the voyage, they rounded the north coast of the Isle of Man. They saw distant street lights twinkling along its northern shores where promenades followed the beaches. He didn't even realise the tiny Island was inhabited.

"Your father made that mistake, too," said Harry, when Will pointed it out to him.

Will laughed, imagining his father stood where he stood, talking to the same man, only thirty or so years younger. "Did my father make a lot of mistakes?"

Harry leaned against the railings, looking out over the seas with a whiskey in his hands. "No more than anyone else, I don't think. How do you mean?"

Will shrugged, not entirely sure what he meant himself. "All my life people have skirted around the issue of how Dad died," he explained. "It was built up into this big thing. I was so obsessed with finding out the truth of his death that I forgot about the truth of his life."

It hit him as he lay in bed on the night of the Truth and Reconciliation talks. All his adult life he had squirrelled around for information about the end of Bill Crombie's life, while Bill Crombie the living, breathing human being had slipped past unnoticed and neglected. Naturally, he had projected idealised father figures on to the man when he was a child. But that had no more been the truth than had his death defined his life. It was only then that Will realised there was more to his father than being tortured and murdered and he hadn't asked Harry about any of that.

"I feel so foolish asking," he admitted. "But what was he like? Who was he? I don't know, Sir Harry. I feel like I don't know anything about him."

Harry looked contemplative. "Back at the talks, you wanted to see pictures of your father's body. Do you understand now why I wouldn't let you see them? That would be all you knew of him."

The reminder brought on a fresh wave of guilt. "I hadn't meant to upset you, Sir Harry."

But Harry waved a dismissive hand. "Don't. You didn't; I was more worried about the effect it would have on you. Bill and I grew up together. From early childhood we played together, we went to school and university together. We drank and went searching for girls together. When we get to Belfast, there's someone I need to see. When that is done, you and I will go to the Crown Liquor Saloon and get blind drunk. There, I will tell you every little thing about your father, the man that he was. I would now, but here on this ship it's freezing cold and we're too sober."

Will opted not to pry into the mystery meeting, but it piqued his curiosity nonetheless. "It sounds like my Dad was quite rash, actually. To have done what he did."

Harry looked surprised at his assessment, but soon settled again. "That's one way of looking at it. But now, looking back, I think he was extremely brave. He knew we were going to die unless something was done. We had intel that could have cost a lot more lives, all locked in our heads. Your father took ownership of the situation and minimised the collateral damage as best he could in the circumstances he found himself in. It was something my wife said to me last night that made me realise what Bill was probably doing and he sacrificed himself to protect others, myself included. I would have done the same for him, had I had that idea first."

Will listened while watching the distant lights of Belfast harbour drawing closer. It was too dark to see much of the land itself, but he knew they were heading into the mouth of the lough. It felt like he was reaching the last leg of a long and dangerous journey.

Thanks again for reading and apologies for the late update. Reviews would be lovely, if you have a minute.