Thank you to everyone who has read and reviewed this story, it's greatly appreciated. Thank you.
Apologies if there's any errors with 1970s spy technology, which I can only guess was severely limited compared with today's. Further apologies for all those who aren't familiar with British Indie band "The Smiths" who have several songs referenced in this chapter.
Chapter Three: No Surrender
A flare of brilliant orange flame lit up the darkening car park, travelling in a perfect arc as the Molotov cocktail soared into the bonfire. Swallowed by the stacks of wooden crates and rubber tyres, the light went out once more. But within the blink of an eye, there was a whoosh of oxygen being sucked into a burning vacuum and the bonfire suddenly blazed. Hundreds of spectators cheered as the flames lashed against the night sky. A deadly fanfare of live gun fire heralded the burning of Pope Paul VI, sitting at the very top of the inferno. Cheap nylon Irish tricolours of green, white and gold shrivelled black; melting and dripping into the ash of the smouldering Pontiff.
'If the reports prove true,' Harry thought to himself, 'at least they'll have a new Pope to incinerate next year.'
Bill was watching the gunmen. Harry followed the line of his gaze, to a raised platform away from the fire. He counted them: one, two, three and four. Faces hidden behind balaclavas, their automatic weapons continued their lethal stutter as round after round was discharged over the heads of the triumphant crowds. Behind them, union jack flags swayed on the soft summer night's breeze.
For God and Ulster. No Surrender. Fuck the Pope and the IRA. Slogans of naked loathing emblazoned on scores of banners. The Summer of Love never reached these shores.
"So, what do you make of our new allies?" asked Bill, still watching the gunmen on the dais.
Harry's stomach churned as he inhaled the burning rubber, his eyes streaming in the heat and smoke. A great rolling, wave of intense heat that was soon driving the crowds back to a safer distance.
"My enemy's enemy is my friend," he replied, citing an old cliché.
Friend? Naked hostility was so heavy in the air, Harry thought he could cut it with a blunt butter knife. Gangs of youths carried hatchets and talked openly of 'hunting Taigs'. Fire crews were pelted with bricks to keep them back from the blaze and the RUC lined their jeeps in defensive formations all down Great Victoria Street. All the while, pop music blared from loudspeakers in a desperate attempt to inject a little party atmosphere into the eleventh night celebrations.
"It's like a school disco at a Borstal," Bill observed, wryly.
Harry smirked. "A Borstal run by the inmates, at least."
They were supposed to be blending in. So far, they perched nervously on the bonnet of their civvie car and cast wary eyes over proceedings. Edgy, over-cautious, they lingering just beyond the reach of the flames. The bonfire had been stacked so high it almost equalled the nearby Europa Hotel in height. Journalists and news crews were filming from the safety of their balconies, all too sensible to get in with the blooded rabble that populated the 'party'.
Harry turned to Bill as they set off at a slow pace through the crowds. But he was watching the fire burn, his dark grey eyes reflecting the bright orange flames. Perspiration from the intense heat beaded his brow. He stopped dead in his tracks, one hand suddenly gripping Harry's elbow.
"Did you see that? I think it was a person."
Harry could see it. The mitre burning already, the straw incinerated in the heart of the flames. He shrugged. "Just another straw Pope thrown by the crowd. Don't worry about it."
They walked on, skirting the edges of the car park. Two moths slowly drawing closer to the blaze. The person they were looking for was far more likely to find them than they were him. His cover was deep. There wasn't a single Catholic left in Belfast on this night – except for him. He had his hood up, drawn down low over his forehead. A Glasgow Rangers scarf was pulled up over the lower half of his face, covering his mouth and nose. He looked like any other British Loyalist out hailing the dawning of the glorious twelfth of July. Harry almost walked straight past him, but Bill noticed.
"All right, Brendan, what have you got for us?"
They fell into step with each other, but did not stop. Nor did they look at each other, or show any outward sign of familiarity.
"There's going to be a meeting of the IRA Army Council at the Felon's Bar on the Falls Road, on the twenty-seventh of August. All the Army Council will be there," the man replied, lowering his scarf. "They'll be planning future hits, operations overseas, financial planning and gun smuggling. They're talking to the Libyans, again. You can listen in from the top of the Divis Flats, can't you?"
Although Harry kept his eyes focused on the lively 'celebrations' breaking out all around him, his attention was firmly fixed on what their asset was telling them. The information made his heartbeat race.
"Who will be there?" he asked. "What are their names?"
He could see the Asset's face now. A man in his late twenties, clean shaven and sandy haired.
"Patrick McCann will be there and so will Sean Mallon," he replied. "I don't know the other names, that's not how the organisation works. But they're the two Belfast Commanders who'll be there."
Bill was dissatisfied too. "Can you find out for us? It's what we pay you for."
"Aye, steady on," replied the Asset. "I can do. But give me the devices, I'll plant them in the Felon's Club. There's no way you'll get in there, with or without my help."
"He's right," said Bill, before Harry could argue. "Our best chance is setting up radio antennae at the top of the Divis Tower and listening in from there."
Divis Tower: a two hundred foot high, twenty-storey apartment block due for demolition within the year. They had passed it on the way down, already it was empty and sealed off from the public. Furthermore, the British Army had already been using it to set up surveillance equipment to snoop on all those Catholics on the Falls Road.
Harry turned back to the bonfire, where the Popes of straw still burned, where the Irish flags were long since reduced to molten nylon. "Let's do it," he said. "Thanks, Brendan. Next time we meet, it'll be at the docklands. It's too crowded around here."
Bill agreed, discreetly brushing a bundle of banknotes into Brendan's hands as they parted company. Gladly, the pair of them headed back towards the car, left for safety's sake by the side of the road. Away from the fire, getting further from the crowds, they slipped into a city devoid of life. All bars were closed, steel shutters barred every shop front and the people – those who yearned for peace and an end to ancient hatreds – fled the city days ago. It was almost a ghost town, and theirs the only car passing under the intermittent streetlamp glare.
The clock struck midnight and fireworks exploded across the city skies.
"Honestly, Ros, it was bizarre," he said, over thirty years later. "The most bizarre spectacle I had seen in my life."
They were sitting together in The George. Sunday trade was lagging, just the way he liked it. It meant they could chat in peace, without fear of interruption. Meanwhile, Ros sipped at her red wine, listening intently. After lifting the glass to her lips once more, she looked thoughtful.
"I've seen it all on the news before," she said. "The bonfires they light and the parades of Orangemen on the twelfth of July. You always get these Protestant politicians banging on about the wonderful carnival atmosphere. I guess it's a little different to outsiders."
Harry almost choked on his pint. "That's some bloody carnival!"
"Maybe you and I have been going to all the wrong carnivals?" she laughed. "I don't know about you, but I always think Notting Hill. Diversity. Music. Inclusion. Not raging fires, live gun fire and burning the Pope."
"It wasn't even that," he added. "Bill and I, we walked through Belfast city on the afternoon of the eleventh. It must have been noon, no later than one in the afternoon. Quick as a heartbeat, the shops began shutting down; droves of people just started fleeing the city. There was a real sense of panic. We thought there was a bomb, but they just wanted to get well out of Belfast before the 'carnival' began. Within an hour, the whole city was deserted. I haven't seen anything like it before or since."
The bad old days of Northern Ireland lay like a crust over his mind. Even without Ruth getting on at him; although her having the bit between her teeth had not helped. But it was there. It had been there, in reality, since it happened. Popping out at him from around blind bends, or lurking unseen in the corner of his mind. He was just becoming less able to keep the trauma at bay: his defences were wearing thin, his resolve weakening.
Ros, as complex and acerbic as she always was, softened as she looked at him intently from across their table. At least she had chosen their spot well: a cubby set back from the main bar room, accessible only via a side door for discretion. Now, she probed his Achilles Heel with as much tenderness as she could muster.
"Harry, it sounds like Ruth has been a relentless nag over this issue," she began. "But why can't you talk about it? Not necessarily to me, or to Ruth. I mean in general. Why can't you just say: this happened to me and my friend?"
It was a pertinent question. Maybe it was a generational stiff upper-lip. Maybe it was just the abject horror of what unfolded on that August afternoon, so many years ago. He tried to articulate his feelings into words, but failed. There was no use trying to describe it, the range of his vocabulary – as broad as it was – still felt unequal to the task. But, he had to give Ros something.
"Bill wouldn't want me dwelling on what happened," he offered, quietly.
"He was your best friend, Harry. He wouldn't want you tearing yourself apart over it, either. He wouldn't want you living the rest of your life like it was some never ending penance, I'm sure," she replied. Before he could argue, she added: "and where is Ruth, anyway?"
He shrugged. "I don't know. I can't face her again today. Not after last night."
"You can always come round mine, if you're really stuck," she offered. "Lucas is there too, but he won't mind."
Spotting the exit, Harry ran towards it. "So, it's all back on for you two is it?"
She gave him one of her withering looks, normally reserved for those in petty officialdom. "Don't try and change the subject."
"I'm not!" he lied. "Anyway, thank you all the same: but I think I had better see her again. Even if it is only for round three of this weekend long row we've been having."
"That's the spirit," she replied. "You should probably go to that Truth and Reconciliation thing on Tuesday, too."
Harry sighed heavily, but before he could say anything his mobile rang. He rolled his eyes as he fished it out of his breast pocket. "That'll be her, no doubt," he grumbled. Then, he saw the caller display and his heart lifted skywards. "Oh! Catherine!"
Taking that as a cue for privacy, Ros quickly excused herself to go to the Ladies as Harry answered his daughter's call.
"Catherine, hi," he answered.
"Hi, Dad," she replied, cheerily.
From her tone, there was nothing wrong with Graham, so the reason for her call intrigued him all the more.
"I'm going to be in London for a while and was wondering if you wanted to meet up?"
"I'd love to," he replied, eagerly. "When? Where?"
There was a brief pause; it sounded like she was consulting with someone else. But he couldn't bring himself to care about that.
"Er, in about an hour maybe?"
A soon as that? He would have to make his excuses to Ros, but knew she would understand.
"Sure. Where are you? I'll meet you there."
"Well, I'm in Hyde Park at the moment. So, how about the Serpentine?"
"I'll see you there," he confirmed.
With this unexpected boost in his mood, he replaced his phone and drained the remainder of his pint. So much for never making an effort with his own children – this was something he would delight in telling Ruth later in the evening.
Catherine ended the call and turned to him with a smile on her face. "We have an hour to kill before Dad gets here."
"An hour!" Will was taken aback. "I thought it'd be next week, or something."
After years of getting nowhere, it seemed as if everything was happening at once. Too fast. His mouth ran dry and his nerves went into spasm. But Catherine maintained her composure perfectly.
"Come on," she urged, one hand extended towards him. "Walk with me. You need to relax."
He drew a deep, steadying breath. "I suppose I do."
His father wouldn't have been like this: a bag of nerves and inching towards free fall. Still, he did as she suggested, and followed her as she set off around the Diana memorial. An imperfect circle of water, ever flowing onwards but not really going anywhere expect its endless circle. It sounded familiar to him.
"To be totally honest with you, Will, I don't know him as well as I should," said Catherine as they fell into step with each other. "I can't say whether he'll talk to you or not. This could all be a waste of time."
Will raised a pained smile. "It's for my Dad; it's not a waste of time."
She looked almost abashed. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to sound-"
"I wasn't having a go, honestly," he quickly cut in, embarrassed that he'd given the wrong impression. "It's just, I think I know where you're coming from with this. But there's no pressure on you, or anything. It doesn't matter how this meeting goes; all I know is that I've got to try."
She looked up at him, her hazel eyes widening. "That's rather sweet, actually."
Will felt the colour rising in his face. "Not really, I just want the truth."
It was a beautiful day, with an early summer sun already providing ample heat. A few hardy souls were paddling in Diana's big circle of water and couples stretched out on the grass, soaking up the rays. But, they were both dressed in jeans and long-sleeved sweaters, in defiance of the weather. Eventually, they found a pleasant patch of grass away from the crowds and sat down.
"Thanks again for doing this," he said, once they were settled.
Catherine shrugged. "William, it was really nothing." They both fell silent as the reference registered with him. He almost cringed. "Sorry!" she added. "I bet people say that to you all the time?"
He nodded, vigorously. "Sure, but what difference does it make?"
"Quite a lot, I would imagine. I bet that joke isn't funny anymore," she replied, grinning.
He shook his head, sadly. "Heaven knows, I'm miserable now."
They both laughed as Catherine put her hands up. "No more, you win! Or I'll have to introduce you to my Dad as the boy with the thorn in his side!"
After a moment to compose themselves again, Will's fleeting moment of light-heartedness passed. He drew his knees up to his chest, almost defensively as he looked out over the park that surrounded them. Everywhere he looked, there were families out for the day: strolling, paddling and playing. Mums and Dads, even Grandparents out with several generations of relatives. For all his life, Will had had that hole in his life. A faceless, colourless void where his father should have been.
"You've turned all serious again," Catherine pointed out.
Her voice jolted him out of his reverie. "Just nerves."
He watched as she plucked a daisy from the ground and twirled it round her fingers. "Don't be," she said, at length. "Dad can be … tactless, at times. He's old school, you know. But underneath it all, he cares. He cares more deeply than he could ever let on. I guess he can't afford to let on."
He remembered everything Catherine's mother had told him only a few days previously. Ever since then, his foreboding at meeting Harry Pearce had grown, the more he dwelled on Ms Townsend's cautionary tales. Only when he thought of his father, the note and the truth, did his resolve strengthen again.
"I have no wish to impose on his life, or be a pain in the arse. It's just, my mam got this letter not long after she died. A letter inviting her to take part in some Truth and Reconciliation thing that's due to start on Tuesday. They wanted her to talk about her husband being murdered by the IRA. Obviously, she can't, but I can. But I'd prefer to hear it in private, instead of in front of an audience. Mr Pearce is the only link I have between the truth and my Dad."
Catherine listened, fixing her gaze on him as he talked. The daisy lay discarded at her feet now.
"Well, I'm going to stay with you," she assured him. "I won't intrude; I'll sit at another table or something. But I'll stay all the same."
They had all met that morning. It seemed strange. She seemed like someone he should have known all his life.
"Thank you," he replied, softly. At the back of his mind, he was aware of time ticking onwards. A countdown towards a reckoning, of some sort. "I appreciate not being alone, for once."
"No," she replied, getting to her feet. "I'm with you. Now come on, or we'll be late. And Dad doesn't know you're here."
"What!" Will retorted, horrified.
Catherine glanced over her shoulder. "Catch him off guard," she explained, breezily. "Sometimes, it's the only way you can get that man to talk at all."
They bypassed the gallery and headed straight for the Serpentine bar and kitchen. A single storey building with decorative columns lining the front patio. They found a spot outside, where they could take advantage of the fresh air and relative quiet, away from the music playing indoors. Now that they were in place, Will had to resist the urge to check his watch every five seconds. He sat hunched forwards in his seat, only running a hand through his tangled hair in an effort to look as if he was finally relaxing, but it did not work. Catherine caught his eye and informed him she was getting them both a strong drink to see them through the next hour or so. Will didn't argue.
When the shot of neat vodka came, he downed it in one.
"Feel better?" asked Catherine.
"A bit," he replied, tentatively.
Catherine smiled, nodding to someone just over Will's shoulder. "Good, because he's here."
With his heart in his throat, he whipped round in his seat, to where a middle aged man entered. Larger, his unruly mass of blonde curls were yesterday's news. But Harry Pearce was just about recognisable from the photo in his mother's room. From a distance of only a few yards, their gaze met. The smile of recognition on the older man's face solidifying into something else as his eyes fell on Will. The fear that a ghost was sitting there. He had seen it in the eyes of his father's relatives before. For a moment, he thought Pearce was about to turn and run. But he could see that the man still had his pride. And in that moment, all of Will's fear and trepidation left him. He had nothing to fear, nothing to explain. So he got to his feet and looked Harry Pearce in the eye, holding his gaze with growing confidence as he extended his hand. "Pleased to meet you, Sir Harry," he said.
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