Thank you to everyone who has read this story, especially those who have taken time to review. Thank you.
In the interests of keeping fact from fiction: La Mon Hotel really did happen and the bomb really was made from a substance close to napalm. It's commonly believed that two of the bombers were Crown informants and thus protected from prosecution.
Chapter Seven: Dancing with the Devil
Long, sultry summer days slipped by in a haze of heat and second hand cigarette smoke. Endless minutes bleeding into eternal hours of torpor atop the high rise. They crouched around the recorder, ears pressed to the speakers waiting and waiting for someone to speak. Even an IRA man calling his granny would have been something, if only to break the monotony of radio silence. Harry tapped a biro against the table top, beating out a grating tattoo that only ended when Bill near crushed his hand as though swatting a fly to make it stop.
Every evening they hauled themselves out of their semi-comas to meet with Brendan McLoan. Down by the docks under the cover of darkness, they waited some more. Belfast's shipbuilding empire had long succumbed to the advances of air travel and the Harland and Wolff cranes loured over the city as nothing more than a monument to dead industry. Nearby, the rope weavers and linen mills lay dark and dormant. Obsolete machinery, abandoned and rusting, unloved and unmissed in the endlessly decaying economy. In its place there came no new schemes, no investments or new opportunities. In its place, came only this monstrous conflict; filling the economic black hole with blood and bodies. A war fought out on the doorsteps of the battered populace, amidst the relicts of a by-gone age. It wasn't even a by-gone age worth fighting for, so thought Harry.
Brendan came and went. Imparting information about movements of IRA battalions across the Armagh countryside. Things had been quiet since La Mon, in February of that year, when a bomb full of napalm had torn through a hotel full of holidaying diners. An atrocity that seemed to have shamed even the most ardent of Republicans into a period of self-reflection. As such, the IRA's campaign seemed to have wound down. But no one, least of all Special Branch and MI5, were so naïve as to believe it would last for long.
"They should sue for peace now," Bill said, during another wait for Brendan. "While the bastards aren't actually up to much."
It was true they had gathered no real intel during their long bouts of listening in to the Felon's Club. But that didn't mean the IRA weren't up to anything. They were just hiding away in shame.
"I believe they tried all that about eighteen months ago," replied Harry, drolly. "The Sunningdale Agreement ring any bells?"
Bill groaned. Even now, the pair of them could hear the ghostly echoes of Ian Paisley's voice, reverberating across the misty grounds of Stormont, crushing that fledgling peace. "Never … never … never …" Never what? Never make peace? Never give up? Just keep fighting an endless conflict that never, never, never ends? The answer to that question lay all around them: the dead mangled in the bombed out shops; the running gun battles shattering the night and the British Soldiers marching down narrow terraced streets in block formation. There was the answer they sought; the grim reality in which they operated.
Back at the Divis Tower, they once more sat around the speakers listening to the unpunctuated hiss. Bill lit another cigarette, flicking a zippo open, sending the brief scent of petrol cutting through the fragrant summer air. Harry winced against the acrid smoke, narrowing his eyes as he squinted through the plume.
"Brendan wasn't involved in La Mon, was he?" he asked. Not that either of them were in Belfast when La Mon happened.
Bill shrugged. "Buggered if I know." After a brief pause, he smirked as he sucked on his cigarette again and added: "Which spares me a rather undignified end to a lovely day."
"Bill, I'm being serious," Harry said, insistently. "Do you think he could be one of the agents in question?"
After another draw on the cigarette, Bill turned thoughtful. "With all these phantom agents floating around, we can't even be sure those boys were informants. But Brendan's been working with us for years now. Practically since the conflict began. He's provided good intel and that's really all that matters." He paused again, regarding Harry carefully, his dark grey eyes narrowed. "No one likes dancing with the devil, Harry. But you have to if you want to find out how he moves and really get one over him."
Harry knew that. But thinking about it logically from a cold distance was a long way from joining hands with them and taking a waltz around the arena. He could see the sense in it, he just couldn't stomach the aftertaste. Further questioning was cut off by the crackle of the speakers. Rushing to grab their headsets, they pressed them close to their ears and Bill hastily docked the cigarette inside a half-drunk cup of coffee. A habit that set Harry's teeth on edge even more than smoking itself.
Will was listening with rapt attention, focused only on Harry as he talked. There were only two other people in the room with them, but even if the entire England team had been there, he wouldn't have noticed. However, he occasionally glanced sidelong to look at the notes their intermediary was taking, noting that his father's name only ever appeared as "Soldier A". It seemed that not even death could strip him of his secret vows and restore a personality where only shadows seemed to exist.
Eventually, when Harry stopped talking and the first part of a long story reached its natural conclusion, he took a moment to gather his thoughts.
"My Dad knew the risks, didn't he?" he asked, at length. "I mean, he said it himself: you've got to dance with the devil."
Harry looked rather surprised at the question. "He knew. We all knew. They told you that – and they tell you that still – when you first join the service."
Finding his mouth to be unpleasantly dry, Will reached for the water jug and poured himself a fresh glass and offering the same to Harry. Someone had decided to add slices of lemon to it, the pale flesh now soggy and bloated drifted limply to the surface like a dead goldfish. It made him wrinkle his nose.
"But, it was this guy Brendan who sold my Dad out, wasn't it?" he asked, cutting to the chase. "That's where you're leading me, isn't it?"
At the edge of their table, Valentina sat rigid in her chair, glancing at him from over the rim of her spectacles the way his old school teacher used to.
"Mr Crombie, we really do advise to let the participants tell their own stories in their own time," she explained, gently.
Still, he picked up a note of cautious rebuke in her tone that made him blush. "Sorry, Sir Harry, I didn't mean-"
"It's quite all right," Harry cut over him, waving down his apologies. "But we'll get there. I promise."
Will leaned back in his seat, casting a glance over his shoulder to where Ruth was still sitting by the side. She was looking over at them both, attentive but unobtrusive. The expression on her pale face was one of only mild interest, but the spark in her clear blue eyes gave her away. She was analysing and storing every snippet of information her husband revealed. Silently assessing; forming conclusions known only to herself. It was almost disconcerting, until he quickly screened her out again by returning his attention to Sir Harry.
Given the nature of the job, Will considered his questions carefully. Could Harry reveal this? That? The other? Was anything that happened over thirty years ago even still a secret? He wouldn't know at all unless he asked, and this was his one chance. But almost as if for reassurance, he glanced over at Valentina the Intermediary before proceeding.
"You were saying that once you were back at the Divis Flats, you and my Dad were talking when you suddenly got a signal," he said, framing the question into some form of context. "I don't suppose you can say what you heard?"
To his mild surprise, Harry nodded as he sipped at his water. "I don't see why not," he said. "This is going to be sealed, after all. We're all bound under secrecy laws. But all that call was, was a phone call to another Brigade leader, somewhere in Mid Ulster. Tyrone, I think. It's all farms and sheep down that way. But it's where the IRA like to hide weapons caches … and bodies. But on that occasion, we overheard coordinates for the location of an arms dump."
"You were able to check it out?"
Will realised he was only asking out of curiosity, but he had never had a window opened onto his father's job before. He fully intended on throwing himself through it. But Harry's darkening expression curtailed his excitement.
"The thing is, if you act on the intelligence you have, it can give the game away," he explained. "If we went stampeding down there to neutralise the arms dump, they'd know we had a source. Now, let's hypothesise that that phone call was the only time the dump was mentioned: that would mean the intel either leaked from the person on the phone, or it came from a bug in the phone. They would take the phone apart first, before killing the man on an assumption and we would be found out. The 1970s was not quite the age of micro technology and bugs were as big as your fist."
"So … you just sat on the information and did nothing?" Will asked, dubiously. "What was the point?"
The older man's expression darkened again. Will could see he had hit another snag.
"We didn't do that, either. We sent a backup team to carry out round the clock surveillance on the area; it was standard procedure at that time: get the people using the weapons, rather than just the weapons themselves. As it happens, that was another spring in the trap they were setting for us."
Will did not respond immediately. He just felt a familiar coldness closing over him. A metal band constricting his chest as he tried to imagine what happened in those last few hours of his father's life. Despite the drop in temperature, he tried to raise a smile and bring some levity to the situation.
"I always thought of him as charging into danger zones and taking out the bad guys at the last minute," he said, sounding distant as he recalled fanciful notions prevalent in his childhood. "You know, rather like Call of Duty only with real bullets. It seems more like a game of chess: moving pieces into just the right place, at just the right time, for the ultimate checkmate."
A smile twitched at the corners of Harry's mouth. "We do make rather good chess players. At least until the unknown enemy suddenly turns the board on us when we're not looking."
Finally, Will could feel pieces of the story slotting into place. A picture was beginning to form out of the haze of confusion created by what others had told him. But, it was also at that point that the morning session was called to an end for lunch. He, Harry and Ruth all rose to their feet together, heading silently for the door. Back out in the main body of the Guildhall, Will began to lag back, giving Harry and Ruth time together without getting in the way. Now was not the time to play gooseberry and he needed time to collect his own thoughts.
It was surprisingly empty, back in the main hall. Just one man was sat in the benches, talking to another – much younger – man. Father and son, by the looks of it. Will glanced over them both, picking up soft Welsh accents but not the words as they murmured to one another. He passed them by with a brief nod of recognition as he headed for the double door exit, for fresh air and a quick smoke before finding something to eat. Outside, the sun was still shining and life in the city continued relentlessly. There was a woman sitting on the steps outside, her back towards him. Only as he went to pass her by did she look up, a smile of recognition on her face.
"Hey," she said, pushing a loose strand of blonde hair from her face. "How did it go?"
It was Catherine; Will was so lost in his own thoughts he almost failed to recognise her. He mustered a half-hearted shrug.
"As well as can be expected," he replied. "Your Dad's still inside with your …" he trailed off briefly, wondering whether 'step-mother' was the right word to describe Ruth. He decided it probably wasn't. "With his wife."
"Oh, Ruth," she replied, blankly. "Well, better leave them to it. Fancy some lunch?"
A natural smile came easily. "Sure!"
He picked up his pace and lifted his spirits out of his shoes as they set off towards the bustling crowds of humanity.
"Are you not hungry?" Ruth sounded concerned.
They rounded the corner and re-entered the main hall after losing track of where they were meant to be going.
"Not really," he answered, honestly. "You go ahead and get something, I'll wait here."
For once, she opted not to press the issue and left him where he stood. He watched her leaving via the main entrance, but not before stopping to talk to someone he could not see. Curiously, he peered round the edge of the door, to where Nathan Frazer was sat in the middle bench beside a considerably older man. An older man who extended a hand towards Ruth, who shook it keenly before pointing the way outside. Oddly, they left together, leaving Nathan alone.
It was enough for Harry to have his own problems momentarily shifted aside, which he seized on willingly. Walking up the aisle, he caught his newest Junior Case Officer's eye.
"Hullo there," Nathan greeted him. "You missed Ruth."
"I know," Harry informed him, sliding in next to him on the bench. If they looked ahead, stained glass windows dazzled them with bright light of a hundred different hues. "Who was that she left with?"
"Oh, that's just my Dad," he replied, quickly. "He's not often in London and she's just taking him somewhere he can get some lunch."
Harry turned from the windows, looking directly at Nathan and trying to gage his mood. The lights of the windows were reflected in his eyes, making them almost iridescent in their blueness. Although not exactly famed for his over-bright joy in life, at that moment Nathan looked particularly morose even by his own standards. Harry hated to intrude, but nor could he very well walk off and leave. So he asked the question that was playing on his mind.
"I thought you did not get on with your father?"
"I don't," he answered. "I didn't."
"I'd forgotten he was a military man," said Harry, diverting away from the more personal. "Still, I didn't realise he would be here today."
Finally, Nathan returned his look.
"Sorry, should I have mentioned it? I didn't know I'd be coming here as well until I decided to just show up."
He was worried he had done something wrong again. Harry was quick to assure him: "It's fine. Anyway, I'm Soldier B, my friend is Soldier A. What Soldier is he?"
Nathan raised a half-smile. "Soldier D, I believe. They're not very imaginative when it comes to pseuds, are they? We could have come up with better than that back at the Grid."
Harry managed a brief laugh. But, he had to admit he had grown rather fond of being just a letter. It stripped away who he was and people's expectations of him. It freed him up to speak openly, without feeling like he had a name to live up to. Names brought with them reputations – especially his. Here, he was simply Soldier B. A moniker over which the eye glazed; it drew no attention to itself. There was no backstory, other than that which he told. There were no facts and figures to remember. It was an empty name into which he could pour all his darkest thoughts and deeds, then bury it and never have to look at it again. After that, he could slip back into the skin of Harry Pearce. He hoped Soldier B could take a battering, because the best was yet to come.
Returning to Nathan, he managed to gather a few of his old small talk skills.
"Where did they go?"
"I've no idea," replied Nathan. "Anywhere, gets Dad out of my hair."
"I had much the same thought about Ruth," said Harry. If he was entirely honest, he felt a little guilty for bringing her along when he should have been having this conversation with Will in private. It was personal, not for general consumption. But still, he needed her. "Do you think you might regret coming here?"
Nathan met his gaze, but remained quiet for some time. Despite exuding an air all-pervading pessimism that Harry could almost reach out and touch, he looked thoughtful. As though something was actually being worked towards. He hadn't come here as an exercise in futility.
"The thing is," Nathan finally answered. "You can't really go through life with all this bad blood. It'll just destroy you. Then the old man will drop off his perch one day, and I'll be left wondering if I could have fixed things. If you don't try, it only makes things worse and enough's happened already, I think." He paused, looking away again and laughed a dry laugh. "It's like that bit in One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest, isn't it? When he's trying to wrench that sink out of the wall with his bare hands, but it's too heavy: 'Hell, I tried!' Well, I've got to try."
Harry let his gaze wander back up to the windows of the Guildhall once more. Try. It was all he could do now. After a moment's quiet reflection, he rose to his feet but before leaving, he looked down at Nathan once more.
"Give your father a chance," he advised. "He might just not be that bully you remember after all."
Nathan looked sceptically back up at him. "Like I said: I'll try."
There was no regret more acute than the regret of something you hadn't done. Harry drew a deep breath and bid Nathan farewell, returning to the inner sanctum of the Guildhall to wait for Ruth and Will to return. While he waited, he thought through the events leading up to Bill's death once more: times and sequences. After so many years, it was a struggle slotting everything into the right place. To keep it coherent. But, he had to at least try.
Thanks again for reading and a review would be lovely, if you have a minute.
Apologies for the late update, as well. RL has been hectic busy this last week.