Thank you to everyone who has read and reviewed this story: it means a lot. Thank you.
Chapter Eight: Black Saturday
They found a little bistro down one of London's numerous side streets. Small and squat, whitewashed with hanging baskets draped with dying snap dragons over the door. An old fashioned wooden sign swung on a rusting chain, bearing the name of the establishment and tempting in the tourists seeking a taste of Ye Olde Englande. Mullion windows looked out onto the street, obscuring the passers-by in a blur. It was beside one such window Catherine set her jacket over a chair, nabbing it before the backpack bearing, sock and sandal wearing American holiday makers could nab it from beneath their noses.
Once settled with their pot of tea, Will took in their surroundings with only a surface veneer of interest. Only when the waitress brought over their lunch did they finally settle into a proper talk, free from the threat of interruption. Between bites of ciabatta, he brought her up to speed with the reconciliation talks while skating over specific details her father had so far divulged. Catherine listened attentively and without interruption.
"Do you must miss him?" she asked, after he had fallen silent.
Ignoring his instinct to furnish her with the answer he thought she expected to hear, he replied honestly. "No, to be honest. You can't miss something you've never had. Even if it's your Dad."
As soon as the words tripped off his tongue, he could feel the colour rising in his face. Had he been a little too honest? He could never tell until it was too late and it always left him feeling like an unfeeling monster. But throughout his life, he had never known how to feel about his father. Sometimes, when people looked at him, he wondered if they expected to see a storm of grief in his eyes. But it had never been like that. It was something more subtle, something that wouldn't simply burn itself out in a flash of wailing and tears. There was just this yawning space in his life, a void that never went away; an empty slot in every memory and family photo. An absence of someone who was never really there.
"I'm sorry," Catherine replied, sounding abashed. "Stupid question, really."
"No," he was quick to assure her. "No, it wasn't. And I hope I don't sound like an arsehole for saying it. It's a bit like when one of your teeth falls out and there's just a hole there and it seems no matter what you do to distract yourself, you just can't stop poking at it." He trailed off, defeated by his own fumbling attempts at coming up with a fitting analogy. "It's hard to explain. It's just an absence. A permanent absence."
Catherine seemed to have temporarily forgotten her egg and chips, nudging side her plate so that there was little else between them. But still holding her fork, she gestured to the café at large. "You must have thought about him, though. When you were a kid, at least."
"All the time," he replied. "You know, I did that thing all kids like me do. You see the photos and memorise the face, and fill them out with a personality of your own invention. All fanciful bullshit, but normal six year old, hero worship stuff. I could make my Dad into anything I wanted him to be. I think you need that, when you're a child and you know you're never going to get to do the things all the other boys do with their Dads. But you get to a certain age when that fantasy loses its appeal and you need the truth."
He tailed off as the expression in Catherine's face changed. From mild interest, to a sudden and clear understanding.
"And of course, when you ask for that truth, there's nothing anyone can tell you because it's all so bloody secretive," she chipped in.
"Exactly!" he concurred. "Mum had the best of intentions, I'm sure. But I think she told me stuff just to shut me up, in the end."
Catherine raised a pained smile. "I did the same, when Dad left for good. But instead of constructing some superhero, I assumed he was up to no good. I thought he was like one of Stalin's NKVD secret police, silently picking off political dissidents and cultural subversives. I honestly thought he was judge, jury and executioner; rounding up people at will. Actually, I was afraid of him. Then fear turned to hate, until we met up again a few years ago."
She left it there, returning to the meal she had barely touched. Although his curiosity had been piqued, Will let the matter drop rather than risk opening a can of worms. All through his childhood imaginings, he had never once considered that he and his father would not get along.
"I'm glad things are better between you and Harry now, though," he said, lamely. "He seems okay to me."
"He is," she agreed, gulping down a hasty bite. Then she paused, gathering her thoughts. "On the contrary, he isn't anywhere near as bullish as he makes himself out to be. He really is quite … fragile. And what happened to your father was the beginning of that, at least as I understand it. It was something Mum always said. He just changed, after Bill was killed."
Listening to what she had to say about Harry brought a tremor of guilt rippling the surface of his feelings. It was the first realisation that wasn't just him on this all-consuming quest for the truth.
"Do you think I'm making it worse by going ahead with this?" he asked.
"Perhaps," she replied. "But in the long run, it could just be the very thing that finally heals him." There, she paused again, her gaze meeting his across the small table. "It could even heal you both."
Once she was assured that Nathan's Dad could find his own way back to the Guildhall, Ruth hailed a taxi and headed to Thames House. Lunch consisted of a shop bought, pre-packaged sandwich with yellowish mush inside, which she deposited by her computer and quickly forgot about. She waved a brief hello to Lucas, who was the last man standing on the Grid as the others had all vanished for a lunch break, then accessed the national database.
Without hesitating, she typed in the name of the man she was looking for: Brendan LcLoan. Just as his details appeared on the screen, so too did Lucas. The Senior Case Officer loomed over her computer, casting a long shadow under the overhead strip lights. Inwardly, she cursed his uncharacteristic need for small talk.
"Harry not with you?" he asked.
She forced a smile. "No. He's still at the Guildhall."
Hoping he would go away, she returned to McLoan's file. But, the shadow didn't so much as waver.
"Need a hand with anything?"
Ruth suppressed a sigh. "No thanks."
Finally, her force-field of frostiness took effect and Lucas pushed himself away from her station with a grumbled: "please yourself". Suddenly, as always, she felt guilty and heaved a sigh of resignation.
"Actually," she said, forcing herself to brighten up. "There might just be something."
Clearly not in the mood to hold a grudge, Lucas whipped back round looking hopeful. "Is it about Harry's Irish issues?" he asked, pulling up a chair beside her. "If there's anything Ros or I can do, you know we'd be happy to."
"I think this is something Harry must do himself," she said, turning the screen towards him. "This man, Brendan McLoan. He's still alive, according to this file. He used to be an Asset but was burned after Bill Crombie's murder. I need all the information you can find on him. Try to find out whether he was involved in the bombing of La Mon hotel. Find out what he's been up to since 1978, and what he's doing and where he is now. Bring in Ros as well, but don't breathe a word to anyone else."
Lucas was as taut as a bowstring beside her. His brow darkening into a frown as he studied the man's image on the screen in front of him. "La Mon Hotel," he repeated, sounding distant. "That was the fireball wasn't it?"
"It was a device made from a substance close to napalm," she confirmed. "Two of the bombers were feeding Five information from within, so they were protected from prosecution even if they were caught. But I have a feeling this guy was also involved heavily with Crombie's murder, which happened about four months later. It's just something Harry was saying at the reconciliation talks. There's more coming, and I want to be prepared for it."
She was being deliberately vague. Even she didn't want to fully acknowledge the thoughts in her head. But she knew Lucas was sharp enough to pick up on where she was blindly leading herself. He gave a brief nod.
"I take we're not actually going to be doing anything with the file we compile," he said. "You just want us to get what we can?"
"Yes. Then it's up to Harry," she clarified. "And, thanks Lucas."
She got up again, ready to return to the Guildhall for the afternoon session before Harry could start to wonder where she had got to.
He was waiting outside for her, along with Catherine, Will and Nathan himself. A whole group of them standing in a pool of broad afternoon sunshine, chatting casually to one another. Will was standing apart like a pariah as he rushed a last minute cigarette before heading back inside. She greeted him with a smile before joining Harry, who she kissed on the cheek by way of a hello. Harry broke off the conversation he was having with his daughter, turning to her with a faint smile on his face.
"I wondered where you got to," he said. "Fraser senior made it back twenty minutes ago."
Ruth shrugged. "I left my purse back at the house, like an idiot, so I had to run back and get it. Sorry for abandoning you like that."
If he detected the lie, he didn't let on. All Harry did was turn to say goodbye to Nathan and kiss Catherine, before leading the way back indoors. Ruth gripped his hand as they went, Will following close behind. Back through the main Hall, beyond the side doors and returning to the same room they were in before. Ruth eased the door closed behind them, muffling out the sounds of the distant hall, sealing them inside once more.
There were no curtains in the apartment and Harry had been sitting in the sun for too long. His fair skin turned pink and tender, but still he didn't move. Looking through the eye of the telescope he scanned the streets far below, watching as the parade set off from the Shankill Road. A vast procession, snaking through the narrow streets, a hundred banners fluttering bright orange against the blue skies. Even up there, with the window open, he could hear the frenzied pounding of the Lambeg drums and the tuneless buzz of scores of pipers, all marching behind the men in black sashes and bowler hats, orange lilies wilting in the heat.
"They're not Orangemen," he stated, half-heartedly. "They're wearing black."
Bill was tinkering with the equipment, but paused as he glanced over to where Harry was still watching the procession.
"They are," he replied. "They're like the highest order of Orangemen, so they get special sashes to wear. It's Black Saturday."
"Oh." Harry could no longer pretend to give a fuck. "They're all barking mad," he concluded, stepping away from the telescope.
The sound of the drums seemed to follow him as he crossed the room and sat back down. An endless beat pounding across the city, an army marching to war and itching for the fight. Today of all days, they would get it soon enough. He looked at the clock on the wall, the minute hand counting down the hour when the meeting in the Felon's Club was due to begin, while Bill concluded his last minute checks. They were both tense. Proceedings conducted in silence, expect when they made desperate and clamorous attempts to break the tension with inane small talk.
"King William of Orange was probably gay," said Harry. "Do you think anyone's told them?"
Bill paused, eyebrow raised and a half-smile curling the corner of his mouth. "Do you want to be the one to tell them?"
"I'll leave that to you; you're the diplomatic one: you can break it to them gently."
To pass the last few minutes before the meeting began, Harry retrieved his gun and stripped it down. He had no real notion of why, seeing as he lacked cleaning materials. But he stripped it and reassembled it all the same, slotting the magazine carefully back into place and dusting off the business end with an old rag. Meanwhile, the static on the line cleared to a silence as they reached the frequency of the devices inside the club. Again, Harry's line of sight rose to the clock on the wall where it hang over a patch of peeling wall paper. Holding his breath, he counted down the seconds until three pm, when the meeting began sharp.
The signal came after what seemed an eternity. Bill nudged him and passed over a set of headphones.
"We're on," he said, quietly.
Harry reached across the table and nudged the record button, watching the little red light glimmer dully as voices sounded from up the road, inside the Felon's Club. They began, helpfully, with a roll call of who was present, and from which brigade of the IRA they represented – all twelve of them. Harry met Bill's gaze, both of them smirking like the cats that finally got the cream.
Patrick McCann, from the West Belfast brigade. Sean Mallon, from the South Armagh brigade. Brendan McLoan from the North Belfast brigade…. That last name brought them both up sharp.
"I thought he was just some foot soldier," Harry whispered, pushing back the headphones.
Bill's brow had darkened into a frown, but otherwise remained perfectly composed. "I didn't know he was on the Army Council, either," he replied, equally quietly. "I wonder what else he isn't telling us?"
Whatever the case with McLoan, there was nothing they could do about it until they saw him again. But the discrepancy played on Harry's mind. Only a week ago he had told them he could not supply the names of everyone on the Army Council, now they discover he's on that self-same council. As ever, Bill focused on the positive.
"Think of it this way, if he is a permanent member of the Army Council, just imagine all the valuable intel he can give us now."
Harry shrugged and resumed listening in to the meeting. It was impossible to tell who was talking, but that could be deciphered later by voice analysis experts. What they were saying was of far more interest to them. Background noise was minimal, for a meeting of twelve men. Occasionally, a door opened and closed. Muffled sounds of papers being shuffled, or the click of a lighter as a cigarette was lit. Over it all, one voice was dominant. After greeting everyone in Irish, the meeting continued in English:
"Ever since La Mon, our comrades have been spat at in the streets," the unknown voice was saying. "We cannot allow that to happen again. From now on, our targets are strictly commercial and political. So here is what I propose: the Callaghan government will fall and he will be forced to call a General Election. The only reason he's stalling is because he knows he will lose and we'll be stuck with the Tories-"
"Aye, but your woman-" someone interjected, but found himself cut off again.
"Aye, but your woman must not be underestimated," voice one stated, firmly. "Just because Thatcher is female doesn't automatically mean she'll be a soft-hearted pushover."
"I didn't think you'd need that spelling out to you with a missus like yours, Paddy," a third voice laughed.
"Jesus, Sean, would you fuck up already," the first interrupter shot back.
"Is Maggie Thatcher really a woman? I reckon she's got her bollocks in that handbag of hers," someone else butted in, but went ignored. Across from Harry, Bill couldn't help but smirk at the wisecrack.
"Okay, okay let's get back to the point here: we have an incoming British Prime Minister. What of it?"
There was silence in the meeting room. Harry and Bill both leaned forwards, towards the reel to reel, as if there was something they were missing. All the while, the distant drums continued their thunderous progress through the streets below. A jarring, pulsating buzz.
"Do you hear that?" the first voice asked, quizzically.
The question was met with silence. Even Harry and Bill paused, looking over at each other in wonder.
"What?" said the third voice, rather perplexed.
There was another long pause, during which Harry could not even guess at what was happening inside that meeting room. The tension swelled as the silence dragged itself out interminably. Bill shifted uncomfortably in his seat, holding Harry's gaze as both their minds raced ahead, second guessing what was going on. Then, the first voice spoke again:
"I think I can hear two rats from MI5 gnawing on our wires from the top of Divis Flats!" he laughed.
Harry instinctively pushed himself against the back wall, his heart jumping out of his chest cavity and into his throat. Bill had frozen, halfway between pulling off the headphones when the second voice picked up the thread of the first:
"Oh really?" he asked, casually. "I thought there was a bad smell in here."
"Don't worry, they're not quite as alone as they think they are..."
Harry was starting to wonder whether Bill was even registering what was going on. He looked over at his friend in desperation.
"Bill," Harry said, his mouth dry. "They fucking know we're here."
"Aye, we know you're there boys," the first voice chimed in, almost as if in response to him. "Don't worry, you won't be all alone up there for long-"
They both pulled the plug on the equipment, throwing the headsets to the ground. But Harry knew it was too little too late. His stomach churned painfully as he struggled to regain control of his own thoughts. But already, Bill had swung into action. He picked up his gun and checked the ammunition.
"They'll have had us surrounded long before that meeting started," he said, his voice barely registering a tremor of alarm. "They're probably already in here, penetrating every floor and cutting off every exit."
Harry was barely capable of taking it in. "What?" he snapped. "What do you mean? We must have a way out."
His hands trembled as he picked up his own gun, from where it was left on top of a chest of drawers. Still the drums pounded in his head, the procession drawing closer. A vast parade that was now blocking all roads to West Belfast. Their back up team was standing guard over a weapons dump in Co Tyrone, over eighty miles west of the city. They were hemmed in with the IRA closing ranks around the Divis Flats, cornered like rabbits in a slowly tightening snare. Harry could almost feel his throat constricting as the shadow of the enemy darkened every escape route.
But Bill drew a deep breath and slipped the safety catch off his gun. "Harry," he said, firmly. "Harry, stay with me. Understand? Stay with me no matter what. We can get out of this."
Harry's stomach went into a painful spasm, but he managed a jerky nod of the head all the same.
Thank you again for reading! Reviews would be lovely, if you have a minute to spare.