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While her husband prepared to murder a young man he had never met, Bridget O’Neill was completing her arrangements for Christmas with her in-laws.

She worried over the mince pies in the oven, her offering for the festive meal. Her mother-in-law was a forceful woman and defensive of her territory. In principle Bridget’s mince pies were acceptable. Always sweet shortcrust, never flaky pastry, and packed full of the mincemeat she made herself. It had become something of a tradition, almost inadvertently, as Bridget down the years had sought to find something that wouldn’t provoke sharp looks and sarcasm.

Marie O’Neill would make herself a martyr in the kitchen throughout Christmas Eve, sighing audibly and increasing the volume if those in the front room showed no signs of having heard her, emerging every so often with a red face and strands of grey hair plastered to her forehead. The O’Neills would take their meal that evening, leaving the next day free for celebration.

For all this, unlike Bridget, Marie O’Neill was not domesticated. She had grown up among the privations of the Second World War and lived through troubled times since, as an activist both when single and after she was married. The O’Neills were a staunch family and Marie was a hard woman. She’d demonstrated not the slightest interest in the fact that Bridget had not provided her with a grandchild. She’d lost her eldest son to the dark forces of the English, shot down three years earlier in an SAS ambush in County Tyrone, but had shown, in Bridget’s presence at least, not a flicker of acknowledgement, let alone emotion. She was a tough woman, to be sure, and flintily vigilant.

Glancing anxiously at the oven every so often, Bridget banked up the fire for the night. She had packed earlier in the day and the next morning would walk to the village to take a bus to Dundalk. It would mean getting up at five thirty. Francis would not tolerate her being late at the meeting point. But this hardly mattered since Bridget rarely slept well and at that hour was often nursing a cup of tea in the kitchen.

Finally she opened the oven door. They looked all right. Shortcrust would never have that golden-brown sheen but there was consolation in its crumbly, buttery texture. The tops had swelled plumply but there was no messy brown ooze down their sides. She would give them a few minutes to cool, then wrap them in baking parchment and put them in a Tupperware box. Not ideal – they could have done with longer out of the oven – but needs must. It was late and there would be no time in the morning.

Schmaltzy Christmas songs blared on the radio as they neared the outskirts of Calais, interspersed with the peculiarly French rapid-fire enthusiasm of the presenters. The talk was all of Germany’s first Christmas as a single country since the war. Later there might be something different to report.

He was a good driver, John Boy. He’d see them right. Cautious. He kept a safe distance between their car and the red tail lights in front, despite drivers, in a hurry even at this early hour, accelerating past them and cutting in, taking their space. Patiently, John Boy slowed each time to create the gap again. The process repeated itself but John Boy remained unperturbed, attention on the road. At home, he was a driving instructor and the New Year would see him back in the passenger seat being similarly patient with young learners crashing the gears of his Austin Maestro.

Germany had produced no surprises. They’d driven around the Rheindahlen army base unhindered in the car they stole in Essen. Another of John Boy’s skills. Brian was handy to have on board as well. With a German mother, he was bilingual. They let him do the talking. He had nerve too. Even though this was his first foray in earnest, he’d been calm. Francis hadn’t needed to nurse him through as much as he’d anticipated.

They’d drawn up plans of the base which they had then carefully transcribed on to graph paper with different headings. The officers’ mess became the engineering building, the parade square the muster area, and so on. It all squared with the legend they’d built for themselves, backed up by a chartered surveyor’s office in Dublin. It was so close to Christmas that to check their story would be impossible anyway. The office would be closed today, Christmas Eve. But it was good practice.

Brian’s linguistic skills, and his boyish charm, had found them a small house in the Taunus that could be rented informally as and when they needed it. No forms to fill in; cash in hand. Quite an achievement, Brian said, because in Germany people tended to bow to bureaucracy. He found the place in the small ads of a local Frankfurt paper. The owner had inherited it on the death of his father and was concerned about tax. They agreed that Brian would give him a call in the New Year when their plans for bird-watching had advanced. The distance from the main area of British bases was good. It allowed them to lay off and relax, while the autobahn system enabled them to be on target swiftly.

They’d dumped the German Opel in Nijmegen and immediately found a large, anonymous Ford that would suit their purposes. Now they approached the port.

It was four forty and still pitch black. Perfect, thought Francis. The eager beavers wanting to get home early. They approached the holding area before embarkation and John Boy reversed effortlessly into a space on the distant side of the car park, near the entrance. Cars had begun to gather, not too many. As the car stilled and the engine ticked away its warmth, Francis felt the tension rise inside. Which of them could fail to sense it? They looked intently in different directions, as if searching for meaning rather than for threat and safety in the gloom of their small corner of France. Francis wound down his window and looked across the wet tarmac. Floodlights illuminated the main drag near the booths that would soon open for the six-thirty ferry. In the distance trucks accelerated on to the ship.

Closer by, he heard English voices. People from three cars had congregated and a hot flask was being shared. The children were excited, tracing small circles and figures of eight around the cars and the adults. ‘Careful of the traffic,’ shouted one of the dads. But there was little danger. There were perhaps nine cars in this vast space, including the one in which Francis, John Boy and Brian sat.

A small Nissan drove in and parked separately from the other vehicles. Like them, it was right-hand drive and it bore the distinctive pattern of registration plate for which they were looking. Three letters, two numbers, then B. British Forces Germany.

The driver emerged and stretched his arms. His wife got out of the other side, tipped her seat forward and with some difficulty lifted a baby from the rear, swaddled against the cold in a bright blue padded polyester suit. Maybe a year old, thought Francis. The man helped a little girl out from his side. She was fractious. ‘Daddy, I’m hungry,’ she said plaintively. She might be four years old.

Brian exhaled loudly in the back.

Francis turned to him. ‘You OK?’ he said.

‘Yeah,’ replied Brian quietly, eyes alight, body tense.

Francis looked at John Boy and nodded. John Boy started the engine and it murmured quietly. Simultaneously Francis and Brian climbed out of the car and pushed their doors to with quiet clicks. They looked ahead. No one had noticed them, it seemed. They nodded to each other again before pulling the balaclava masks over their faces.

They walked slowly, Brian one pace behind Francis, calmly approaching the family by the Nissan. Francis focused on them; it was Brian’s job to scan the horizon and alert him to any trouble. He could see that the young serviceman was of Asian descent. It made no difference to Francis.

The little girl noticed him first. She looked up with large brown eyes. Francis found himself smiling reassuringly, even though his mouth was hidden by the mask. He had the gun in his hand and sensed Brian turning behind him as they had practised, protecting his back.

There was no drama. He walked smartly up to the young soldier, palming the little girl away brusquely with his free hand, and before the man could react placed the barrel against his temple. He pulled the trigger and there was the customary somewhat disappointing pop. It was always the same outside. Indoors was different. He felt the force though, sure enough, recoiling through his tense hand, rippling instantaneously up his straightened arm and into his shoulder and neck, flaring his brain and making his eyes blaze with a kind of exhilaration. There was the normal explosion of matter and blood from the opposite side of the man’s head and he crumpled. Gone.

Francis looked at the woman holding the baby. Her mouth was open and her eyes stared and he noticed her dirty-blonde hair. He shrugged, more to convey helplessness than indifference.

A commotion had begun near the other cars and men were running towards them. But the Ford was already there and Francis and Brian climbed in calmly. John Boy pulled away quickly but smoothly. Francis saw by the car clock that it was between four fifty-five and five a.m.

They had earlier reconnoitred the route to the motorway. They were heading south-east on the A26 within four minutes.

Brian was repeating, ‘Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck.’ It was beginning to get annoying.

‘You all right, Bri?’ said Francis.

‘Fuck,’ was the reply.

John Boy glanced in the mirror but said nothing. He continued to drive calmly, his attention fully on the road.

‘First time is always the worst,’ said Francis. ‘Need to keep our heads now.’

‘I didn’t expect it to be like that. Fuck.’

‘No one ever does. It’s a shock. You’ll get over it. We need to keep to the plan now. You all right with that?’

‘Suppose so,’ said Brian.

‘Well, if you’re not, say so now.’ Francis and John Boy hoped not to have to deal with such complexities.

‘I am, Francis,’ he said.

‘Good. Don’t worry. It’s normal. No one’s going to give you a hard time.’

They drove for two hours, barely speaking, listening to the radio. It did not hit the news until they were approaching the Villepinte rapid transit station. As they got out of the car, Francis and John Boy pulled off their boiler suits and boots and placed them discreetly in the suitcase that lay on the back seat and already held their balaclavas, weapons and gloves. They put on their shoes. Brian watched for anyone showing an interest in their activities.

Francis straightened his tie and combed his hair. He checked his pockets for passport, wallet and ticket. With a nod, he said goodbye to Brian and went into the station with John Boy. Brian would take the car back to the remote clearing near Eindhoven they’d selected for the purpose, douse the interior with petrol from the jerrycan in the rear footwell and torch it. He would then walk the two miles or so to the nearest station, in time to catch the eleven o’clock train to Düsseldorf, giving himself ample time for the connection to Stuttgart. He would spend Christmas with his maternal grandparents at their farm, where he would burn the boiler suits and gloves and hide the two handguns.

Francis and John Boy strolled into the station and bought tickets to Charles de Gaulle airport from the machine. Brussels would have been quicker, marginally, from Calais but it was smaller and fewer flights went to Ireland. At the airport they waited quietly in the queue and checked in for the eight forty-five Aer Lingus flight to Dublin as Michael Brennan, chartered surveyor, and his colleague Patrick O’Leary. They noticed no special security measures at the airport.

They were met at Dublin airport by a driver. Travelling north, they turned off the motorway to go into the centre of Dundalk, where Bridget O’Neill waited patiently for her husband with their luggage. John Boy alighted, she climbed into the car with Francis and they sped on to Belfast. They were to spend Christmas with Francis’s parents in the small terraced house off the Falls Road in which he had grown up. They arrived by eleven thirty and Francis had time for a cup of tea with his old ma before he strolled up to Finnegan’s Bar, greeting his parents’ neighbours as he went. In the bar he was on his loudest and best form, buying pints for people he’d not seen in years. He made sure his presence would be noted by the inevitable touts hanging around. No doubt he would be buying one or two of them a beer.

Christmas here was unlike anything she had experienced at home. Home, that elastic concept. She supposed home was where they had lived for the past eight years, that cold and never completely dry cottage outside the village, set among the green of the border counties. It was considered bandit country, but as her husband was one of the key bandits she knew she should feel fortunate. However, home for her – as, she imagined, for many women of her age who had not found relative contentment and peace upon leaving – remained her parents’ house, even though there too she had at times felt imprisoned.

When she was a child, her mother would prepare the Christmas lunch while her father sat in his chair impassively watching the television: extravagantly sweatered celebrities visiting sundry children’s hospitals, and reruns of cartoons. Bridget and her sister would be allowed to open their presents, fold the wrapping paper and dispose of it, then help their mother peel the vegetables. At eleven thirty her father would go to the village pub, long since closed now, and she would wait with her mother and sister for her maternal grandparents to arrive from the other side of the village, he with a twinkle in his eye and a smile that her mother considered mildly imbecilic, she always ready to criticize the arrangements. Some years her mother’s sister would visit from the South, with her silent husband and two sons, one Bridget’s age and the other two years younger, and with her tales of prosperity in Arklow. They never reciprocated by visiting them in their three-bed detached on the new housing estate.

Life had been different back then, beyond memory almost, though it was only the late 1960s, just before the dark days that endured and would continue for ever, or so it seemed to her. South Armagh had been becalmed, merely bypassed by life, not besieged as now. Bridget knew that this was not the fond invented memory of a childhood that had never existed. The present was a grim struggle, observed on all sides by unseen eyes.

At some point her father would slope back in, not as combative as usual, minding his Ps and Qs, and the rite of a solemn, subdued meal would follow. When the washing-up was done and the guests departed, they would watch television together.

Bridget was brought back to the present by her mother-in-law as she held raucous court in the living room, drinking a rum and Coke and smoking a cigarette with a film-star flourish.

‘I’m telling youse I could drink any man here under the table,’ shouted Marie O’Neill, jabbing her finger in the general direction of the room.

‘Aye, sure now,’ said one of the neighbours, whose name Bridget did not know. ‘There’ll be no one taking you on, Marie.’ He laughed, not entirely kindly.

‘Ah well, screw you, Desmond,’ she said, almost toppling from the arm of the sofa into the lap of Norman from number six.

‘Chance would be a fine thing, Marie. A fine thing,’ Desmond called back.

‘Not a chance in a million. Not a hope. If you were the only boy in the world and I were the only girl …’ she began singing, ‘I’d slit me fecking throat.’ She roared with laughter.

The first Christmas she had spent with the O’Neills she had been alarmed. The edge of the shock had worn off slightly over the years. A raw unease remained which she was sure must be evident, however much she smiled. Yet no one seemed to notice. It was quite possible they were too preoccupied with their drinking and shouting and singing and fumbling and fighting to notice her watching nervously; or maybe she was a better actor than she thought.

Bridget knew where her father-in-law would be, down the road at the Shaughnessys. She had noticed the glance between Sean and Pauline Shaughnessy just before Pauline left the house. She was equally sure that Marie, too, had seen it, just as she was certain that Marie had observed Sean fumbling at Bridget’s breast on the dark landing that morning as she tried silently to fend him off. She had considered telling Francis, but she knew he would find any excuse not to confront his father. ‘Just a bit of Christmas fun, Bridget. Lighten up.’ So much for her brave Fenian warrior.

Bridget noticed Liam watching her as she strove not to look anxious, perched on her stool in the corner of the crowded little room. When she had first met the family, Francis’s younger brother had been no more than a boy. Now he had developed a youthful charm, though Francis had told her he mixed with the wrong bunch and had been in trouble with the boys as a result. Liam was a watcher and she felt some measure of alliance with him. She returned his look with a reserved smile and his gaze moved so casually that she wondered whether he’d been looking at her in the first place.

Everyone knew young Liam was the cross the family bore and the shame of the street, not a patch on his two older brothers, not one of the boys, just a common criminal. Few concealed their contempt or their watchfulness, as if he might nick a fiver from a wallet or a handbag, but Bridget liked him.

The O’Neills had eaten their turkey and pudding the previous evening and attended Midnight Mass at St Ethelburga’s. Before leaving, they had watched the late news and seen that Private Singh, shot in Calais by the IRA that morning, had not died but was in a coma and on life support. The reports were vague. He might be moved to a military hospital in England once his condition stabilized, or he might be left in a permanent vegetative state. Sean O’Neill had smirked sidelong at Francis, whose only expression was of mild boredom. No one had spoken.

Soon after the mince pies, assessed by Marie as ‘not bad’, Bridget had seen Liam pull on a thin jerkin and slink out of the door with a backward glance, like a misbehaving dog that feared discovery and punishment. Now he was preparing to make his next furtive departure.

Francis sat in the easy chair in Gentleman Joe’s office, sipping whisky. Joe was behind his desk, leaning back in his chair, holding his glass contemplatively, the bottle open in front of him. Kenny, Joe’s bagman, stood by the door.

‘I hate fecking Christmas,’ said Kenny.

‘Compliments of the season to you too, Kenny,’ said Joe. ‘Just relax. We all need our time of rest. And this is the centre of the Christian calendar. Is it not, now, Francis?’

‘I suppose so,’ said Francis.

‘You suppose so …’ said Joe ruminatively. ‘Well, I suppose I suppose so too.’

It was two years earlier that the Prods had come calling for Joe Geraghty. He’d been visiting an old people’s home out near Dunmurry where an old volunteer from the 1940s was living out his days when his car was ambushed. Kenny, when drink had been taken, would describe it all vividly but with a professional’s detachment. He’d been driving and Colm Hawley was in the front passenger seat. Colm had been one of the movement’s thinkers, a man with six children advocating a political solution, arguing that the military campaign was heading up a blind alley. But Joe, the big man, was the target and the Prods’ intelligence had been good. They were laid up in force and a hijacked truck blocked the road. Kenny skidded the car into a J-turn and faced back towards the M1, shouting at Joe to lie down. The bullets shattered the rear window and thudded into the front seats. Kenny had been hit and was bleeding profusely but managed to drive on, just maintaining control and consciousness. Colm was slumped forward in his seat, dead.

Francis had been part of the team dispatched to exact vengeance on the two shooters, identified by Joe’s Security Team. It was a routine job once they knew where the bastards would be drinking and Francis’s role was to guard the outside while Mikey Sullivan and Peter Boyle went in and offed them. A different team was sent to lift the tout who’d reported Joe’s prospective visit to the RUC. He’d been left in a ditch over Newtownards way. The news had been taken to Kenny’s hospital bedside as some form of solace. God knows what Colm’s wife made of it. The tout had been only too willing to name his RUC handlers, who were now on the list in Joe’s little black book.

Since that time, Joe and Kenny had gained a reputation as the Odd Couple, inseparable, Kenny constantly moaning.

‘Well, I never could stand Christmas anyway,’ said Kenny.

‘Will you listen to yourself?’ said Joe. ‘Enough now. Have you nothing better to do than to stand around complaining? Go off and do something useful. Francis and I have things to discuss.’

‘Yes, boss,’ said Kenny, looking into his glass as if calculating how many slugs would be required to empty it.

‘Carry on like this, Francis, and you’ll be going down in history as a hero,’ said Joe. ‘You’re royalty as it is.’

‘It’s just a job, Joe,’ began Francis. ‘Just a job.’

‘Well, you’re good at it. One moment, Francis. Would you be so kind as to shut the door behind you, Kenny?’

‘Boss,’ replied Kenny in the affirmative.

‘Now then, Francis. The soldier still lives.’

‘Sorry, Joe. I thought it was clean enough.’

‘No, no, don’t be fretting now. How could you know? It’s almost better. He’ll stay in the news for a few days at least. Will he, won’t he? Do they switch the machines off or not? No. Couldn’t be more pleased, the boys and me. I’m to congratulate you formally on the action. The message comes from the top. The very top. You’ll have more work in the future, that’s for sure.’

‘Thanks, Joe. It means a lot. Joe?’

‘Aye, Francis. What is it?’

‘I was wondering …’

‘Yes?’

‘I need some time out of it. Just a couple of weeks.’

‘Ah, yes. Got to you, has it? I understand.’

‘No, nothing like that. It’s just … I’ve been invited to a wedding.’

‘Oh yes. And?’

‘Tony Simons and Cheryl Maguire. When I was younger I used to hang around with them.’

‘Aye, I recall the names. Don’t they live abroad somewhere?’

‘Yes.’

‘Ah. I see. America, is it?’

‘No. Singapore.’

‘Right. And they’re not coming home to tie the knot?’

‘No, Joe.’

‘I’m with you.’

‘So I was wondering …’

Joe Geraghty shook his head. ‘That’s a tricky one, Francis. That’s a fast ball, I’ll tell you. You know what I always say to volunteers, especially ones as important as you. You want to keep yourself beyond suspicion. You don’t want any of the boys to have reason to doubt you now. The struggle –’

‘I know, Joe. It comes first. But I was wondering …’

‘Whether I could make an exception. It’s a difficult one. At least it’s not America. America would be a total no-no. But even so …’

‘I’ll not plead with you, Joe.’

‘And little good would that do you. Now let me think about this.’ He looked from his glass to the bottle and decided against taking another measure. ‘Tell you what, Francis. Let’s deal with it like this. I’d rather you decided not to go. But you’re not going to do that, are you?’

‘No.’

‘All right. Let’s just keep this to ourselves, then, shall we? It’s up to me, but I’d be expected to tell others. And if I did we both know what would happen next. It’s the example. If I’m seen to be letting you go off like this, what about the next boyo who comes and asks me?’

‘I understand, Joe.’

‘So we’ll keep this between us. Not even Kenny.’

‘Fair enough.’

‘I’ll watch your back. We say nothing to anybody, but if I get reports back I’ll say I sent you off on some errand.’ He looked thoughtful. ‘I’ll have to magic up a cock-and-bull story. But that’s my problem. Leave it to me. How does that sound?’

‘Grand, Joe. Thanks.’

‘Never say I’m not a generous man, Francis O’Neill.’

‘I’d never say that.’

‘I’m sure you wouldn’t. You all right for money?’

‘You can always do with a bit more. But I’m fine. I’ll find the fare somehow.’

‘I’ll see if I can rustle up a bonus for this job. I always look after my boys, don’t I?’

It had been more than fifteen years before. As a teenager he had been proudly presented by his father to the great Gentleman Joe Geraghty down at the club. He remembered the day, and the induction that followed it, with a shuddering vividness.

‘Yes, Joe.’

‘Well, you just be discreet about your going and coming. Tell no one. And I mean no one. You’re a marked man, remember, in more ways than one. And I don’t want any unnecessary explaining to do with the boys here if you’re seen on your travels. Understand?’

Nicholas Searle

A TRAITOR IN THE FAMILY

VIKING

1989

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1990