Stewart Binns
BETRAYAL
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India | New Zealand | South Africa
Penguin Books is part of the Penguin Random House group of companies whose addresses can be found at global.penguinrandomhouse.com.
First published 2017
Copyright © Stewart Binns, 2017
The moral right of the author has been asserted
Cover by Blacksheep
Cover images © Alamy and © Depositphotos
ISBN: 978-1-405-92706-2
To all the good people of Northern Ireland who struggled for decades to live with their past. Perhaps now they have finally found a future together.
1. Wheels Within Wheels
2. Cold Bath in Clapham
3. Not a Belle Vue
4. Pilgrim’s Rest
5. Marital Bliss
6. 140 Gower Street
7. A New Regime
8. Coffee with the DG
9. Winter Bites
10. A Sarcophagus of Spooks
11. Mona’s Queen
12. St Anthony’s
13. Saturday Night in the Hibernian
14. The Rites of Spring
15. The Hunger Strikes
16. Hanging by a Black Belt
17. Martyrdom
18. The Big Match
19. Hell Hath No Fury
20. Dublin’s Fair City
21. The 12th
22. Despair
23. Danny’s Death
24. Eyes in the Hibernian
25. Safe House
26. Walking a Tightrope
27. Bad Friday
28. Facing the Music
29. Knock Road
30. Stony Silence
31. Thud in the Woods
32. Two Rabbits Down a Hole
33. Swardle
34. Misery on the Moors
35. Waterloo Road
36. Broomsticks in the Mist
37. Witch’s Ambush
38. Damsel in Distress
39. Darling Daddy
40. An Audacious Move
41. A Spank in the Bar
42. The Beginning of the End
43. Traitors
44. Unsafe House
Glossary
Acknowledgements
Statistics
Maps
Follow Penguin
‘Morning, sir.’
‘Morning, Roger. Come in and sit down.’
‘Cold today; autumn’s here.’
‘Never mind the bloody weather, I’m in no mood for pleasantries.’
‘Sir?’
‘I’ve just had the Secretary of State on the blower; he’s not happy!’
‘Gerry Adams’s incendiary speech, I suppose?’
‘No, we can’t be blamed for that; that’s the politicians’ business. It’s something much more worrying – and on our patch.’
Roger watches his boss go to the window and stare out across the London skyline.
‘You’re right, it does look like autumn’s here.’
Roger takes the comment as a half-hearted apology for being snapped at. But then his superior swings round to face him. His look could melt stone.
‘Listen, I don’t like early-morning calls from skittish politicians. Prior’s alright, but he’s got Maggie on his back, and she’s got problems again.’
‘But we’ve just had the Falklands Victory Parade; she can do no wrong.’
‘That’s not the way she sees it: enemies around every corner; fourteen per cent unemployed; discontent in the military and big business. She’s picking fights again. The latest twitch is on your watch, Roger.’
‘Other than the usual mayhem, DG, I don’t think there’s anything particularly untoward over the water.’
‘That’s not what Prior’s been told.’
‘By whom, sir.’
‘Rumours, whispers; conversations in White’s and the Carlton. Last night, some old Unionist backwoodsman collared him in the Commons and berated him about a recent op in Belfast that went belly-up. A couple of your people making a right fucking mess. Apparently, they got out, but the word is that they’re a major liability.’
There’s a long silence as Roger takes in the news.
‘I’ll look into it, sir.’
‘Don’t fob me off, Roger. Which op are they talking about?’
‘I’m not sure. I need to go over the files and talk with my team.’
‘Bollocks, Roger, it was only last year. I need straight answers.’
‘Did Prior give you any more details?’
‘No, he didn’t. I think he assumed I’d know about any of our ops that have become a problem. And he’s bloody well right!’
‘You’ve caught me cold, sir; we’re running dozens of ops over there. Let me get the boys together and go over everything.’
‘Alright, tomorrow morning. But I’ll have to open this to the whole department and the other agencies. Smythson will have to be there and Special Branch; Prior insists.’
‘Bloody hell! Isn’t this making a mountain out of a molehill?’
‘Come on, Roger, with Maggie rattling her sabre, every molehill’s a fucking mountain.’
‘Jim! Wake up; it’s lunchtime! Jim!’
Despite the cries, I don’t stir; nothing is registering. I can hear someone shouting at me, but it seems to be just another bad dream.
‘Bloody hell, Jim, get up. You stink.’
I hear the shouts but I’m still numb to the world. Like many before me, my quest to bury painful memories is futile. I still have vivid, horrifyingly violent flashbacks. I never see myself in my dark visions, only people staring at me in fear and loathing. Their eyes burn into me. They know who I am, and I know them. They’re not ghosts; they’re real.
I hear rapid movement around me and finally realize that this isn’t a dream. My visitor is darting around my flat. She’s looking for the commodities of normal life: toothpaste, washing-up liquid, soap. She finds none.
I’m still barely conscious as I’m dragged from my sofa to the bathroom. She hauls me up and sits my dead weight on the side of the bath.
‘You don’t have any hot water, so this will wake you up, you drunken bastard!’
She tugs at my clothes and discards each item as if it’s a soiled nappy. Suddenly, I’m drowning. I can hear splashing, feel cold water rushing over my face; my mouth and nose are assaulted by gurgling liquid. I gag as a torrent invades my throat. I’m fully conscious, lashing out.
‘Whoa, Jim! It’s Maureen … calm down; you’re OK!’
I rub my eyes and shake my head, trying to come to my senses. Then I recognize who my assailant is.
‘Fuck me, Mo! What are you doing here?’
‘What does it look like? I’m giving you a bath. Have you looked at yourself in the mirror recently?’
‘I know, I’m not a pretty sight.’
‘How long have you been like this?’
‘Not sure.’
I try to calculate in weeks, but give up.
‘Months.’
I suddenly realize that there must be a purpose behind Maureen’s unexpected visit.
‘It’s good to see you, Mo, but what’s up?’
She looks at me like a casualty nurse dealing with a wino.
‘We’ve got a problem.’
‘Course we have; we’ve had a problem for ages.’
I notice that she’s changed. It’s obvious that she’s also having a hard time; she looks haggard and has lost a lot of weight. Even so, she’s still a fine sight: long, elegant limbs, and a lean but powerful frame; a firm jaw setting off a strong face, with dark brown eyes below an unruly mop of russet hair.
‘Things have just got a lot worse.’
‘Really? From where I am, that doesn’t seem possible.’
‘They have, believe me.’
Two hours later, I look vaguely normal. I feel like shit and I’m gagging for a drink, but I look better than I have in a long time. Maureen lets me have a beer, which is a relief. She opens all the windows, washes up and brings a semblance of order to the kitchen. She goes to the corner shop and we devour a mountainous lunch washed down with a cheap bottle of red wine.
My old partner runs her fingers around the rim of a plain white mug that’s serving as a wine glass.
‘I’ve been drinking a lot too.’
‘You’re kidding me, Miss Goody Two-Shoes?’
‘Don’t be a sod; after what we’ve been through. I’m not made of stone.’
‘You used to be.’
‘Jim, please.’
Maureen’s eyes fill with tears.
‘Heh, I’m the one who’s in a bad way. Remember your training.’
‘I forgot all that, weeks ago …’
She pauses.
‘Jim, we’re in a right mess.’
‘OK, you said things have got worse; how worse?’
Maureen pulls herself together and sets her jaw.
‘Control asked to see me.’
She pauses again, looking very solemn.
‘They’re concerned about both of us, but mainly about you; your drinking. They think you’re a lost cause and a major liability.’
‘And they’ve sent you to sort me out.’
‘Of course.’
‘And if I don’t want to be “sorted out”?’
‘We’ll both be on our own.’
‘How come? They could still protect you.’
‘Think about it, Jim; if you’re a liability, so am I. They’ll cut me adrift as well. We’ll be described as “lone wolves”, acting alone.’
‘Fuckers!’
‘They’re pragmatists. It’s what they’re paid to do.’
‘They’re still fuckers!’
‘Where’s your pistol?’
‘Why?’
‘They want it back.’
‘Like fuck! No way.’
She goes to the window and stares at the identical terraced houses of Victorian London. I hear kids running and screaming down the street. I go to check my watch, but I lost it ages ago – a nice stainless-steel Rolex, about my last prized possession. But the babble and jabber of young kids tells me it’s four o’clock, the end of the school day.
Maureen stares at them.
‘I miss the kids.’
‘So do I.’
She turns to face me, looking stern.
‘They want me to sort you out. One last chance.’
‘Generous of them. I think I can get by without their help.’
‘No, you can’t, Jim. If you carry on like this, you’ll be dead before the end of the year. Then it’ll be my turn.’
I smile, trying to be mischievous, trying to win back some credibility with her.
‘Best to go down fighting, then, Mo.’
‘Look, if you’re happy to sign your own death warrant, then more fool you. But I want to come out of this at the other end.’
‘What, with a husband and two point four kids in the Home Counties?’
‘Something like that.’
‘Then you’re as crazy as I am.’
‘Jim, please. I need your help.’
A faint memory of my former life stirs in me. Maureen never needed anybody’s help before, least of all mine.
‘You’ve never asked for my help before.’
‘Well, I’m asking now.’
After a dinner in the pub and enough booze to knock me out, Maureen, sleeping on my careworn sofa, stays the night. The next morning, we’re off. Maureen has a plan.
I don’t want to go wherever she’s taking me. She talked about getting out of London, but I wasn’t really listening. I want to retreat into the warmth of a boozer, where I’ll find a sanctuary of convivial loneliness far removed from the world’s woes and my own sad sorrows.
I’m trying to keep up with her loping strides. I feel like I’m a little lad again, being taken by my mum to Burnley Bus Station to catch a ‘chara’ to Blackpool. It’s hard to keep up when you’ve only got little legs.
We cross the road towards the clock tower and the glass rotunda that is Clapham Common tube station. There’s a scruffy pub on the opposite corner called the Belle Vue. My last chance? Bugger! It’s not open yet.
Maureen’s a yard in front of me and almost at the entrance to the station. As I take a final glance at the little part of South London that has become my home for the last few months, I catch sight of a moped racing towards us. It doesn’t look right; it’s going too fast, and the driver’s only got one hand on the handlebars. Even though it’s a dull, grey day, he’s wearing sunglasses and has a baseball cap pulled down over his forehead.
A switch is thrown inside me. Is it the training or instinct? It doesn’t matter; everything slows down. I look at Maureen. She hasn’t seen the moped. She’s focused on getting me down the stairs to the tube.
‘Mo! Get inside, move!’
My warning has hardly registered when, with a burst of acceleration, the moped bounces on to the pavement and heads straight for us. The rider puts his hand inside his jacket. I know what’s coming next. I begin to freeze. Lassitude and alcohol have dulled my reactions and allowed fear to surface. I don’t even reach for the pistol that Maureen rescued from under my bed. She’s at the top of the steps that lead down into the station and has turned to see what’s happening. Her reactions are better than mine. She’s already reached into her bag and crouched down on one knee.
The stubby black outline of the silencer of a small pistol is now pointing right at my chest. Maureen raises her weapon, but she won’t be able to aim and fire in time. I look into the black void of my assassin’s sunglasses; shoot straight, you bastard!
My saviour is a baby’s pushchair. Propelled by a young mother, the front wheels of a navy-blue pram emerge at the top of the steps, making the rider of the moped swerve wildly. In a cacophony of screeching tyres and crashing metal, my assailant topples off his saddle and rolls across the pavement, leaving his moped to smash against the wall of the station. I hear mother and baby screaming at the tops of their voices.
The bullet that was intended for me has left its muzzle but must have missed by a distance. The rider panics, gets to his feet and runs away without even glancing back. Maureen has taken aim with her weapon, but not at the moped rider. She pulls at my arm and yanks me down behind her.
‘Let’s go, Jim! Come on, quickly! Three men in a Merc on the other side of the road. Move it.’
She fires three quick rounds as she pushes me down the steps. At the same time, a hail of bullets comes our way. We cower, several flights down the steps, as the bullets – at least a dozen – smash into the wall above us.
We’re on the platform in seconds. Without appearing to run, we move as quickly as we can. When we reach the far end of the platform, God smiles on us for a second time; a northbound train careers into the station. When it stops, we step into the front carriage, but notice that, just as the doors close, three men wearing sunglasses, dark clothes and baseball caps manage to jump into the last carriage.
It’s commuter time and our carriage is almost full. We have to stand by the doors. Several people are staring at us in our agitated state. I double-check that my weapon is well concealed in my belt and that Maureen’s is out of sight. She’s breathing heavily and her face is flushed as she peers down the carriage, checking for anyone suspicious.
It’s a peculiar feeling, being on a tube with London’s commuters at the beginning of an ordinary working day, knowing that three armed men, hell-bent on putting several rounds in you, are only a few carriages away. Trying to look normal, I smile at Maureen. She smiles back, but it’s a thin, forced smile. It’s obvious that at every stop our pursuers will move along the train to find us. They may even be trying to open the connecting doors between the carriages. We have to get off. Maureen looks anxious. She doesn’t know the area as well as I do. She leans towards me and kisses my cheek. It’s not a sign of affection, but an opportunity to whisper in my ear.
‘What do we do?’
‘Where are you taking me?’
‘Kent.’
‘That’s Victoria. We get out at Clapham North, leg it to Stockwell and jump on the Victoria Line; assuming, of course, that we get past the three stooges at the back.’
It’s only a couple of minutes to the next station, but it seems like an eternity. At Clapham North, we wait until the doors are about to close before jumping off the train. As we do so, we see that our shadows, pistols in hand and peering into every carriage, have covered half the length of the train. They’re creating screams of panic with every step, and our hunters are between us and the platform exit.
Then they see us.
In an instant, they point their weapons towards us and open fire. The crack, crack, crack of several volleys echo around the confined space of the platform like thunderclaps. Fearing for their lives, a mass of terrified people rush towards us. I push Maureen to the ground. Several people fall. I hope that they’ve tripped rather than been hit. The crowd is another godsend.
‘Down the tunnel, Mo!’
‘Jesus! Are you serious?’
‘No choice. Go!’
Seconds later, we jump on to the track by the driver’s window. I glance at him; he’s probably been driving for years. There’s a look of abject horror on his face. The tunnel is in almost total darkness, illuminated only by an occasional grimy light bulb.
‘Keep moving, Mo, and stay to the right; the live rail’s the far one. The driver won’t leave the station with us in the tunnel, and they’ll soon switch off the power.’
‘I hope you’re right! What about the three fuckers behind us?’
‘I don’t think they’ll risk following us. Given the commotion they’ve caused back there, they’ll leg it, realizing that they’ll likely be nabbed at the next station.’
‘Same applies to us, doesn’t it?’
‘Not if we’re quick.’
‘How far is it?’
‘Half a mile, perhaps a bit more. A piece of piss; four minutes.’
‘Like buggery! Not in the dark, with a live rail right next to us.’
‘Less talk, more speed. Come on!’
We move rhythmically; short, rapid steps.
We manage to get to Stockwell but alarm several travellers as we emerge, dirty, hot and bothered, from the bowels of the Northern Line. When we reach the street, all the buses are full and there are no taxis to be seen, so we decide to run to Victoria; it’s only a couple of miles, and the run will help get rid of the adrenalin.
Several police cars and ambulances scream past us as we run across Vauxhall Bridge. Despite my diminished fitness, we’re soon at Victoria Station, where Maureen buys tickets for Tunbridge Wells. We’ve a few minutes to wait for the train, so we sit down and order coffee and a cold drink.
My heart’s racing and my hands are shaking. My weapon’s digging into my flabby belly, which was once as hard as marble. It makes me all too aware of how I’ve let myself go over the past few months. Maureen takes several deep breaths. We both look around; all seems calm, but we can hear multiple sirens in the distance.
‘Mo, let’s take our drinks and get on the train. I reckon the bobbies will be here in a few minutes to close the station.’
Once we’re seated, I feel better, especially when the train begins to pull away. A smile breaks across my face as we sit down in the carriage.
‘The phones will be red-hot in Gower Street. It’ll be pandemonium; the spooks will be running around like blue-arsed flies!’
Maureen also smiles at the thought of our lords and masters in a mad panic.
‘Who do you think the shooters were?’
‘An ASU?’
‘A boy on a bike isn’t their usual style, and neither is firing wildly into a crowd. Whoever it was, we got lucky; very lucky.
I can’t get my breath; my lungs are burning. Breathlessly, I call to Maureen, who’s striding ahead with her usual gazelle-like lope.
‘Is this a good idea? We’re miles from anywhere and I’m shagged!’
‘The Kent Weald’s hardly “miles from anywhere”.’
I persuade her to stop for a moment so that I can get my wind back. She’d hired a car at Tunbridge Wells, driven us deep into the forests of the Weald and insisted that we go for a tab as soon as we arrived. I’ve no idea where we are; Kent’s an alien land for me.
‘Fuck me, Mo, it’s like the Scottish Highlands; we haven’t seen a boozer for hours.’
‘Fret not, there’s one in the next village; we’re staying there tonight.’
‘Like the old days, boyfriend and girlfriend?’
‘Of course.’
‘I suppose I’m getting the sofa?’
‘There isn’t one.’
‘Wow, has my luck changed?’
‘It’s a family room. I used to stay in it with my parents, years ago. You can have the single bed.’
‘What a treat!’
We’re both deep in thought as we resume our progress through the half-light of the dense Kentish woodland. My chest struggles to cope with what my legs are asking it to do. I try to remember my training. I slow down to lessen the pain, trying to find a tolerable plateau. Maureen notices that I’ve slowed my pace.
‘Keep up, we need to get fit, Jim.’
‘I’m fine, just adjusting.’
‘Let’s step it up to a new, full-on regime, starting tomorrow.’
‘If you say so, boss.’
Mercifully, Maureen suddenly pulls up, sits down on the fallen trunk of a large ash tree and gestures to me to join her. She gets her breath and looks at me closely.
‘Why didn’t you go to the Falklands?’
‘Good question. I thought that’s where I’d end up. I got the twenty-four-hour call-up papers, but then nothing.’
Maureen looks at me reflectively.
‘It would’ve solved a few problems if you hadn’t come back.’
‘I know, I thought that as well. Who knows what was said between Gower Street and Stirling Lines. Anyway, I didn’t go. Shame; a proper war, not like the bollocks we had to deal with in Belfast.’
‘Do you think they were trying to keep you away from the other lads in the Regiment?’
‘Never thought of that. Perhaps.’
‘Do you know lots of blokes who went?’
‘Yeah, of course. One in particular: my training officer, Malcolm Atkinson, Colour-Sergeant, G Squadron, Hereford.’
‘Good bloke?’
‘The best. Mind you, the bugger’s probably responsible for all this. If he hadn’t sorted me one night in the Brecons, I’d have failed selection.’
I look up and catch a glimpse of a scowling autumn sky eddying above the canopy of soaring Kent oaks, ash and elms. The ominous sky reminds me of many similar days in the Brecon Beacons. I would finish work on Fridays, catch the tube to Sloane Square and take the short walk along the King’s Road to the Duke of York’s Barracks.
The Duke of York’s is the home of 21st SAS, the Regiment’s territorial reserve. The 21st is not 22 SAS, the regulars at Hereford, but the selection test’s the same, the accolade just as compelling. Could I pass selection for the SAS? Looking back, it was a strange thing to do; a bit of machismo, I suppose. All my colleagues at work were going home to their wives and girlfriends, their families, weekend sport, a few beers and Sunday lunch. But I was voluntarily submitting myself to forty-eight hours of physical and mental punishment, which would prove to be unbearable for the vast majority of my fellow trainees. Then, if I got through it, I would go on camps for several weeks, where the testing would become more and more gruelling until a handful of us would earn our precious beige beret and winged-dagger badge.
It seems like a lifetime ago, but only two years have passed.
‘It was the last tab before Long Drag, almost a white-out, middle of the night. I’d fallen behind schedule and, to keep on the move, I’d skipped a nosh and eaten too many dried apricots. So every time I took a glug of water, the dried fruit swelled up, making my belly feel like a pressure cooker about to explode. I was very uncomfortable and totally cream-crackered. I knew I shouldn’t, but I had to sit down.’
Maureen looks at me with disdain.
‘I know, I know, big mistake! The weight of my bergen dropped me into the snow up to my waist. Even though I soon felt the wet seeping through, it was such a relief to stop and rest.’
Maureen now offers me a compassionate smile. As a fellow soldier, she knows all about the rigours of a gruelling training regime.
‘Looking back, I could have been a goner within minutes. You know that twilight zone, where the pain melts away and you start to feel like you’re drifting into a cosy sleep.’
Although I try to stop it, I feel a tear forming in the corner of my eye. I really have gone soft! Maureen puts her arm across my shoulders, which only makes it worse. I feel like a little boy who’s had his feelings hurt and needs his mum to soothe him. I take a deep breath and force back the emotion.
‘Then, I feel my bergen being lifted off the ground and me with it, followed by a big size-twelve boot up my arse: Get down that fuckin’ path, you useless bastard! If I see you on the deck again, I’ll kick the shit out of you all the way to the next RV!
‘It was Malcolm Atkinson, and when he said he’d kick the shit out of you, you believed it. I almost sprinted for two hundred yards, before stumbling into the RV. I was right on top of it; I’d had no idea. They told me the tab was canned; weather too bad, even for selection. Fifty yards away down the track, there was a brew and loads of scoff on the go at the back of a 4-tonner, a big pan of minced beef and veg. What a relief! Atkinson never said anything; if he had, they’d have jacked me on the spot. Weeks later, he told me that the reason he kept it quiet was because, when he found me, I still had hold of my weapon.’
‘So he went to the Falklands?’
‘Yeah, but he didn’t come back. He was one of the eighteen good boys who went down in that helicopter. Wednesday, the nineteenth of May, 1982. I’ll never forget the date for the rest of my life. He was the sort of bloke you thought was indestructible, without fear. But he was mortal – vulnerable, like the rest of us – and I bet, when that chopper filled with the icy water of the South Atlantic, he was scared shitless as he and the others fought one another to get out.’
Maureen squeezes me tightly. It’s a wonderful comfort.
‘Eighteen of the finest this country can muster; drowned like kittens in a sack. I cried like a baby when I heard. It happened at a bad time for me. It was as if whatever strength I had left died with them.’
Maureen is looking teary herself. She’s fighting her own demons. She sees my weakness and she can’t help revealing hers. She looks me in the eye.
‘Have you ever thought of topping yourself?’
‘Once or twice. It’s a coward’s way out, but it has crossed my mind.’
‘Me too, but I haven’t got the balls to do it.’
‘Mo, you’ve got bigger cojones than anyone I’ve ever met – male or female.’
She smiles, but it soon fades and her face sags as she looks forlorn once more. It’s my turn to offer succour.
‘Come on, we can sort it.’
‘We might have done, a year ago. But look at us now.’
‘Then let’s get our act together, back to basics.’
The all-but-extinguished embers of my training ignite into a tiny flicker of flame. I begin to think clearly.
‘Who knows we’re here?’
‘No one. I’m sure we weren’t followed.’
‘How much money do we have?’
‘Plenty. I borrowed loads of cash off my father; he’s not short of a few quid. I also found loads of cash in your kecks drawer in Clapham and added it to my stash.’
‘Good work. So we don’t need any post office withdrawals, phone calls, any contact with anyone.’
Maureen’s eyes brighten a little.
‘We’re in the clear, I think.’
‘Then let’s go to ground in this boozer you’re taking me to, get strong and work out a plan.’
Maureen’s face breaks into a smile again.
‘We can only make it if you become as good as you used to be.’
She pauses and stares into my eyes as if she’s peering into my soul, searching for anything of substance she can believe in.
‘Can you manage that?’
‘I can with your help.’
She puts her hand on my cheek. Perhaps she’s seen a hint of the old me behind my eyes.
‘Promise?’
‘Promise.’
‘Let’s go and get the car.’
‘What’s the pub called?’
‘The Pilgrim’s Rest.’
‘Perfect.’
Maureen and I have been trained to look ‘normal’ in almost any civilian setting. Don’t stand out from the crowd; appear and act naturally. Be chameleons, blend in – whether you are in the Sloane Pony in Parsons Green or a republican club in West Belfast – that was the mantra drilled into us during our Det training.
Sitting enjoying dinner, we look like any other middle-class couple down from London to enjoy a few days of marital bliss. We’ve begun to relax a little in each other’s company, and we share a smile at the report in the Telegraph that there’s been a gangland shoot-out on the London Underground: three people with gunshot wounds. There’s even an editorial which, predictably, bemoans the breakdown of law and order on Britain’s streets. I can almost hear the indignant tut-tuts echoing across this Garden of England. Maureen smiles at me. It is a smile full of memories.
‘You know, when we met at the ferry terminal, I didn’t think you were from the Regiment.’
‘Too lightweight?’
‘Don’t get me wrong, but you did look a bit skinny.’
‘A lot of people say the same about most SAS boys. I always reckon it’s the marines, especially the SBS, who are the he-men; all that swimming and assault course bollocks. We’re all-rounders, but mostly we’re stamina boys: long distance and long stay. Legs like quarter-milers, but not blessed with enough intelligence to get bored if we’re stuck in a hide for days on end.’
‘How did you find selection?’
‘Tough as buggery. I told you about my night on the Brecons. There were other bad moments. Bloody hell, if I hadn’t been as fit as a dog from sport, I wouldn’t have got through the first weekend on the South Downs. We had two or three lads jack before lunch on the Saturday morning. One couldn’t keep up with the first tab, another couldn’t do more than ten press-ups, and the third got the hump because the DS kept shouting at him.’
Maureen nods knowingly.
‘When I did my Det course, we had one poor girl, a sweet little thing – Cheltenham Ladies and all that – who wet her knickers the first time she got a bollocking from our DS. She literally pissed herself right in front of him. Talk about letting the girlies down!’
I smile, seeing the image all too vividly. I suddenly recall a bad memory of my own.
‘When it came to the milling on P-Company, I got put in with the biggest, ugliest fucker you’ve ever seen. The big lummox, a Geordie with several front teeth missing, proceeded to knock seven shades of shit out of me for sixty seconds. I don’t mind a scrap, but this lad murdered me. The other lads and all the members of the DS laughed their socks off when they saw my mush afterwards. My nose was bleeding all over my face, I had a big fat lip, and my left eye looked like a golf ball. What was the worst part for you, doing Det?’
‘Being a woman, as simple as that; not that we couldn’t hack it – the best of us could, just like the men. But it was the attitude, some of it really hostile. I really wanted to do SAS selection, but they wouldn’t let me, so 14 Intelligence was the next best thing and in some ways tougher.’
‘You reckon you could’ve passed selection for Hereford? The Fan Dance with a 55-pound bergen and all that?’
‘What do you think?’
I look at Maureen’s steely expression and remember our operational time together in Northern Ireland.
‘OK, I concede you could’ve hacked it. I suppose you sailed through Det?’
‘Not really. Physically, I was alright, even though it was the hardest thing I’ve ever done. I just about managed the interrogation routine, despite the humiliation of it with all those men around. It was pretty unpleasant; you know, the blindfold bit. I know you fellas are bollock naked, but they let us keep our bras and knickers on. And although I resent the concession on a point of principle, it was a relief, I can tell you. Then they brought in a big girl – at least she seemed big. I had this vision of a huge bulldyke with a mullet.’
‘How did you know it was a girl?’
‘Good question. I was desperate to know what was coming next and who from! But when she lifted me by the arms and pushed me across the room, I could feel her big tits in my back. She gave me an internal, front and back. I’m fairly sure it was behind a curtain – I could hear it being drawn – but the men were still in the room. What made it bearable was thinking how farcical it all was. If it had been for real in some squalid enemy prison camp, the internal wouldn’t have been behind a curtain, it wouldn’t have been given by a woman, and the “inspection” instrument wouldn’t have been a finger in a rubber glove.’
I listen to Maureen with huge admiration. Properly brought up, demure in civvy life, she’s a no-holds-barred, hard-headed soldier in her professional life; the sort you would definitely want on your side, when push came to shove.
My own interrogation ‘humiliation’ was a similar contrivance, but for the male of the species. After endless bullying and sensory deprivation, the white noise being the worst part, they drafted in a female officer, probably a senior Wren, or perhaps someone from 14 Intelligence DS. Christ, it could have been Mo. Perhaps it was!
‘Mo, did you ever act as a female interrogator for SAS selection?’
‘No, why?’
‘Doesn’t matter.’
I think back to my blindfolded encounter. They draft the woman in about two-thirds of the way through, when you’re at a really low ebb. You’ve been shouted at relentlessly, threatened, cajoled, held in a stress position interminably and endured the white noise torment. Then you’re sexually humiliated. They sneer at your John Thomas – which, thanks to the cold, has shrivelled to something no bigger than a walnut – and suggest it’s about as much use to the female of the species as a broom handle up the Mersey Tunnel. But my female interrogator was a bad choice. They should’ve chosen someone who sounded like Rosa Klebb, but she sounded like Princess Anne, which definitely didn’t have the intended effect.
Lost in my recollections, I suddenly remember that Maureen is in the middle of telling her story.
‘Sorry, Mo, I am listening.’
‘The worst of it was the relentless squalor. I know this sounds girly, but living in your sweat and filth for days on end – dirt under your fingernails, skin like sandpaper, hair like it’s covered with chip fat, then having your period in the middle of it – it’s not very nice when your entire life as a girl has been all about discretion and cleanliness.’
Listening to Maureen’s blunt account, my mind drifts back to our first meeting; how prim she was, and how intimidating I found her.
‘So you thought I was a skinny wimp when we met at the ferry?’
‘I didn’t say that.’
‘You know what, I found you pretty formidable. I wanted you something rotten – like any man would – but I thought you were something to dream about, you would never be real.’
‘Strange, after I got over how lean you were, I saw you as “Regiment”: intellectually unimpressive, but good in a tough spot in the trenches.’
‘Oh, thanks for nothing … God, Mo, it seems like a lifetime ago.’
‘I know, but it’s only been fourteen months.’
‘I tell you what, for a while I was happy in our little flat. It was bloody scruffy, and definitely in the wrong part of town, but spending day after day being “normal” began to feel normal. The worst part was fancying you all the time.’
‘Actually, I quite fancied you after a while.’
‘Jesus, why didn’t you say something or give me a sign?’
‘Wouldn’t have been professional, would it?’
‘I suppose not, but it might have prevented what happened with Kathleen.’
In an instant, Maureen’s face turns to stone; her tone switches from warm to ice cold.
‘Not now, Jim, I don’t want to talk about her. Let’s change the subject.’
I had hoped Maureen might be ready to talk about Kathleen, but it’s obviously too early. I do as I’m bid and change the subject.
‘I began to warm to the kids we were teaching. They were hard work, tough little fuckers, and it was difficult to convince them that they could trust a Brit.’
Maureen softens again.
‘But you did it?’
‘Kind of. Football was the key. Turning out for the Hibernians won me lots of brownie points.’
‘You’re being modest. You know you were a bit of a local hero. All of my girls talked about you, said you were the Ardoyne’s answer to Lenny Brady.’
‘Liam Brady.’
‘Yes, him.’
‘Bloody hell, if I had ten per cent of Brady’s talent, I would be ten times better than I really am. It also helped that I used to take the piss out of the bizarre practices of the Catholic Church. Only a real left-footer could do that. You know, incense, choirboys, holy grace, sins against the seventh commandment. That’s the one you have to mention when you confess to the priest about wanking. The lads might have been good Catholic boys, but they knew it was all bollocks.’
Maureen nods.
‘It was similar for me. Sport only worked for some girls. Sex and periods was the key for the rest. Many of the girls couldn’t talk to their mothers or most of their teachers about intimate things. It didn’t bother me, so they confided in me –’
Looking grave, Maureen suddenly stops herself. She stares upwards as if asking the Almighty for forgiveness. She then looks me in the eye, not accusingly, but with a woeful expression of guilt.
‘We cheated on them, didn’t we?’
I feel a sudden jolt of remorse and don’t respond. Instead, I revert to the recent answer to all my anguish. I drain my glass of wine, then pour another one, filling it to the brim.
It’s a remarkably ordinary building. Built in the 1930s, its ground floor includes the entrance to Euston Square tube station. Twice a day it’s a passing place for hordes of commuters, none of whom has any inkling of who occupies the six floors of the unimpressive grey monolith above them.
The top-floor office of the Director General of MI5 is full of section heads and anyone else involved in the anti-terrorism campaign against the Provisional IRA. It’s a large room, but drab, not furnished as the spy movies suggest. There’s a view to the north, but Euston Station and its surrounding blocks of nondescript architecture don’t create one of London’s more memorable vistas. However, the men in the room are the mirror image of their theatrical caricatures: navy-blue or grey pinstriped suits, regimental or Oxbridge ties and, above gleaming black brogues, the one tiny concession to individuality, loud socks in garish colours.
There is but one woman among them, ‘S’, who dresses as they do, except it’s of the female ilk: black two-piece suit, a scalloped cream blouse and beige shoes with a modest heel. She also sports one hint of novelty: racy pencil-line stockings. Perhaps there’s more to ‘S’ than meets the eye?
The DG, known as JJ to his friends, opens the meeting.
‘The politicians have got the wind up. You all know what that means. Let’s review the situation. We have John Smythson here today from our friends at Century House, and some new faces from SB. So we should outline the operation as it was planned from the beginning. Roger, the background, please.’
‘Well, sir, Waddington, Gary and Townsend, Deborah, “Debs”. Their cover names are Jim Dowd and Maureen O’Brien. Both have excellent training records. Townsend is by far the best female recruit 14 Intelligence has ever produced and one of the top half-dozen in recent years, male or female. She’s very focused, highly intelligent – a Cambridge graduate – and sailed through interrogation without flinching. Although she has the manner of a successful lawyer or academic, she’s as tough as old boots. Waddington’s a rough diamond; although he’s ex-21, a reservist, he’s typical Hereford. The regulars liked him and he liked them. He spent a lot of time at Stirling Lines doing specialist training. He was one of the boys; good at most things, if a little wayward at times –’
The DG interrupts.
‘Details?’
‘A good athlete, first-class soldier; but a heavy drinker, violent when younger; womanizer, divorced; son of a single mother, long dead; got into a hell of a pickle when he had an affair with a girl he was teaching. She was nineteen and very mature; he was twenty-nine. The whole thing was covered up by the school and he resigned. He’d just passed selection with flying colours, so had come on to our radar, and we were assessing him. We knew all about him and the girl from our surveillance.’
The DG frowns over his half-moon reading glasses.
‘He spun out of control a bit after the schoolgirl debacle and the divorce that followed. Drink, more girls, a couple of fist fights. Nevertheless, he was a good match for Townsend in the new venture we’d planned. We needed two quite specific individuals. She was perfect, he less so, but just about the only candidate available.’
The DG is still scowling.
‘The only chap available is hardly a recommendation, Roger.’
‘The only one in a very elite group. But, with hindsight, perhaps not ideal, sir.’
The DG’s face remains thunderous.
‘We had a few photographs of him with the young lady in question. When he came to see us, we suggested the operation we proposed was a way for him to get himself sorted out; that he’d got himself into a mess, and this was a way out of it.’
The DG smiles wryly.
‘OK. Carry on, Roger.’
‘As you know, all our Det operatives work out of secure bases in and around Belfast. By definition, they are isolated from the community. Given that the nationalist areas have become more and more tight-knit in recent years, we were finding it increasingly difficult to operate in the staunchest republican areas like the Lower Ormeau Road, New Lodge and the Ardoyne. So we wondered whether we could insert two people into the community and let them become assimilated. We thought it had promise.’
The newcomers to the operation’s details look at one another. The Special Branch guest bristles.
‘We weren’t told?’
‘No, the DG decided it was “need to know” only.’
‘And we didn’t need to know!’
The Director General comes to Roger’s aid.
‘We kept it in this room. We decided not to involve the RUC; we had a few concerns. Only a few in Det knew, plus OC-SAS and the Minister, of course.’
‘And he sanctioned it?’
‘Of course … and Downing Street.’
The Director General glares at the Special Branch man, making it obvious that further questions would be inappropriate.
‘Continue, Roger.’
‘Very good, sir. So, we needed a cover structure. We hit on teaching. Waddington is a qualified teacher; he was teaching when he did selection and up to the point of the impropriety with the young lady. Townsend is such a good athlete; it wasn’t difficult to present her as an outstanding PE teacher. They both have excellent Irish and Catholic heritage and make a handsome couple. They walked into jobs in local schools. Townsend went in first; Waddington, a term later. They lived in the Ardoyne with almost zero contact with anyone outside the local community: army, SB, RUC. They then went off radar and began blending in. We gave them as long as necessary.’
He pauses, looks down at his notes and takes a deep breath.
‘So far, so good. There was then a hitch, an unexpected development. Waddington’s cover with Townsend remained platonic – I suppose we assumed it wouldn’t, but it did – and his testosterone kicked in. He struck up a relationship with a fellow teacher, a local girl: Kathleen McKee, from a diehard republican family. We worried about it for a while, but then thought, a) it was a predictable consequence of the game we were playing, and b) it had potential advantages.’
Colonel Smythson from MI6, a beanpole of a man, an ex-Grenadier Guards officer, mutters under his breath.
‘Sounds like a right cock-up to me; 5 playing spies.’
The DG wriggles in his chair.
‘Thank you for that thoughtful contribution, John.’
Autumn is turning to winter in our Wealden hideaway and the harsher weather is helping us regain our condition. The ground is heavier, the air fresher, the temperature more demanding. We run progressive sprints before breakfast, do our DIY assault course and stamina exercises through the woods before lunch, and spend every afternoon on long tabs across the Weald until dusk.
We both know we’re becoming fitter because our multiple blisters, aching joints and stiff muscles remind us every day. Our mental toughness is also improving. We don’t cry on one another’s shoulder so much. Most of our conversations focus on happier times, especially when we relax over dinner.
‘You know your wines, Mo; this is excellent. How did you learn about wine?’
‘My father – he’s either an expert or a snob, depending which way you look at it.’
‘What’s he like?’
‘Well, he’s unusual for a man born in a tiny village in Galway Bay. He came to London when he was a teenager, started as a hod carrier and worked his way up the building trade. He set up his own business and became very successful. He managed to snare my mother, who’s very Home Counties, but without much money. She knocked the rough edges off him and taught him, as she put it, “how to behave”. Slowly, he lost most of his Irishness.’
‘Was he ashamed of it?’
‘A bit, especially when it all kicked off in the North. Although he’s from the Republic and a good Catholic, he’s very conservative – with a big “C” and a little one.’
‘And that rubbed off on you?’
‘Definitely. I was a real daddy’s girl and worshipped the ground he walked on; still do. He could afford to send me to private school, where I became even more English than he is. Fortunately for both of us, he carries an English name. If he’d been called Paddy Murphy, it would have been a bloody sight more difficult to hide our Celtic roots.’
‘I never did know your real name.’
Maureen smiles back cheekily.
‘I’ll tell you mine if you tell me yours.’
‘Deal.’
‘Deborah Townsend. I’m called “Debs”, of course.’
‘That wouldn’t have gone down too well off the Crumlin Road!’
‘God forbid! And yours?’
‘Gary. Gary Waddington, very North Country and very English.’
‘Very, a bit of a giveaway in the Ardoyne.’
‘Shall we stick to Jim Dowd and Maureen O’Brien?’
‘I think so, much safer!’
As the Pilgrim’s Rest begins to empty, only four diehard drinkers remain. They’re talking politics, very loudly, mocking the Labour Party, especially Neil Kinnock, the party’s rising star and shadow Education Secretary, one of Thatcher’s greatest critics over her conduct of the Falklands War. The good people of affluent Kent talk about him as if he’s a traitor and a coward.
My blood begins to boil.
‘Little Englanders, bloody hell! Listening to that lot, you’d have thought Maggie was Joan of Arc.’
Maureen stiffens at my insult.
‘She is, isn’t she?’
‘Fuck me! They’ve no idea about the Falklands. Jesus, we were within a whisker of losing it.’
‘But we didn’t.’
‘More by luck than judgement: one more Exocet; one more HMS Sheffield.’
‘I know, but it was boots on the ground that won it. Aren’t you proud?’
‘Course I am; I know lots of the guys who were in the “boots”.’
I can’t help thinking back. Our blood was up and, as usual, we sent the gunboats. I remember when my twenty-four-hour papers arrived. How close was I to copping it? One more major loss of life, one more ship sunk, and I could have been in that Sea King helicopter with Malcolm Atkinson.
‘I’ll grant you one thing, though, Mo. Despite the fact that she’s a complete bitch, and regardless of the rights and wrongs of the invasion, if I’d been one of the boys yomping from San Carlos to Port Stanley in that snowstorm, I would’ve preferred Thatcher backing me up in Downing Street rather than Neil Kinnock. He’s a nice bloke, but the last thing you need when lads are dying for their country is for politicians to get the wind up and start shitting themselves about whether what we’re doing is right or wrong.’
Maureen looks sympathetic and seems impressed by my bow to realism. Nevertheless, she can’t resist claiming victory in our debate.
‘Jim, you’ve made my case for me.’
‘Have I? Thatcher’s still a cow and her lovey-dovey tryst with Reagan makes me puke. The Falklands War saved her skin. Now she can do even more damage.’
‘You really don’t like her, do you?’
all forgotten. Now we’re older, but are we wiser? I don’t think so.’
‘And you ended up in the Regiment and went to Northern Ireland to do Thatcher’s dirty work.’
‘Yer, I’m a right hypocrite, aren’t I?’
‘No, Jim, you just grew up.’