The Tick Tock Man

15

They took the seven thirty British Midland flight to Belfast.

Casey fretted over the wisdom of leaving Candy to look after herself in the house, even though a girlfriend was staying with her, and wished she’d been able to see Harrison before she left. At least he’d shown no sign of bitterness when they had spoken on the telephone and she loved him for that. The short flight was halfway over before it began to dawn on her exactly what she was trying to do; then the apprehension began to set in.

Eddie Mercs offered no comfort. A bad flyer at the best of times, he’d forgotten that it was a No Smoking flight and had become increasingly irritable, attempting to calm his nerves by emptying a row of miniature plastic whisky bottles.

‘Not my fault I was a breast-fed baby,’ he complained bitterly when Casey chided him about his alcoholic intake. “They should make allowances for those of us who need oral satisfaction.’

The vision of a fully grown Mercs suckling blissfully at his mother’s bosom brought only a momentary light relief from her fears of what lay ahead. That dread word. Ulster. That dark and evil place she knew only through television news and press reports. An endless round of bombs and shootings. She was entering an urban war zone for which she was totally unprepared. But it was also Tom Harrison’s world and that, somehow, gave her a small measure of confidence.

They touched down at Aldergrove in failing daylight beneath a cloudy, rain-filled sky.

She had been expecting the terminal to resemble an armed camp, like some tinpot banana republic, and it was with a sense of relief that she saw only one armed policeman talking nonchalantly to some plain-clothes security personnel. No one stopped them, asked them who they were or where they were going.

The car-hire company had sent a small courtesy bus to take them to their vehicle and after a few minutes’ form-filling they were on their way south towards Belfast.

There was one permanent vehicle checkpoint on the airport road, manned by the RUC. The policeman was polite, asked to see Mercs’s driver’s licence, then waved them on.

They continued on through the monotonous flat countryside, the rain becoming gradually more persistent. Within half-an-hour Mercs was negotiating the city-centre streets, taking the bridge across the River Lagan, which divided west from east Belfast, and was heading up Newtownards Road. It was a grey sprawling area of shabby high-street shops with side roads of Victorian terraced houses interspersed with some modern estates.

One brightly and crudely painted gable end, which looked onto the main street, left them in no doubt whose territory they were in. This was Protestant heartland.

‘Not much chance of wandering into the wrong patch in this city,’ Mercs muttered, ‘unless you’re a blind man.’

The Park Avenue Hotel on Holywood Road was large, bland and reasonably modern. The reception staff were friendly and asked conversationally whether they were visiting on business or pleasure. When Mercs replied: ‘A bit of both,’ they didn’t inquire further.

Time was pressing. It was nine forty-five already, so after checking into their respective rooms, Mercs called for a taxi to take them back into the city centre.

This time an army checkpoint of khaki-coloured Land-Rovers had materialised on the bridge and Casey felt a sudden sense of unease at the sight of the young men in full combat webbing and helmets. They looked menacing with their SA 80 Bullpups and serious faces.

A brief inquiry at the cabby’s window, a check on his licence and a quick glance at the passengers in the back. That was all and they were on their way.

‘Don’t you get sick of all these checks?’ Casey ventured to ask the driver.

He chuckled and his accent was so harsh and heavy that she had difficulty in understanding his reply. ‘Sure you get used to it. But sometimes ‘tis a real pain, so it is. Though I think if we ever get real peace here, we might even miss it.’

She wasn’t sure she’d heard right. ‘You actually enjoy all the trouble?’

‘No, love, not at all. But we’re so used to it, we would miss it, kind of. Otherwise Ulster would be a very dull place. The violence gives it an edge, a buzz. But then you’re American, yes? Sure you’d have to live here to understand.’

She glanced sideways at Mercs; he said nothing, just raised his eyes to the heavens.

They had arranged to meet Gerard Keefe at the Front Page public house in Donegall Street. It was Friday night and a favourite haunt of the city’s journalists for celebrating the end of the working week. The taxi dropped them off outside the dark forbidding frontage with its blinking neon sign. Creaking stairs led the way to the upstairs bars. The noise of excited, gabbling voices and too-loud laughter hit them, the room thick with tobacco smoke and the yeasty smell of stout. It was packed, the rough pine bar and floor almost obliterated by the press of bodies, faces smiling and glowing with alcohol, unwinding fast after a frantic day. Above their heads the giant fan struggled to clear the air.

Mercs led the way, weaving through the bodies, treading on feet and mumbling his apologies, peering at groups of men and women as he attempted to find Keefe. Casey trailed behind, finding herself watching individuals, looking at their unconcerned and happy faces. And thinking, this is Belfast. This is the dark soul of Ireland.

Keefe was talking to a rapt audience — two long-haired and pretty girls who looked to be scarcely out of their teens. As he spoke earnestly across the table, decorating his words with a flourish of hand gestures, they appeared to hang on his every sentence.

He caught sight of Mercs edging towards him. ‘Eddie!’

Casually dressed in a dark jacket and black open-necked shirt, his face was pale with dark worried eyes that were set closely together beneath wild eyebrows. The confusion of unruly hair made him look younger than his forty years.

‘Thought you weren’t going to make it,’ he said, rising to shake Mercs’s hand and quickly noticing Casey. ‘Didn’t know you were going to bring your girlfriend…’

‘Unfortunately, Gerry, we only work together.’

‘You’re still a lucky man. I’m charmed, eh…?’

‘Casey. Casey Mullins.’

He nodded towards the girls, indicating it was time for them to go; reluctantly they took the hint and he beckoned to the barmaid to take an order for drinks. Gerard Keefe was something of a minor, self-promoting celebrity, Casey decided, as he fixed her with a winning smile and an uncomfortably penetrating stare. ‘So what d’you think of Belfast, Casey?’

‘I haven’t seen much of it. Except for the odd Land-Rover and foot patrol I’ve seen, it seems just like England. I’m not sure I was expecting that.’

‘You’d notice the difference if you crossed into Eire. That’s real Ireland, beginning with the state of their roads and their signs, of course. Yield instead of Give Way. It’s all somehow less ordered, more relaxed.’

Thinking aloud she said: ‘And there were no checks at the airport. I think that surprised me.’

Gerard Keefe gave the drinks order to the barmaid before answering, leaning forward conspiratorially. ‘What you must never forget, Casey, is that over here nothing is what it seems. Remember that. You’ll get no trouble from the security people unless they’re interested in you and mostly they’ve their work cut out with known terrorists. There’s no hassle for businessmen―’ she indulged in a broad grin ‘―or journalists. But if they are interested in you, they’ll know your every movement. Each time you stop at a roadblock your car registration number is checked against the computer. There are informers everywhere. For the army, the Pro vies and the Proddies. Unemployment’s high, so there’re a lot of bods about with bugger all else to do. When people innocently ask you which school you went to or where you live, what they really want to know is are you a Catholic or a Prod? Can I talk to you, can you be trusted? The young woman pushing a pram might have an Armalite in there with her wee child. The door-to-door salesman might be checking on Catholic families, finding a target for a sectarian killing. Last year near the border a farmer ploughed up an entire field. An alert army patrol leader, a country boy himself, thought it was an odd time of year to do it. When they checked it, it was an elaborate ruse to disguise the laying of a half-mile command cable for a bomb under the road.’

The drinks arrived. Keefe made no attempt to produce his wallet until Mercs paid and brushed aside the Irishman’s belated offer to pay.

‘There’s always people listening,’ Keefe continued. ‘This place is a favourite haunt for the press. The Irish News office is just across the street. That’s the Catholic daily. You often get their journos in here, and you’ll find their perception of events quite different from those on the Telegraph around the corner.’

‘And who do you write for?’

‘Anyone who’ll pay me. I just alter the slant.’

Mercs said: ‘And just what slant would you put on Abe Powers’ secret talks, Gerry?’

The journalist’s eyes hardened. ‘I’m still waiting for that earlier cheque you promised.’

Mercs was unfazed. ‘Bloody accounts department.’ He patted the front of his jacket. ‘Never mind, I’ve a bundle of readies for the right answers.’

‘I’m not sure I can give them.’

‘Try, Gerry, there’s a good chap.’

Keefe glanced around him to check no one was within earshot. ‘First thing to realise, Eddie, is that this is like nothing I’ve ever known before. The Six Counties and the Free State have always been a hotbed of rumour and gossip. We all know no Irishman can keep a secret. Well, this time they have. You’ve got to ask yourself how they’ve achieved it?’

‘How?’ Mercs pressed.

‘There’s a strong rumour of a secret protocol. It was signed by Dublin and London in the early stages and formed the stick of Abe Powers’ carrot-and-stick policy. Regardless of the shape of any final agreement, Dublin has promised to hold a referendum recommending the dropping from its constitution of Article Two, which lays claim to Ulster.’

Mercs shook his head. ‘Why the hell should Dublin do that? They could have done that at any time in the past twenty years.’

‘Because in return London promises to back Eire within the European Community on its claims to Regional and Social Funds and its interests under the Common Agricultural Policy. What you’ve got to remember is that Eire is ninety-eight per cent in debt. It’s poor, inflation is rampant and its economy is in deep mire. Britain’s robust support in Brussels means that Dublin won’t have to put up taxes and will have huge amounts to invest in infrastructure. Incumbent governments in Ireland are always losing elections over the economy and rising taxes. For once, they’re virtually guaranteed to win.

‘Dublin wants that agreement like crazy, especially after they realised the Downing Street Declaration was getting them nowhere. The Protestant parties here in Ulster are also desperate to win the goodies in the protocol. For a start it virtually guarantees they’ll never be part of the Republic and secondly it totally pulls the rug out from under the Provies.

‘But the trick is that the protocol isn’t ratified until the whole package is agreed. That has ensured that no one rocks the boat because no one wants to lose what is so clearly within their grasp. It has also guaranteed everyone keeps their mouths shut until the final deal is struck for fear of blowing the whole thing.’

Mercs frowned. ‘Do you have any idea what form any final deal might take?’

‘If I did, Eddie, I’d be a rich man. But I can tell you something, I’ve got a feeling in my water about this one. Nobody’s giving details, but I’ve never known such optimism from both the Unionist and Catholic camps. They really seem to think an end’s in sight. Abe Powers seems to have satisfied three sides of the square.’

‘But is three sides enough, Gerry? From what you say, the Provos are the only ones to get nothing out of the deal.’

‘And that’s the reason for the AIDAN bombing campaign,’ Casey added pointedly.

Keefe looked startled and dropped his voice another octave. ‘A word of warning, Casey, don’t go bandying around codewords. If they get generally known, all sorts of people can have motives to cause chaos and blame others. But yes, it explains the ferocity of the latest campaign in London. The Provies want the talks abandoned or a seat at the table — and they will stop at nothing. All I know is, I’m bloody glad the bombing has shifted to England. It was getting too hot for comfort over here, I can tell you.’

‘These bombers, Gerry, are they just one gang or what?’ she asked.

Keefe’s eyes had become fixed on a lone drinker at the bar. A heftily built young man in jeans and a leather blouson was watching their table with studied nonchalance as he took sips from a straight glass of Guinness.

The journalist said: ‘Look, this isn’t the place to talk about such things. I’ve got to get home now, but I can give you a lift. We can talk on the way.’

Casey was slightly taken aback by the sudden change of tack, but remembered Mercs’s warning that the mercurial Keefe rarely held a conversation without moving location half-a-dozen times.

They trooped out into the dark wet street and followed Keefe to the nearby car park. He checked carefully beneath his vehicle before he let them in, Mercs taking the front passenger seat.

‘Look, Eddie, I’ve prepared a list of people you might like to speak to. Mostly they’re on the political fringes. They might not know much about the talks, but at least they’re willing to speak for a price. Those who do know, aren’t saying.’

‘You’re a gem,’ Mercs said, accepting the sheets torn from a note pad and handing over a wad of sterling notes in return.

‘Those people are expecting to hear from you.’

‘And the bombers?’ Casey asked.

Mercs became irritable. ‘Let’s drop that one, eh?’

‘No, it’s all right,’ Keefe said. Casey wondered if he was afraid of having his reputation as the Ulster guru undermined. ‘Look, I’ve got access to the very top of all the paramilitaries. They all trust or distrust me equally, depending on which way you look at it. But no one on the Republican side is going to give anything away about the AIDAN active service unit. Not a hint, not a whisper. I can pick up the phone and speak to Gerry Adams of Sinn Fein and sometimes even Martin McGuinness will talk to me. But they’ve become figureheads in the Republican move’ ment, too well-known. This business runs deeper. The people you’d want are operational; those at the top wouldn’t even know the details, wouldn’t want to.’

‘So how could I find out the identity of the AIDAN bombers?’

‘Casey!’ Mercs said, his face reddening with embarrassment. ‘You just don’t ask questions like that.’

‘I just have.’ She smiled one of her sweetest smiles. ‘I’m an American.’

Keefe chuckled. ‘Eddie’s right. You’re likely to be one dead American if you’re not careful.’

‘I’m serious, Eddie. Those people have killed an innocent child my daughter’s age and maimed her mother who is a friend of mine. And they killed one bomb-disposal man and injured another I’d got to know. I’d like to be able to name them in print.’

‘Still want your Pulitzer,’ Mercs muttered despairingly.

Keefe smiled patiently. ‘Look, Casey, sometimes a whisper goes out that so and so was responsible for some killing, or is on the gallop in England. Someone blabbing in Dublin or speculating in the Kesh. Nothing is ever confirmed, and even that happens rarely now. Security is much tighter. Other sources can be Army Headquarters in Lisburn or the RUC at Knock, but they need a reason for telling you and you* never know what it is. Let’s say at best their information is likely to be unreliable.’

‘And there’s no one else?’ It sounded like a dead end.

‘Well, if there’s something you want to know about the Provies that they or the authorities can’t or won’t tell you, the best people to ask are their sworn enemies. One of the illegal Protestant gangs, the UFF, the UVF or the Red Hand Commandos.’

‘Could I speak to them?’

‘They might not want to speak to you. If anything they distrust journos more than the Provies. Feel the media’s never given them a fair show. You should be warned, they’re a dangerous bunch. If the Provies don’t like what you print, they’re likely to shrug it off, try to win you over another day. If you upset the Prods, they might just shoot you.’

Casey felt the clammy fingers of apprehension crawl up her spine. ‘I’d still like to give it a try. Do you know someone?’

Keefe stared at the windscreen for a moment. ‘There is a face. At least he might let you pose the question, even if he won’t give you an answer.’

‘Who’s he with?’

‘That would be telling.’ Keefe took the mobile telephone from his pocket and punched in a number. After a long wait he said:

‘Billy? — Gerard here. How’s it going? Good. Listen, I’ve a couple of friends with me. Journos over from London. One’s a very pretty American lass with gorgeous legs. Digging the dirt on the other side. I was wondering if you’d be willing…?’

Mercs leaned over towards the back seat. ‘This is not a good idea. Let’s drop it, eh?’

‘No, Eddie.’ She touched his arm. ‘But I don’t expect you to come along if you don’t want to.’

‘God knows what trouble you’ll get into if I don’t.’ He shook his head unhappily. ‘And who was it promised she’d be no trouble? I should have guessed.’

Keefe said: ‘That’s settled.’ He put away his mobile. ‘You’ve got an audience with King Billy. It was the gorgeous legs that sold him.’

Casey laughed. ‘Wasn’t that just the slightest bit sexist. When he finds out the truth, maybe it’ll be you who gets shot.’

Keefe turned back, making an obvious point of looking at her knees. ‘Oh, I don’t think King Billy will be disappointed, Casey, I really don’t.’

The heart of big Billy Baker’s kingdom was a nameless drinking club in the Ardoyne, not far from the Peace Line. It was just a short drive in Keefe’s ageing Toyota saloon. A dark street, the bulbs in the lampposts shattered so that no light was cast on the black-painted frontage. No one, Keefe pointed out, wanted to illuminate targets entering or leaving the premises.

Hardly had he applied the handbrake than the steel-reinforced door with its fisheye spyhole swung open. There was no light from the hallway and through the condensation of the car window, Casey was aware only of vague, fast-moving shapes as they were surrounded. All four doors were opened almost simultaneously, causing her to gasp with apprehension.

There was a slight quaver in Keefe’s voice. ‘Hello, Spike.’

‘Mr Keefe.’ The accent hard, the tone neutral. ‘I’ve told you before not to park outside.’

‘Not parking, Spike, just dropping off. Two visitors for King Billy. He’s expecting them.’

Casey was aware of the tension ebbing as she struggled to extract her long legs from the car and stand on the pavement. There were four of them. Sharp-featured young men, each one powerfully built and with his hair close-cropped.

Spike was the most muscular, pectorals and beergut straining against the rain-damp T-shirt. He also sported the shortest hair, razored to a dark bloom on his bullet head. His small fierce blue eyes looked her up and down, then switched warily to Eddie Mercs as the reporter stumbled awkwardly from the front passenger seat.

‘Follow me,’ Spike ordered.

She had expected Keefe to stay, not drive off into the night. Looking across the pavement, she could see that Mercs, too, shared her fear. Another of the young men placed his hand on her elbow, ushering her forward, following Spike’s swaggering gait as he melted into the darkness of the hallway. She heard the front door crash shut, the heavy-duty bolts sliding home.

Abruptly the blackout curtain was jerked aside and the light hurt her eyes. As her vision adjusted to the brightness, she became aware of the thumping beat from a jukebox.

The faces of the people seated at the small round tables turned in unison. Laughter and conversation died away. There were strangers in their midst.

Mostly young men, Casey noticed, just a few old-timers in flat caps propping up the bar. A Union flag was draped above the optics and a mural of a mounted William of Orange, bearing the legend No Surrender, covered the entire far wall. It was a spartan and unwelcoming place, with bare floorboards and smelling of ale and stale cigarette smoke.

She felt quite relieved to see that two teenage girls had been dancing around their handbags in front of the jukebox. A semblance of normality. The murmur of conversation began again.

Her relief, however, was short-lived as Spike passed behind the bar and through another steel-plated door. Was this King Billy’s fortress keep, she wondered, the bar acting as his moat if assassins breached the outer defences?

The stairs creaked underfoot as they climbed; a single bulb without a shade threw ragged shadows on the peeling wallpaper.

One door was open on the landing and they entered a small windowless room. It was empty except for a wooden table, a chair and a tattered doctor’s screen. Her fear returned, her stomach beginning to churn.

Spike jerked the screen open, dividing the room in two. ‘I’m going to have to ask you to strip off and be searched before we go in.’ He spoke without emotion, as though it were the most natural thing in the world. ‘Take one side each.’

Casey’s fear turned to sheer terror, but she did her best to hide it. ‘Can’t you just frisk us?’ she asked in a shaky voice.

‘We’re not looking for weapons.’

‘And if I refuse, does it mean I can’t see Mr Baker?’

‘Yes, lady, you can see him. But you’re journalists, right? So if you want him to talk about what we expect you want to talk about, you’re searched first.’ He waited for her to make her decision, adding: ‘If we’d more warning we’d have got a woman in to do this. Don’t worry, you’re safe enough.’ It was the nearest he came to apologising.

She glanced at Mercs. He’d made no attempt to undress and looked very uncomfortable.

Somehow, she wasn’t sure why, she trusted the man called Spike. In a very small voice she said: ‘All right.’

The young man indicated the table. ‘Take your things off and put them on there.’

Christ, this was terrifying! This was the sort of place you heard about in Ulster. A quiet backroom, the kangaroo court, tortured for information with a black hood over your head, then knee capped or murdered with a bullet in the back of the skull.

Her fingers were trembling so much she could scarcely undo the buttons of her blouse. Spike was already going through her handbag carefully, one of his companions checking Eddie Mercs’s jacket and wallet. At least they did not appear to be watching her.

Standing in her brassiere and American pantyhose, with tights and lacy black briefs combined, she clutched her hands to her chest and darted quickly forward, dumping her skirt, blouse and jacket on the desk.

Spike glanced up. ‘Everything please.’

He looked down again at what he was doing.

Taking a deep breath, she stripped naked, standing and feeling foolish with one hand at her crotch and the other inadequately attempting to hide her breasts.

Spike had finished checking the seams of her underwear and suddenly looked straight at her. She expected there to be a lascivious smirk on his face, a leer. But the face was almost frighteningly impassive. ‘Hands down and turn, slowly.’

Her eyes shut and she obeyed, experiencing the worst sense of fear and humiliation she had ever known.

Then it was over.

As disinterested as before, Spike moved her clothes back across the table top. ‘Get dressed.’

Dammit, she thought, he’s talking like a bloody doctor. It was unnerving. She dressed more quickly than she had ever done in her life, getting in a muddle in her desperation to pull on her pantyhose, snagging the nylon until it laddered the full length of one leg. Hot and uncomfortable, she finally felt a semblance of dignity return.

Mercs appeared from behind the screen, tucking his shirt into his waistband, and Spike was knocking on the door at the far side of the room. A gruff voice barked in response and the young minder turned the handle. ‘Your guests are here, Billy.’

They were shown in.

King Billy held court behind a huge battered desk in a dark room illuminated only by a green-shaded editor’s lamp. It lit up his huge frame, giving the impression that he was the only person there. Like a buddha, she thought, floating in the darkness. Only later, as her eyes adjusted, did she notice other things. There were two acolytes standing in the shadows behind him, hard-faced men in leather jackets. Over their heads on the wall were the colours of the local linfield Football Club. In a far corner of the room she noticed an array of banners, all neatly furled in a rack, and a monstrously large Lambeg drum.

‘Miss Mullins, Mr Mercs.’ The big man struggled to his feet, his belly straining against the desk edge as he reached across to shake their hands. His face was broad and blunt, the flattish nose curiously kinked where it had once been broken; his white hair was cropped and neat, his eyes the palest powder blue that Casey had ever seen. ‘Sit, sit, please.’

As he resumed his own seat, she saw he was wearing a loudly patterned kipper tie and a shirt with short sleeves from which his massive pink arms protruded like legs of ham.

Casey smiled uneasily. ‘I’m not sure whether to call you Your Highness or what?’

His laugh was like a volcano threatening eruption, a low rumbling roar from deep within the mountain of flesh, bubbling up to a wheezy chuckle in his throat. The sound was curious coming from such a pretty rosebud mouth. ‘Very good, Miss Mullins. But no, no, King Billy is just a nickname. The boys like to have their fun. Billy like William of Orange, see? Appropriate that, bit of a joke. Just call me Billy.’ He leaned back, grinning, the mirth subsiding. Then he appeared to notice her obvious nervousness. ‘Oh, sorry about that outside. It’s become routine nowadays, but we’re not used to ladies visiting. I trust the boys conducted themselves properly?’

‘Exemplarily,’ she said, wondering if he noticed her sarcasm. ‘But I don’t understand the reason.’

For a moment he looked embarrassed. ‘A few years ago that wouldn’t have been necessary, but we can no longer trust the British. Nowadays they’re always trying to get evidence against us Loyalist groups. There was one case, a woman — she was undercover for Special Branch — came to a meeting, the UVF I think, and recorded everything. Later they learned she’d had a highly sensitive microphone concealed — er,’ now his face was the colour of rare steak,’- between her legs, shall we say? Sorry. It was connected to an aerial wire fitted in her bra with a small battery. The conversation was recorded by an unmarked radio, van parked outside. Five good men were convicted.’

‘I see.’ It was just bizarre enough to be true. ‘But you know we’re friends of Gerard Keefe?’

Another throaty chuckle. ‘So is half of Belfast. And if you were a spy, Miss Mullins, you would hardly tell him, would you?’ He placed his hands in front of him, stretched out the plump fingers. ‘Now what is it you’d like to know?’

Suddenly it seemed a fatuous question to ask. Nevertheless that was her reason for being here. Taking a deep breath, she said: ‘Eddie here and I work for the Evening Standard. As you’re no doubt aware there has been a terrible bombing campaign run by the IRA in London. I’d like to know the identity of those bombers.’

His eyes were focused on her, unblinking. ‘Would you now?’

In the silence that followed, under King Billy’s skin-stripping stare, she felt foolish. Wished she’d kept her mouth shut. Then, suddenly, she thought of little Shirley and Gwen. Of Jock’s funeral and Les Appleyard lying in the Cambridge. She said with a defiance that surprised herself: ‘I should like to name the bombers in the press.’

The silence continued for a few more moments as the big man weighed something in his mind. Slowly he said: ‘It’s strange how Ulster can be bombed and blasted for over twenty years and no one on the mainland hardly notices. Then a few bangs in the precious capital and everyone sits up. Do you know why the taigs are bombing London?’

For the first time Eddie Mercs spoke. ‘It’s these talks Abe Powers has been having.’

King Billy nodded. ‘All the taigs ever want to do is destroy, Eddie, do you know that? Destroy the Ulster people, destroy democracy, destroy the Dublin Government if they could — and destroy the Abe Powers’ talks. Or, I don’t doubt, get a place at the table and hijack any agreement.’

‘I’m sure they won’t succeed,’ Casey said. ‘The British Government won’t give into terrorism.’

Cold humour glittered in King Billy’s eyes. ‘Is that what you think? Believe all that rhetoric, do you? Then what followed hard on the heels of the Brighton bombing at the Grand Hotel that damn near killed Prime Minister Thatcher? I’ll tell you, the Anglo-Irish Agreement, giving one sovereign state a say in the running of another country. It’s a world precedent. So the Provos saw the door ajar — just one more push. The Number Ten mortar attack, the City bombs. Then we get the Downing Street Declaration, pushing us inexorably towards Dublin. Each time the resolve of the government weakens. No, my friends, the Provisional IRA will destroy the talks and the hope for peace, or they will have their say. There are some pressures that no government can resist, no matter what they say. That is what terrorism is all about. And meanwhile we are left excluded. Our fate in the hands of others.’

‘We?’ Casey asked.

‘Let us say those of us of a more determined persuasion.’

‘You’ve got Protestant politicians.’ Mercs’s gruff voice intervened. ‘I can’t see them giving up without a fight.’

King Billy gave a derisory snort. ‘Abe Powers is in the chair. A known diehard Republican sympathiser. He’ll drive a tough bargain and our politicians will have to compromise.’

Mercs said: ‘How can they be said to have compromised if they’ve won. If Dublin renounces its claim on Northern Ireland, then the Orange Ulstermen have nothing to fear.’

‘That’s a worthless piece of paper!’ King Billy almost spat with venom. ‘The intent remains and always will. News from the talks is scarce, but I understand it’s all in the small print. Ulster will be left a political mish-mash, a vacuum, a nothing place, ripe for the Provisional IRA’s final takeover. Realpolitik is what counts, not articles written into constitutions.’

Casey frowned. ‘Do I gather you hate these talks almost as much as the IRA?’

King Billy glanced to one side to where Spike stood, his arms folded across his broad chest. The young man gave a respectfully knowing smirk. ‘You could say that. But, unlike the taigs, we are not working to destroy them. Our intention is to help, to take some pressure off the British Government.’

‘How?’

‘Like you, however difficult it will be — and it will — we intend to find the bombers.’

Mercs was puzzled. ‘What real good would it do you if the bombing stopped? What would you realistically stand to gain?’

King Billy hesitated in his reply, stared at his huge hands clumped on the desk, sniffed heavily, then looked directly at Mercs. ‘A place at the conference table. It’s what we deserve. Forget the politicians, we are the real voice of the Ulster people.’

Mercs grunted. ‘I think at least forty-three per cent of the population might disagree with you.’

Casey winced. She knew full well that Mercs considered King Billy and his ilk to be nothing more than racist thugs, no better and no worse than the Provisionals. This was not the place to make those views plain. Not in some dark, back-street building, alone and defenceless in the lion’s den.

But, to her surprise, King Billy just leaned back and smiled benignly as though he had heard such sentiments expressed a million times before. ‘Mr Mercs, do you know why we’re here?’

‘What you mean?’

‘Or you, dear American lady, whose compatriots seem to believe that the British are an army of occupation? Do you know why we — the Scottish Irish, as the Irish Irish would call us — are here in Ulster?’

Casey looked vague.

‘No doubt you’ve heard the disparaging jokes about history in Ireland being as close as yesterday? Two points you must never forget. The first settlers in Ireland in the Stone Age — caveman days — were the Cruthin, Nordic peoples in search of warmer climes. The taigs — the Celts who claim Ireland as their own didn’t arrive until the Iron Age. Came from central Europe. That’s a gap of five thousand years. We, the Protestant Scots originally came from Northern Ireland anyway and returned to resettle a mere two thousand years later in Tudor times — a blink in history by comparison. Henry the Eighth had a row with Rome over his bigamous habits, you’ll recall, and introduced the Reformation. In Ireland, steeped in Catholicism through historical chance, this was resisted and proved to be a thorn in his side.’

Casey blinked as she listened to this most weird of history lessons coming from Big King Billy. Her knowledge of the period was scant, learned mostly from Hollywood movies. Nevertheless she was intrigued.

‘Then under Henry’s daughter, Elizabeth the First, the Catholic chieftains in Ulster tried to forge an alliance with England’s oldest and bitterest enemy, Catholic Spain! The Spanish even sent a small armada, thank God defeated by the English.

‘Is it any surprise the English began their so-called “plantation programme”? Land ir the north was confiscated from the taigs and tens of thousands of Scots and English were encouraged to settle. And we’ve been here longer than the Virginian settlers have been in America — since 1607. They’ve got their bit and we’ve got ours. The trouble is, they want it all.’

Mercs said darkly: ‘Maybe London thinks there’d be less hassle iftheyhadit.’

King Billy didn’t answer immediately. He reached forward and tilted his green-shaded lamp to shine on the wall above his head. There was a water-stained sepia print: rows of young men, all in khaki and most with drooping moustaches, standing woodenly as they stared at the camera. ‘One of those is my grandda. Richie Baker of the 36th (Ulster) Division. Won the ME. Died, alongside two thousand fellow Ulstermen who volunteered to fight for the Crown, on the first of July 1916. The Battle of the Somme. That is our blood bond with Britain.’ He paused to let his audience understand the significance of his words. ‘And what were the IRA doing at this time? The Easter Rising against British rule in Dublin, that’s what! With arms supplied by the Kaiser — although these were thankfully intercepted.

‘Is it any surprise that when the Free State was formed in 1921, the sacrifice of my father and the others was rewarded with the right to remain British?’

‘But the Irish never accepted that,’ Mercs pointed out.

‘Sinn Fein and the other diehards never have. I told you, they want it all. And if proof were needed of the taigs’ continued treachery, when the Second World War came and Britain was fighting for its life, for the survival of free Europe, Ireland declared itself neutral. Bloody neutral! And here in Ulster the IRA were showing torches from the rooftops to guide the Luftwaffe bombers onto Belfast!’ He shook his head as though he couldn’t believe his own story.

Casey tried to lighten the atmosphere; it was so heavy with hatred, it was almost tangible. ‘But surely there have been times of peace? Can’t you see a way of living together without violence?’

‘There’s never been peace. Miss Mullins. The IRA’s presence has always been there like a guttering candle that won’t go out. But you’re right, there was a time at the start of these troubles in the early seventies. I admit we’d been a bit hard on the taigs keeping them out of local politics and the best jobs — and I think we felt some guilt. The “Civil Rights movement pricked more than a few consciences until it was hijacked by the IRA.’

‘Was your conscience pricked, Billy?’ Mercs asked innocently.

The big man laughed, a patronising laugh that he reserved for those who didn’t understand. ‘Not all Proddies were rich, middle-class and privileged, Eddie. I lived in what you would call a slum with no inside privy. Left school at fifteen to work as a stager at Harland and Wolff until my back gave up. My simple life evolved around supporting the Blues at football and playing the drum for the local Orange flute band. The taig kids used to walk past our house on their way to their good schools in their neat fancy uniforms. They moaned about living in the Divis Flats, yet my ma would have given her right arm to live in one of those modern flats. No, Eddie, the taigs didn’t look so hard done by to me.’ His smile melted away as if it had never been. Now the grim authoritarian face of the feudal chieftain had returned. ‘They’ve done their best to destroy our cities and now they’re out to destroy yours. We’re on the same side, Eddie, fighting the common enemy.’

Casey leaned forward earnestly. ‘So will you, can you, help us?’

‘Where are you staying?’

‘The Park Avenue.’

‘And I’ll want your home addresses in England.’

She felt her fear return in a rush. ‘Why?’

‘To check you out.’

Mercs thought, Jolly King Billy wants insurance. Cross him and one day you’ll answer the door to a gunman’s bullet. Reluctantly he put pen to paper and watched as Casey did the same.

‘No promises,’ King Billy said grimly, then his face lightened a little. ‘And No Surrender.’

At that moment there came the sound of footsteps from outside the room and a hurried knocking at the door. One of Spike’s fellow henchmen pushed his way in. ‘Sorry to interrupt, Billy. Thought you’d want to know. I’ve just heard it on the radio. Something big is going down in London!’

Casey froze.