out your weapon, aim and fire in one, maybe two, seconds. With the best will in the world your aim is going to be all over the place. One shot might not cut it. Even two. You’re going to have to keep firing until the guy’s dead to have any hope of beating the clock.’
Cramer smiled thinly. In the old days SAS troopers who died in action were listed on plaques on the Regimental Clock Tower. When the SAS barracks and headquarters were rebuilt in 1984, the plaques were moved to outside the Regimental Chapel, but beating the clock still meant staying alive. Cramer realised that Allan wasn’t aware of the irony of his statement — that Cramer stood absolutely no chance of beating the clock.
Allan walked up to the target. ‘Your accuracy went to pot. Look at this.’
Cramer joined him by the cardboard target. He was right. One of the shots had hit the target in the head, and while most were still in the heart area, there was a much bigger spread than before. ‘Yeah, I see what you mean,’ Cramer said. At least three of the shots weren’t stoppers. ‘So we’re going to keep practising, right?’
Allan shook his head. ‘You’ll be practising, I’ll be watching.’
Cramer went back to the table and picked up a fresh clip. On the floor there stood a stack of boxes containing fresh rounds. Hundreds and hundreds of rounds.
Davie Quinn carried the tray of drinks over to the table and put it down in front of his brother. He handed one of the pints of Harp lager to Paulie and placed the glasses in front of the two bleached blondes. They’d been drinking with the girls for the best part of a couple of hours and Davie was having trouble remembering their names. ‘And Malibu and pineapple juice for the ladies,’ he said, sliding the tray behind his chair with a flourish.
‘Thanks,’ said the taller of the two blondes, a typist who Davie seemed to remember was called Noreen. Her friend, he was reasonably sure, was Laura, and she was unemployed, like most of the girls Davie knew. Davie and Paulie had met the girls three pubs ago, and they’d been happy to tag along with the brothers, so long as they didn’t have to buy their own drinks. The girls were pretty enough and good fun, and it looked as if they’d be happy to go the whole way. Laura certainly was, she’d allowed Davie to put his hand halfway up her skirt and once, when Noreen had gone to the Ladies and Paulie was at the bar buying another round of drinks, she’d stuck her tongue in his mouth and damn near suffocated him. She gave him a beaming smile and raised her glass to her lips. Davie winked at Paulie, encouraging him to try to enjoy himself.
Davie had taken his brother out in an attempt to cheer him up. They’d walked for the best part of four hours before hitching a ride with a delivery van which was heading for Belfast. They were cold, wet and miserable and the driver had taken pity on them, offering to share his flask of chicken soup. The man had been curious as to why they were hitching without any bags and Davie had spun him a story about having a row with their girlfriends, adding that the girls had dumped them outside a country pub and taken the car. The man had laughed uproariously at that, showing a mouthful of nicotine-stained teeth.
They’d waited in until early evening, but Pat O’Riordan hadn’t got in contact. Davie decided there was nothing to be gained by staying at home so he’d persuaded his younger brother to go out for a drink. Just a quick one, that had been the original plan, but then they’d met the girls.
Paulie was nursing his lager, his head down as if in prayer. Davie decided that Paulie had had enough to drink and that it would soon be time to call it a night. Laura put down her glass. There was a greasy smear of lipstick around the rim that matched the colour of her fingernails. Davie couldn’t take his eyes off the nails, they were the longest he’d ever seen and he kept imagining how they’d feel scraping along his back. ‘You ready to go soon?’ asked Laura, brushing her long, blonde hair behind her ears.
‘Go where?’ asked Davie.
‘My parents are down South. Visiting my uncle in Cork.’
‘Really?’ Davie couldn’t believe his luck.
‘Yeah, they won’t be back until tomorrow night.’ Her leg pressed against his under the table.
Davie sent up a silent prayer of thanks to whichever saint was watching over him that night. ‘Come on, Paulie, drink up,’ he said.
Paulie didn’t look up. ‘He’s pissed, bless him,’ said Noreen.
A can rattled by Davie’s ear and he looked around. A teenager with red hair and a straggly moustache was holding the can and he pushed it forward, almost under Davie’s nose. ‘For the Cause,’ he said. Davie shoved his hand into the pocket of his jeans and pulled out a fifty pence piece. He dropped it into the can and the teenager waved it in front of Paulie. Paulie struggled to focus on it. ‘For the Cause,’ the teenager repeated.
‘Fuck off, we’ve done our bit for the Cause today,’ said Paulie.
The teenager rattled the can again. There was a paper tricolour on it, orange, white and green, and the letters IRA stencilled on it with black ink.
‘I said fuck off. We already gave.’ Paulie sat up, his eyes bloodshot and watery. ‘We almost died for the Cause today, we almost fucking died.’
Realising he wasn’t going to get a donation from Paulie, the teenager moved to another table. A thin man in his early twenties, wearing faded jeans and a black leather motorcycle jacket, dropped several coins into the can without looking up. ‘What do you mean, you almost died?’ asked Noreen, her curiosity piqued.
‘Nothing,’ said Davie quickly. ‘He doesn’t mean nothing.’ He leant forward and pushed a warning finger in front of his brother’s face. ‘Just shut the fuck up.’
Paulie grabbed the finger and shook it solemnly. ‘Okay, Davie. Mum’s the word.’
Davie glared at his younger brother and picked up his pint of lager. He drained it and put the empty glass down. ‘I’m taking him home,’ he said.
‘What about. .?’ said Laura, but Davie ignored her and pulled his brother to his feet.
‘Maybe some other time,’ he said.
Laura looked at him pleadingly. ‘Look, why don’t we help you take Paulie home, then you can come back with me.’ She flicked her hair to the side, knowing that it was her best feature. She flashed her blue eyes. Her second best feature.
Davie succumbed to her charms. ‘Okay,’ he agreed.
‘Great,’ said Laura. She picked up her handbag, then helped Davie half carry his brother to the door. Noreen followed, walking unsteadily on white stiletto heels.
As the Quinn brothers left the pub, the man in the motorcycle jacket finished his pint of Guinness, picked up his newspaper and waved goodnight to the barman.
Stepping into the cold air, the man looked left and right, then walked slowly down the street, slapping the newspaper against his leg and whistling softly. He stopped to look into the window of a shoe shop and bent to stare at a pair of brown leather cowboy boots, using the reflections in the glass to confirm that he wasn’t being followed. The street was clear. Somewhere off in the distance a bottle smashed, and from high overhead came the clatter of an unseen helicopter, but other than that he could have been alone in the city.
Robbie Kirkbride, ‘Sandy’ to his colleagues in the army’s 14th Intelligence Company, had been working undercover in Belfast for seven months, doing little more than sign on the dole and hang around the city’s pubs, picking up tidbits here and there, a name, a face, scraps of information that the experts in the Intelligence and Security Group would hopefully be able to use to put together the bigger picture, biding his time until he felt confident enough to infiltrate the lower echelons of the IRA. Ceasefire or no ceasefire, the army was continuing to gather intelligence on the organisation, in the same way that the IRA was continuing to collate information on possible targets. Both sides were determined to be ready should violence restart.
On the way to the telephone box he dropped his paper and as he bent down to pick it up he checked behind him one last time. Still clear. He went into the call box and dialled the number of his controller.
Cramer, Allan and the Colonel sat in the dining room with cups of coffee in front of them. Cramer was dog- tired, both his hands ached from the constant firing practice and his ears were ringing. During his six-week close quarter battle training course in the Killing House in Hereford he’d fired more than a thousand rounds a day, but there was a world of difference between close quarter battle training and standing in front of a target, firing a handgun at arm’s length.
‘So how did he do?’ the Colonel asked Allan.
‘Just fine,’ said Allan. He’d changed into khaki Chinos and a white T-shirt which emphasised his weightlifter’s forearms. ‘Tomorrow we’ll see how he gets on with the smaller guns.’
‘Am I missing something here?’ asked Cramer. It was the first he’d heard of using a different gun. He’d