A Real Job (2 page)

Death comes to us all in the end, but Detective Constable Steve Adams didn’t think it would come knocking so early in his life. Twenty-two years of age and only two months into his posting with Special Branch, at times Steve’s keenness to make a good impression bordered on recklessness. Being his first operation investigating four experienced targets of the Provisional IRA’s English Brigade planning to attack locations on mainland Britain, he knew the obs spot he volunteered to take was the most dangerous. Nestling behind a set of well established rhododendron bushes in the large back garden of an Edwardian built detached house, owned by an Irish republican sympathiser, unseen by the targets, there was the added peril of being out of sight of his colleagues.

The four targets were not his immediate concern. Deafening bursts of static interrupting the constant radio traffic from his colleagues caused Steve to snatch the small receiver out of his ear. Replacing it, the radio went eerily silent. Frantically turning the channel changer back and forth to see if anyone could pick up his transmissions, Steve’s concentration switched from observing the targets to desperately getting his only lifeline to work. Ignoring the rule of not transmitting from his position unless he could draw his weapon and safely relay to other members of the team movement from the targets, Steve’s voice raised incrementally with each radio check. Cut off from his colleagues, the solitude increased his anxiety.

Unaware of two pairs of hands reaching through the bushes towards him, in frustration Steve started tapping the radio. Suddenly aware of a rustling sound, before he could react two men grabbed him and dragged Steve out from his hiding place. Being in the darkest part of the garden, he could not see who it was. Caught by surprise, Steve began pulling back. With the men’s combined strength being greater, he couldn’t stop being kicked behind the knees. Causing him to fall, Steve made out the figure of a third man standing directly in front of him who started laughing as he said, ‘Just where we were told the fucker would be.’ Still too dark for Steve to make out who it was, the distinctive Belfast accent confirmed it was one of the four targets. Before he realised how life threatening this situation was, Steve’s world went black.

Consciousness slowly returning, distant incoherent sounds became louder and clearer as simultaneously a pain in his head became sharper. Slowly opening his eyes, Steve found himself lying on his side on the patio at the rear of the house. Remembering what had just happened, a power surge went through his body as his senses were heightened to the extreme. The limited light coming from the open back door leading from the patio to the kitchen confirmed it was three of the Irish targets who found Steve. With Sean McCrossan holding him down, straining his neck, Steve looked up to see Pat Quinn standing over him looking at something in his hand. Rory O’Byrne was stood next to him holding Steve’s Special Branch issue Berretta Cougar pistol. The throbbing pain in his head told Steve he took a blow rendering him unconscious during which time they must have searched him. Having been dragged across the lawn to the rear patio, Steve remembered from the operation’s briefing this was a blind spot to the neighbouring houses. Quinn looked at the pistol. ‘That’s Special Branch issue alright,’ he said handing it back to O’Byrne, ‘and just like our man said, this fucker’s warrant card says he’s in Greater Manchester Police.’ Quinn started kicking Steve’s back as he spoke, ‘So Stephen fucking Adams from Special Branch, we know you’re not alone. Where are the other peelers?’

When Quinn stopped kicking him, Steve said nothing. The shock at hearing someone from Special Branch was passing information on to the Provisionals partly anaesthetised his discomfort. Taking his cue from Steve’s silence, O’Byrne started kicking him and said, ‘Yer man here asked you a question. Now fucking answer it. Where are the other peelers?’

Looking up, he saw Quinn with his head slightly to one side gesturing he was impatiently waiting for an answer. This was the closest he had been to the Irishman. Ignoring the pain, Steve was momentarily fascinated at the hardness ingrained in Quinn’s facial features making the Irishman looked much older than twenty-five. ‘I’m not waiting all fucking night,’ Quinn said, once more kicking Steve at the base of his spine, ‘where’s the other peelers that’s watching the house?’

With fear causing Steve’s stomach to churn, he felt physically sick. Knowing the Provisional IRA saw themselves as soldiers in the fight for Irish freedom, at the thought of being the next casualty in this war he began baulking. Now in a fight for his life, with bile he brought up dribbling from his mouth, his mind raced as to how he could get out of this situation. With Quinn continuing to kick him, Steve sensed McCrossan ease his grip on him. With his primeval will to live enhanced by the betrayal, he gathered a strength he never knew he had. Rolling away from McCrossan, Steve started getting to his knees. Being the first of the three to react, Quinn brought the officer’s resistance to a swift end. Pushing past O’Byrne, he quickly stepped over to Steve, pistol whipping him before he could get onto his feet. As a loud thud reverberated in Steve’s head, it was followed by a sharp pain and a loss of control of his limbs.

Knocking him semi-conscious, being repeatedly punched about the head and body forced the conscious half to frantically but incoherently work overtime as the instinct to survive kicked in. Unable to think clearly, the shouts of his captors became inaudible to Steve’s ears. Helplessly groping around on the patio’s paving stones, the blow to his head seemed to cut off the signals his brain was sending to his legs. On his knees and scrabbling to pick himself up, Steve’s hair was violently pulled back. Struggling to overcome the fuzziness in his head he sensed something sticky trickling down the back of his neck. Reaching out to see what it was Steve’s hand was forcefully pulled down by his side. Slowly, the myriad of flashing yellow dots punctuating his sight disappeared allowing him to see more clearly the stark reality facing him. ‘I’m losing my patience with you Mister Adams,’ Quinn said pointing a pistol at Steve’s head, ‘You’re fucking going nowhere. So stop fucking us about and tell us how many other peelers are watching the fucking house?’

With the clipped Belfast accent enhancing Steve’s fear, as terror gripped his body numbness replaced the pain. Opening his mouth slowly, in a quiet drawl Steve, said, ‘The others have gone. There’s only me here.’

McCrossan kicked Steve viciously in the ribs. Clutching his side, the detective let out a cry as he fell from the patio onto the cold, damp grass. Repeatedly kicking Steve with such force it lifted the officer’s torso off the ground, he shouted, ‘You’re a fucking liar.’

‘Leave him Sean. We’ll get nothing out of him that way,’ O’Byrne said, raising the officer back to his knees.

Placing the tip of the pistol’s barrel against Steve’s left temple, Quinn said, ‘I fucking warned you, don’t piss us about, where’s the other peelers?’ The two men looked at each other. As Quinn slowly pulled back the pistol’s hammer his piercing stare betrayed an indifference if the officer lived. ‘This is your last chance. If you don’t fucking tell us, I’ll blow your fucking head off.’

Knowing it would cost him his life, he was determined not to give them any information regarding the whereabouts of his colleagues. Looking up once more at Quinn then glancing over at the shorter but more stocky built McCrossan who was holding a revolver by his side, Steve tried to work out which one was going to carry out the summary execution. As he did, uncontrollable tears started trickling down his face. Annoyed at showing weakness in front of his adversaries Steve tried to remain dignified. Bowing his head, he closed his eyes and mouthed silently to the mental picture of his wife and daughter, ‘I love you.’

Two shots rang out.

Quinn’s body fell on Steve. Amazed he was still alive, he opened his eyes. Pushing the lifeless body off him two more shots quickly followed. Looking up, he saw McCrossan fall to the ground clutching his stomach, dropping his pistol on the lawn. Three bright orange flashes briefly lit up the unseasonably cold autumn darkness as more shots were fired towards O’Byrne who was running away towards the back of the garden. Vaulting over the garden wall, he disappeared out of view.

‘Stevey, are you alright?’ a familiar voice shouted. The Liverpool accent that at times grated on Steve’s nerves was now one of the most pleasing sounds he had ever heard. Shaking uncontrollably, continuous waves of relief were sweeping through his body. Gathering his senses he saw Detective Constable David Hurst standing over Quinn.

‘Fuck me, you cut that fine,’ Steve said struggling to get to his feet while looking at the lifeless Quinn who, only moments earlier was prepared to take the officer’s life, ‘a few seconds more and they would’ve killed me.’

‘I knew something was wrong when you didn’t answer the
radio,’ David said. With both hands on his pistol’s grip, fearing he could still be a threat to their safety he was running to the back of the garden to search for O’Byrne.

Not able to forget the words “we were told” and “our man was right”, David’s words didn’t register with Steve who shouted out angrily, ‘They knew I was here, they fucking knew.’

Stood at the garden wall David Hurst momentarily stopped looking for O’Byrne. ‘They knew?’ he said looking at Steve in disbelief, ‘How the fuck did they know?’

‘One of them said they were told exactly where I was and that I was Special Branch. Someone from our side tipped the bastards off we’re here.’

‘Are you saying it was one of ours?’ David asked with a tone of incredulity as he continued to search the area at the rear of the garden.

Steve didn’t answer. Standing in the middle of the garden he was too relieved to be alive. The fact it was still a dangerous situation as two of the four targets were unaccounted for eluded him. Emotions running wild, the thought he nearly died because one of their own was passing on intelligence to the Provisional IRA was becoming too much for his shattered nerves to contemplate.

The thick clouds allowed only limited moonlight to filter through enhancing the darkness of the night making it harder for David to look for O’Byrne. Unable to find him, as the fourth member of this terrorist cell was still unaccounted for David ignored his gut reaction to tend to Steve, ‘Where’s McElvaney?’ he said looking back at the house.

‘I don’t know. He most probably ran out the front of the house after hearing the gunfire.’

‘You could be right. We’d better be careful he doesn’t come back. If he meets up with O’Byrne and comes back, they won’t be too happy I took out two of theirs,’ David said walking over to Steve. Guiding his close friend to the edge of the patio, using the light coming from the open kitchen door he looked at Steve and said, ‘Jesus! You’re face is a fucking mess and you’re bleeding like a stuck pig at the back of your head. Are you OK?’

Steve placed his hand to the back of his head. Feeling the area around his blood matted hair, he touched the wound. Being tender he winced. Looking at the blood he smeared on his hand from the cut, Steve said, ‘They whacked me over the head a couple of times after they found me, then I got a good kicking.’ The adrenaline in his body began to ebb causing him to incrementally feel pain all over his body. Placing his hand on his ribcage Steve said, ‘I think they’re broke.’

‘Pat, did you kill the fucking peeler?’ a voice shouted from inside the kitchen.

Raising his pistol, David turned in an instant to see a man inside the kitchen approaching the back door leading straight onto the rear patio. Six foot tall and in his early twenties with distinctive blonde hair, the officer instantly recognised Daniel McElvaney. On hearing the shots, the Irishman thought it was his comrades killing the police officer they had been tipped off was watching them. This fourth member of the terrorist cell had not gone out of the front of the house as Steve suspected. He was stood in the doorway, his right hand behind his back.

‘Armed police! Stand still. If you don’t do as I say you’ll be joining your mates lying here,’ David shouted training his pistol at the tall Irishman. He couldn’t tell, but assumed McElvaney was armed. An assumption enhanced at not being able to see the Irishman’s right hand. Annoyed at his sloppiness in accepting Steve’s word, the word of a man who was not thinking straight, David knew he should have looked for McElvaney before tending to Steve. With McElvaney’s gaze fixed on the detective’s Berretta pistol pointing at him, David shouted out, ‘Slowly, bring you right hand from behind your back.’

Weighing up his options, McElvaney stayed rigid. Beyond David he saw two of his comrades lying on the floor. It dawned on him he couldn’t rush the officer or make any sudden movement without being shot. McElvaney’s inactivity seemed like an eternity. His patience wearing thin, David shouted, ‘Do as I fucking say or I’ll kill you as well.’

‘OK, OK, don’t shoot,’ McElvaney shouted back, trying to make sure the officer could not see his right hand fidgeting behind his back above the belt of his denim jeans.

‘Do as I say and I won’t?’ David shouted back.

‘I can see I’m fucking going nowhere. I’ll do as you say,’ McElvaney said hoping the officer would momentarily drop his guard.

‘Slowly, bring your right hand from behind your back with the palm facing me.’

Able to hold the grip of the point thirty five revolver tucked into the back of his denims, McElvaney drew the weapon. Bringing it from behind his back, it glistened briefly in the kitchen light.

Seeing he was armed David’s automatic instinct to open fire kicked in. As he had been watching the Irishman’s right hand, David’s aim had dropped slightly. Missing McElvaney’s arm by millimetres the Irishman dropped the revolver. Knowing the police were trained to give a double tap, he immediately threw his hands up in the air just as David was about to squeeze the trigger for a second time.

In a fraction of a second David had raised his pistol and was aiming it squarely at McElvaney’s chest as he was about to take the second shot. Resisting the temptation to take the shot, David’s discipline and training was stronger than his instinct. ‘You fucking bastard! Keep your hands up and slowly take five paces towards me onto the patio,’ David said as part of him wanted McElvaney to make a sudden movement so he could kill him. Knowing the killing would not be murder because he would have acted in self-defence, he warned McElvaney, ‘One sudden movement from you, you twat and you’ll be definitely joining your two fucking mates.’