Pray for Us Sinners (11 page)

“
Ohm mane padme ohm,
” he intoned solemnly. The smile in his hazel eyes, reflected in the glass, gave the lie to his gloomy voice. He didn't mind the length of his hair. He just wished that this Mike Roberts character was a man of more fastidious habits.

Marcus Richardson spoke to his reflection: “Mike Roberts, you're a right heap of shit, so y'are.” His accent was thick County Down. Norn Irn.

It had taken time to work into his new persona—Mike Roberts, the man in the green ring binder—but it had been fun. No, he corrected himself, a wee lad from Bangor would never talk about “fun.” It was powerful
craic
, so it was—so far. This finals business? He wondered if it could be any worse than the “render safe procedure” he'd had to take at Longmoor before graduating. They'd given him a real sod of a parcel bomb to deal with.

He buttoned his shirt and trotted down the stairs. He looked at the briefing materials strewn around the small living room, a far cry from the tidy heaps that John had left on the first day. So much to have learned in so short a time.

In the kitchen an electric clock hanging crookedly on the beige-painted wall made a wheezing noise. It always did that just before the hour, and the noise irritated him. Five to eight. John wouldn't be here for another two hours. Marcus hadn't had anything to eat yet, and eating would help to pass the time. Until finals.

He sat at the kitchen counter, spreading butter on the cut surface of a triangular piece of soda bread. A wee cup of tea in his hand and a bit of soda farl and butter. That's what Mike would fancy. He'd like the soda bread fried with bacon and eggs. Mike was a grand man for the pan.

Mike Roberts. Same initials, and Mike sounded like Marc, the diminutive used by his friends. Convenient that the real Mike Roberts from Bangor was on a rig somewhere away to hell and gone, north of a place called Fort McMurray, Alberta. Marc and Mike. Initials, birthplace, and familiarity with explosives. That was where any true similarities stopped.

The rest of Roberts's background was very different from Marcus's. Roberts was a Catholic, but Marcus felt uncomfortable reciting the phrases of the Mass. Roberts's tastes, according to the briefing notes, were coarse: fish and chips, which he probably chewed with his mouth open; beer; soccer; betting on the horses; dances at Caproni's in Bangor on a Saturday night. He'd left school at sixteen.

Roberts was not the sort of man a British army officer would meet socially. Which posed the question, How had the major known about him? Marcus had asked, a couple of weeks ago, but the major had deflected the question with a dismissive, “Don't worry about it. You'll just have to trust me.” The funny thing was, once he overcame his initial anger and a feeling of being used, Marcus had come to trust John Smith. He looked forward to their daily sessions and enjoyed the man's company.

Smith was straight as a die. Not one bit hesitant about giving a tongue-lashing if a task had not been completed to his satisfaction. Marcus thought of his father. He was a perfectionist, too. One thing about the major, though, he was generous with his praise for a job well done.

John had said last night that if Mike passed this final test, he would be told the exact nature of his mission and, within a couple of days, would be in action. It was about time. He just hoped that all of this was going to be worth it.

It certainly would be if John kept his promise, once this was over, to arrange for Marcus's acceptance on a Special Air Service Regiment aptitude course. He knew how tough the SAS selection process was but was confident he could pass. He'd have to. If he didn't, he'd be back in the bomb-disposal business, and he was quite sure now that he could live without that particular job.

He knew even at the time he'd chosen bomb disposal that he'd been unsure of his reasons. Proving to himself that he could conquer his fears was all very well, but not at the price of having his head blown off. He'd been lucky he'd not been closer to the blue van with the bomb.

*   *   *

“Morning, Mike.”

“Morning, John.” Marcus looked up from his reading as the major stood aside to let a stranger precede him into the living room. The man wore cavalry twill trousers, a striped shirt, and an old khaki battle-dress blouse. He was short, compact, and slouched. He needed a shave and his brown hair was cut in an unfashionable crew cut. His head was wet. He must not have been wearing a hat. Marcus tried to guess the man's age. Forty? Forty-five?

His thin lips were set at twenty past eight. The stranger folded his arms and examined Marcus, looking at him as a butcher might look at prime beef before deciding precisely where to cut.

The major lit a cigarette. “Pity neither you nor the real Roberts smoke. It's a handy way to meet people in pubs—cadge a fag, offer one.”

Marcus smiled. “I tried one once. Bloody near thew up.” He could tell by his nod that the major approved of the use of Belfast vernacular: “thew” for “threw.”

The major said, “Now, Mike, when you're on the street trying to find out anything you think might be useful, the opposition will be finding out about you. Newcomers always get the once-over.” He paused. “We think there's a fair chance they might try to recruit you into the Provos. An explosives expert, just back from Canada, unknown to the Security Forces, would be too good to miss. But your cover story has to fool them completely.” He raised one eyebrow. “Some of those chaps might appear a bit dense, but they're not stupid, and if they do suspect, you'll find yourself in very deep difficulties.”

The other man grunted. “Aye, and you'd not like that.” His Belfast accent was so thick as to be almost incomprehensible. “We don't like touts, so we don't.”

“We?” Marcus played the eye-contact-dominance game.

The major explained. “My friend Fred here was with the Provos.”

The man continued to stare.

Marcus looked away.

The major drew on his cigarette. “If they do go after you, boy, it won't be name, rank, and serial number and cite the Geneva Convention. You'll have to be able to persuade some very hard men that you really are who you claim to be, or—”

“If they don't think you're dangerous,” Fred snarled, “you'll get a six-pack—bullets in the elbows, knees, and ankles.” He pointed one index finger at his own temple. The fingernails were bitten to the quick. “If they decide you're a bad fucker,” he snapped his thumb forward, “head job.” He gave no inflection to the matter-of-fact remark.

“So,” said the major, crushing out his cigarette, rising, and walking round the table to stand behind Marcus, “Fred here is going to interrogate you. He's the IO of Second Battalion.”

Marcus took a deep breath. He must now become Mike Roberts, in name and in character.

Fred moved his chair closer. “Do you know why you're here?”

“Aye. Your other fellow,” Mike nodded his head back to where the major stood, “said you wanted to ask me a few questions.”

“Does that not bother you?”

“Not at all. Fire away.” He lounged in the chair. No reason for an innocent man to be tense.

“Name?”

“Mike Roberts.”

“How long have you lived in Belfast?”

“Three weeks.”

“Where were you before that?”

“Canada. I worked on the oil rigs. Money was terrific, so it was.”

“Where were you from before Canada?”

“Bangor.”

Fred picked up a file. “Says here you grew up in Four Victoria Road. That's up by Ward Park?”

Mike laughed. “Not at all. It's at the start of Seacliff Road, just across from Billy Caulfield's rowboats. There's a sandstone-capped seawall. Turn left, past Barry's Amusements, the Palladium, High Street, Luchi's, The Boulevard.”

“Roberts. When I want a conducted tour I'll ask. Just answer the fucking questions.” There was a sibilant tone in Fred's voice. “Mother's name?”

“Jean. She was killed when I was wee.” He let his voice hold a tinge of sorrow. Not difficult when he thought of his real mother, who believed him dead.

Fred rammed his bristly head forward and spat, “How long have you been working for the Brits?”

Mike jerked backward. “What?” Don't get rattled, he told himself. “Away off and feel your head.”

“Say the first two lines of the Hail Mary.”

“Hail Mary, full of Grace, the Lord is with Thee; Blessed art Thou amongst women, and blessed is the Fruit of Thy womb, Jesus.” Mike crossed himself.

“What killed Jane?”

“Tarzan, for all I know. Who the fuck's Jane?”

“Your mother.”

“I already told you her name was Jean. Jean. Are you deaf or stupid?”

Fred's eyes narrowed. Spittle flecked his lips as he shouted, “Don't you call me stupid, you wee shite.” He leaned forward and stabbed Mike's chest with a rigid index finger. “Do you know what kind of trouble you're in?”

Mike began to rise. He remembered what Captain Warnock had said, not to be afraid to show anger to an interrogator, as an innocent man certainly would. “Shit. I don't have to take”—he felt hands force him back into the chair and a voice from behind saying, “But you do, son.”

He squirmed but couldn't turn. The pressure of the grip on his collarbones was painful. He was surprised by the major's strength.

Fred calmed down as suddenly as he had exploded. “I'll ask you again. How long have you been working for the Brits?”

“I'm not.” He let his feigned cockiness evaporate. “Honest to God. I'm not.”

Fred looked in the file. “Where've you been for the last nine years?”

“Canada. My da took me and my two brothers out there—”

“Mrs. Kildare, number 6, Victoria Road, says you were a great lad for a song when you were wee. Says you knew every word of ‘The Cruise of the Calabar.'”

Mike said nothing.

“Give us a verse or two.”

“Ah, come on…”

“Now!”

Mike coughed, cast his mind back to the pages of the students' songbook, and sang,

Come all you dry land sailors and listen to my song.

It's only a hundred verses so I won't detain you long.

It's about the adventures of this …

The punch rocked his head back. The scar on his lower lip burst, filling his mouth with the coppery taste of blood. Fred stood over him, file open in one hand, accusatory finger pointing. “You, you miserable cunt, you're not Mike Roberts. You're Lieutenant Marcus Richardson, Royal Army Ordnance Corps.”

The stinging blow had momentarily scrambled his mind, but he mumbled past the pain of his split lip. “I'm not. I'm not.” He felt his eyes filling. “I'm Michael Roberts from Bangor. A good Catholic, from Bangor. For fuck's sake, I'm on your side. Honest to God.”

*   *   *

The man called Fred had left.

“Sorry about that, but it was necessary.” The major leaned across the table from where he was sitting and took back his bloodstained handkerchief. “Stopped?”

“I've had worse boxing.”

“Of course.” The major glanced at the red blotches on the white linen before stuffing it into the pocket of his Donegal tweed sports jacket. “Must say I thought you did rather well.”

Marcus managed a small smile. “Dead-on.”

His smile was returned. “Good. I'd have been disappointed if you'd said, ‘Thank you.'” The smile faded. “Of course, the real thing would be considerably worse, but play your cards right and it won't come to that. The story—and by the way you do seem to have learnt it well—will hold up. You'd the right amount of insolence, and there's nothing wrong with showing fear.”

Marcus said nothing. He had not been acting at the end. He had been terrified when the ex-Provo erupted.

“Fred's not the bloke's real name, and he's not a Provo.” The major looked embarrassed. “RUC Special Branch, actually. Very solid chap.”

Marcus felt the stiffness in his jaw. “I noticed.”

“What? Oh. Quite.” The major smiled. “Quite. Well done.” He pulled an envelope from the inside of his jacket. “Some final details.” He put the buff packet on the table, his jaundiced gaze firmly locked on Marcus's eyes. “We've been through most of this before, but you'd better refresh your memory and look carefully at the new stuff. You're going in on Friday.”

“Friday?” The dryness in his mouth, not the split lip, made speaking a tad difficult. “That's the day after tomorrow.”

The major held out his hand. “I'm proud of you.”

Marcus took the hand. “Thanks, John.”

“Have a bit of rest today and tomorrow.” The major picked up the envelope. “Take a look at this. Your new address is in here. Number Ten Robina Street, New Lodge. A bed-sitter's been rented in your name.” He opened the envelope and removed two typed sheets of paper and some black-and-white photographs.

Marcus began to reach for them but was forestalled when the major said, “Patience, laddie. Look at these first.” He handed over the typescript. “Please read this very carefully. It gives you the details of what you've to look for, how you're to report, and”—he hesitated briefly—“how to get to hell out if you think you've been spotted.” He lit a cigarette. “Take your time.”

Marcus began to read. It was clear from the first page that he was not being asked to be James Bond and single-handedly overthrow the entire Provisional IRA. He was to move into his flat, get to know the neighbourhood, frequent the betting shops and pubs, and spend some of the money he'd purportedly made in Canada. He was to try to become accepted by the locals and keep an eye out for any of the men whose photographs he had been studying for the last four weeks. If he met any of them, he was to make a special effort to strike up a conversation. Flaunt his Republican sympathies and boast that he had become an explosives expert while working in the Alberta oil patch, had heard other Irishmen had come back from overseas to fight for the Cause, and thought that he should, too. Sooner or later, if all went well, he would be approached.