The Negotiator

V Day

Up until that fateful night, Adrian Doyle had been regarded as a mouth on a stick by the intelligence services; a minor pain in the arse. Now he raised his profile. What got me was that he made up stories of Harriet’s ‘promiscuous’ past and then had them passed off as fact to sympathetic news media. He told how, before joining the army to hide from polite society, she had taken part in drug-fuelled orgies where neither man nor woman was safe from her predatory advances. That and other vile lies about her being a high priced call girl, whom her aristocratic family had disowned. Being an outcast, she’d joined the army. This got right up my nose. Just watching the smarmy bastard on TV turned my stomach.

Then another devastating blow hit me. I’d been in my new role about six months when Jonno, with just two days left to the end of his two year tour, was gunned down in the street and killed. The Provos announced they had got the other professional assassin who’s killed their men. I was devastated. My spirit crushed. Everybody I had ever had feelings for was dead. My parents, my aunt Mabel, my darling beautiful Harriet and now my best mate Jonno.

Jonno had tracked down the girl he had told me about, Elizabeth, the one who had been playing hard to get. They had become a serious item and she was now his fiancée. She was three months pregnant with his child. I was not only plunged into mourning again at the loss of my best mate but for Elizabeth and their unborn child. He’d phoned me a couple of months before telling me of his joy at becoming a father. He was going to leave this life behind and become a teacher he said. ‘I’ll live a normal life Jack’ he said, full of enthusiasm ‘instead of hunting bloody Provos.’

Maybe blokes like us aren’t born to have a normal life. I was shattered. Jonno was my best mate, I loved him like a brother and because of the media coverage I couldn’t even be at his funeral lest the Provos discover their mistake.

I turned on the BBC news that night. Doyle was there spouting again ‘whereas I deplore the use of violence in all its forms, I can understand the rejoicing among the freedom fighters at having avenged the callous killing of their heroes. Theirs is a joy at striking a blow for freedom against the British colonialist oppressors.’ Blah, blah bloody blah. Christ, I wanted to grip his lying throat and squeeze the life out of the bastard.

Why do the BBC give these arseholes so much air time to spread their lies and propaganda? I switched the TV off before I put my foot through it. A plan was beginning to form in my head, well more of a desire than a plan but turning towards a plan.

Now that I was ‘dead’ no one in the province would be looking for me. A great advantage that. It would need a lot of prep and planning though, but the more I thought about it the more it appealed to me. I meditated on it for several nights.

I’ve always been interested in marksmanship, especially with a pistol. I started refreshing my skills with the SAS lads. God, they are good. I did the killing house as well as standard range practice and showed an interest in other weapons, too. One of my instructors on the LAWS rocket was a very amiable warrant officer called Bill Palmer. Bill was the salt of the earth type who explained everything in an easy, pleasant manner. He was never heard to raise his voice, except for rare occasions on the parade ground. He got things done without the need to impose his authority. People willingly did his bidding out of respect and liking. We became firm friends.

I studied Doyle. The SAS archive had quite a bit on him. He was a keen golfer and practiced with a young female partner and rubbed shoulders with business types. On the last Friday of the month, though, he played with three male friends. I could guess who those friends were.

So, his meetings had changed from the restaurant to the Golf course. Not a bad idea, it was far more difficult to snoop on someone on the course.

‘You play golf don’t you Bill?’

‘Yes, you wanna take it up?’

‘I was thinking about it’ I told him.

Bill was a patient teacher and under his guidance I made rapid progress. He then introduced me the club pro, and I came on very well.

The next time we fired the LAWS rocket on the practice range I disappeared one into the bushes. After the practice Bill came up to me ‘I’ve a rocket unaccounted for mate, know anything about it?’

Bill knew his lads wouldn’t steal one, he was no fool. I winked at him ‘I’ve got a covert and private op on mate, it seriously needs doing’ I said, ‘one of those would be very handy, if I could find one, that is.’

Bill stared into my eyes for what seemed an eternity ‘you’re a rum bugger, Jack, and no mistake.’ He paused considering then said, ‘Come to think of it, I’m sure I fired an extra one myself.’

That evening I went to the ranges to practice my golf swing and slid the rocket into my bag. Stage one complete.

I booked some leave, the dates to include the last Friday of the next month. I was officially banned from the province, so care was needed. I drove from Hereford, ignoring Fishguard on Anglesey and went up to Liverpool. I bought a foot passenger ticket to Belfast. I must have looked strange carrying my clubs. The guy at the top of the gangplank raised an eyebrow. ‘I’m being met by friends I told him. You lot charge too bloody much to carry cars.’ No one likes dealing with grumpy passengers so he said nothing as I stumped past.

In Belfast I took a taxi, the driver was a talkative type he had an opinion on every subject under the sun. I buried my head into a paper and he finally took the hint. I needed transport. I couldn’t use my own vehicle as it was still registered in my real name. I couldn’t hire one for the same reason. I stole one. I hotwired it from the airport long stay carpark. Next day was Thursday I donned my golf togs and drove out to the club. The place was quite upmarket, the club house a long way from the road. The place was almost deserted and I walked the course unchallenged, getting the layout.

The course was split in two by a main road. The other half of the course being accessed by a footbridge. Tall trees and bushes ten metres deep lined the road to act as a barrier to stray golf balls. At some point during their game they’d have to come here. I walked over the bridge, the traffic rushing beneath me. Up the road was a layby just one hundred yards away. Nice, I thought. I laid my plans and left.

Then the buggeration factor intervened, of course. I was going into my hotel when who should be walking out but Patrick Gilhooley. His face lit up like a beacon. I scowled and shook my head and he took the hint. ‘What the hell are you doing here?’ I asked him.

‘I might ask you the same question, you’re supposed to be dead.’

‘I am, and I need to stay that way Paddy.’

He eyed me speculatively, I knew what he was thinking. The Provos had paid a ten grand reward for info about me. They’d got the wrong bloke, though they didn’t know it. Would they pay again to correct their mistake? The answer was probably yes.

‘We go back a long way Patrick, we’ve helped each other out quite a few times.’ I said, ‘you wouldn’t be thinking of turning me in, would you?’

His face was a picture of mock shock ‘Good god man’ he exploded, nothing could be further from my mind’ he gasped ‘how could you even think such a thing Jack?’

“And beware of Cassius, he protesteth too much” I thought. The quote from Shakespeare’s Julius Caesar came into mind like a bolt from the blue. ‘Sorry mate’ I said, ‘you know this business, people like me get paranoid; no offence meant.’ It was a fact though that I could be of no further use to him so cashing in was always going to be on the cards.

‘None taken’ he said then looked around the foyer nervously ‘we can’t talk here, Jack, can you come to the shop? ‘Say, nine tonight?’

‘What for?’ I asked him?’

‘Well, a drink for a start, but I have some info you’d be very interested in.’

‘Make it ten’ I said. ‘I want it to be full dark, I’ll come around the back.’ I had to make him believe I really was coming.

‘OK, ten it is.’

As soon as he left, I nipped out and followed him. He was as nervous as a cat and kept looking about him. Thankfully, the streets were very busy and I managed to avoid detection. He’d gone about two hundred yards when he nipped into a public phone box. I stopped and watched from a doorway and sure enough he looked all around him, scouring the street for any sign he was being watched, then he lifted the receiver. I moved quickly then, closing up to the door behind him. I heard him say ‘Hello, It’s Patrick the fence, can you get a message to Mr McGuiness?’

I opened the door and slammed him up against the phone. I threw my right hand over the top of his head catching him under the chin, my left shot around his chest. Simultaneously, I pushed my knee into the small of his back arching him over. I could hear a disembodied voice saying ‘hello? hello?

I levered his chin up, forcing his head back and down, my forearm on his forehead using it as a fulcrum until his neck snapped. It took only a couple of seconds. He died without a sound. I left the receiver hanging and looked around. The glass in the phone box was semi-opaque with the filth of years. No one had seen. I let him slide to the floor then wiped the door handle and walked leisurely back to my hotel. So much for friendship, I thought.

Next day was what I’d named V day. The V was for vengeance. I rose late showered and shaved. After a leisurely breakfast, I bought a national and a local paper. Patrick’s body had been found, the reason he’d been killed was the cause of much speculation. He was known underworld figure, so maybe he’d double-crossed someone, and this was revenge.

There was nothing about it in the National press. Then an article caught my eye Councillor Doyle was advocating that legal action should be taken against British soldiers for every action they were involved in. If the authorities wouldn’t charge them, he suggested a charity be set up to instigate private prosecutions. It would tie up the courts for years and put soldiers under tremendous pressure not to shoot. Doyle’s political opponents were against the move, of course, but Doyle was whipping up feelings over the issue, causing more people to riot. Clever bastard I thought, but you’re not the only clever bastard. You are one Gordian knot that needs cutting.

At eleven I left the hotel and made my way to the car. I was praying the owner was on a long trip and that it hadn’t yet been reported stolen. Arriving at the club I parked in the layby ready for a quick exit. I made my way onto the golf course via the footbridge, my clubs on my shoulder. I squatted in some bushes just off the fairway and waited. I’m good at waiting.

An hour passed as several golfing parties played past me. One ball came close, rattling through the bushes and resting two feet from me. I threw it to the edge of the rough and moved behind a tree further into the bushes. I heard their discussion ‘Jaysus, Tom, yer a lucky bastard, so you are. It must have hit a tree and bounced out again. Luck of the bloody devil you have.’

They moved on and I retraced my steps in time to see to see the unmistakable figure of Doyle with two of the men who’d been in the restaurant. The other guy was a big brutal looking bugger I hadn’t seen before. He had no clubs and was looking about him all the time walking a few paces behind them. I picked up my bag and slid back towards the footbridge. I was in their view now, but they took no notice. I climbed the bridge and took the rocket out of my bag extending it and laying it down. They were less than fifty yards away now, the big bloke looked up at me and I smiled and waved. He ignored me. They walked on. Twenty-five yards and the big bloke shouted, ‘what you doing up there?’ his hand slid under his coat.

I laughed ‘How the hell do I play a ball from up here? I shouted. They all looked up now, laughing.

Then Doyle’s face took on a puzzled look ‘Do I know you from somewhere mister?’ He looked nervous.

I bent and picked up the rocket ‘you sure do Doyle, we use the same restaurant. I put the rocket on my shoulder as his terrified face recognised me and the danger he was in. ‘This is for Harriet’ I told him. He screamed, and the big bloke drew his gun as I fired. ‘Fore’ I shouted.

The rocket exploded in the middle of them blowing the bastards to hell. Christ, it felt good. I shoved the launcher in my bag and legged it for the car.

Bollocks! There was a young copper there taking its details. I slid back into the bushes ‘Up here constable’ I yelled, ‘there’s been an explosion, people are hurt.’ He’d heard the explosion and was looking in that direction, my car forgotten. He ran down the road and climbed the fence next to the bridge. I sprinted for the car jumped in and buggered off sharpish.

How long before he realised I had taken the car? How long had I got? Not long for sure, he’d suspect I was involved in the deaths. I raced towards the city for as long as I dare then thought I’d better lose the car. I stopped on wasteland adjacent to an industrial estate. Time to implement plan B. I’d earlier bought a spare gallon of petrol and a packet of cigarettes. I had picked up a book of matches from the hotel. I lit a cigarette and placed it behind the matches. Next, I opened the car windows. I doused the inside with petrol and gingerly put my matchbook fuse on the dashboard. A smouldering cigarette rarely sets off liquid petrol and the fumes hadn’t had time to build up yet. I closed the door and walked away. The cigarette would smoulder for up to ten minutes, gradually burning down to ignite the matches. Goodbye motor car, golf bag, fingerprints et al. I just hoped the poor bloody owner was insured. The rocket case I took with me after stamping it flat and stuffing it under my coat. I would drop it off the ferry. I set out walking, twenty minutes later I caught a bus into town.

Back at the Hotel, the TV in the foyer was broadcasting the news. Reports of an explosion on a golf course were coming in, early indications were that there had been fatalities.

I was sitting in the mess in Hereford sipping a Bushmills one evening shortly after getting back when Bill Palmer came up and plonked himself down. ‘You have a good leave Jack?’ he queried.

‘Fine’ I said, ‘but glad to be back.’

‘Where did you play?’ he asked

‘Here and there Bill, here and there.’

‘You wouldn’t happen to have been playing in Northern Ireland by any chance? A golf club just outside Belfast?

‘I’m banned from Northern Ireland, whatever makes you think that, Bill?’

‘We’ve just had the analysis in’ he said, ‘The explosion that killed those four men was caused by a LAWS rocket.’

I feigned puzzlement, ‘really? Clever buggers these analysts, have they any idea who did it?’

The current thinking is that the UDA was responsible. They think they called in a professional hit man from the mainland. A young copper was booking a stolen car when an English voice called him away to investigate the explosion.

‘What did this Englishman look like, then?’ I asked.

Bill smiled. He only heard him he didn’t see him, but he said the bloke’s voice was urgent but calm, no sign of distress. The car was later found burned out on some waste ground.’

‘It can be a bloody dangerous sport this golf lark Bill, I’m thinking of giving it up before I get knocked on the head by a stray ball.’

He laughed ‘What’s that unofficial motto of your mob again?’

‘Thuggery, buggery and general skulduggery’ I said.

‘And bloody well deserved, too. Another Bushmills, mate?’

                                                                                                                                     The End