Soldier E: Sniper Fire in Belfast Page 6

  Eventually, Lovelock ended up at the junction of the Falls Road and Springfield Road, back near the Royal Victoria Hospital, where he stopped the car and said: ‘Hand me that camera.’ When Ricketts passed him the Nikon, he wound the window down and took a lot of shots of the group of youths loitering across the road. Some had long hair, some had heads closely shaven, and all wore an assortment of casual, tatty jackets and had trousers rolled up high enough to reveal their big, unpolished boots. They looked sullen and dangerous.

  Lovelock lowered the camera just before one of the youths looked directly at the car, then said something to his mates, all of whom stopped talking to each other and glanced across the road.

  ‘They’ve seen us,’ Lovelock said. ‘That’s because of this bloody car. The presence of a strange vehicle in these areas is generally noticed quickly – particularly as we mainly use relatively new British-made saloons, which I think is plain stupid. Outsiders, even innocent civilians, also become prey to republican gun law when kids like that, often armed, hijack cars for use by the IRA or INLA, or simply for the thrill of joyriding. Those little fuckers are dangerous.’

  ‘Will they come over to check us out?’ Ricketts asked.

  ‘I don’t think this particular bunch will. I think they know who we are. If they do, it means they’re not a bunch of innocent kids. It means they’re dickers – the ones who keep a lookout for the security forces and pass the word on to their superiors. They’re probably in the IRA youth wing. No, they’re not coming. They’ve decided to piss off.’

  When the youths had moved away, making obscene gestures at the car and shouting insults that Martin, for one, couldn’t quite make out, Lovelock wound the window up, then turned down Grosvenor Road, back to the neutral territory of the city centre.

  ‘Weird, isn’t it?’ he said, glancing out at the people streaming along the pavements, ignoring the armed soldiers carefully watching them. ‘Most of those people out there are on the dole, supported by British money. This whole province is flooded with hand-outs from the British government. It actually pours more cash into here than it does into England. This fucking place is awash with British money. In fact, the whole place would sink if the British government withdrew its support. So these bastards are fighting the very people who keep them afloat. It doesn’t make much sense, does it?’

  By the time they arrived at the Protestant Shankill district, in the late afternoon, it had begun to rain. The sky was grey, the buildings were grimy, and the roads were lined with shabby shops and people wearing generally dark, unattractive clothing.

  At the bottom of Grosvenor Road Lovelock turned into Sandy Row, a stoutly Protestant area, where he stopped the car again. It was a busy road, lined on both sides with shops and pubs, the pavements bustling with down-at-heel shoppers and the same kind of loiterers who had been so prevalent in the Catholic ghettos. Lovelock remained there for ten minutes, just holding his camera at the ready, then suddenly he wound down the window and took several shots of two men entering a pub across the road.

  ‘A UDR watering-hole,’ he explained, lowering the camera again. ‘Full of hard-line loyalists. They do as much damage as the IRA, so we have to keep tabs on the bastards. I’m here today because this is collection day and those two are collecting protection money for a loyalist splinter group. This whole fucking city thrives on protection rackets, just like Al Capone ran. Anyone in business in the ghettos has to contribute, whether they like it or not. Falls Road cabbies make weekly payments to the IRA. Prods in Shankill pay similar levies to the UFF or UDA. Likewise with the owners of pubs, shops, betting shops, and people in the building trade. Most of the latter are now totally dependent on the work brought in by restoring or rebuilding bombed-out premises. Take away the Troubles, and you remove the livelihood of half of the populace. Truth of the matter is, the Troubles will never end because there’s just too much fucking money in it. United Ireland? Freedom for the Irish people? That’s all bullshit. It comes down to hard cash.’

  When the two men emerged from the pub again, Lovelock took some more pictures, then put the camera down and jotted details in his notebook, including the time. When he had finished, he wound up the window and drove off.

  ‘Fuck this for a lark,’ he said. ‘Let’s go back to the Falls and see if we can get something worthwhile.’

  They left Sandy Row, took the Donegal Road, then cut through the Broadway until they were back in the Falls Road. Lovelock parked well away from a dismal block of flats, by a waste ground filled with rubbish, where mangy dogs and scruffy, dirt-smeared children were playing noisily. He lowered the window, took the camera from Ricketts, and pointed to the high roof of the block of flats, which looked like a prison gone to seed. There, on the roof, was a British Army OP, its high-power telescope scanning the many people who loitered on the balconies or on the ground below, one soldier manning a General Purpose Machine Gun, or GPMG, others holding their M16 rifles, with the barrels resting lightly on the sandbagged wall.

  ‘As you can see, they all know they’re under surveillance,’ Lovelock said.

  ‘Do those overt OPs do any good?’ Ricketts asked.

  ‘Yes. They’re equipped with computers linked to vehicle registration and suspect-information centres, as well as state-of-the-art surveillance cameras. Also, their high visibility reminds everyone of our presence and therefore places certain constraints on them, while allowing members of regular units and 14 Intelligence Company to observe suspects and see who their associates are. This in turn allows the collators of intelligence at Lisburn and brigade headquarters – including your so-called green slime – to investigate links between meetings of particular individuals and subsequent terrorist activities.’

  ‘Do those OPs have any back-up?’ Ricketts asked.

  ‘Yes. Each OP is backed up by another OP consisting of two to four soldiers and located near enough to offer immediate firearms support. Both OPS are in turn backed up by a QRF, or Quick Reaction Force, of soldiers or police, sometimes both, located at the nearest convenient SF base, which will respond immediately to a radio call for help. So, no, they’re not alone.’

  ‘It’s still fucking dangerous,’ Gumboot said.

  ‘Here everything is,’ Lovelock replied, ‘It’s not a place to take lightly.’

  Even as he spoke, the barrel of a Webley pistol was poked through the open window by his face and a harsh, youthful Ulster voice yelled: ‘Get out of that fucking car!’

  Chapter 5

  Everyone froze. ‘Get out of that fucking car!’ the youth screamed again, still aiming the pistol at Lovelock, but also tugging frantically at the locked door with his free hand. As he did so, another youth, just as scruffy in bomber jacket, jeans and big boots, with his head shaved close to the skull to make him look more brutal than perhaps he was, rushed out from behind a mound of rubble and tried to tug Gumboot’s door open. Finding it locked, he kicked the car in frustration.

  ‘Fuck off!’ Lovelock said and made to start the car, but was stopped when the first youth reached in, grabbed his wrist with one hand and shoved the barrel of the Webley pistol into his face. ‘One move and you’re dead, you English cunt. Now get out of that fucking car.’

  Lovelock removed his hands from the steering wheel and glanced across the waste ground to see another couple of youths running out of the flats, silhouetted in evening light, heading straight for the car. Before long, this few could grow into a crowd.

  ‘OK, OK,’ Lovelock said with a sigh. ‘My hands are off the wheel. What’s the matter with you, lad? We just came to visit some friends on the Falls and we lost our way.’

  ‘Fucking army shite!’ The youth tugged at the door again.

  ‘We’re not soldiers,’ Lovelock lied. ‘We’re English, but not soldiers. We work in the building trade and we’ve come over to visit some old mates. We just got lost and pulled in here to check the map. For Christ’s sake, be careful with that gun.’

  ‘You lyin’ bastard. The English don’t
have friends in Divis.’ The kid tugged at the door again while his friend repeatedly kicked the rear door in a fury of frustration. ‘Now open this fucking door or I’ll blow your brains out.’

  Seeing that another couple of youths were following the ones already racing towards them, Lovelock opened the door and stepped out of the car. The kid with the gun grabbed him by the shoulder and slammed him back against the car, then reached down for the camera, saying: ‘Get that fucking back door open as well.’

  Gumboot glanced at Martin, who was flushed with excitement, then unlocked his door and pushed it open. Martin did the same on his side and started getting out, though Ricketts remained where he was seated. Gumboot was still clambering out, about to stand upright, when the excited youth by his door punched him violently in the face. Gumboot turned away from the blow, catching it on his cheek, almost falling back, but managing to stay standing. The other youth was about to grab the camera when he saw Ricketts sliding the OS map off his legs to reveal the Browning High Power on his lap.

  ‘Fuck!’ Jerking back to straighten up and fire at Ricketts, the kid banged the back of his head on the door frame and yelped with pain as his mate was taking another punch at Gumboot. The kid with the pistol threw himself away from the door as Ricketts swung up his Browning and Gumboot cross-drew his from its holster and aimed it two-handed at his assailant.

  As Lovelock jumped back into the driver’s seat, Ricketts rolled backwards out of his side, the kid with the pistol aimed at the car, and the other started running away from Gumboot. Lovelock turned the ignition key and gunned the engine. Ricketts fired a burst single-handed at the kid with the Webley. The burst picked the kid up and flung him on his back even as Martin, feeling extraordinarily bright, steadied his wrists on the roof of the Q car and fired a burst two-handed over the heads of the youths racing to help their mates.

  Gumboot let his assailant go, aware that he was unarmed, then he turned towards the youths whom Martin had fired at. Some were scattering, others flinging themselves to the ground. Gumboot fired over their heads to ram Ricketts’s message home, then he and Ricketts dived simultaneously back into the car.

  Martin just about managed to get back into his seat when Lovelock reversed at high speed, bouncing backwards up over the pavement and smashing into a wall, before doing a sharp, screeching U-turn and racing away from the flats.

  ‘Shit!’ he exclaimed.

  Looking through the rear window, Martin saw the youths picking themselves up from the rubble and racing towards the one who had been shot by Ricketts. He was lying spread-eagled, not moving, his chest covered in blood.

  ‘I didn’t have a choice,’ Ricketts said. ‘He was aiming right at me.’

  ‘Those fucking kids weren’t amateurs,’ Lovelock said. ‘To see us that quickly the little pricks had to be on the look out. They were dickers.’

  Still glancing back, Martin saw some of the youths hurling stones in frustration, knowing that they couldn’t possibly hit the car, but feeling impelled to do something. Meanwhile, the others were gathering around the youth shot, and almost certainly killed, by Ricketts.

  ‘Jesus!’ Martin whispered.

  ‘He won’t help,’ Gumboot informed him. ‘The only thing that’s gonna help us is to get the fuck out of here.’

  Ricketts twisted in his seat to glance back over his shoulder as Lovelock took a corner, practically on two wheels. ‘You were very good, Martin,’ he said. ‘You didn’t put a foot wrong. You deliberately fired above their heads, didn’t you?’

  ‘Yes,’ Martin said.

  ‘You’ve just earned your badge.’ Ricketts turned back to the front as Lovelock slowed down, trying to look like a normal driver, and edged into the Falls Road.

  Looking out at the bricked-up doorways, boarded shop windows, wired, sandbagged pubs, weary pedestrians, heavily armed soldiers, flak-jacketed RUC officers, barricaded streets and gangs of watchful youths or screaming, destructive children, Martin thought of what Ricketts had said to him and swelled up with pride.

  You’ve just earned your badge, he thought to himself.

  ‘Fuck it,’ Lovelock said. ‘Those kids were on the look out. That means they were in the IRA youth wing and that means we have to know who they are. Did anyone get a good look at them?’

  ‘I got a good look at the fucker who punched me in the face,’ Gumboot said, instinctively rubbing his swollen cheekbone with his fingers. ‘If I hadn’t turned my head, he’d have taken out my teeth, so I’m certainly gonna remember the little shit. I want to remember him!’

  ‘And the others?’

  ‘They were close enough for me to recognize a few,’ Ricketts said, amazing Martin with how steady he sounded so soon after having killed a man. ‘If I saw them again, I could pick them out.’

  ‘A line-up?’

  ‘Sounds good,’ Ricketts said.

  ‘Right.’ Lovelock, while driving with one hand, removed the Landmaster III transceiver from its webbed harness and contacted the local commander of the Springfield Road Barracks. When the commander identified himself with a broad Ulster accent, Lovelock told him about the incident and requested a sweep of the area to locate and bring in as many youths as possible for a line-up.

  ‘Did you say one dead?’ the commander responded.

  ‘Yes,’ Lovelock said. ‘He was about to fire at us with a Webley pistol, so all options were closed.’

  ‘That could cause a lot of trouble.’

  ‘I repeat: there was no option. The youth was about to fire a round and there was no time for talk.’

  ‘A youth?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Not an adult.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Are you certain he was dead?’

  ‘Yes,’ Ricketts said.

  ‘Then we’re in for some trouble.’

  ‘Sorry,’ Lovelock said, ‘but we still need that sweep.’

  ‘Be at Castlereagh at precisely eight this evening. Until then, stay low.’

  ‘Right,’ Lovelock said. ‘Over and out.’ He switched off the Landmaster III, returned it to its webbing, and checked his wristwatch while still driving along the Falls Road. ‘That leaves us with two hours to kill,’ he said, ‘so what do we do?’ When no one replied, he said: ‘I have to have a talk with one of my touts, so let’s head back to the centre of town. While I’m having my chat, you men can stay in the car and have your sandwiches and coffee. When I’m done, we’ll come back here and see how the sweep’s progressing, then go on to Castlereagh.’

  ‘Are you fucking crazy?’ Gumboot said. ‘I mean, coming back here!’

  ‘We’ll be OK,’ Lovelock said. ‘By the time we get back here the sweep will be well under way and the fuckers on that estate will be too busy to take any notice of us. What do you say, Sarge?’

  ‘I agree.’

  Lovelock drove them to the centre of Belfast, then on to a pub opposite the Europa Hotel, which, having been bombed a few times, was now guarded like a military camp.

  After parking, Lovelock nodded in the direction of the pub. ‘It’s a neutral pub that gets the fall-out from Sandy Row. I meet my loyalist tout in there. You can come with me, Ricketts.’

  When he got out of the car, Ricketts did the same. Lovelock then opened the back door and indicated that Gumboot should get out too. When Gumboot had done so, Lovelock said: ‘Take the driver’s seat. You get up front, as well, Martin. Just sit there, enjoying the view, having your hot tea and sandwiches. If you get checked by any army or RUC patrols – which almost certainly you will – show your ID. When they see it, they’ll know you’re in a Q car and leave you alone. On the other hand, if you’re approached by anyone else – a civilian – be prepared for trouble. If you have to take off, give a long toot on your horn, so Ricketts and I will know you’re going. If you take off, don’t return for us; just go on to Castlereagh. Any questions?’

  ‘Yeah,’ Gumboot said, picking his wrapped sandwiches and vacuum flask off the back seat, slamming the door, then
sliding into the driver’s seat. ‘What’s in the sandwiches?’

  ‘Mick turd with mayonnaise,’ Lovelock said as Martin got out of the back, also holding a pack of sandwiches, and slipped into the seat beside Gumboot. ‘Don’t forget to keep the doors locked and the windows wound up. If you see anything of interest, the camera’s in the glove compartment. The transceiver’s on the floor between you. Enjoy your meal, men.’

  ‘Don’t drink on duty,’ Martin said with a grin.

  ‘Wouldn’t dream of it,’ Ricketts replied. ‘But if I have to have one in the line of duty, I’ll be thinking of you.’

  ‘Fuck off,’ Gumboot said.

  Ricketts automatically checked that his Browning was well concealed beneath his jacket as he followed Lovelock into the pub. It was an expansive Victorian place with lots of tiles, mahogany and stained-glass windows. It had a long bar and plenty of tables spaced well apart. There were few people at the tables and only one man was sitting on a bar stool – at the end near the entrance.

  Leading Ricketts up to the middle of the bar, Lovelock loudly asked him what he’d like to drink. The authenticity of his Ulster accent took Ricketts by surprise, but he managed to hide it and ordered a pint of Guinness in low tones. Lovelock ordered the same for himself, still speaking loudly and like an Ulsterman. He glanced at the lone man near the entrance, then paid the barman, handed Ricketts his Guinness, and led him to a table in the far corner of the pub, where a middle-aged man in oily overalls was savouring a whisky while reading the Belfast Telegraph.