CHAPTER ONE
September 1980
They were two hundred and fifty feet above sea level, but they stumbled around like half drowned shipwreck survivors on a remote shore. I counted more than a dozen of them: armed soldiers caught in torrential rain at a moorland roadblock a few miles from Armagh city. A line of traffic built up as they examined each car in turn.
What the hell was the problem? Gun-running? A prison escape? Or was this the army’s answer to a tip-off about the movement of yet another car bomb? Were the troops told to get their arses up here and watch for a vehicle with a heavily-laden boot? A dead give-away was that: a sagging boot stuffed full of fertiliser bags ready to be soaked in fuel oil. The IRA’s bomb of choice.
When I reached the head of the queue, a rain-soaked figure signalled me to wind down my window. Rainwater cascaded off his waterproofs as he leaned towards me, hugging his self-loading rifle against his chest. He had a young face - too young to be soldiering in a dangerous place like this - and his youthful voice fought against the noise of the downpour.
“Where are you going, sir?”
“Armagh Gaol.”
“Why?”
“To interview a prisoner.” I pulled my briefcase from the passenger seat, took out a formal letter along with my passport and held them up to the open window. A sudden gust of icy wind washed the rain over them. “This is my letter of permission from the prison governor, and this is my ID.”
He glanced only briefly at the documents before staring intently at my face. “Where have you come from?”
“Belfast Airport. I flew in from London just an hour or so ago.”
“Has anyone stopped you along the way?” His gaze remained tightly focussed on me. He seemed nervous but who wouldn’t be in his place?
“Yes, you. Are you expecting trouble here?”
“Maybe. We’ll need to look in your boot.”
“Okay.” I sat back and waited while another soldier opened the boot lid and rummaged inside. He would have found nothing except the spare wheel. After no more than a minute of searching, he slammed the lid shut. The boy beside my window stood back and waved me on. Rain was still cascading from his waterproofs.
“Move along, sir.” He sounded utterly pissed off. Clearly, I wasn’t what they were looking for.
“What’s your name, soldier?” I asked.
“Why do you want to know?” He sniffed and wiped the rain from his face.
“Curiosity.”
He should not have answered my question, but he did. “It’s Atkins. Now, move along.”
“You’re in the wrong war, son. Tommy Atkins belonged in a much earlier conflict.”
He shrugged and walked away.
Was I once like that boy soldier? Was I like him back in the days when I lived here in Ulster? Pissed off while the world about me went utterly mad? Maybe so, but I had a wife then, someone who was able to smooth away the jagged nerve edges that remained at the end of each day.
I accelerated past the barrier and flipped on the car radio, not sure which channel it was tuned to. Pop music for the oldies seemed to be the general idea. Buddy Holly, Raining In My Heart. Buddy I could take, but the ‘rain’ theme was just what I didn’t need. Not in this downpour. It was followed up with Barry Manilow’s I made it Through the Rain. I switched it off.
The weather got worse. Ugly black clouds dragged their ragged bottoms low across the bleak landscape. As I came to the outskirts of the city a lightning flash lit up the sky and a thunderclap boomed directly overhead. In that same moment, the hire car’s engine missed a beat, ran rough for a few seconds before recovering. Maybe it was warning me to turn round and go home. In this weather I could so easily have been persuaded. More lightning and more thunder followed. The car wheels splashed through floodwater, and the windscreen wipers fought a losing battle. You’d think that God had finally given up on Northern Ireland. Let’s face it: He had reason to call it a day here after years of unremitting violence. But I had to keep going because my next book would depend upon what a young woman was prepared to tell me.
Her name was Sorcha Mulveny.
Eight years ago, she had been tried for the murder of a police detective and a police informer. It was an unusual case. At the start of the trial she entered no plea and then, to everyone’s surprise, she confessed under cross examination. I remembered it well.
The prosecuting counsel asked her, “What happened when you met Detective Constable Dunlop that night?”
I imagine he was expecting a pack of lies, but what he got must have knocked him for six.
“I killed him.” The words came out just like that. No explanation, no excuses, just a confession. She looked so small and insignificant as she stared down at the floor; a lamb in the courtroom slaughterhouse. I had to concentrate hard to hear her.
The prosecutor looked astonished at the unexpected admission. “Would you say that again?” he asked. Maybe he wanted thinking time. Clearly, he hadn’t prepared himself for this.
“I killed him,” she repeated in a calm, quiet voice. “And I killed Jimmy Fish the next day. I killed them both.”
She refused to say any more. In the face of her admission of guilt, the trial ended abruptly, and she was handed a life sentence.
My interest in the case might have gone no further, but Sorcha’s confession didn’t feel right. The more I thought about it, the more it bothered me. Uneasy thoughts like that had served me well as a journalist, prompting me to look deeper into stories that other hacks accepted at face value. I saw a lot of harrowing court cases in those days, but this one intrigued me more than most. I couldn’t understand why the defendant seemed more like a victim than a perpetrator. Was I likely to find answers eight years after the events?
I could try.
That was why I was here.
September 1980
They were two hundred and fifty feet above sea level, but they stumbled around like half drowned shipwreck survivors on a remote shore. I counted more than a dozen of them: armed soldiers caught in torrential rain at a moorland roadblock a few miles from Armagh city. A line of traffic built up as they examined each car in turn.
What the hell was the problem? Gun-running? A prison escape? Or was this the army’s answer to a tip-off about the movement of yet another car bomb? Were the troops told to get their arses up here and watch for a vehicle with a heavily-laden boot? A dead give-away was that: a sagging boot stuffed full of fertiliser bags ready to be soaked in fuel oil. The IRA’s bomb of choice.
When I reached the head of the queue, a rain-soaked figure signalled me to wind down my window. Rainwater cascaded off his waterproofs as he leaned towards me, hugging his self-loading rifle against his chest. He had a young face - too young to be soldiering in a dangerous place like this - and his youthful voice fought against the noise of the downpour.
“Where are you going, sir?”
“Armagh Gaol.”
“Why?”
“To interview a prisoner.” I pulled my briefcase from the passenger seat, took out a formal letter along with my passport and held them up to the open window. A sudden gust of icy wind washed the rain over them. “This is my letter of permission from the prison governor, and this is my ID.”
He glanced only briefly at the documents before staring intently at my face. “Where have you come from?”
“Belfast Airport. I flew in from London just an hour or so ago.”
“Has anyone stopped you along the way?” His gaze remained tightly focussed on me. He seemed nervous but who wouldn’t be in his place?
“Yes, you. Are you expecting trouble here?”
“Maybe. We’ll need to look in your boot.”
“Okay.” I sat back and waited while another soldier opened the boot lid and rummaged inside. He would have found nothing except the spare wheel. After no more than a minute of searching, he slammed the lid shut. The boy beside my window stood back and waved me on. Rain was still cascading from his waterproofs.
“Move along, sir.” He sounded utterly pissed off. Clearly, I wasn’t what they were looking for.
“What’s your name, soldier?” I asked.
“Why do you want to know?” He sniffed and wiped the rain from his face.
“Curiosity.”
He should not have answered my question, but he did. “It’s Atkins. Now, move along.”
“You’re in the wrong war, son. Tommy Atkins belonged in a much earlier conflict.”
He shrugged and walked away.
Was I once like that boy soldier? Was I like him back in the days when I lived here in Ulster? Pissed off while the world about me went utterly mad? Maybe so, but I had a wife then, someone who was able to smooth away the jagged nerve edges that remained at the end of each day.
I accelerated past the barrier and flipped on the car radio, not sure which channel it was tuned to. Pop music for the oldies seemed to be the general idea. Buddy Holly, Raining In My Heart. Buddy I could take, but the ‘rain’ theme was just what I didn’t need. Not in this downpour. It was followed up with Barry Manilow’s I made it Through the Rain. I switched it off.
The weather got worse. Ugly black clouds dragged their ragged bottoms low across the bleak landscape. As I came to the outskirts of the city a lightning flash lit up the sky and a thunderclap boomed directly overhead. In that same moment, the hire car’s engine missed a beat, ran rough for a few seconds before recovering. Maybe it was warning me to turn round and go home. In this weather I could so easily have been persuaded. More lightning and more thunder followed. The car wheels splashed through floodwater, and the windscreen wipers fought a losing battle. You’d think that God had finally given up on Northern Ireland. Let’s face it: He had reason to call it a day here after years of unremitting violence. But I had to keep going because my next book would depend upon what a young woman was prepared to tell me.
Her name was Sorcha Mulveny.
Eight years ago, she had been tried for the murder of a police detective and a police informer. It was an unusual case. At the start of the trial she entered no plea and then, to everyone’s surprise, she confessed under cross examination. I remembered it well.
The prosecuting counsel asked her, “What happened when you met Detective Constable Dunlop that night?”
I imagine he was expecting a pack of lies, but what he got must have knocked him for six.
“I killed him.” The words came out just like that. No explanation, no excuses, just a confession. She looked so small and insignificant as she stared down at the floor; a lamb in the courtroom slaughterhouse. I had to concentrate hard to hear her.
The prosecutor looked astonished at the unexpected admission. “Would you say that again?” he asked. Maybe he wanted thinking time. Clearly, he hadn’t prepared himself for this.
“I killed him,” she repeated in a calm, quiet voice. “And I killed Jimmy Fish the next day. I killed them both.”
She refused to say any more. In the face of her admission of guilt, the trial ended abruptly, and she was handed a life sentence.
My interest in the case might have gone no further, but Sorcha’s confession didn’t feel right. The more I thought about it, the more it bothered me. Uneasy thoughts like that had served me well as a journalist, prompting me to look deeper into stories that other hacks accepted at face value. I saw a lot of harrowing court cases in those days, but this one intrigued me more than most. I couldn’t understand why the defendant seemed more like a victim than a perpetrator. Was I likely to find answers eight years after the events?
I could try.
That was why I was here.
