Betrayed

Contents

Cover Page

Title Page

Copyright Page

Dedication

PROLOGUE

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

CHAPTER THIRTY

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

First published in Great Britain in 2014 by

Quercus Editions Ltd
55 Baker Street
7th Floor, South Block
London
W1U 8EW

Copyright © 2014 Anna Smith

The moral right of Anna Smith to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

PB ISBN 978 1 78087 124 0
EBOOK ISBN 978 1 84866 627 6

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places and events are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

You can find this and many other great books at:
www.quercusbooks.co.uk

Also by Anna Smith

The Dead Won’t Sleep
To Tell the Truth
Screams in the Dark

For my sister, Sadie, the most selfless woman I know.

‘Those who will not reason, are bigots,
those who cannot, are fools,
and those who dare not, are slaves.’
Lord Byron (1788–1824)

PROLOGUE

Glasgow, July 1999

They belted the song out to the beat of the Lambeg drum.

‘Do you know where hell is, hell is in The Falls … Heaven is the Shankill and we’ll guard those Derry’s walls … I was born under a Union Jack … A Union, Union Jack …’

‘What a night, Jimmy boy! Fucking rocking!’ Eddie McGregor stood at the bar, his arms folded across his chest as Jimmy Dunlop came up beside him.

‘Aye. Class, man.’ Jimmy winked to the barmaid whose face lit up as she smiled back.

‘You’ll be a proud man tonight, Jimmy, eh?’ Eddie dug him in the ribs with his elbow. ‘Your da’s well made up over there. Look at him.’

Jimmy smiled, squinting through the fug of smoke where his father was leading the sing-song at his table, whisky in hand, face crimson from drink and exuberance. Two of the guys next to him stood on chairs, swaying, arms around
each other’s shoulders as one song followed another in a medley of the sectarian hate they’d all grown up with.

‘That’s your wee bird there, isn’t it? You giving her plenty, you rascal?’ Eddie jerked his head towards the barmaid as she stretched up to the optics on the gantry. He grinned, his tongue darting out to lick his lips as she bent over in her skintight jeans. ‘She’s well fuckable. I’ll tell you that.’

Jimmy caught a whiff of Eddie’s sweat and felt a little disgusted. He said nothing, but forced a smile because he knew he was expected to. After all, Eddie was his commanding officer now. He hoped his face didn’t show the stab of resentment he felt at Eddie’s remark. Wendy was
his
. He couldn’t get her out of his mind. One of his mates had told him Wendy was easy – and maybe she was. But he’d been seeing her for nearly two months now and he felt different when he was with her. When he’d told her he was determined to hold onto her, tears had welled up in her big brown eyes and she was suddenly so unlike the brash barmaid, quick to slap down a smart-arsed customer despite her skinny frame. It was there and then that Jimmy saw where he wanted to be for the rest of his life.

He took a long drink of his pint, rolled up his shirtsleeves and tried to relax for the first time all evening. The hall was heaving. It was billed as an all male smoker night for Rangers football supporters. But everyone who’d bought a ticket knew it was in fact a fundraiser for the Ulster Volunteer Force. It was nights like this that Loyalist hardliners lived
for, and Jimmy had been to plenty of them. It had kicked off with a bit of stand-up by a famous Glasgow lawyer, ripping the pish out of Catholics and Celtic. But the highlight of the night was the parade around the hall led by the ‘colour party’ of UVF heroes in balaclavas, who’d come all the way from Belfast. They’d made their entrance in dramatic fashion as a hush fell over the room. Once the outside doors had been locked and secured, they emerged from a side room, in full paramilitary uniform, bearing rifles on their shoulders as they marched beneath the UVF flag. Then followed a rousing call-to-arms speech by the Belfast brigadier. And there, among the official stewards, in their black trousers and crisp white shirts, one Jimmy Dunlop, the newest recruit to Glasgow B Company, Number Two Platoon, proudly wearing his new UVF tie – the badge of honour that put him a cut above the rest.

On the stroke of midnight, with a brisk drum roll and flutes at the ready, the Portadown Sons of William Flute Band assembled in the centre of the hall for the national anthem. The crowd of three hundred revellers, sweating like horses in the heat of the sweltering summer’s night, stood with their chests bursting with pride as they sang ‘God Save the Queen’. And on the final line, a chorus of lusty roars of ‘No Surrender’ and ‘C’mon, the Rangers’ rang out around the hall.

‘All right, Jimmy boy?’ Mitch Gillespie staggered up and slung an arm around his shoulder.

‘Great, Mitch. Couldn’t be better.’ Jimmy drained his pint and placed the tumbler on the bar.

He was a little light-headed, having already downed half a dozen pints in quick succession after staying sober for his stewarding duties earlier. He kept one eye on Wendy clearing up behind the bar. He wouldn’t be able to go back to her place, as his da was so blootered he’d have to see him home. But he was hoping to get a snog at her round the back of the pub before she left. Big Eddie was giving the barmaids a lift home, as he’d only had three pints the whole night.

‘C’mon, we’ll go to the dancing,’ Mitch said, dragging him away from the bar. ‘I need a ride, man. Make up for lost time.’ He grinned.

‘Yeah, sure you do,’ Jimmy grinned. ‘But don’t start getting fresh with me. Your arse must be like a ripped-out fireplace, after all that any-port-in-a-storm stuff in the nick.’ He shrugged Mitch’s muscular arm from his shoulder and slapped him on the back.

‘That’ll be fucking right,’ Mitch snorted derisively. ‘No’ me. Even when I was gagging for it, I wasn’t going to let some big randy fucker in the boys’ gate.’ He chuckled. ‘Mind you, once or twice I nearly let somebody blow me.’

Jimmy laughed, part of him full of admiration for Mitch being able to handle six years banged up for culpable homicide. But a bigger part of him was still revolted at what he and his mate witnessed seven years ago during a mêlée
after an Old Firm match. They’d been sent to the East End by big Eddie to find Mitch, and when they got there, he was coked out of his nut, jumping on the head of a Celtic fan, the guy’s face like something from a butcher’s dustbin. It was fair enough to give somebody a hiding in a fight, but this was bang out of order. They dragged Mitch off and bundled him into a car. But the cops caught up with him within twenty-four hours and he was locked up. Mitch, or Mad Mitch, as the newspapers dubbed him at the trial, had only been released from jail five weeks ago after his sentence was reduced on appeal. He’d come through the prison doors of Barlinnie like a prize fighter, arms like hams and muscles rippling through his skintight T-shirt, and a wide grin across his face as he strutted towards Jimmy’s waiting car. Then he turned and pumped his fist defiantly at the building and shouted, ‘It was a fucking walk in the park, you cunts!’

‘Nah, Mitch. I can’t go anywhere tonight. Look at my da. He’s blitzed. I’ll need to get him home. Maybe tomorrow night, mate.’

‘Right, okay, pal.’ Mitch walked away, giving him the two thumbs up. ‘You’re the man, Jimmy. I love you, man.’

Jimmy watched as he went unsteadily towards a group of young men, who were all drunk and who knew Mitch well enough by reputation not to object to him barging in on them.

*

Half an hour later Jimmy struggled up the tenement stairs with his father hanging onto him. He was still singing the ‘Billy Boys’ at the top of his voice.

‘Sssh, da. You’ll get us fucking shot.’ Jimmy knew that at least two of the downstairs neighbours were diehard Celtic fans.

‘Aye. That’ll be fucking right. Them pikey bastards can fuck off back to the bogs,’ big Jack Dunlop slurred, his Belfast accent still as strong as the day he left his home city for Glasgow forty years ago. ‘Any shooting to be done round here, I’ll be doing it.’ He stood on the landing, swaying as Jimmy put the key in the door. ‘You just remember who you are, Jimmy. You’ve got a fucking pedigree that goes all the way to the Shankill.’

His father burst into song as Jimmy gently wrestled him inside the doorway. ‘Follow, follow, we will follow Rangers … up the stair, down the stair, we will follow you …’

The mobile ringing on his bedside table woke Jimmy with a start. He looked at his watch. He must have dropped off, because it was only one thirty in the morning and he still had his clothes on. He saw Wendy’s name on the screen and cleared his throat.