Richard Isham had joined the IRA at the age of twenty, a couple of years after the Troubles broke out. By the time of Bloody Sunday he was already high up in the Derry command.
When he was convicted of terrorist crimes by the Republic of Ireland's Special Criminal Court in 1974, he declared he was a member of PIRA and proud of it. They sentenced him to nine months' imprisonment.
After his release, he became increasingly prominent in the political arena. Our paths had crossed when he was in contact with the Firm during the hunger strikes in the early eighties, and later in the early nineties, by which time he was a fully fledged member of the IRA Army Council.
We never had the proof, but were pretty sure that Isham was responsible for a string of murders of members of the security forces, Protestant paramilitaries and alleged PIRA traitors.
Worst of all, in my book, he was a high-ranking member of PIRA's Northern Command in 1987, and had advance knowledge of the Enniskillen bomb. He and his mates could have stopped the carnage if they'd wanted to.
There was a lot of blood on Isham's hands, and if the lovely Mairead really was his press secretary, she was doing a good job at keeping it under wraps. After the Good Friday Agreement, any media investigation into his background had been actively discouraged, if not suppressed, and his membership of the Good Lads' Club was being protected on all fronts.
Which made me wonder briefly where the heavy in the front of the BMW fitted in. I had a feeling PR wasn't his game.
14
Ruby had fallen asleep again after our last 'comfort stop', as Tallulah called them, and Tallulah had finally come up front to get a better view.
'Knocks spots off Herne Hill.' She turned and looked at me, doing her best to relax.
I wanted to tell her that she didn't have to try so hard, that I knew coming with a relative stranger on this trip was a big deal, but I didn't know how.
'This is so good of you, Nick.'
'What? Agreeing not to sing?'
'You know very well. I want you to know . . . well, I couldn't have faced . . . Ruby's really excited.'
'So am I. I can't wait to play with the present I got you. I'm glad she's asleep.'
'Why?' She looked concerned.
I nodded towards another road sign. An Clochán Liath. 'She might have asked what that meant.'
Tallulah smiled. She hadn't just bought
Top Of The Morning
or whatever Irish
Hello!
was called – she'd also got herself a guidebook. 'I don't know how to pronounce it, but it's how they write Dungloe – it refers to the grey-coloured stepping stones which the townspeople once used to cross the river.' She read on: ' "The hills and cliffs of North West Donegal are still relatively unfrequented and little restraint is put on walkers. There are walks to suit all ages and interests. In the immediate vicinity you will find stunning unspoiled beaches, forest walks, quiet country roads and a wealth of historical sites to explore." '
'And a wide selection of pubs. I've done a bit of research too . . .'
'No you haven't. That applies to every village in Ireland.' She gave a little laugh. It was a rare thing, and sounded good.
'Everything OK?'
She looked down at her lap. 'Mind if I ask you something, Nick? There must be plenty of other ways you could have been spending Christmas. What would you normally do? Family?'
I shook my head. 'Telly and the microwave. You're doing me a favour.'
She hesitated. 'Thing is, Nick, I need to make sure we're clear about something—'
'I think we'd better stop right here.'
I pulled up outside a small mini-mart. It was only just past four but already getting dark. The shop window lights reflected off the pavement. The woman who looked after the cottage was going to stick a pint of milk and a few other basics in the fridge when she came in to air the place and make sure the immersion heater was on, but we had to buy everything else. I switched off the engine. 'She's still asleep. You stay. What's her favourite cereal and stuff?'
'Shouldn't I – I mean, if I'm cooking . . .?'
'This is your holiday. I'll do it. It's OK, there's a microwave. Prepare to be amazed. Man and machine in perfect harmony. Organic or ordinary?'
'What?'
'Baked beans.'
15
The hundred-year-old, two-storey stone farmhouse stood on a secluded twelve-acre site approached by a quiet tree-lined lane, two miles further on from a long, sweeping bay where huge Atlantic breakers pounded the shoreline. Tallulah seemed to find it all so beautiful I thought she was going to burst into tears.
'It's bigger than I was expecting . . . You said cottage.'
'Four bedrooms.'
She looked relieved, and I suddenly knew what she had been worrying about.
I turned away and took in the view. There was nothing but fields and hills as far as the eye could see. Not another building in sight, not even a barn. The house was surrounded by trees and blackberry bushes. The ground itself looked peaty with long grass and heather between rocky outcrops.
Ruby climbed out of the car. As if on cue, a couple of rabbits scampered into view to complete the fairy tale.
A big white porch led to the front door. I retrieved the key from under a flower pot, turned the lock in the heavy oak door and ushered Ruby and Tallulah inside.
I followed them into a large kitchen with exposed ceiling beams. I put the kettle on the hot Aga. There was an old oak table and chairs, and a dresser that looked as ancient as the house, but also all the mod cons: fridge/freezer, dishwasher, washing machine, tumble dryer. And I was pleased to see there really was a microwave.
The snug living room had an open fireplace with a stack of turf next to the hearth and a dark mahogany parquet floor covered with bright rugs. Comfy-looking armchairs and a huge sofa completed the picture.
There was a separate dining room with oil lamps and antique mahogany furniture. Glazed double doors opened onto the back garden.
'You two go bag the best rooms and I'll unload the car.'
I was going to leave them to it but Tallulah followed. 'Ruby can explore.'
We went back into the kitchen and I switched on more lights. It was only then that I spotted the flowers on the table, and a bottle of wine and a card. Tallulah opened it.
'It's from Dom!' She was thrilled. 'This is Dom's place? I should have guessed as soon as you said Donegal!'
'Friends in high places.' I was rather pleased with myself.
'All the time we knew them, Pete always said we'd visit and we never . . .'
Her head dropped. A tear rolled down her cheek. I never knew what to say or do at times like this. Arranging the trip was the best I could manage.
'Thank you. It's lovely. I want to make sure you know this. Things are hard for us right now and I really appreciate everything you're doing . . .' She paused. She fidgeted.
'Sounds like there's a bit of a but on its way?'
'But . . .' She smiled. '. . . it's just that, please, you mustn't worry about treading carefully. Everybody we know is still being so kind and understanding. I didn't realize how much I needed to get away from the . . . the . . . the whole widow thing. Do you know what I mean?'
I sort of nodded.
'Thank you. I don't want you thinking you have to secondguess us the whole time and wrap us up in cotton wool. This should be your holiday too.'
I spent longer than I needed to outside, and when I came back with my arms full of gear she was gone. I dumped it all on the floor. It took several more trips until the car was empty, and by then the kitchen looked like a bomb had hit it.
Tallulah reappeared. She'd composed herself. I helped her ferry their stuff – which meant everything apart from my small holdall – to the two rooms Ruby had bagged. Both were upstairs.
Tallulah had a big double with an old panelled ceiling. Ruby had the single next to it. They also had the only bathroom.
'And what have you picked for me, Ruby? The barn?'
She pointed downstairs. 'It's nice. There's a basin.'
16
I tipped out my holdall on the double bed and studied the badly wrapped parcel. I wondered if I'd bought the right thing.
It was strange to think of myself having a family Christmas – if you could call it that. First, because it wasn't my family. Second, because my own family's Christmases had been a nightmare. My stepdad would get pissed the night before and come home and beat up my mum. The presents were normally clothes for school, and the dinner was always crap because my mum would be in shit state. The only good bit was not having to go to school.
I threw my few clothes into a chest of drawers and listened to the sound of laughter drifting downstairs. They had lost a partner and a father, but they still had each other. I had no one, male or female; no friends, let alone a partner. I hadn't been lying. They were doing me a favour. At least this trip meant I got to talk to someone normal for a few days.
'Nick?'
Tallulah stood in the doorway.
'One other thing . . .' She didn't quite know where to look. 'It's just that I don't want you to think this can go beyond friendship . . . for now, anyway. Everything is still very raw . . .'
'That's not why I'm here.' I edged past her into the corridor. 'Fancy a brew?'
Her eyes suddenly sparkled and I felt her breath on my cheek. 'At the same time, Nick, don't run away from it.'
'Milk and sugar?'
As I disappeared to the kitchen, I heard her laugh out loud for the very first time.
17
I woke up early. It was still dark outside but I could tell the weather was going to be against us. Rain splattered the window. This was more like the Ireland I knew. I liked it. I'd had some good Christmases here in the army.
I got up and went and filled the kettle. While I was waiting for it to boil, I grabbed a lighter and a couple of old newspapers and headed for the living room. It would be nice for the girls to come down to a roaring fire. I was rolling and twisting a few pages as kindling when a photograph made me do a double-take. It was definitely him: the word
Bahiti
in the headline said so.
Liam Duff was kissing and telling. In fact, to quote his actual words: 'Since the Republican leadership has sold out, I might as well too.'
The article beneath his picture was a taster for what was to come – broad-brush stuff to make sure the readers ordered next week's copy. 'For many years I was loyal to the Republican cause, but I also supplied information to the British when I felt the leadership had strayed from its principles.'
He went on to say that the
Bahiti
operation had been betrayed by someone in the organization – not him – and that the legendary IRA bomber Ben Lesser had been murdered by the British. Strong stuff.
I put a match to the pyramid of paper sticks and sat back on my haunches. I checked, but the other papers I'd brought in pre-dated this one, and so did the ones in the kitchen. Last week's edition, when Duff would have spilled the beans, was nowhere to be found.
I laid a slab of turf on the blazing kindling and it began to glow. I added a couple more and put the guard across. I wasn't too worried. The paper was old, and there couldn't be anything to link me to it or Dom would have said something – if Special Branch hadn't got there first. For all that, Duff was an idiot. If he thought guys like Richard Isham would take this lying down, he had another think coming. He was going to be spending the rest of his days on the run.
I felt myself break into a smile. Not a bad idea: I could do with a bit of exercise myself.
18
It was weeks since I'd been near a gym or done any road work and I missed the endorphins. I poured water over a teabag and went and threw on my running gear. By the time I came back the brew was ready and it was just coming to first light. I drank it looking out of the window. The rain had done Avis a favour. The newly washed Merc gleamed like it was straight from the showroom.
I jogged down the drive in my usual steady rhythm. My ears and hands burned with cold, and my nose started to run as I breathed in freezing rain. I'd always liked running in winter. Maybe it was because I got wet and muddy, so the run felt a bit more gruelling, and I had accomplished more. How many thousands of miles had I run in my time as an infantryman and SAS trooper, then since? Eight years a soldier . . . Ten years in the Regiment . . . About twelve since I'd left. Thirty years, man and boy. I got to the bottom of the drive. Fifty weeks times thirty was one thousand five hundred. Left or right? Even Stevens. I turned left.
One thousand five hundred, times five for the number of runs per week . . . and an average of ten miles a run. Fuck me, seventy-five thousand miles. How many times round the earth was that? There might be a spot for me in the
Guinness Book of Records.