Collusion: Chapter Four

The action moves to Northern Ireland as the tension builds

On Tuesdays and Thursdays, I’ll publish a section from the novel. Chapters 1 2 3 are here for those who missed them. The story so far: Michael Ashton, a journalist, has been violently attacked after meeting the Football Lads Action Group. Investigations point to links between the right-wing group and Ulster Loyalists

Chapter 4: Bandit Country

The mews house seemed too small to contain a man of Titch’s size but he found the space adequate. The front door opened on to a small corridor. To the left was a bedroom, to the right a garage that had not accommodated a car in years. Instead, there were various items of gym equipment and weights, tools, a workbench and a motorbike that was covered by a tarpaulin. At the rear of the property was a small toilet facing the front door and beyond it the kitchen where Ashton had undergone his ordeal.

The middle floor was one big reception room with a sofa, armchairs, a small dining table, a substantial but not vulgar wall-mounted TV and a compact, impressive sound system.

The main bedroom, with its en suite toilet and shower, was at the top of the house in the mansard. There was one other room up there: a tiny study crammed with books and expensive surveillance equipment. A fixed monitor showed scenes from inside and outside. High end software sent alerts to Titch’s mobile phone at the slightest hint of intruders. Now he sat in the office and rewound, for the umpteenth time, footage of the assault on his friend, following it from every angle from beginning to end. Occasionally he blew up an image or enhanced it. He printed off slightly blurry but recognisable photographs of the three assailants.

The phone rang. Ashton was on his way. Titch had told him to come straight to the mews, even though the patient wanted to go home and recover his energy and pride.

When the black cab rolled up the cobbles, Ashton shuddered – not just with the bumping motion of the vehicle. The last time he was here he was brutalised and carted off in an ambulance. It was an experience that overwhelmed him. His breathing was laboured and he wanted to break out of the taxi and run away but Titch was on the step, filling the doorway with his reassuring bulk.

“Come in, dear boy,” he said. “Just don’t make as much of a mess as you did on your previous visit.”

Ashton gave the barest of smiles. It was too early for humour. “I know, I know,” Titch said soothingly, guiding him indoors.

They went up to the sitting room. “A beer? Water? Should I send out for something to eat?” Titch was very solicitous.

“No. You said we needed to talk.”

“Sit here.” Titch motioned to a chair at the table and opened his laptop. “Do you want to see it?” he asked. “It might not help your state of mind. People who have been through what you’ve gone through often suffer from anxiety, panic attacks and nightmares. It is one of the most psychologically destructive forms of torture devised by mankind.”

“You’ve got it on camera?” Ashton was stunned.

“Yes.”

“Why didn’t you give the footage to the police?”

“It wouldn’t change their mind. They haven’t got the manpower to do anything about it. Let’s look at it and decide where to go from here. I may be able to help.”

Ashton was even more unnerved. “You’re a retired civil servant. Really?”

“That’s not a lie,” Titch said. “There are different kinds of service. But that’s a conversation for another time. I’ll ask again, do you want to watch?”
“Yes.”

With the click of a tracking pad Ashton appeared on screen standing on the doorstep. The car passed and, suddenly, a rush of men came into sight. Titch froze it at intervals to focus one-by-one on the faces of the attackers. None of the trio looked younger than 30 and the primary assailant could have been two decades older. Titch produced the printed version. “Have you seen any of these men before?”

They stared at the images. Ashton shook his head.

The recording continued. There was not much to glean from the scramble in the hallway but the section in the kitchen was chilling. Both men winced when Ashton was kicked in the groin and the moments when the beer was poured on to his hooded face made the victim hyperventilate once more.

They followed the incident to its conclusion. The men left the house and ran up the mews. Their getaway vehicle was waiting out of sight in the passage that led to the street.

“What about the car that passed me?” Ashton asked.

“Belongs to a friend of one of the neighbours. It was just a coincidence. The driver did not notice anything. But look at this.”

He rewound the film back to the kitchen. The man pouring the beer rolled up his sleeves before the third, long drenching. Titch homed in on the arm. There was a tattoo. It said ‘FUC’ and there were numbers below it. “You see that?”

Confused, Ashton responded. “Is it supposed to be some sort of offensive joke?”

“Well, it’s not funny,” Titch said. “In this case it means Free Ulster Commando. A particularly murderous group. The numbers are 88 and 14. You know what they signify?”

This time Ashton had a clearer understanding. “The 88 is Heil Hitler? The eighth letter of the alphabet?” Titch nodded to confirm and explained the significance of the companion digits.

“The other is 14 words: ‘We must secure the existence of our people and a future for white children.’ These are the sort of characters we are dealing with. Did any of them have a Northern Irish accent?”

“No.” Ashton was sure. “No. All sounded southern. Not Cockney but Estuary. At least that’s how I remember them. It’s like waking from a nightmare.”

“The FUC tattoo makes the link with Armstrong more insidious.” Titch withdrew from the arm to the man’s face. “How old do you estimate? Forty? Fifty?”

“Older than me,” Ashton said.

“That’s what I thought. He seems the sort of age where he might have served in Northern Ireland in the 1980s or 90s. FUC was used as a cover name by the mainstream Loyalist groups for the more despicable attacks. Yes, because it amused them.” Titch paused and took a deep breath before continuing.

“There was some cooperation between our forces and the paramilitaries at the time. More than one soldier forgot who were the good guys and who were the bad guys.”

The phrase jarred with Ashton but he moved the conversation along. “You said you knew more about them than I did?”

“Yes,” Titch said. “I’d seen this film.”

And the rest, Ashton thought, but he kept his counsel. Instead, he said: “Well, let’s take it to the police.”

“Not yet. When we’re ready. Plus, I don’t want to draw too much attention to myself and this house.”

Ashton was exhausted. “So the kids behind the bar are right. You are a spy!”

“I’m a retired civil servant and a bureaucrat, as I told you. Some of that bureaucracy pertained to matters of national security.”

“Why would you show me this? And tell me this? I’m a journalist.”

“No,” Titch said patiently, “you’re my friend. No one else has ever brought me three bottles of Don Pepe. And I think your life is in danger. I can help save it.”

*

It was clear to Ashton that he should not go back to his flat. “Can you get out of town?” Titch asked. “Let things settle.” The answer was a shake of the head. There were no close relatives left on Merseyside and his friends were all family men for whom even a short-term lodger would prove an imposition. “Stay here for a while,” Titch said, and set him up in the bedroom on the ground floor.

They spent the next hours going through the conversation in the Royal Standard to attempt to work out what ExSat thought Ashton knew. It was how he imagined interrogations. Every memory was scrutinised and nuances were analysed and broken down into the smallest component parts. Both men ended up exasperated.

“I’ve got to go out,” Titch said about 9.30pm.

“You’re going the pub. Without me.” Ashton said, disgusted.

“Of course I am. No one’s looking for me. Anyway, it’s a bit of reconnaissance. I’ll bring you some beer back.”

“Will I be safe on my own?”

“Trust me, there’s so much security here that it would be easier to get into Buckingham Palace.”

Alone, Ashton made a fretful guest. He peeked into the garage briefly but saw nothing of interest except the fitness equipment. He did not turn on the light. Climbing the stairs, he checked out his host’s bedroom and wondered what was behind the locked door on the upper floor. Then he went back to the guest room and lay on the bed.

After 30 minutes he decided to confront his fears and went to the kitchen. It was squeaky-clean and as far from a torture chamber as possible. Even so, Ashton sat on the floor against the wall and wept.

He was composed by the time Titch came home. True to his word, the host brought a four-pint growler of draft beer back: Thornbridge Jaipur. They went to the big reception room and discussed the events of the night.

“Rightio,” Titch said, popping the cork on the Don Pepe gueuze. “A couple of people have been in asking about you. Said they couldn’t get you on the phone. They wanted to know where you lived. One of them was an annoying drunk who they had to ask to leave.”

“What did he look like?”

“Skinny, sunburned, sozzled.”

“Barry Pierce,” Ashton sighed. “I sent him the same text as you from Westvleteren. He tried to call me three times the next day but I never got back to him. He probably thinks I’m dead.”

“Call him tomorrow. If you give me the keys to the flat, I’ll go and get your laptop and some clothes in the morning.”

“Won’t that be dangerous?”

“No,” Titch said categorically. “Not for me. We’ll assess options when I come back. For now, enjoy your beer.”

Once the growler was finished Ashton retired to bed and an uncomfortable night. Every noise in the mews woke him with a jolt. The proximity to the site of his torment gave his dreams a terrifying intensity.

His host went upstairs, unlocked the office and sat down. He spent the next half-hour looking at the film of his guest’s movements during the time Ashton was alone.

*

“You looking for Ash?” A twitchy Asian man in his 30s asked the question as Titch walked to the front door at Lenthall House.

“Is it that obvious?”

“No,” the man laughed. He was one of those individuals who find it hard to remain still. “I live next door. Been a few people looking for him. Is he in trouble with the Feds?”

“Certainly not,” Titch said with affronted gravitas. “I’m his friend. He had an, er, accident and has been in hospital. I’ve come to get some clothes and his computer.”

“Tell him to get well soon,” the man said and immediately lost interest.

Titch did not. “Why do you think he’s in trouble with the police?”

“They looked, yeahknow, like they were… Said they were his mates but had that look.”

“Indeed,” Titch said. “They looked like they’d been in the army?”

“Yeah man, yeah.”

The interior of the flat was untidy but showed no signs of being searched. It was the sort of place a man might leave with the intention of returning within a couple of hours. There were no snippets of information to be gleaned here.

Nevertheless, Titch checked all the potential points of entry to make sure the home was secure and placed a tiny camera in a dusty, cluttered bookshelf at an angle where it could see the door. He checked the link was working on his phone. Anyone who entered would be caught on film.

Instead of going straight home, Titch walked up Johnson’s Place, crossed Lupus Street and began to meander through the diagonal grid of streets between St George’s Drive and Sutherland Street. Even taxi drivers who had passed the Knowledge found themselves confused by the one-way maze and the disconcertingly similar roads. He cut back and forth, seemingly turning at random and doubled around on his path. He had no intention of shaking any potential tail but he wanted to know whether anyone was following him. After deciding he was in the clear, Titch did one last loop around Denbigh Street and went to the pub. He had a couple of calls to make and needed a drink to stiffen his resolve.

*

Ashton was chaffing at being confined in the mews. He was delighted when Titch came home and told him it was time to leave. The relief did not last long.

“It sounds like ExSat have been asking questions around the flat,” Titch said. “You shouldn’t go back there for a few more days.”

“OK,” Ashton said. “You’re kicking me out?” There was disappointment and reproach in his voice.

“No. I want you to go and talk to someone. I knew him a long time ago. He may be able to put some of this puzzle together. Can you go to Ireland tomorrow?”

Ashton was surprised. “I suppose so.”

“Fly to Dublin,” Titch said. “Hire a car and drive up to the north. Book a room in this hotel in Newry for two nights…” he handed across a card, “…and you’ll get a call where to meet. I’d go with you but it’s better I don’t. You’ll be in no danger.” Ashton was not convinced.

“Why not fly to Belfast? It’s nearer.”

“Less potential for rogue ex-squaddies in the south. What do people do when they come out of the forces? What jobs? Policemen, immigration officers, customs, security… If ExSat do have a network, you might run into it at a British airport. You won’t at an Irish one. You just have to trust me.”

Faith was in short supply. The prospect of travelling into the Bandit Country of South Armagh concerned Ashton. None of the politicians advocating Brexit had even considered the effect of leaving Europe on the Good Friday Agreement and peace in the province. More than 20 years had passed since the cessation of hostilities but ignorance on the mainland played into the hands of militant republicans and support to renew the armed struggle was growing. Unionists were propping up the government but could not form a coherent policy. To make things worse, power sharing had fallen apart in Ulster and the Catholic and Protestant communities were living parallel lives that intersected too rarely. It was the most divided region of a Britain that was ripping itself apart.

On the drive from Dublin airport Ashton spoke to Pierce and gave him the details of the trip. It was insurance. Someone else needed to know his itinerary. Pierce was sceptical about the need to go to the north. “Are you sure about this Titch?” he asked. “He knew who Armstrong was. Plus, you got jumped at his house. Are you certain he’s not setting you up somehow?”

It was a fair question and it occupied Ashton all the way to Newry. Who was he going to meet? Why direct him to this hotel? Once he was there he was easy to locate. He pulled into the car park with a huge sense of trepidation.

The reception reassured him. Marble, scarlet carpets and dark-stained wood suggested a genteel environment. It was busy, too, with older people sheltering from the weather in comfortable, slightly pompous surroundings.

A bright, welcoming twentysomething checked him in. It was a simple process and within a couple of minutes he was on his way to a room on the second floor. When he left the lift the dread returned. The corridors were silent and oppressive and as he walked towards the room he began to feel a frantic, claustrophobic sensation fizz up from his injured groin towards his brain. He placed the key card into its reader and the green light came on. His body almost fell inside and he scrambled to close the door. Just as he clicked the lock shut a voice from the bathroom said: “What the hell are you doing in here?”

Ashton clawed at the handle, opening the door just wide enough to squirm into the hallway. He slammed it behind him and ran towards the stairs. As he turned the corner he collided with someone coming the other way. Even though the impact was not severe, breath left his body in exactly the same manner as on Titch’s step. He fell back in fright only to see a young woman who was even more terrified. It was the receptionist. “Oh my god,” she said. “I gave you the wrong room. I sent you to an occupied room. I’m so sorry.”

It was just a mistake. Nothing more.

The girl was concerned and apologetic. “I need to sit down,” Ashton said, and slumped to the floor by the wall. “You stay here,” the receptionist said. “I’ll apologise to the guest in the room and come back and sort you out. I’ll get you an upgrade.”

But when she returned Ashton was gone. He was in the bar drinking a large whiskey to calm himself down.

*

“It’s just Ireland,” Titch said when they spoke later. “There’s a delightful, wellmeaning incompetence over there. As opposed to the smallminded, nasty incompetence on the mainland. It was an error. They didn’t know your nerves are shot.”

It was no consolation. After he hung up, Ashton felt completely alone. Was the incident another set-up? Titch was the only one who knew he was booking in. He went downstairs to reception again and smiled at the girl. She shuffled uneasily.

“That’s OK,” he said. “It was very funny. I’ve just spoken to my mate. He arranged it, right?”

“Oh, sir, no,” she said. “I misread it on the computer. I’m so, so, sorry.”

She was genuinely contrite and embarrassed. The only thing he could do was laugh. Without mirth.

Newry was like going back in time. It seemed there had been some half-hearted investment in the centre but not enough to refashion the image of an old, faded country town. The streets were deserted after dark. The rain and wind did not help. A figure or two showed themselves briefly from the shadows. They appeared menacing but were merely smokers poking their heads out of pubs. The odd car passed but most sensible people were sitting tight at home at 8.30 on a Monday night in winter.

He went to the Bridge Bar because it had the best online beer recommendations. The place was almost empty. The ambiance was created by dark wood and reassuring pub clutter. A barman and two customers were watching Chelsea play Manchester United in the FA Cup on TV.

A large selection of Irish ales was detailed on a blackboard but when Ashton asked for a couple he found that they were out of stock. The bar was awaiting a delivery. He had four bottles – two Galway Bay beers and two from Cloughmore – and sat morosely, checking twitter and boning up on the history of the area. It was grim reading. He was close to the centre of the Murder Triangle of the 1970s and 80s.

The door opened and a squat, muscular man came in. Instead of going into the section with the television on the other side of the bar, he came and sat on a stool in the same area as Ashton. He looked across and nodded.

Ashton inclined his head slightly in return. The newcomer turned, put his elbows on the counter and ordered a Guinness. He stared at the mirror behind the bar. Was he watching the stranger in its reflection?

The journalist’s phone rang. It was the last thing he needed. Pierce was on the line and was squiffy. “Just checking on you. All good?” he said. “Orlanda sends her love.”

Ashton was curt but Pierce did not get the message. “Do you know who you’re meeting and where?” he continued. “When you do, let me know. Someone needs to be able to track your movements. I don’t trust this Titch.”

The man at the bar was paying attention. He angled his head away from the mirror to hear the conversation better. After the call ended, the local slid off the seat and walked around the deep, U-shaped bar to the toilets. Ashton considered leaving but the man came back around the corner implausibly soon. He didn’t return to his seat but approached Ashton’s table and loomed over it.

“Are you English?” he asked.

With a pounding heart, Ashton summoned some defiance. “Scouse,” he said.

“I thought so,” the man grinned. “I heard your accent. A Red?”

“Yeah.”

“Are we going to win the league?”

Football, the great peacemaker, Ashton thought as his pulse slowed down. Except where the Football Lads Action Group were involved. “Can I get you a drink?” the Irishman asked eagerly. “I went to Anfield last year. I was on the Kop.”

Talking about sport reminded Ashton that there was a world out there where the majority of people had no intention of waterboarding others with beer. The pair discussed players, managers, goals and saves for an hour and it felt like the first normal night since he set off on his beer run. When they parted just after closing the Irishman hugged him and said, “Up the Reds.”

Ashton had a big grin on his face until his new friend added: “And be careful round here. There’s a lot of fellas who don’t like Brits. Don’t go talking to strangers.” The local winked and strolled off into the night.

Suddenly Ashton was jumpy again. It was a cautious, watchful walk back to the hotel.

*

The next morning was clear and bright. The mobile rang at 6.45. It was Pierce. Again. “Still alive?” he said with jocular nastiness. “You know where you’re going?”

“No.”

“Keep me updated,” he said before signing off.

It was impossible to get back to sleep. Ashton washed and wrote some emails while he waited. At 9am reception called. A friend was here to see him. Should they send him up?

Ashton said no a little too vehemently. “I’ll come down.”

The receptionist directed him towards a cluster of high-backed leather chairs. The contact, whoever he was, was facing away from the desk. Ashton approached in trepidation, even though there could be no threat in the busy foyer. Nervousness was becoming a habit. He found a man in his late 60s with the brush moustache of a 1980s policeman and a stern manner. “I’m Davy,” he said. “A friend of Sher’s.” His handshake was a crushing, classic expression of masculinity.

“Cher?” Ashton said stupidly before correcting himself. “Titch.”

“Sher,” the man reaffirmed. He sounded local. “I worked with him a long time ago. He’s asked me to put you in touch with someone we both had dealings with. I’ve made the call. The fellow you’re meeting has your number.

“Do not try to record him. Listen to what he says but do not make notes, not even when you get back here. Not until you are back in London. I have guaranteed your safety. As long as you abide by the rules.”

He gave the vaguest directions and left without a second handshake, for which Ashton was relieved. It was small consolation. He did not feel very safe at all.

*

Drive towards Armagh, Davy said, and wait for the call. He advised leaving about 11am. Ashton could not sit still, though, so he packed up his single bag, popped it in the boot and left an hour early. Before going anywhere he went and filled up the car. Just in case.

He drove up Camlough Road, deciding to take a circuitous route on the off chance anyone was following. It was a cold, bright, sunny day and the streets looked conventional enough. On the face of it this could have been any outpost in small-town Britain but there were unsettling indications of division. Near the junction with Carnagat Road a red Starry Plough flag flew from a lamp post. Further along on the other side of the highway there was republican graffiti under a tricolour.

Traffic was light but just busy enough so that Ashton could not keep track of whether he was being tailed. There was no reason to feel that anyone was stalking him but paranoia had rapidly become a fact of life. He was going to get on the A1 but, on a whim, he crossed the main thoroughfare and went right on Millvale Road. Was anyone tracking his route? He couldn’t tell.

Just to be totally sure he went left on a country road and rolled along it very slowly so he could see if another vehicle made the same turn. The lane behind him remained empty. He felt reassured.

There was no obvious place to spin around so he picked up pace and assumed that he would hit a bigger road at some point. Nowhere was very far away in Northern Ireland. That made the killings he had read about even more disturbing. People had murdered their neighbours.

The odd car came in the opposite direction but there was no sign of anything in his rear-view mirror. He was tense about his appointment but, for the moment, felt a certain amount of freedom.

There was the occasional house on either side of the road and, in this sunlight, it was hard to believe that this pastoral scene had once been Bandit Country. Farms and fields shivered in the cold sun but it was serene. Then, out of nowhere, just before a hump in the road, he saw a large memorial. It looked similar, if smaller, to the monuments he was familiar with in Belgium. Flowers and wreaths of poppies were rotting under 10 plaques with names and dates written on them. Curiosity got the better of him and, as there was no one around, he pulled into a small patch of dirt close to the structure and got out.

He wished he hadn’t. Mounted tablets told the story. This marked the spot where gunmen in fatigues stopped a minibus full of workers in 1976 and asked how many Catholics were aboard. There was just one present and because there had been coordinated attacks on two families by Loyalists the previous day, the 11 Protestant occupants tried to protect their workmate. Finally, the man admitted his religion, concerned that the terrorists would kill everyone, and accepted his fate. Instead, the gunmen sent the lone Catholic down the road in the dark and within minutes he heard rapid rifle fire. Ten of his colleagues were killed and one survived in what became known as the Kingsmill Massacre.

The horror of the situation made Ashton feel dizzy. He read the words, “The Lord Hates Hands That Shed Innocent Blood,” and stumbled back towards the car. He heard another vehicle come over the low hill at normal speed but it slowed down when its driver saw the rear of Ashton’s car poking out of the siding. A passenger stared into his eyes as the automobile crept past. He was an unwelcome intruder.

A second motor came over the rise and repeated the process. The driver inched along the lane, taking a long, squinting look at Ashton and then, the moment he was past the memorial, accelerated with a vengeance. The tyres squealed.

Engine noises were coming from the opposite direction, too. It sounded like the car was in second gear, howling to go into third. Two men were in it and Ashton began to fear it was the same pair who had first passed him. Both occupants scowled.

Finally recovering his equilibrium, he darted around to the driver’s door. He looked up and saw graffiti on the side of the monument that he’d missed when he arrived. It was an insane scrawl that said “Kingsmill, ha ha ha ha.”

He turned the ignition and began to back into the road. His phone suddenly buzzed with an alert and slipped from the centre console. It startled him. In panic, he stalled the engine.

As he fumbled with the key, a van came flying over the low rise with its horn screaming like a siren of death. It swerved past in an angry howl of fury. Ashton was immobile with terror.

Finally, with much difficulty, he got the vehicle started and swung the steering wheel in the direction of Whitecross. Once in the town he parked up in a petrol station and tried to bring his breathing back to normal. While he was there his phone rang. It was still on the floor. He picked it up and answered with an increasing sense of dread.

• Chapter 5 Orange Alert

• My other novel, Good Guys Lost, a story of gangsterism, the music industry and working-class Liverpool, is available here