Belfast Old Boys

[David Frame]

Just finished writing my first book and looking for an agent - it's a spy novel set in Belfast centred around an MI6 agent named Solomon Fuller. Here's the first one of fifty or so chapters. I hope you enjoy it. Let me know if anybody would like to see more chapters.

Please do comment and criticise - all help welcomed and greatly appreciated.


1

Mickey gulped the last of his pint whilst waiting for the long overdue arrival of his Commanding Operations Officer. Stuart Cullen was at least three pints late, forcing Mickey to grease the gears with a few more than he’d originally planned, but what the hell, he knew what he was doing. Never to be accused of being a snappy dresser, he wore black drainpipes, a blood coloured short-sleeved shirt and ash black, soft leather shoes. A black duffle coat lay on the floor beside him, doubling as a blanket for somebody else’s dog. He’d been filling his time trying to ram his little finger at speed through a beer mat. He stunk of Fahrenheit.

He pulled a thumb of soft tobacco from his battered leather pouch and without thought licked a rolly together in less than ten seconds. He slid from his stool and wandered towards the double doors that spilled outwards from the bar and onto the grey slab stone pavement. Striking a match with his right hand whilst shielding the flame with his left, Mickey lit his cigarette as he stared out into the darkness of the Falls Road, eyes scanning for a mixture of Cullen, Loyalists and the British Army. It was highly unlikely that the latter two would be seen on the road given the current climate of peace, but old habits diehard when a quick glance could make the difference between waking up the next day and, well, not.

The road was wet even though the rain had stopped almost an hour before. It was a little after five in the evening, but the sun had all but disappeared at about the same time as its archrival the rain. The orange glow of the streetlights skipped and shimmered along the water filled potholes and dips of the Falls. Mickey shook his head at the image and let out an almost nihilistic laugh. Here he was, stood outside The Liberty Public House in the heart of Catholic west Belfast, in the shadow of Black Mountain in the stronghold of the Provo’s, and the street was covered in an orange glow; just think of the irony. Fucking British Government probably installed the orange bulbs deliberately, having a good laugh at us dumb micks from their cushy little offices in Whitehall.

A man in his late sixties slowly pumped his legs as he pedalled past the recently modernised swimming baths that sat directly across the road, proudly displaying its new covered slide that looped outside for a few thrilling metres before darting back indoors. The rusty pushbike looked to be at least thirty years old, with the old man finishing off the nostalgic look with a pair of shiny bicycle clips and a thick woollen scarf. A rough cloth satchel swung from side to side across his back as the pensioner pedalled, his heavy-duty boiler suit and weatherproofs chafing loudly as he slowly moved forward in short, strained bursts. His hand kept slicking back the last of his grey hair as it was blown in all directions by the still damp wind; every time he did so the bike wobbled precariously as he took one hand off the handlebars. A lot of guys worked well into their seventies in the wood and metal yards of Belfast. The labour laws of Europe had squashed this opportunity in the shipyards and factories, but the privately owned timber merchants and scrap dealers were more than happy to take advantage of the elderly work ethic. There was something about this generation in that they had immunity to being work-shy, quite unlike their younger, often lazier career competitors.

“How goes it you old grafter? Why don’t you take a rest and pop in for a swift one?” shouted Mickey, waving over the old man who he’d never met nor seen before in his life.

“I’d love to but the wife wants me home for our youngest coming over with her new man. But you keep up the good work now. You show them now you hear,” shouted the old-timer as he eventually pulled past The Liberty at a snails pace. Like everybody else in this part of Belfast, the old fella knew exactly who Mickey was. Everybody knew who the Provo’s were, what they looked like, where they drank, where they lived, which ones you could have a good crack with and which ones to avoid. They were both feared and revered by the community, a little like the old time gangsters of sixties London. Good old boys who hurt only those that deserved to be hurt while protecting the community from the UVF and UDA - fighting for the greater good. This romantic viewpoint had no room for acknowledging maimed parents or orphaned children, instead focussing on the ‘cause’ and the justified end, ignoring the hell that was the predominant part of their means. The Provo’s were the modern day local heroes of a centuries old war, a fact that made Mickey smile with unbridled pride. People referred to the troubles as beginning in sixty-nine, or if they were really trying to prove their academic astuteness, they might reflect all the way back to the nineteen twenties. However, in reality the people of Northern Ireland had been killing each other for more than four hundred years, the last thirty-five or so were merely the icing on the cake in terms of weaponry and tactics.

“You be careful home now,” shouted Mickey Sheehan with a smile, just beginning to bask in his own self-importance when he felt the chill of the icy cold metal on the back of his head.

 

[David Frame]

Oh...and thanks for reading it!!!

 

[David Frame]

Chapter 2 Part One

2

“And you’re the unit’s intelligence chief! Fuckin’ God help us,” laughed Stuart Cullen as he lowered the pistol from Mickey’s scalp and buried it back inside his knee-length leather jacket. He’d come through the rear door, past the domino players in the lounge and into the busy bar unseen. Cullen was dark haired, unshaven, six foot three and almost eighteen stone. He’d never been a bodybuilder as his size came naturally. Picking up weights would have just made it worse. Contrary to what you might think, this kind of bulk was a severe handicap for a member of the IRA. For Cullen, trying to blend in and merge, he regularly explained, was like trying to hide a tan at a Ku Klux Klan rally. But still, he’d managed to get a gun to the head of Mickey unseen all the same.

“I’m intelligent enough to know that the bullets would come from the street and not from the bar you big hairy bastard,” growled Mickey before breaking into a husky smokers laugh.

“Aye, you might be right at that,” said Cullen as he turned back into the bar, closely followed by Mickey, Senior Intelligence Officer for one of Derry’s most feared and decorated Brigades. “Two pints of stout for the boys Sarah and a one for yourself darlin’,” roared Cullen as he reached the bar, eager to announce his presence to his devoted supporters. Minutes later, with pints in hand, Mickey and Stuart made their way through the inebriated teatime crush towards a table at the very back of the bar. The tables at the rear were never, that is ever, taken, as they were unofficially reserved for the gallant soldiers of the Provisional Irish Republican Army. Members of Sinn Fein could on occasion be found here enjoying a swift one through the week, but this was a dying habit. Even the illustrious Gerry Adams himself had been known to grace the bar with his presence on occasion, but that was before the McCartney sisters thing and the stranglehold the US began putting on the IRA’s political representatives. A guy was killed outside a bar and the USA pulled the shutters right fucking down on Sinn Fein. Party’s over lads. The IRA had kindly offered to shoot the perpetrators but apparently this didn’t go down to well with the family of the dead man – something or other about justice not murder.

Adams now had to distance Sinn Fein from the military wing, to paint the political party almost as a broker twice removed. We are now no longer a part of the problem, we are a part of the solution was Sinn Fein’s desired public doctrine. The 28th of July 2005 saw the IRA announce a permanent step down from all military activity and a full decommissioning of its weapons, but its volunteers had absolutely no intention of giving the lot up on demand. They did after all have not only a community-policing role to consider but also a living to make for fucks sake. No brickie would just hand over his trowel and spirit level if you asked him to now would he? Plus, the £26m from the Northern Bank Robbery wasn’t going to last forever.

The Republican politicians blamed Osama Bin Laden for a hell of a lot, or that rag headed fucker as he was commonly known at Sinn Fein Headquarters. The people of America, with over 40 million of them being able to trace Irish ancestry, had always been the key provider of finances to the IRA. But 9/11 had taken away almost all support for any terrorist movement after the Yanks had been on the receiving end, no matter how much some of the Irish American idealists liked to fantasize that their donations were helping the very noblest of causes.

In reality the majority of money had been invested in shipments from Libya courtesy of a gentleman who revelled in supporting global terror. Like a naughty child, the United States stopped the IRA’s pocket money and put the nail in the coffin of military action for good.

The tables of The Liberty were swept for listening devices everyday at precisely 3.30pm, when they would subsequently be roped off like an exhibition in a museum so that no bugs could be placed from that point onwards. Still, anybody with the authority to sit at these tables should and would be seasoned enough not to speak too openly anyway. That said, Mickey Sheehan was about as subtle as clown shoes, a fact that Stuart Cullen regularly reminded him of.

“What bloody kept you Stuart? I’ve been here over a fuckin’ hour man. I’m like Billy fuckin’ no mates sat here!”

Cullen took a big gulp before wiping his mouth with his sleeve and then finally answering. “I had something on that I couldn’t get away from,” he said, as if this provided a complete, all encompassing response for his friend.

“I thought I was going to have to go on my own,” grinned Mickey, not as pissed off as he would have been at Cullen’s lateness due to the extra couple of pints that had taken the edge off his folkloric fiery temper. Even though Cullen had rank, the two men had been friends since they were knee high and neither really acknowledged the hierarchy that existed between them in military terms. Their bond went beyond titles. It was about trust.

Cullen feigned shock and insult. “I did think about having an early night and just giving the whole thing a skip, but there was nothing on the telly so I thought I’d come along anyway,” he said with no small dose of sarcasm.

“What the **** Mickey, you know me better than that now. I had to put a call into the Council for final approval and you know that takes a bit of time. Have you thought about this? Have you planned that? Have you recce’d the area? Yabba, yabba, fuckin’ yabba!”

“What about Davey then?” asked Mickey now satisfied with about as close to an apology he was ever going to get from Cullen. He was referring to Davey Foley, Arms Master for the Derry Unit.

“He’ll be meeting us there,” said Stuart, following a brief pause as he once again gulped down his dark stout like a drowning man eventually finding air. “He has some gear to pick up for us first and then he’ll be fetching our new associate along. We’ll meet them two roads out and go across in the one car. It’ll give us a chance to have one final bit crack about the job.”
The new associate they spoke of was Patrick Whelan, a twenty-two year-old recruit who was born and bred on the Garvaghy Road. He’d served his apprenticeship throwing rocks at the Protestant marchers and petrol bombs at the British Army Land Rovers, locally known as Pigs. The Pigs could still be seen on the streets of Northern Ireland, but they were painted white now with red and blue stripes, gone was the hated shade of British Army green or RUC blue. They even had ‘crimestoppers’ freephone numbers stencilled on the side. The wolf really fucking was wearing sheep’s clothing. However, it didn’t take a big Indian call centre to handle the number of calls that were generated from Belfast. They still knew it was the wolf no matter how good the sheep disguise was.

As a toddler sat in his pushchair, Patrick had watched his next-door neighbours and his mother spit and kick at the Orange Order as they proudly and defiantly marched past, his Mam screaming like an unhinged banshee, turning the air blue with insults and challenges. The Orange Order believed they had the right to march down the Queens highway in celebration of the Battle of the Boyne when William of Orange defeated the Catholic King James. His Mam had explained to him that it wasn’t the Queens Highway, it was our fucking front street and no fucking Protestant was going to march down her fucking road without receiving more than their fair share of abuse. Hating the Protestants came as naturally to Patrick as breathing. He’d been recruited by Cullen at the age of twenty, but this was the first time the young lad was going to be operational.

Patrick had fulfilled his destiny when he joined the IRA. Cullen was off the chart when it came to recruiting new talent and he spotted Whelan a mile off. Like Anna Nicole Smith marrying an eighty-nine year old billionaire, the writing was on the wall for Patrick from the very beginning. Cullen knew it before Patrick even did. It was always going to happen, it was just a matter of waiting for the opportunity to present itself.

The boy was green and understandably shitting himself, but he was well fucking committed to the cause so he was more than half way to becoming a gallant soldier of the Irish Republican Army.

“Will the kid be OK? This is a big job to have for a first one,” said Mickey, seamlessly merging a statement with a question. Stuart Cullen stubbed out his cigarette in the thick glass ashtray that currently held more pistachio shells than it did fag butts.

“The lad ’ll be fine,” assured Cullen. “After all, he ain’t the point man on this one, you are. The young’un will give us some back up if things get a bit tasty but I expect he’ll just be doin’ the driving tonight. You just make sure you’re in the door first Mickey cos’ we need experience on this one. No **** ups.” Stuart Cullen pulled back the cuff of his thick blue woollen jumper and glanced at his digital watch. “Drink up pal, we need to show these people that we won’t accept this kind of behaviour on our streets.”

Mickey Sheehan needed no further encouragement. He lived for bringing pain and suffering to the Protestants. He was to the Loyalist’s what Bernard Matthews was to turkeys.

 

[David Frame]

Chapter Two Part Two

They walked straight out the front door of the pub, turned right, jumped over the crumbling brick wall and into the bumpy tarmac car park of The Liberty. They both made quick cursory inspections around Mickey’s dark green Ford Escort, dropping to their knees and running their hands underneath and around the wheel arches.

As The Liberty car park was covered by no less than eight security cameras and with floodlights to rival any English Premiership ground, planting a device on the car would have been nigh on impossible. But still, these two men were alive today because they were careful where others made the paramilitary faux pas of becoming blasé.

Sheehan and Cullen were two of the most well respected killers in the Republican movement with at least fifty kills between them in what had been a long, illustrious and lethal career for them both. Even though security and infiltration had forced the IRA into a cell structure in the early eighties, these two were still thought of as an inseparable double act and were well known across the movement and beyond – a terrorist version of Abbott & Costello.
However, when this partnership delivered the punch line there were very rarely any laughs. They were highly experienced, highly trained, never underestimated the enemy and had never made an oversight. They were role models to the PIRA up and coming.

Sheehan jumped in the drivers seat and leaned across to yank the button up on the passenger side, pulling open the glovebox and removing the Glock as Cullen slid into the car in one single, almost smooth motion, closing the door with a loud bang that boomed away into the cloud covered night.

“Are you sure you’ve closed that,” said Mickey sarcastically as he nodded towards his passenger side door.

“Just drive the car there’s a good boy,” said Cullen, ruffling his friend’s hair like a naughty schoolboy.

“Get the **** off now,” said Mickey as he reeled backwards, his friend laughing at his need to be consistently masculine.

Mickey shoved the pistol into the waistband of his tight black pants, making sure the safety was clicked on before hand. Never take a chance where your balls are concerned was his philosophy. He pushed the key into the ignition and turned the barrel.

The engine gunned and he reversed out of the car park and out onto the Falls Road, just a stones throw away from its long-time enemy, the equally infamous Shankill Road.

 

[David Frame]

Chapter Three

3

The car quietly but conspicuously idled on double yellow lines, across the road and slightly to the left of Derrin’s Funeral Services. The car windows began to steam as the warm breath of the four occupants clashed with the cold Belfast night that blew harshly on the other side of the glass. After picking up Foley and Whelan, they’d driven around the block twice, looking for something and nothing, and had only just come to a standstill. Mickey blasted the heater but switched it off within seconds as it swiftly began making everybody nauseous with the oily smelling hot air.

The road was empty apart from a high top double-glazing van parked half on the curb and a maroon Ford Mondeo parked further down on the opposite side of the street. The fact that the road was a dead end meant that there was no through traffic to speak of, and as it was just after eight on a Friday night in Belfast, the other businesses on the road had all long been closed. There were no bars or restaurants on the road either so pedestrian traffic was almost non-existent of a weekend apart from the odd dog walker and the occasional piss head looking for a taxi or kebab house. With only six street lamps providing light, and with three of those in need of new bulbs, the street was shrouded in darkness with the main source of brightness being the frosted glass windows of the undertakers, shining out onto the blackness of Mitchell Road like a divers’ torch.

“OK, one more time,” said Cullen. “Mickey goes in the front door with Davey while I come in through the back. Patrick, you stay in the car and keep the engine running. If you see any RUC, pick up your mobile phone and start plugging in the hands free kit, with a bit of luck they’ll think you’re a good law abiding Protestant lad who’s just pulled over to do the right thing. Get your weapon loaded up – remember to bang the clip in hard, just smack it like a red headed stepchild and make sure it’s clicked in all the way. If you see any UVF just aim and squeeze like we talked about, just like you’ve been shown Patrick,” he said eyeing the gun that was being eagerly gripped by Whelan. “Whatever happens though Patrick, stay in the car. If you ain’t behind the wheel with the engine running when we come out, we ain’t gonna get away now you hear.”

“Aye Stuart, I hear,” said Patrick through a nervous smile. He wanted to show real bravado but was just too fucking scared to muster up a convincing performance. His heart was beating and the warm salt-water taste in his mouth told him that vomit wasn’t too far off either. Beads of sweat were forming on his forehead but wiping them away would only draw more attention from the colleagues whose respect he was eager to procure.

“You better fuckin’ hear me Patrick,” said Cullen grabbing Patrick’s face with his right hand. “This is fuckin real kid, no more practice, no more training. These bastards shoot back.”

The passenger door opened first, closely followed by the driver side and then the rear doors. Patrick slowly stepped out from the back, took a few steps and got into the drivers seat while the rest of the occupants headed for the boot. Cullen flipped the boot lid open and gave one last cursory glance over each shoulder before reaching down for the Israeli made Tavor 21 assault rifle, leaving the two AK47’s for Mickey and Davey. The AK’s already had clips but the Tavor needed a magazine banging in. Cullen reached into the accompanying black cloth bag, found what he was looking for and slammed the mag hard with the palm of his hand to make sure it was fully engaged with the weapon. Satisfied, he flipped off the safety before checking his back-up weapon, the Beretta that he’d buried in one of the many pouches inside his long leather jacket.

“No body armour then Stuart?” asked Foley.

“Fuckin’ hell Davey, you wanna take your teddy in with you as well,” said Sheehan in a hushed but piss-taking tone.

“Sorry lads, short notice and all that, you know what it’s like. Anyway, you’re the fuckin arms master!” directed Cullen back at Foley.

The nerves began rolling in like the tide. They all wanted to push back against it, to resist, but it was never going to happen. All three men had been operational at least sixty times between them and they were definitely all smart enough to be concerned. They were trained soldiers at the end of the day, not heaven craving martyrs. Every time they went into something like this they prayed to God that they’d come back out alive. The pub was the place for bullish heroics, for telling a good tale, not when standing toe to toe with well-armed killers with the skill and the will. When you were about to step into a firefight with members of the Ulster Volunteer Force, selfless heroics were not fucking appropriate at all. You watched your back and that of the man next to you, but if things got sticky then you got the **** out and lived to fight another day. The IRA needed seasoned, battle ready men as oppose to a constant flow of new recruits who would need a couple of years in the field until they showed their true value. The movement couldn’t afford to lose good men and the movement had to come first, even if it meant letting one man die so another could live.

The three men stood with their backs pressed to the wall, their warm breath forming into one before dispersing into the cold night like plumes of thick cigar smoke. Patrick Whelan stared out from inside the car and gave them all the thumbs up. A forced smile swept across his face before he quickly changed it to a fixed grimace, thinking that the smile may not have been appropriate after all given the circumstances. His eyes gave away his fear though, even from tem metres away. Sheehan half expected the lad to wind down the window and shout ‘break a leg’, but Cullen remembered what first jobs were like. He wasn’t going to lose his rag at the lad just because he was scared. Everybody had a first one, even him and Mickey.

“Good luck boys,” said Mickey to his two friends. Davey Foley gave him a wink in return.

“Lets clean this shit out of Belfast eh lads,” he said with resolve as he pulled back the safety all the way down the side of the AK.

Cullen nodded his intention to the other two before stepping away from the wall and heading down the back lane towards the rear of the funeral parlour – his agreed entry point – where he’d cut down anybody who’d try and make a run for it. Mickey Sheehan took first pressure on the AK’s trigger and held it. After an agreed count of forty-five seconds, Davey Foley put his hand on the silver door handle and pushed.

The first shot ripped through his face, tearing a huge exit wound in the back of his skull.

 

[David Frame]

You can click the link for the fourth chapter!!!