Authors: Jack Elgos
The Execution, 1981
Darren stood at the crumbling red brick doorway and took a quick breath of the cold, damp morning air.
A quick, cautious glance had to suffice as surveillance and satisfy him that nobody was watching.
Gently he pushed open the dilapidated, rotten and creaking door.
Thankfully everything was quiet, just as he expected.
A final check and still nothing moved.
He was inside in a flash, closing the door behind him as quickly and silently as possible.
Once through the door, he froze.
He stood still as a statue and held his breath as he waited and listened.
Not a sound was to be heard from inside the rundown little terrace house.
This dwelling was perfectly positioned, as it stood close to the corner junction of Springfield Road and the Falls Road.
Breathing a little easier now he slowly, and deliberately, began creeping upstairs in the fashion of an old tomcat silently stalking his next meal.
The instant he reached the top step he stopped dead in his tracks, barely daring to breathe as a high-pitched squeal screamed through his ears.
Momentarily he froze, then continued on his way as he realised the sound was only the donkey’s years old floorboards as they rubbed together, protesting their annoyance against the intrusion of his weight.
‘Jesus, Mary mother of God,’ he whispered under his breath, quickly crossing himself.
Reaching the landing at the top of the stairs he rapidly made his way to the front bedroom.
Once there he slunk down as low as possible and crawled along until he arrived at the broken old sash-window seconds later.
Lifting his head a tad he risked a quick, sly peek through the centre of the dirty broken windowpane.
As he gazed along the seemingly endless rows of dilapidated old terrace houses he had a prime view of the intricate artwork each one proudly exhibited.
Most of the houses and buildings had their own mural boldly painted on one of their walls, and in glorious Technicolor too, for all to see.
These were actual portraits, works of art, not the tatty graffiti usually seen in the inner cities of the UK.
They were brightly coloured masterpieces depicting the evergreen scenes of
The Irish Tricolour, I.R.A. Sniper at work
and, of course, the all time favourite stating simply,
Brits out.
All was calm on the street with just a few women who, as usual, were standing around gossiping with friends and neighbours.
There was also the obligatory gang of kids playing on their bikes, fighting and generally looking for mischief.
A quick glance at his watch confirmed that he still had around seven minutes left to wait, so he leaned on the cold and damp bedroom wall and lit a Capstan full strength cigarette, inhaling deeply.
Sitting, smoking and waiting, he began to calm himself, caressing his crucifix and, as was his ritual, saying a few prayers too.
He was pretty sure God was on their side, and now seemed a good enough time to pray.
He stubbed out his cigarette and reached across to the loose floorboard.
It gave way easily.
A moment later he pulled out a long, thin package that had been wrapped in a sheet of old Hessian sacking.
Unwrapping the cloth from the
Widowmaker,
the Provos nickname given to the Armalite AR-18 assault rifle, his next few moments were spent cleaning and checking out the weapon’s action and its twenty-round mag.
He smiled to himself as he found it had been well cleaned and oiled recently.
It was absolutely perfect, as was the scope and its mount.
He started to recite yet another prayer, but this one was not for him.
It was for the thousands and thousands of Americans who, it seemed, worked all week long and then quite happily threw many of their hard earned Dollars into the buckets, which were passed around bars and pubs on a weekly basis.
They gave quite readily to “the cause”.
This brand new, but not very shiny, Armalite AR-18 assault rifle had, of course, been sourced, bought, shipped and distributed by the all-important Yankee Dollar.
Prayers now done and finished, he pulled on his black woollen ski mask to cover every part of his head and face, with the exception of three holes, two for his eyes and one for his mouth.
Adjusting the fit of the mask, then checking the rifle once more, he was ready.
Quickly, he risked another peek through the broken windowpane.
Nothing new was happening: the street was still quiet.
Checking his watch again he muttered angrily, ‘Shit, they’re late, where the fuck are they?’
A few moments later, he clearly heard someone shouting.
‘My name is Colonel McGuire, I am the acting commander of the 14
th
regiment of the Provisional I.R.A. Falls Road, Belfast.’
As Darren watched, five men came into his view.
The bare-faced leader, he assumed, was the self-proclaimed Colonel McGuire while the other four Provos were typically dressed in camouflage uniforms and wearing the same woolly ski masks as Darren.
Three of them were also carrying the evergreen Kalashnikov AK 47 assault rifles.
Though these weapons had been adopted into service by the Soviet military as far back as 1949, they were still the weapon of choice by terrorist units worldwide, including the Provisional I.R.A.
The AK’s were proudly carried, and could be clearly seen by everyone there, as the group of men marched out into the middle of the street.
Two of the Provos were dragging behind them another man; this man was not in uniform.
He was kicking and screaming in protest, but he was dragged along nonetheless.
As the group gathered in the middle of the road the man who was dressed in “civvies” was forced to his knees, weeping and wailing all the time as he was pushed down.
The Colonel made another announcement.
‘Declan O’Brien, you have been found guilty of collaborating with the enemy.
As an informer you have received the sentence of death with a public execution.
Have you anything to say?’
The poor guy couldn’t say a word; the only sounds heard were ones of weeping and heartbreak.
A large crowd of men, women and kids had gathered by now.
They were watching the execution squad with mounting interest and excitement.
Darren could hear the constant chanting as it grew louder and louder. “Kill the traitor”. “Shoot the bastard”.
McGuire walked slowly and deliberately behind Declan.
He reached down to his holster and unfastened the flap.
Sliding out a black Colt .45 automatic pistol he chambered a round and placed the muzzle against the back of Declan’s head.
‘May God have mercy on your soul,’ he intoned, then added in a whisper, ‘you treacherous bastard,’ as he pulled the trigger.
A loud crack was heard as the pistol fired.
It echoed through the streets as Declan’s head and face exploded with blood, brains and pieces of shattered skull flying in all directions.
Cheers went up from the crowd.
Gangs of women were laughing out loud as they walked closer, hurling insults and spitting on his still twitching body.
Small kids were pushed forward and made to watch the gory scene.
As usual they were told, ‘this is what happens to informers.
Don’t forget what you’ve seen today kids.
Now off you go and play like good boys and girls.’
Darren sat watching and smiled to himself.
‘Serves the fucking idiot right,’ he whispered as he pulled out another fag.
Just as he was about to light it he heard the sound of approaching sirens.
Placing the un-lit cigarette back into the pack, he waited.
The crowd scattered and ran for shelter as the British Army Land Rover screeched to a halt, sirens still blazing, parking directly in front of the deceased, and now quite still, body of one Declan O’Brien.
The next instant, doors flew open and the soldiers spewed out.
They were instantly spread, down on one knee, with their rifles aimed in all directions.
One of the soldiers crept slowly up to the body to check for any sign of life.
Feeling for a pulse and finding none, he looked back towards his unit.
‘He’s a dead un, sir,’ the soldier shouted.
As the corpse was being checked, Darren was watching, carefully picking out his target.
He’d quickly settled on the Sergeant.
‘Fuckin’ perfect, you’ll do nicely you British bastard,’ he grinned as he lifted the Armalite, taking aim at the soldier's stomach.
It was always far better to shoot them in the guts.
They would die eventually, but their prolonged screams of agony seemed to really unsettle the rest of the squad.
Still smiling, as he looked through the telescopic sights, Darren closely examined his target’s face.
He seemed to be around thirty-five years old and, even though he had one of those stupid British handlebar type moustaches, it was a hard face, the face of experience.
A killer’s face for sure, if ever he’d seen one.
‘I wonder how many of our boys you’ve shot down in your time, you old bastard.’
He slowly started to squeeze the trigger.
Then he stopped dead, his finger coming away from the trigger as though it were electrified.
Victor was about as excited as any new squaddie could possibl
y
be.
It was only the second week of his first tour here in Ulster, and already he was on an active patrol.
He’d been impatiently waiting for just this moment ever since he’d joined up.
‘Just wait until I’m back home on leave,’ he grinned.
‘I’ll be a fucking hero.
The fucking birds’ll love me to bits.’
He was quietly laughing to himself as he jumped out of the Land Rover.
‘Oh no, no, no, not you, you old bastard,’ Darren silently informed the Sergeant to whom he’d just granted the gift of life.
With a wicked smirk crossing his face, Darren’s mind raced as he focused on his new, far better, target.
This one looked like a kid.
‘A fuckin’ boy soldier,’ he smiled, as he retargeted.
‘Bet you haven’t even started shaving yet you little shit, have you?’
He zeroed in, inspecting the youth’s happy looking face.
‘I bet all these fuckers look after you, think of you as a son, the baby of the outfit, eh?’
With that thought he lowered his aim down from the face and towards the young soldier's belly, whispering a final prayer.
‘Forgive me Father, for I am about to sin.
Please have mercy on his soul.’
The single shot rang out.
As the young soldier fell backwards, a dark red circle replaced the random greens and browns of his camouflage jacket and he looked down in fascinated horror as it spread rapidly across his mid-section.
He lay screaming in shock and pain, his hands instinctively reaching down, pressing on the wound.
The pressure produced a plume of bright red blood, squirting upwards like a fountain, spraying the life-blood from his torn and ruptured young stomach.
***
At the very moment Darren pulled the trigger a foghorn sounded, but this haunting wail was not heard in Ireland.
It was far away on a waterfront, in the great city of New York.
It echoed around the ships and superstructures and wharf-sides, continuing off well into the distance.
Jeff looked up from his desk, momentarily ignoring the immense pile of Dollar bills in front of him.
A ship was entering port.
He sat and watched it.
‘C’mon buddy, we’ve work to do, and it won’t get done with you staring out of the god damn window,’ Ryan snapped.
‘OK, OK, relax will ya.
I was only taking a minute,’ Jeff replied as he turned again to his pile.
Pushing a button he watched as another neat stack of bills was shrink-wrapped and automatically labelled.
Placing this batch on top of the rest gave him a full pallet.
He hit a different button, which now shrink-wrapped the entire pallet and its contents to form one thick, giant black plastic parcel.
Jeff pressed the button on his mike.
‘Another’s ready,’ he said in a bored, flat tone.
He yawned and stretched, lazily watching as the forklift driver collected the parcel and took it away towards the loading ramp.
‘Holy shit, this is never ending,’ he mumbled, yawning yet again.
He still had another three hours left to go, counting and wrapping money, oiling and sealing pistols and rifles at the New York office of the infamous registered charity NORAID.
Ryan McKee was in control of this, the Manhattan branch.
An American by birth, but an Irishman at heart, McKee was a hard-line I.R.A. supporter.
***
Back in Belfast someone screamed out, ‘Fuckin’ ‘ell, Stan.
Stan, it’s Vic.
They got him.
They got the kid in the fuckin’ guts.’