'You Have No Friends Here'

‘You Have No Friends Here’
By Howden Brook.
Prologue
The searing pain of the truncheon blow to his shin flared all the way up, to almost make him retch, and brought another involuntary stifled groan of agony The interrogator had bound him down so tightly that he was even denied the comfort of being able to curl up his body in reaction to the ongoing, but spasmodic torture. The complete blackness of the hood covering his head, added more terror to his fear of what was going to happen to his spread eagled, naked body, as he was tauntingly questioned and assaulted by one man, and watched by an unknown number of others. Echoing coughs, the occasional scraping of a chair, and the scufting of boots on bare floorboards made him realise that he was completely isolated from any help or 0assistance, in what sounded like an empty building.

In the quiet periods between the pain and harsh interrogative questioning, the British agent tried to recall just where he had made the mistake which had made the terrorists realise that he was trying to track them down. Had they got a mole with loyalties to the terrorists, within the Covert Operations organisation? Or had his banter in the pub given him away? Why had Covert Operations not responded to his 'Fastrack' homing signal?
He knew that in the unlikely event of him surviving this interrogation he had a lot of soul searching to do. 'Happy Birthday and good fishing.' Had been the last message passed to him from CinCCO. He knew that they would be searching for him, but he desperately needed them now!

Book One.
'Fear of Friendship'.
1
1600 hours 26th. October Ballymuckel, Ulster.
The green and grey striped recreational camper vehicle, with distinctive English number plates, came to a halt just thirty yards short of the roadside boundary marker sign, 'Ballymuckel', a village not far from Newry. The driver, checked his rear view mirrors, looked across the fields to either side, satisfied that there was no one around to see him, he put his hand under the seat and pulled out a small microphone, tuning through what appeared to be an ordinary radio cassette receiver set in the driving console, he found his waveband and spoke. 'Angler Three to Fastrack. Over'.
A clear voice replied within ten seconds. 'Fastrack to Angler Three, we hear you loud and clear. Over'.
'Angler Three to Fastrack, please confirm Homer audible, will switch on for a twenty second burst, ten seconds from now. Over.' He looked at his wrist watch, and on time, bent down to an unnoticeable pressure switch, set into the floor, by the offside of his driving seat. Switching off after exactly twenty seconds, he again spoke into his handmike. 'Angler Three to Fastrack please confirm. Over.'
'Fastrack to Angler Three, We hear you well, and have a perfect fix on you. Angler, there is a message from CinCCO. It reads. "Good fishing, Jig , don't get your feet wet, and good luck Happy fortieth birthday" stop. Over'
He smiled at this, but made no comment. 'Angler Three will fish Ballymuckel area for two days. End contact now unless an emergency. Over and out.'
He put the hand mike into the specially attached holder under his seat, the cable recoiled automatically so that there were no wires open to the casual view.
Captain Jonathan Irvine Grainger, Royal Marines, (Jig to family and friends) had, since his first days in the service, wanted to work on covert operations. In those days he did not even think of covert, it was to him just spying. He proudly attained his 'Green Beret', as a Royal Marine Commando, whilst still an Officer recruit. This proved his physical and field craft abilities. In the next fourteen years he had proved his leadership in many operations with theRoyal Marines, and the SAS. Now at forty years of age he had had five years of challenging work with the department of Covert Operations, an arm of MI 6. He did much of his work alone, but admitted to himself that the glamour was now going out of it and he would soon be willing to take the often offered promotion and allow himself to take a regular office job.
He looked into the interior rear view mirror and set a brown woolly cap on to his head at a jaunty angle. The cap was adorned with lots of place name badges. He combed the greying bushy hair which was spreading around the edge of the cap, then put on a large pair of heavy tortoishell framed glasses, which gave him a supercilious look. The glasses were only for effect, because the lenses were plain polished glass. 'Right', he said to himself. 'Let's get on with it Grainger, no slacking on the job, you don't get paid for skiving. We know that there's an active DPA. cell operating around here, it's up to you to sniff it out.'

Ten minutes later he pulled into the parking area at the back of the 'Shamrock', a large residential public house, in the middle of the village.
Comment was made by the half dozen regulars as he drove into the yard, and all eyes were on the tall healthy looking man, dressed in thick corduroy trousers and thick woolly plaid shirt, as he walked to the bar, where the landlord had his back to him, and was polishing glasses.
Captain Grainger spoke in a loud, exaggerated, cut glass English accent. 'Good evening Landlord, what a wonderful day it has been. Do you always get October weather as good as this?'
The landlord turned to face him, and in a deep voiced, strong Ulster accent, said. 'Good evening to yourself Sir. In answer to your statement. Yes it has been a wonderful day, and in answer to your question. No we do not always get wonderful October weather like this. Could it be that your good self has brought it with you? and if you have, will you be staying for a while? ’ He paused and smiled at Jonathon. ‘Now, what will you be having for the drink?'
Jonathan, keeping up the exaggerated way of speaking, said. 'I'll have a pint of your Guinness, if it's no trouble to you.'
'Certainly Sir, as sure as my name is Finbar McAleish, you can have as much of my Guinness as you can drink, as long as you pay for it.' He gave a crafty wink and smiled. 'And as regards to whether it is any trouble to me, well I can tell you, I must have pulled enough of the stuff by now to have filled the whole of Carlingford Lough twice over, and some more.' He filled a pint pot with Guinness and placed it in front of Jonathan. 'That'll be one pound and ten pence, please Sir,' He put the money in the till and immediately returned, to ask Jonathan. 'What will you be doing in these parts, all of the English Summer visitors have long since departed.'
A small untidily dressed man, standing further along the bar, behind Jonathan, is listening intently, to the conversation.
Jonathan volunteered. 'I'm going down to the fishing festival in Athlone. I've always wanted to fish Lough Ree for those big Pike that they have there.' He took a long swig of his Guinness and putting it down, changed the conversation.
'I was made redundant from my laboratory job recently, and now I've got time on my hands to do what I want, when I want. So I've bought a recreational camper vehicle, and can roam about at will. Whilst I'm here I'd like to get some information about my ancestors.'
The small man exchanged a glance with the landlord and listened more intently.
Finbar said jovially, 'Oh would you Sir, and who might they be now?'
Jonathan, in a confidential tone, said. 'I've been doing my family tree, and I've discovered that I've got Irish ancestry, on both sides of my family, and they came from this area of County Down. So I'd like to trace any Kellys' or Carrolls' in the area. It would be jolly nice if I could make contact with my Irish cousins.' He said, with schoolboyish zeal. There was a moment’s silence before Jonathan continued. 'Oh, you are probably just the chap to help me. Could you please suggest anywhere that I might park my camper for a couple of nights?'
Finbar McAleish let out a laugh, after politely listening to Jonathan. 'God Bless you Sir, but you've set yourself a task that the good Lord Almighty himself couldn't get the answer to. This area is teeming with the Kellys' and the Carrolls', I'll tell you what, if you come back in the morning at ten O'clock, I'll see if I can have someone here who can help you.' He paused, then said, rather indulgently. 'But really you'd be much better off just trotting off down to Athlone and relax with the fishing. As regards parking your van up, there's a field, just five hundred yards down the road, which is used as a campsite in Summer. It's empty now, but the gate's open all Winter. Just turn right when you go out of the pub yard, you can't miss it, it's on the right, forty yards or so from a tee junction; there's a board that says, Camping, nailed to a big tree just inside the gate. The lavatories and washrooms are locked up now, but you’ll find a tap with good clean running water, fixed on the wall outside the lavatory block. And talking about fishing, go and take a look at that Pike in the case over the fireplace, then tell me if you've ever seen the likes of that one!'
As Jonathan strolled over to look at the fish, the landlord nodded to the little, listening man, who went to the other end of the bar and dialling a number, spoke softly into the telephone mouthpiece. He quickly returned to his place at the bar, where the Landlord said in a hushed voice. 'Did you get through Michael, and do they know exactly where I'm sending him for the night?' The small man nodded, as Jonathan returned, made favourable comment about the fish, drank his Guinness and bade everyone good bye.
As he got into his RV. he mumbled to himself. 'I don't know what it is about these Irish, they always pretend friendliness and joviality, but I always get a feeling that they keep strangers at arms length. They are never quite open enough.'

2
0730 27th October A field near Ballymuckel.
Jonathan Grainger prided himself on his physical fitness, and always tried to find time to exercise. He emerged from his RV, which was parked thirty yards inside the field. Wearing a dark maroon coloured track suit and running shoes he looked as normal as many of the men who had taken up the jogging craze to keep fit. He had studied the maps of the area well, and had chosen a ten miles route around the intricate set up of lanes which led to, and beyond, the many small farms of the area. In a bum bag he carried a pencil, pen, a notepad around his waist and in two separate pockets inside the tracksuit waistband he carried a small pair of binoculars and a small 35mm camera, just in case he saw anything of interest.
He took a good look around but did not see the man dressed in camouflage, crouched down in the hedge a hundred yards across the field from him, as he locked the RV. door and set off for his run.
Nothing of interest held up his progress, and he was back by eight forty. After a good strip wash and shave, he made a fried breakfast and readied himself to drive into the village for the ten O'clock meeting at the pub.
The moment that Jonathan switched on the vehicle engine, the camouflaged man, watching through binoculars, spoke into a walkie-talkie hand set.
Jonathan slowly drove out of the field gateway and made to turn right towards the village, but found a; 'Road closed for highway repairs' sign, set up in the middle of the road. He thought that it was strange that he had not heard any highways vehicles passing, and he knew that the sign had definitely not been there at seven thirty, when he went for his run. He reversed back into the gateway and turned left to go to the village by an alternative route. He had not driven twenty yards before an old dirty farm lorry coming towards him, slewed across the road, completely blocking the lane. Immediately on his guard, Jonathan locked his doors and watched as two men, both dressed in old mackintoshes tied with string around the waist and both wearing identical green Wellington boots, slowly got out of the lorry and went to the offside front wheel, then laid down and started to examine the axle.
Jonathan, tensed and aware that this could be a set up, picked up his hand microphone and twiddled the frequency knobs on the radio. 'Angler Three to Fastrack. Over.'
'Fastrack to Angler Three, send your message. Over.'
'Fastrack get a chopper in the vicinity immediately, I've got a suspicious vehicle with me, an old farm truck, I can't read the plates for filth, and I'm trapped in a lane. Maybe I'm jumpy but this smells bad to me. I think that I've been rumbled, I may have to make a run for it. Switching Homer on now, and throwing frequencies. Over and out.'
He knew that the army would be able to get a helicopter to him from Warrenpoint, to fly over in fifteen minutes. He sat watching for five minutes, and thinking that he was being too jumpy, thought that the breakdown seemed real enough. The men were taking no notice of him. 'Come on Jonathan', he said aloud, 'where is the English gentleman who always gives people a helping hand?' He got out of the RV and walked to the lorry.
That was when the two cars came speeding from the direction of the supposed road works, and screamed to a halt behind the RV., six men wearing full face black Balaclava helmets and brandishing hand guns, ran to Jonathan before he had time to react, and pushed him roughly to the ground. His hands were pulled behind his back and his wrists were secured together with a black plastic banding strip, and a black cloth bag was pulled over his head. He was roughly heaved to his feet and dragged into one of the cars. One of the farmhands got back into the lorry, and the other got into Jonathan's RV. dropping a heavy wrench onto the floor, by the offside of the driving seat as he got in.-----That was when the 'Fastrack Homer signal got switched off.------
The other cars reversed , The RV reversed, and all four vehicles drove away down the lane which did not now have a road closed sign. From Jonathan getting out of his RV, to the lane being completely clear, only ten minutes had elapsed, and not a word had been spoken. It was as if the whole operation had been rehearsed many times.

3
Later 27th. October No.12 Dieppe Road, Newry.
Jonathan realised that they must be in Newry, by the short journey time, and the sound of traffic just a few minutes before they had stopped and he had been roughly handled up two flights of steps. The room he was in felt damp and cold, with bare floorboards. At first he was seated on an upright chair, with his manacled hands pulled down over the chair back spindles. He was ignored for some time whilst there appeared to be much coming and going around him, then without a word being said, he felt two men take off the plastic shackle from his wrists, then he was lifted off the chair, stripped of all his clothing and was laid flat on his back on a table and secured by ropes around his wrists and ankles.
Eventually a man, with a voice that seemed somehow familiar, started to question him. The session started off affably enough, with Jonathan being offered a cup of tea, if he was to cooperate and tell them about himself.
Now, three hours later he was still lying naked on the table, his hands were tied at the wrists, with the binding rope passing under the table and to the diagonally opposite ankle, and to his ankles, spread-eagling him. He had been beaten and humiliated, but he had only told them what he wanted to say.
For the first two hours they kept him blindfolded with the hood, then removing the hood he had been able to see that he was in a garret room. The internal fears that had gripped him had seemed to be lifted when he could see the situation around him At no time whilst the hood was off his head was he able to see the interrogator.
The roof above was sloping to an apex. There was a single un-shaded light shining above the table, which was placed in the centre of the room. A small tiled hearth held an open fireplace, where dead ashes showed that it had obviously not been in use for a long time. Sitting on the hearth was a twelve inches square, two inches thick, block of marine plywood, with three equally thick plywood sides screwed on to it. The whole thing looked like a nine inches deep box with one side removed. It had a white polystyrene insulation lining, and a red cloth was tacked to the top edge.
Unseen by Jonathon, from the position he was held in were six men who were sitting on hard, un-cushioned upright chairs, placed on either side of the doorway, all of them, including the interrogator wore full face black Balaclava helmets, made not from rough wool, but from some soft comfortable cottony material. The cell Commandant insisted that during an interrogation, all field active men must sit in as silent witnesses to the proceeding. He said that this would harden them to the time when they may have to be a cell interrogator. The insistence on all being fully masked was internal security, to ensure that any unknown member from a different cell of from executive who may have been asked to sit in was not recognisable.
Not every interrogator was also the cell executioner, but in this cell both the commandant and the interrogator were executioners.
The commandant was enjoying a birthday party with his family, and having worked on the snatch and capture planning, had confidently left the operation to his second in command, Liam O'Connell.
The gang had just had a twenty minute break during which Jonathon had again had the bag placed over his head. Even so he smelled the familiar aroma of vinegar evaporating from hot fish and chips.
‘I need to go to the lavatory’ Shouted Jonathon. He had already had urine run out of him involuntarily whilst being struck by the cudgel. His hands and legs were racking him with pins and needles pains, from having been secured in an unmoveable position for so long.
‘You can lay in your own piss and shit for all we care, you British bastard.’ came the uncompromising reply from the interrogator.
Jonathon again heard the shuffling of chair legs as the gang again took their seats.
The executioner had picked up the police style short truncheon again. He started to slowly kneed into Jonathon’s thigh muscles with the rounded end. Jonathan twitched convulsively with the pain, but said nothing as he involuntarily ran a stream of urine onto the table.
The periods of actual physical assault, and questioning, were to Jonathan more acceptable than the other periods, when someone would again put the black bag over his head and leave him in terrified silence. These had been the most nerve stretching experiences that Jonathan had ever known. Periods of complete silence, yet without seeing, but conscious that there were other men in the room with him, all capable of shooting him. The interrogator would at intervals bend close to him, and in a loud whisper, say. 'This time I am going to shoot you, because you are a British spy and you have been trying to find things out about us that we don't want you to know.' There would then be the barrel of a pistol placed at Jonathan's Temple, or pushed up into his kneecap. He would hear the pistol being cocked, and with pulse racing, and heart pounding would writhe, as much as his bindings would allow. The tension would break when the interrogator having got Jonathon’s nerves to fever pitch would strike the truncheon down with a heavy thwack, onto the table, and burst out laughing at his victim’s squirming body. Jonathan would then be left alone for a few minutes before the bag was again taken off his face. This had happened three times already, and Jonathan knew that they would not keep doing the same thing.
Who the fecking Hell are you? and who are you working for? You big bag of fecking British shit!'
Do you want me to put the bag over your head again, eh? The next time will be the last, I can tell you! Now I'm going to start all over again, and I want the right answers this time. I've got lots of time and patience, but my friends are feeling very uncomfortable in those chairs, and they are blaming you for them having to sit there all this time, they want to go home, it's been a tiring day for them; all you've done is lay about on this table. Tell us the craik and youse can go.'
He bent over Jonathan, and with only inches between them, shouted into his face. 'Tell us what the feck you were noseying around Ballymuckel for? We know that's a lot of old bollocks about fishing, you wouldn't know a cod from a kipper. That fishing tackle in your van has never been used, you lying bastard. We know what you were fishing for, but the so called stupid Paddy set the lure this time, and caught the fecking clever Englishman in a net that you aren't going to get out of, mate.' He hit Jonathan across the left shin, and sat back in a chair which was placed alongside the table. Now speaking again in a more controlled voice. 'You are not going to get away from here Scot free, even if you do talk you will get your kneecaps shattered, so that you can't do anymore snooping, but when that bag gets taken from your head the next time, then that will mean that I am going to shoot you stone cold dead.'
Jonathan, for all his pain, panic, and occasional confusion, still had a feeling of having known the voice somewhere in the past, and stalling as long as possible, said. 'I've told you, but you won't damn well listen. I've been made redundant from my job, so I've come for a fishing holiday, and to try to trace my family tree.' Now acting like an eccentric, who had not taken the situation seriously. 'Don't think that you can bully me, I have my rights has a British citizen you know.'
There was another pregnant, completely silent pause, of a couple of minutes, then the Interrogator stood up again, and shouted in a frustrated tone. 'Feck you, feck your family, and feck the British army. I'll tell you what you are. You are a British army spy, and you were trying to get information on us. Do you think I'm stupid? If you are on a fishing holiday, why have a special sort of radio intercom in your van? And stranger still, absolutely nothing with your name on it in your kit. Not even a return ferry ticket back to dear old Blighty.' He tried to put on a mockingly exaggerated English accent. 'I tell you mate, you are never going to see dear old Blighty again.'
Jonathan came straight back, in a panicky voice. 'My wife was housebound for a long time before she died, so I fixed up the 'C.B' for her, to have contact with people whilst I was at work, I have some humanity in me, even if you don't. Now it's just become a plaything for me. I chat to other radio Ams and I didn’t get a return ticket because I didn’t know how long I would be here. I don’t want to go back to an empty house now that my wife is not there.'
The interrogator screamed, 'Shut up'. Slowly turning to the men sat by the door, he said. 'Right lads, you can go. We are not going to hear anything from this dummy. We'll meet at the snooker club around nine o'clock. I'll dispose of the bastards body. I don't want you to have to see what I'm going to do to this.' He stopped speaking for a few seconds, then in a sneering sarcastic voice. 'English gentleman, who likes to go fishing. I know that you don't like to see blood.' Then more matter of factly. 'When I point to you, get up and go out. Don't forget to go in different directions from here. He pointed to the man furthest from the door, who stood up, and without a word walked out of the room, and could be heard walking down the uncarpeted staircase. He then walked over to the fireplace and picked up the fabricated wooden block, getting back to the table he held it in front of Jonathans face, for him to see. He pointed to the second man, who exited.
'This thing that I have above your head is what we call the 'execution block'. He paused for effect, 'A special invention of my own.' Then, speaking slowly and very deliberately, said. 'I shall place it under your head, and when I blow your stupid brains out, the gore and shit from you will not spoil our lovely room here, and if your other stupid friends should ever come snooping around, they will find no trace of any of your blood or bone here, and the board is burned, so that's not traceable either. Clever eh?'
Liam O’Connell pointed to the next man, then putting the bag over Jonathan's head again he placed the board under his head, and pulled the red cloth cover over the front, he made deliberate play of tucking the edges of the cloth close around Jonathan's head, building up the tension. He pointed to the next man.
He picked up the pistol off the table and pushed it roughly into the soft skin under Jonathan's jaw. Again, speaking very deliberately. 'What I do next is to pull this little trigger, and you are a tough guy no more, so for the very last time, do you want to talk to me?' He pointed to the next man.
Jonathan mumbled something, and was then completely still and silent again. 'I'm not going to take that pretty red cloth off you again to hear you talking drivel. I shall ask you some more questions, all you need to do is twist your right arm for yes, and your left arm for no. Do you understand that?' Jonathan twisted his right arm.

4
The interrogator pointed to the last remaining man in the room. This was Michael Meacher, who got up and quietly walked out, closing the door behind himself. The man walked down the stairs to the half landing, where he removed his Balaclava head mask. Waiting a couple of minutes, he crept silently back up the twelve wooden stairs, making sure not to make any creaking noises by spreading his legs and keeping his feet as close into the wall as possible. He put his ear to the flimsy plywood panel of the door and listened, he then bent down and looked through the key hole for a few seconds. Satisfied, he turned and soundlessly crept down the two flights of stairs. On reaching the bottom he took out of his pocket a small mobile telephone and had a short conversation with someone. He then walked twenty yards up the row of terraced houses, and finding a passage way between them, stood and looked back towards a dirty blue transit van parked on the roadway, outside the house that he had just come from. Five minutes later a car stopped at the end of the road and a man got out, he ran silently up to the waiting man, where they both stood in the shadows and spoke in hushed, but irritated voices

5
In the garret room, now empty but for the two protagonists, the interrogator, having stood quietly for a couple of minutes, spoke to Jonathan in a more friendly manner. 'Now Captain Jonathan Grainger, Royal Marines, let's get this stuff off you.' He removed the wooden block and took the black bag off Jonathans head. Silently he unfastened the binding strings from Jonathan's legs and wrists, and helping him to the floor, massaged his legs to try to get circulation again. He picked up the heavy, British army issue pistol again, and deliberately fired into the block. 'That noise should satisfy any listening ears. You are now officially dead.' he said, gruffly.
He lifted Jonathan back on to a chair, and standing before him, slowly removed the black full faced Balaclava, which he had been wearing from the time of the capture at nine forty five that morning.
'Thank the lord for that,' said Liam O'Connell, scratching his head in relief at getting the mask off his head. 'Now let me tell you,' he said in an exasperated and annoyed voice. 'that you have put me in the worst dilemma of my life. When I saw it was you this morning I could have died. I'm supposed to kill you, and dump your body.'
Jonathan forced a smile in spite of the previously numbed, but now maddeningly tingling skin sensations, in his legs and arms. 'Well I'll be damned, Liam O'Connell,' he said incredulously. 'I thought I knew that voice, do you know I'm not surprised that you joined up with this murdering gang. You don't owe me anything, so don't compromise yourself, just get on with it and shoot me.'
O'Connell said sharply. 'For Christ's sake shut up, I do owe you, If I didn't, you'd be dead now, I can assure you.'
Jonathan came back with. 'When I managed to persuade the Saudi authorities to release you, instead of beheading you, it was because I was your commanding officer, and you were too good a Marine to be lost to the Corps. But I couldn't put a good enough case to the Court Marshal to save you from an ignominious discharge. I suppose you blame the British army for you not being able to control yourself in the first place.'
'Shut up will you, we had a sort of friendship in the Commando, you know that. Now I'm going to go and fetch a length of carpet from my van. I'll truss you up in it, and take you to the van, I'll drive to Belfast and just dump your body near a barracks. This is what I'm supposed to do with your dead body, but I will let you out near a police station. You make sure that a report goes out that an unidentified body has been dumped in Maghera Street. For my sake you must promise me that you will get out of Ireland, and never work here again. If anybody suspected that I had not shot you, I'd be a dead man. Somebody could even wonder now why I said that I'd get rid of you on my own, so it's got to look real when I throw the bundle of carpet into the van. Somebody will be watching to report when we clear the house anyway.'
He went to the door and down the stairs, returning with an old roll of carpeting which he opened out and told Jonathan to lay full length in it. He was bent down, rolling the carpet, when the door burst open, and two Balaclava masked men , carrying pistols, entered and stood just inside the door.
Liam O'Connell recognised with dread, the voice of his cell commandant, Patrick Kelly, has Kelly shouted unbelievingly. 'Liam, you stupid Bastard. Of all the men that I know, you are the one that I would have trusted the most.'
Liam, taken by complete surprise, slowly arose, and turning towards the two men made a desperate lunge to the table to try to get to the pistol. Kelly, thick set, but agile as a monkey, sprang with him, and swinging his pistol, hit Liam a heavy blow across the side of the head, Liam’s body twisted and his weight falling against the edge of the table, caused it to topple over. Kelly's head took a hard crack against the table as his body fell onto Liam's. The other man dove into the melee and kicked out hard at Liam's head. Jonathan aware of the commotion, wriggled himself free, and having jumped to his feet, ran through the open doorway, intent on escape, but was brought down by a shot in the thigh, wildly fired by the dazed Kelly, from his position partly under the weight of the struggling Liam. Jonathan in excruciating pain, toppled down the flight of steps, scraping his fingernails hard into the duck egg blue emulsion painted wall, as he came to rest, unconscious on the half landing.

Ten minutes later the garret room had five occupants. Kelly and his companion had been joined by another man, also masked. They stood over the carpet, which had been laid out straight again. On the carpet, Jonathan's naked body, which had lost a lot of blood from the shattered thigh wound, was tied face to face, to Liam, with their arms taped to each other and then around their bodies. Jonathan was almost unconscious, having by then lost a lot of blood and not able to comprehend what was happening, but Liam was wide awake again, after being briefly unconscious, and fearfully awaiting his fate.
Kelly bent down over the two trussed men and stretched a length of two inches wide, silver fabric tape, over Liam's mouth, he continued around the back of his head. Then, sealing Jonathan's mouth he taped the two heads together. At the same time Kelly said, in what sounded like a genuinely sorry voice. 'Oh Liam, you have been a big disappointment to me,' He repeated this twice, then, on the third time of saying, he carried on with. 'Now Big Padraed is going to take you for a drive back to your beloved Belfast.' He stood up again, and seeming to have made up his mind about something, said. 'Now Michael', very matter of factly, to his original companion. 'Here's the keys to my car, go down, and on the back seat you'll find a foolscap plain paper drawing pad, and a box of coloured marking pens, they belong to my granddaughter, the beautiful little Bridget. Bring me the pad, and the daiglow green pen.'
When Meacher returned four minutes later, Kelly was explaining to Big Padraed Quinn exactly where to drop the bodies. He looked into Liam's wide open, fearful right eye, and said coldly. 'Tis a bit ironical, do you not think so Liam? that your native knowledge of Belfast is now being used for your own disposal. You two are going to be dropped off just where you had planned to drop your friend here.' He turned back to big Padraed. 'You are quite sure that you know exactly now Padraed?.
'I know it like the back of my hand, Patrick.' Said Padraed, in his broad County Clare brogue.
'Michael.' Said Kelly, quite matter of factly and not showing any signs of stress or emotion after the action that he had just taken part in. 'I think that we should share this occasion. Which one do you want? The reason that I'm asking you is, that as from now you are promoted to my second in command. You will be executioner for the cell. I will after this debacle, revert to being the sole interrogator.'
'If I'm to take the place of Liam, then I think that it would be logical for me to get rid of him, don't you think Patrick?' Said Meacher equally as coldly and matter of factly as Kelly had spoken.
Without another word Kelly bent down behind Captain Jonathan Grainger and pressed his gun to the back of his head. Feeling for the highest point, where the spine meets the skull, he pressed the barrel in hard, and stretching his body back to full arms length, pulled the trigger. There was a loud report as the projectile burst into Jonathan's skull and ripping through the soft tissue of his brain, smashed its way out of the front of his temple at the point where the eyebrows meet. The front of the head seemed to crack open, and splinters of bone and blood flew into Liams now closed eyes and face. The bullet carried through into Liam's forehead.
Meacher then bent down to execute the same action on Liam O'Connell.

6
2000 hours 26th October. A street in Belfast.
Small, two storey shops, most of them with steel shuttering over the windows, lined either side of the dimly lit street. The miserable drizzle, in the evening darkness gave an even more rundown appearance to the area than it deserved. An army Saracen troop carrier was parked close into the kerb, just off the ’T’ junction; with the engine still running on slow tick over. The street was otherwise empty of traffic. Inside the vehicle was the four to eight o'clock patrol, from Echo Company of the Green Howards infantry regiment.
The driver was sitting in his seat, but much of the time turned around to face into the back, where the other five members of the patrol were playing cards. He watched, disinterestedly as a dirty dark blue transit van unhurriedly drove past them, and when a hundred yards in front, stopped by a shop doorway, the driver got out, and leisurely pushed up the roller rear door, just enough for him to get through, then climbed into the van, from which he pulled a large bundle to the door, then getting down on to the roadway again, gave a final pull to the bundle, which fell heavily to the road. The man then immediately ran to the driver’s door and jumped in.
The Lance Corporal, Saracen driver, becoming alert, shouted in a strong Yorkshire accent. 'Bloody Hell Sarge, what's he up too', as the van quickly drove away. ‘That buggers dumped summat in't rooadway an' buggered off.'
The Sergeant, responding immediately, in a controlled, precise and urgent way, said, 'Mike, drive up to thirty yards of it and slew across the road to seal the street off. Sound siren and put flashers on.' He picked up a microphone. 'Able Baker four to Inner control. Able Baker four to Inner control. Over.'
A controllers voice came back over the speakers. 'Inner control to Able Baker Four, pass your message. Over.'
'Control, we have possible class one situation. A hundred yards up Maghera Street off Talbot Road. Request full attendance, with bomb disposal, and sniffers. Repeat my message to confirm. Over.'
The message was repeated back to the Saracen and confirmed. The soldiers, ready cocked firearms in their hands, ran out of their vehicle and started to shout to people who lived over the shops, and were looking out of opened windows to see what was happening. 'Stand clear of your windows and clear the area, if possible leave by your back doors.'
Police, fire appliances, and army vehicles were on the scene in minutes. The area was sealed off from all directions, and powerful spotlights played onto the rolled carpet.
The police were officially in charge of the situation, so the senior army officer present spoke to the police Chief Inspector. 'What do you think Chief, could it be some sort of a hoax? Will you want us to blast it?'
The policeman, being cautious, and none of them having met this actual situation before, said. 'I'm at a loss at the moment, but it looks to me as though somebody is trying to take the Mickey out of us. It could be a booby trap bomb, or it could be just what it looks like, a roll of carpet. I'll send in a sniffer dog, and if it seems happy, then I think we can consider this to be a hoax.'
The black Labrador walked unhurriedly up to the large roll of carpet, and sniffed around the edges, it's tail was slowly wagging all the time, even as it walked back to it's handler.
'OK, Major, I don't think that we shall need you.' said the relieved Chief Inspector, to the Army Major. 'I think that we can go and have a look at the carpet now. If it's any good I might have it on my office floor.' He said, as jocularly as he could, but still with signs of stress in his voice. They walked up to the carpet, and a Constable cut the strings holding it in the rolled position. It was obvious that there was something else inside, but no one was ready for the horror that revealed itself .
Two men's bodies, tied face to face, one of them naked, and with their heads and bodies held together by silvered masking tape. They had both been shot through the back of the head. The velocity of the projectiles had forced the bullets through the heads, breaking out through the face, so that each one of their faces was a grisly, bloody shattered mess.
On the back of the naked man was taped a sheet of white paper, hand written on it in bright daiglow green ink were the words.

'You have no friends here.'
The end.

This story is the precursor to a full novel sized story (149,328 words) which follows this incident in action packed chapters to a satisfying final ‘explosive’ conclusion, entitled.

‘With Hostile Intent.’

Copyright Brian Kelly 16th. March 1998.