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He returned to Tilbury and, later that evening whilst in his room, decided to make a break for the Big Smoke as early as possible. Before retiring he packed a small haversack with essentials, tidied the room and jumped into bed.

  He was awakened early the next morning by a tractor starting up outside; he got up and prepared for his trip to the city.

  Barney had anticipated that he would leave the rooms when the six months was up, and had informed the farmer that this would be the case. All rent was paid with a week in hand.

  It was a long walk to the nearest railway station but he thought it better to walk than to trust a taxi. He started early and by 10.30 boarded the train at Grays Railway Station. It was bound for London Fenchurch Street; a return to where he had come from. The carriage was empty, but it was warm and comfortable, so he sat down and soon was immersed in a magazine he found tucked between the seats. It was a dubious read; turning the first shining page he found a full-frontal nude photograph of Brigitte Bardot. Other parts of the magazine were filled with nude females in various lurid positions, and he became intoxicated, a young man high on testosterone.

  The train trundled along and shuddered to a stop at the first few stations. Nobody entered his compartment and it seemed quiet, which suited his mood.

  But he was soon disappointed when the train halted at Barking and suddenly pandemonium reigned; hordes of young people boarded and jammed into the carriage, and in a second it changed from total peace to mayhem.

  Trying to remain inconspicuous, Barney kept his head down and scanned the magazine. It was not long before the girl who had squeezed in next to him looked over his shoulder, and what she read made her laugh. Quite to his horror, she shared what she had seen in the magazine with the rest of the carriage. The others found it a great joke, and their conversation turned to Barney. He was suddenly a prominent and not the solitary figure he wanted – to them it was a joke; to him it was a total embarrassment. Caught out and humiliated, he held his head low, avoiding eye contact and wishing that they all would go away and leave him to be alone.

  But soon Barney went from being embarrassed to being angry; he realised that by attracting so much attention, he may have blown his cover, and could easily have been exposed due to his own stupidity. He jammed the magazine into the gap between the seats as he had found it, and turned to stare out of the window.

  “Do you mind?” said the girl next to him, retrieving the magazine, and with a smile on her face she passed it around the carriage. It seemed to be the centre of attention for the next twenty minutes before the train finally pulled into Fenchurch Street Station.

  “Good on you, mate,” some of the young Londoners shouted back across the carriage as they disembarked, thinking it a great joke, and elevating Barney, he felt, to a mini ‘train carriage hero’.

  “Great show, old man,” said another, holding his thumb high to Barney as he skirted down the station platform, and as quickly as they arrived, so they were gone; the carriage was again peaceful, the only noise coming from the bustling main-line station outside.

  By creating such a stir, he had brought undue attention to himself; it was a mistake, totally unprofessional. Although the youngsters had been enjoying themselves and it was an innocent tease, luckily not detrimental to his security, he was learning quickly that this situation must never happen again.

  Leaving the station and his shame behind him, he walked aimlessly along the busy London streets. After about a mile he checked his map, and stubbed his forefinger on the place where he now stood: Threadneedle Street. He ran his finger along the co-ordinate where the road headed in the direction of London Bridge, and walked in that direction; then he turned right and headed for St Paul’s. With the huge cathedral on his right, he turned left, heading downhill to Blackfriars Bridge, and crossed the river on the footbridge. It was on the other side that he began to feel tired; it was rest he needed, but where was he going? Where would he spend the night? He was confused, and once again sat down on a nearby bench. From the map and the position between the bridges he guessed he was close to Shakespeare’s rebuilt Globe Theatre; once this was established he collected his thoughts regarding his strategy for a night on the tiles.

  He had been on the run for a total of nine months, since that day he made the decision to quit his job and turn his back on the IRA. It was a long time for a traitor to be on the run!

  3

  Looking for a Life,

  May 1981

  It was a bright day in early May, and a cool breeze was blowing from the north but the wind direction suddenly changed to a south-easterly direction bringing with it a warmer temperature that was a pleasant relief.

  Barney felt frustrated – he did not look forward to sleeping on the streets, but it was anywhere he could find that might be suitable for a fugitive; he sought privacy and safety in a London that was so busy.

  His last accommodation, which was that wretched place near Tilbury, was now behind him, and he was happy to be away from it, having spent the last six months in a place that he despised. This great city had things to offer, an underworld where anything could be bought; this was the best place, outside of Belfast, his nearest city. London was a place full of opportunities, but only if he knew the right places to go to get what he wanted.

  He needed to get away from England, to find a place to hide where his pursuers could not find him; it was an impending priority.

  Having saved money from his time working in Shetland, part of this was now stashed in a safe deposit box in Glasgow, a small amount carried inside his shoes, and the remainder buried in a safe place; at least that is what he hoped. He was far from being penniless, but without earning he would need to be careful.

  The task of establishing a new identity was now crucial for him to survive; he would require a passport and a National Health number. Other essentials included a birth certificate, appropriate parental names, a medical and educational history, household bills – the list seemed endless, so he would need to get busy, but how, and what illegalities he would need to commit to achieve this, was another thing!

  Whilst training with the IRA he had studied the methods that his sponsors used to create false identities. These were now to provide him with the ideas and opportunities to do it.

  The positive thoughts he was having as he strolled along the Embankment made him happy. It gave him a spring in his step, and he felt content as he crossed at London Bridge and headed towards Aldgate and onto the Commercial Road, but as the hours passed the walking had now made him tired in both body and mind and all he now wanted was to sleep, but where to find a place to bed down in this old city, a lonely place for a fugitive?

  Turning down a backstreet adjacent to a flyover, the area seemed shabby and he thought he might get advice from the homeless who lived here. Passing the flyover arches, he noticed a group of what looked like homeless people in conversation. A muscled male was doing most of the talking, his bare chest exposed to the chill air, but the cold did not seem to bother him. Two others, their gender unclear, sat up, half covered with a duvet, whilst another male, also well muscled, stood paring a piece of wood with a short knife, his long red hair in locks that flowed down his back. He was a big man standing well over six feet tall, his tanned skin a backdrop to his many fading tattoos.

  Barney was apprehensive and reached into his pockets, searching for some coins he could offer them.

  The man with the knife turned to talk with the others, but then noticed Barney walking towards them and immediately stiffened and fixed his eyes suspiciously in his direction. “Look up, could be the Old Bill,” laughed the man, his stare directed at the newcomer. With his long red hair swirling in the cool breeze, he pocketed the knife, moved forward a few steps, and blocked Barney’s path. “What have we here, my trendy friend?” The red-headed man was imposing, and with hands on hips glared at his pending prey.

  Barney stopped, withdrew his hand from h
is pocket and offered the coins to his antagonist.

  “It’s not coins I want, smarty; they’ll not keep the weather out. It’s your coat I fancy; that will keep me warm.” He was aggressive, snarling as he spoke.

  Barney put the money back into his pocket and, sensing trouble, let his arms dangle by his sides, awaiting the man’s next move. They stared hard at each other, Barney taking the first incentive.

  “My name is Barney Coughlin…” His voice tailed off, and he thought quickly – that should not have been said. Now completely flustered, he stammered, searching his mind for a pseudonym. “It’s John Brightling…” His tone of voice did not sound convincing.

  “You lying little toad.” The big man grabbed Barney around his throat and smashed a fist into his face.

  “Fuck you, you son of a bitch!” Smarting from the blow, his left eye already swelling, Barney backed off and circled the redhead, trying to clear his head, not knowing whether to turn and run or stay and fight. The latter was surely coming.

  Another man joined them, smaller but agile-looking. Barney had heard them talking earlier; his name was Falcon. Even with a fast-swelling left eye he feared the worst – hanging from Falcon’s hand was a club about a metre in length and about thirty centimetres in girth at the top end; an ugly and dangerous-looking weapon.

  Barney tried to concentrate; he was frightened, but in a position of no return. The tall red-headed man made his move, his huge fists about to be unleashed on the Irishman, who tried to think of his old boxing moves. They felt a million miles away but he followed his instinct and moved in a circular fashion away from the right side of his opponent, hoping that he might nullify the attacks using his left fist or foot.

  His old fighting instinct suddenly took over and he moved quickly towards the redhead, catching him off balance. He hit the man with three quick punches and moved back out of his reach, becoming more confident that his talent had not deserted him.

  But it was the two assailants working in tandem that proved to be a problem for Barney, and at the very last moment the man with the club joined the action and swung it ferociously at Barney’s face. He swayed out of reach, the club missing his head by a few inches. Barney again moved deftly forward, but the club came round again and this time hit him in the ribs, winding him. He staggered back, trying to breath. Redhead and Falcon then descended upon the backtracking fugitive, and this time the club struck him on the knee, felling the Irishman in an instant.

  Barney lay still on the ground, and as Falcon raised the club for another onslaught, Redhead held him back. “That’s enough; you may kill him. It won’t be much of a loss but the Old Bill will never let us alone.”

  Falcon ignored the bigger man and moved forward with the club held high, and again his friend held him back again.

  “Enough, Falcon!” Redhead shouted. “I said that’s enough. Cool it, man.” He paused before adding, “All I want is his coat, and I am sure he will give it up easily now.”

  Falcon seemed agitated. “What about me? I want something from this too.” He seemed indignant that Redhead had not included him in the spoils of war.

  “Ask him what else he can offer, and I am sure it will not be a problem, will it, Boxer Boy?”

  Falcon looked down at the defeated Irishman. Barney was squirming on the floor, grimacing with pain.

  “Well, stranger, the coat, please, and make it a friendly gesture; you may need to talk with my, er, colleague regarding a further settlement before he knocks your brains out,” Redhead snarled at Barney. He kicked over a small fruit box. “Sit down, if you want, but take the coat off first.” Redhead scowled.

  Barney removed his coat, and slowly and painfully sat down on the broken fruit box, a remnant of the local market. He attempted to pull his thoughts together, to think of something that would appease Falcon; he had had enough action for one day.

  Redhead was not happy; the coat was far too small for his muscular body, and it felt like a straitjacket. “Bloody thing is too tight,” he moaned.

  “I have very little to give you, and all I came here for was to find out how I can live like you do, because I have nothing and no place to go.” Barney, looking for sympathy, paused and just stared at the ground. “I have little money; probably not enough to buy something warm to sleep in tonight,” he lied again.

  “You don’t look like a down-and-out: nice clothes, shaven and showered – what are you talking about?” scoffed Redhead.

  “I got sacked, caught stealing from the safe, then hit the security officer before fleeing to the country,” Barney lied. “This happened in Ireland, where I come from.”

  Redhead took off Barney’s coat and laid it on the ground. “Maybe it will suit Falcon more than me.”

  Falcon came back and Redhead filled him in on the situation.

  “How much have you got?” He nodded to Barney.

  “Thirty pounds.”

  “Then I can fix you up with a duvet and waterproof, for fifty. I’ll take the thirty now and collect the rest later – take it or leave it!” sneered Falcon.

  “That leaves me skint.”

  “And that will not be the last time. When will you start to sleep in the duvet?”

  “Tonight.”

  “OK, I will bring it here in an hour.”

  Barney at first found the night cold, but soon he realised that his newly acquired duvet was paying dividends. He was soon warm, and found comfort in the few fellow dwellers also tucked up in similar bedding, most of it having seen better days.

  Falcon wandered over to him as if to have a chat, but the beaten Irishman, sensing his movements, closed his eyes and pretended to be asleep.

  Falcon stood over the slumbering Irishman. “Goodnight, Irish; remember you still owe me – another twenty, and we want it tomorrow. If we don’t get it, watch your arse, ’cause we will really finish the job.”

  His newly acquired coat looked impeccable as he turned away and disappeared into the streets.

  Barney felt resentful. He wanted to find a way to get even; not necessarily a fight, but a way that would hurt them. If it was to happen it must not draw attention to himself.

  With his blood pumping and temper high, he wanted retribution, but thinking of a way to do the job this could be counterproductive to his goal. Maybe later – this was not the time, and despite his agitation fatigue took over and he fell into a deep sleep.

  4

  Charles's Wife,

  April 1981

  Barney woke just after dawn and, not wanting to encounter his antagonists from the previous day, decided to get out and walk. Moving briskly, his heart began to pound, and with his mind cleared, he focused on the real problem: a new identity. Without it he would be static and sooner or later arrested, so now was the time to make his first move and make contact with the right people who would arrange it.

  During his training period Barney had learnt the methods by which the IRA obtained new identities: either by cloning a living person’s details or by utilising information taken from a dead person. When cloning or stealing a living person’s private information, he was aware, computers could discover any duplication quickly, so the potential imposter should ensure that identical names were not on the local register. He thought it may be a better choice to search the national; it could be less detectable.

  It was obvious to Barney that the dead-person option was the way to go. Although in this case a deeper search for details was necessary, the information required could be found more readily from local infantile knowledge. This could include working back from the gravestones of young people who had recently died, ascertaining who their parents were and where they lived. Checks on the dead person’s National Insurance number, passport and accounts would provide all that was required to create the traceability necessary.

  Now totally paranoid, and confused, he needed direction; someone who knew ho
w to live illegally, forge documents or tell him how to do it.

  He continued to hypothesise, walking aimlessly along narrow streets, the houses small and terraced, before reaching a busy crossroads and a small shop-cum-café.

  “A coffee, please,” he asked the Indian owner.

  “What type do you want? Americano, café con leche, latte? Please choose and sit down; I will bring to you.”

  Barney was astounded at the choices available.

  “Just a strong coffee with milk, please.”

  In a few minutes, Barney received his coffee. It lifted him and he felt upbeat, positive – why this sudden uplift? He thought it was the caffeine, or perhaps the fresh air? Whatever it was, he was feeling good.

  His mind now very active, one side of it was telling him to be aggressive, to make things happen, to be driven; but his quieter side was telling him to be patient, and keep his eyes and ears to the ground in an attempt to locate a person who could produce the new identity he so desperately wanted.

  His first priority was to retrieve his worldly belongings from where he had slept the previous night and then make a break for it, before his predators returned. Redhead and Falcon would need to wait for their money, and Barney was still sore from the beating he’d taken the night before; his body and legs ached, and his face had blackened as the bruises surfaced on his skin. In pain, he returned to where his belongings had been left earlier.

  Immediately as he turned into the road where his bedding was stored, his heart skipped a beat. Directly ahead and coming his way were Red and Falcon.

  He thought it might be best to cross the road, but then thought this too obvious; they would meet him halfway and all hell would let loose.

  They were within ten yards of him when Falcon stepped out into the road. Big Red quickened, moving directly towards Barney; he knew there would be no words, only blows. They wanted the rest of their money, but as bruised as he was, this time he felt it would be different; his temper was rising, and when Falcon was within range, he skipped to his left and threw a left hook. Immediately ducking low for more leverage, he followed up with a crashing right hook to Falcon’s stomach; he heard him gasp, but before he could adjust his position to tackle Red, the big man was on him, grabbing his hair and slamming his own forehead against Barney’s. The crack of skull hitting skull sounded like a branch breaking from a tree.