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Thatcher's Spy. Willie Carlin
Читать онлайн.Название Thatcher's Spy
Год выпуска 0
isbn 9781785372872
Автор произведения Willie Carlin
Жанр Биографии и Мемуары
Издательство Ingram
On the night of Jeffrey Agate’s murder I was at home when my neighbour, Colm Dorrity, appeared in my hallway with a young boy dressed only in a white shirt, black trousers and black shoes. He had no jacket and was visibly shaken, not to mention the fact that he was bitterly cold. He looked about seventeen years old. ‘Wullie,’ said Colm, ‘this wee man here is looking for your Doreen. He called at your father’s first and your father sent him over to you except he knocked on my door by mistake.’
Colm was anxious to leave so I said, ‘Okay, leave him with me.’ I showed the boy into our living room and Mary immediately rose to get him a blanket and some coffee. It soon became clear to me that this young boy must have been up to no good somewhere because he was from the Derry side and was totally lost. ‘I’m Willie and that’s Mary. What do you want me to call you?’
‘Everybody calls me Shorty.’
‘Shorty, you need to calm down and relax, you’re in safe hands now and I think you should stay here the night. We’ll get you sorted in the morning.’ Later, I got into bed and realised, ‘That wee man must have been involved in the explosion at Agate’s home and lost the team he was with.’ By the next morning, the news of Agate’s murder had reached London and across the world to the White House, given that Du Pont was American owned. On every TV and radio station north and south of the border, politicians and ordinary everyday people were demanding revenge for his murder. Ian Paisley added more fuel to the fire, threatening to bring Ulster to its knees by organising an impromptu loyalist workers’ strike.
The Peace Movement, which had marched with thousands of women in Belfast the previous year demanding an end to the war, was now talking openly of marching in Derry. The Bishop of Derry, Edward Daly, called Agate’s killers ‘cold blooded murderers with no sense of shame.’ Jimmy Carter, then President of the United States, speaking from the White House said, ‘Mr Agate’s murder was a senseless act on a businessman who represented an American Company and whose only crime was to bring employment to the city’. He added, ‘the manner of his death will only further divide communities in Northern Ireland and bring unwarranted shame on all good, decent Irish Americans.’ Trade Union representatives at the plant were planning to hold a protest strike. The only people who were silent were the IRA.
I decided to leave the house for a while and called London to let them know about my lodger. They viewed the matter with great concern and Andy agreed to fly over the next day and meet up with me in Portrush on the northern coast.
‘Well, well,’ said Andy, after I had explained everything to him, ‘this is going to be tricky. Look, Willie, you and I both know that it’s 99 per cent certain that this little shit was implicated in some way in the murder of Mr Agate. However, knowing it and proving it are two different things. Furthermore, how would you explain your house getting raided when it’s never been raided before?’
‘That’s easy,’ I replied. ‘All you need to do is arrange for every house in my block to be hit, starting with next door to me, and it will be thought that he was found by accident.’
‘Okay, and what do we do after the RUC charge you with harbouring a terrorist and implicate you in the murder? Sorry Willie, but you’re not thinking straight, so this guy gets off. While he’s under your stewardship and being monitored by the IRA, you’d better pray that the RUC don’t stumble over him or that some informer doesn’t give you away.’
After several hours discussing the matter it was decided that the information would be logged but not passed on because it could incriminate me and, worst of all, blow my cover, which London did not want. I was to get rid of Shorty as soon as possible, but only when it was safe in the eyes of the IRA. After that, Shorty could be picked up at some other time well away from me.
A week went by and we did our best for Shorty, but he was becoming a nuisance and a real pain in the arse. Deep inside he was a cocky wee shit who spent most of the time admiring himself in the mirror. He also had his fair share of drink every night and would often get very cheeky in our conversations. A few nights before he left us, he and I were having a beer and the conversation led to God and the church. He was slightly tipsy because he couldn’t really drink that much. Mary felt sorry for him no matter what he’d done, because as far as she was concerned he was some mother’s son. As a keep safe, she had bought him a St Joseph’s prayer on the way back from the chapel. He laughed at her and asked her, ‘What good is this going to do me?’ Mary explained that it would keep him safe and read the inscription on the back, which said that saying the prayer regularly would keep the person safe. She read out that it had often been carried into battle and the holder would never fall into the hands of an enemy nor would poison ever have an effect on them. Shorty got up, weaved his way past us and went into the kitchen, bringing back with him a bottle of bleach. He thumped it down heavily on the coffee table and challenged Mary, ‘Go on then, drink that, missus, and show me how powerful your prayer is!’
Mary was embarrassed and left the room, taking the bleach with her, while I stood there shaking with anger. I could have planted one on him right there and then. He seemed to lose control because he got up, went to the bottom of the stairs and put on the jacket that had been sent over to him. ‘What are you doing?’ I said.
‘I’m goin’ down to Annie’s Bar to get a fuckin’ drink,’ he replied, belligerently. Part of me wanted to open the door and kick him the fuck out into the street, but the sane part of me said I should stop him. I grabbed him around the shoulders and tried to persuade him that it was foolish to go to the pub; besides, the word hadn’t come from the Derry side that he could leave the house. He became aggressive and lashed out at me. I was about to grab him again but decided to hit him instead, then I hit him once more just for Mary and St Joseph. He was now trying to kick out at me so I threw him onto the stairs and grabbed him by the throat.
‘Listen to me ya wee cunt, you don’t seem to realise the trouble you’re in. Just about every policeman, every soldier and every informer in Derry is looking for you and if they don’t get yee, half the population of Derry will string you up by the balls for the fuck-up you and your friends made out at Altnagelvin last week. On top of that the word amongst the boys is that you and your friends weren’t supposed to do what you did.’
He tried to speak but I was choking him. As I eased my grip he wheezed, ‘That’s a load of shite. The job was given the go-ahead.’
I told him I couldn’t care less but he was going nowhere. I let him up and ordered him back into the living room.
‘I’ll get you fucking shot for this,’ he said, looking into the mirror at the blood on his lips and nose.
‘Finish your drink and get to sleep.’ I wasn’t sure of the importance of what I’d just heard or the ramifications of beating up an IRA volunteer. As I went to sleep I decided this guy had to go. Doreen and the boys had all steered well clear of my house because of the danger of being seen coming and going, which was good security but didn’t help me when I needed to speak to them.
The next day I walked down to Fleming’s to see if Lynn Fleming was around. She and Doreen were good pals and I felt sure that she was bound to know that I was keeping someone from over the town. Luckily, Lynn was coming around the corner and I stopped her. ‘Lynn, I’m having problems with the young guy I’m looking after,’ I said. It was Lynn who suggested that to get Shorty sorted out I should go over the town and see Martin McGuinness.
***
When I knocked on the door of his Brandywell home, Martin McGuinness was sitting on the sofa with a pink safety pin in his mouth, changing his baby’s nappy. The famous Derry IRA commander spoke through his teeth as he enquired how he could help, and I wondered how many times in these typical domestic situations McGuinness had to deal with callers making some kind of complaint, seeking advice or looking for help from the IRA. I had been lucky to catch him, so to speak, as the legend went that he was more often than not on the run across the border from the Brits and the cops. To get an audience with him was fortunate.
I briefly explained