LITMIR.BIZ

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and uneven, causing little pools of muddy water to form. My four mates and I skimmed stones as we waited. A blue van pulled up and one of Herron’s gorillas got out first, followed by the UDA leader. Herron nodded at me and walked to the back of the van. He opened the door and out jumped a mongrel dog. It was an Alsatian cross and had a rope around its neck, which Herron used as a makeshift lead.

      The rope took me by surprise. Knowing Herron loved dogs, I thought it was a strange way to restrain one of his prized pets. I squatted and rubbed the dog behind its ears and asked Herron what its name was. I was told that it didn’t have a name and the dog didn’t need one. It was a male dog and wanted to play. Herron let it off the lead and it made a dash for a stick thrown by one of the mates I brought with me. For thirty minutes Herron watched us play with the dog, then he called a halt to the play and ordered each of us to line up.

      I was fourth in line.

      He handed the first boy a .22-calibre pistol, a low-velocity weapon that makes very little noise but is deadly on impact. ‘Do you want to be a member of the UDA?’ he said.

      ‘Yes, sir.’

      ‘Shoot the dog.’

      The boy’s chin dropped. Herron never spoke.

      ‘I can’t do it, sir,’ the lad said, and handed the gun back.

      Herron moved to the second boy, then the third, but neither touched the weapon.

      He handed it to me and repeated the order. I looked him straight in the eye, fully expecting him to say he was teasing and that he was just having a bit of fun, but I knew by his expression that he was serious and he wanted the animal shot on the spot. The gun still lay in the flat of his palm, barrel pointing away from me. I took it and released the safety catch.

      My mates were looking at me, then at Herron and back to me again. The dog was in front of me. It was panting, its tongue hanging out. Its tail wagged back and forth. It took me just seconds to lift that gun and aim it at the dog’s head. To my left I could hear one mate shouting, ‘No, Flint, don’t kill it, don’t do that’, but I blanked out his words. I distracted the dog by shouting, ‘What’s that?’ and as it looked away I pulled the trigger, putting a bullet into its head. The dog dropped, spun around on the ground, shuddered for a few seconds and then lay still. I could see a trickle of blood seeping from under its crumpled body. Just a few minutes ago it was playing with me. It believed I was a friend. I heard a scream, which pulled me back from my thoughts, and I looked behind me. My mates had bolted in horror. The gun was still in my hand. I handed it back to Herron. He said nothing. His face was expressionless. I spoke first.

      ‘I love dogs. I didn’t want to kill it.’

      ‘Why did you raise your hand and cover your face, Flint?’

      I had used my hand as a visor to protect my face, eyes and mouth from the blood and tissue that would shoot out when the bullet entered the dog’s head. The animal was at point-blank range.

      ‘I didn’t want bits of brain and skull spraying my face.’

      ‘The dog was a test. You did well.’

      I didn’t feel that I did well. I felt terrible. I’d killed a living thing. I’d killed an animal that had a face and eyes and thought I was its friend. Herron got back into his van and rolled down the window. He said to me, ‘If you couldn’t kill the dog, then you’re not capable of killing a human being.’ And with that he was gone.

      The following week I was sworn into the UDA. The ceremony took place in Braniel community centre. The only people present were Herron and myself and two guards of honour who wore the obligatory black leather jacket and sunglasses. They stood either side of a small table draped with the Union Jack. On top were a Bible and a Webley pistol. None of the four mates I’d brought to the quarry that day had impressed Herron, so I was on my own. We weren’t disturbed. Tommy had fixed it with the guy who ran the community hall that we would have our privacy for the fifteen minutes it took to swear me in. Herron spoke to me for an hour beforehand. He ordered me to march in and stand to attention in front of him. He told me exactly what to say during the ceremony.

      ‘You understand what you are committing to.’

      ‘Yes, I want to defend my community, my family and my country.’

      ‘Do you know what that means? It doesn’t make you a hero. When you make this commitment, there are only two outcomes: death or prison. Do you understand that you could end up being killed or spending the rest of your life behind bars? Do you understand that there are no medals, no victory salutes and no pats on the back?’

      Herron handed me the Webley and the Bible. I swore on the open Bible to be a faithful and honourable member of the Ulster Defence Association. I swore to defend my community. I promised to be a guardian of my people and to fight to protect them with every drop of my Loyalist blood. The service was over in minutes. I felt good. I was on a high. I was swept away by the romanticism of it all. It didn’t enter my head that I had just committed myself to a life of violence. I was in love with the idea of being the great defender, the knight in shining armour looking after my people.

      My training began the following week in Davison’s Quarry, initially with Herron’s two weapons, the Star and a shotgun. Tommy Herron was a colourful and enigmatic character and I enjoyed his company. He also loved dogs and had a massive pure black Alsatian called Satan. He was my mentor and taught me everything I know about being a paramilitary. He schooled me in firearms, explosives and forensics. He taught me the special skills that I have used all my active-service life. He trained me in interrogation and how to survive it.

      From the day I was sworn in, it was Herron who trained me. He taught me how to shoot but admitted I had little to learn. He honed my pistol, revolver, rifle and shotgun skills. He showed me how to open and split a shotgun cartridge and smear it with axle grease so that it would effortlessly punch through reinforced doors and metal. He showed me how to doctor cartridges and make them more deadly by opening the top and dripping candle wax into it, then closing the cartridge again. The bullet would remain intact on impact and cause horrific wounds to human flesh. Undoctored cartridges spread on impact, which makes them less deadly. They injure but don’t always kill. Herron was shown how to make other deadly cartridges by using mercury from a thermometer or garlic purée in the tip of the cartridge. On entering the flesh the garlic or mercury gets into the bloodstream and causes blood poisoning within seconds.

      Just weeks after being sworn into the UDA, I learned what Tommy Herron was capable of. It was one of my many and regular training days and, as usual, it was just the two of us in the derelict quarry. I got to work setting up the oil drums to practise my shooting skills and, as I worked, Herron went to the boot of his Zodiac and took out his shotgun. I had my back to him and glanced round when I heard him shout at me, ‘You know kid, you should never trust anyone in this game.’

      His words stopped me in my tracks but his actions – raising the shotgun to his shoulder and levelling the gun at me – almost stopped my heart. I heard the crack as the gun went off, then the wall of pain as it hit me in the chest. Tommy Herron, my mentor and my friend, had shot me. I saw it coming. I knew he was going to use the gun on me but I was powerless to do anything. It happened in a split second. I didn’t even have time to duck or drop to the ground. The force of the impact threw me backwards and I landed on my back with a rough thud. I lay on the ground, immobilised by pain, thinking I was seriously injured and about to die. My body felt like it had been hit with a sledgehammer. I forced my arm to move, putting my hand on the wound to stop the flow of blood, but there was none. There wasn’t even a tear or rip in the denim jacket I was wearing. I sat up, my body still throbbing, and looked at the ground. There was a pool of dry rice mixed in with the dirt and the sand. I had no idea how the white rice came to be scattered around my body. Meanwhile, Tommy Herron never took his eyes off me. I stood up, awkwardly and with a lot of difficulty, and began a slow hobble towards Herron and the quarry entrance. As I passed him I said, ‘Fuck you and fuck this.’

      Herron started to laugh. It echoed around the quarry face and he shouted after me, ‘Come back, kid, it’s all part

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