Читать книгу Once A Pilgrim - James Deegan - Страница 30

18.

BILLY JONES SENIOR sat in the Long Bar on the Shankill Road, surrounded by a gang of his shaven-headed cronies.

The TV in the top corner of the pub was on about some shooting in central Belfast, but he paid it no particular mind. He was sipping his whisky chaser and trying to decide between another pint of Carling or a move on to Strongbow, when two uniformed RUC men walked in, faces nervous, flat caps in their hands.

Someone walked hurriedly out of the bar, head down, and through the open doorway Billy briefly saw flashing blue lights and the camouflaged tunics of a group of soldiers.

The RUC men’s eyes swept the room and settled on him.

They walked towards his table.

‘Evening, Billy,’ said one of them, respectfully. ‘We’ve been trying to get hold of you. Can we have a word in private, please?’

Billy Jones looked up at them with the dead gaze of a reptile. ‘Anything you want to say to me you can say in front of the boys,’ he said. ‘We’ve no secrets here.’

‘Only, we tried your house, Billy,’ said the officer. ‘Couldn’t get an answer, couldn’t find your wife, so… Well, we thought you’d be in here.’

‘Spying on me, is it?’ he said with a mocking grin, and a suck on his teeth. He shook his head, almost sadly. ‘You fucking peeler bastards.’

‘Billy, I really think it would be best in private.’

‘Spit it out.’

The two officers looked at each other. The one doing the talking sighed.

‘Okay,’ he said. ‘Have it your way. It’s about your son. Billy Junior.’ His eyes flicked up at the TV, which was showing a car park, now brightly lit and crawling with police. ‘He’s the one that was killed tonight.’

Billy looked at him. Not a flicker of emotion.

He casually picked up his Bells and threw it back.

‘Is that yous?’ he said, with a grimace at the heat of the spirit. ‘Are yous done?’

‘Aye.’

‘Then get the fuck out,’ he shouted. ‘Go on. Fuck off!’

‘We’re sorry, Mr Jones, our condolences, we…’

‘Fuck off, you fucking wankers!’

The two constables turned on their heels and walked away, heads down, hands resting lightly on their sidearms, Billy Jones’ eyes burning into their backs.

When the door was shut, the men at the table exchanged looks.

‘Billy,’ said one. ‘I’m sorry. He was a good kid.’

Billy Jones Senior looked at him in disgust. ‘You what? He was a fucking embarrassment, so he was, and you know it. If you can’t speak the fucking truth to me, you’re no fucking good to me. You can get the fuck out as well.’

‘Yes, Billy,’ said the man, and hurried out without finishing his drink or putting on his coat.

Jones looked up at the bar. A man in a blue Rangers shirt put down his pint, walked casually over, and bent his head.

‘You and Tam McDonald,’ whispered Billy Jones Senior, hoarsely. ‘You get fucking out there tonight and kill two fucking Catholics. Any fuckers, I don’t care, but it better be on the news first thing in the morning. Cut their throats.’

The man nodded, and walked out of the bar leaving half a pint on the counter.

Billy sat back, looked at his cronies and belched. ‘I reckon I’ll go on the Strongbow now, boys,’ he said. ‘Davey, you’re in the chair.’