Читать книгу None Shall Divide Us - Michael Stone - Страница 14

TOMMY HERRON WATCHED MY FLOURISHING STREET CAREER WITH INTEREST. HE LIVED ON THE BRANIEL ESTATE AND SAW POTENTIAL IN THE ROUGH-AND-TOUGH KID WHO EXCELLED IN HIS ROLE AS LEADER OF THE TARTAN GANG. I sorted out the ‘anti-socials’, those who terrorised old people, trashed their neighbours’ properties and were a nuisance in the area. I gave offenders one chance. They were warned verbally, but there were no second chances. I never ‘kneecapped’ anyone, but beatings were a regular occurrence. Tommy Herron later told me it was my ability to keep the anti-socials under control that brought me to his attention. He said he was impressed with my street skills, which belonged to a man older than sixteen.

A one-time security guard, Herron was a powerful and ruthless man who ran the East Belfast brigade of the UDA from a tiny office on the Newtownards Road. He was also vice-chairman of the Association, and this made him one of the most important and powerful figures in the early development of the UDA. He was a big, muscular man and always expensively dressed in a suit and tie and a long camel coat. Herron appeared frequently on television and gave countless press conferences, sometimes in a combat jacket and forage cap, at that time the standard UDA uniform. He was abrupt and he was rash, and he liked to shout and raise his voice, but when he talked, he talked sense. When Tommy Herron spoke I sat up and took notice.

I first met him in 1972. Although it was thirty years ago, I can still see him in my mind’s eye. It was a weekend evening in early summer when his car pulled up. In the middle of the Braniel estate was a small grassed area where kids would play and teenagers would congregate. I had my Alsatian, Wolf, with me. About ten of us, including a couple of girls, were larking about, when a silver Zodiac car pulled up alongside us and stopped. A man wearing a sharp suit got out, followed by two men. They wore dark glasses and were obviously there as personal security. The man in the sharp suit approached me, looked at me and then finally addressed me.

‘Hello, kid, I want a word with you.’

I didn’t answer him. I had no idea who he was. He spoke again.

‘Listen, kid, I’m moving into the area. I know you live in Ravenswood Park. I know it’s your area. What’s it like to live here?’

I didn’t know who the man was, but he looked important. His car was flash; he had expensive clothes and two bodyguards. Whoever he was, he knew my name and where I lived. He handed me an address in Ravenswood Crescent and instructed me to visit over the following weeks. I had no intention of going anywhere near his house. Two weeks later I found out who he was. He was on television, wearing a combat jacket, forage cap and dark glasses. The TV reporter addressed him as Tommy Herron, UDA Supreme Commander. I was livid. I didn’t want the UDA, whoever they were, moving into my turf. I asked around, to find out if anybody knew anything about him, but no one did, except one lad. The only thing he said was, Herron was capable of blowing your head off.

I still had the UDA leader’s address, so I went to see him. I wanted to find out exactly what he wanted from me. I knew he wasn’t just passing the time of day when he stopped his flash car to speak to me. He wanted something and I knew it involved me. I rang his doorbell and he invited me in. He came straight to the point.

‘I want to start a squad in this area. I need good men. I have moved here from South Belfast to protect my family. I am looking for a couple of good guys. I think you will fit the bill. Do you have any mates that you trust?’

I told him I had several and he asked me another question.

‘Can you use a gun?’

‘Yes, I used to play at soldiers when I was an Army Cadet.’

‘What about this?’

He handed me, butt first, a 9mm Star pistol. It was his own weapon. Before he handed it over he cocked it and flicked on the safety catch. I took the pistol, released the magazine, cocked it, cleared it, leaving the working parts open, reloaded and put the safety catch on. He said he was impressed.

‘Will you meet me next week?’ he asked.

I said I would, and he gave me a day and a time. It was to be at Davison’s Quarry in the Castlereagh Hills. He told me to bring four friends but only guys I trusted. He also told me not to be late because he hated bad timekeepers. A week later I stood in Davison’s Quarry with four friends, waiting for Herron to turn up. It was full of rusty car bodies and oil drums. The ground was overgrown 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 of your training.’ When I looked back to where he was standing, Herron was doubled over with laughter.

Later he told me he had doctored the shotgun cartridge to teach me a lesson – a lesson that could mean the difference between being done for robbery and being done for murder. One of my duties as a UDA volunteer was the procurement of funds and that meant robbing banks and post offices. With robberies come have-a-go heroes, and Herron warned me that doctoring a shotgun cartridge and filling it with grains of rice would be the difference between stunning and immobilising a wannabe hero and killing them.

Herron introduced me to a secret gun club in North Down. I was just seventeen years old. Judges, barristers and policemen were among the members of this state-of-the-art shooting gallery. The G-Club was underground, hidden beneath a well-known local landmark. Membership was closed: you couldn’t walk in off the street and join. It didn’t advertise: you had to be invited. The club had a rifle range, moving targets and pop-up targets and was equipped with .303 rifles and .22 target pistols.

Through Herron I learnt to be an assassin. I learnt to be an independent soldier. He taught me how to kill without a gun. He showed me how to garrotte a person with the brake cable of a pushbike by looping it in a specific way. It was foolproof and guaranteed to cause instant death. I learnt about anatomy and how to use knives. He showed me how to stab by inserting the knife and twisting up and in. Just sticking a blade into flesh would not cause death, he told me. You have to know where the vital organs are and puncture them in order to precipitate death. I was shown that any instrument and any implement could be turned into a deadly weapon. Perspex can be fashioned into a blade and a piece of plastic or wood such as a knitting needle or even a pencil can be used to kill. He showed me the exact spot on the neck to kill someone by what he called ‘scrambling their brains’. The procedure didn’t cause a massive blood loss, just a tiny surface puncture mark.

Herron taught me to be self-sufficient when I was on the road. Even when staying in trusted safe houses there were golden rules: carry your own bed linen and your own towels, wear Vaseline on eyebrows and eyelashes, coat the hair in gel or wax, wear tight-fitting kitchen gloves at all times, eat Mars bar sandwiches and only drink water. He told me to carry plastic bags and take my solid waste home and burn all clothes after an operation including footwear. Once back from active service, burn everything.

He pioneered interrogation schools by bringing hand-picked men from other areas to train me in surviving long, tough sessions at the hands of the RUC. His technique was simple. He ordered two volunteers to be the security forces, who would try to get a confession from me, the pretend suspect. He would stand in a corner of the room and watch, but he never spoke. The ‘cops’ would beat, kick and threaten me. They split my lip, my internal organs were kicked and my neck was almost broken with the weight of heavy, wet towels lashed across it. Sometimes someone’s nose would get broken in these exercises. Herron had recreated what happened in holding centres like Castlereagh. The volunteers worked in pairs: good cop and bad cop. One would shout abuse and scream threats to get a result. The other would calmly try to reason and appeal to my vulnerable side. The sole object of the exercise was to not reveal the phrase given by Herron at the start of the session. Grown men broke down. I broke down.

It was elite services training, I know that now. Herron had turned me into an assassin primed for every eventuality and every situation. He taught me skills for protecting myself but he was also thinking of his own safety. He had me earmarked for my first job in the UDA – as his bodyguard.

I asked him from whom or what he needed protection.

He answered, ‘Everybody, kid, especially our own.’