A Real Job

Chapter One Crumpsall, Manchester, 22.40 hours, 25th October 1996 Death comes to us all in the end, but Detective Constable Steve Adams didn’t think it would come knocking so early in his life. Twenty-two years of age and only two months into his posting with Special Branch, at times Steve’s keenness to make a good impression bordered on recklessness. Being his first operation investigating four experienced targets of the Provisional IRA’s English Brigade planning to attack locations on mainland Britain, he knew the obs spot he volunteered to take was the most dangerous. Nestling behind a set of well established rhododendron bushes in the large back garden of an Edwardian built detached house, owned by an Irish republican sympathiser, unseen by the targets, there was the added peril of being out of sight of his colleagues. The four targets were not his immediate concern. Deafening bursts of static interrupting the constant radio traffic from his colleagues caused Steve to snatch the small receiver out of his ear. Replacing it, the radio went eerily silent. Frantically turning the channel changer back and forth to see if anyone could pick up his transmissions, Steve’s concentration switched from observing the targets to desperately getting his only lifeline to work. Ignoring the rule of not transmitting from his position unless he could draw his weapon and safely relay to other members of the team movement from the targets, Steve’s voice raised incrementally with each radio check. Cut off from his colleagues, the solitude increased his anxiety. Unaware of two pairs of hands reaching through the bushes towards him, in frustration Steve started tapping the radio. Suddenly aware of a rustling sound, before he could react two men grabbed him and dragged Steve out from his hiding place. Being in the darkest part of the garden, he could not see who it was. Caught by surprise, Steve began pulling back. With the men’s combined strength being greater, he couldn’t stop being kicked behind the knees. Causing him to fall, Steve made out the figure of a third man standing directly in front of him who started laughing as he said, ‘Just where we were told the fucker would be.’ Still too dark for Steve to make out who it was, the distinctive Belfast accent confirmed it was one of the four targets. Before he realised how life threatening this situation was, Steve’s world went black. Consciousness slowly returning, distant incoherent sounds became louder and clearer as simultaneously a pain in his head became sharper. Slowly opening his eyes, Steve found himself lying on his side on the patio at the rear of the house. Remembering what had just happened, a power surge went through his body as his senses were heightened to the extreme. The limited light coming from the open back door leading from the patio to the kitchen confirmed it was three of the Irish targets who found Steve. With Sean McCrossan holding him down, straining his neck, Steve looked up to see Pat Quinn standing over him looking at something in his hand. Rory O’Byrne was stood next to him holding Steve’s Special Branch issue Berretta Cougar pistol. The throbbing pain in his head told Steve he took a blow rendering him unconscious during which time they must have searched him. Having been dragged across the lawn to the rear patio, Steve remembered from the operation’s briefing this was a blind spot to the neighbouring houses. Quinn looked at the pistol. ‘That’s Special Branch issue alright,’ he said handing it back to O’Byrne, ‘and just like our man said, this fucker’s warrant card says he’s in Greater Manchester Police.’ Quinn started kicking Steve’s back as he spoke, ‘So Stephen fucking Adams from Special Branch, we know you’re not alone. Where are the other peelers?’ When Quinn stopped kicking him, Steve said nothing. The shock at hearing someone from Special Branch was passing information on to the Provisionals partly anaesthetised his discomfort. Taking his cue from Steve’s silence, O’Byrne started kicking him and said, ‘Yer man here asked you a question. Now fucking answer it. Where are the other peelers?’ Looking up, he saw Quinn with his head slightly to one side gesturing he was impatiently waiting for an answer. This was the closest he had been to the Irishman. Ignoring the pain, Steve was momentarily fascinated at the hardness ingrained in Quinn’s facial features making the Irishman looked much older than twenty-five. ‘I’m not waiting all fucking night,’ Quinn said, once more kicking Steve at the base of his spine, ‘where’s the other peelers that’s watching the house?’ With fear causing Steve’s stomach to churn, he felt physically sick. Knowing the Provisional IRA saw themselves as soldiers in the fight for Irish freedom, at the thought of being the next casualty in this war he began baulking. Now in a fight for his life, with bile he brought up dribbling from his mouth, his mind raced as to how he could get out of this situation. With Quinn continuing to kick him, Steve sensed McCrossan ease his grip on him. With his primeval will to live enhanced by the betrayal, he gathered a strength he never knew he had. Rolling away from McCrossan, Steve started getting to his knees. Being the first of the three to react, Quinn brought the officer’s resistance to a swift end. Pushing past O’Byrne, he quickly stepped over to Steve, pistol whipping him before he could get onto his feet. As a loud thud reverberated in Steve’s head, it was followed by a sharp pain and a loss of control of his limbs. Knocking him semi-conscious, being repeatedly punched about the head and body forced the conscious half to frantically but incoherently work overtime as the instinct to survive kicked in. Unable to think clearly, the shouts of his captors became inaudible to Steve’s ears. Helplessly groping around on the patio’s paving stones, the blow to his head seemed to cut off the signals his brain was sending to his legs. On his knees and scrabbling to pick himself up, Steve’s hair was violently pulled back. Struggling to overcome the fuzziness in his head he sensed something sticky trickling down the back of his neck. Reaching out to see what it was Steve’s hand was forcefully pulled down by his side. Slowly, the myriad of flashing yellow dots punctuating his sight disappeared allowing him to see more clearly the stark reality facing him. ‘I’m losing my patience with you Mister Adams,’ Quinn said pointing a pistol at Steve’s head, ‘You’re fucking going nowhere. So stop fucking us about and tell us how many other peelers are watching the fucking house?’ With the clipped Belfast accent enhancing Steve’s fear, as terror gripped his body numbness replaced the pain. Opening his mouth slowly, in a quiet drawl Steve, said, ‘The others have gone. There’s only me here.’ McCrossan kicked Steve viciously in the ribs. Clutching his side, the detective let out a cry as he fell from the patio onto the cold, damp grass. Repeatedly kicking Steve with such force it lifted the officer’s torso off the ground, he shouted, ‘You’re a fucking liar.’ ‘Leave him Sean. We’ll get nothing out of him that way,’ O’Byrne said, raising the officer back to his knees. Placing the tip of the pistol’s barrel against Steve’s left temple, Quinn said, ‘I fucking warned you, don’t piss us about, where’s the other peelers?’ The two men looked at each other. As Quinn slowly pulled back the pistol’s hammer his piercing stare betrayed an indifference if the officer lived. ‘This is your last chance. If you don’t fucking tell us, I’ll blow your fucking head off.’ Knowing it would cost him his life, he was determined not to give them any information regarding the whereabouts of his colleagues. Looking up once more at Quinn then glancing over at the shorter but more stocky built McCrossan who was holding a revolver by his side, Steve tried to work out which one was going to carry out the summary execution. As he did, uncontrollable tears started t