Knocking Off A Brit by David R Graham

Knocking Off A Brit by David R Graham

The man was silhouetted by harsh light. That was fine with Micky Lamb. He did not want to know who the man was. He lowered his eyes to the table in front of him and watched a gloved hand push two small devices slowly into view.

‘If ye screw up, y’er screwed,’ the haloed silhouette warned.

Micky put the devices in his coat pocket. ‘Aye,’ he said and waited for the hooded bodyguards to unlock the door and release him from the room — to strike his first blow against the Brits for hanging his Grandaddy back in 1922 for his part in the shooting of seven British Army officers in a cafe on the Leckey Road.

Captain Eddy Balfour was enjoying his posting in Derry. His role in Military Intelligence gave him the perfect opportunity to hit back at the IRA for their part in the shooting of his grandfather in a cafe on the Leckey Road back in 1922. Captain Balfour had done plenty of hitting back during the past eighteen months. Some of his hitting had been terminal to those on the receiving end. That was fine by him ‘The only good terrorist, is a dead terrorist,’ was his outspoken opinion. He planned to do a lot more hitting over the next eighteen months.

Under the cover of gathering storm clouds that hid the moon, Micky Lamb entered the grounds of Fort Jericho. But those same clouds that covered his entry also made it harder for him to locate Captain Balfour’s black Ford Capri Ghia. By the time he did find the pristine machine Micky was seething with pent up frustration. Grateful for the opportunity to stretch his back he lay down alongside the Capri and attached the bomb tight against the chassis beneath the driver’s door. No sooner had he done so when the storm clouds unleashed a downpour. For the space of a heartbeat Micky closed his eyes and let the rain splash down on his face. Then he rolled onto his hands and knees and made a stealthy exit from the barracks.

Captain Balfour’s loathing of the IRA represented the apex of a broader loathing of the Irish race in general. He loathed their fast talking vernacular and their shifty manner that made it necessary for him to have to physically beat information out of most of them. His loathing however, did not extend to their woman. He was happy to shag as many of them as he could. Provided they had a good body and were able to speak in whole sentences. Like this one, he thought stopping the Capri at a bus stop and flipping open the passenger door.

‘What d’feck?’ Micky Lamb said to the rain-washed windscreen of his van when he saw the Capri pull over at a bus stop. ‘Feck! I should a done ’im at d’feckin’ gates!’ he hissed when he saw a woman dash through the rain and get into the car.

‘Feck! feck! feck!’ Micky snapped and put his foot down when he saw the Capri accelerated away without indicating. ‘I’m gonna have t’do ’im!’ he shouted and extended the detonator’s aerial with his teeth ‘I’m sorry darlin,’ whoever ye are,’ he whispered, ‘I’m a dead man if I don’t do ’im!’ he said and pressed the trigger.

‘Micky. Oh God, Micky.’

‘Ma? What are ye doin’ over here at this time a d’night? Where’s Maureen? Maureen, me darlin’ Come ’ere an’ let me get a look at ye. Me eyes have been missin’ ye all day!’

‘Ohhh, Jaz’us, Mary an’ Joseph! Oh God almighty. Have mercy on us!’

‘Ma! What d’hell are ye carryin’ on for? What are ye here for? What’s happen t’ye?’

‘Oh Micky! It’s yer Maureen!’

‘What? What about her?’

‘Oh, Micky! She’s dead!’

‘What? What d’hell are ye sayin’, Ma?! How can she be dead?’

‘Oh God, Micky! She was blown up in a car! It’s been on d’news all night! D’gards came t’mine, jus’ after ten! No one’s been able t’get a hold a ye, Micky!’

‘Blown up?’ Micky whispered. ‘In a car? What feckin’ car? What d’hell are ye talkin’ about, Ma?’

‘Dey found her handbag, Micky. Everyt’ing was still in it. It mus’ a gott’in’ blow….Oh, Micky! Yer poor, darlin’ Maureen. Oh God have mercy on us!’

‘What was she doin’ in a car? She catches d’buses.’

‘He mus’ a been givin’ her a lift. Cause a d’rain, mos’ likely.’

‘What? Who was? Who was givin’ her a lift?’

‘That British officer who was killed…Oh, God, Micky! D’ere was a bomb under his car! It blew up when Maureen was in it! She’s dead, Micky! Blown t’bits by some brave freedom fighter! May God damn his soul t’hell for all eternity for what he’s done t’ this family! I pray he’ll not know a moments peace ’til d’ day he dies. May it be a long time comin’ too! So help me God!’

‘So help me, God,’ Micky Lamb said in a dreadful whisper.

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