The Confessions of Paul Davis ( Part 5).

He remembered the conversation he had with George about Pat Dougherty. Sean set up a meet in a pub in Hertfordshire. Just the two of them.

“You should have told me George. You should have told me that the hit was a woman.”

“What difference does it make? Male, female, it’s just a job.”

“But I have rules George. No woman and no kids.”

He remembered Georges face start to change colour. A redness started to show in his cheeks. His nostrils flared. He looked as though he was about to explode.

“Listen to me you little shit. I pay you to do a job. I pay you well. So don’t give me any bollocks about what you want and your fucking rules. The only rules that apply are mine. Understand? If I tell you to go and slaughter a whole fucking family, you’ll just do it. Understand?”

He kept quiet. He was thinking things over. George was staring at him. Waiting for a response. He was still thinking. Then George did explode and grabbed him by the throat.

“DO… YOU… FUCKING… UNDERSTAND?”

“Yes George.”

“Good.”

George let go, stood up and left the pub.

That was the first time he began to question his role in George’s organisation. George called him a little shit and spoke to him as if he were a child. Yet he was a grown man. Thirty years of age.  He’d been with George for thirteen years and by now should be a major player in his team, not locked away and brought out occasionally to do his bidding and then locked up again. He was the one that had got rid of all the opposition and made George a very wealthy man indeed. He couldn’t help but think he should be treated better. He put that thought away. Tucked it in a small box and locked it up tightly. He would open it again when he needed to. But not now. For now he would wait for the right opportunity.

The urges had gotten worse. If he went more than three weeks without satisfying his craving he would wake up in the middle of the night in a cold sweat, his hands would shake, he felt ill and would often be physically sick. Like all addictions, when you don’t get your fix you start to get withdrawal symptoms. The Americans called it “Cold Turkey.”

He went to see his doctor. He told him that he had a drink problem and was trying to dry out but was having sweats and shakes. The doctor prescribed Valium.

It worked, almost immediately. He still wanted his fix, even dreamed about it at night, but the urgency had gone. The sweats and nausea stopped and he felt in a constant state of calm.

He returned to Ireland in 1987. George’s cousin Patrick Joseph Kelly had been shot and killed along with seven other members of the IRA by the SAS. George sent him over to see if he could help in any retaliation.

He was welcomed with open arms by the people he knew there. They had a nickname for him “The Silent Creeper”. They said that no one ever heard him coming and by the time they did it was too late.

Patrick’s position was taken over by Seamus. A big, tall, ginger haired man in his late thirties. He was a thoughtful man, quiet and respectful and unlike the others his accent was soft. But when he spoke, everyone listened. He and Paul became friends. Paul liked the way he did things. He gave orders, quietly and calmly. He respected his men and in turn they respected him. A far cry from the way George operated.

Paul stayed in Ireland for three months but only did one job in that time. It was an easy hit. A middle aged man from Antrim had been seen talking to two British soldiers and someone noticed money changing hands. His car was stopped a mile from his home. He was dragged from his car and shot three times in the head. After the hit, Paul and Seamus sat up till dawn, drinking and playing cards.  

It was then that Seamus asked him a question.

“So Paul, what do you think of George Kelly?”

“Not sure what you mean.”

“Sure you do. Tell me, honestly now, what do you think of George.”

“In what way?”

“Well, is he a good man to work for? Is he respected? That kind of thing.”

“Yeh, he’s fine.”

“You’re a cagey one you are Paul. So tell me then why aren’t you higher up the ladder? From where I’m sitting it looks like you do all the hard work, take all the risks, yet George doesn’t include you in anything.”

Seamus just looked at him and waited for a reaction. He gave none. Just smiled.

Seamus stood up and lit a cigarette. Went to the kitchen and returned with more whiskey.

“Okay Paul, I think I understand. You don’t want to say anything bad about George. That’s fine. You’re loyal. But I can see in your eyes that there’s more. Just nod if that’s the truth.”

He nodded.

“Good man. What I’m about to tell you is in confidence and is for your ears only. Okay?”

Again he nodded.

“George Kelly was Patrick’s cousin and Patrick was the boss. So we all kept quiet about George’s contributions. George sent money for the cause and we took it gladly. But things have changed. If we are going to step up our actions we need more. A lot more. We know how much George earns and to be honest what he sends us is just loose change to him. That’s not the way it was supposed to be. We invested in George years ago and now we want our fair return. The deal was that he would send us half of his yearly profit. That hasn’t happened for many a year. In my eyes that mean that he’s robbed us of our own money. That’s not nice. There has to be consequences. So we’re going to make some changes.”

He sat down and placed the whiskey on the table in front of them. He poured them both a glass.

“George and his brother will step down. Sean will take over and you will work closely with Sean. You will be our eyes and ears in London and make sure that we get our fair share. “

“When?”

“Soon. A few weeks. Your job will be to help George and his brother step down to clear the way for you and Sean. Deal?”

Seamus stuck out his hand. Paul shook it firmly.

“Deal.”

A week later he was back in London. His phone rang. It was Seamus.

“It’s time Paul. Get it done.”