“I Was, I Am, I Will Be”. The first time I heard the expression it meant nothing to me. Just seven little words strung together like an ancient Chinese riddle. I had no idea the power or the prophecy hidden deep within the simplicity of the phrase. In the end, those words would haunt, torture and terrorize me – forever a symbol of a passion disenchanted by romantic ideology.

“You’ve certainly gotten yourself into one hell of a mess this time John,” I said tossing the book on the table.

I’d been at the Central Library in Liverpool since noon doing some reading and research. This would be my first trip to Ireland and from the tone of Peter Barrington’s voice on the telephone; I knew it wasn’t for pleasure. Brian wanted to see me and when Brian summons you to his house, you don’t say no. Not unless you wanted to end up with a face split open and smashed like an overripe tomato crushed on the pavement. I suppose that was more promising than winding up in a body bag or floating belly up in the Thames River with a bullet through your neck.

That’s what the IRA did without even blinking an eye. It was all there in black and white. “Bloody Friday” the bombing of Belfast in 1972, where over twenty bombs went off in the crowded City center killing nine and injuring over 130 people – innocent people – some of them severely. Then there was the “Kings Mills Massacre” of January 5th, 1976. I opened the periodical and re-read the passage describing the carnage:

• “The talk on the minibus that night was no different than normal. There had been talk earlier in the factory that day about the killing of the young Reavey brothers from Whitecross. It horrified us all. We passed through Whitecross village shortly after 5.30 p.m. and when our minibus was stopped, a short distance up the road past Kingsmills crossroads, we thought it was the army. A group of about 12 armed men, unmasked but with their faces blackened and wearing combat jackets, surrounded the vehicle and ordered us all out on to the road. Even then few of us thought there was anything amiss. One man, with a pronounced English accent, did all the talking and proceeded to ask each of us our religion. Our Roman Catholic work colleague was ordered to clear off and the shooting started. It was all over within a minute and after the initial screams there was silence. I was semi-conscious and passed out several times with the deadly pain and the cold. A man appeared on the scene. He was in a terrible state and was praying loudly as he passed along the rows of bodies. He must have heard my groans and came across to comfort me. I must have been lying at the roadside waiting on the ambulance for up to 30 minutes. It was like an eternity and I can remember someone moving my body from one side to the other to help ease the pain”. What was done that night was a sheer waste, a futile exercise that advanced no cause.”[1]

Being a native Englishman, I knew all about the exploits of the Irish Republican Army. Intent on ending British sovereignty in Northern Ireland, the IRA wanted Irish lands united as one. The idea of Irish Republicanism was centuries old and the conflict with Britain was intense and complicated. British sentiment for the Irish was one of mistrust and scorn. Of course, that was a generalization, but the increased violence and killing of innocent people by the IRA wasn’t helping the image too much.

The thought of maybe being involved with a group of people so violent and inhumane made the insides of my stomach crawl with fear and disdain. I wasn’t positive that Brian was a member of the IRA, but I certainly had my suspicions based on all the circumstantial evidence. The drugs, the shipments of crates containing God knows what – the rumours about what he’d done in the past and what he’s capable of doing at any given moment. He just had that aura of evil. The way he commanded a room with his sheer size, barking orders, almost daring someone to step out of line and challenge his authority. I think he took immense sick pleasure in making people squirm, terrifying them until they broke down like babies and did whatever he wanted.

I flipped through a new bunch of newspaper clippings the librarian set on the table. Bombings, shootings, and more bombings.

• “The IRA has admitted killing the three men found by the army at different roadsides in South Armagh last night. They claim the men were informers for MI5 and the Royal Ulster Constabulary (RUC) Special Branch and they had been tried and killed by the IRA. In a style typical of IRA ritual killings the bodies were found in ditches, naked and hooded with evidence of beatings and single bullets through the backs of the heads.”[2]

Was that why Brian wanted to see me in Ireland? So he could put a bullet in my head? Would I be next in line for execution? Did he know? How could he? I’d been so careful. God help me if he did. My mind was racing with questions I couldn’t answer. I’ve seen and done some things I’m definitely not proud of and gotten myself mixed up in some very dicey business. I honestly don’t know how it all happened. I guess life just puts you on a path and it’s up to you to choose the right one when you’re at the intersection. Unfortunately, it’s quite easy to hit a bump in the road, lose control, and fly face first into the ditch. In my case, I always seemed to land in a pile of shit.

I tried to make good decisions, I really did, but it didn’t take me long to recognize that one bad decision could wipe out a lifetime of good. Trying to cover up the first bad decision with a second and third, only sends you spiraling further into your pit of despair. Yet it seems no matter how hard you try to change things and move forward, people will always judge you by that one mistake. I’m not going to tell you I’m an angel. I’ve told my share of lies, cheated people out of money, and been a downright arrogant bastard in my younger days. And I’ve kept secrets…so many secrets…from family, from friends, from authorities. I feel horrible for having kept those secrets, but at times, it’s hard to know just who to trust.

I was in deep. With Brian, with Peter Atwood, with Nigel, with Michelle. I just needed to find a way out, to slip away in the middle of the night, and disappear. Easier said than done. If it wasn’t the government guys tailing me then it was some greasy thug on Brian’s payroll. I’d never felt this trapped before in my life. I couldn’t go home to Townfield and hide out. Peter Atwood and Nigel took care of that with their unannounced visits to my father’s drawing room. Besides, I wouldn’t dream of putting my family in any more danger. The government cronies were a pain in the ass but Brian and his bunch wouldn’t hesitate to pour some gas, toss a match and burn the house to the ground.

If Brian ever found out I was working undercover for the British Government, I’d be a dead man for sure. I had to be extremely careful with everything I did and said, and honestly, I wasn’t sure how much longer I could keep up the game. Unfortunately, I just couldn’t pick up my ball and go home because I was tired of playing. This was a high stakes game of drugs, terror, and espionage. On both sides, the players were hard-nosed professionals, and the consequences of failure were death, jail or the muddied waters in between. Looking back, serving my time in jail for the government fraud probably would have been a walk in the park compared to the life I was living now. At least then, I could have counted down the days until my release. I could have planned for my future. Now, I have no idea what my future holds. The government has me by one ball, Brian has me by the other, and they’re both pulling as hard as they can.

[1] (Belfast Newsletter, January 5, 1986 – 10 years after the event).

[2] (BBC News July 2).