As usual, the month of March was miserable, cold, wet and extremely windy. Three men were discussing the prospects of an inferior national soccer squad that was about to do battle with Spain. One of the three, Billy Clements, was booked on a charter flight together with another one hundred and fifty or so fans that were loyally championing a lost cause. Clements was beating a tattoo with a pair of number ten welding electrodes whilst humming a loyalist marching song.
‘Jesus Billy but yer a lucky wee bollocks,’ said Davy Johnson, ‘Away to Spain no less,’ he added, as he sullenly gazed through the porthole at the thickening gloom beyond. ‘Wud ya luk at that weather,’ the man’s East Belfast accent thickened appreciably when complaining.
‘Agh would you stop your moanin Davy,’ chided the third man. ‘You could have been away with him, if you weren’t as tight as a duck’s arse.’
‘And why wud I want to go to Spain for?’ Grammar was never the man’s strong point.
‘Sure its only full of fenians and I wudn’t want te see them gloatin, when their team stuffs Noarin Ireland anyway,’ he grumbled.
‘ Noarin Ireland, Noarin Ireland,’ sang Billy, choosing to ignore the observations of his envious companion.
‘Christ would ye listen to that wee prick,’ laughed Sammy Caldwell, ‘He’ll hardly be singin at nine o’clock on Wednesday night.’
‘Hey you, less of the wee,’ smiled Billy. ‘Jesus Sammy, I can’t wait. Wonder what its like?’
‘What’s what’s like?’ asked Caldwell.
‘Madrid, ‘The Stadium of Light,’ answered Clements, in exultation.
‘Pretty dark I’d imagine, sure them Spaniards all have a bit of the tarred brush in them. Anyway, ye’ve got the wrong town.’ Johnson smugly informed him.
‘Very funny Davy. Anyway, what would you know? The farthest you ever got was Bangor.’
‘Nothin wrong with Bangor boy,’ argued Davy. ‘There’s some crackin cafes there. Aye and when it comes to it, I know a wee bit more than you do sonny,’ he hastily rejoined. ‘For your information, the ‘Stadium of Light,’ is in Lisbon. That’s where wee Georgie stuffed yon Eusebio’s mob, Benfica,’ he added reverently.
‘Jesus would you listen to him, the last of the big time spenders,’ said Sammy.
‘Aye he’s a regular James Bond. Your missus must think she’s in heaven.’
‘That’s right Billy, only some thinks it’s heaven and others thinks its hell,’ agreed Dave sagely.
‘Ach sure Bangor’s not that bad,’ observed Sammy, forcing the others into peals of rapturous laughter. Such was the banter between workmates in Harland and Wolff, ship builders to the world. Three men, whose interest in the daily grind had long since evaporated, killing the last half-hour of another dreary working day. When the horn finally blew concluding their shift, the three separated. Johnson on foot to cross the Fraser Street Bridge into Protestant East Belfast. Caldwell by bus to the equally Protestant Sandy Row and Billy Clements would wend his way to the much-maligned Shankill. Ordinary working class men with a lot in common but after their daily toil, Sammy and Dave would return to a warm home and a hot meal. Billy, being single, would opt for a loyalist, drinking club in Shankill’s Hammer district. He was not just a shipyard worker. His daily employ served to give Clements the appearance of respectability. He was in fact a loyalist volunteer, recruited by the Ulster Defence Association on the twenty-second of September nineteen seventy-nine. He was barely fourteen years of age.
Unlike Clements, who was of medium build, three inches short of six-foot and fair of complexion, Connor Tullen was tall, blessed with raven hair, elegant and above all quiet. Clements by comparison, was outspoken and quick to anger. Tullen could be relied upon to keep his own council. As an added bonus, he was single and seemingly uninterested in woman. Clements, on the other hand, could never get enough female distraction. At the last count, Tullen was responsible for the deaths of seven RUC constables, as well as three members of the British armed forces. The man was cool, calculating and in his capacity as assassin, known only to the highest ranking members of his faction within the Irish Republican Army.
Just as the three loyalists were arguing the merits of the national side, so too were Connor, his younger brother Thomas and two others. One thing that Ulster men of both persuasions have in common, is sport. A true blue Orangeman from the Shankill Road suddenly forgets what religion Barry McGuigan is when the boxer is representing Northern Ireland in a world title fight. He could not care less which foot George Best kicks with and probably does not know the church where Mary Peters worships. The only thing he sees is a Northern Ireland man or women against the rest. They will always support the underdog no matter how slim the chance of success. Ulster sports fans stand fervently behind their team and they do not care about reputations. As far as they are concerned the big ones are there for the taking. It was therefore no real coincidence that Connor Tullen was booked on the same charter as Billy Clements. Their paths were to cross very soon and in particularly violent circumstances.