In a far-off corner of the cathedral car park, a man in a standard-issue BBC outside broadcast jacket made some finishing adjustments to a tripod stand holding a square halogen light.
Beside him his colleague twisted some knobs for level on a recording device hung around his neck. He did so with some difficulty as he simultaneously endeavoured to keep hold of a shaggy mic attached to a long boom stand, whilst fiddling with his headphones.
Councillor Terry Molloy squinted and held his hand up to shield his eyes as the lighting rig hummed into life.
“Jesus, it’s like being back in Castlereagh interrogation centre,” he said.
Everybody laughed without irony.
A veteran of the movement, he’d been identified early on by the Army Council as elected representative material, and was one of the first to be schooled by Danny Morrison and the party media training initiative.
Licking his palm and smoothing his eyebrows, he patted his bald spot somewhat self-consciously.
Sledger and Tootsie hung back in the shadows watching, scarves pulled up to cover their faces.
Terry Molloy slipped effortlessly into gear and was off.
“Of course I can’t speak for the IRA, but what people need to understand here is that the organisation is only acting on the wishes of the community. The police are not welcome here, we all know that, but people are being run over by car thieves; pensioners are being beaten up in their homes… parents have asked the organisation to punish their own sons – even shoot them – because frankly… well, they can’t do anything with them. From what I’m given to understand they’re not shot straight off; it starts with a slap or a beating. But if they persist, then they get put out of the area. Now we in Sinn Féin of course could never sanction such action, but this unfortunate situation, whereby these two men have taken so-called sanctuary in Newry Cathedral, well… it’s been created by the men themselves…”
Sledger watched in unbridled admiration.
“Fuck, your brother could talk for Ireland.”
Tootsie beamed proudly.
“That’s what he does, Sledge… He does what he does, and you do what you do.”
Councillor Molloy rounded it off, cracked familiar with the crew and joined his audience.
He was clearly pleased with himself.
“BBC, nine o’clock news tomorrow. It’s a voice-over job but the message will still get across.”
Molloy was referring to the broadcasting ban that was still in force for Sinn Féin spokespeople.
“Christ, those actors in Belfast must be shittin’ themselves with all this talk of a ceasefire. They’ll all be out of a job!” Tootsie was buzzing.
Terry Molloy ignored him. “D’ya like the Armani?” He gestured to his sharp suit.
Tootsie nudged Sledger knowingly. “I’d like to see the receipt!”
Terry Molloy pulled on his lapels. “Party issue… we know a man, who knows a man.”
His younger brother was laughing, basking in the notoriety that had somehow become celebrity.
“Funny, I thought I saw a story about them on the six o’clock news as well… warehouse fire and theft… but I didn’t see any mention of you on that.”
The councillor’s mood darkened. He was not amused. Instead he slapped Tootsie down with guilt drawn from demeaning domesticity.
“Were you thinking of calling around to see your sainted mother any time soon?”
“Ach, not now Terry. Save it, eh?” Tootsie was suddenly sheepish and awkward.
“You treat that house like a fuckin’ hotel, you dump yer dirty Y fronts for washing when it suits you and expect that woman – a pensioner, mind – to take a scrubbing brush to them.”
“Not now!”
Sledger pulled his scarf down from his face for the first time. He was grinning widely.
“She’s an oul woman… you treat her like a skivvy.”
Tootsie was cornered and contrite. “Tell her I’ll be round at the weekend.”
“Aye, for your Sunday dinner, hung over and stretched out with the papers on the sofa, scratchin’ your arse and nobody can look at you twice.”
“Lay off Terry, right!”
Molloy turned to the big man. “Sledger, will you slap him or will I?”
Before he could answer, Molloy grabbed his brother in a friendly bear hug and play-wrestled him into a headlock. Tootsie took it in the knowledge that this indicated the end of the lecture.
Molloy nodded up at the window in the cathedral wall. “What’s the latest?”
Sledger pulled his scarf back up. “No change.”
“Look Sledger, now I’ve a chance to talk to you…” He dropped his voice conspiratorially. “You know this has all been kicked upstairs, right? Army Council, I mean… top flight… you get my drift?”
Sledger was dismissive to the point of insolence “And?”
“It’s just, if we go in after them – and I say if – it will come from them and not before.”
The big man straightened and pushed out his chest.
“If I’d wanted to go in of my own accord it already would have happened, and we wouldn’t be stood here like two hoors at a hockey match talkin’ about it.”
He pulled up his jacket to reveal the butt of a 2.2 handgun tucked into the waistband of his trousers.
Molloy went apoplectic. “Put that a-fuckin’-way! Jesus, there’s a film crew just down the road! The war is as good as over; hadn’t you heard?”
Sledger just smiled, unperturbed.
Again Molloy’s voice dropped to a whisper. “I take it you checked that out… through the quartermaster and that?”
Sledger was now cockily chewing gum. “Relax, will ya? It’s not like you’ve never seen one before… Armani or no Armani.”
Molloy went for the charm offensive.
He moved closer to the big man and leaned into him. “Sledge, listen… if they should come out and I’m not here, whatever you do, don’t whack either of them, right? We’ve a safe house to take them to, they’ll go up in front of the lads and whatever happens will happen after that… only after that, do you get me?”
Sledger said nothing.
“Sledge, it’s important.”
“I’m not promising nothing,” he said sullenly.
Molloy was becoming agitated.
“Sledger, listen: I am fuckin’ deadly serious here. Do NOT, under any circumstances, act of your own accord if you know what’s good for you. He’s Frankie Connolly’s brother for Christ sake!”
Sledger suddenly exploded, causing the councillor to step back.
“Frankie’s dead! What about this community? What about my sister, her house robbed and wrecked; her car fuckin’ totalled?”
“Frankie Connolly died for Ireland. This community will do whatever the fuck we tell them to do, and your sister… your sister has three kids to three different men!”
Calculated or not, it was an insult requiring satisfaction. Both men took a step toward each other.
It was Tootsie Molloy who stepped in between them.
“Ya see… ya see what they’re doin’? They’re getting yez at each other’s throats!”
Terry Molloy was most enthusiastic to grasp the opportunity that his brother’s intervention offered. He held the palms of his hands up to Sledger in a placatory gesture. “Is he worth it, is all I’m saying?”
Sledger’s blood was up.
He sought some form of compensation. “And Gattuso?”
Terry Molloy was happy to comply.
“That greasy wee toe-rag deserves everything he has coming to him. You can fill your boots where he’s concerned.”