Dr Patrick O’Brien could see no bad in young Jock Steen. “He’s a fine boy,” he’d say in response to his colleague’s protestations. Even when Jock brought his BSA 22 air rifle into school and expertly despatched the school cat’s kittens O’Brien defended him,
“Well the cat’s a dammed nuisance, any more would be too many. And the lad’s a good eye with the rifle”.
As School Head, the staff were in no position to argue with his logic.
O’Brien’s passion for his beloved Armagh, and the Irish struggle, was barely tempered by his need to present his History lessons in unbiased sessions. Jock and his cousins relished the stories of the 1921 uprising and the defeat of British rule. Quotes from rebel songs were answered by the cousin’s tuneful renditions. Jock felt proud, and soon followed their lead.
During the summer of 1968, Jock stood with his Mother and Headmaster, and watched as his cousins departed for ‘a better life in America’. Three weeks earlier they had returned to Belfast, where, unknown to Jock, they had joined the swelling ranks of the IRA’s splinter group, the newly formed Provisional Irish Republican Army. Dr Patrick O’Brien, realising the potential, had been the instigator of the enlistment and now waved goodbye, having secretly briefed them to ‘further the cause’ by acquiring finance and weapons from the sympathetic American Catholics. That done, he turned his attention to Jock…
“ Ah well, tis good luck to them boys, I’ll wish.” O’Brien said as the train pulled away.”
“It’s very kind of you to come down to the station to see the boys off Mr O’Brien”
“It’s a pleasure indeed Mrs Steen. I’ve known these boys for a long time, and had many a good lesson with them, not to mention by them. And, I have to say it’s a pleasure meeting such a lovely lady as yer self”
Agnes Steen’s tiny drawn face cracked, she dipped her head letting her dark brown hair hide her embarrassment,
“Well, you’ve got the gift of the blarney I’ll say that furr ya” she giggled.
O’Brien cast a cheeky glance. Agnes caught the glint in his eye. For the first time she took notice, at forty-five, he stood tall and slim, raven black hair shadowed his craggy features. She looked at her son, he was similar, she thought, but she knew, there’d never been such a glint in his cold eyes.
“I’ve not managed to get to school on open days, I’ve had to work”, she said apologetically, “how’s he doing? ” She asked.
“He’s doing just fine. In a couple of months time he’ll leave with a lot of knowledge under his belt. He’s a fit lad, he’d do well in the forces”. His attention turned to Jock, “ Any ideas about the future?”.
“I’ve a mind to go with them”. He gestured towards the fading train. “I’ll no join the British forces though!”
“Just a thought,” O’Brien said as he wrestled with his jacket’s inside pocket, eventually producing a tatty brown paperback book, which he handed to Jock, he continued, “Have you ever heard of Baden Powell?”
Jock replied without hesitation, “Och aye, he’s the Englishman who started scouting.”
“Indeed he did, but he did a whole lot more besides. Read the book, young man I’d like to have a word with ya about it in the future.”
He took the book without question, knowing full well that if it was recommended by his teacher and mentor, it must be worth reading He looked at the faded cover and read the title to himself, ‘MY ADVENTURES AS A SPY by LORD BADEN-POWELL,’ puzzled he looked back at his mentor.
A smile moved across the Doctors face, “Read it.” He said as he winked his eye.
…
Monday, 29 March 2010
Sunday, 21 March 2010
Wait Out part 3 (is it true?)
I, on the other hand, feared one person, my Dad. He was a big man, not just in stature; his presence filled any room. Despite his size, he was as quick as lightening, and struck just as effectively. As John Brown found out, one Saturday afternoon…
I was twelve at the time and had just had my first proper sexual encounter with John’s twenty three-year-old girlfriend, Christine. I say ‘proper’ as from an early age sex was very much a part of our gang culture. That and nicknames that is. Having said this I never had a nickname although most of the gang did, Jeff Amor was Jed, Tony Rowley, Rolls and Peter Humphries, Pump. Many other lads joined our gang but we were the core. To become a ‘bona fide’ member, the initiate had to stand perfectly still whilst an existing member thumped him in the face. At such a young age, the damage was minimal. Once a member we were inseparable. Even in our sex life, we were inseparable.
As early as eight, Jed and I used to trample down a path through the summer fields of Rosebay Willow Herb and four foot long grasses which encircled the grounds of Hanley High, Boys School, situated on the edge of Bentilee, Europe’s largest council estate. At the end of the path, out of sight of any prying eyes, we pushed down the vegetation to form a sort of crop circle. In this area, we placed the girls Susan, Janet, Sandra and Gail. Others would come along from time to time, but these were the favourites. At twelve, their bodies were just about ripening. Some would have better breasts than others, so when we were fondling we would ‘mix and match’, feeling the tits of one and fingering and poking another. When we’d had enough, Jed and I would sit at the entrance and await the arrival of the boys. They’d all want a look and a feel so we charged them three pence for the privilege of visiting our girls. All the girls living on the estate were fair game, even the very young ones weren’t allowed past our houses without first pulling their knickers down to give us a look.
John Brown’s Christine was special though; I’d known her for years. She lived with her parents at the back of our house until she was twenty, then she left home and rented a Council flat in the next street. Although very close, it was a street I had little to do with, until I changed from Junior to Senior school. The trip to Berryhill Junior High took me straight past her door. As I’d already decided that school was not for me, I took the opportunity to take off as much unofficial time as possible. Unfortunately, I was the only gang member to go to Berryhill. The rest went to a school in the opposite direction. This was due to my being expelled from their school, in the first week, for an assault on the art teacher who I hit when he stood between me and John Goodwin, just as I had Goodwin in a great position to ‘nut’ him square on the nose. So as not to give the truancy game away, I used to leave home walking in the direction of my school and then double back to meet up with the gang. We did this virtually everyday, meeting at a lamppost across from Christine’s flat. She worked as a croupier in a local casino and would often be looking through her window as we met up. Over the weeks, she nodded, we waved, she smiled, we giggled, she spoke to us, we responded, shyly at first. She was tall, very slim, and attractive with long, wavy brown hair. As we took more time off school, she would let us stay in her flat, out of sight of Bob Stoddard, the local ‘school board man’. As time went by her conversation turned to our sex life. She would ask us in turn how many girls we’d been with and what we’d done. Over the weeks, the ‘truant’, gang dwindled away, frightened that they would be caught. Being caught was the furthest thing from my mind, and so, I spent a lot of time, talking with Christine. She wanted to know all the details of my sexual encounters; and how I would love telling her. Likewise, she could hardly contain herself as she described her sexual fantasies. When I first visited with the gang, she wore everyday clothes, now, on my own, she would often wear a cheap nylon nightdress, or tight sixties ‘tank tops’ with mini skirts. It wouldn’t have mattered to me if she had worn a trench coat and boots. As far as I was concerned, I was in love. I would fantasise about her at every opportunity. Up until this point though, there was nothing more to it than boyhood dreams.
This all changed one rainy October morning, when I walked to the meeting point. None of the lads were there. I stood in the pouring rain getting absolutely soaked. I looked up at Christine’s window. It was empty. Dejected, I turned to walk away, there was a knock, I looked up to the window, Christine was there, with a broad, welcoming smile, she beckoned me in. The flat was warm and cosy, a red glow flooded from the wall mounted, three bar, electric fire. Christine left the room and re-appeared in her shortest nightdress, clutching a large, white, bath towel. She carefully dried my hair, loosened my clothes, removing them layer by layer, until I stood naked. She patted the towel gently around my rock hard boyhood. I never before, or since, felt anything so erotic. All of my deepest fantasies were being fulfilled. We moved to the bedroom and climbed under the covers. She slowly removed her clothing, helping herself to me as she licked her fingers before stroking herself, moaning, as she approached her climax. She reached out, her hand encircling my hardness, my inexperience showed as I ejaculated with the first couple of strokes. Undeterred, she fondled me back to life, abusing me, time after time.
The rest of the gang were green with envy when I told them.
Many other similar occasions occurred. However, nothing compared with the first encounter. Later the whole thing went horribly wrong when someone told Christine’s boyfriend, John Brown. At twenty-four, John was one of the estate’s hard men. His younger brother, Tony, was my number one enemy. Whenever we met, we fought. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t get the better of him, although he always came out the worst for his injuries. Nevertheless, lose or not I was determined, I wouldn’t give in, and so our warring relationship continued for many years. Not surprisingly, Tony took advantage of the situation and told his brother where he could find me. Even at twelve, I had a bit of a reputation. John was no fool and planned his attack, just in case. He was a cunning bastard and set me up by arranging for one of my mates to call for me, and to give me a lift on his motorcycle to our favourite, local pub. It was the kind of pub that would serve anyone. My drinks were paid for.
In a drunken haze I was transported from the pub back to the gang’s gathering point outside a series of small shops on the estate. As we arrived, my head was swimming. I swung my leg awkwardly over the seat, steadying myself, as I planted my foot on the swaying ground. I turned to the gang, and met John’s face. He said nothing, smiled, and took a hold of my ‘hipster’s’ belt, as if to admire it. Naturally, I looked down. Seconds later I was on the floor. John, taking the advantage, had drawn back his fist and with all his strength landed it smack on the side of my jaw. I had no time to react, lying on the floor; I looked up as he kicked me full force in the face. The whole thing burst open, blood pouring from mouth, nose and cheeks. Moments later, I was rescued by my Dad’s mates, who were drinking at a nearby pub. They pulled John off me and telephoned for an ambulance. Shortly after reaching the hospital, my Mum and Dad arrived. Dad questioned me, but I couldn’t answer. In the attack my teeth had been forced through my tongue, it was held together by a sliver of flesh and a series of tiny clips put their by a bitch of a nurse. I spent the night in hospital arriving home Friday afternoon. By this time, my Dad had met with his mates and, although he didn’t know the reason, he'd been told that John Brown was responsible. My Mum pleaded with him not to take the matter any further. As always, Dad took no notice. On Saturday afternoon, John Brown walked past our house, Dad leapt to his feet, ran outside, and challenged him, I watched from my bedroom window as John let fly, hitting my Dad Square on the nose. That’s all it needed, Dad retaliated with a hail of blows which absolutely floored John, he hadn’t a hope in hell of a second chance. My Mum pulled my Dad away. John lay on the ground helpless. Dad was white with rage; he pulled away from my Mother, leapt in the air, and stamped on John’s face.
Ironically, many years later, John became a friend of the family, and like so many of the estate’s characters, he spent many years in prison and died alone of heart and lung disease. My Mum and Dad, were two of the seven people who attended his funeral.
Neither of my parents asked about the reason for the attack and I never told them. Likewise, I didn’t tell them three years later, when I went to the local Community Hall where sixties groups like the ‘Swinging Blue Jeans’, and ‘The Searchers’ often played. John was there with his mates. The venue was notorious for gang violence. On this particular Friday night, I was dancing away when I became aware of a commotion by the entrance. I went across, and looking outside, saw a rival gang assembling. I turned to the youth next to me and told him to take a bottle with him as protection. Later, I went outside. The Bentilee gangs had assembled, and were standing around, waiting. The rival gang had come over from another estate at Coalville. Everyone was standing around, no one would start the fight. Out of the crowd a rival gang member came forward and pointed at me.
“This bastard’s packing a bottle,” he said.
I quickly realised that he was the youth I’d spoken to in the Hall. Within seconds, his gang surrounded me.
“Let Titch in” he continued.
The wall parted and in stepped a little fart carrying a black, studded leather jacket. It was like something from a Roman Empire movie. ‘Bollocks’ to this I thought, and threw my bottle towards the wall at face height. A gap appeared and I was through it. Titch swung his jacket, catching me at the back of the head; the pain was awful, seconds later, I could feel the trickle of blood running down the back of my neck. As I ran past the crowds, I glanced towards my gang. The Bentilee contingent were well out of it, none were coming to my aid. In the sea of people, John Brown’s face shone through. The rival gang gave chase; I knew the streets well and dodged into the backs of the houses. The gardens were dark and safe. I dived under a hedge, and looked back. I could clearly make out the figures, of my pursuers, the streetlights illuminating them as they searched. They had no chance. I’d spent most of my life in these gardens, hiding from the local police. Realising they were out of luck, the rival gang turned their attention back to the Bentilee boys. A great battle broke out, I watched in safety. Then, as if Heaven sent, I could see John Brown coming towards me, escaping from the fight and unaware of my presence. ‘Bingo’ I thought, the twat’s here. In the darkness I probed the undergrowth and found half a house brick. I picked it up, waited as he approached, and with absolute timing, I hit him full in the face, he went down like a lead balloon, he never made a sound. The rustle of the hedges was the only indication of my presence. Everything went quiet again and I moved away without a sound.
Two days later I saw John, he had a series of stitches across his forehead, leading over his right eye and stopping at his cheekbone. With his black eyes and swollen nose he reminded me of Chi Chi, the Panda I’d seen on Johnny Morris’ Animal Magic.
….
I was twelve at the time and had just had my first proper sexual encounter with John’s twenty three-year-old girlfriend, Christine. I say ‘proper’ as from an early age sex was very much a part of our gang culture. That and nicknames that is. Having said this I never had a nickname although most of the gang did, Jeff Amor was Jed, Tony Rowley, Rolls and Peter Humphries, Pump. Many other lads joined our gang but we were the core. To become a ‘bona fide’ member, the initiate had to stand perfectly still whilst an existing member thumped him in the face. At such a young age, the damage was minimal. Once a member we were inseparable. Even in our sex life, we were inseparable.
As early as eight, Jed and I used to trample down a path through the summer fields of Rosebay Willow Herb and four foot long grasses which encircled the grounds of Hanley High, Boys School, situated on the edge of Bentilee, Europe’s largest council estate. At the end of the path, out of sight of any prying eyes, we pushed down the vegetation to form a sort of crop circle. In this area, we placed the girls Susan, Janet, Sandra and Gail. Others would come along from time to time, but these were the favourites. At twelve, their bodies were just about ripening. Some would have better breasts than others, so when we were fondling we would ‘mix and match’, feeling the tits of one and fingering and poking another. When we’d had enough, Jed and I would sit at the entrance and await the arrival of the boys. They’d all want a look and a feel so we charged them three pence for the privilege of visiting our girls. All the girls living on the estate were fair game, even the very young ones weren’t allowed past our houses without first pulling their knickers down to give us a look.
John Brown’s Christine was special though; I’d known her for years. She lived with her parents at the back of our house until she was twenty, then she left home and rented a Council flat in the next street. Although very close, it was a street I had little to do with, until I changed from Junior to Senior school. The trip to Berryhill Junior High took me straight past her door. As I’d already decided that school was not for me, I took the opportunity to take off as much unofficial time as possible. Unfortunately, I was the only gang member to go to Berryhill. The rest went to a school in the opposite direction. This was due to my being expelled from their school, in the first week, for an assault on the art teacher who I hit when he stood between me and John Goodwin, just as I had Goodwin in a great position to ‘nut’ him square on the nose. So as not to give the truancy game away, I used to leave home walking in the direction of my school and then double back to meet up with the gang. We did this virtually everyday, meeting at a lamppost across from Christine’s flat. She worked as a croupier in a local casino and would often be looking through her window as we met up. Over the weeks, she nodded, we waved, she smiled, we giggled, she spoke to us, we responded, shyly at first. She was tall, very slim, and attractive with long, wavy brown hair. As we took more time off school, she would let us stay in her flat, out of sight of Bob Stoddard, the local ‘school board man’. As time went by her conversation turned to our sex life. She would ask us in turn how many girls we’d been with and what we’d done. Over the weeks, the ‘truant’, gang dwindled away, frightened that they would be caught. Being caught was the furthest thing from my mind, and so, I spent a lot of time, talking with Christine. She wanted to know all the details of my sexual encounters; and how I would love telling her. Likewise, she could hardly contain herself as she described her sexual fantasies. When I first visited with the gang, she wore everyday clothes, now, on my own, she would often wear a cheap nylon nightdress, or tight sixties ‘tank tops’ with mini skirts. It wouldn’t have mattered to me if she had worn a trench coat and boots. As far as I was concerned, I was in love. I would fantasise about her at every opportunity. Up until this point though, there was nothing more to it than boyhood dreams.
This all changed one rainy October morning, when I walked to the meeting point. None of the lads were there. I stood in the pouring rain getting absolutely soaked. I looked up at Christine’s window. It was empty. Dejected, I turned to walk away, there was a knock, I looked up to the window, Christine was there, with a broad, welcoming smile, she beckoned me in. The flat was warm and cosy, a red glow flooded from the wall mounted, three bar, electric fire. Christine left the room and re-appeared in her shortest nightdress, clutching a large, white, bath towel. She carefully dried my hair, loosened my clothes, removing them layer by layer, until I stood naked. She patted the towel gently around my rock hard boyhood. I never before, or since, felt anything so erotic. All of my deepest fantasies were being fulfilled. We moved to the bedroom and climbed under the covers. She slowly removed her clothing, helping herself to me as she licked her fingers before stroking herself, moaning, as she approached her climax. She reached out, her hand encircling my hardness, my inexperience showed as I ejaculated with the first couple of strokes. Undeterred, she fondled me back to life, abusing me, time after time.
The rest of the gang were green with envy when I told them.
Many other similar occasions occurred. However, nothing compared with the first encounter. Later the whole thing went horribly wrong when someone told Christine’s boyfriend, John Brown. At twenty-four, John was one of the estate’s hard men. His younger brother, Tony, was my number one enemy. Whenever we met, we fought. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t get the better of him, although he always came out the worst for his injuries. Nevertheless, lose or not I was determined, I wouldn’t give in, and so our warring relationship continued for many years. Not surprisingly, Tony took advantage of the situation and told his brother where he could find me. Even at twelve, I had a bit of a reputation. John was no fool and planned his attack, just in case. He was a cunning bastard and set me up by arranging for one of my mates to call for me, and to give me a lift on his motorcycle to our favourite, local pub. It was the kind of pub that would serve anyone. My drinks were paid for.
In a drunken haze I was transported from the pub back to the gang’s gathering point outside a series of small shops on the estate. As we arrived, my head was swimming. I swung my leg awkwardly over the seat, steadying myself, as I planted my foot on the swaying ground. I turned to the gang, and met John’s face. He said nothing, smiled, and took a hold of my ‘hipster’s’ belt, as if to admire it. Naturally, I looked down. Seconds later I was on the floor. John, taking the advantage, had drawn back his fist and with all his strength landed it smack on the side of my jaw. I had no time to react, lying on the floor; I looked up as he kicked me full force in the face. The whole thing burst open, blood pouring from mouth, nose and cheeks. Moments later, I was rescued by my Dad’s mates, who were drinking at a nearby pub. They pulled John off me and telephoned for an ambulance. Shortly after reaching the hospital, my Mum and Dad arrived. Dad questioned me, but I couldn’t answer. In the attack my teeth had been forced through my tongue, it was held together by a sliver of flesh and a series of tiny clips put their by a bitch of a nurse. I spent the night in hospital arriving home Friday afternoon. By this time, my Dad had met with his mates and, although he didn’t know the reason, he'd been told that John Brown was responsible. My Mum pleaded with him not to take the matter any further. As always, Dad took no notice. On Saturday afternoon, John Brown walked past our house, Dad leapt to his feet, ran outside, and challenged him, I watched from my bedroom window as John let fly, hitting my Dad Square on the nose. That’s all it needed, Dad retaliated with a hail of blows which absolutely floored John, he hadn’t a hope in hell of a second chance. My Mum pulled my Dad away. John lay on the ground helpless. Dad was white with rage; he pulled away from my Mother, leapt in the air, and stamped on John’s face.
Ironically, many years later, John became a friend of the family, and like so many of the estate’s characters, he spent many years in prison and died alone of heart and lung disease. My Mum and Dad, were two of the seven people who attended his funeral.
Neither of my parents asked about the reason for the attack and I never told them. Likewise, I didn’t tell them three years later, when I went to the local Community Hall where sixties groups like the ‘Swinging Blue Jeans’, and ‘The Searchers’ often played. John was there with his mates. The venue was notorious for gang violence. On this particular Friday night, I was dancing away when I became aware of a commotion by the entrance. I went across, and looking outside, saw a rival gang assembling. I turned to the youth next to me and told him to take a bottle with him as protection. Later, I went outside. The Bentilee gangs had assembled, and were standing around, waiting. The rival gang had come over from another estate at Coalville. Everyone was standing around, no one would start the fight. Out of the crowd a rival gang member came forward and pointed at me.
“This bastard’s packing a bottle,” he said.
I quickly realised that he was the youth I’d spoken to in the Hall. Within seconds, his gang surrounded me.
“Let Titch in” he continued.
The wall parted and in stepped a little fart carrying a black, studded leather jacket. It was like something from a Roman Empire movie. ‘Bollocks’ to this I thought, and threw my bottle towards the wall at face height. A gap appeared and I was through it. Titch swung his jacket, catching me at the back of the head; the pain was awful, seconds later, I could feel the trickle of blood running down the back of my neck. As I ran past the crowds, I glanced towards my gang. The Bentilee contingent were well out of it, none were coming to my aid. In the sea of people, John Brown’s face shone through. The rival gang gave chase; I knew the streets well and dodged into the backs of the houses. The gardens were dark and safe. I dived under a hedge, and looked back. I could clearly make out the figures, of my pursuers, the streetlights illuminating them as they searched. They had no chance. I’d spent most of my life in these gardens, hiding from the local police. Realising they were out of luck, the rival gang turned their attention back to the Bentilee boys. A great battle broke out, I watched in safety. Then, as if Heaven sent, I could see John Brown coming towards me, escaping from the fight and unaware of my presence. ‘Bingo’ I thought, the twat’s here. In the darkness I probed the undergrowth and found half a house brick. I picked it up, waited as he approached, and with absolute timing, I hit him full in the face, he went down like a lead balloon, he never made a sound. The rustle of the hedges was the only indication of my presence. Everything went quiet again and I moved away without a sound.
Two days later I saw John, he had a series of stitches across his forehead, leading over his right eye and stopping at his cheekbone. With his black eyes and swollen nose he reminded me of Chi Chi, the Panda I’d seen on Johnny Morris’ Animal Magic.
….
Sunday, 14 March 2010
WAIT OUT Part 1 Cont'
JOCK STEEN
…Almost a year earlier when I was no more than a glint in my father’s eye, the people of the United Kingdom were mourning the sudden death of the King. Despite this, politicians were promising the nation that better times were on the way. It had been eight years since the end of the war, rationing was also coming to an end, employment prospects were better, and massive Council house building projects gave young families the hope of independence, or so they were told!
In a small poorly lit bedroom in the Gorbals area of Glasgow a thin, pale, malnourished, twenty three year old woman lay, shouting profanities through tight lips, as she gritted her teeth against the pain of the birth of her son. Her first child’s view of life was the unconcerned big, red, round, face, of nurse Cummings, the local, over worked, midwife. Agnes Steen and the rest of Glasgow’s Catholics could have been forgiven for not recognising how lucky they were. Down stairs, eleven members of her family sat huddled together ready to congratulate, or commiserate the father.
John Steen sat motionless, pushed back in the wooden fireside chair, his bony knuckles pushing through white skin, as he clenched his fists in recognition of his wife’s efforts. Despite the cry of the baby s it felt the first hard slap of life, the down stairs room went quiet. So many Catholic children had died in the minutes following their birth, into the deprivation of Glasgow’s back streets.
All eyes found the figure of Nurse Cummings as she entered the room wiping her hands on her apron. Without any sign of emotion she looked up.
“He’s fine,” she said.
Ten years later, young Jock Steen stood with his mother, twin brothers, and baby sister waiting in the hard rain for the town bus. At seven, the twins were already proving to be a handful. It was Jock’s job to keep them under control. As the streets darkened, an occasional car passed by throwing a spray of water onto the long line of grey figures. Despite the soaking no one stirred, a symptom of a life, which reeked defiantly of hardship and grinding poverty.
The journey home had taken forever, as usual; there were no seats on the bus.
Packed in like sardines, the damp air had been filled with cigarette smoke and the unmistakable smell of wet woollen clothing. Jock’s mother virtually collapsed as she opened the door of the tenement, desperate to put her baby down and relieve the pain in her arms, she placed the heavy bundle in the small sink. The past ten years had done her no favours and it showed. Jock had seen most of his family out of work having to rely on state handouts dished out by Protestant local officials, he’d cried as he saw his Dad leave to find work in Belfast, but shed no tears as he watched him cough himself to death from the effects of the Tuberculosis he’d found on the Irish streets. He deeply resented the authorities who had visited his pregnant mother the day after the death and questioned her about the family finances before agreeing to allow her a loan, so that she could give her husband a decent Catholic burial. All in all, Jock had learned the lessons well and was known in the area as ‘streetwise’.
The Irish trip hadn’t been all bad. Shortly after his Dad’s return two of his Irish cousins arrived with their parents and set up home in the next street.
Having settled his mother down, changed the baby, and put his younger brothers in the bath Jock joined his cousins and the rest of his mates under the dark covered alleyways joining the tenement blocks. Minutes later, a group of overall clad men, on their way home from the docks came into view, each smoking a well deserved cigarette, the noise from their heavy steel tipped boots bounced around the bare walls and drowned the boys conversation. As they passed, the boys took up position behind them and followed like a pack of jackals stalking their prey, each anticipating the pleasure to come. The men, knowing the score, threw their half-smoked tabs on the floor, accept one that is, who half turned and shouted to the boys,
“ Ye can fuck off Ye no havin’ mine”.
It didn’t matter, there was plenty to go around. Nevertheless, Jock responded, his voice hardly audible above the harsh sound of steel on granite,
“And you can fuck off you fat bastard”.
The men turned sending the boys in the opposite direction at great speed. Emerging from the tunnel they were laughing and shouting having enjoyed the short encounter. Jock Steen feared no one and it showed.
….
…Almost a year earlier when I was no more than a glint in my father’s eye, the people of the United Kingdom were mourning the sudden death of the King. Despite this, politicians were promising the nation that better times were on the way. It had been eight years since the end of the war, rationing was also coming to an end, employment prospects were better, and massive Council house building projects gave young families the hope of independence, or so they were told!
In a small poorly lit bedroom in the Gorbals area of Glasgow a thin, pale, malnourished, twenty three year old woman lay, shouting profanities through tight lips, as she gritted her teeth against the pain of the birth of her son. Her first child’s view of life was the unconcerned big, red, round, face, of nurse Cummings, the local, over worked, midwife. Agnes Steen and the rest of Glasgow’s Catholics could have been forgiven for not recognising how lucky they were. Down stairs, eleven members of her family sat huddled together ready to congratulate, or commiserate the father.
John Steen sat motionless, pushed back in the wooden fireside chair, his bony knuckles pushing through white skin, as he clenched his fists in recognition of his wife’s efforts. Despite the cry of the baby s it felt the first hard slap of life, the down stairs room went quiet. So many Catholic children had died in the minutes following their birth, into the deprivation of Glasgow’s back streets.
All eyes found the figure of Nurse Cummings as she entered the room wiping her hands on her apron. Without any sign of emotion she looked up.
“He’s fine,” she said.
Ten years later, young Jock Steen stood with his mother, twin brothers, and baby sister waiting in the hard rain for the town bus. At seven, the twins were already proving to be a handful. It was Jock’s job to keep them under control. As the streets darkened, an occasional car passed by throwing a spray of water onto the long line of grey figures. Despite the soaking no one stirred, a symptom of a life, which reeked defiantly of hardship and grinding poverty.
The journey home had taken forever, as usual; there were no seats on the bus.
Packed in like sardines, the damp air had been filled with cigarette smoke and the unmistakable smell of wet woollen clothing. Jock’s mother virtually collapsed as she opened the door of the tenement, desperate to put her baby down and relieve the pain in her arms, she placed the heavy bundle in the small sink. The past ten years had done her no favours and it showed. Jock had seen most of his family out of work having to rely on state handouts dished out by Protestant local officials, he’d cried as he saw his Dad leave to find work in Belfast, but shed no tears as he watched him cough himself to death from the effects of the Tuberculosis he’d found on the Irish streets. He deeply resented the authorities who had visited his pregnant mother the day after the death and questioned her about the family finances before agreeing to allow her a loan, so that she could give her husband a decent Catholic burial. All in all, Jock had learned the lessons well and was known in the area as ‘streetwise’.
The Irish trip hadn’t been all bad. Shortly after his Dad’s return two of his Irish cousins arrived with their parents and set up home in the next street.
Having settled his mother down, changed the baby, and put his younger brothers in the bath Jock joined his cousins and the rest of his mates under the dark covered alleyways joining the tenement blocks. Minutes later, a group of overall clad men, on their way home from the docks came into view, each smoking a well deserved cigarette, the noise from their heavy steel tipped boots bounced around the bare walls and drowned the boys conversation. As they passed, the boys took up position behind them and followed like a pack of jackals stalking their prey, each anticipating the pleasure to come. The men, knowing the score, threw their half-smoked tabs on the floor, accept one that is, who half turned and shouted to the boys,
“ Ye can fuck off Ye no havin’ mine”.
It didn’t matter, there was plenty to go around. Nevertheless, Jock responded, his voice hardly audible above the harsh sound of steel on granite,
“And you can fuck off you fat bastard”.
The men turned sending the boys in the opposite direction at great speed. Emerging from the tunnel they were laughing and shouting having enjoyed the short encounter. Jock Steen feared no one and it showed.
….
Wednesday, 10 March 2010
Surviving a New Identity
CHANGE OF IDENTITY
HOW TO SURVIVE IT
No one changes their identity without good cause. In the UK today it is estimated that there are thousands of people who are living the lie of a new identity.
As a former undercover investigator I have ‘played’ the identity game. Mine was for short periods. However, the problems are the same and being caught out was no less dangerous.
Firstly then, it follows that if you have had to change your identity you have to become a very accomplished liar. Imagine one day you are who you are, the next you have taken on a life that you have never lived. You have a story that you have to make credible but you’ve never had the true experiences of that life story.
From the moment you are given the new identity you have to live it, become the new person. You can not bring attention to yourself, as bringing attention also brings with it curiosity and questioning. By the same token, you can not be too ‘grey’; too much in the shadows, as this will bring even more curiosity. So your survival depends on your ability to continue with your life as though nothing had changed. You have a new name, new persona, and you have to carry this off day in day out, night in night out there’s no let up. You can’t go into areas where you are known, (unless you’ve been given a new face that is) you can’t contact people you love or care for as contacting them compromises them and you.
My experience is that as time goes on you do move into the new you. The problem is that you have to keep your position. In time your real life merges with the false life and your memories start to be unclear, parts of your true life can be revealed especially when you are relaxed. People who know you well in the ‘new life’ can quickly pick up on anomalies in your history. Once doubt starts to come into the new life story it’s time to move on. Staying where you are allows those around you who have a suspicion to test out their concerns about you.
Moving on is no easy option. Usually, those who are subject to long term change of identity are known to the authorities. They are allocated a handler, a person who knows them and is trusted. The handler will help with the interface between the day to day lie and the authorities. They are also there to guide and assist. They can be called upon at any time and are expected to respond without delay.
Anyone subjected to long term changes of identity are likely to experience times of emotional and psychological distress. In the background to new identities there are professionals who can be called on to help as and when needed.
HOW TO SURVIVE IT
No one changes their identity without good cause. In the UK today it is estimated that there are thousands of people who are living the lie of a new identity.
As a former undercover investigator I have ‘played’ the identity game. Mine was for short periods. However, the problems are the same and being caught out was no less dangerous.
Firstly then, it follows that if you have had to change your identity you have to become a very accomplished liar. Imagine one day you are who you are, the next you have taken on a life that you have never lived. You have a story that you have to make credible but you’ve never had the true experiences of that life story.
From the moment you are given the new identity you have to live it, become the new person. You can not bring attention to yourself, as bringing attention also brings with it curiosity and questioning. By the same token, you can not be too ‘grey’; too much in the shadows, as this will bring even more curiosity. So your survival depends on your ability to continue with your life as though nothing had changed. You have a new name, new persona, and you have to carry this off day in day out, night in night out there’s no let up. You can’t go into areas where you are known, (unless you’ve been given a new face that is) you can’t contact people you love or care for as contacting them compromises them and you.
My experience is that as time goes on you do move into the new you. The problem is that you have to keep your position. In time your real life merges with the false life and your memories start to be unclear, parts of your true life can be revealed especially when you are relaxed. People who know you well in the ‘new life’ can quickly pick up on anomalies in your history. Once doubt starts to come into the new life story it’s time to move on. Staying where you are allows those around you who have a suspicion to test out their concerns about you.
Moving on is no easy option. Usually, those who are subject to long term change of identity are known to the authorities. They are allocated a handler, a person who knows them and is trusted. The handler will help with the interface between the day to day lie and the authorities. They are also there to guide and assist. They can be called upon at any time and are expected to respond without delay.
Anyone subjected to long term changes of identity are likely to experience times of emotional and psychological distress. In the background to new identities there are professionals who can be called on to help as and when needed.
Sunday, 7 March 2010
Wait Out part 1 (true or false you decide!!)
CHAPTER ONE
I hadn’t slept for twenty-seven hours. I was tired and emotionally drained. My watch slid easily around my wrist, my wedding ring threatened to fall off my finger, both were signs of dehydration, signs I’d been used to too many times over the years. Tired or not I’d decided to make the three and half hour drive from Hollyhead docks to Stoke, that way I’d get to see the wife and kids for a couple of hours before reporting to my unit in the south. It was a typically filthy February night, the wind slamming the side of the car with buckets of rain. Twenty minutes from the ferry I was alone, not another vehicle in sight. I glanced into the rear view mirror just to make sure. In the gloom a sunken eyed, long haired, bearded face stared back at me. I smiled to myself, what a hell of a state for a serving British soldier. I’d forgotten what is was like to be clean shaven and wear the Queen’s uniform.
In the summer of 1990, the telecommunication licensing board forced the BBC to move Radio 2 from Medium Wave to FM. From that time on I had a war with my radio, as I tried to listen for more than thirty minutes without having to adjust it to counteract the poor reception. 88-91 FM’s narrow band attracted static like moths to a light bulb. At midnight the battle was in full swing, selection being further hampered by the Welsh mountains, automatic tuning, and the need to keep the car on the road. The radio was winning, in desperation I prodded the band selector hard with my left forefinger and found the BBC’s World Service. The well-practiced announcer’s voice filled the car:
‘TONIGHT IN DUBLIN MICHAEL MAHONE WAS SHOT DEAD AS HE ENTERED A TELEPHONE KIOSK. IT IS BELIEVED THAT MAHONE HAD BEEN HIDING IN THE REPUBLIC FOR MANY YEARS FOLLOWING HIS ESCAPE FROM CRUMLIN PRISON WHERE HE WAS SERVING A LIFE SENTENCE FOR THE MURDER OF A NORTHERN IRELAND POLICE OFFICER AND TWO BRITISH SOLDIERS. POLICE BELIEVE THE PROVISIONAL IRA MAY HAVE BEEN RESPONSIBLE, HAVING CARRIED OUT HIS EXECUTION FOLLOWING AN INTERNAL ROW.’
I was puzzled, this is a ‘load of bollocks’, I thought. The location was right but the name was wrong. Eager to get more information I sent the automatic tuner on its travels, stopping at every encounter with a news reader. None made mention of the killing.
I only heard that report once in my life and to my knowledge it was never repeated.
“ Steen” I said to myself “ you’re dead you bastard”.
Despite the confusion, I was content with the job I’d done, although the announcement left me a little concerned. For the next few miles I tried to put the radio announcement out of my mind, but couldn’t, I had to know. I eased my foot off the accelerator, stretched across to the passenger seat feeling for my mobile telephone. I keyed the first number the cold green keypad light came to life allowing me to quickly dial the rest of the unit’s emergency number. It would have been easier to speed dial but it was against standing orders to have the number stored, although changed regularly the sequence was imprinted in my memory to forget could mean the difference between life and death.
“Hello,” Jenny's familiar soft voice trickled into the earpiece.
“Op’s room please.”
“Wait one, I’ll put you through.”
The line went silent for a moment followed by an ear piercing click as the emergency phone was snatched from its cradle. “Sergeant Davies.”
“Davy,” I said. “It’s Griff.”
“Problems?”
“I’ve just heard a news report on BBC’s world service it mentioned my recent sorte, but the name was wrong. Any thoughts?”
“The media often get things wrong, you know that.”
“Yeh, I know but this doesn’t stack up, I knew the target well, it was definitely the right target.”
“Then don’t let it bother you. You know the score, there’s no sweat here. Where are you?”
“On my way in.”
“It’s probably best if you come straight in, no detours.”
Davy’s pitch changed, it sent a warning message to my brain. “Something’s wrong, isn’t there?”
“Come on in and we’ll talk about it, now’s not the time.”
“I’ll see you later.”
I thumbed the button key to end the call, the line fell silent. I tossed the phone back onto the passenger seat and accelerated away. The tiredness left me. My mind drifted back to the beginning of the operation and then even further. Steen had been around for ever, we both had. According to the intelligence he’d had a hard start in life, but so had I. He was an out and out bastard, an evil piece of shit that needed killing.
I hadn’t slept for twenty-seven hours. I was tired and emotionally drained. My watch slid easily around my wrist, my wedding ring threatened to fall off my finger, both were signs of dehydration, signs I’d been used to too many times over the years. Tired or not I’d decided to make the three and half hour drive from Hollyhead docks to Stoke, that way I’d get to see the wife and kids for a couple of hours before reporting to my unit in the south. It was a typically filthy February night, the wind slamming the side of the car with buckets of rain. Twenty minutes from the ferry I was alone, not another vehicle in sight. I glanced into the rear view mirror just to make sure. In the gloom a sunken eyed, long haired, bearded face stared back at me. I smiled to myself, what a hell of a state for a serving British soldier. I’d forgotten what is was like to be clean shaven and wear the Queen’s uniform.
In the summer of 1990, the telecommunication licensing board forced the BBC to move Radio 2 from Medium Wave to FM. From that time on I had a war with my radio, as I tried to listen for more than thirty minutes without having to adjust it to counteract the poor reception. 88-91 FM’s narrow band attracted static like moths to a light bulb. At midnight the battle was in full swing, selection being further hampered by the Welsh mountains, automatic tuning, and the need to keep the car on the road. The radio was winning, in desperation I prodded the band selector hard with my left forefinger and found the BBC’s World Service. The well-practiced announcer’s voice filled the car:
‘TONIGHT IN DUBLIN MICHAEL MAHONE WAS SHOT DEAD AS HE ENTERED A TELEPHONE KIOSK. IT IS BELIEVED THAT MAHONE HAD BEEN HIDING IN THE REPUBLIC FOR MANY YEARS FOLLOWING HIS ESCAPE FROM CRUMLIN PRISON WHERE HE WAS SERVING A LIFE SENTENCE FOR THE MURDER OF A NORTHERN IRELAND POLICE OFFICER AND TWO BRITISH SOLDIERS. POLICE BELIEVE THE PROVISIONAL IRA MAY HAVE BEEN RESPONSIBLE, HAVING CARRIED OUT HIS EXECUTION FOLLOWING AN INTERNAL ROW.’
I was puzzled, this is a ‘load of bollocks’, I thought. The location was right but the name was wrong. Eager to get more information I sent the automatic tuner on its travels, stopping at every encounter with a news reader. None made mention of the killing.
I only heard that report once in my life and to my knowledge it was never repeated.
“ Steen” I said to myself “ you’re dead you bastard”.
Despite the confusion, I was content with the job I’d done, although the announcement left me a little concerned. For the next few miles I tried to put the radio announcement out of my mind, but couldn’t, I had to know. I eased my foot off the accelerator, stretched across to the passenger seat feeling for my mobile telephone. I keyed the first number the cold green keypad light came to life allowing me to quickly dial the rest of the unit’s emergency number. It would have been easier to speed dial but it was against standing orders to have the number stored, although changed regularly the sequence was imprinted in my memory to forget could mean the difference between life and death.
“Hello,” Jenny's familiar soft voice trickled into the earpiece.
“Op’s room please.”
“Wait one, I’ll put you through.”
The line went silent for a moment followed by an ear piercing click as the emergency phone was snatched from its cradle. “Sergeant Davies.”
“Davy,” I said. “It’s Griff.”
“Problems?”
“I’ve just heard a news report on BBC’s world service it mentioned my recent sorte, but the name was wrong. Any thoughts?”
“The media often get things wrong, you know that.”
“Yeh, I know but this doesn’t stack up, I knew the target well, it was definitely the right target.”
“Then don’t let it bother you. You know the score, there’s no sweat here. Where are you?”
“On my way in.”
“It’s probably best if you come straight in, no detours.”
Davy’s pitch changed, it sent a warning message to my brain. “Something’s wrong, isn’t there?”
“Come on in and we’ll talk about it, now’s not the time.”
“I’ll see you later.”
I thumbed the button key to end the call, the line fell silent. I tossed the phone back onto the passenger seat and accelerated away. The tiredness left me. My mind drifted back to the beginning of the operation and then even further. Steen had been around for ever, we both had. According to the intelligence he’d had a hard start in life, but so had I. He was an out and out bastard, an evil piece of shit that needed killing.
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