Near Dark (Scot Harvath #19)(24)

With his father gone, so too was his family’s income. He had no choice but to drop out of school and work full-time to make up for the shortfall and help take care of his family.

But while he had no choice but to work, he did have a choice where to work. His maternal uncle was whispered to be a member of the Irish Republican Army and worked in the construction industry, which hired lots of workers off the books in order to skirt taxes, trade unions, and National Insurance contributions. That’s who he went to see. And that’s where he found employment.

Most of the men on the job sites were “doing the double”—collecting welfare checks while getting paid under the table for construction work. The money wasn’t very good, but it was better than nothing. His sickly mother, as much as she hated his missing school, was grateful.

“I’ll find a better job soon, Michael,” she had told him. “Then you can go back to school and everything will be fine. You’ll see.”

But a better job never materialized. His income was critical to their family, and so he worked twice as hard as any of the adults around him in an effort to make himself indispensable.

The labor was strenuous, but it served to build his muscles. At night, he made sure to read in order to build his mind. The books were always about France and he devoured them.

When he wasn’t working, or reading, he would accompany his uncle and some of the men from work to the pub. He was too young to drink, but the Irish had practically invented the policy of “don’t ask, don’t tell”—especially when it came to underage drinking in working-class pubs.

As long as the boy didn’t make an ass of himself, no one cared. And the boy made sure not to make an ass of himself. He was there to listen, learn about the IRA and, more importantly, about its enemies—especially the Loyalist Volunteer Force.

His uncle, though, wasn’t stupid. The few times he had tried to broach the subject, his uncle had shut it down—immediately. The boy was far too young to be thinking about revenge. “The day will come,” he said. “Trust me, it’ll come.”

But just like his mother’s “better” job, it didn’t come—and he eventually grew sick of waiting for it. Then, one day, while going up to the bar for another round, God placed someone in his path.

“Your uncle tells me you have a lot of questions about the LVF,” the man said.

He was a regular in the pub, but Paul had never seen his uncle nor any of the other men they drank with speak to him. As such, he was wary of talking to him.

“I am sorry for your father’s death, as well as what it has done to your family. A boy your age should be in school.”

“Well, I’m not. Am I?”

The anger, while misplaced, was genuine. The boy had idolized his father. With each day since his murder, the pain of losing him had only become more acute and more ingrained in his soul.

That said, he had been raised better than to be disrespectful to his elders—even ones who were complete strangers. “I’m sorry,” he said. “Thank you for your condolences.”

“There’s nothing you need to be sorry for,” the man replied. “Your father was a good man.”

“Did you know him?”

“No, but I have asked around. He took care of his family. He attended church. And he was on the right side of this fight. So, out of respect for your father, I am here to answer your questions.”

The boy was confused. “I don’t even know who you are.”

“Your uncle knows who I am. That’s all that matters. Now, what can I tell you?”

“Who killed my father?”

“The Loyalist Volunteer Force,” the man said.

“I want their names.”

“With all due respect, you’re a sixteen-year-old boy. What would you even do with those names if I gave them to you?”

“I’d take my revenge.”

The man made a face and took a sip of his beer. “What if there was a better way to hurt them? To really make them feel pain? Would you be interested in being a part of that?”

The boy didn’t even need to ponder his answer. “Absolutely,” he replied.

“Don’t you even want to know what would be asked of you?”

“I don’t care. I’ll do it. Whatever it is.”

“Good boy,” the man said, as he finished his beer and stood up from his stool. “I’ll be in touch.”

The way to hurt the LVF turned out to be by appearing at a day of youth soccer it had organized near Portadown. It was a propaganda event for the Young Loyalist Volunteers, disguised to look like a violence mitigation effort. There was zero vetting at this stage. The boy had been signed up under the name Terrance Macaulay.

He had told his mother he had to work and would be leaving early that Saturday morning. Three blocks from his house, the man from the pub picked him up in his car and began the short drive to Portadown.

As they drove, he explained to the boy who his target was and why he was being given this assignment. The LVF had been able to escape culpability for their actions because they had a very powerful patron—a high-ranking police inspector who had repeatedly made evidence and witnesses disappear.

“If he is allowed to live,” the man said, “there will never be justice for your father. Do you understand what you need to do?”