Crawl: A Ballad of Beliefs, #1

By John McCormick

Set in Belfast at the end of the 1980s, Crawl takes a light-hearted look at the lives and loves of a group of friends coming to terms with growing up in a society distorted by political and religious division. 

The action takes place, largely, over the course of one day - Christmas Eve - and follows the friends as they attempt to enjoy their traditional annual pub-crawl. As the day progresses, however, events unfold that will have long-lasting repercussions and force at least one of the friends to question what it means to have faith in a modern world, and whether or not it's possible for love to conquer God.

• Language: English
• Publisher: John McCormick
• Release date: Nov 18, 2021
• ISBN: 9781739878306

Book preview

PROLOGUE

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24th December 1989

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A line of tall, craggy peaks looks south to see a line of high, green hills rolling back into the distance. In the valley, in between, a river opens up into a broad, salty estuary.

Clinging to the riverbanks and nestled snugly up against the hillsides, a city lies safe and protected, shielded on all sides by the mountains and by the sea.

A cosy place. A happy place.

Belfast.

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Their balls! Do you hear me, Michael? I want their balls!

Yes, love, he mumbled automatically as he slipped the pistol into his overcoat pocket.

It could be one of my Christmas presents, she suggested, and then giggled at the thought.

Yes, love, he repeated, only half-listening. He could do without this today, he thought. Today of all days. Walking to the front door he suddenly stopped and turned his head.

I’m sorry, he said, but what did you just say?

Four wee testicles on a plate, she answered, pouring herself another gin and tonic. That’s what I want for Christmas.

Jesus! he muttered to himself as he opened the front door and stepped out into the cold. That’ll look fucking lovely under the tree.

ONE

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The pretty girls from the perfume counter at Boots were over in the corner, murdering the Little Drummer Boy. Behind the bar, a single strand of tinsel danced in the updraft of a microwave oven.

Pressed tight against the counter, Jamesy placed his first order of the day.

A pint of Bass and a cheeseburger, please.

The barmaid ‒ a slight, dark-haired girl ‒ paused briefly before stepping back a few feet to shout through the open door of the kitchen for a cheeseburger. She then walked over to the pumps to pour the pint of Bass, all the while casting surreptitious glances in Jamesy’s direction. Jamesy appeared to be unaware of her covert attention as he fought to keep his place at the crowded bar.

It was busier than a normal lunchtime and a lot noisier. The perfume-counter girls had just begun to grapple with Frosty the Snowman when Jamesy’s pint was placed in front of him.

Your food’s on its way, the barmaid told him while staring into his eyes. Jamesy nodded and handed over a five-pound note. Taking it, the barmaid loudly informed the clamouring faces around the bar that they all needed to hold their effing horses. She then turned and, giving Jamesy a coy smile, walked over to the till. Jamesy took a sip of his beer as he waited for his change and his cheeseburger to arrive.

He was in the Tudor Lounge, the upstairs bar of Hannigan’s, in the city centre. This was the place where it had begun all those years ago and the place that had been the traditional starting point ever since.

Despite the noise and the constant jostling of the boisterous clientele, Jamesy could feel himself start to relax as anticipation for the day ahead began to take hold.

He straightened up as his food arrived. The barmaid held out his change and, dropping the coins into his open palm, fixed Jamesy with what she felt was her most wanton gaze. Seemingly oblivious, Jamesy pocketed the money, picked up his beer and food, and pushed his way backwards through the crowd.

Men! the barmaid fumed before turning her attention to an elderly gentleman who was wearing a pointed red hat with a white fur trim.

Okay, you! she shouted. "Santa bloody Claus! What do you want?"

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Jamesy made his way to where Sean and Joker were sitting. They had arrived earlier and had managed to acquire one end of a table by the door at the top of the stairs. A stern-faced woman, who was nursing an almost empty glass of stout, occupied the other end.

There was no room for Jamesy to sit, so he placed his drink on the table and stood beside Sean as he ate. Joker, having just finished his own cheeseburger, was raising his arms in a leisurely stretch.

All right there, Jamesy? he said. All set to go, are you?

Jamesy swallowed a mouthful of food and took a sip of beer to wash it down. Of course, he replied. I’ve been looking forward to it.

A tiny silver-haired man appeared at the end of the table and began gushing apologies to the stern-faced woman who simply nodded to the glass on the table before her. Getting the message, the man disappeared into the crowd in an attempt to force his way to the bar.

Joker lit a cigarette and, picking up his drink, took a casual glance around the bar. He could see, in the middle of the room and just behind Jamesy, some smartly-dressed young men standing in a tight little group, riding the natural sway of the crowd. Joker watched them with some amusement as he could tell ‒ from their awkward little looks and gestures ‒ that they were building up the beer-fuelled confidence to make an approach on the perfume-counter girls. The girls, meanwhile, were trying to pin down Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer, although Rudolph, gamely, was having none of it.

Is Ding-a-Ling not with you? Jamesy asked Joker who looked up and shook his head.

Nah, he answered. He stayed up at his ma’s last night, but I’m sure he’s on his way. He then knocked back the remainder of his drink and stood up.

I’m going to the bar, are you two okay? He gestured to Sean and Jamesy’s glasses. Jamesy held up three-quarters of a pint in reply and Sean regarded his own half-filled glass.

You never heard of pacing yourself? Sean asked, looking up at Joker. It’s early days, you know.

Pace myself? Joker rubbed his hands and grinned at Sean. What sort of talk is that? He then turned and pushed his way into the throng, which set in motion little ripples through the crowd that spread out in all directions around the room.

Joker’s in good form, then? Jamesy said as he took Joker’s place at the table.

Funny, isn’t it? Sean replied. The prospect of a day-long drinking session really seems to perk him up.

The tiny, silver-haired man returned from the bar with a drink in either hand. He set the drinks on the table and manoeuvred himself into the empty chair that his wife had been saving. They both picked up their drinks and sipped silently, steeling themselves for a trip around the shops on the busiest day of the year.

Joker’s height and physique made it easy for him to force his way through to the bar where the barmaid, unimpressed, made a cool appraisal.

Right, Baldy! She announced. You can just wait your turn!

Joker smiled. He loved Christmas Eve.

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Back at the table, Jamesy had finished his food and was wiping ketchup from his mouth with a napkin. Glancing down he spotted a plastic carrier bag at Sean’s feet.

Have you all your shopping done already? he asked.

Not all of it, no, said Sean, but I’m going to need a few drinks inside me before I hit the shops again.

Yeah, I know what you mean, said Jamesy smiling. It’s already mental out there.

After a while, Joker reappeared with a pint in his hand. Hard luck, lads! he shouted over to the small group of smartly-dressed young men who were shuffling back to their original position in the middle of the room, having just received some caustic and unseasonal advice from the perfume-counter girls in the corner.

As Joker reached the table, he motioned for Jamesy to stay seated. I’m alright standing, Jamesy, he said.

We’re going now anyway, son, said the stern-faced woman as she and her husband got to their feet. So there’s a wee bit more room for you there.

Joker raised his glass in salute. Cheers, he said, taking a seat. He gave his beer a long appreciative slurp before making an obvious show of looking at his watch.

Right then, he said, glowering around the table. "Where the fuck is everybody?"

TWO

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A few miles north of the city centre lay a sprawling housing estate, made up mainly of small, terraced houses that ran in parallel rows down one side of a hill that rolled lazily towards the northern bank of the lough that Belfast embraced.

A large portion of the housing estate had been cordoned off, many years before, from the surrounding areas by high, ugly fences of corrugated iron which had been hastily erected by an exasperated British Army trying to keep the population of north Belfast from tearing itself apart.

These fences had sprouted up all over Northern Ireland and the ‘Peace Lines’, as they were christened, were deemed to be a temporary necessity as the differences between the nationalist and unionist communities became seemingly irreconcilable.

The housing estate in question was called Ardoyne, and its residents were mostly of the opinion that Ireland had been illegally split in two by the British Empire, and the sooner the two parts were reunited as an independent Irish Republic, the better.

The areas immediately surrounding Ardoyne were populated, to a large extent, by people who held a political outlook that differed from this opinion in a variety of ways – the main one being that Northern Ireland was part of the United Kingdom and any attempt to drag it out of the UK and into a united Ireland would be met with a stiff and spirited resistance.

The story of this small part of north Belfast was played out all over Northern Ireland, as communities of British Unionists jostled uncomfortably with communities of Irish Nationalists, leading occasionally – and inevitably – to disagreements that could often be quite heated.

None of this, however, was of any real concern to one resident of Ardoyne as he stood, shivering slightly in the cold, outside the Crumlin Star Social Club.

Snatter had his own problems to worry about but, for today at least, he would try to dwell on them as little as possible. Today was not a day to indulge in any form of self-pity, although, he noted grimly, not dwelling on his troubles was proving more difficult than he had thought.

Still, he decided, a few beers and a lively bit of craic should help matters. He looked at his watch which told him that his ride to a slender distraction from reality was but moments away.

The previous day, Ding-a-Ling had phoned Snatter to tell him that he had arranged a lift for them both with Harry, Ding-a-Ling’s brother-in-law, and they would pick him up from outside the Star at eleven. As Snatter watched the second hand tick past the hour, he looked back on the few occasions he had met Harry and realised that, apart from the obvious physical aspect of the man, he did not know him very well at all.

He knew Harry to see, of course, and would always nod or say hello whenever he saw him around the district, but they never mixed in any social way so, for Snatter, Harry was something of an unknown quantity.

He had heard some unsettling stories about Harry, but in an insular community like Ardoyne, rumours, gossip and Chinese whispers were rife and so Snatter had put the more outlandish tales down to exaggeration.

There were the nicknames as well, though; things like ‘Scary Harry’ or ‘Mad Dog’, but Snatter reckoned they were nothing more than a knee-jerk reaction to Harry’s size.

For Harry was enormous.

He was not overweight or anything like that; just enormous. Enormous both up and down and from side to side. Brick shithouses, mused Snatter, could only aspire to be built like Harry.

Still, he thought, once you got past the intimidating physical presence, then Harry seemed to be fairly quiet and unassuming.

Just people judging books by covers he decided as an old white Transit van pulled up in front of him.

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Ding-a-Ling jumped down from the passenger seat and held the door open.

You jump on up into the middle there, Snatter, he said. Snatter did so and, as Ding-a-Ling climbed in beside him, they drove off.

Cheers for the lift, Harry, said Snatter as he realised that Harry was even bigger than he had remembered. Harry simply turned to him and nodded.

A man of few words, Snatter thought quietly. Or indeed, he thought much more quietly, a man of fuck-all words.

Should be a good one this year, eh Snatter? said Ding-a-Ling, making Snatter jump.

Um, yeah, I can’t wait. Been a while since we’ve all been out together. Have you spoken to Tone lately?

Yeah, he phoned the flat last week, making sure we’re all still up for it. Ding-a-Ling grinned. Tone does make me laugh when he’s had a few.

Snatter smiled. He can be overly verbose, I suppose.

Nah, said Ding-a-Ling, he just comes across as a wee bit gay, you know? All that fancy, lah-di-dah ... what’s the word?

Verbosity?

Ding-a-Ling laughed. Aye, okay, he said. For want of a smaller word.

"What about Joker? How’s he doing?"

Oh, you know what he’s like, said Ding-a-Ling, absolutely hyper as fuck the last couple of days.

Mmm ... Snatter was barely listening.

Did you hear he wants me to go over to Ibrox with him in the New Year?

Snatter turned to face his friend. Really? he said. That should be an experience.

The van turned onto Ardoyne Road which led down to one of the main arteries into the city centre. Harry frowned as he looked ahead at the frenzy of traffic rushing past and readied himself for a blend of some aggression and blind hope to force his van into the unceasing flow.

Ding-a-Ling was unusually quiet as if suddenly unsure of his next words.

You know ... um ... Rosie was ... he seemed hesitant. Snatter’s head snapped round to face him.

"Rosie was what?" he asked, the pitch of his voice rising slightly.

Well, apparently, she was round our Karen’s last night and ‒

Why? Snatter almost shouted.

"What the fuck do you mean why? Ding-a-Ling was taken aback. You know they’re old mates, don’t you? They went to Holy Cross together and they ‒"

I know, I know, okay! Jesus! I just meant ... well ... what’s your point, anyway?

Well, said Ding-a-Ling, no longer tongue-tied, from what our Karen was saying, it seems that Rosie is expecting you to be round at her sister’s all day today. Some sort of family thing ...I don’t know, I was just wondering if anybody had bothered to tell you, that’s all.

Karen was Ding-a-Ling’s sister and Harry’s wife; a fact which caught the attention of Snatter’s sudden flood of thoughts.

So different was Karen, he pondered, from Harry. Where one was huge and lumbering, the other was petite and delicate. Where one was quiet and undemonstrative the other was a loud and shrieking harridan ... Snatter realised his mind was deliberately trying to ignore the matter in hand. He turned to Ding-a-Ling.

What did Karen say to her?

Ding-a-Ling looked through the window at the passing shops as he considered his reply. This, he reckoned, was one of those rare occasions when the truth could be used as an acceptable answer.

I think she might have said that she thought you were going into town with me today

Shit! said Snatter unhappily. "What do you mean, you think?"

Ding-a-Ling thought about this. "Actually, not so much think as know because she told me that’s what she said. Although, to be fair, she did tell Rosie that she may have got it wrong. Fuck, it wouldn’t be the first time, eh Harry?

How did Rosie take it? Did Karen say?

Right, thought Ding-a-Ling, that’s quite enough of this truth nonsense for one day.

Aye, she was dead on about it, he said. Absolutely dead on.

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As Harry gunned the van into the main traffic flow, a smaller van with Royal Mail emblazoned along the side was pulling into a lay-by a little way down the road. The lay-by was cut into a wide pedestrian area that fronted a variety of local shops – one of which was the Ardoyne Post Office.

On this occasion ‒ and despite the traditional IRA Christmas ceasefire ‒ the Royal Mail was being escorted by the British Army. A dark green army Land Rover pulled in behind the mail van and four soldiers jumped from the back to secure the area.

The shopping precinct was busy with crowds of people doing some last-minute Christmas shopping, chatting with friends and neighbours, exchanging festive greetings and ignoring the soldiers who were keeping the Royal Mail safe from harm.

One of the soldiers, keen to do his duty to its full extent, had spotted a potential threat to his current mission. Moving traffic, it seemed, posed an unacceptable security risk. A risk that the soldier took upon himself to neutralise. He stepped into the road and, with calm authority, raised his hand.

The driver of a small blue Vauxhall, directly in front of Harry’s van, braked hard and managed to skid to a halt just a few feet from the, now slightly nervous, soldier.

Harry also slammed on his brakes but was a fraction too late. The van slid with sickening force into the back of the Vauxhall, causing several people who were milling around the shops to turn and look, alerted by the particular sounds of an automotive collision.

There was the bang and crunch of crumpling metal, the pop of a headlight bursting, the tinkling of broken glass dropping onto tarmac, and the soft crack of Snatter’s forehead striking the inside of the van’s windscreen.

Ding-a-Ling, sitting on the outside seat, which was fitted with a seatbelt, had felt no more than a violent jolt and was able, therefore, to observe the subsequent sequence of events.

He watched the Vauxhall driver, a balding, middle-aged man, leap angrily from his vehicle to confront the stupid asshole who had gone into the back of him. He watched the driver’s face drain suddenly of colour, as Harry stepped calmly from the van. He watched the driver turn in a panic and point furiously at the soldier who still stood in the middle of the road.

It was him, mister! the driver shouted, It was his fault!

Ding-a-Ling was then able to observe Harry stride purposely past the cowering driver towards the horrified soldier and, with barely a pause, smash his forehead into the soldier’s nose, which erupted in a spray of blood.

Fuck! said Ding-a-Ling, stating the obvious.

What’s happening? a dazed Snatter, folded over in the passenger footwell, managed to mumble.

Shit, Snatter, are you okay?

I don’t know... I can’t fucking see!

Probably not a bad thing, thought Ding-a-Ling, looking through the windscreen.

I think you’ll be all right, he said reassuringly. Try lifting your face off the floor, see if that helps.

Ding-a-Ling turned his attention to what was going on outside on the road and saw that events had moved on. The traffic-directing soldier was now rolling on the ground, clutching not only his nose, but also his groin which, Ding-a-Ling assumed, had received some attention from Harry following the brutal head-butt.

Harry himself now appeared to be spinning groggily around in the road with two soldiers hanging desperately from his neck, while the fourth soldier was pointing his rifle at the Vauxhall driver and yelling something that Ding-a-Ling couldn’t quite make out. The terrified driver, with tears in his eyes, had his arms at full stretch above his head, but seemed to be trying to get his hands to go even higher.

A crowd had gathered.

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Snatter managed to pull himself back into his seat, though he didn’t feel entirely conscious, with his vision blurring in interesting and alarming ways.

You all right? asked Ding-a-Ling.

Not sure. I ... um ... what’s happening? Where’s Harry?

I think we may as well go and get the bus, Ding-a-Ling told him. Harry’s busy.

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By now the driver of the blue Vauxhall, still facing the scary end of an automatic rifle being held by a panicked British soldier, was almost sobbing.

Don’t shoot! he cried. I’m just a caretaker, I’m a school caretaker!

This did not help matters much, as the soldier, who was called Bert and hailed from Gateshead in the north of England, was suffering from the same problem that afflicted most soldiers when they first arrived in Northern Ireland: a feeling of complete bafflement.

The problem was that the average soldier is not designed to process nuanced concepts or subtle geo-political complexities. In fact, the job of a soldier, when stripped down to its bare essentials, is straightforward: kill the enemy.

Of course, a soldier will have a multitude of other tasks to perform during a military career and, more often than not, will never once arrive at a situation where he is required to fulfil his primary function. But that is not to deny the fact that the principal motivation for the basic soldier is a simple one: kill the enemy.

For this reason, the people who are responsible for running the army have little interest in recruiting those who see themselves as free spirits or independent thinkers.

The private soldier throughout history has been dismissed as anything from cannon-fodder to a simple grunt, and is considered to operate most effectively in situations that are starkly and recognisably black and white.

Bert was, by no means, a stupid person but no one would ever accuse him of being encumbered with a vibrant imagination. He was perfectly content to follow orders from dawn till dusk and then pour fifteen pints of lager down his throat when he was off duty with his mates. It was a simple life but that, for Bert, was its appeal. Simplicity was security. It was undemanding, it was worry-free and familiar, comforting and safe, and Bert was happy in its cosy embrace.

And then there was Northern Ireland.

How could there be so many factions in such a tiny place? There were factions within factions within factions. There were factions that split from factions only to merge and be absorbed into other factions. It was like a constantly writhing, twisting, morphing, crazed octopus with an endless supply of titles, subtitles, headings, slang, nicknames, pen-names, acronyms, codenames and buzzwords.

You had the INLA, the UVF, the IRA, the PIRA, the UFF and the UDA. There was the Third Force, the Stickies, the ODCs, Sinn Fein, the DUP, the