Chapter 28 Belfast
Upon the cover of night, the prison van weaved along the winding coastal road, its headlights illuminating fleeting glimpses over the calm tides of the Irish Sea.
The Stena Line ferry had just berthed at the 12 Quays terminal in Birkenhead, Liverpool. Where McBride and his men would soon be ferried back to Belfast.
It had been agreed that all parties would go their separate ways after Grey and Turner returned to London with the Ox.
They had escaped, but they lacked access to money for their respective journeys.
Grey parked the van in a corner of the big car park. His tensed arms burned with abrasions, an aftermath from the fire at HMP Liverpool.
He checked the fuel gauge. It was getting low. Kenny Rogers's country music played on the radio. McBride sat next to him, searching for an easy score.
By a stroke of luck, McBride spotted a yellow submarine-colored minibus being jacked up.
“Magical Mystery Tours” was sprawled in faded sun-bleached, paint-chipped colors.
The driver, a middle-aged man in a stained untucked work shirt, was sweating from his balding patch of hair, seemingly overwhelmed, replacing a blown tire.
A group of dolled-up women were gathered for a hen party. Their skirts were dangerously short and they held vodka in their hands.
Colorful feather boas adorned their bleached blond hair. With embroidered sashes that read “Bride to be!”, drooping down to multiple piercings on ears and eyebrows.
McBride's eyes lit up. “There's our ticket.”
“Grey, park up next to 'em,” McBride said, eyeing up the glamourous handbags.
“Let's rescue these damsels in distress from their purses?”
Feeling like a lowlife scumbag, Grey parked next to the bus driver while Turner surveyed the crowd of Totti.
“Oi! Muscles,” McBride called out from behind him.
“Yer fancy changing a tyre?”
“Hang on a minute, geezer. I'll call you back.” Ox said on the phone.
“What's up, McBride, I'm busy here?”
“Take a look out the window, yer big lump, I think they could use a strong pair of hands?”
Ox and the men curiously poked through the windows, cottoning on to McBride's train of thought.
“Ox, there is a pretty penny to be had. Take your shirt off, give 'em a show, why don't yer?” McBride said craftely.
The rear doors swung open, followed by the Ox's Chipendale-like bravado.
They all squealed, “Ohh la la,” with fluttering eyelashes and damp lingerie at the jacked herculean physique stomping towards them carrying a spare tire.
“Hello treacles, you all look a bit stuck,” Ox preened.
While replacing the tire. Ox bulged his forearms, wrestling with the rusty lug nuts - accidentally winking at the bride-to-be, earning cheers all around.
Once all was on tight, Ox struck up a conversation with the appreciative driver.
Ox learned that the poor guy had been working multiple jobs to support his family and was barely making ends meet.
Ox also noticed the conspicuous wad of euros nestled in the open glove compartment - now Robbed!
The driver held out his hand. After the women clapped and cheered.
“Oh mate, thanks so much for your help. I was really stuck there. I don't know what I would have done without you.”
“No worries, mate,” Ox said, tightening his vice-like grip.
“Seriously. Is there anything I can do to repay you?”
“Nah, it's alright. I could never take any money off you.”
Just then, McBride and his men stepped out from behind the minibus.
“Surprise, girls!” McBride exclaimed, holding up a prison knife. The women screamed in terror.
“Give us your fookin handbags!” one of the men shouted.
A couple of the feistier women tried to fight with high heels, clumping a couple of McBride's men over the head, before reluctantly handing over their handbags.
Ox put the driver in a choke hold. Squeezing tighter, desperation fueled the driver's fight, clawing at Ox's massive arms trying to free himself from the gorilla-type strength.
“Listen?” Ox threatened into his eardrum.
“We have just mugged you off. Round up you're slags. And bugger off.”
Ox shoved him forward. From the van Grey and Turner watched the drama unfold.
“They are not very subtle are they guv?”
“Turner, I would say doing things by the book has gone well past its sell-by date by now.”
The minibus screeched away, with the bonus of a new tire and a bunch of hacked-off women, ready for a disappointing hen do.
“I suppose we better get out and say goodbye?” Turner said.
“As rotten as they are, they did help us out of the nick.”
Grey thought for a moment. “Never trust a terrorist, Turner.”
“Or an Ox even?” Turner interjected.
“It is the Ox that will be keeping hold of our petrol money for the next five hours,” Grey pointed out.
“I need to get home Turner.
I need to see if my wife and the twins are still alive.”
Turner tried to put a hand on Grey's shoulder, but Grey flinched away.
“Guv, I know how bad things have been for us. I just wanted to let you know as my best mate.
You don't have to go through this thing alone.”
“Thanks for the sentiment, Turner. I appreciate it. But we are still trapped men in a dangerous situation.
God knows who will be looking for us right now?”
Grey and Turner got out with the engine still running facing McBride.
“McBride?” Grey called out. “What now? What about us?”
“Yer nothing but a blunt tool, now yer old bastard.”
Mcbride turned and smelt the diesel fumes, admiring the gleaming lights of the terminal, coasting over the ozone scent of the open sea.
Passengers spilled onto the dock under the pall of moonlight, ready to board the ferry for the 8-hour leg back to Belfast.
“We will go back and reconvene, and we will grow stronger. It's time for a new face of the IRA.”
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The van's radio easy listening session segwayed to the news hour.
A serious broadcaster's voice came over the airwaves.
“We're receiving alarming reports from London this evening.
Buckingham Palace is now under siege by protesters who are trying to breach the gates.
Witnesses have reported. A mob said to number in the hundreds..."
McBride's cogs turned. Absorbing this unexpected development in London.
“Far-right groups including prominent neo-Nazi organizations have helped coordinate the attack and have a visible presence among the protesters.
Their propaganda emphasizes anti-monarchist and anti-establishment rhetoric.
Meanwhile, on social media, a wave of nationalist and anti-monarchist sentiment appears to be fueling more people to join the demonstration.
Grey and Turner looked at each other in complicity - which wasn't such a bad thing for once.
“Most troubling is that members of the royal family are said to remain inside the palace walls as the situation escalates.
The police and parliamentary guards have been unable to regain control so far.
Now it is “The Eagles with ”Hotel California.”
Grey looked at McBride seriously, like he was not bluffing - like he had a serious proposal.
“Hey McBride? Why don't we finish what you tried to start back in 1998?”
“Yer crazy old bastard, we need a feckin army to get in there. We are not ready.”
“It would be one hell of a statement,” Turner egged on.
“Picture the famous headlines,” Grey said, feeding into McBride's ego.
“McBride head of the IRA, storms Buckingham Palace. Supported by the will of the British people.”
McBride paused in bamboozlement.
“It takes time to plan these types of things. The men, the weapons. This is not fookin Rambo.”
“What about your networks? I thought you was a professional?” Grey pressed on.
“It is the perfect time to strike. You will never get a better chance.”
Ox was getting twitchy, listening to the half-baked negotiations.
“Gentlemen, I am leaving this one well alone. There is nothing to be won by my being here.”
“You know Ox,” Turner said carefully.
“There is an angle you have not thought of.”
“Think very carefully, Turner when you address me. Unless the next things that escape from your lips are worth my while.
I am going fucking lump you one. Got it!”
“Buckingham Palace has gold, paintings, and artifacts that are worth billions. Priceless in fact?” Turner said.
“Recruiting physically formidable men through your fighting network Ox?
The loot, the incentive is there, you won't get a bigger score than that in your criminal career.”
“Hold on a sec!”
Ox mulled it over and talked with McBride privately, both aware that a critical decision needed to be made. Grey helped himself to roll up, even Turner smoked one.
“Guv, it is all well and good proposing this wonderful idea of yours. Have you actually thought any of this through?”
“All I know, Turner, is that if we can get a crack at the king, I will bloody well take it.”
Ox was pacing back and forth. His deep voice talking through the phone with gritted teeth.
Meanwhile, McBride sat on a car bonnet holding court with his members in a lively debate, a mischievous grin spreading across his face as he made a few phone calls himself.
Ox put his phone in his pocket. McBride came over.
“Here comes the verdict,” Turner said.
“Grey, yer crazy old bastard, we have a plan. Were coming to London. To kick up a storm.”
“Then it's done?” Grey said.
“Not quite, we have one condition for yer. Show us your loyalty to the cause.”
“What do you want me to do?”
“Yer can both show us on the way, that you will,” McBride belly laughed.
##########
McBride arrived at the tattoo parlor carrying a takeaway food pot, just as the tattoo artists finished injecting the last drops of ink into their skin. McBride stood back looking at their handy work.
Harps surrounded by the words 'Irish Republican Army' were emblazoned across the foreheads of Grey and Turner.
“Now yer look like real soldiers boys. Anytime yer look in mirror yer will think of 'Bomber McBride'.”
Both did look in the mirror mortified, frowning at their reflections.
Grey's collarbone was prominent due to his lack of nutrition. His hair had fallen out completely.
Turner, who had previously worked in the prison servery, looked slightly healthier.
“Guv, do I look like a terrorist now?”
“What did I tell you before never trust a terrorist, Turner.”
“You are terrorists now.” McBride's said with intensity.
“London will be our new playground!”
The abandoned prison van had been dumped in favor of Lime Street train station, left to sink into the muddy ground of a nearby school field.
McBride and Ox had escorted Grey and Turner to fulfill their one condition.
Then they led the hungry men to discuss their next move, into a warm and inviting Indian restaurant, as they eagerly awaited their meal.
##########
The oncoming sounds of footsteps marched on to the soot-stained bricks of Lime Street station.
AWOL escapees from HMP Liverpool came from the alleyways, arriving from the fields, driving up in a fleet of hot-wired cars, discarding them. Blockading the road leading in.
They came weaponized, from the scavenged remains of the riot. Spurred on by the promise of loot and anarchy, for the three-hour train journey to London Bridge underground station.
A prominent tall figure broke from the others and bounded over to McBride. It was Spike, an old cellmate of his.
“The lads are right itchin' for a rumble.”
“Yer going to get more than a rumble, spike. It's going to be a massacre.”
The arrival of their train was announced over the loudspeakers. McBride waved the men on, who descended the steps and onto the platform.
From the carriages passengers watched through the windows, their eyes cottoning on to the size and ferocity of the mob.
They squeezed through the automatic doors in a surging swell overwhelming passengers.
A mother clutched her crying baby tight. An elderly man trembled violently in his seat, the newspaper in his hands now a crumpled ball.
At first, the attacks were sporadic - quick bursts of pepper spray aimed directly into the eyes of unsuspecting victims - dominance set the standard from the get-go.
Screams of pain and confusion erupted. Another wielded a metal bar from a prison bed frame, its end filed to a rusty point.
Spike produced a tazer gun, aiming directly at the conductor's eyeballs.
“Sorry I don't have a ticket, I'm afraid,” Spike said.
“Are you going to fine me?”
The probes of the tazer, two barbed darts, now within an eyelash of the retinas in the railworker's eyes.
“No, no,” he said, a trickle of urine running down his leg.
Ox twisted his arm behind his back, stomping on his walkie-talkie.
“Take me to the driver compartment?” Ox demanded, taking him away to the front of the train.
Grey and Turner, now foot soldiers joined the tide, their canisters of potent pepper spray aimed at train commuters who dared to impede the invasion.
“Everybody sit down and shut it!” McBride bellowed.
“This is a hostage situation. No one leaves until we reach London,” McBride grinned at the cowering passengers.
His eyes glinted with the thrill of the chaos about to come.
“Spike, take the class A prisoners with you. Send the message down the line that we mean business.”
“It would be a pleasure,” Spike said.
Arriving at the driver's cab. Ox kicked the door off the hinges.
The train driver turned around, his mouth opened and closed, but no words came out as he took in the sight of Ox standing there.
Ox's grip on the train conductor, with his red and swollen pepper-sprayed eyes made it evident that he was about to be caught up in a very grave situation.
“You have one chance to finish this day alive.” Ox stared the driver down like the apex predator he was.
“Drive this train, without alerting anyone to what is going down here. And you and everyone else will leave at the end of the line unscathed."
From the station the train lurched forward with its new crew in command, speeding through the Merseyside countryside.
At Warrington, more prisoners joined, brandishing makeshift blades. From Lancaster and Stafford came brawny inmates craving violence.
Each stop just added to their ruthless numbers. By Aylesbury, McBride's gang had taken over every carriage.
Some commuters were freed just to make space for them.
Through slumbering suburban streets, the train rattled on. Grey and Turner watched warily as the numbers swelled. These men were desperate and dangerous - but so were they, power-hungry on revenge.
Pentonville's escapees were the most hardened. Woodhill and Birmingham contributed more battle-hungry prisoners.
By the time they pulled into London Bridge, McBride commanded over 500 reckless felons itching for havoc.
Stepping from the train, they herded the hostages ahead of them like a tsunami of bodies.
Commuters trying to get the last trains home for the night just scrambled away from the advancing criminal horde.
Once they reached outside onto the paved grey floors. It just grew and grew from there.
Ox's fighting network joined in, hulking brutes overwhelmed, shoving aside anyone resisting the torrent.
The police presence was scattered at best. They were already dealing with the unfolding escalations around the city to be dealing with McBride's oncoming onslaught.
Neo nazi cells had come as well from around the counties, joining the ranks, firing up the mob with racist provocations.
At the lead. McBride flung his arms wide, bellowing a deranged war cry. His dream of terrorizing the capital was only just beginning.
Grey and Turner, trapped in the maelstrom of chaotic frenzy blended in.
Their massive procession transformed the Strand into a river of violence.
Traffic ground to a halt. Civilians tried to run in panic from the advancing threat.
Down Pall Mall the howling tide flowed, spewing threats at those dumb enough to stand in their path.
Through Green Park. Thousands of boots thundered across manicured lawns, trampling flower beds, feeling the soft grass beneath their feet.
Squirrels scampered through the trees, with ducks swimming in the ponds - usually, it was a nice spot for a picnic - not tonight.
With no honor amongst thieves, the most desperate fights erupted as individuals vied for prime positions near McBride at the front, eager to claim their share of the plunder.
Buckingham Palace was already in the middle of a bloodbath when they arrived.
The coming clash would determine the palace's - and king's - fate. Chaos was delivered to the monarch's doorstep. Grey and Turner watched on, eyes blazing with fury.