Free Dead Man Running: A True Story of a Secret Agent's Escape from the IRA and MI5 by Martin McGartland Page B

man said, ‘I think I may be wrong. I don’t think it was you kicking my car; the kids were much younger.’ I let go of the man and he stood by the wall, continuing to apologise. ‘I think I’ve made a mistake,’ he said. ‘I think you have,’ I told him.
     
    ‘ Listen,’ he said, ‘the other night I came out of my house down the road and saw some kids kicking shit out of my car and I chased them away, told them to stop kicking other people’s cars, causing damage which the owner had to pay for. They ran off, jeering and laughing, and I warned them that if I saw them again I would catch them and give them a good clip. When I saw you running down the road past my car I thought you were one of those kids, so I gave chase. I’m sorry.’ His explanation seemed perfectly plausible and I believed him. He made no effort to escape my clutches and I was sure he was no IRA killer intent on getting me. For a start, he had a strong Geordie accent. I suddenly realised I had over reacted. But I couldn’t say anything to him; I couldn’t explain why I had reacted so violently, nor tell him that I had been within an ace of kicking the shit out of him. I knew it was just a nervous reaction to being chased by someone late at night who seemed intent on breaking into my house. A few minutes later we were shaking hands, exchanging names and he promised to buy me a pint. We said ‘goodnight’ with a laugh but when I walked back inside the house I leaned against the door, closed my eyes and sighed with relief thinking of what might have been. ‘Shit,’ I thought. ‘I’ve got to get this IRA nonsense out of my head otherwise I might end up one day killing some poor innocent bastard.’ As I looked around I also knew I had to do something to improve my dreary, squalid flat so I phoned my old handler Felix and told him of the conditions in which I had been placed. ‘You wouldn’t put a dog in a place like this,’ I told him. ‘It really smells and is quite filthy. I’ve tried to improve things but it really is awful.’ ‘Listen,’ Felix said, ‘go and buy a cheap camera and take photos of the place, inside every room, including the kitchen and bathroom, so that people can see how terrible it is. Then send the photos through to the Chief Constable’s office, along with a letter, so that he can make the judgement. If it’s that bad, Marty, we’ll have you out of there, find you some other accommodation.’ ‘I’ll happily send the photos to the Chief Constable. I’m not kidding you, Felix,’ I told him, ‘you would be disgusted if you came and saw the condition of the place, I promise you.’ ‘I believe you, Marty. Don’t worry. Just get those photos and send them over. But don’t forget the letter. Okay?’ he said. ‘I’ll do just that,’ I told him. I sent the letter and photographs to the Chief Constable’s office and Felix phoned me later to say that he had seen the photographs and wholeheartedly agreed with my description of the place. He seemed more shocked that the Northumbria Police Special Branch should put one of the RUC’s agents in such dreadful accommodation. He said that he would urge the RUC Special Branch in Belfast to speed up the application for the funds which were due to me so that a modest house could be bought for me. Felix knew that I hoped Angie, Martin, then two, and Podraig, who was just six months, would be joining me shortly. He warned me, however, that I would have to wait for a few months for all the red tape and paperwork to be drawn up, finalised and authorised. He did assure me though; ‘Don’t worry, I will make sure decent accommodation is found; we can’t have you living in some pigsty.’ Ever since I had arrived in Wallsend I would speak to Felix each and every day at exactly 2 p.m. We arranged that I should be standing by a telephone box in Wallsend at that time and he would phone through to check that I was okay and not feeling too lonely. Sometimes we would chat