Betrayed Read Free

water.’
    Rosie nodded, deadpan, as if she heard this every day. A little nudge of adrenalin in her gut pushed her hangover away. It wasn’t news that the UVF had fundraisers in Glasgow and elsewhere, under the guise of a Rangers football supporters’ night. They were no different from the IRA who ran certain Celtic supporters’ nights, where tins got rattled among the Republican faithful, and all the proceeds went across to the hardmen paramilitaries in Belfast. That was part and parcel of what Glasgow had become – more so in recent years. Even if the truth was that most of the punters spouting sectarian bile could fit their knowledge of Northern Ireland’s bloody history on the back of a fag packet. The fact that they were raising funds here wasn’t a huge story, but nobody from the inside was ever willing, or brave enough, to spill the beans. A barmaid going missing after one of these nights just cranked it up.
    ‘I gather that they have a few of these fundraisers, but nobody ever talks about it.’ Rosie screwed up her eyes. ‘So who’s this Eddie McGregor then?’
    ‘He’s UVF,’ Liz whispered. ‘High up. A commander or something.’
    Rosie scanned her face, trying to work out why this woman who had shut the door on her yesterday was now singing like a canary, and giving her a rundown of who’s who in the UVF. Either she had a death wish or was already five vodkas in. But she didn’t look drunk. Not by any stretch.
    ‘Look,’ Liz said, as though she had read Rosie’s mind, ‘I’mnot some nutcase, who’s going to fill your head with a load of shite about the UVF. I know stuff. I know what they do. I sometimes hear things in my job.’
    ‘What kind of things?’
    ‘Like for instance how they get their money.’ She shrugged. ‘I don’t really give a damn about that.’ She took a mouthful of her drink and raised a hand towards the muffled sound coming from the flute bands as they passed by the bar. ‘In fact I used to walk in the Orange Walk. Most of my life. Born and bred. Queen and country. Rangers fan and Unionist through and through. It’s how we’re brought up here. You’re either Orange or Green. But this is different. There’s something not right about Wendy just disappearing like that.’ She paused, looked Rosie in the eye and half smiled. ‘You a Prod or a Tim?’
    Rosie looked back at her, wondering just how loaded the question was. In certain parts of Glasgow you answered that one very carefully, depending on where you were and who was asking. Rosie didn’t feel like giving this complete stranger the lowdown on her spirituality, or how she’d more or less given up organised religion when she woke up to the fact that the Catholic Church had been running it like a multinational organisation, for their own ends. And that she believed all religions were the same – from the Muslims to the Mormons – it was all smoke and mirrors. But she hated the bigotry that ran through the very heart of Scotland, and she despised the way Northern Ireland’s troubleshad crept into the terraces at football grounds, turning almost every Old Firm match into a bloodbath.
    ‘I was brought up a Catholic.’ Rosie decided to be honest. ‘But I’m not really anything now. I have lots of friends of all religions. But I don’t like bigotry.’ She pointed her thumb in the direction of the bands outside. ‘I dislike that walk out there every bit as much as the Hibs walk from the other mob next month. None of them have any place in this country.’ Stuff it, Rosie thought. She called a spade a spade and if it offended Liz’s sensibilities, then so be it.
    Liz said nothing for a few seconds, then stubbed her cigarette out.
    ‘Aye. Fair enough.’ She smiled. ‘At least you’re honest.’
    Rosie was relieved, and the iciness between them had been broken. Her mind was a blur of questions and she felt now Liz was ripe for talking. Whether any of it was provable was another story.
    ‘So, Liz …