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

of the trauma that was ripping apart our family. Martin, however, did not want to go, did not want to leave me, and Angie had to drag him along the quay by the hand as he kept looking back, screaming for me to go with them. I don’t know how I managed to control myself for I desperately wanted to run after them and bring them back to the terminal, to plead one last time for them to stay with me. Until that moment I had never realised how much I cared for the three of them and how much I wanted to protect them and look after them. I watched them walk out of sight and on to the ferry and in that moment I felt I had nothing to live for. That wretched feeling of desolation and loneliness never left me during the long, long journey back to Newcastle, driving through the dark, isolated countryside of southern Scotland lit only by the stars that seemed in that darkness to be so very bright. I could think of nothing to cheer myself; could think of nothing to help relive the feeling of despair or to stop the tears that erupted every few miles. And I cursed myself for the stupidity of youth that had led me into this terrible state. Little did I realise then that my troubles were only just beginning.
     

 
     
    Chapter Five
     
    Within a couple of weeks of Angie’s return to Belfast the dreaded knock at her front door came early one morning. The IRA demanded that she attend a meeting at Sinn Fein headquarters to answer questions. It was, of course, the same place – Connolly House – from where I was kidnapped by two of Gerry Adams’ henchmen, Paul ‘Chico’ Hamilton and James ‘Jim’ McCarthy. Though understandably nervous and frightened, Angie agreed and went along as ‘requested’. She knew that she had no option but to attend otherwise the next request would probably be far more forceful. She had no idea what might happen to her and she feared more for Martin and Podraig than for herself, for she had no idea what course the interview might take. Angie knew that she would be asked where I was living, my address and telephone number and full details of my car. The man who called at Angie’s front door after her return from England was Joseph Mulhern, a 23 year old IRA sympathiser who was well known in Catholic areas of West Belfast as a ruthless thug and bully, a member of an IRA punishment gang who delighted in terrorising, bullying and beating young Catholic teenagers, sometimes kneecapping them, at other times simply dragging them from their homes and beating them senseless with iron bars and baseball bats. Angie would have known that such an invitation from such a well-known thug could not be ignored. For four long hours Angie was questioned by ‘Jim’ McCarthy and another IRA interrogator before being allowed to return home. She had told them everything she knew of my whereabouts. At the end of their questioning the IRA interrogators told her to inform Sinn Fein headquarters if she should hear from me or, more importantly, if I should return to Belfast for a visit. Before I drove her and the boys to Stranraer for their return journey to Belfast I told Angie that if she was ever questioned by the IRA then she must tell them the truth, hiding nothing and answering whatever questions they asked to the best of her ability. I told her that within 24 hours of her arrival in Belfast I would have moved house, changed my car and changed my identity. In fact, I had no idea exactly where I would be 24 hours later but I had been telling her the truth for I had been told by the Special Branch that I would have to immediately sell both the house and the car, as well as change my mobile phone number. In fact, I stayed in my own home. For to my great surprise Alan, my SB officer who liaised with the Newcastle Special Branch, told me during a conversation in a pub car park only days before Angie left that, having discussed the matter with headquarters, they advised that I should not move house.
     
    ‘ Not move anywhere? Stay