a blow against the entire capitalist system. It was pathetic, stupid, cruel and insane.
***
In the spring of 1977, the Reverend Ian Paisley – one of the men I personally blame for the eruption of the Troubles – was threatening a replay of the 1974 Ulster Workers’ Strike. Three years earlier, an alliance of unionist politicians, loyalist paramilitaries and pro-British trade unionists overthrew the first ever power-sharing executive at Stormont. Paisley was now leading from the front, whipping up the likes of the Ulster Defence Association for a second general strike. This time it was in response to what he claimed was a deteriorating security situation, though many saw it as an attempt by Paisley for a putsch. Although I had nothing but contempt for Paisley and his sectarian form of politics, his strike would provide the inroad for me into Sinn Féin activism and unintentionally beat a path towards Martin McGuinness.
The strike began on 3 May 1977. The next day Mickey Roddy, who lived beside us on Rose Court, called in to see me, ‘We’re trying to organise cars to go over the border to Buncrana and bring back necessities for the people in the area.’
‘I’m up for that, Mickey,’ I said. Mickey originally came from Bishop Street, on the Derry side. He was an ex-Official IRA member and was now a member of Sinn Féin. He was a decent bloke and I had a lot of time for him. We called on Colm Dorrity, who had also expressed an interest in doing something to help ‘stock up’. Colm had collected money from various families and pensioners who were worried that the power would go off, and a lot of them were scared because of their experiences of the 1974 strike. We visited bakeries and grocery shops across the border in Donegal, buying up reserves of staple foods in case supplies were cut in the North due to blockades by the loyalists. The IRA even saw to it that I was paid for the petrol I used going back to Donegal for torches, batteries, paraffin heaters and candles. I was becoming known in the district as a community activist.
The power workers on the east coast of Northern Ireland pulled the plug on the regional electricity supply. With no power and no television, the residents in Gobnascale became used to sitting around the fire at home trying to find things to talk about. Tommy McGlinchey, the local coal merchant, saw to it that Gobnascale was well supplied with coal and told people they could pay when they could afford it. Out on the streets the residents were already used to having no streetlights and walking around at night in the dark. Even the local bar was open, so you could go there at night and have a drink by candlelight; needless to say that never really caught on. There were intermittent power cuts, but it wasn’t as bad as anticipated and this time the strike didn’t succeed. Roy Mason, the hard-headed Labour MP and Northern Ireland secretary, refused to give in to Paisley’s many demands – as was widely predicted at the time – and the strike collapsed after just thirteen days.
By the summer of 1977, our family life hit an all-time high. Mary and I had decided to try one more time for another baby, though after our experience with the twins I was very apprehensive. Still, I shouldn’t have been because on 3 July at Altnagelvin Hospital, Mary gave birth to a little girl, who we named Maria. Mary and I were over the moon and I remember being so delighted that as I drove back home to tell Mary’s parents, I went around the roundabout at the hospital four times, whooping and yelling out of the window. For the next eight or nine months I was totally dedicated to Maria, and it seemed everybody was really pleased for us given what had happened to Sharon and the twins. Maria was the apple of my eye.
***
By the following summer I was back to my old routine again, and it was in late September 1978 that I was invited to a republican meeting in Gobnascale to discuss the forthcoming march celebrating the tenth anniversary of the Derry riots. The ‘boys’ from the IRA were the main representatives, but it was here that I met Eddy McGowan, a painter and decorator by trade and a committed Sinn Féin activist who lived with his wife Maeve and family on the estate. Also present were John Carlin (no relation), Mickey Roddy and Tommy McGlinchey. Tommy had been the victim of a UVF car bomb attack at his home on Fountain Hill. He had lost both legs, but that didn’t stop him from leading a full life and driving a specially modified car. He was an active member of Sinn Féin, was well respected by the people at the Top of the Hill, and held a lot of sway in the Waterside. The meeting was a fairly quiet affair as we planned a strategy for the march from the Waterside railway station up Duke Street and over the Craigavon Bridge. Ian Paisley and the loyalists of Derry were adamant that the Waterside was a Protestant area and that the march was an aggressive action designed to upset the unionist population. They made it quite clear that they were going to hold a counter demonstration and prevent the Sinn Féin march from taking place. (At this stage I was still a ‘civilian’, not a member of Sinn Féin but someone who sympathised with them.)
As we left the station on 8 October 1977, we were about to become involved in one of the bloodiest riots the Waterside had ever seen. The rally was attacked by loyalists from Bonds Hill and from behind Nixon’s garage on Spencer Road. In fairness to the RUC commander in charge, he did his best to organise protection for our march. However, a lot of the young RUC men sympathetic to the unionists weren’t so protective as they joined in ‘baton charging’ the march, leading to running battles with them as well as attempts to defend ourselves from the loyalist crowds. It took over an hour to march 150 yards to the bridge and a further hour to cross it. Even as we reached the Derry side, we were attacked by gangs from the Protestant Fountain Estate. All in all, over one hundred marchers were injured and seventy RUC men were left maimed, with most of their injuries being sustained as a result of being bottled and stoned by loyalists. Ironically, later that evening at the casualty department of Altnagelvin Hospital, RUC constables sat united with republicans as they all waited to be treated for their injuries.
***
Over the previous four years I had met quite a few men from MI5, all of whom didn’t really have a clue as to the grit and determination of the republican movement in Derry. But they were beginning to understand – partly, I hoped, through my political reports – that whilst not giving total support to the IRA, ordinary decent nationalists had no time for the British government, the British Army, and least of all the RUC. One critical fact I relayed to MI5 was that, contrary to their belief, not all IRA volunteers were ‘unemployed, mindless thugs’. Indeed, a lot of them were either employed or attending some form of further education, and some of them were quite astute in their thinking. I had also reported that one of the ‘boys’ in the Waterside was talking about a new structure which would see them form into small 4–5 person groups known as cells that would make it harder for informers to penetrate (or so they thought). My handler Andy assured me that he would pass on the information about these new cell structures to the army. Yet with no clear role for me as a ‘spy’, and feeling no sense of achievement, I drifted into the public domain in an entirely different manner.
I was singing in pubs and clubs and making a few extra pounds to help supplement our income. I was quite popular out of town in what were known as ‘singing pubs’. Most of the lounges would have a group who would play from 9 to 11.30pm. I would be announced as the guest artist and would sing and play guitar from about 10 to 10.30pm. Singing was my hobby and it wasn’t long before I became ‘Billy Carlin’ the country singer and found myself in some demand. Within two years I was fronting my own group, Billy Carlin and the Envoys, which toured around Donegal as well as Derry. I loved country music and I felt happy on the road, away from the political maelstrom; it was a welcome hiatus in my secret life as an agent.
The covert world, however, was never far away and my meetings with MI5 contacts were becoming more frequent, especially since I had a new handler who called himself ‘Ben’. The location of our conversations had also changed. Before they were held in car parks and picnic areas, but now we had a house at our disposal in a spot outside Limavady on the road to Castlerock. I would enter the house through the back door, which led straight into the kitchen, where I would usually find Ben waiting for me, notebook at the ready and coffee brewing. At first it was interesting working with him. He appeared different from the others, more open and down to earth.
