Field of Blood (13 page)

on, we started to work on those we already had safe in custody, those that were

safe from a kangaroo court and a bullet. We called it the Converted Terrorist policy ...'

'Supergrass.'

Rennie was bent over his wheel, talking quietly into his dashboard.

`The Brits have to anglicize every bloody thing. "Supergrass" is your word, from the East End of London. "Converted Terrorist" is mine. To the Provos, he's a

"tout" . . . Even the bloody man in Stormont Castle calls them "supergrasses" . . .

if that's what you want, David, we'll call them that, we'll keep it British. It's a genius trick ...'

`When it works.'

Ìt's genius because they don't know where the risk comes from next. They have

to spend half their bloody time wondering whether they're going to be shopped

by their own crowd.'

'

Ì read the papers, I'm not a damned idiot, you've had some that have worked, you've had more that have reneged on the deal.'

Rennie ignored the interruption. He had a cigarette in his mouth and was lighting

it with a match and turning left and changing up through his gears. Expert hand

and eye.

`We've found something of a pattern for the man who might go supergrass. He's

in the twenty‐five plus age group. He's beyond the aggro corner stuff, petrol bombs and stones, he's too old for that. He's got a woman, probably he's got kids. He's got a fixed address. He's done a stretch inside, knows what the Kesh is

like. He's come back out and returned to his old ways, and he's been lifted, and

this time he's going away for a lifer, or as near as makes no difference. He's on a

treadmill because with his record and his new offences he's going away until he's

an old man. That's the one we convert.'

`That's McAnally,' Ferris said softly. He saw ahead of them the high brilliant lights of the Castlereagh perimeter. He felt the trembling of his hands on the stock of

his rifle.

`When you lifted him he was still wearing his vest, silly bugger, and very considerate. They don't learn. Forensic's done the work on the vest. Forensic puts

McAnally on the R.P.G. Your Fusilier puts McAnally into the getaway car.

McAnally's away for twenty‐five years, that's what I've told him.'

`Why me?' Ferris knew the answer.

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`For a man to turn, he has to make a hell of a decision. He's chucking over his shoulder everything that he knows, every single bloody thing except, perhaps, his

family.'

They had come to the gate. Rennie held up his I/D for the police sentry to see from the gatehouse window.

`Why me?

'He's turning his back on everything he's ever relied on before, and he has to have

a hell of a trust of us.'

Ànd he trusts me, is that why it's me?

'Something like that.'

Rennie accelerated into the Castlereagh car park. He stopped, switched off the engine.

Ònce they start there's no stopping them. It's getting them started that's the hard bit. Get Gingy McAnally started tonight, and I'll kiss you on both bloody cheeks of your arse.'

Rennie climbed out of the car; when he looked back he saw that Ferris was still

sitting in his seat, staring ahead through the windscreen, expressionless.

Ì told you. I haven't all night.'

Ì don't know whether I want to do it.'

Rennie climbed back into the car, his knee was on his seat. He lowered over Ferris. `Don't fucking tell me what you want to do. You can't choose what you want to do ... you just bloody get on with it.'

Ferris slammed the car door shut behind him. He went to the

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**gatehouse and accepted a chitty for his rifle. He followed Rennie through the

inner gates and into the cell block.

He had been briefed in the canteen over a tired cheese sandwich and a beaker of

coffee. He knew what he had to say. He knew the time that had been given to him.

McAnally was sitting cross‐legged at the head of the bed. He wore his trousers and was bare from the waist up because he had taken off his shirt, and they had

taken away his vest.

Ferris sat on the floor, his back to the wall. The cell was dimly lit from the ceiling.

The cell was warm. McAnally said nothing.

Ferris talked, and sometimes McAnally seemed to listen, and sometimes he was

a year away, and sometimes a mood away, and sometimes he reacted and

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squirmed, and sometimes he screwed down his face as if the emotion was too great to bear. Ferris could see that McAnally was exhausted, twenty‐two hours since he had been lifted, desperate for sleep. Ferris thought that if McAnally had

not been so tired he would have to have seen through the clumsiness of the subterfuge.

Ferris said that he happened to be at Castlereagh at that time because he had been out on patrol and this was the first opportunity for him to make a formal statement, hadn't had the time when he was down before. He had drifted on, a

rambling monologue.

`. . . we were patrolling Turf Lodge, round your home. The lights were on upstairs, I suppose they'd gone to bed, didn't see anyone, we didn't knock the door. It's three kids, isn't it? I'd have liked to have spoken to your wife. If the lights were on upstairs, I suppose she was putting the little ones into bed. That's a hell

of a boy you've get ...'

Drifting on, just as he had been told.

Ì'm a bit upset tonight, actually. We saw a pretty horrible thing in Turf Lodge. I

had a call‐up from one of my foot patrols that was out in tandem with us. They

found a boy who'd been knee‐capped. I'd never seen a knee‐capping before. I think he's thirteen, the boy they knee‐capped, and they'd burned his stomach with cigarettes. I took him down to the barracks and packed him off in an ambulance. He couldn't really talk. Shock, I imagine. He was really brave ... God, I can't imagine what the pain would be like. It seems that your friends reckoned he'd informed on you. His name's Liam Blaney ... I suppose you know him. I was

told they can fix these things up pretty well in the Royal Victoria. He was really

gutsy . . .'

Ferris could not take his eyes from McAnally's face. He saw whenhe scored, and

he saw when McAnally was able to deflect him. But theface was more rested, not

in such turmoil. The eyes were less haunted.`The policeman who took you away

from us, I was talking to him this

evening. He told me that you'd made it out of the Organization. From my side of

things I shouldn't say it, but that must have taken a damn great effort. He said you were down south, that you'd gone down there to live. It must be really difficult to break out ... Well, it must be difficult, but I suppose it's wonderful that you can go to bed at night and know that you'll sleep through to the morning, that you won't have the likes of my platoon heifering in on you ...'

There was a weak, poor smile on McAnally's face.

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`You were the first Provisional I'd ever seen, you know. I'd seen guys up for screening, that sort of thing, guys that the 1.0. said were in the Organization, but you were the first real live one ... They've told me now that you're implicated in

the Crumlin Road thing. That's bloody dreadful ... I mean, you made the effort and went down south. I suppose they brought you back for this, for the R.P.G. job

... sorry, don't say anything, I'm not a detective. When I say that's bloody dreadful, what I mean is that it's dreadful that the buggers couldn't leave you alone. There's you, building a new life, and then this happens ... To me, not leaving you alone down there is worse ‐ yes, I reckon it's worse ‐ than what was

done to the Blaney boy ... God, I can't get that kid out of my mind, can't get away

from knowing that after what was done to him he'll never run again, never kick a

football ... 1 know my squaddies turned you over a bit, you got one of them in the

goolies, but what they did to you, that's nothing like what was done to Liam Blaney . . .'

Ferris looked at his watch. McAnally's eyes seemed to plead with him as he stood

up.

`Sorry, I have to be off, look at the bloody time. They took your watch, of course

... it's close to midnight. If I see the wife about I'll speak to her, tell her you're in good shape.'

He went to the cell door. He rapped his knuckles on it. When he looked around he

saw that McAnally faced the wall.

`Goodnight, Mr McAnally ... Try to find a way to help yourself ... after what the

bastards have done to you, after the shit they've dropped you into, see if you can

help yourself, and your wife, and your kids ... God knows what's possible now. If

anything's possible, hang onto it ... Goodnight, Mr McAnally.'

Ferris looked for a last time at the face in profile against the wall. He felt soiled.

Rennie had decided that a serving officer of 2 R.R.F. was soft enough to strike a

chord with an R.P.G. marksman of the P.I.R.A. who faced a triple life sentence.

And the shit had decided right. McAnally bit at his lip and muttered at the white‐

painted bricks of his cell wall. Rennie had known his chemistry.

`Do you know anything about kestrels, Mr Ferris?

'No, sorry. I don't,' Ferris said.

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**The constable had opened the door, made way for Ferris to step out of the cell.

Standing by the protected door at the end of the cell block, Rennie watched Ferris come towards him. He saw Ferris pass under a bright ceiling light. He 69

looked for the mood. His cheeks broke into a smile. He sighed deeply in relief. He

saw the trouble in Ferris's face.

`Well done, David . . . and if you didn't know it, the war's bigger than that little rat.'

`Your little rat asked me if I knew anything about kestrels.' `What did you say?

'That I didn't know anything.'

`Then find out.'

`Why?

`Because a kestrel's freedom, that's what I want him talking about, thinking about.'

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When he was active, before he had gone south, in the time that he was on the R.P.G. team, the Volunteers and Battalion men were briefed on the tactics employed by the interrogators, and on the countermeasures to confound those

tactics. The men who gave the briefings were those who had been with some frequency in the solitary cells and the Interrogation Rooms of Castlereagh in Belfast, or Gough in Armagh, or Strand away in Derry. The first twenty‐four hours weren't the hardest, the briefers said, because the prisoner was still close

to his home and his family and his muckers, but the isolation was clawing at the

prisoner by the second twenty‐four hours, and was worst for the third twenty-four hours. After three days, the briefers said, then the isolation slipped. They could only hold you for seven days. After seven days they had to charge you, or

release you. After seven days the prisoner was either turfed out to make his way

back to his family, or he was booked and shipped off to the crowded Remand Wing of the Crumlin Road. Seven days was the length and breadth of the

isolation. For seven days the prisoner saw only the escorting policemen and the

interrogating detectives. And the second and third days were‐worst, because after the third day the prisoner was on the downhill road and heading for the company of his family or the Remand Wing. The briefers said that if a man was to

implicate himself or himself and his friends then he would do so on the second day of solitary or on the third day.

The briefers said that it was the easiest for the man who could stay silent ... Shit, McAnally had tried to stay silent, he'd even laid down on the floor to get away from the water‐drip of their voices, and the bastard Rennie had followed him down to the floor. The briefers said that it was the worst for the man who tried to

argue the facts put before him. The briefers said that it was good if you could get

a small stone or a sliver of glass into your shoe and under your toes, if you could

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squeeze your toes down and hurt yourself and turn your mind from the

questions. The briefers said that the detectives would always pretend they knew

everything. The briefers said that the detectives would try to turn you, and they'd

offer money, money and immunity, money and immunity from prosecution and

safety for a lifetime in return for a statement that betrayed the Organization.

Sean Pius McAnally had six more days of resistance.

And after the six days? After the six days there was a year of remand. And after

the year of remand? After the year in the Crumlin Road there would be a sentence with the recommendation that the prisoner serve a minimum of

twenty‐five years.

He thought he could remember each day of his five years served in H Block 7...

Shit, this was a five years' sentence times five. This was every day of five years times five. Every day in a two bunk cell times five, every strip search and cell search times five, every visit from Roisin and her mother and his mother and Young Gerard times five, every sneer from the screws times five ... and every year