Field of Blood (15 page)

estate. Upstairs curtains were drawn in 31 and 35 and 39 and 47 and 53 of the Drive. Ferris noted the drawn curtains. He knew the men in those houses had no

work. The wife would have been up early to see the children to school with their

sandwich boxes, the man would have stayed in his bed. The man would get up before lunchtime, and in the afternoon he would take his place on the corner of

the Drive and the Avenue if it wasn't raining and gossip with his cronies, or stand

in silence beside them to watch the slow‐moving life of Turf Lodge. Ferris knew

that there was fifty per cent plus unemployment amongst the men of Turf Lodge.

He supposed there were estates on the fringes of English towns where the workless rate was as high. What he did know was that there were no estates in

English towns through which soldiers walked with so great a caution.

David Ferris's father was a bank manager living on the outskirts of the

Lancastrian town of Preston. He firmly believed in the advice offered by an English politician, that the unemployed should get on their bicycles and set off in

search of work. David Ferris's father knew nothing of the life of Turf Lodge, and

less than nothing about what his son did in the Turf Lodge estate.

The middle of the morning was a bad time for the patrols ... Earlier, there would

be the children and their mothers going to school, and at lunchtime there would

be the mothers collecting the smallest children, and in the afternoon there would

be the older children coming home. The soldiers were always more relaxed when

the pavements and roads were filled with children. The risk of bombs was always

greatest when the streets were empty; the car bomb, the bicycle bomb, the culvert bomb, the pipe bomb, the booby trap bomb. The bomb could be resting

in the boot of the rust‐damaged Ford Cortina parked half on the pavement and

half on the gutter, it could be laid in the strapped‐down bag on the back of the

bicycle seat, it could be placed under the man‐hole cover in the pavement, it 77

could be stuffed into a length of builder's plastic piping, it could be under the wood stairboard of a derelict house. The bomb could be detonated by remote command, by wire control, by contact.

David Ferris thought that his father, sitting in the manager's office in his bank, would not have been able to comprehend what it was like for his son to walk through Turf Lodge mid‐morning in early December. He knew his mother and his

father went to church now, he knew that they prayed each week for his safe return from that barbarian place, and would do until his sixteen weeks were done.

He saw Mrs McAnally, with her push chair and with the little girl beside her legs,

come out through the broken gate of 63. She was on the same side of the road as

Ferris, coming towards him.

The soldier in front of Ferris made way for her to squeeze between him and a front garden hedge. She had her eyes down when she passed the soldier. When

she looked up, Ferris was in front of her. For a moment she stared at him, recognizing him.

`Mrs McAnally . . .'

He saw her lip curl in dislike, the tired prettiness of her was wiped away.

Ì saw your husband last night.'

For a moment her chin quivered, as if she were about to reply to him, then she

thrust the push chair forward and the wheel bounced on his boot and a wing bolt

caught at his trouser legs, and she was past him.

He felt a sense of despair. For a few seconds, the time it took him to move a dozen yards, his mind was clouded by the disgust in her mouth and eyes.

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**And she would have seen him dead, he knew that, and if he had been dead in

the Drive it was a good bet that she would have clapped.

He would be going straight back from Roselawn, with the grave earth on his shoes, to Castlereagh, to the murderer of his friend.

Sean Pius McAnally lay face down on the mattress of his cell bed.

His hands covered his eyes. His wrists protected his face from the bedding material.

The thoughts bellowed in his head, and tortured him. The thoughts were of opting out, of going south again and turning his back on the Organization, the thoughts were of a lonely life in the caravan beside the canal. He hadn't asked to

be brought back. He hadn't asked to have the bloody R.P.G. put into his hands ...

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and he hadn't asked to be dumped in a cell in the Castlereagh Holding Centre, staring twenty‐five years in the Kesh in the face.

In his agonies, lying on his stomach, Sean Pius McAnally resolved to fight to win

his freedom. He didn't concern himself with the morality of the decision, nor with

the consequences. His thoughts were simple and immediate. They were of the echoing cold wings of the H Block, and of his children crawling over him, and of

the warmth of Roisin against him in the night, and of the bird in the tree above

the caravan, and of the clean night mists rising from the canal.

Abruptly he sat up and faced the door of the cell and waited for the policeman to

lead him back to the Interrogation Room.

The police band was far to the front, crying out the death march. Howard Rennie

walked in the tenth row of mourners behind the hearse. In the first rows of mourners were the family of the Detective Sergeant who had died in the Crumlin

Road, and behind the family were the Security Forces' public faces ‐ Chief Constable, Deputy Chief Constable, G.O.C. N. I., G.O.C. Land Forces who had helicoptered in from Billy Simpson's burying. Rennie was back amongst the 'tecs,

with the men who had worked with the Detective Sergeant and who faced the fair old risk of following on the same trek into the Roselawn cemetery.

She was a great girl, the widow. She'd not let herself down, not in the church, not

at the graveside.

Rennie knew the Presbyterian Minister who was burying his friend. He'd heard him at the last police funeral for a parishioner, heard what he'd said about the killers of a policeman. If the Minister came down to the Interrogation Rooms at

Castlereagh, and sat in on the questioning of murder suspects, then he'd wipe the

waffle about conscience from his funeral addresses. Rennie had yet to discover remorse in the Interrogation Rooms. Regret at being caught, yes. Conscience, never.

`Don't go biting my head off, I'm just telling you there's a powerful anger at what

happened to Blaney's boy. That's all I'm saying.'

`Who's angry?' The Chief sat in the snug of the bar on the Falls down at Beechmount. There was a man on the door of the snug. The drinkers in the main

bar could not see in. That morning the Chief was holding court for two members

of his Brigade staff and the Falls Provie Battalion Commander. It was a dark recess of a room, with the small window's light diminished by the heavy

protective mesh outside the glass. `Who's bloody angry?

'People are angry, people from the Blaney boy's street.' It was rare for the Provie

Battalion Commander to take on the Chief.

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`Gone soft on touting, have they, in the Blaney brat's street?

'They're angry because they say he's not a tout, they say no boy of Mattie Blaney

would be a tout.'

`There was a court martial . . .'

`He didn't admit to nothing.'

"Course he wouldn't bloody admit it. It was legit ... I'll not have fucking touts, who's ever son they are.'

`That's my place up there, Turf Lodge, that's my swim ...'

The Chief leaned forward across the table. He hiccupped sweet and sour breath.

`Touts kill us ... got it? Touts kill us, so we kill touts. The Blaney boy was lucky he wasn't killed ... got it?

'What if he wasn't a tout?'

The Chief's fist darted across the table, caught at the collar of the Provie Battalion Commander and twisted so that the collar bit into his throat. Ì don't want to hear about the Blaney boy. I don't give a shit for Mattie Blaney's boy. I

care for Gingy more than Mattie Blaney's boy ... and Gingy's in fucking

Castlereagh ...'

The fist loosened its hold.

Ì was just telling you, that's all ...' The Provie Battalion Commander was a window cleaner. He was good with a rifle, and poor with words. He wished that

he had kept his mouth shut. In the subterranean areas of his mind he cut off the

thoughts of Mattie Blaney's boy and the cigarette burns on the kid's stomach, and the screaming, and the blood from the smashed knee‐cap. He cut off the thoughts because he was aware in all his waking moments of the Chief's principal

fear, the fear of touts.

There was a knock at the outside of the door to the snug. The door was opened a

few inches. A paper bag was passed in. The Provie

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**Battalion Commander thought he might be sick at the stench of the Chinese

cooking.

Ì'll be away.'

The Chief was dragging the tinfoil caps from the food bowls and the plastic fork

from the bottom of the bag.

Ìf we don't hit at touts, then the touts will destroy us,' and the Chief was busy with his food.

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He was brought into the Interrogation Room, he sat down, and he heard the door

close behind him, and he said, Ìf I make a statement, what'll you do for me?'

Behind him Astley smirked. In front of him McDonough sucked at his pipe.

`What's for me if I talk?'

McDonough's expression was a mask. Ì am Detective Sergeant McDonough, this

is Detective Constable Astley. Sean Pius McAnally, you are not obliged to say anything unless you wish to do so, but what you say may be put into writing and

given in evidence . . . Can we have that again, Gingy?

'If I make a statement, what do I get for it?'

McDonough played indifference. Ìf you make a statement implicating yourself, a

little bit. It might count for a bit, not a lot. If you make a statement that implicates others, then a little bit more ... but this is the wrong way round, Gingy.

The way it happens is that you make the statement, and then the Director of Public Prosecutions has the say in what happens to you. I don't make deals ...'

`That's not done at our level, Gingy,' Astley said.

Ìt has to be a matter of trust, Gingy,' McDonough said. `You have to trust us, because there's no other bugger for you to trust. I'll put it frankly, Gingy, we'd need an awful lot from you to count in the smallest way against what you've done. What I'm really saying, lad, is that I can't see that you could give us enough to do yourself any good ... I said I'd be frank.'

McAnally was trembling. His body shook and the legs of the chair on which he sat

tapped out a beat on the floor as he rocked the chair backwards and forwards.

`Can't I say anything that'll help me?

'Have to be a terrible lot said to help you, Gingy.' Astley's voice was quiet, soothing. Ànd we don't make the offer, we don't give any inducements. You have to ask, Gingy.'

His fingers were pattering on the table. He was breathing heavily. There was a sweat sheen at his throat.

Smoke clouded from McDonough's pipe between them.

McAnally looked into McDonough's face. He saw the hard, uncaring mouth of his

enemy. He saw the pitiless eyes of his enemy. The words seemed to croak from

his throat.

Ì want immunity.'

Ìmmunity, Gingy?' McDonough whistled his surprise. `Two 'tecs blown away,

and a judge, and you want immunity?

'Immunity from prosecution.'

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McDonough shook his head, theatrically slowly. Ì can't see it ... Can you see it,

Detective Constable Astley? I mean, how do you get immunity from three

murder charges?'

`That's all I'll talk for, for immunity.'

`Going supergrass, Gingy, is that what you're saying?'

"Course it's what I'm saying ...' The words rattled from McAnally.

Àre you talking about going the whole hog?' McDonough spoke as if to a child.

Ìnto the box, Gingy? Into the witness box to give evidence?' Astley asked quietly

from behind.

Ìnto the box, if I get immunity ...'

The words hung in the air, hung with the smoke of McDonough's pipe. McAnally

glared at McDonough.

Why did everything have to be repeated again and again? And why didn't the bastard smile and look pleased?

McDonough sighed. `Wouldn't it be lovely, Gingy, if it were so simple. Two 'tecs

killed, and a judge, but Gingy McAnally's going to go supergrass and inform on a

few of his horrible mates, and we're going to pull in a handful of P.I.R.A.

Volunteers, and he's going to get immunity. Wouldn't it be lovely, Gingy?

'What do you mean?

'Cop on, Gingy ... What have you got to offer that's equal to two 'tecs and a judge

...? Sorry, wrong, not equal ... What have you got to offer that's bigger than a conviction of an R.P.G. man for three murders?

'There's another matter, Detective Sergeant McDonough,' Astley said.

`What's the other matter, Detective Constable Astley?' McDonough asked.

Astley said easily, `Why did they bring Gingy back from the south? They brought

him back because they knew he was good on the R.P.G. Where did he get to be