A Breed of Heroes (32 page)

‘They’re not yet.’

‘Why not?’

‘It’s a bit early in the day.’ They climbed on to the bank and walked along it. The digging soldiers eyed her as they passed.

She lit another cigarette and offered one to Charles. ‘Not when in uniform, I s’pose? That’s what gets me about you officers. You’re so bloody hidebound and
self-conscious.’

‘I don’t smoke.’

‘Not you in particular but the officer class in general. All stiff upper lip and understatement. They look as if they never shit, some of them.’

‘But some do, from a great height.’

‘You don’t rile easily, do you? I think I’m going to like you. How come you’re in the Army?’ Her mouth widened into a slow, confident smile.

‘I just joined.’

‘But why?’

Charles still felt cheerful because of the greenness of the grass. He looked her in the eye. ‘I wanted to kill people.’

She blew out a lot of smoke. ‘Holy shit, that’s bad. That’s mean. At least you’re honest, though.’

‘Yes.’

‘The name O’Hare mean anything to you?’ She had kept the smile going.

‘No.’ It did, though. O’Hare had been a soldier in the battalion two years previously and was now reputed to be a leading Provisional IRA gunman in the Ardoyne area. The CO had
told them about this at a briefing which he had labelled ‘Top Secret’, but he made such promiscuous use of this category that it was not always easy to know what was secret and what was
not. However, Charles felt fairly certain that this, for some reason, was. ‘It’s Irish, isn’t it?’

‘Yes.’ She nodded. ‘You see, there’s an IRA marksman of that name who used to be in your regiment. At least, we’re pretty certain he did. We know he left the Army
and why he left and what he’s done since. Only we’re not positive that that’s his real name and we’re not one hundred per cent sure it was your regiment. Obviously
it’s a good story if it was. We just need confirmation, that’s all. Passive confirmation.’

‘First I’ve heard of it.’

‘He’s deeply involved, this guy. He’s into everything they’re doing. We’ve got the story all ready. We just need the confirmation.’

‘Never heard of him.’

‘Can’t you find out?’

‘No one would tell me even if they knew. Ask the IRA.’

‘They don’t name their people on operational duty in the North.’ She stopped walking and turned to face him, lowering her voice. Charles felt she was becoming more attractive.
‘Look, just the name, that’s all. You don’t even have to say it. Just nod if it’s him. I mean, no one will know it’s you because if you can confirm it I can check back
through other sources and make it look as though it came from them. In fact, it will have. It’s just that it will have come from you first, that’s all. No one will ever know, I promise
you, Charles.’ She was not smiling now, but was looking at him sincerely.

Charles put his hand on his heart. ‘Believe me, if I knew you could tempt me.’

‘Will you keep your ears open for me? Some of your friends must know.’

They neared the dustbin of explosives and Charles persuaded her to put out her cigarette. The knowledgeable colour sergeant repeated his exposition. She tried to touch the weeping gelignite and
was prevented. They moved on to where the weapons were exhibited and she lit up again. ‘I don’t know much about weapons. It’s something I ought to learn, though on Hindsight of
course we do more in-depth investigation of the people behind the action. Still, weapons are good local colour.’

‘Aren’t they quite important for your investigation?’

‘Quite. Quite. Great word, that. Very British. No – but the really important thing for me is not the technology of urban guerrilla warfare so much as the thought behind the bullets,
you know. I’m more interested in why they’re doing what they’re doing than in how. But I ought to know all the same.’

She took herself very seriously. Charles could think of nothing to say but found that nodding was all that was expected of him. They came to where the weapons were displayed on a polythene sheet
on the grass. She exhaled two parallel jets of smoke through her nostrils. ‘That’s not much.’

‘Well, it’s a pretty representative sample of the technology of urban guerrilla warfare.’

‘Is that a machine-gun?’

‘No, it’s a rifle.’

‘You haven’t got a machine-gun?’

‘Sorry.’

‘The IRA do have them, you know. M60s they’re called. I’ve seen one. One of their Northern commanders showed me.’ She pushed back the hair which had fallen across her
eyes. The bright sun illuminated the pallor of her skin. Charles no longer fancied her, though he kept trying. Her wide mouth was appealing but her eyes were small, hard brown stones set in puffed
white flesh. Still, it was a long time since he had been near a woman. ‘You should be talking to these people,’ she continued. ‘You should be trying to understand the people
you’re fighting. They’re interesting guys. That’s why the press is so important to you. We can look at things objectively without taking sides, whereas you’re involved and
you’re bound to be biased. It’s like this man was telling me, the whole weight of the broadcasting media is on your side by nature so we have to make a conscious effort to present their
point of view. Which is quite legitimate, you know. I regard the IRA as expressing a point of view with as much right to be considered as anything you say. You see, we’re the guardians of
democracy. Army officers seem to think that democracy is an upper middle-class thing that no one else should be allowed to join unless they’ve been to the right school or regiment or
whatever. Our job is to protect the majority from exploiting minorities like yours. If you see what I mean. Being exploited by, that is.’

It was not what she said that bothered Charles but what to do with her. The nearest soldiers were leaning on the spades and listening. Judging by their expressions they were about to break out
into the vociferous ribaldry at which they so excelled. If they did he would have to discipline them, a task which never came easily to him. Moira Conn would like neither the ribaldry, which she
would take to be an attempt to reduce her to a sex-object, nor his defence of her, which she would take to be an attempt to patronise. ‘Would you like to see the rest of the site?’ he
asked.

‘In the short term any tactics are justifiable in an urban guerrilla war so long as they help to bring about an equal and classless society in the long term.’

However, further conversation was averted by the arrival of some stones. One landed near enough to make her jump. ‘What was that?’

‘A stone thrown by some children behind the houses. Here come some more.’ They were thrown by half a dozen children who ran out from behind a house. No one was hit and the soldiers
carried on working, as though the stones were no more than rain.

‘Do they often do this?’ asked Moira.

‘Only when they can see us.’

‘They must hate you.’

‘They enjoy it.’

Some more stones whistled over and thudded into the turf a few feet away. A corporal and two men went down the bank and across the fence to drive the children back out of range. A tiny, grubby,
blond child of about two feet six had wandered forward almost to the bank. As the soldiers walked past him he looked up at them seriously, his soiled mouth working a few times before the word would
come out. ‘B-b-bastards,’ he said.

‘Perhaps we’d better get down out of the way,’ said Charles, as a few more stones came from another direction.

Moira hitched her bag further on to her shoulder. ‘I’m not scared. You needn’t worry about me.’

Charles thought of pleading that it was he that was scared, but instead said, ‘It’s only that if you’re seen and recognised with us they might not trust you and might think
you’re not being objective. There’s bound to be someone taking note of who’s here, and we’re very exposed on the bank. It’s happened before that journalists seen with
us are never spoken to again.’ They moved back on to the pitch where a snatch squad was being organised by a wizened and popular colour sergeant. He swore at one of his squad, a negro, and
then the whole squad laughed at his surprise at seeing Moira behind him. He asked to be excused for his French.

‘Is there much of that sort of thing?’ Moira asked as they moved away.

‘There’s quite a bit of swearing, yes.’

‘No, not that. The way he picked on that black guy. Racial prejudice.’

‘No, there isn’t any.’

‘But did you hear what he said to him? He called him an idle black bastard.’

‘That’s because there isn’t any racial prejudice.’

‘Personally I can’t stand men who feel they have to apologise for swearing in front of a woman. It’s so bloody patronising, you know. It pisses me off.’

Unfortunately, they bumped into the CO near the grandstand. He had been standing amongst the seats, surveying the ground, and came down the stairs three at a time and leapt the fence as Charles
and Moira walked past. He was making for his Land-Rover by the entrance and was in high good humour. ‘Charles – everything all right? Good. Womanising, eh? Why don’t you introduce
me to this charming young lady?’ Charles introduced them and they shook hands. ‘I can’t say I like your paper, Miss Conn, but I trust that when you write about what you’ve
seen today you’ll redress the balance a bit. Have you shown her the weeping jelly?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘There you are, then. That shows you the sort of people we’re up against.’

Moira Conn dropped her cigarette on to the ground and extinguished it. ‘I know the sort of people you’re up against – better than you do, I should think. I’ve spoken to
their brigade commanders myself. And I don’t think operations of the kind you’ve mounted here today prove anything or do any good to anyone. They just turn people against
you.’

The CO shot a quick glance at Charles, as though he were at least partially responsible. ‘If you’ll take my advice, young lady, which I don’t s’pose you will for a
moment, you’ll be very careful in the company you keep in future. You’ve been had, you’ve been done. These men are dangerous, clever, cruel and fanatical. They’re just using
you, that’s all, and you don’t even know it.’

Moira Conn grasped the strap of her bag firmly. ‘On the contrary, Colonel, I get the impression they’re not as fanatical and dangerous as many so-called real officers I’ve come
across. But some of them are a bit more clever.’

Charles gazed in the direction of the north bank, hoping for an explosion from that direction, but the CO remained calm. ‘I’m not going to argue with you,’ he said slowly, as
though to a child. ‘You know you’re wrong, and if you don’t you very soon will. I hope you’re intelligent enough not to be deluded all your life. If security permitted I
could prove to you the error of your ways, but it doesn’t and so that’s that. You’ve got my word for it. One thing I will say, though, is that you’ll be doing all decent
people a service if you stop crediting these mindless, bitter thugs and villains with the rank and status of an official army. That’s exactly what they want, you see. It makes them feel good.
They think they’re getting somewhere then. In fact, they’re no more brigade commanders and such like than you are, or Charles here. Just because some wretched plumber calls himself a
brigadier and intimidates a few criminals and harebrained youngsters you go ahead and call him a brigadier. You give him everything he’s asking for – recognition, power, fame. As it is,
they’re simply imitating us, you see. There’s nothing original about it. They’re just corner boys. Rank structure, titles, so-called military courts and all that – that
– that balls, if you’ll excuse my French, Miss Conn. I feel very strongly about it. I hope I haven’t taken up too much of your time. Good day to you.’ He stood to attention
and saluted her, then turned on his heel and walked away.

Moira Conn was pale and seething. ‘Is he real? Is he really like that? Did you see what he did? He saluted.’

‘You touched him on a tender spot.’

‘He’s one big bloody tender spot if you ask me. Jesus Christ, I didn’t know such people existed. Where’s he think he’s at, you know? Give me the IRA any
time.’

‘He’s very good-hearted.’ Charles was not used to defending the CO and was having to feel his way.

‘Crap. Are you telling me you’re content to let your life be ruled by a man like that?’

‘I’m leaving soon.’

‘And he apologised for swearing. That’s two this morning.’

‘I’m very sorry about that.’ They wandered without further speech back towards the entrance. Charles was wondering how to get rid of her when she saw Father Murphy, the local
priest, arguing with the soldier on the gate.

‘Is he the one who’s been organising the local citizens’ action committees?’

‘Yes.’

‘How does your colonel get on with him?’

‘He doesn’t.’

‘I’m going to interview him.’ She rummaged in her bag for pen and paper. ‘Can you give me John’s number?’

‘Whose?’

‘John Van-what’s-its. That guy I told you about.’

‘Van Horne. He doesn’t have a number of his own.’

‘Well, it must be possible to contact him if he helps with the press. Where does he hang out?’

‘In my office, mainly.’

‘So I can use your number?’

‘I suppose so.’

‘And you can take messages if he’s not around?’

‘I suppose I can, yes.’

‘Great. Thanks. And thanks for showing me that stuff. It was very useful. Let me know if you hear anything about O’Hare. Bye.’

Charles saw no more of her. She rang Van Horne a couple of times but there was no question of his having an evening off to see her. No one had that much time off. Instead, he arranged to see her
in London at the end of the tour. ‘I’ve got her flat number in case you’re ever interested, sir,’ he said, with no trace of a smile.

This conversation had taken place in the office Charles shared with Colin Wood, Colin being out at the time. Charles took the opportunity to slip Van Horne his share of the latest payment from
Beazely. As he was handing over the money Nigel Beale poked his head round the door. ‘Where’s Colin?’ he asked.

‘I don’t know,’ said Charles, feeling he must have started guiltily. He saw Nigel’s eye alight upon the money. ‘He may be upstairs with the CO.’