Field of Blood (40 page)

home to the protection of Frankie Conroy.

He took her out to his car, and drove her away from the estates and up to the slopes of Divis, and he parked in the darkness at the entrance to the rubbish tips.

He cut the headlights.

She could hear his breathing, sense the warmth of his body. She stared ahead of

her, into nothing.

`How's Gingy?

'How you'd expect.'

`You did well, telling us where to look.'

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Ì told my Ma, I didn't know who she'd tell.'

His arm looped behind her and his hand was on her shoulder. He gripped the bones of her shoulder, and if she'd wanted to she couldn't have shrugged him away.

`How'd he take it?

'The bombs, I didn't see him ... he was in the hall, I was in the living room . . .'

`How'd he take it, Roisin?

'I'm not touting on my man. I'm not touting on him just because he's touted on

others.'

The fingers bit harder into her flesh, onto her bones. `How'd he take it?'

The pain was cruel in her shoulder. `Shaking, frightened.'

`Did he see the bullet?'

`That was bloody evil, how did you ...?T

'Did he see the bullet?

'He was pig screaming at the bullet. It was in the helicopter.'

His hands spread over her. A hand tugging up her sweater and her vest from the

waist of her jeans, and a hand grappling with the bra fastener at her back.

Calloused hands on her skin. And the taste of his beer and his cigarettes on her

mouth.

Ìs he going to follow you?

'He's frightened as a dog. He'll come back.'

`How soon?

'Without the soldier he'd be back now ...'

He had loosened the fastener. His hands were on her breasts.

`Get your hands off me.'

She was wriggling to be away from him, clawing at the hand that cupped her breast. And he was laughing at her.

`You going to fight me, you going to fight Frankie Conroy?'

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**`Get your filthy fucking hands off me.'

`Heh, Missus, you start shouting ... Who's coming to help a tout's woman?

Without me you're in bad shit. You be bloody thankful you're with me . . .'

He was huge, heavy, overwhelming her. His hands were away from her breasts and scraping at the zip of her jeans. She brought her knee up sharply into his groin, and he gasped, and sagged away from her. He was staring at her, panting.

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`You come near me again and you'd better have a saucepan over it. I'll kick it till

it's fucking blue.'

`Without me . . .'

`You don't buy me, Frankie Conroy ... If I want to get laid, I get laid. But I don't get laid on anyone's say so. I want to take my trousers off, I take them off, I don't need any lout telling me.'

`You hurt me.'

`Keep your hands under your bum.'

There was a slow smile on Frankie's face that was dimly lit from the dashboard.

He shrugged. She leaned forward, and without thinking Frankie refastened the bra catch. Frankie's arm was round her shoulder, but gently. She stared up at the

car roof.

`What'll happen to him?'

`We'll try to kill him.'

Ìf he comes home?

'He's gone, Missus. To us he's dead. To Turf Lodge he's dead. You walked out on

him. He's dead to you.'

Frankie lit two cigarettes, passed one to her. `Who's with him?'

`Rennie's there ... There's one called Prentice, one called Goss.' Ìs one of them

the soldier?

'What's it to you?

'Don't mess with me, Missus. You came back, remember. You came back to your

people . . .'

`You want me to tout on my man, so's it's easier for you to kill my man.'

`You help Frankie Conroy and you might just be able to live in Turf Lodge. You

mess me and fuck knows where you're going to have to run to. Didn't you think it

out, Missus?'

Jesus, that was rich. When was the time to think it out? With the mortars landing,

with the loudspeaker, flying from Palace to Lisburn with a bullet bouncing on the

floor, bloody good time to think it out. With Young Gerard pointing a loaded pistol at Prentice, with the door locked on Gingy's shouting, bloody good time ...

Ì didn't think it out.'

`You'll think it out now.'

`Yes.'

She had Young Gerard and Little Patty and Baby Sean, and she had

her Ma, and she had a house in Turf Lodge.

`Who counts with Gingy?' A small voice. `The soldier.' `Who's the soldier?

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'The one that took him the first time.' `What's the soldier's name?

'He's from the barracks at Springfield.' `What's his name?

'Ferris . . .'

`Why's he special?

'He's the one Gingy listens to.'

`His name's Ferris, and he's Springfield? Thank you, Missus. You're

back with your own.'

`You don't have to kill him.' `Gingy? What's he to you now?

'He's my husband, he's the ...' Her voice died. She took the hand

kerchief from the sleeve of her jersey and noisily blew her nose. `He's

my man, you bastard.'

He drove her back to her mother's house.

He leaned across her, opened her door for her. `You don't have to kill him.'

`Might not have to do anything to him.'

Rennie put down the telephone and went back into the living room. McAnally was on the settee. He was lying on his back snoring and

there was a blanket over him. He looked at peace, as if his mind had

shut down. Best thing for him, to be pissed and not be dreaming. Goss

was feeding himself instant coffee.

Prentice turned from the window. `Marching orders?

'You've drawn the jackpot, John. Christmas in a U.K. army camp.

You two, and him. You fly tomorrow morning.'

Àbout time.'

`Time to make the bugger start earning his keep.'

Prentice looked at Rennie. `He's got to learn to stand on his own

feet, without Ferris holding him up. That's the difficulty.'

`Right now I'm just thankful he's standing. I'm not fussed who's

propping him'

'You can't walk away from the difficulty, Mr Rennie ...'

He was tired, he wanted to be home. Suddenly Rennie was bored sick with the supergrass, with thèdifficulty' of the supergrass. He

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**exploded, `So McAnally needs his soldier friend to keep him standing, so he has him, so he will continue to have him ...'

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`He won't stand up without him, Mr Rennie.'

`He will continue to have him.' He savaged the two young detectives with his gaze. Rennie remembered the days when convictions were obtained by

evidence. The days of fingerprints, and of identification parades, and the matching of fibres of hairs under microscopes, the days of interrogation. These two detectives were spoiled brats. Their police work was done for them by an informer. Lazy spoiled brats, because all that was asked of them was to keep the

informer on his feet until his time came for the witness box ... The anger evaporated. He thought that he could be a boring old bugger when he tried, and

he wanted his bed and his woman's backside against his, and he wanted Sean Pius McAnally out of his mind.

`You don't have to shout, Mr Rennie.'

Ì'll see you in the morning, lads, and thanks ...'

He had the back room of a widower's terraced house off Beechmount. He was a

good tenant, paid regular. Bank money and Post Office money, rolled in the South, and changed in the border villages from Punts to Sterling, enabled Frankie

to pay his rent on the nail.

It was a small room. Bed, table, chair, and a wardrobe. The widower swept up after him because he paid regularly and he paid above. He drew a hundred a week from the Organization and forty a week from the Unemployment. He was

supported by the South's taxpayers and the United Kingdom's taxpayers, and between the two of them they gave him enough for his needs. He would have needed more, of course, if he had had a wife or a steady woman living in. There

never had been a wife. There had been a girl who might have been a wife until

she went away. The girl was in her eighth year in Armagh prison, pub bombing

and Frankie had never been much at writing letters, and worse at visiting.

Lying on his bed Frankie Conroy squirmed with pleasure at the thought of Roisin

McAnally, and the thought of what she had given him.

The name of Ferris.

David Ferris of the Royal Regiment of Fusiliers, who were garrisoned at

Springfield Road.

In his mind he saw a cripple who moved with the help of a crutch. The crutch kicked away, and the cripple fell helpless, and the crutch was the soldier called Ferris.

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He'd not have believed it, that Gingy McAnally would depend himself on a Brit officer.

The Chaplain had come to talk.

The cross on his shoulder flash gave him an access to the officers and men alike

that was denied to any other man in the battalion.

From the gap under the door he saw that the ceiling light was on. He eased the

door open. He smelt the reek of whisky.

After the night in the Mess he had chided himself for not taking a keener interest

in young Ferris. There was no doubt that he was bending ‐ not cracking, not yet,

just bending ‐ anyone in the Mess and hearing Ferris and the little wart of the local clergy could have recognized that Ferris was bending. He might have left it a

few more days, but he had come from the Intelligence Officer's room, and there

he had heard the gossip that Ferris had come back drunk from his day out with

the police. Word of it had not yet reached the Commanding Officer. Sooner or later it would, and if the Chaplain wasn't quick about it, he would be too late to

salvage the record of David Ferris.

He saw on the floor an ugly heap of wet uniform and a pair of muddy boots. Ferris

was asleep on the top blanket, in his vest and underpants and his socks. He held

against his face a sheet of notepaper, a handwritten letter. Moving carefully, the

Chaplain gathered up the clothes, carried them like a housewife to the hot radiator pipes and hung them out.

The Chaplain closed the door and went as discreetly as he had come. No point in

waking the poor devil. He knew Ferris's file, knew all the officers' files, he knew of the failed University entrance and the failed Special Air Service application, but

for all those failures he was a good young man, conscientious and sincere, a bit of

a prig but nothing of a snob. He wanted to do right by Ferris.

He went to Sunray's room, found him pyjama‐clad and writing a letter.

`What's your prob, Billy, temporal or spiritual?

'Young Ferris, Bravo Company . . .'

`Quite wretched behaviour in the Mess. I haven't caught up with him

yet.

`He's under stress,' the Chaplain said flatly. Èvery man here's in stress.'

`His normal soldiering, that's one thing, but his dealings with the

police are too much on top. The LO. tells me they're using him to hang

onto their prize supergrass. That's why he's in a bad way.'

`Have you got him outside?

'He's out on his feet. He's drunk, I am afraid.' `God Almighty.'

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`Ship him out, sir, if you can, three days, four days, give him some

leave.'

`We're a week from Christmas, Billy, we'd all like some leave.' `He's doing two jobs here, when the rest of us have one.'

,

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**`We're all flat out.'

Ì'll put it another way, sir . . . You have allowed one of your officers to be manipulated by the police ... I wouldn't have thought the police will be greatly concerned with young Ferris once they've bled him for what he's worth to them.

They'll drop him like he never existed.'

`That's rather bold, Billy.'

`Do you like what he's doing, sir?

'I wasn't asked.'

Ànd neither was he ... What he needs now is help, not a reprimand. He's one of

your best young officers. He's worth helping. He's got a lovely girl at home, and

when he's done the right thing by her, as I'm sure he will, he'll lose a few of these sharp edges, and he'll be a better soldier for it. I'm going to be bolder, sir ...'

Ì'm sure you are.'

`By allowing Ferris to get mixed up in this squalid affair, I don't think you've done him well.'

Sunray grinned. `You're bloody preaching, Billy. You're hiding behind your cloth

... you'll take a wet?

'I'll have a drink, if you'll give him three or four days.' `You'll have to concoct some fool excuse for it.' `Whisky, please.'

A Wessex helicopter lifted Sean Pius McAnally and his minders from Thiepval to

the Royal Air Force section of Aldergrove Airport. Rennie didn't take the ride, he

contented himself with an early morning lecture to the informer in the front room of the house. He told him he was saving lives, he told him that whatever he

had done in the past could be wiped out by his evidence. He used thick paint to

make the images of widows and fatherless children. Nothing too sophisticated for a creature like McAnally.

Through the helicopter's porthole windows as it rose above Lisburn McAnally could see the city in which he had lived all his life before the escape to the caravan in the South. It was a rare sunny morning, and the light caught the rows