Field of Blood (41 page)

of grey houses that were the estates of West Belfast, and he could see the 224

needles of smoke rising from the chimneys before the sweep to the west and the

run to the airport. He sat on his own opposite Prentice and Goss.

There had been no calls for Prentice to make. There was no one in his life who would care whether he was out of the city for the holiday. Goss had spoken to his

fiancee. He would be away over Christmas, and it wasn't a bloody holiday, and no, he couldn't say where he was going.

At Aldergrove they were told they were late, that the Hercules transporter had been held for them. They were hurried across the tarmac

from the helicopters' park to the aircraft. There were ground crew round the Hercules, muffled against the cold, and they looked with shameless curiosity at

the three passengers. They could recognize policemen, something in the

manner, something in the walk, but the man between them was the odd man out. Way out. The Adidas trainers on McAnally's feet were still mud‐caked, and

his jeans were torn, and his anorak was too thin for this cold, and his head was

ducked down as if he were fearful of being recognized.

The Hercules was carrying freight. They were found three canvasbottomed seats

forward in the fuselage, close to the bulkhead ladder up to the cockpit, they were

shown the piss bucket. They were led to believe they were a bloody nuisance for

delaying take off.

Over the roar of the engines revving for power, Prentice said, `Good case for a Redeye. If any of your friends have a spare heat‐seeker lying around then these

buggers should be first on the list.'

Goss thought it a hell of a crack. Gingy McAnally didn't laugh, the men in the city

who had the rockets and the Armalites and the Kalashnikovs and the Remingtons

and the Thompsons were no longer his friends. The men in the city who might one day lay their hands on a heat‐seeking Redeye missile would be glad to fire it

up his arse.

The Hercules lumbered into the air.

Temporarily Belfast was behind Sean Pius McAnally.

He was tall, he had no belly on him, he always carried a rifle, he was the only officer who came out on foot patrol in Turf Lodge.

That was where Frankie Conroy started. And he built on that small foundation, gathering bricks of information.

He learned that in the mornings the patrols were mostly in open landrovers and

that in the afternoons they came on foot. You wouldn't be setting a clock on it,

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but mostly the foot patrols came as the light was going. There was one platoon

from Springfield that did the Turf Lodge, it was pretty much always the same platoon. They used the eight‐man patrol, four on each pavement. Those that he

asked didn't question why the information was required, merely gave him help and closed the door on him.

When he had established the pattern of patrolling in Turf Lodge, cursorily and not at firsthand, he sought out the driver of a delivery van. The van was regular

round the Upper Falls and the Whiterock. By the familiarity of its rounds the van

had a certain immunity from search, and the driver always had a smile for the troops and the police at road block checks.

`You want a bloody Armalite? What for?

'For a snipe.'

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**Òn whose say?

'My say.'

`Brigade has to say it.'

`Brigade's in the Crumlin Road gaol.'

`How long would you want it for, just an afternoon?

'Four or five days, till I've done my snipe.'

`That's daft, you'll not get an Armalite for that time, not without

someone's say‐so.'

Ìt's my say‐so ... when the Chief's out, it would go bad for the man who didn't help with an Armalite to speed him out.' `To get the Chief out ... ?T

'And all those with him.'

The driver shrugged. Ìt's on your head.' `Your neck if I don't get an Armalite.'

Frankie fixed his rendezvous for the collection of a weapon and a full magazine.

The days and the nights drifted closer to Christmas, and Frankie found for himself the detail of Turf Lodge. Of course he had a map, but a street map told

him nothing. For two days he padded the pavements by day, and was a fleeting

shadow figure in the darkness of the night as he examined the back entries to the

houses and their back fences and their back gardens. Carol singers moved

through the estate, and the mothers and children came from the city in the black

taxis with arms bulging from shop‐wrapped parcels, and the men who were in work laid in drink for the holiday, and a sort of truce invaded the area.

If the sniping of the soldier had been given to an A.S.U. then it would have been

simple work. One on the gun, one on the lookout, one with the covering fire, one

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to drive the getaway ... But Frankie was alone. He searched in Turf Lodge for a

sniping site ... If an A.S.U. was making the hit then a house could be taken over.

That was standard. The family held and the marksman in the front bedroom to

while away the hours till target time ... But Frankie on his own could not hold a

family and snipe.

There was a house on the corner of the Drive and the Crescent. The house was

derelict. The last woman who had lived there had been prominent in the Peace

Movement, and when her windows had been broken and she had gone overseas

with her husband and her children the mob had finished inside what they had started outside. The final act had been to pour petrol over the hallway and ignite

it. Turf Lodge had hated the Peace Movement women, seen them as Brit

stooges, and Prot stooges, and as traitors to the community. When the petrol was poured, when the match was thrown, one of the raiding youths had been still

inside, and upstairs. It was said later that he had been trying to wrench the taps

off the bath. The youth burned to death and in the perverse way of Turf Lodge

the death that had been agonized and noisy was

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blamed on the Peace Movement women. In the lore of the community the house

was tainted. It had never been made habitable. It had been boarded up with chipboard by the Housing Executive workmen and abandoned. Frankie reckoned

the combination of the first floor small bedroom and the next door bathroom could give him a shot down either the Drive or the Crescent. It had to be a daylight shot ... None of the street lights functioned within two hundred yards of

the junction ... no bloody way an officer could be identified in darkness, and no

bloody way that Frankie would ever get his hands on an Image Intensifier Night

Sight.

Frankie Conroy had played the big man in the private room of the bar in Clonard,

and he had put his weight around the man who would provide the Armalite.

Frankie Conroy had let it be known that he had dedicated himself to breaking Gingy McAnally, and winning the freedom of the Chief and Brigade Staff and Battalion Staff. Frankie Conroy had opened his fat fucking mouth. Easy enough

to open his mouth before it was a daytime shot and a charge across the back fences to a getaway car that didn't have the bloody engine switched. Because he

had opened his fucking mouth, he was afraid.

He had no woman, he had no children, he was alone.

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He drove to the Andersonstown supermarket. He bought a box of coloured

lights, and three packets of tinsel glitter, and outside he paid four pounds for a Christmas tree. He went to the Drive, to Number 12.

He carried the lights and the tinsel and the tree to the door, and rapped the knocker.

She opened the door. He had hoped it would be her that came to the door.

`What's that for?' Roisin asked coldly.

He thought she looked bloody awful. She hadn't bothered with her hair, and her

face was pasty pale, and there were grey sacks beneath her eyes.

`For you and the kids,' Frankie muttered.

She sighed, her hands were on her hips, sud‐covered. Ìt's going to be a great Christmas . . .'

Inside he could hear Mrs O'Rourke scolding, and Little Patty crying.

`Better here than where you were,' Frankie said.

Without warning, the voice, the foreign accent, belted his ears.

`Good evening, Mrs McAnally . . .'

Frankie spun. He hadn't heard the footsteps of the soldiers.

`. . . Getting ready for the festive season?'

Frankie stared into the young face of the officer. Tall and with no belly and carrying a rifle, and standing by the gate. There was a grin curling the officer's mouth, as if he were teasing a puppy.

`. .. Have a very Merry Christmas, Mrs McAnally.'

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**The soldiers on the far pavement ran forward, moving away. The officer

looked behind him, then trotted off.

`That's him,' Roisin whispered. `That's your Ferris.'

She took the tree and the lights and the tinsel from him and closed the door on

him.

Before, there had been a name locked in Frankie's mind. In place of the name there was now a face.

Ìt was all pretty routine . . . I've nothing for you really,' Ferris said.

`You were pavement bashing more than three hours, there must have been

something.' The Intelligence Officer sipped at his coffee. He hadn't offered Ferris

a mug.

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Ferris said, Ìt's not my fault if they take a day off from running round with Armalites. Turf Lodge, Whiterock, were just anywhere that's getting ready for Christmas. Bags and parcels and shopping, that's about it.'

`Did you consider that any of those bags and parcels and shopping might be the

cover for the movement of weapons, of explosives? Did you open any of those bags and parcels and shopping?'

Ì didn't.'

`That's damned lame, David.'

`Well, I didn't.'

The sarcasm spat from the Intelligence Officer. `Your especial knowledge of the

P.I.R.A. would surely have told you that they don't hang up their boots because

it's Christmas.'

Ferris grinned. What a boring arsehole, he thought. On this tour the 1.0. would have put in as much foot slogging as he, Ferris, endured in a couple of days.

He said brightly, Ì saw Mrs McAnally.' `Did you call in for tea?

'A chappie was dropping a Christmas tree off at her door, that's all.' `What did she say to you?

'I wished her a Merry Christmas ... she didn't reciprocate.' `Who was the chappie?

'I don't know.'

Ìt's S.O.P. to do a P.‐check on any man at a Provo house.'

`Well, I didn't,' Ferris said. He wanted to get the hell out. Yes, it was Standing Operating Procedure to do a Person check on anyone calling at a suspect

address, and he hadn't.

The Intelligence Officer looked curiously at him. `You alright, David?'

"Course I'm alright,' Ferris flared. `Why shouldn't I be alright? 'Sky pilot's been asking for you.'

Ferris went in search of the Chaplain. He was angry with himself. Of course he should have done the check on the man with the Christmas tree. He found the Chaplain writing a letter for a Fusilier from Headquarters Company. He waited at

the door. The little bugger couldn't write his own letter home to tell his Ma that

his girlfriend was in the family way, and there'd be a wedding at the end of the

tour. Ferris shuddered. If the army was somewhere in between eighteen‐year‐old

Fusiliers who couldn't write and arseholes like the 1.0. then it had to be scratching when it came to solving the bloody Province's problems. Now he snorted ...

Bloody Provo house, bloody load of rubbish. He thought there was more charity

waiting for Roisin McAnally in Turf Lodge than there would be in a police safe house. He thought the chappie had looked quite decent, the one who'd brought

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her the Christmas tree. He thought she might just have been right, doing what was best for her kids, walking out on Gingy. Poor Gingy, he might just have been

wrong ... The trouble with arseholes like the 1.0., stuck in an office, or in Operations, or in the Mess, was that they saw every male between fourteen years

old and seventy as a Provo, and every woman too ... He had been far away, and

the Fusilier was thanking the Chaplain and squeezing past him, and the Chaplain

was making nice noises, and carting him off to Sunray.

Hard to believe what the Commanding Officer told him.

`This is a caring battalion, David. We care for our men, and we care for their families. I know you've been to see him a couple of times, but you may not have

heard. Sergeant Tunney has been transferred to England for burns treatment. I'd

like Mrs Tunney to know that we care for his welfare, and for hers. I think she'd

appreciate it if you were to visit him, in England. He'll have Mrs Tunney and his

children at the hospital over Christmas. I thought the New Year would be a good

time for you to go over ... I reckoned you'd be away three days. Adjutant'll fix your movements ... Your policeman rang me. The informer's been shipped out of

the country, until his case comes up, I expect. I'm glad that preoccupation's over

... That's all, David, and never forget that this is a caring battalion.'