Field of Blood (53 page)

side. For the service at the graveside, Rennie had stood away from him, behind

him, with Prentice and Goss. He was looking at the flowers, at the love that had

brought the flowers to the cemetery.

`Your decision, Gingy ... Your choice,' Rennie said.

The wind was on his face. The rain was on his suit jacket.

The wind of the slopes of Mullaghmore. The rain of the summit of Mullaghmore.

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**When Rennie had come into the bar, and ignored his soft swollen eyes, and told in a stern hard voice of the explosion in Turf Lodge and the casualties in Turf Lodge, then Gingy had fled to his bedroom in the small hotel. He had cried the

night away into his pillow. It was Gingy who had asked to be brought to the funeral, and Rennie had made the arrangements. Over the weekend, during the

flight to Manchester, through the evening in the hotel outside Preston, Rennie had never asked Gingy for his intentions.

Ì can't force you, Gingy ... I can't be twisting your arm,' Rennie said.

He watched the men who shovelled earth onto the coffin. He gazed over the flowers. He didn't feel the wind, nor the rain.

He turned to Rennie, he nodded. It was Gingy's decision, it was his choice.

They drove fast to the airport with a siren escort of the Lancashire police.

They by‐passed formalities and were last on board the British Airways flight.

They were met at Aldergrove by a convoy of unmarked police cars.

They came through Ballysillan and Ligoniel and past Ardoyne, they came down

the Crumlin, and there was a Smith and Wesson revolver in Prentice's hand, and a

Sterling sub‐machine gun on Goss's lap, and Rennie was glancing at his watch and talking into the car radio to announce their approach. Gingy was hunched down between his minders, but he could see the gate towers of the gaol and the

high painted walls of the Court House.

They were seen by the crowd, and the women threw themselves at the linked arms of the policemen, and a placard hit the roof of the lead car, and the line of

policemen bulged, and held. And Gingy, low in his seat, masked by the minders,

heard the cat‐calls of abuse that were hurled at the bullet‐proof windows. And he

covered his face from the photographers and their flash bulbs.

He was hustled into the side of the Court House, and they pounded

him up the back staircase to a second‐floor room. He was breathing hard.

`Your decision, Gingy,' Rennie said.

Goss detached the magazine from his Sterling, clattered it down onto the table.

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There was a light knock at the door.

Ìt's straight in, Gingy. Good luck, lad.'

He stood alone. They were all watching him. The knock came again at the door,

sharper. Rennie and Prentice and Goss were watching him. He straightened his tie. It was the tie of brilliant green that he had worn to the funeral.

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Ìt's not for you,' Gingy said. Ì'm not doing it for you ... just so's you know that.'

After the darkness of the staircase and the corridors he blinked when he came into the court room.

He heard the growl of interest as he was seen. He hesitated, he seemed to those

who craned to see him to freeze, then the weight of Rennie shoved him forward.

He looked straight ahead of him. He saw the Magistrate whose body was huge under the black gown and he knew that the Magistrate wore a bullet‐proof vest.

He saw an R.U.C. constable in the corner ahead of him, expressionless, and holding his carbine. He saw the barristers and the solicitors and the clerks peering at him shamelessly. He saw beyond the witness box an empty straightbacked wooden chair. As he came forward he locked his eyes into the empty straightbacked wooden chair as if it were his talisman.

No longer the growl of interest. The shouts from the dock bleated into his ears.

`Filthy traitor, McAnally.'

`Sold out your country.'

À disgrace to your people, McAnally, that's what you is.'

`McAnally, you're in your fucking grave.'

The hate spat down at him from the dock. The prison officers fingered their truncheons. The policemen ringing the dock tensed themselves to prevent an attack on the supergrass. He didn't turn to see the faces of the prisoners. He never saw the loathing and the anger and the bitter twists on the mouths of the

men who had been his comrades in arms. He didn't see that the only man who

was silent in the dock and who hadn't stood to shout and finger‐jab was the Chief. Rennie and Prentice and Goss were close on him, breathing to him.

`How much did they pay you, McAnally, thirty pieces of silver?'

He seemed to stumble and Prentice and Goss were reaching to hold him, and when he felt their hands on his arms he shook them away.

He walked through the floor of the court. He didn't look behind him, nor to his side. The shouting from the dock had died. A great silence slipping on the court

room. He looked ahead to the empty straightbacked wooden chair against the wall.

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He stood in the low‐sided witness box. He felt the blood pumping in him, he felt

the stampede of his heart.

`You are Sean Pius McAnally?'

The clerk was in front of him.

'Yes.'

The clerk passed him a worn bound bible. `Repeat after me ...'

After he had spoken the words of the oath of truth he was told to sit by the Magistrate.

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**He stared at the empty straight‐backed wooden chair. He tried to find the face

of the man who had been his friend. He prepared himself to give his evidence.

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