Field of Blood (43 page)

be across the papers for the Magistrate's court, and he'd be on the telly with his

Crown Court evidence. She'd be bloody known for ever as the tout McAnally's woman. The women with their shopping wouldn't look at her until they were past

her, then they'd bloody look at her. They'd look at her back.

They lived at Number 97.

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The aerosol heroes had been active. The walls beneath the front windows were

all sprayed.

`Touts will be stiffed.'

`Provos Rule, Not Traitors.'

`No Show Trials. No Paid Perjurers.'

It was like a house where there had been a bad death. There were good deaths

and bad deaths. There were deaths that were natural. It was like a house where

there had been a bloody awful death.

She knew Sean's father as a big man, bigger than his son. He had shrivelled. She

had never seen his shoulders gone before, not when his son was off to the Kesh,

not when he was running, not even when he quit and went down South. Sean's

father seemed to thank her with his eyes at the doorway, for coming.

`You'll have a cup, we'll put the kettle on.'

Sean's mother smiled at Roisin vaguely, from the kitchen door at the back of the

hall. She understood the look, she knew what the Valium did, or the Librium, or

whatever new pill it was that the doctors were peddling. She was shown into the

front room. She looked straight for the mantelpiece. She saw the photograph frame. She had given them the photograph frame for Christmas three years

earlier to hold the photograph of Sean in his confirmation suit. She saw the frame

was lying face down. She saw that his father and mother couldn't look at the face

of their son.

Sean's father blurted, Ì'd kill him myself, God forgive me, but I'd kill him ... Does he know what he's done to us? ... When we went to Mass, the Sunday after he'd

gone supergrass, do you know that no one would sit near us, not in our row, not

in front of us, not behind us ... You seen his mother, you wonder she's like that ...'

Ì tried to tell him.'

`Why ... his mother keeps asking me why he did it ... So he got himself caught,

but there's plenty of fellows get caught, the Kesh is full of them, but he didn't have to do this to us.' Sean's father pleaded for the answer. `Will he change his

mind?

'He doesn't have a mind any more, not of his own,' Roisin said.

Sean's mother came into the front room. She was carrying two mugs of tea and

her hands were shaking, and the tea was spilling from the mugs.

`You didn't bring the little ones,' Sean's mother said. `You haven't brought our grankids for us to see.'

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`They'll be round tomorrow ... You'll find Young Gerard a bit funny, you're not to

take notice of him. You mustn't mind him ...' Roisin gulped down her tea, scalded

her throat.

The patrol came down the Crescent.

They were soaked, they were on the home run, and Ferris wasn't bothering with

any more P.‐checks. Showing the bloody flag would have to be enough for

Christmas Eve.

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**He saw the one he wanted. He couldn't fail to see him.

Taller than the men in front of him and behind him. Not ducking and weaving like

they were. Like they were scared and this one wasn't. Frankie Conroy eased the

Armalite up to his shoulder. The hard steel of the extended stock pressed back into his shoulder. Hold it tight, the bread delivery man had said, lock it against the bone of your shoulder. Have your fingers fast on it, the bread delivery man had added, and don't bloody tremble, and don't bloody think what it's for and what's going to happen.

Hard not to tremble. Frankie Conroy was on one knee. The anti‐flash cover and

the needle sight on the forward end of the barrel protruded three, four inches through the gap in the rotten chipboard at the window. The officer was a hundred yards from him, coming down the Crescent steadily. The officer would

be forty yards from him when he fired, but already Frankie Conroy was lining his

aim.

He had listened well to the bread delivery man. There was nothing in his mind about what it was for, what would happen, no crap like that. No troubles in his mind, that sort of shit, about taking the life of a British soldier on the day before Christmas. What concerned Frankie Conroy, waiting and watching, aiming

through the half light, was whether he could hold the barrel steady, whether he

could put the bastard down first shot.

There would only be one shot, the first shot.

He was sweating. The wetness was clinging on his skin. And he couldn't take his

hands from the Armalite to wipe his forehead or smear the dampness out of his

eyelids.

It was to save the Chief from the Kesh that the officer would be blown away with

a high velocity bullet. That's what it was for, that's what would happen.

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The barrel was steady. The leaf sight and the needle sight met on the chest of the

officer.

The officer seemed to be talking to himself. Frankie Conroy could see his lips move. He heard only the soft slither of the patrol's boots on the pavements, and

the moan of distant traffic. He couldn't help himself, he wondered what the bastard was saying to himself.

His finger was on the trigger, round it, starting to squeeze on it, like the bread delivery man had said he should.

The barrel traversed, followed the officer to the corner of the Crescent and the Drive. He'd fire at forty yards.

He was trying not to think about Sam. Thinking about Sam was too damned dangerous when strolling in Turf Lodge. He was going to ring Sam in the morning, Christmas morning, to tell her that he was coming

across the water, to try to fix something with her. He'd have to spend a day with

his parents in Lancashire, and then there was the day with Sergeant Tunney at the hospital, but he should be able to manage the last evening with Sam before

the long bloody trek back, and if he was really bloody trying he might just make a

night with Sam ... He reckoned it would be New Year's Eve. Sam was hardly going to be sitting round on New Year's Eve waiting for poor old Ferris to give her

a bell from Belfast. He should have rung her straight off, as soon as Sunray had

told him he was going cross‐Channel ... Arseholes ...

'Arseholes . . .' Ferris said out loud.

`Beg your pardon, sir,' Jones said cheerfully, from behind.

That was the moment Ferris turned to smile at Fusilier Jones.

It was the moment of the shot.

The whip crack of the shot belted Sam, New Year's Eve, every bloody thing out of

Ferris's head.

He was spinning, couldn't stand, the blow turned him like a top. Lost the control

of his legs, and the pavement was rising to take him, and he couldn't hear anything after the shot.

The pavement smashed into his face.

Frankie charged down the staircase. One step broke under him, and he was close

to losing his balance, and he careered through the kitchen and put his shoulder

into the chipboard masking the window, and he climbed out into the late

afternoon murk and the back garden of the house.

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He'd seen the officer twist away at the moment he'd fired.

There were shouts in the street, the wrong side of the house from him, panic shouts, squealed shouts in the bloody Brit accent.

He went over the garden fence, and into the back path that went to the garages,

and he ran till the wind sobbed in his throat.

He reckoned he'd done pretty bloody well because he had seen the officer twist

and go down.

And the shouts were far away, and behind him.

Roisin stood in the opened door of the McAnallys' house.

Over the top of the hedge she could see the backs of the soldiers as they bent low. She could hear the frantic, frightened cursing. Past the hedge where the gate was open, she could see the boots and legs of a squaddie on the ground, but

not his face. She could hear the atmospheric and staccato replies of their radios.

`What's happened?' The call was from behind her, far back in the hall.

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**À soldier's been shot,' Roisin said over her shoulder. Àre you coming back to

your tea?'

She closed her eyes, she shook her head. She closed the door on the street.

She turned to Mr McAnally. She smiled brightly. Ì have to help my Ma, but I've

time for another cup.'

His hearing was back.

The carols out in the vehicle park were a pain in his ears, and the M.O.'s voice was an agony.

The M.O. swabbed at the blood round his nose.

`No Purple Heart for you, Mr Ferris, but by Christ there's someone up there with a

sense of the festive spirit and smiling on you ... do you know that the incoming

round actually hit the mag on your S.L.R., not full‐face of course, but glanced it,

and the mag was enough to ricochet it. Head‐butting the pavement wasn't

sensible, giving yourself a nose‐bleed doesn't exactly fit the hero slot ...'

`They didn't get the shit,' Ferris said bleakly.

`Didn't even get a shot back, too much powder in their bloody tea ... you've got

leave, haven't you? Well, don't expect a good time with the crumpet, not with the

way your hooter's looking ... bloody great excitement here when the Contact came over the air, your lads must be fond of you, they were half hysterical, 239

bellowing for an ambulance, the way it sounded at this end the Sky Pilot was reaching for his beads and prayer book ... You'll dine out on that one, your mag

getting in the way. You'll bore the pants off your grandchildren ... There you are,

laddie, perfect though not pretty.'

Ferris straightened on the surgery couch. Ì'm clear?

'Free to get pissed. You'll have an expensive night in the Mess.'

Gingerly Ferris touched his face. Ìt feels a bit wretched.'

`Not half as wretched as the bugger who sniped you ... Your bill of health'll put

him right in the mood for Christmas. He'll be boasting to all his mates, till News

At Ten. Merry Christmas ...'

Ferris went out to the vehicle park. He was in time to join the singing of the final two carols.

He had cut his knee when he had stumbled in his flight over a rusted, scrapped

bicycle frame.

Frankie Conroy sat on his bed in the room that he rented from the widower, and

he had pulled his trouser leg up to his knee, and he held a handkerchief against

the wound to staunch the bleeding. His door

was open. He could hear the television downstairs, in the widower's front room.

`. .. the Cardinal concluded his statement by saying that he hoped that all members of the community would examine their consciences during the

Christmas holiday, and remember the true spirit and meaning of Christmas, and

renounce the ways of violence.

Ìn West Belfast, an officer in the 2nd Battalion the Royal Regiment of Fusiliers had an extraordinary escape when a sniper's bullet glanced off the magazine of

his rifle. The officer, leading a foot patrol, was unhurt. An army spokesman described the escape as a "miracle".

Ìn Part Two, we will be seeing how they are getting ready for Christmas on an oil

platform in the North Sea, and we'll be reporting on Pope John Paul's visit to a young people's reformatory in Rome. Join us again . . .'

He could have bloody wept, because he had seen the officer go down.

He could have bloody screamed, because he had seen the face of David Ferris over the leaf sight of the Armalite.

The train rocked and rolled through the outer London suburbs.

The lights were on in the back rooms of the houses. When the curtains hadn't been drawn across Ferris could see into the warm homes. The food was being laid

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out for parties in the dining rooms, and there were aproned women over their stoves in the kitchens, and upstairs there were youngsters in their bedrooms preening themselves in front of mirrors, preparing for the celebrations at the year's end . . . All so bloody safe, and so bloody relaxed. Hundreds and hundreds

and hundreds of safe, relaxed, warm homes, that were the homes of families who

were far from the front line of David Ferris's war.

He wasn't in uniform. He wore a grey suit under his anorak, and his other civilian

clothes were in the canvas grip between his feet. There was nothing about him to

show that he was a soldier. He was any young man who was going to visit a friend

in hospital, any young man who was then going to meet his girl and celebrate the

passing of an old year.

His newspaper was discarded on the luggage rack above his head. He had gutted

it for news of the war, and found nothing. He knew that he had made the newspapers, one paragraph after Christmas, and no name, but a few words about

a miracle, and he knew that it had been reported on the box. An èscape' had to

be pretty miraculous to make the papers and the box when a death couldn't guarantee getting a column inch or a few seconds of airtime.

The previous day he had travelled from Belfast on the ferry to Liverpool, and he

had taken the train to Preston and his parents' home. He hadn't told them about