young man, because he wasn't
a bastard like me, because he saved you from a beating. Right, Gingy? 'Yes.'
Ànd that officer's name is Lieutenant Ferris? 'Yes.'
All of interrogation was a chance. Each day when he went into the
Interrogation Rooms it was without a clear idea of how he would
respond to his suspect. He played his hunch, sometimes he won, many
times he lost. Rennie's head dipped, his forehead was against the floor.
His mouth was close to McAnally's ear.
Ì reckon that officer feels sorry for you.'
Rennie reached up. His fingers found the table's edge, and he levered
himself to his feet. Ì must be about my business now, Gingy. I'll be
back. And in the meantime you just have a wee thought on your friends,'
Rennie said. `No great urgency, of course,' he added, as the door closed
behind him.
,
60
61
**Past nine in the evening and the inside lights glowing through the thin curtains
of the Turf Lodge streets. Wet streets, glistening in the landrovers' headlights.
Empty streets, because the Social Security was not paid till the next morning, and there was no money left for the bars. The landrovers cruised slowly, engines
whining. Ferris and his driver and two squaddies, in the lead vehicle.
58
Ferris was thinking of Sam. He hadn't had a letter from her that week, but then
he hadn't tried to ring, so it was quits. When he did write to her, or telephone, he never had much to say about Turf Lodge, about night patrolling. If he didn't write
often and he didn't ring often, it was because there was nothing to say that he thought she ought to know, not because he didn't miss her. A girl who lived with
her parents in a six‐bedroomed stone house with a paddock and an orchard in rolling Somerset wouldn't have too much in common with patrolling the Turf Lodge estate ‐ so he didn't tell her about it. He'd tell her about Sean Pius McAnally, but only enough for her to know that his platoon was getting the Glorygrams from Sunray. She'd like that, and she'd tell her father. Sam's father
was a retired half Colonel. Effectively he had made Major and Company
Command in the old Somerset Light Infantry, but he'd been upped to half
Colonel to oversee the local schools' Cadet units. Not a bad chap, Sam's father,
and he didn't stand in the way of what Sam did when David Ferris was down on
leave. Trouble was he'd forgotten he hadn't made General, forgotten it clean out
of the window when he'd had the Falklands map pinned up in the study during the South Atlantic affair.
She was lovely, his Sam, but thinking of Sam on a cold, wet night in Turf Lodge
was enough to get himself sniped. Safer to be thinking that there might be a marksman in a snipe hide between the Drive and the Parade. She had bloody good thighs because she jogged three times a week, and bloody good breasts because she drank a pint of milk each morning and she was a bloody good girl because she kept herself for David Ferris all the time he was cruising through the
Turf Lodge estate. If a chap had to be sniped then so much the better if he had a
clear picture of Sam's very beautiful body in his head when the bead was on him.
`What are you thinking of, Jones?
'Fanny, Sir. What are you thinking of, sir?' `Military tactics, Jones, what else?'
In the faint light Ferris could see Jones holding a straight face. He smiled. He heard the snigger of the squaddies behind him.
`. .. DELTA FOXTROT COME IN OVER ...'
His head spun with the cry in his earpiece. He found the button on his radio, twisted the volume down. `. . . Delta Foxtrot receiving over . . .'
`, .. DELTA FOXTROT THIS IS 49 ... S.A.P. PARADE STROKE AVENUE R.V.. . .
OUT . . .,
Ferris said quietly to Jones: `Soon as possible to the junction of the Parade and
Avenue.' He turned to his squaddies behind him. `Sharp look‐out, lads . . .' ,
Fusilier Jones knew the Turf Lodge like a local. Three right turns and a left.
59
The headlights swung along the street and caught a squaddie
a bastard like me, because he saved you from a beating. Right, Gingy? 'Yes.'
Ànd that officer's name is Lieutenant Ferris? 'Yes.'
All of interrogation was a chance. Each day when he went into the
Interrogation Rooms it was without a clear idea of how he would
respond to his suspect. He played his hunch, sometimes he won, many
times he lost. Rennie's head dipped, his forehead was against the floor.
His mouth was close to McAnally's ear.
Ì reckon that officer feels sorry for you.'
Rennie reached up. His fingers found the table's edge, and he levered
himself to his feet. Ì must be about my business now, Gingy. I'll be
back. And in the meantime you just have a wee thought on your friends,'
Rennie said. `No great urgency, of course,' he added, as the door closed
behind him.
,
60
61
**Past nine in the evening and the inside lights glowing through the thin curtains
of the Turf Lodge streets. Wet streets, glistening in the landrovers' headlights.
Empty streets, because the Social Security was not paid till the next morning, and there was no money left for the bars. The landrovers cruised slowly, engines
whining. Ferris and his driver and two squaddies, in the lead vehicle.
58
Ferris was thinking of Sam. He hadn't had a letter from her that week, but then
he hadn't tried to ring, so it was quits. When he did write to her, or telephone, he never had much to say about Turf Lodge, about night patrolling. If he didn't write
often and he didn't ring often, it was because there was nothing to say that he thought she ought to know, not because he didn't miss her. A girl who lived with
her parents in a six‐bedroomed stone house with a paddock and an orchard in rolling Somerset wouldn't have too much in common with patrolling the Turf Lodge estate ‐ so he didn't tell her about it. He'd tell her about Sean Pius McAnally, but only enough for her to know that his platoon was getting the Glorygrams from Sunray. She'd like that, and she'd tell her father. Sam's father
was a retired half Colonel. Effectively he had made Major and Company
Command in the old Somerset Light Infantry, but he'd been upped to half
Colonel to oversee the local schools' Cadet units. Not a bad chap, Sam's father,
and he didn't stand in the way of what Sam did when David Ferris was down on
leave. Trouble was he'd forgotten he hadn't made General, forgotten it clean out
of the window when he'd had the Falklands map pinned up in the study during the South Atlantic affair.
She was lovely, his Sam, but thinking of Sam on a cold, wet night in Turf Lodge
was enough to get himself sniped. Safer to be thinking that there might be a marksman in a snipe hide between the Drive and the Parade. She had bloody good thighs because she jogged three times a week, and bloody good breasts because she drank a pint of milk each morning and she was a bloody good girl because she kept herself for David Ferris all the time he was cruising through the
Turf Lodge estate. If a chap had to be sniped then so much the better if he had a
clear picture of Sam's very beautiful body in his head when the bead was on him.
`What are you thinking of, Jones?
'Fanny, Sir. What are you thinking of, sir?' `Military tactics, Jones, what else?'
In the faint light Ferris could see Jones holding a straight face. He smiled. He heard the snigger of the squaddies behind him.
`. .. DELTA FOXTROT COME IN OVER ...'
His head spun with the cry in his earpiece. He found the button on his radio, twisted the volume down. `. . . Delta Foxtrot receiving over . . .'
`, .. DELTA FOXTROT THIS IS 49 ... S.A.P. PARADE STROKE AVENUE R.V.. . .
OUT . . .,
Ferris said quietly to Jones: `Soon as possible to the junction of the Parade and
Avenue.' He turned to his squaddies behind him. `Sharp look‐out, lads . . .' ,
Fusilier Jones knew the Turf Lodge like a local. Three right turns and a left.
59
The headlights swung along the street and caught a squaddie
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