crouched against
an overgrown hedge, and then the corporal who was bent down against the wall
of a lock‐up garage. Ferris saw what seemed to be a bundle of rags, perhaps a sack, beside the corporal before Jones killed the lights. Ferris swung his legs out
of the landrover and scurried to his corporal.
The corporal's masked torch shone down into a small white face. Ferris saw the
terrified, staring eyes and the blood‐drained cheeks that were smeared with tears. •
Ferris's thoughts were racing. Bloody hit and run driver, no bloody lights in the street . . . But the corporal's torch was moving down the short length of the boy's
jersey ... Ferris saw the hole at the elbow, worn through . . . and the torch moved
on down the boy's thigh. He saw the blood‐soaked knee of the boy, and the dark
bullet hole set in the spread of crimson.
`But it's a bloody child . . .'
Ìt's a child, Mr Ferris, and he's been knee‐capped,' the corporal said grimly.
`God Almighty . . . I don't believe it . . .'
`He's Liam Blaney, he's thirteen years old. Father's in the Kesh ... Want to see his stomach?'
The corporal didn't wait for Ferris's reply. He pulled back the boy's shirt, lifted his jersey. Ferris saw the burns and the bruises.
`Must reckon him an informer, sir,' the corporal added.
Ferris knew the corporal's own children from back at the depot in England. He knew the dry, flat answers to be a sham.
Ì'll run him down to the barracks, have an ambulance rendezvous there. Snap them up on the radio ... Come on, son.'
He lifted the boy up in his arms. He felt him struggle, and then wince from the pain. He heard him cry out. He could sense what it would mean to the child, to be
held in the arms of a British officer, and he thought he could sense the agony that
would follow a bullet fired at point blank range through the bone and muscle and
tissue of a knee‐cap, and that was after the cigarettes, and after the beating. He
held the child against his chest, tight so that he couldn't fight him. He walked to
the landrover and climbed in, and the boy was cradled in his lap.
`They wouldn't do this to each other if they lived in a bloody zoo,
62
63
**Mr Ferris,' Fusilier Jones observed, and slapped his hand onto the gear stick.
`Just get the thing moving, Jones ...'
60
He didn't know what to say to the boy. He did not know how to comfort a child
who had a shattered knee‐cap and whose stomach was burned. He wedged his
rifle between the seats and held the boy closely and tried to protect him from the
lurching journey of the landrover.
`So what sort of a lad is your Ferris?'
Rennie, thank God for it, had been given a gin by the Commanding Officer.
Sunray had a Scotch, and the Intelligence Officer had a half‐pint silver beer tankard cupped in his hands.
À very professional young officer, proved that by his actions yesterday.' Sunray
sat at the desk of his office, his fingers played with a paper knife.
Ì'm not interested in his professional abilities, sir. What's his personality. Frankly, please.'
`Pretty much the same as everyone else,' the Intelligence Officer said cautiously.
Ìf he was pretty much the same as everyone else I wouldn't have bothered to come. If he wasn't different I'd be at home now in front of my bloody fire. If you
can't be straight with me then I'm wasting my time, and I'll leave you in peace . . .'
Rennie drained his glass, slapped it down on the polished table at his elbow. Ìf
you are able to be straight with me then ... then Mr Ferris might just be very useful to me ... Colonel, if it wasn't important, then I wouldn't be here.'
Sunray had little time usually for policemen in the Province. This man he could respect. A rough‐cut stone, and a hard, tired face.
`Tell him, Jason.'
`There's no family tradition in the army, he's not the sort we usually get. He tried for a University commission, but he didn't get the college marks so he went to the Royal Military Academy, came to
an overgrown hedge, and then the corporal who was bent down against the wall
of a lock‐up garage. Ferris saw what seemed to be a bundle of rags, perhaps a sack, beside the corporal before Jones killed the lights. Ferris swung his legs out
of the landrover and scurried to his corporal.
The corporal's masked torch shone down into a small white face. Ferris saw the
terrified, staring eyes and the blood‐drained cheeks that were smeared with tears. •
Ferris's thoughts were racing. Bloody hit and run driver, no bloody lights in the street . . . But the corporal's torch was moving down the short length of the boy's
jersey ... Ferris saw the hole at the elbow, worn through . . . and the torch moved
on down the boy's thigh. He saw the blood‐soaked knee of the boy, and the dark
bullet hole set in the spread of crimson.
`But it's a bloody child . . .'
Ìt's a child, Mr Ferris, and he's been knee‐capped,' the corporal said grimly.
`God Almighty . . . I don't believe it . . .'
`He's Liam Blaney, he's thirteen years old. Father's in the Kesh ... Want to see his stomach?'
The corporal didn't wait for Ferris's reply. He pulled back the boy's shirt, lifted his jersey. Ferris saw the burns and the bruises.
`Must reckon him an informer, sir,' the corporal added.
Ferris knew the corporal's own children from back at the depot in England. He knew the dry, flat answers to be a sham.
Ì'll run him down to the barracks, have an ambulance rendezvous there. Snap them up on the radio ... Come on, son.'
He lifted the boy up in his arms. He felt him struggle, and then wince from the pain. He heard him cry out. He could sense what it would mean to the child, to be
held in the arms of a British officer, and he thought he could sense the agony that
would follow a bullet fired at point blank range through the bone and muscle and
tissue of a knee‐cap, and that was after the cigarettes, and after the beating. He
held the child against his chest, tight so that he couldn't fight him. He walked to
the landrover and climbed in, and the boy was cradled in his lap.
`They wouldn't do this to each other if they lived in a bloody zoo,
62
63
**Mr Ferris,' Fusilier Jones observed, and slapped his hand onto the gear stick.
`Just get the thing moving, Jones ...'
60
He didn't know what to say to the boy. He did not know how to comfort a child
who had a shattered knee‐cap and whose stomach was burned. He wedged his
rifle between the seats and held the boy closely and tried to protect him from the
lurching journey of the landrover.
`So what sort of a lad is your Ferris?'
Rennie, thank God for it, had been given a gin by the Commanding Officer.
Sunray had a Scotch, and the Intelligence Officer had a half‐pint silver beer tankard cupped in his hands.
À very professional young officer, proved that by his actions yesterday.' Sunray
sat at the desk of his office, his fingers played with a paper knife.
Ì'm not interested in his professional abilities, sir. What's his personality. Frankly, please.'
`Pretty much the same as everyone else,' the Intelligence Officer said cautiously.
Ìf he was pretty much the same as everyone else I wouldn't have bothered to come. If he wasn't different I'd be at home now in front of my bloody fire. If you
can't be straight with me then I'm wasting my time, and I'll leave you in peace . . .'
Rennie drained his glass, slapped it down on the polished table at his elbow. Ìf
you are able to be straight with me then ... then Mr Ferris might just be very useful to me ... Colonel, if it wasn't important, then I wouldn't be here.'
Sunray had little time usually for policemen in the Province. This man he could respect. A rough‐cut stone, and a hard, tired face.
`Tell him, Jason.'
`There's no family tradition in the army, he's not the sort we usually get. He tried for a University commission, but he didn't get the college marks so he went to the Royal Military Academy, came to
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