us that way. He's in our Regiment, but I wouldn't say he's part of us. Tried to leave us last year when we'd finished in Crossmaglen. He went for the Special Air Service selection course. Understand me, it's not against him, but S.A.S. evaluation of him was that he lacked the necessary cutting edge for that outfit . . .'
Sunray cut in. Ìf the army was confined to graduates and S.A.S. qualifiers it would be a pretty small army. Wouldn't have me for a start.' ,
`He's a quiet man, Inspector Rennie, doesn't put himself about. If we have a Mess
thrash, then he won't be there, not his scene. He'd
regard the likes of me as a black and white merchant, therefore a bit stupid.'
'
61
Sunray said, `His men are quite obviously fond of him. Which may not always be
a good thing.'
`He has a pig‐obstinate streak. If something's stuck in his head then it's time wasted to try and talk him out of it. And he's a doubter, if you know what I mean.'
`What does he doubt?' Rennie asked.
`What we're doing here, what else? ... Example, he bawled me out the other day
after he'd P.‐checked this McAnally creature, before the R.P.G. hit. I said he should wake up to the fact that we were fighting psychopaths, he was jabbering
about human beings. We had a bit of a stand‐up.'
Ìt's what I hoped to hear,' Rennie said. Ì'd like to borrow Mr Ferris from you, Colonel.' Rennie smiled. He held out his glass. Ànd I'd be obliged for the other
half.'
The ambulance was already waiting inside the barracks yard when Ferris brought
in Mattie Blaney's boy. The tears had stopped. Ferris thought it must be the shock setting in.
His squaddies hadn't talked on the drive back to the barracks. It was as if a message had sunk through to all of the soldiers in the landrover; if the enemy would do this to a child, to one of their own, then what would they do to a soldier
if they were ever able to lay their hands on him, what would they do to a plain clothes soldier of S.A.S. or Mobile Reconnaissance Force or Intelligence Corps ...?
And the thought was enough to make Ferris shiver.
The priest had arrived at Springfield Road. The squaddies called him `F Two' or
the Fucking Friar. He was Father Francis . . . It was said that he spoke the Gaelic
language as a first choice, and was more fluent there than in English. Whenever
there was an incident he was always fast down to the barracks from Turf Lodge.
He was young, not out of his twenties and wore short‐cut hair and heavy pebble
glasses over pink cheeks that were hardly ready for the razor. The officers in the
Mess all reckoned that he prayed on bare knees each night for the ground to open up and swallow all of the British army in Northern Ireland and then close over and suffocate them. The priest made a point of brushing against one of Ferris's soldiers as he went forward to watch the boy being lifted into the rear of
the ambulance, and he could have walked round the soldier. He seemed to
whisper in the ear of the boy before the doors were closed.
Ferris felt the anger rising in him. They were told always to be polite to priests.
Headquarters laid down that the priests were a moderating
62
64
65
**influence on the community and were a necessary vehicle by which to detach
the population from the clutches of the Provisionals. Headquarters only talked to
the bishops.
`Quite a nice class of parishioner you have, Father Francis ...' Ferris said.
`Mr Ferris, isn't it? I presume it's what you wanted, Mr Ferris, a boy knee‐capped,
or a man executed.'
`What I wanted? . . . Absolute bullshit.'
The priest glared at Ferris. Òbscenity is usually the hallmark of a second‐rate vocabulary. You lifted Sean McAnally, a good family man, a man living in the South and trying to renounce violence, you lift him when he comes home to see
his wife, and then you make your vicious insinuation in the media . . .'
`What the hell are you talking about?
'You let it be known that an informer had led you
Sunray cut in. Ìf the army was confined to graduates and S.A.S. qualifiers it would be a pretty small army. Wouldn't have me for a start.' ,
`He's a quiet man, Inspector Rennie, doesn't put himself about. If we have a Mess
thrash, then he won't be there, not his scene. He'd
regard the likes of me as a black and white merchant, therefore a bit stupid.'
'
61
Sunray said, `His men are quite obviously fond of him. Which may not always be
a good thing.'
`He has a pig‐obstinate streak. If something's stuck in his head then it's time wasted to try and talk him out of it. And he's a doubter, if you know what I mean.'
`What does he doubt?' Rennie asked.
`What we're doing here, what else? ... Example, he bawled me out the other day
after he'd P.‐checked this McAnally creature, before the R.P.G. hit. I said he should wake up to the fact that we were fighting psychopaths, he was jabbering
about human beings. We had a bit of a stand‐up.'
Ìt's what I hoped to hear,' Rennie said. Ì'd like to borrow Mr Ferris from you, Colonel.' Rennie smiled. He held out his glass. Ànd I'd be obliged for the other
half.'
The ambulance was already waiting inside the barracks yard when Ferris brought
in Mattie Blaney's boy. The tears had stopped. Ferris thought it must be the shock setting in.
His squaddies hadn't talked on the drive back to the barracks. It was as if a message had sunk through to all of the soldiers in the landrover; if the enemy would do this to a child, to one of their own, then what would they do to a soldier
if they were ever able to lay their hands on him, what would they do to a plain clothes soldier of S.A.S. or Mobile Reconnaissance Force or Intelligence Corps ...?
And the thought was enough to make Ferris shiver.
The priest had arrived at Springfield Road. The squaddies called him `F Two' or
the Fucking Friar. He was Father Francis . . . It was said that he spoke the Gaelic
language as a first choice, and was more fluent there than in English. Whenever
there was an incident he was always fast down to the barracks from Turf Lodge.
He was young, not out of his twenties and wore short‐cut hair and heavy pebble
glasses over pink cheeks that were hardly ready for the razor. The officers in the
Mess all reckoned that he prayed on bare knees each night for the ground to open up and swallow all of the British army in Northern Ireland and then close over and suffocate them. The priest made a point of brushing against one of Ferris's soldiers as he went forward to watch the boy being lifted into the rear of
the ambulance, and he could have walked round the soldier. He seemed to
whisper in the ear of the boy before the doors were closed.
Ferris felt the anger rising in him. They were told always to be polite to priests.
Headquarters laid down that the priests were a moderating
62
64
65
**influence on the community and were a necessary vehicle by which to detach
the population from the clutches of the Provisionals. Headquarters only talked to
the bishops.
`Quite a nice class of parishioner you have, Father Francis ...' Ferris said.
`Mr Ferris, isn't it? I presume it's what you wanted, Mr Ferris, a boy knee‐capped,
or a man executed.'
`What I wanted? . . . Absolute bullshit.'
The priest glared at Ferris. Òbscenity is usually the hallmark of a second‐rate vocabulary. You lifted Sean McAnally, a good family man, a man living in the South and trying to renounce violence, you lift him when he comes home to see
his wife, and then you make your vicious insinuation in the media . . .'
`What the hell are you talking about?
'You let it be known that an informer had led you
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