Harry's Game by Gerald Seymour

past the RAF regiment corporal, who held his rifle diagonally across his thighs, right‐hand forefinger extended along the trigger guard. There were coils of barbed wire at the flanks of the terminal building, sprawled across the flower beds that had once been sufficient in themselves to mark the perimeters of the taxi‐ing area. The viewing gallery where people used to wave to their friends and relatives was now fenced with high chicken wire to prevent a missile being thrown on to the apron; it was out of bounds to civilians, anyway. After getting his bag in the concourse Harry walked out towards the coach pick‐up point. Around him was an avenue of white oil drums with heavy planks slung between them‐‐a defence against car bombers moving their lethal loads against the walls of the buildings. He moved by a line of passengers waiting to take the Trident back to London. They stood outside, occasionally shuffling forward with their baggage. Up at the front the searches went on in two green prefab huts. Only rarely did the faces of the travellers match the brightness of their going‐away clothes: children silent, women with their eyes darting round, the men concerned with getting the cases to the search and then eventually to the plane.
    Greyness, anxiety, exhaustion.

    Harry climbed on to the bus, and was quick enough to ensure himself a window seat near the back.

    By the time the coach had left the fields behind and was into the top of the Crumlin Road the man directly behind Harry was in full voice. Taking upon himself the role of guide and raconteur, outmatching those who lead crocodiles of tourists round the Tower of London and Hampton Court, he capitalized on the quiet of the bus to demonstrate his intimate knowledge of the campaign as fought so far.

    'Down there on the right‐‐you see the small lane‐‐just round the corner where you can't see‐‐
    that's where the three Scottish soldiers were murdered ... the pub ... the one that's blown up‐‐
    the one we're passing‐‐they took "em from there and killed them down the

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    road when they were having a slash. There's nothing to see there now ... people used to put flowers, but not now, nothing to see except there's no grass in the ditch where they got it...
    Army dug it all up looking for bullets, and it never grew since. Now on the left, where the road climbs up, towards the quarry, that's where the senator was killed ... the Catholic senator with the girl, they were killed up there, stabbed. Last year it was, just before the elections. Look now in front, there she is, the greatest city on earthr Down below, left, not hard left, that's Ardoyne ... over to the right that's Ballymurphy ... we're coming into Ligoniel now.'

    It'll be bus trips for the Japanese next, thought Harry. Once they've stopped looking round Vietnam you'll be able to flog them Belfast. By special demand after the world's greatest jungle conflict, we offer you reduced rate to the longest‐ever urban guerilla war. Roll up! Roll up! Get your tickets now!

    'Now wait for the bumps." The man behind was away again, as the bus had slowed to a crawl.
    "Here we go now. See we're outside a barracks ... there on the left... they all have bumps outside now... stops the Proves belting past and giving the sentry a burst with a Thompson.
    They used to have luminous paint on them, the bumps, that's gone now ... if you don't know where they are you give the car a hell of a bang ... hit one of those at fifty and you know about it ... that's Ardoyne, now, over on the left, where the policeman is. That's a sight for the Engish, policemen with bullet‐proof coats and machine guns ... won't use the army flak jackets, have their own. We cut across now, they don't rate going down the Crumlin in Ulster buses. We'll use the Shankill. Looks all right doesn't it, quiet enough? See that hole in the right? That's the Four Steps bar ... killed a fair few when that went up. Not a breath of warning. Look