there on the same side, see it? That hole ... that was a furniture shop ... two kiddies died there‐‐not old enough to walk."
'Shut up, Joe, nobody wants to know. Just wrap it.'
Perhaps Joe felt he had given his virtuoso. He fell silent. Harry watched out of the window, fascinated by the sights. At the traffic lights the driver nudged up to the white line alongside a Saracen armoured car. Soldiers were crouched inside the half‐open steel back doors, rifles in hand. On the other side of the crossroads he watched a patrol inching its way through the shopping crowds. On all sides were the yards of pale‐brown hardboard that had taken over from glass in the display windows of the stores. The policemen here had discarded their submachine guns, but let their right hands rest
securely inside their heavy dark coats. It surprised Harry how much there was to see that could have been a part of any other British industrial city‐‐buses, cars, people, clothes, paper stands‐‐
all merging in with the great military, umbrella that had settled itself on Belfast.
At the bus station Harry switched to another single decker that went high up on the Antrim Road to the north, speeding past the troubled New Lodge junction before cutting into residential suburbs. The houses were big, old, tall, red‐brick and fading. Davidson had given 51
him the name of a boarding house where he'd said Harry could get a room, three stops up past the New Lodge.
Harry got off the bus at the stop, and looked round to find his bearings. He spotted the house they had chosen for him and moved away from it farther down the long hill till he was one hundred and fifty yards from the seedy board with its "vacancies" sign. Then he waited. He watched the front door for twenty‐five minutes before he saw what he'd half expected. A young man came out down the steps that led to the short front path. Clothes not quite right, walk too long, hair a fair bit too short.
Harry boiled. "Stupid bastards. Davidson, you prime bastard. Send me to one of your own bloody places. Nice safe little billet for soldiers in a nice Proddy area. Somewhere you won't find anything out, but you won't get shot. No, not Davidson, some bugger in intelligence in Belfast, having his own back because it isn't his caper. Sod 'em. I'm not going through all this to sit on my arse in Proddyland and come out in a month with nothing to show. No way.'
He took the next bus into central Belfast from the other side of the road, walked across to the taxi rank in Castle Street, and asked for a lift up to mid‐Falls. Not Davidson's game, that. He wouldn't know addresses in Belfast, it would have to be one of the minions, flicking through his card index, this looks right to keep him out of mischief. Couldn't infiltrate Mansoura from bloody Steamer Point, nor the Falls from Prod country.
To the cab driver he said, "I'm working about half‐way up, and looking for someone who takes in lodgers. Not too pricey. Yer know anyone? About half‐way, near the Broadway. Is there anyone?'
He waited in the cab for several minutes for the other seats to be taken up in the shuttle service that had now largely replaced the inconsistencies of the bus time‐table. The journey he'd made in from the airport, out on to the Antrim Road, his wait there, the trip back,
the walk to the taxi rank, that delay sitting in the back waiting to go all had taken their toll in time.
Deep greyness was settling over the city, rubbing out its sharp lines, when the taxi, at last full, pulled away.
The first soldier in the patrol was up to the corner and round it before the man had reacted to the movement. The second gave him a chance to identify it as an army patrol. On the third and fourth he had begun to get an aim, and for the next man he was ready. Rifle at the shoulder.
The upper part of the shadow cut out by the V of the leaf mechanism of his rear sight, and sliced by the upward thrust of the front sight at the
'Shut up, Joe, nobody wants to know. Just wrap it.'
Perhaps Joe felt he had given his virtuoso. He fell silent. Harry watched out of the window, fascinated by the sights. At the traffic lights the driver nudged up to the white line alongside a Saracen armoured car. Soldiers were crouched inside the half‐open steel back doors, rifles in hand. On the other side of the crossroads he watched a patrol inching its way through the shopping crowds. On all sides were the yards of pale‐brown hardboard that had taken over from glass in the display windows of the stores. The policemen here had discarded their submachine guns, but let their right hands rest
securely inside their heavy dark coats. It surprised Harry how much there was to see that could have been a part of any other British industrial city‐‐buses, cars, people, clothes, paper stands‐‐
all merging in with the great military, umbrella that had settled itself on Belfast.
At the bus station Harry switched to another single decker that went high up on the Antrim Road to the north, speeding past the troubled New Lodge junction before cutting into residential suburbs. The houses were big, old, tall, red‐brick and fading. Davidson had given 51
him the name of a boarding house where he'd said Harry could get a room, three stops up past the New Lodge.
Harry got off the bus at the stop, and looked round to find his bearings. He spotted the house they had chosen for him and moved away from it farther down the long hill till he was one hundred and fifty yards from the seedy board with its "vacancies" sign. Then he waited. He watched the front door for twenty‐five minutes before he saw what he'd half expected. A young man came out down the steps that led to the short front path. Clothes not quite right, walk too long, hair a fair bit too short.
Harry boiled. "Stupid bastards. Davidson, you prime bastard. Send me to one of your own bloody places. Nice safe little billet for soldiers in a nice Proddy area. Somewhere you won't find anything out, but you won't get shot. No, not Davidson, some bugger in intelligence in Belfast, having his own back because it isn't his caper. Sod 'em. I'm not going through all this to sit on my arse in Proddyland and come out in a month with nothing to show. No way.'
He took the next bus into central Belfast from the other side of the road, walked across to the taxi rank in Castle Street, and asked for a lift up to mid‐Falls. Not Davidson's game, that. He wouldn't know addresses in Belfast, it would have to be one of the minions, flicking through his card index, this looks right to keep him out of mischief. Couldn't infiltrate Mansoura from bloody Steamer Point, nor the Falls from Prod country.
To the cab driver he said, "I'm working about half‐way up, and looking for someone who takes in lodgers. Not too pricey. Yer know anyone? About half‐way, near the Broadway. Is there anyone?'
He waited in the cab for several minutes for the other seats to be taken up in the shuttle service that had now largely replaced the inconsistencies of the bus time‐table. The journey he'd made in from the airport, out on to the Antrim Road, his wait there, the trip back,
the walk to the taxi rank, that delay sitting in the back waiting to go all had taken their toll in time.
Deep greyness was settling over the city, rubbing out its sharp lines, when the taxi, at last full, pulled away.
The first soldier in the patrol was up to the corner and round it before the man had reacted to the movement. The second gave him a chance to identify it as an army patrol. On the third and fourth he had begun to get an aim, and for the next man he was ready. Rifle at the shoulder.
The upper part of the shadow cut out by the V of the leaf mechanism of his rear sight, and sliced by the upward thrust of the front sight at the
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