marriages. Determined not to let this happen to his fourth, he was now working only part-time for the newly formed Northern Ireland Police Service.
Fortunately Moira, his bride of just over a year, had understood from the beginning how attached he was to police work, and it was she who had encouraged him to defer retirement. Not for her a life in Ibiza or some other stultifying resort, where former policemen sat pickling themselves in sun and booze, stirring only to walk each day as far as the newsagent to pick up the Daily Mail . Jimmy had thought he might take over the family farm in Antrim, but when Moira asked him if he really wanted to spend his days milking cows, he realised that the prospect was more fantasy than ambition.
As it turned out, he had found that it was an exciting time to be in the police force, which made him even more pleased not to have hung up his boots. The new PSNI had swept away cobwebs that even the RUC’s staunchest defenders acknowledged were there; it had also recruited more Catholic policemen than many old RUC hands would have dreamed possible – or, in some cases, thought desirable.
Jimmy welcomed the changes: he had no time for those who longed for the old set-up. He thought it right that as the country changed the police service should change too, and be much more representative of the community it was serving. He particularly welcomed the transfer of the intelligence work from the old RUC Special Branch to MI5, since it meant policemen could focus on fighting good, honest crime – there was plenty of that going on.
But though he was optimistic about Northern Ireland’s future, he wasn’t naive. He knew that in this bit of the island of Ireland, above all, the past never really died. Its tentacles went on twitching and could suddenly reach out and make trouble. Despite his big-shouldered bonhomie , the old policeman had a sceptical view of human nature, and he knew that for all the leopards who’d changed their spots, there were plenty who hadn’t.
It was this knowledge, heightened by a well-honed instinct for self-preservation, that made him notice the laundry van the first time. It had been two weeks before, and the van was parked at the corner of the quiet side street where he and Moira had bought their house – a solid square brick residence with four bedrooms, ample space for visits by the children of their former marriages (now all grown up and with families of their own).
There had seemed nothing odd about the van’s presence – its driver, wearing white overalls, was sitting behind the wheel ticking things off on a clipboard. And when Jimmy saw it again the following week, with the same driver (same clipboard too) he had reckoned it must now be making regular pick-ups from one of the houses down the street. It was only as he unlocked his front door, calling out a cheery ‘I’m home,’ to Moira, that he wondered why in that case the van was parked in a different place – much further along the street. By the time he went outside to have a look, the van had disappeared.
This morning he emerged from his house earlier than usual; he was due at Stormont by eight to discuss the details of transferring old RUC files. It promised to be the kind of meeting he hated (long, and full of bureaucratic detail) but it wouldn’t do to be late.
He shouted goodbye to Moira and walked out of the front door, gripping a briefcase in one hand while he pushed up his hastily knotted tie with the other. His car, a reliable old Rover which he refused to trade in, was parked in his garage. No one in his profession ever left their car in the street or in their drive. There might be a ceasefire on, but too many colleagues had been killed or maimed by car bombs in the past to ignore that basic precaution. As he backed slowly down the gently sloping paved drive, thinking how pleasantly smooth it was since it had been re-laid, he saw over his shoulder that today the laundry van was parked
Fortunately Moira, his bride of just over a year, had understood from the beginning how attached he was to police work, and it was she who had encouraged him to defer retirement. Not for her a life in Ibiza or some other stultifying resort, where former policemen sat pickling themselves in sun and booze, stirring only to walk each day as far as the newsagent to pick up the Daily Mail . Jimmy had thought he might take over the family farm in Antrim, but when Moira asked him if he really wanted to spend his days milking cows, he realised that the prospect was more fantasy than ambition.
As it turned out, he had found that it was an exciting time to be in the police force, which made him even more pleased not to have hung up his boots. The new PSNI had swept away cobwebs that even the RUC’s staunchest defenders acknowledged were there; it had also recruited more Catholic policemen than many old RUC hands would have dreamed possible – or, in some cases, thought desirable.
Jimmy welcomed the changes: he had no time for those who longed for the old set-up. He thought it right that as the country changed the police service should change too, and be much more representative of the community it was serving. He particularly welcomed the transfer of the intelligence work from the old RUC Special Branch to MI5, since it meant policemen could focus on fighting good, honest crime – there was plenty of that going on.
But though he was optimistic about Northern Ireland’s future, he wasn’t naive. He knew that in this bit of the island of Ireland, above all, the past never really died. Its tentacles went on twitching and could suddenly reach out and make trouble. Despite his big-shouldered bonhomie , the old policeman had a sceptical view of human nature, and he knew that for all the leopards who’d changed their spots, there were plenty who hadn’t.
It was this knowledge, heightened by a well-honed instinct for self-preservation, that made him notice the laundry van the first time. It had been two weeks before, and the van was parked at the corner of the quiet side street where he and Moira had bought their house – a solid square brick residence with four bedrooms, ample space for visits by the children of their former marriages (now all grown up and with families of their own).
There had seemed nothing odd about the van’s presence – its driver, wearing white overalls, was sitting behind the wheel ticking things off on a clipboard. And when Jimmy saw it again the following week, with the same driver (same clipboard too) he had reckoned it must now be making regular pick-ups from one of the houses down the street. It was only as he unlocked his front door, calling out a cheery ‘I’m home,’ to Moira, that he wondered why in that case the van was parked in a different place – much further along the street. By the time he went outside to have a look, the van had disappeared.
This morning he emerged from his house earlier than usual; he was due at Stormont by eight to discuss the details of transferring old RUC files. It promised to be the kind of meeting he hated (long, and full of bureaucratic detail) but it wouldn’t do to be late.
He shouted goodbye to Moira and walked out of the front door, gripping a briefcase in one hand while he pushed up his hastily knotted tie with the other. His car, a reliable old Rover which he refused to trade in, was parked in his garage. No one in his profession ever left their car in the street or in their drive. There might be a ceasefire on, but too many colleagues had been killed or maimed by car bombs in the past to ignore that basic precaution. As he backed slowly down the gently sloping paved drive, thinking how pleasantly smooth it was since it had been re-laid, he saw over his shoulder that today the laundry van was parked
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