there early in the history of ‘the Troubles’, 1969, just as it was all boiling over; so early that he hadn’t really known what was going on, what the score was; none of them had, not on any side. The people were pleased to see them at first, Catholic and Protestant, offering food and drink and a genuine welcome. Then later the drinks were laced with weedkiller, and the welcome might be leading you into a ‘honey trap’. The crunching in the sponge cake might only be hard seeds from the raspberry jam. Then again, it might be powdered glass.
Bottles flying through the dark, lit by an arc of flame. Petrol spinning and dripping from the rag wick. And when it fell on a littered road, it spread in an instant pool of hate. Nothing personal about it, it was just for a cause, a troubled cause, that was all.
And later still it was to defend the rackets which had grown up around that aged cause. The protection schemes, black taxis, gun-running, all the businesses which had spread so very far away from the ideal, creating their own pool.
He’d seen bullet wounds and shrapnel blasts and gashes left by hurled bricks, he’d tasted mortality and the flaws in both his character and his body. When not on duty, they used to hang around the barracks, knocking back whisky and playing cards. Maybe that was why whisky reminded him he was still alive, where other drinks couldn’t.
There was shame too: a retaliatory strike against a drinking club which had gotten out of hand. He’d done nothing to stop it. He’d swung his baton and even his SLR with the rest of them. Yet in the middle of the commotion, the sound of a rifle being cocked was enough to bring silence and stillness …
He still kept an interest in events across the water. Part of his life had been left behind there. Something about his tour of duty there had made him apply to join the Special Air Service. He went back to his desk and lifted the glass of whisky.
Dark, dark, dark. The sky quiet save for the occasional drunken yell.
No one would ever know who called the police.
No one except the man himself and the police themselves. He’d given his name and address, and had made his complaint about the noise.
‘And do you want us to come and see you afterwards, sir, after we’ve investigated?’
‘That won’t be necessary.’ The phone went dead on the desk officer, who smiled. It was very seldom necessary. A visit from the police meant you were involved. He wrote on a pad then passed the note along to the Communications Room. The call went out at ten to one.
When the Rover patrol car got to the community centre, it was clear that things were winding down. The officers debated heading off again, but since they were here … Certainly there had been a party, a function of some kind. But as the two uniformed officers walked in through the open doors, only a dozen or so stragglers were left. The floor was a mess of bottles and cigarette butts, probably a few roaches in there too if they cared to look.
‘Who’s in charge?’
‘Nobody,’ came the sharp response.
There were flushing sounds from the toilets. Evidence being destroyed, perhaps.
‘We’ve received complaints about the noise.’
‘No noise here.’
The patrolman nodded. On a makeshift stage a ghetto-blaster had been hooked up to a guitar amplifier, a large Marshall job with separate amp and speaker-bin. Probably a hundred watts, none of it built for subtlety. The amplifier was still on, emitting an audible buzz. ‘This thing belongs out at the Exhibition Centre.’
‘Simple Minds let us borrow it.’
‘Whose is it really though?’
‘Where’s your search warrant?’
The officer smiled again. He could see that his partner was itching for trouble, but though neither of them had a welter of experience, they weren’t stupid either. They knew where they were, they knew the odds. So he stood there smiling, legs apart, arms by his side, not looking for aggro.
He seemed to be having a
Bottles flying through the dark, lit by an arc of flame. Petrol spinning and dripping from the rag wick. And when it fell on a littered road, it spread in an instant pool of hate. Nothing personal about it, it was just for a cause, a troubled cause, that was all.
And later still it was to defend the rackets which had grown up around that aged cause. The protection schemes, black taxis, gun-running, all the businesses which had spread so very far away from the ideal, creating their own pool.
He’d seen bullet wounds and shrapnel blasts and gashes left by hurled bricks, he’d tasted mortality and the flaws in both his character and his body. When not on duty, they used to hang around the barracks, knocking back whisky and playing cards. Maybe that was why whisky reminded him he was still alive, where other drinks couldn’t.
There was shame too: a retaliatory strike against a drinking club which had gotten out of hand. He’d done nothing to stop it. He’d swung his baton and even his SLR with the rest of them. Yet in the middle of the commotion, the sound of a rifle being cocked was enough to bring silence and stillness …
He still kept an interest in events across the water. Part of his life had been left behind there. Something about his tour of duty there had made him apply to join the Special Air Service. He went back to his desk and lifted the glass of whisky.
Dark, dark, dark. The sky quiet save for the occasional drunken yell.
No one would ever know who called the police.
No one except the man himself and the police themselves. He’d given his name and address, and had made his complaint about the noise.
‘And do you want us to come and see you afterwards, sir, after we’ve investigated?’
‘That won’t be necessary.’ The phone went dead on the desk officer, who smiled. It was very seldom necessary. A visit from the police meant you were involved. He wrote on a pad then passed the note along to the Communications Room. The call went out at ten to one.
When the Rover patrol car got to the community centre, it was clear that things were winding down. The officers debated heading off again, but since they were here … Certainly there had been a party, a function of some kind. But as the two uniformed officers walked in through the open doors, only a dozen or so stragglers were left. The floor was a mess of bottles and cigarette butts, probably a few roaches in there too if they cared to look.
‘Who’s in charge?’
‘Nobody,’ came the sharp response.
There were flushing sounds from the toilets. Evidence being destroyed, perhaps.
‘We’ve received complaints about the noise.’
‘No noise here.’
The patrolman nodded. On a makeshift stage a ghetto-blaster had been hooked up to a guitar amplifier, a large Marshall job with separate amp and speaker-bin. Probably a hundred watts, none of it built for subtlety. The amplifier was still on, emitting an audible buzz. ‘This thing belongs out at the Exhibition Centre.’
‘Simple Minds let us borrow it.’
‘Whose is it really though?’
‘Where’s your search warrant?’
The officer smiled again. He could see that his partner was itching for trouble, but though neither of them had a welter of experience, they weren’t stupid either. They knew where they were, they knew the odds. So he stood there smiling, legs apart, arms by his side, not looking for aggro.
He seemed to be having a
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