abandoned van lay open. Approaching it, Daly sniffed the heady, acrid bouquet of diesel. He peered inside at its illicit cargo: a double row of fuel containers, half covered in oily blankets. He had happened upon a botched fuel smuggling run.
Daly had been involved in a few deadly games of high-speed cat-and-mouse with such vehicles as they flashed down the M1 motorway and disappeared up country lanes. The drivers were always young men who ten years ago would have happily toiled on a tractor all day in a muddy field. Now they could earn thousands of pounds for the dash from the border to the ferries at Larne, or to loyalist paramilitary gangs in Belfast. Smuggling, as old as the border itself, was breaking a range of political boundaries. Agricultural diesel, originally from the Irish Republic, was smuggled across the border by former IRA men, treated in secret sheds, and then driven to loyalist heartlands in the city. For sworn enemies pounds had become more important than politics or the pope. There was no religion on a ten-pound note, after all.
But it wasn’t just illegal. It was highly dangerous. The back of a van was an unsafe place to store thousands of liters of combustible fuel. Daly felt the bonnet of the vehicle to see if it was still warm. The engine was cold. As a makeshift fuel tanker, the van was a ticking bomb.
His eyes caught the flash of the youth’s tracksuit, slowing down as he found cover amid the shrubbery. Afterward Daly realized this was the point when he should have let the youth escape and radio in for help. He had a van full of evidence, and an important meeting to get to. Instead, he took off in pursuit. Not out of fearlessness but because the person who was running away from him was still only a flash of tracksuit, a shadow flying away, a page torn from a book he had yet to read.
About a hundred yards up the lane the youth stopped, apparently convinced the middle-aged passerby would not give chase. When Daly saw him at the end of a tunnel of leaves, his face was as expressionless as a sheet of ice. The only thing that moved was the vapor of his breath trailing into the shadows. Then the boy darted off again, his gait quicker, more fluid, his body weaving around sprawling shrubs, jumping over crumbling walls, disappearing into whorls of leafy shadow. Daly lumbered behind, crashing through the outstretched branches.
The lane ran roughly parallel to the main road and a gleaming line of new bungalows. It burrowed through overarching thorn trees and alders, twisting by the oddly angled walls of dilapidated cottages and outhouses. Nobody knocked down buildings in this part of the country. They just built bigger ones, deposing the previous generation’s homes to overgrown lanes such as these. The Armagh countryside was becoming a maze of dark, forgotten little lanes, as dark and crooked as the past.
The shrubbery thickened, reducing Daly’s visibility to a few yards. He stood still, listening to the rain ping on leaves and the branches swaying in the wind. Up ahead he saw a patch of the youth’s shiny tracksuit hanging motionlessly as though snagged on a branch. Had he stopped to let the detective catch sight of him again? Daly felt an equal measure of fear and curiosity as he approached. He wondered whether the youth felt the same. After all, they were two of the most primitive emotions, shared by all species, even criminals and policemen.
He shouted out, “I’m a police officer. I want you to come back with me to the van.”
Through the undergrowth, he caught a better view of the youth’s face. Thin and white, with a wet fringe of hair. The apparition of a truant schoolboy. His face looked empty of fear, empty of curiosity. In the Republican strongholds of Armagh, they taught children from an early age not to show any emotion to enforcers of the law. Daly could sense the boy was not ready to cooperate with him. Fuel smugglers were like border Republicanism itself. Self-reliant and
Daly had been involved in a few deadly games of high-speed cat-and-mouse with such vehicles as they flashed down the M1 motorway and disappeared up country lanes. The drivers were always young men who ten years ago would have happily toiled on a tractor all day in a muddy field. Now they could earn thousands of pounds for the dash from the border to the ferries at Larne, or to loyalist paramilitary gangs in Belfast. Smuggling, as old as the border itself, was breaking a range of political boundaries. Agricultural diesel, originally from the Irish Republic, was smuggled across the border by former IRA men, treated in secret sheds, and then driven to loyalist heartlands in the city. For sworn enemies pounds had become more important than politics or the pope. There was no religion on a ten-pound note, after all.
But it wasn’t just illegal. It was highly dangerous. The back of a van was an unsafe place to store thousands of liters of combustible fuel. Daly felt the bonnet of the vehicle to see if it was still warm. The engine was cold. As a makeshift fuel tanker, the van was a ticking bomb.
His eyes caught the flash of the youth’s tracksuit, slowing down as he found cover amid the shrubbery. Afterward Daly realized this was the point when he should have let the youth escape and radio in for help. He had a van full of evidence, and an important meeting to get to. Instead, he took off in pursuit. Not out of fearlessness but because the person who was running away from him was still only a flash of tracksuit, a shadow flying away, a page torn from a book he had yet to read.
About a hundred yards up the lane the youth stopped, apparently convinced the middle-aged passerby would not give chase. When Daly saw him at the end of a tunnel of leaves, his face was as expressionless as a sheet of ice. The only thing that moved was the vapor of his breath trailing into the shadows. Then the boy darted off again, his gait quicker, more fluid, his body weaving around sprawling shrubs, jumping over crumbling walls, disappearing into whorls of leafy shadow. Daly lumbered behind, crashing through the outstretched branches.
The lane ran roughly parallel to the main road and a gleaming line of new bungalows. It burrowed through overarching thorn trees and alders, twisting by the oddly angled walls of dilapidated cottages and outhouses. Nobody knocked down buildings in this part of the country. They just built bigger ones, deposing the previous generation’s homes to overgrown lanes such as these. The Armagh countryside was becoming a maze of dark, forgotten little lanes, as dark and crooked as the past.
The shrubbery thickened, reducing Daly’s visibility to a few yards. He stood still, listening to the rain ping on leaves and the branches swaying in the wind. Up ahead he saw a patch of the youth’s shiny tracksuit hanging motionlessly as though snagged on a branch. Had he stopped to let the detective catch sight of him again? Daly felt an equal measure of fear and curiosity as he approached. He wondered whether the youth felt the same. After all, they were two of the most primitive emotions, shared by all species, even criminals and policemen.
He shouted out, “I’m a police officer. I want you to come back with me to the van.”
Through the undergrowth, he caught a better view of the youth’s face. Thin and white, with a wet fringe of hair. The apparition of a truant schoolboy. His face looked empty of fear, empty of curiosity. In the Republican strongholds of Armagh, they taught children from an early age not to show any emotion to enforcers of the law. Daly could sense the boy was not ready to cooperate with him. Fuel smugglers were like border Republicanism itself. Self-reliant and
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