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Authors: Gerald Seymour
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asked.
`What for?'
Ferris blinked, seemed so obvious. `So we know he's there, sir, when we go in.'
`No surveillance. We don't have that capability, not in Turf Lodge. Stand a damn
sight better chance of lousing it if I put men into the Drive, kicking dustbins over.
We go in cold because that's best.'
`Yes, sir.'
Ànd bloody well done, David.'
They had left their transport, two Pigs and a landrover, at the junction of the Drive and the Parade. They would leg it to Number 63. Blackened faces and hands. Rifles cocked, one up. Quiet padding feet. The glow of the image
intensifier night sights carried by the marksmen. Twenty men briefed on their positions in the outer perimeter and the inner perimeter, four more with Ferris for the snatch. Always bloody raining, and the haze of mist cloud sneaking in from the fields at the foot of the mountain to blanket Turf Lodge. No street lights; the street lights had been knocked out in '71, Internment, and replaced; knocked out again in the Queen's visit rioting, and replaced; knocked out again in
the Hunger Strike fighting of '81, and abandoned.
A pace behind Ferris was Fusilier Jones, loping along like he was heading for Wembley, like he had a Cup bloody Final goal on the end of his boot.
Only it wasn't a game in Ferris's book. It was going to snatch a man
out of his house in the dark of the night, strip him from his bed, tear him away
from his wife and kids. It was going to put a murderer into a cell for a life sentence. Some. bloody game. If it was a game then it was a dirty bloody game.
Number 63. His platoon sergeant was beside Ferris.
Ferris heard the whisper. Àll ready ... let's get the shit out of his wanker.'
He had woken the moment before the explosion of the front door caving in. He
had sat up, straight up, the moment before the screech of the front door's lock
being smashed clear of the door post. He felt Roisin stir beside him. She'd four Bacardi cokes in her to his six Stouts, she moved drowsily.
McAnally heard the oaths from the foot of the stairs. Baby Sean's pram was always outside the door in the day, brought into the hall at night, no other place
for it ... Mother of Christ, fucking English oath.
40
He wore a Marks vest, nothing else. He heaved himself out of the bed, dragging
the sheet and blankets with him. He saw the white blur of Roisin's thighs, and her
stomach. He crashed into Baby Sean's cot and was out of the door before the baby had screamed. From the landing he saw the torch at the bottom of the stairs, and a dark shadow figure wrestling with the pram. He saw the torch beam
dive forward towards the stairs.
`Freeze, McAnally . . .'
The yell blasted at his ears. He charged into the back bedroom, jumped on Young
Gerard's bed, stumbled on Little Patty's body, reached the window, ripped at the
cotton curtains. He had no thought but flight, to run and to survive. He heard the
thunder of boots on the staircase, sounds amplified and magnified by the tininess
of the back bedroom.
His fingers found the window catch, he heaved it up, pushed the window open.
Night air closed on his gut and his privates. Light flooded into the room. He saw
the terror shape of the soldier charging into the room. He saw Young Gerard rise
up from his bed and grapple with the soldier. He saw the soldier cuff the boy away. As the soldier lunged for him, McAnally jumped.
He was dazed, stunned.
He hit the small flat roof of the kitchen, bounced, scraped his shins and thighs and stomach on the roof guttering. He toppled down onto the concrete slabs beside the kitchen door. A leg was caught between the frame of Young Gerard's
bicycle. He could see the bicycle, see its colours. The light from the back bedroom lit the small square backyard. He was clear of the bicycle when he saw
the soldiers materializing from
44
45
**the shadows, from behind the coal bunker, from behind the kids' swing, from
the shadow by the back fence.
McAnally kicked the first soldier
`What for?'
Ferris blinked, seemed so obvious. `So we know he's there, sir, when we go in.'
`No surveillance. We don't have that capability, not in Turf Lodge. Stand a damn
sight better chance of lousing it if I put men into the Drive, kicking dustbins over.
We go in cold because that's best.'
`Yes, sir.'
Ànd bloody well done, David.'
They had left their transport, two Pigs and a landrover, at the junction of the Drive and the Parade. They would leg it to Number 63. Blackened faces and hands. Rifles cocked, one up. Quiet padding feet. The glow of the image
intensifier night sights carried by the marksmen. Twenty men briefed on their positions in the outer perimeter and the inner perimeter, four more with Ferris for the snatch. Always bloody raining, and the haze of mist cloud sneaking in from the fields at the foot of the mountain to blanket Turf Lodge. No street lights; the street lights had been knocked out in '71, Internment, and replaced; knocked out again in the Queen's visit rioting, and replaced; knocked out again in
the Hunger Strike fighting of '81, and abandoned.
A pace behind Ferris was Fusilier Jones, loping along like he was heading for Wembley, like he had a Cup bloody Final goal on the end of his boot.
Only it wasn't a game in Ferris's book. It was going to snatch a man
out of his house in the dark of the night, strip him from his bed, tear him away
from his wife and kids. It was going to put a murderer into a cell for a life sentence. Some. bloody game. If it was a game then it was a dirty bloody game.
Number 63. His platoon sergeant was beside Ferris.
Ferris heard the whisper. Àll ready ... let's get the shit out of his wanker.'
He had woken the moment before the explosion of the front door caving in. He
had sat up, straight up, the moment before the screech of the front door's lock
being smashed clear of the door post. He felt Roisin stir beside him. She'd four Bacardi cokes in her to his six Stouts, she moved drowsily.
McAnally heard the oaths from the foot of the stairs. Baby Sean's pram was always outside the door in the day, brought into the hall at night, no other place
for it ... Mother of Christ, fucking English oath.
40
He wore a Marks vest, nothing else. He heaved himself out of the bed, dragging
the sheet and blankets with him. He saw the white blur of Roisin's thighs, and her
stomach. He crashed into Baby Sean's cot and was out of the door before the baby had screamed. From the landing he saw the torch at the bottom of the stairs, and a dark shadow figure wrestling with the pram. He saw the torch beam
dive forward towards the stairs.
`Freeze, McAnally . . .'
The yell blasted at his ears. He charged into the back bedroom, jumped on Young
Gerard's bed, stumbled on Little Patty's body, reached the window, ripped at the
cotton curtains. He had no thought but flight, to run and to survive. He heard the
thunder of boots on the staircase, sounds amplified and magnified by the tininess
of the back bedroom.
His fingers found the window catch, he heaved it up, pushed the window open.
Night air closed on his gut and his privates. Light flooded into the room. He saw
the terror shape of the soldier charging into the room. He saw Young Gerard rise
up from his bed and grapple with the soldier. He saw the soldier cuff the boy away. As the soldier lunged for him, McAnally jumped.
He was dazed, stunned.
He hit the small flat roof of the kitchen, bounced, scraped his shins and thighs and stomach on the roof guttering. He toppled down onto the concrete slabs beside the kitchen door. A leg was caught between the frame of Young Gerard's
bicycle. He could see the bicycle, see its colours. The light from the back bedroom lit the small square backyard. He was clear of the bicycle when he saw
the soldiers materializing from
44
45
**the shadows, from behind the coal bunker, from behind the kids' swing, from
the shadow by the back fence.
McAnally kicked the first soldier
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