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Authors: Gerald Seymour
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who reached him. The bare instep of his foot hacked into the soldier's groin. Above him he saw Roisin dark‐framed in the back
bedroom window and flailing at a squaddie with Baby Sean's yellow plastic pot.
The soldier bent double in front of him. Scream, cunt ... but the soldier only moaned. He lashed with his fist at the soldier who came from the side and his knuckles caught the rim of a helmet. A rifle stock hammered into the back of his
skull. A boot cracked into his shin. A soldier dived on him as he fell, and McAnally groped and found the man's cheeks and eyes and raked them with his nails. He
fought with his hands and with his teeth and with his feet as the blows fell on 41
him, clubbed down on his body. He heard the pain shouts of the soldiers, and further off the screams of Young Gerard and the anger of his Roisin. He fought
only for survival. He lost the feel of pain. He lost the sight of the soldiers. He lost the sounds of the voices of Young Gerard and his Roisin.
A numbness in his body and a mist in his eyes and wads in his ears. He saw the
indistinct shapes of the legs that stood over him. `For Christ's sake, pack it in ...'
He felt the blood on his head and running from his lip. `That's a prisoner, for Christ's sake.'
The officer stood over him.
`He is a prisoner and he will be treated as a prisoner ...'
The soldiers were in a ring beyond his reach. And he now was beyond theirs.
`You're soldiers, you're on active service not in a bloody pub brawl.
Sergeant, this man is not to be touched. Come here, Jones.'
The officer had taken hold of McAnally's wrist, held it securely. He
shone a torch into McAnally's face, blinding him. `That's him, Mr Ferris, that's the one I saw.' The torch was switched off.
The officer said, `Sean Pius McAnally, I am arresting you under Section 14 of the
Northern Ireland (Emergency Provisions) Act, 1978. You are not obliged to
answer any questions other than those relating to your identity ... You'd better get some clothes on, Mr McAnally. You won't be hurt, you're in my custody.'
After what he had done the morning before, they could have beaten the life out
of him. He had seen the car on the telly before he had taken Roisin to the bar, seen the car wreck and the photographs of 'Tenner' Simpson and two detectives.
He had heard the tributes ... they could have battered him to death for what he
had done.
The officer led him back into the kitchen. McAnally covered his groin.
4
A little before three Ferris was back in the Mess.
He had been on the go for close on twenty‐one hours, but he'd had to tell his story, laconically in the style of the Regiment, to the 1.0. and the Bravo Company
Commander and separately to Armstrong and Wilkins with whom he shared his
room. He could have done without the accolade treatment after he had checked
his prisoner into police custody and the Springfield Road cells.
There was a handwritten note from Sunray. Èxcellently done, a most creditable
night for the Battalion, fast professional soldiering. Congratulations, Townsend.'
He'd have to go through it all again in the morning for Sunray.
42
He had two glasses of orange juice, and then the 1.0. told him that there was a
detective coming up from Castlereagh, a chap called Rennie, and would he wait
up for him.
He was left to wait in the Mess, stretched out on the sofa, able to doze.
The Company Commander had been gushing, the 1.0. had been cool, Armstrong
and Wilkins had been jealous as tom‐cats. He hadn't spoken of the
sledgehammer attack on a wet rotten front door, nor of being snagged in the hall
by a pram that stank of nappy urine, nor of pounding up the carpetless stairs, nor
of a kiddie of seven or eight years who had taken on the soldiers to help his father, nor of a proud woman who had spat her hatred at his men. He didn't think
they'd want to know.
Sam might want to know. When he'd finished with the detective, and had a hell
of a sleep, and a bath if he
bedroom window and flailing at a squaddie with Baby Sean's yellow plastic pot.
The soldier bent double in front of him. Scream, cunt ... but the soldier only moaned. He lashed with his fist at the soldier who came from the side and his knuckles caught the rim of a helmet. A rifle stock hammered into the back of his
skull. A boot cracked into his shin. A soldier dived on him as he fell, and McAnally groped and found the man's cheeks and eyes and raked them with his nails. He
fought with his hands and with his teeth and with his feet as the blows fell on 41
him, clubbed down on his body. He heard the pain shouts of the soldiers, and further off the screams of Young Gerard and the anger of his Roisin. He fought
only for survival. He lost the feel of pain. He lost the sight of the soldiers. He lost the sounds of the voices of Young Gerard and his Roisin.
A numbness in his body and a mist in his eyes and wads in his ears. He saw the
indistinct shapes of the legs that stood over him. `For Christ's sake, pack it in ...'
He felt the blood on his head and running from his lip. `That's a prisoner, for Christ's sake.'
The officer stood over him.
`He is a prisoner and he will be treated as a prisoner ...'
The soldiers were in a ring beyond his reach. And he now was beyond theirs.
`You're soldiers, you're on active service not in a bloody pub brawl.
Sergeant, this man is not to be touched. Come here, Jones.'
The officer had taken hold of McAnally's wrist, held it securely. He
shone a torch into McAnally's face, blinding him. `That's him, Mr Ferris, that's the one I saw.' The torch was switched off.
The officer said, `Sean Pius McAnally, I am arresting you under Section 14 of the
Northern Ireland (Emergency Provisions) Act, 1978. You are not obliged to
answer any questions other than those relating to your identity ... You'd better get some clothes on, Mr McAnally. You won't be hurt, you're in my custody.'
After what he had done the morning before, they could have beaten the life out
of him. He had seen the car on the telly before he had taken Roisin to the bar, seen the car wreck and the photographs of 'Tenner' Simpson and two detectives.
He had heard the tributes ... they could have battered him to death for what he
had done.
The officer led him back into the kitchen. McAnally covered his groin.
4
A little before three Ferris was back in the Mess.
He had been on the go for close on twenty‐one hours, but he'd had to tell his story, laconically in the style of the Regiment, to the 1.0. and the Bravo Company
Commander and separately to Armstrong and Wilkins with whom he shared his
room. He could have done without the accolade treatment after he had checked
his prisoner into police custody and the Springfield Road cells.
There was a handwritten note from Sunray. Èxcellently done, a most creditable
night for the Battalion, fast professional soldiering. Congratulations, Townsend.'
He'd have to go through it all again in the morning for Sunray.
42
He had two glasses of orange juice, and then the 1.0. told him that there was a
detective coming up from Castlereagh, a chap called Rennie, and would he wait
up for him.
He was left to wait in the Mess, stretched out on the sofa, able to doze.
The Company Commander had been gushing, the 1.0. had been cool, Armstrong
and Wilkins had been jealous as tom‐cats. He hadn't spoken of the
sledgehammer attack on a wet rotten front door, nor of being snagged in the hall
by a pram that stank of nappy urine, nor of pounding up the carpetless stairs, nor
of a kiddie of seven or eight years who had taken on the soldiers to help his father, nor of a proud woman who had spat her hatred at his men. He didn't think
they'd want to know.
Sam might want to know. When he'd finished with the detective, and had a hell
of a sleep, and a bath if he
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