Harry's Game

by Gerald Seymour

  No, that wouldn’t fit, scrap men don’t take The Times or the Guardian, that wouldn’t match the cover.

  Davidson tried to shut the problem out of his mind, and closed his eyes. He fumbled unseeing above him till his fingers caught at the string that hung down from the light switch. By the time he drifted into sleep he had worked out his immediate future. The early retirement and professional disgrace, and all because that hoof-footed army couldn’t pick one man up. The unfairness of it all.

  Frost had gone to bed a little after midnight, and lain half awake expecting the phone to ring, and unwilling to commit himself to the task of sleeping. It had to come, the message that either the man or the girl had been found. The bell’s shrill insistence eventually woke him. The army in the Ardoyne reported no known entries or departures at the house in Ypres Avenue. He authorized the unit to move in and search at 05.30 hours.

  After that he slept, safe in the knowledge that Monday would be a real day, a real bugger.

  The doctor had cleaned the wound. He’d found the damage slight, lessened further as the cotton wool and spirit cleaned away the caked blood that had smeared itself on the upper part of the left arm. A small portion of flesh had been ripped clear close by the smallpox vaccination scar. There was an entry and exit wound, almost together and one, and after he had cleaned it thoroughly the doctor put a light lint dressing over the pale numbed skin.

  ‘You can move yourself around a bit. If you need to, that is. But if possible you should stay still, take it quiet. Go put yourself in the easy chair out the back, and get a rest or something.’

  ‘Is it serious? Will I be left with anything?’ asked Downs.

  ‘If you look after it you’ll be OK, nothing to worry about, nothing at all. But you must go easy to start with. The only problem is if it gets infected at this early stage. But we’ll see that doesn’t happen – yes?’

  The doctor had been associated with the fringes of the movement since the start of the violence. He asked no questions, and needed few answers. Once every fortnight or so he would hear the square of gravel flick once, twice, against his bedroom window, and in his dressing gown he would open the door to a casualty too sensitive to face ordinary hospital treatment. He had made his attitude clear at least three years earlier, that there was no point them bringing men to him who were already close to death. Take them to the RVH, he’d said. If their wounds were that bad they’d be out of it for months anyway, so better for them to get top medical treatment in the best hospital than the hand-to-mouth service he could provide. He handled a succession of minor gunshot wounds, was able to remove bullets, clean wounds and prevent sepsis setting in.

  He was sympathetic to the Provisionals but he gave them no material support other than the late-night ex officio surgery. Perhaps if he had been born into the ghetto he would have been one of them, but he came from off the hill, and went to medical school after sixth-form secondary education. Though they had his sympathy he reflected he was a very different person from the hard, wild-eyed men who came to him for treatment.

  Downs was very white in the chair, his shirt ripped away on the left side and his coat, holed and bloody, draped over the back. He heard the faint knock at the door down the corridor at the front of the house. There was a whispered dispute in the hall. He heard that distinctly and twisted himself round in the chair to see two men push their way past the doctor and into the room.

  There was a tall man, in jeans and a roll-neck sweater. ‘The Chief wants you. He’s waiting in Andytown now. Said he wants to see you straight away.’

  The doctor remonstrated, ‘Look at the state he’s in. You can see that for yourself. He should be here all night, then go and rest. He’s in shock.’

  ‘No chance. He’s wanted at a meeting. There’ll be no permanent damage if we take him?’

  ‘You’re setting back recovery time, and adding to the risk of infection.’

  ‘We’ll see you get a look at him tomorrow. Right now we have to go. Come on.’

  This last was to Downs. Twice he looked backwards and forwards from the messenger to the doctor, willing the doctor to be more insistent. The doctor didn’t meet him, avoiding the pleading in the man’s eyes. The tall man and his colleague took hold of Downs under his armpits and gently but decisively lifted him towards the door.

  The doctor said, ‘You may need these to pull him up a bit, if there’s something that he has to do. Not more than a couple at a time, after that he has to sleep. If he takes them they’ll help him for a few hours, then it’s doubly important that he rests.’

  From the high wall cabinet in the back room he took down a brown pill bottle, half filled with tablets, half with a wad of cotton wool.

  They always said they’d come back, but few did. If they needed further treatment they headed south, where they could lie up more easily away from the daily tensions of the perpetual hunt by the military for men on the wanted list. The doctor watched them carry the man to the car and ease him into the back, propped up against the arm-rest in the centre of the seat. He wagered himself the pills would be in use before lunchtime.

  The drive between the doctor’s house and the meeting place in Andersonstown took twenty minutes. They helped the wounded man out of the car and in through the back entrance the way the night’s other visitors had come. Irritably he shrugged them off once he was inside the scullery, and independently followed their instructions to go up the stairs and in through the second door on the left of the landing.

  Only the Brigade commander had remained to see him.

  ‘How are you, Billy? Have they fixed you up all right?’

  ‘Not so bad. It’s only in the flesh. Not much more than a graze, the thing went straight on through. It’s bandaged up now and the doc says it’s clean.’

  ‘I heard a bit about it on the radio. Said you didn’t get a shot into the bastard, you didn’t hit him. Said his brat got in the way and you didn’t fire. Is that right?’

  ‘It’s not as simple as that.’ Oh Christ, not an inquest now. Not why, wherefore, how and when at this time of night. ‘I fired once and missed, then when I had a clear shot at him the kid came right across. She was right in front of his body and his head. I couldn’t see him so I didn’t fire.’

  The Brigade commander was still smoking, in front of him the clear glass ashtray mounted with a score of filtered ends steeped in the grey powder he flicked continuously into the bowl. The debris was left in a circle round the ashtray where it balanced on the blanket over the bed.

  ‘If you’d just fired, child and all . . . then you would have got him, yes? If you’d just gone right on through with it Rennie would be dead, right?’

  ‘Is that what they said on the radio?’ Downs was peeved by the reception, not used to being challenged and questioned. ‘Is that what Rennie is saying, on the radio? If I had fired through the kid then I would have killed him?’

  Who did this bugger think he was, thought Downs. When was this miserable sod out with an ASU? When did he expose himself ? All right for those who give orders and send kids out to carry bombs into tuppenny-ha’penny supermarkets. Get out on the streets at night, know the silence of waiting, the terrible noise of action, feel a nine-millimetre slug hit you. Then come quizzing me. Anger rose in him, but not sufficient for him to shout, to release him from the discipline inculcated into him. Can’t shout at the Brigade commander. That’s mutiny.

  ‘I don’t know what Rennie is saying,’ said the commander. ‘The radio said the child was in the way and that you didn’t fire. That’s all. There’s no criticism of you. I know of no cause for criticism.’

  Cunning sod. ‘There shouldn’t be. Rennie was no soft one. He moved bloody well.’

  ‘One or two people, who don’t know the facts as we do, might feel if they only had half the story that Billy Downs had ballsed it up, gone soft on the job. If they hadn’t the big picture, and knew it all, they might say Billy Downs was sent on a job, and when one of the copper’s brats got in th
e way that then he held his fire.’ Downs didn’t really know the commander, he was from a different part of the city. They had had no real dealings before, but rank separated them, and dictated that he must let him have his say. ‘These people, they might recall that when we shot Sean Russell, of the UDR, in New Barnsley, that he had his kids draped all over him. Now two of them were wounded, but Russell was still shot dead. The order had been to shoot him. Now we all know that it wouldn’t be fair to put your escapade tonight in the same category. And we know that your nerve is as good as ever. That you are one of the top soldiers we have. We know that, don’t we, Billy?’

  ‘You know it’s balls,’ said Downs. ‘I’m not soft. My nerve hasn’t gone. We’re not fighting five-year-olds. Is that what you’re saying, that we kill wee girls? Are you saying that I should have fired straight through the girl? Is that what you think I ought to have done?’

  ‘Don’t get ratty, Billy. It’s just we have to be careful that people who don’t know the circumstances might think that. They might point out that getting you that close to Rennie took a deal of time, and that then the front runner botched the whole bloody thing . . . because a kiddie got in the way. That’s nonsense, Billy.’ The voice droned on, repetition of failure dragging itself through Downs. He had to sleep, to rest, to escape from this room with this boring and nagging whore of a man.

  ‘We know it’s not true, Billy. We know there was a good reason for you not to shoot. We know you couldn’t see the target. We know Rennie wasn’t straightforward. I don’t know how many other people feel the same way. But that’s enough of that. Nobody will have a leg to stand on by tomorrow night. Right, Billy? We have a little job tomorrow, and by the time that’s done they’ll be silenced.’

  Downs looked away, broken by the twisting of the screw. Self-doubt rampant. The commander crushed the ego out of him.

  ‘I’m the only one of Brigade group that knows about London. We’ve kept it tight for your protection. It’s worked pretty well . . . up to now. There’s a difficulty come up. The Brits have put a man in to find you. An agent. McEvoy. Harry McEvoy. Lodging down in Broadway. There’s a split in their top ranks about him. We think London wanted him but Lisburn didn’t.’

  He let it sink in, watched the colour return to the man’s face, watched the fear come back to his eyes and saw the hands begin to clasp and unclasp.

  ‘His job, the agent’s job, is to find you. Perhaps to kill you, perhaps to take you in, or just tell them where to go. We fancy he wants to kill you. He’s been near to you already. He tipped the troops that picked up the girl that hanged herself. We think she did that rather than tell about you. Rennie was the one that questioned her. He chatted to that girl till she was ready to hang herself. You couldn’t kill him when his brat jumped in the way. You had no cause to be soft with Rennie. You’ll have a chance to let people know what you’re made of, Billy. Tomorrow we’re going to lift this fellow that’s come for you, and we’ll talk to him, then we’ll hood him. That’s where you come in. You’ll shoot him, like you shot Danby, like you should have shot Rennie.’

  Downs felt faint now, exhausted by the sarcasm of the top man. He nodded, sweat rising from his crotch across his body.

  ‘When it’s over we’ll send you down to Donegal. Sleep it all off, and get fit again. Tonight you’ll stay in Andersonstown. They’ll pick you up at six-fifteen. They’ll have the guns when they meet you. This will sort it out, I think. Be just the right answer to those who say that Billy Downs has gone soft.’

  He wanted out, and this was the chance. They were showing him the way. The way to do it properly, not so as you were looking over your shoulder for half a life-time, and running. The official way, that was how it was done. One more day, one more job. Then out. Leave it to the cowboys. The heroes who didn’t hold their fire, who shot wee kids. Squeeze the trigger right through the scream of a five-year-old. Was that Pearse’s revolution, or Connolly’s or Plunkett’s? Was it, hell. Leave it to the cowboys after one more day.

  Chapter 17

  The long night was coming to its close when B Company swarmed into Ypres Avenue. The column of armoured cars had split up some hundreds of yards from the street, and guided by co-ordinated radio messages had arrived at each end of the row of bleak terraced houses simultaneously. The first troops out sprinted down the back entrances behind the houses, taking up positions every fifteen yards or so of the debris-strewn pathways. From the tops of the Land-Rovers searchlights played across the fronts of the houses as the noise and banging in the street brought the upstairs lights flickering on.

  The major who commanded the company had received only a short briefing. He had been told the man they were looking for was named Billy Downs, the address of his house, and that he was expected to search several houses. He was thirty-three years old, on his fourth tour to Northern Ireland, and as a company commander in South Armagh on his last visit had witnessed four of his men killed in a culvert bomb explosion. His hatred of the Provisionals was deep-rooted and lasting. Unlike some of his brother officers who respected the expertise of the opposition he felt only consuming contempt.

  What Downs was wanted for he hadn’t been told, nor what his status was in the IRA. He’d only guessed the reason for the raid when they had unpinned the picture from the guardroom wall and given it to him. It was the photokit that had gone up five weeks earlier after the London shooting and remained top of the soldiers’ priority list. The intelligence officer down from Lisburn noticed the flash of recognition spread across his face as he looked down at the picture.

  Once the street was sealed there was time to work carefully and slowly along the road. No. 41 was the third house they came to. The soldiers banged on the door with their rifle butts. The few who had seen the picture of the man they wanted were hanging on the moment of anticipation, wondering who would come and open the door.

  From upstairs came the noise of crying, steadily increasing to screaming pitch as the family woke to the battering at the wooden panels. Downs’s wife came to the door, thin and frail in her nightdress and cotton dressing gown. A tiny figure became silhouetted against the light from the top of the stairs when she drew back the bolts, turned the key and stood against the soldiers. The troops in the search party pushed past her, huge in their boots and helmets and flak jackets. They raced up the stairs, equipment catching and bouncing off the banisters. A lieutenant and two sergeants. All had seen the picture, all knew what they were there for. The officer, his Browning pistol cocked and fastened to his body by a lanyard, swung his left shoulder into the front bedroom door, and bullocked his way to the window. The man behind switched on the light, covering the bed with his automatic rifle.

  Two faces peered back at the intruders. Saucer-eyed, mouths open, and motionless. The troops patted the bodies of the children and pressed down the bedclothes round them, isolating the little humps they made with the blankets. They looked under the bed and in the wardrobe. There were no other hiding places in the room.

  They had come in hard and fast, and now they stopped, halted by the anticlimax of the moment.

  The lieutenant went to the top of the stairs and shouted down.

  ‘Not here, sir.’

  ‘Wait there, I’ll come up.’

  The major came in and looked slowly round the room.

  ‘Right, not here now. But he has been, or she’s a dirty little bitch round the house. There, his pants, vest, socks. I wouldn’t imagine they lie round the house too long.’

  By the window was the crumpled pile of dirty clothes underneath the chair that Downs used to hang his coat and trousers on at night.

  ‘Get her up here,’ said the major. ‘And get the floorboard chaps. He’s been here pretty recently. May still be in the house. If he’s about I want him found, wherever he is, roof, basement if there is one, wherever.’

  She came into the room, her two younger children hanging like monkeys over her shoulders, thumbs in mouths. Like their mother they were white-faced, and shiver
ing in the cold away from their bedclothes.

  ‘We were wondering where we might find your husband, Mrs Downs.’

  ‘He’s not here. You’ve poked your bloody noses in, and you can see that. Now get out of here.’

  ‘His clothes are here, Mrs Downs, you and I can both see that. I wouldn’t expect a nice girl like you to leave his dirty pants lying on the floor that many days.’

  ‘Don’t be bloody clever with me,’ she snarled back at him. ‘He’s not here, and you can see that, now get your soldiers out of here.’

  ‘The problem, Mrs Downs, is that we think your husband could still be here. That would be the explanation for his clothes being on the floor. I’m afraid we’re going to have to search round a bit. We’ll cause as little disruption as possible. I assure you of that.’

  ‘Big heroes, aren’t you, when you have your tanks and guns. Big and bloody brave.’

  The soldier with the crowbar mouthed an apology as he came past her. He flipped up a corner of the thread-worn carpet and with a rending scrape pulled up the board at the end of the room. In four separate places he took the planks up before disappearing to his hips down the holes he had made. The major and his soldiers waited above for him to emerge with his torch for the last time and announce with an air of professional disappointment that the floor space was clear. Using ladders, they went up into the loft, shaking the beams above the major and the man’s wife, and swinging the light fitting.

  ‘Nothing up there either, sir.’

  The ground floor was of stone and tile, so that stayed put, while the expert banged on the walls with his hammer in search of cavities. The coal bunker out in the yard was cleared out, the wooden framework under the sink taken down.