by Alan Judd
‘Is she badly hurt?’
‘She’s gone with Henry.’
‘Oh.’ Charles surveyed the mess. The prospect of sleep was receding rapidly. He knew he would get some somewhere at some time but at that moment he couldn’t imagine where or when.
Chatsworth looked at him thoughtfully. ‘D’you know something, Thoroughgood?’
‘What?’
‘You bring me bad luck. You’re a blight on my career. You come out on patrol with me and I get shot. You move into the Factory and pinch half my bunk and then you bring into the building the woman who destroys it during an orgy with half my own platoon, instead of with me as she was supposed to do. I go out and through my own initiative I discover just about the biggest arms haul ever found in Belfast and not only do I get no credit for it but it’s actually a black mark against me because the two people you recommend to help me panic and cock it up just at the vital moment. All the way along the line it’s you, Thoroughgood. Every time I have anything to do with you it goes wrong. The rest of my life is a great success.’
Chatsworth spoke flatly, without bitterness or anger. There was silence for a few seconds. ‘I’m only surprised you haven’t yet found a way of giving me the pox,’ he said morosely.
Charles forced a tired smile that was meant to be suggestive. ‘I may yet,’ he said and Chatsworth, for the first time in their acquaintance, looked just a little alarmed.
13
The arms find was indeed a big story. It received full local and national coverage. Everyone naturally assumed it to have been the object of the search operation the previous afternoon, which was itself said to have been the climax of a brilliant Army undercover operation. Everyone was pleased, though the Brigade Commander was a little irritated at first that such an event should have taken place entirely without his knowledge. Edward, though in a somewhat confused and indecisive state the next day, soon adopted an authoritative and knowledgeable air tempered by a becoming modesty about his own role in the business. Only Nigel Beale was unhappy, not just because he had come to in a manhole – where, so far as he was concerned, he had been left to die – but also because he suffered total amnesia regarding the events of the previous day and was unable to find anyone who could tell him what his part had been.
The CO, when he returned two days later, was pleased and jealous. Many of the congratulations were directed to him personally and he had been forced to accept them graciously despite his obvious uneasiness at the thought that the battalion could not only survive in his absence but actually flourish. ‘Glad to see you haven’t all been idle while I was away. Never any excuse for idleness,’ he said, and added, ‘No excuse for sloppiness now, though. They’ll want to get their own back. Must keep on the alert. Hard targets at all times.’
With the CO back and with the worsening situation in Belfast – four soldiers and two policemen killed in three days – Charles spent all his waking hours in battalion HQ, returning to the Factory only for brief and irregular periods of sleep. He and Chatsworth now slept side by side on the floor. As he became more tired he felt more remote from everything he did. He functioned without participating and responded without initiating. He lost all sense of control over his life and did not experience any sense of loss.
Many in the Army complained of having to fight with their hands tied behind their backs, as they saw it. They knew the terrorists and their leaders but were not allowed to kill them, nor to interrogate them properly. If arms or explosives were found they were not allowed to booby-trap the dump. There was a general recognition, though, that internment was not the answer since it was not seen to be just and it created a deep well of sympathy for the internees. Discussions about what should be done were repeated so often that a kind of conversational shorthand developed whereby attitudes and views could be conveyed simply by an introductory remark and no more, the rest being known already. Charles did not join in and his silence was taken for agreement. He sensed that this actually made him more popular, especially with the CO. In fact, he did not himself know whether his passivity was due to not caring or because he didn’t know what to think.
The routine was broken when, eight days before the battalion was due to leave and at about five in the afternoon, a foot patrol in the new estate came under fire from a single sniper. No one was hit but Private Williams, a red-haired Welshman who was tail-end-charlie to the patrol, risked his life to pick up a little girl who was standing near them and run with her to cover. There were four high-velocity shots from the direction of a block of flats but it was not possible to tell whether they came from within them or not. Whilst a follow-up search was being organised Private Williams discovered from the little girl where she lived and took her to her house, which was nearby. When he returned her to her mother, the woman spat in his face and said she would rather have seen the girl dead than saved by the Army. With a soldier’s sense of justice and chivalry, Private Williams pushed past her into the kitchen and beat up her husband before returning to his patrol. The family later complained and Private Williams had to be withdrawn for investigation and possible charging by the military police or RUC. When the CO was told he slammed down the ops room telephone so hard that the plastic case shattered and sent splinters flying about the room, leaving the guts of the machine exposed but surprisingly still working. He ordered his Rover Group and shouted at everyone in sight. Once again, Charles and Nigel Beale were the last to clamber into the Land-Rover as it lurched through the gates, treading on each other in their haste. It was not far but it was dark by the time they had reached the flats where the follow-up search for empty cases or weapons had been made, with no result. The CO said nothing until, as they were drawing up, a few token stones were thrown by a group of children on some waste ground. ‘What chance do those poor children have?’ he said to everyone near. ‘Some of their parents are not worth the bullets we ought to be expending on them.’
They got out and stood around. There was still a platoon there that had been about to pull out when the CO arrived. Now everyone hung about, not knowing why they were waiting. There was no purpose in being there. Nothing more was happening, and the gunman was probably out of the area. Private Williams was already back at his company location where the CO would see him and try to get him off, though the legal process had already started. It seemed they were there simply because the CO was so angry with the girl’s parents. ‘Which is their house?’ he asked. He was shown it and made as if to go and knock on the door, but turned back. ‘I dare not,’ he whispered to Charles, who happened to be closest, ‘I simply dare not. I could not answer for my actions. Private Williams was very restrained compared with how I would be if I had to talk to those ungrateful monsters. How anyone could feel like that about their own children I just do not understand. It was the same with that wretched little boy and the pipe bomb. They’ve got no human feelings at all, these people. They’re just brutalised until they’re worse than animals and then they set about brutalising everything else around them, starting with their own children.’
They left the house and walked along the road away from the others. They came to an alley which led to the flats. ‘I’m sure he was up there,’ the CO said, ‘and probably still is. He could be in any one of those flats and have a good field of fire and several quick escape-routes. That’s where I’d go if I was him.’ He led the way into the alley. He just seemed to want to walk and talk and appeared to have forgotten about the others. Charles walked beside him, assuming he would turn back at any moment. It was a long, wide alley, with the high wall of the flats on one side and the backs of houses on the other. Because of the lights from the windows it was not completely dark, and at the end they could see parked cars illuminated by the lights from other houses. It was the time when most of the local people were eating their evening meal and it was very quiet.
Charles was trying to read some of the graffiti on the walls, and had just found one neat line which read, ‘Is there life before death?’ when the CO grabbe
d him and pushed him against the wall, holding him there. ‘Draw your gun,’ he whispered urgently. ‘There’s someone ahead of us.’ With some misgivings, thinking it was most likely a dog or some innocent person, Charles eased his Browning from the holster. It was already cocked but with the hammer forward and the safety-catch on. He heard the CO click back the hammer on his own gun and so did the same. He was still convinced it was unnecessary, but he could feel his heart thumping fast all the same. ‘Bend double and move over to the far wall,’ the CO whispered. ‘We’ll advance together. Don’t get behind me. I think there’s more than one of them and they came out of an entrance on the right. We’ll follow them to the end. Don’t shoot unless I say.’
Charles crouched so that he would not be silhouetted against the lights behind, and crossed to the other wall in three strides. He waited for the CO to move forward and then moved parallel with him, still half crouching. He peered into the darkness ahead and made out two, possibly three shapes bobbing along. They were moving quite fast and he and the CO had almost to run to keep up. For the first time he began to believe that something might really be happening.
As they neared the end of the alley it got lighter. There were definitely three figures, one of them quite small, and they were jogging. Their footsteps could be heard on the cinder. At the end the alley opened on to another bit of waste ground, beyond which were the parked cars. The three figures were quite near the end and were clearly visible at about twenty-five yards ahead when the CO signalled to Charles to stop. The CO was holding his pistol in one hand and was pointing ahead, still crouching. Charles, who favoured instinctive shooting, pressed his shoulder against the wall and held the gun in both hands, slightly low, ready to bring it up. ‘Stop!’ shouted the CO. ‘Stop where you are or we’ll shoot!’
The small figure darted to one side. One of the others vanished but the middle one turned, holding something in his hands. For a moment Charles wondered whether he was justified in opening fire but then there was a flash and a very loud bang. At the same time he heard the CO shout, ‘Fire, for God’s sake!’ The Browning thumped five times in Charles’s hands in rapid succession and left him with ringing ears, almost concussed by such noise in a confined space. He saw the figure fall and was then aware that the CO was running up the alley ahead of him, shoving the magazine back into his pistol, which had evidently jammed. Charles ran with him, and as they approached the end of the alley the small figure jumped out from the side. He was empty-handed and looked young. Charles stopped and pointed the pistol, shouting, ‘Don’t move!’ The youngster stopped, staring wide-eyed at Charles, and for half a second they stared at each other, unmoving. Then there was a flash and two more deafening bangs in Charles’s left ear. One of the empty cases from the CO’s gun hit him a hot, stinging blow on the cheek. The boy crumpled into a heap on the ground. Across the waste ground Charles saw the third figure jump into an already-moving car, which swerved round the corner and was gone.
The CO walked slowly to the boy’s body and Charles lowered his pistol. He eased the safety-catch on with his thumb but kept the gun pointing at the other body. The CO bent to look at the boy, who lay on his side, then stood and looked at Charles. His pistol was in one hand, hanging loosely by his side. He stared at Charles with his mouth half open and his eyes suddenly listless. He looked an old man, and vulnerable. Charles stared back and for some seconds they held each other’s gaze, without speaking and without strain. The spell was broken by the sound of running soldiers behind them and they both moved into the light so that they could be clearly seen. But by then Charles felt he had entered an unspoken conspiracy.
The man he had shot lay on his back, quite still. He could see neither wound nor blood. He was in his twenties, had curly dark hair and wore jeans and a bomber jacket. His arms were spread out as though in a stage death and his mouth and eyes were open, facing directly upwards. An Armalite rifle lay beside him, its butt resting on his thigh. The boy lay a couple of yards farther on, hunched as though in sleep, with his head resting on one outstretched arm. He was aged about fourteen or fifteen and had dirty fair hair and freckles. His legs were crossed and he was wearing white plimsolls.
Nigel Beale was among the first to arrive and suddenly the CO was himself again. ‘Charles got that one,’ he said, pointing at the man. ‘And just as well too or we wouldn’t either of us be here. I got this little bugger as he turned on us with a pistol. Trouble is, the third one got away over there, taking it with him. I would have had him but my pistol jammed and Charles was unsighted.’
It was unforced and matter-of-fact, with all the CO’s natural directness of tone and expression. He neither hesitated nor avoided Charles’s eye. Charles did not even have to play a role. Normality was made whole again.
Units throughout Belfast were alerted to search for the getaway car but it was not found until the following morning, abandoned in the New Lodge Road. The bodies had to be taken away and identified, relatives informed. Charles and the CO made statements to the police. Charles recounted how he had shot his man and then, without awkwardness and without even the feeling of deceit, said that he had lost sight of the boy after he had darted aside and had only heard the CO shoot. He had not seen the third man run away but had seen him get into the car. It was not possible to say whether he had been carrying a gun. It turned out later that his man had been hit plumb in the heart by a single bullet, probably the first as the other four had all gone very wide. The boy had been hit by both the CO’s bullets, one in the top of the thigh and the other fatal one in the groin, where it had ricocheted off his pelvis and lodged in the bottom of his heart. Ironically, if he had been hit by a high-velocity weapon it would have gone clean through him and he would probably have lived.
‘One out of five is bloody good shooting with a pistol at that range in that light and under those conditions,’ said Nigel Beale. ‘Didn’t know you had it in you, Charles. Not sure I could’ve done it, to be absolutely honest with you. I’d’ve stood more chance if I’d thrown the thing at him.’
Charles felt so detached that only with difficulty could he even interest himself in what was being said. It amused him a little to think that Chatsworth would be speechless with jealousy, but as for anything else, any feeling that it was in any way significant to have killed a man, there was nothing. It was not even exciting, since at the time it had happened too quickly and afterwards it seemed like someone else’s history.
Back in the Mess there were drinks and everyone was in high good humour. The CO got slightly drunk and waved his glass around when talking so that it kept spilling. He took Charles to one side, resting his hand on his shoulder and occasionally punching him in the stomach when he wanted to emphasise something, as was his habit when he was happy. ‘That was good work you did this evening. You saved us both and you nailed that sniper. You might feel a bit shaken up at having killed a man but don’t let it get on top of you. It had to be done. It was you or him. It’s the same with me and that boy. I didn’t want to take a young life but he’d have had us both if I hadn’t. A boy or even a baby with a gun is as bad as a man. The first time I did it was in Cyprus, and even though he was an older man and a hardened villain I felt sick for days afterwards. But it’s not your fault, you must tell yourself. You’re there and you’ve got to cope, that’s all. Trying to duck out of the situation would be moral cowardice and you might land someone else in it. Besides, life must go on. You’re not facing up to being human if you don’t recognise that. So don’t let it worry you, eh?’
‘No sir.’
‘Good man. You’ll get over it. But for God’s sake do something about your appalling shooting. One out of five at that range is a disgrace. You must go on the range every day when we get back.’ He swayed and steadied himself against Charles. ‘I forgot, you’re leaving us, aren’t you? Pity that.’ He emptied his glass and stood saying nothing for a few moments. Charles looked in vain for some mute acknowledgment of what had passed between them after the shooting of t
he boy. The CO seemed a tired man, simple and sincere. ‘Perhaps you’ll decide to come back. We can’t afford to lose young men like you. You’ll find you’ve left something of yourself in this unhappy place and, God knows, these poor wretched people desperately need any influence for the good, any help anyone can give them. I don’t need to tell you that.’ His dark eyes looked thoughtful but not vulnerable, not particularly personal. ‘I think the experience has done you good, too. That’s important. I wish you the best of luck in whatever you decide to do. Don’t hesitate to get in touch if ever I can help.’ He took another pull at his glass, realised it was empty and walked away.
There had been no sign of the lie in anything about him. It had been effortless and natural. Charles had watched carefully for signals but there had been none, no sign of a secret understanding, no flaw in the absolute conviction with which the CO spoke. Either it was a superb act or the conviction was real. If he had been accustomed to doubting himself, Charles might have questioned his own recollection of what had happened.
There was, of course, no danger of Charles feeling sick with remorse, or guilt or anything else. He ceased to feel. Things happened and he took them piecemeal, without any attempt to connect. It was like having some undramatic but possibly dangerous disability or disease that caused no suffering and aroused only limited curiosity in the victim. Even the prospect of returning to Belfast for an inquest was uninteresting. The report of the incident which he and Van Horne wrote for Beazely caused the CO to congratulate him for having handled the press angle so well. ‘They got it right this time,’ said the CO. ‘They struck the right balance. Truthful, not too sensational, straightforward and no thrills. That’s good reporting. To the point and accurate.’
