Blackwatertown. Paul Waters
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Macken felt the bed calling to him. It had been a long and wonderful morning, but the walls around him were squeezing out the space and clarity he had felt only hours before. His boots were filthy too. Not a good start. As Macken unpacked a rag and brush and boot polish, he reflected that life these days seemed to be a constant challenge to avoid putting a foot wrong. Looking down at your boots instead of up at the sky.
The small tin of polish rolled out of sight. Macken sighed and imagined just putting his head down. ‘Into action!’ he remembered his father would say. So instead he knelt to find the polish. Must have rolled under the other bed, he thought, reaching underneath.
‘What’s going on?’ burst in a voice, surprised and shrill.
It was Cedric from the bridge, and the lake, looking down with suspicion.
‘Don’t tell me you were saying your prayers, because I’ve seen your lot praying before, and there was no hoking under other people’s beds.’
Macken pushed himself to his feet. Cedric stepped back.
‘Thought my polish might have rolled under the bed.’ I’ve got off on the wrong foot with this one, thought Macken, and forced a smile. ‘So, we’re in here together then?’
‘Aye,’ Cedric curled his lip. ‘No surprise there.’
Am I missing something here? thought Macken. ‘Oh aye? How’s that?’
‘Dead man’s shoes. Dead man’s bed anyway.’
Macken winced. ‘Is this where… Good God!’
Cedric seemed to gain comfort from Macken’s dismay. But seeing the grim satisfaction on Cedric’s face helped Macken master his own emotions.
‘Were you…’
‘Aye, I found him. He’d been plugged. It wasn’t pretty. And now you’re here. The new Fenian. Maybe you’ll last longer.’
Jesus, thought Macken, the hostility coming off this fella is incredible.
‘Thanks for the vote of confidence.’
But there was something else.
‘He’d been plugged? I thought he shot himself.’
‘That’s what they say.’
‘What do you think?’ asked Macken.
‘I don’t think anything,’ said Cedric. ‘None of your business either.’ His eyes flicked to his own wardrobe. ‘And stay away from my things, do you hear?’
‘Aye, sure.’
It was obvious that Cedric was reluctant to leave him unsupervised, but his desire to end the conversation was stronger. He turned to go.
‘But Cedric,’ began Macken.
The other man stiffened at the use of his first name.
‘Less of the Fenian, Cedric. A bit of civility and you’ll get the same.’
Cedric’s eyes narrowed. He grunted.
‘Anyway, I came to tell you. You’re due downstairs.’ He screwed up his nose. ‘And those boots…’
Macken glanced down and swore to himself. Cedric left and Macken dropped to the floor again, flat this time. He saw the polish under his own wardrobe. As he reached for it, something gently stroked the back of his hand. He reached in again and drew out a scrap of paper. It must have fallen behind the drawers at the bottom, thought Macken. It was torn, but what remained was easy to read.
*
‘ if they knew the truth it would be the end for you , Cedric ’
*
A whistle came from below. Macken folded the note and hid it in his pocket. Boots on, he clattered downstairs.
CHAPTER 7
Cedric and Bull were standing to attention in the private office. To one side was a man wearing the stripes of a sergeant. Almost as tall as Macken. Hard looking. No fool. The fourth man, a senior officer, was the only one to languidly turn his head as Macken entered.
‘Good you could join us. Macken, isn’t it?’
‘Yes, sir. Reporting for duty.’
Macken drew himself to attention.
‘Glad to have you. McReady’s my name. District inspector for this part of God’s country. I knew your father. He was a stickler, wasn’t he?’
Macken smiled politely. ‘Yes, sir.’
‘So, he’d be disappointed if I failed to remind you that, though we may be far from Belfast, we do try to observe punctuality.’
‘Yes, sir. Sorry, sir.’
McReady peered down over the moustache that gave him a certain Errol Flynn rakishness. ‘And Macken? We have certain standards of dress on parade, if that’s not too much for you?’ He waved his blackthorn stick at Macken’s feet, the shine on the polished wood a contrast to the still filthy boots. ‘We may have to wade through muck, but we don’t have to let it stick to us. Buck up, Macken.’
‘Yes, sir,’ Macken’s cheeks reddened. Wherever he went, his father’s illustrious reputation always lay in wait. From the corner of his eye, he detected a glare of renewed suspicion from Cedric.
McReady got on with business. ‘Just dropping by to keep you on your toes. Though I’d say Sergeant Gracey is well able for that task.’
The inspector turned his stick slowly in his hands as he spoke. Macken noticed a faint tremor and realised that his constant fiddling with the blackthorn was less affectation than an attempt to conceal a physical tic. He guessed that McReady had been one of the cadet officers commissioned into the RUC from the regular army after the War. Which meant he’d be a bugger about enforcing every regulation, but perhaps more open minded about other things, having swapped the narrow sectarian alleyways of Ulster for the broader killing fields of North Africa and France.
Inspection visits were routine. The DI made unannounced visits to each of the barracks in his patch – Blackwatertown, Keady and Benburb – and surprised constables on patrol, thus ensuring standards did not slip.
He praised them for their quick response to the reports, hopefully groundless, of subversive activity in the area. All that was a thing of the past, he hoped. So he was confident that Sergeant Gracey would be able to keep the statistics on an even keel.
‘We run a tight ship here when it comes to law breaking. Especially at this time of the year, isn’t that right, Sergeant?’ The inspector beamed, and turned to Macken. ‘You might even say we’re sticklers.’
*
The DI departed, which put Sergeant Gracey back in charge. He turned to Macken, and mentally weighed and measured him, his bottom lip protruding as he carried out the assessment. Then he stuck out a hand. Macken took it, and felt himself gripped tightly, while the scrutiny continued, this time boring into his eyes.
‘Welcome to Blackwatertown. Jolly, isn’t it?’
Macken got the message: Don’t think you can keep any secrets from me.
‘Just Macken,’ he replied, cursing once again his nickname.
‘Billy Gracey,’ said the other, ‘but you can call me Sergeant.’
Aha, thought Macken, Cedric’s partner in poaching.
‘Sort your boots out and we’ll get you out on patrol. Help you get the lie of the land.
‘Normally,