Blackwatertown. Paul Waters
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in the barracks, he presumed he would be the linkman, but he didn’t like being pigeonholed. Nor the prospect of all the unhappiness that would be channelled his way from his co-religionists too wary to deal with other RUC men.
Bull and Cedric were in the day room. The smell of frying fish curled through the doorway. My dollaghan, thought Macken. Gracey informed them all that in the light of ‘Jolly Boy’s unfortunate episode’ that morning, the bicycle safety campaign was suspended. He opened the newspaper he’d thrust at Macken and folded back the advertisements on the front, so they could see the main news page.
‘There’s other news. We have an election. “Let Ulster Speak”, it says. And I am determined that we will play our part in ensuring the smooth running of the democratic process.
‘We’re joining patrols throughout the district, including along the border, to deter any subversives who might want to take advantage at this time.
‘The B-Men have been called out too, so that’ll help. But most importantly, it’ll get Jolly out of Blackwatertown till everyone calms down.’
Blood rushed to Macken’s cheeks. The smell of fish frying was stronger now, and Gracey paused to inhale it, then shake his head in annoyance.
‘And that fish will go into the bellies of McReady and Bull while we’re out. It’ll be fish-bone soup for the rest of us, if we’re lucky.’
*
All in all, Macken felt he had got off lightly. Too lightly. There must be something unpleasant ahead. The first demonstration of Sergeant Gracey’s disapproval came as they armed themselves with Sten guns for the patrol. Macken knew he would have more chance of actually hitting something with a Lee Enfield rifle, but he was not offered either option.
‘Safer for you to skip the big guns for a while, Jolly,’ announced Gracey. ‘You just stick with your Webley. Don’t want the reverend to think you’re coming to finish him off, do we lads?’
Macken sat up front beside Gracey, who was at the wheel. Cedric was in the back. They drove over the bridge and were soon in countryside unfamiliar to Macken.
‘You’re on a short leash, Macken,’ snarled Gracey. ‘You’ve spoilt our fun for a brave wee while now. We’ll not be checking tyre pressure on Roman Catholic bicycles for another six months. You’ve filled the quota.
‘Any more good police work by the rest of us would throw our numbers completely out of kilter. Not to mention the complaints.’
‘Do people not usually complain?’
‘Not at all. They have more sense than some incomers credit them with. They grin and bear it. And at least I don’t pick on the parish priest himself.
‘Fenians aside, we leave people alone as far as possible. It’s not what policing is about, is it? Stirring things up?’
Macken thought the best policy was to keep his mouth shut.
‘I haven’t made up my mind about you yet, Jolly. If you’re a cheeky skelp or just stupid. There’s something going on in that head of yours though. I can hear the wheels turning.’
The engine noise made it too difficult for Cedric to join in.
‘One thing we need to get settled. I know you used to be a sergeant, but you’ll take my orders now.’
‘Of course,’ agreed Macken.
‘As long as that’s clear, we’ll have no trouble. I don’t care about your past misdemeanours. If anything, they’re reassuring.
‘What was it anyway? Hand in the till?’
Macken looked at the road ahead.
‘Confiscated poitín that you forgot to pour away? Am I getting warm?’
‘No, nothing like that.’
‘What then? I like to know what I’m dealing with.’
‘I rubbed some people up the wrong way,’ offered Macken. ‘It was stupidity.’
‘You may not be so stupid though,’ said Gracey. ‘You managed to take the heat off your fellow Romans today. Was that your plan?’
‘I didn’t have a plan. I just made a mistake with the reverend.’
‘To be honest, Macken,’ he glanced back at Cedric, ‘I don’t give a damn about the Reverend Snipe. We’ll get along fine as long as you don’t get above yourself. As long as you remember whose team you’re on.’
*
The conversation petered out as they travelled along the quiet lanes of counties Armagh and Tyrone, past apple orchards and weaving round low drumlins, the humps set like racks of eggs. An odd comparison, thought Macken, given that the locals were never prepared to walk on eggshells when they could march over and smash them.
The meandering route took them close to the invisible border with the Irish Republic. Life and habits and farming and trade and families went on much as before the frontier was drawn through their neighbourhoods and farms – and in some cases, through buildings. The major benefit of the border – the locals all privately agreed – was the opportunity it provided for smuggling. However, even if the frontier was invisible to the naked eye, it had been elevated to an article of faith by those many prepared to kill and die to guard it. And it was just as strongly heartfelt to be an intolerable heresy by some who wanted rid of it.
It was a line no Royal Ulster Constabulary member was permitted to cross in uniform, without permission. Officers were discouraged from having contact with their opposite numbers in the Garda Siochana, ‘the Guards’, across the border. Macken was glad he wasn’t driving, because it was hard to keep track of which side you were on, as the line wriggled back and forth across roads, fields and farmyards.
Gracey filled him in on his duties. There’d be the collection of fines imposed at the petty sessions courts (Gracey shot him a sour look), the serving of noxious weeds notices, public house duty, rare traffic duty to check cars for road licence, insurance, lights and number plate illumination and attendance at road traffic accidents.
‘And I’m sure we’ll find you an Orange Lodge to walk with,’ teased Gracey.
The sergeant explained that as far as crime went, they had a shortage. Apart from occasional theft from farms, drink was the main culprit. There were cells at the barracks, but in the interests of keeping them clean, it was simpler not to give drunks overnight lodging. A ride home or a crack on the head with a baton counted as more effective policing in his book. The former good community relations, the latter soon forgotten.
The powers that be had decided patrol cars should not have heaters, in case the men got too comfortable inside. But the warmth of well-wrapped bodies, the hum of the motor and the litany of pointless minor duties dulled Macken’s senses and his mind wandered.
*
Life was a constant challenge to take sides, Macken thought. His family had lived in a watermill for a while. Like all his childhood memories of the time after his mother died, after everything changed, the recollection had a bitter edge. As the eldest child, it had been Macken’s job to prevent the mill being overrun by vermin. He remembered that bone-cold winter when the rats were ever more daring, trying to escape the bitter temperatures outside.
He’d had to smash a hole in the ice to kill them. There was no other way once they were trapped, without risking a bite or a scratch. It was tiring work, fuelled by the exhilaration of wielding a great big stick, scything down over your head to smash through the frozen crust – with the fear of overbalancing and following it into the black water below.
It was a rotten job. Macken had to watch for the rats, set the traps, gather them up and hold them under the cold, cold millpond water, until the creatures