Blackwatertown. Paul Waters
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routine for infiltrating German positions. Plug the first man you see. Then the next one who moves. If the rest don’t surrender immediately, finish them all. He’d brought the unbending rigour of army life back to Ireland. When partition split the country and meant the end of the old police, Macken senior had stayed north and become part of the new Royal Ulster Constabulary. His impeccable war record and ramrod posture took him to the position of head of drill for the whole force, despite his religion. He was the frontman any time there was a visiting royal to be ceremonially impressed. But he had also built a farm and a family. A grafter always.
It was the farm that had led Macken into the police. One evening during the war against Hitler, he’d been at home with his stepmother when men came calling. Macken senior was away checking on a cow. The men said they were from the Irish Republican Army. The IRA had never completely gone away since winning the South and losing the North. They claimed the first British casualty of the World War just hours after Chamberlain declared war on Germany. Shot in the stomach on Library Street in Belfast. Other squaddies had the uniforms stripped off them.
It might have been a world war, but in keeping with Republican tradition, that meant ‘England’s difficulty is Ireland’s opportunity’. Which brought three IRA men to the farm demanding the guns they knew were there. Maybe they were guessing. Though it was a fair assumption. One of the intruders let them see he had a revolver inside his coat.
Macken’s stepmother swore she knew nothing about any weapons. To his surprise, the raiders didn’t threaten or even search. Instead, they took them both outside. They made her watch as Macken was put to work, digging a short, shallow trench. They told him to lie down in it and cover his face. He’d clenched his body and screwed his eyes shut as they scattered soil over him – until his stepmother cried out ‘Enough’.
Macken had been sent to bed while his stepmother and the men talked quietly. Ever since he’d had a loathing of small spaces. When his father was told, he put his hand on his son’s shoulder and nodded. The next day he gave Macken a creel of seed potatoes to plant in the trench.
After that, it had seemed natural for Macken to follow in his father’s footsteps, to take his place in the loyal caste.
*
Macken started slightly when the waitress returned. He realised he’d nodded off and took a slug of tea. Ghastly. Gone cold. She chuckled and offered him a wee heater, quickly followed by sausages, bacon, black pudding, beans, egg and soda farls to insulate him for his trek.
The fug of body heat, cigarettes and cooking enveloped Macken in womby warmth. There was no question of opening his uniform tunic in public, but he undid his collar to let in some air and hooked a little finger round the chain hidden beneath.
A small oval medallion, a ‘Miraculous Medal’, hung from the chain. Macken gently rubbed the contours of the image pressed out in relief. It had come from his mother. The words pressed out round the edge were the only prayer Macken would ever recite spontaneously. He knew it by heart: ‘O Mary, conceived without sin, pray for us who have recourse to thee.’
It was a prayer for protection, he supposed. A Catholic charm. Though for Macken it was more akin to an invocation of his lost mother – a comfort in a harsh world. Lately he worried it was becoming just another physical tic when he wanted to put off something unpleasant. Like getting off my arse right now, he thought, when I feel so full.
*
A voice broke through his reverie. ‘Having a sneaky break from the beat, are we, Officer?’
Macken turned towards a trio of grinning clergymen at the next table, crumbs sprinkled down their black fronts. The speaker, a hollow-cheeked, long-boned, spindly sort, had the look of one of those clerical crows who wield Jesus like a stinging nettle. His smile was like a graip pulled up from a potato field. There was sponge cake sticking to his gappy teeth.
Macken sat up. It was always best to be respectful around the clergy, he had found. By their collars and confectionery, these three appeared to be Church of Ireland.
‘No, sir. I’m in transit from Kilmurray to Blackwatertown.’
‘Good man. Your tea will be frozen. Let me order you a refill.’
Macken had already had his fill, but his benefactor overrode all objections. The Reverend Snipe introduced himself and explained that the trio were on a daytrip, Monday being their day off. And it was Macken’s good fortune, the reverend said, that they’d be passing through Blackwatertown and would be honoured to give a member of the constabulary a ride. After all, they couldn’t expect him to walk that far.
‘It galls me how people take the police for granted. You’re the front line of our defence against the enemy down below,’ the vicar nodded sideways to indicate he meant south of the border, rather than hell itself. ‘And the enemy within.’
More nods of agreement from the clergy’s table.
‘If you’ve come from Kilmurray, were you in that business on the Longrock Road?’
The other two paused in their grazing, expectantly. Macken pressed the oval into the crook of his finger with his thumb and answered reluctantly.
‘I was on duty, sir.’
Macken’s interrogator clucked delightedly. ‘I hear you gave them a well-deserved leathering. If we had more of that sort of policing, we’d have a lot less trouble. Well done.’
Macken said nothing, which they interpreted approvingly as modesty.
The Reverend Snipe signalled for the bill, for both tables. ‘Allow me, please,’ he said, squashing Macken’s protests.
The vicar scraped his chair closer, and with an expression of possessive pride, extended an arm, as if to bring Macken into their circle. Then he paused, his eyes dropping to Macken’s chest. The smile froze, then faded, leaving no hint of the previous warmth. The arm was slowly withdrawn.
‘Well, suit yourself,’ said the vicar abruptly. ‘We’ll be on our way.’
The clergyman glanced at the two chits of paper and put money on top. Then they were gone, speaking briefly to the waitress at the door.
Nonplussed, Macken rubbed a small circle of the window clear of condensation, to see them hurrying away; three flushed faces turned in towards each other, mouths working in that narrow way Ulster folk impart grim tidings.
Macken sighed and thought, there goes my lift. The waitress presented him with one of the paper chits.
‘But didn’t the reverend…’ he began, then shrugged and reached for his cash.
‘That was just what I needed,’ he smiled. ‘My stomach thought my throat was cut.’
She took his payment, then slowly reached towards his chest, tapping twice on the small oval still hanging there. She raised her eyebrows, checking he had understood.
Macken realised he had let the small medal creep out from behind his tunic, puncturing his image as a loyal son of Ulster. He squeezed it again, feeling the cross and the Virgin, then tucked it back into hiding.
*
Macken was not officially due to report till Tuesday morning, so he decided to explore the apple orchards and beech woods near Blackwatertown, and to find some of the dark water from which the place took its name.
Outdoor life was the main appeal of policing for Macken. Some officers found their bliss drinking tea in front of a well-stoked hearth. Macken preferred to be outside and out of sight. Ideally by some water, well stocked with fish.
Blackwatertown had the makings of just such a place, he thought, as he picked his way through the woods. There was a lake on the edge of the Brookemartin demesne. That’s where he was headed. Strictly speaking, it might be inside the estate. However, Macken doubted there’d