Bobby wiped down the machine gun and I picked it up. It was so hot it seared my wrists and I immediately dropped it again. Prints imprinted. Job done.
Everyone in Coronation Road and Coronation Crescent and Victoria Estate was out now in their nightshirts and pyjamas, amazed, scared, excited, incredulous at this turn of events.
For the kids this was better than a chip pan fire or when Paisley came electioneering in his open-top car and camel-hair coat.
This would be a night they would tell their children about. When the demons came to Coronation Road and fled.
Now the excitement was over the shakes were starting. And the chills. Need a blanket and a cup of tea to ward off shock.
“Good woman, your Beth,” Bobby said.
“She feels like nobody likes her on the street. You couldn’t encourage them to be a wee bit friendlier, could you?”
“Aye.”
“Not that she’ll be staying here for a while.”
“This kind of thing is enough to put you right off the neighbourhood.”
“Yes.”
“I suppose I better go inside and get some clothes on,” Bobby said.
“Aye,” I agreed and stinking of cordite, sweat, gun oil and adrenalin I waded through the fire, shell casings and massacred tomato plants, back over the walls and hedges into my own garden, where Peggy Lee was still singing about disappointment, where the cat was yawning and where, faintly in the distance, I could hear the sirens from cop cars, Land Rovers and ambulances Dopplering their way onto the stave of the night’s music in a manner that was not displeasing to me at all.
21: AFTERMATH
Street full of people. Safe now. Army helicopters flying in big curves above Carrickfergus. Above them the Great Bear drooping his protective paw over all of us.
Cops, soldiers, press. Press – like to see you fuck with me now Special Branch, yeah, maybe in due course, but not now. And you too, Dr Havercamp. I dare you to put me on restricted duty. I double dare you.
Kids looking at me in wonder. Bobby Cameron smoking a cigarette and drinking a can of Bass, no officers I didn’t see anything, I slept through the whole kit and caboodle.
A solitary crow on the telegraph wire.
A solitary crow with a knowing, sleekit black eye.
Cut to:
Larne. Next morning. Saying goodbye to Beth and Emma. Safe now in her father’s house. “How long will we have to be here, Sean?”
“Not long. I feel it. Things are coming to a head.”
Cut to:
Carrick RUC. My office. A report that the getaway Ford Transit had been found burned out in Eden Village next to the skid marks of an Audio Quattro.
Cut to:
Carrick RUC. Chief Inspector McArthur’s office. Chief Inspector McArthur reading the story about me surviving a gun attack on my home in the Belfast Telegraph and “it’s also in three of the London papers! Three of them, Sean. Maybe they’ll give you the Queen’s Police Medal.”
“I already got one of those.”
“Maybe they’ll give you the George Cross!”
“Maybe they’ll give me the Victoria Cross.”
“Oh no, they can’t do that, you have to be in the army or the—”
Cut to:
Coronation Road. The workmen installing the iron front door and bullet-proof windows at #113. “They’ll need a rocket launcher to take you out now, mate.”
“Don’t give them any ideas.”
Cut to:
Beth looking at houses for sale in Scotland. “I’ve had it with this bloody country.”
“I don’t blame you.”
Cut to:
Ownies Pub. Crabbie, Lawson and me at the table upstairs overlooking the lough and the Marine Gardens and the Castle. Three Guinnesses in front of us. Three whisky chasers already gone.
We’d done good work in this pub. Case conferences, strategy, working out our plans.
“The papers think this was a random attack on a Catholic peeler and that’s good. I don’t want the Army Council to know that I know that this was personal.”
“But why, personal?” Crabbie asked.
“It’s because of this case. Something about Selden and Deauville and the B Specials. Ken Kirkpatrick hinted I was close to something.”
“But you say Selden is only a mid-level player. Intel says he’s only a mid-level player,” Lawson said.
“Exactly. That’s what makes it so bloody weird. The Army Council isn’t going to risk an operation in Carrickfergus because I got on the nerves of Harry fucking Selden.”
“So what do we do?” Crabbie asked.
“Only two things we can do: 1) Drop the case and let it be known that we are dropping the case, or 2) Keep digging through the newspapers and following up on the other leads until we find out what the connection is. I’m not going to make you guys go with me here. If I’m in jeopardy, you’re in jeopardy. I’ll take a majority vote.”
Lawson was the first with his hand in the air. “There is a third possibility, sir. We tell everyone who asks that we’ve yellow-filed the case but we keep digging. That’s what I think we should do.”
“Yeah, that’s smart.” I agreed. “Crabbie, are you in?”
Crabbie looked at me. “Do you even need to ask?” he said indignantly.
Cut to:
Carrick Library. Reading through old newspapers.
Cut to:
My office. Following up on the other leads.