Authors: GERALD SEYMOUR
is for the judiciary to decide whether the supergrass system is acceptable.'
A good straight bat from the Secretary of State, the civil servant thought. The pity of it was that the Americans didn't play cricket.
`Wouldn't you admit that the supergrass system has been widely condemned?
'The system has been complained about by a particular section of our society here which has shown scant respect for the rule of law, and even less respect for
human life. I disregard these shrill protests from groups closely associated with the paramilitary violence that has caused so much misery in the Province.'
Àn American lawyer who visited Belfast to study the supergrass system wrote that the use of supergrasses was "an extension of military policy". What do you say to that?'
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Excellent ... the civil servant had given the Secretary of State the right answer to that one. Go on, shove it down his nasty plastic microphone. Typical of the modern times. He didn't see half a dozen journalists a year who could write shorthand.
`We have a maxim here about people living in glasshouses not throwing stones.
In the last fifteen years, to my certain knowledge, more than four thousand American citizens ‐ shall I repeat the figure? ‐ have informed on your organized
crime syndicates in return for immunity.
I'm sure the Mafia have complained, but I haven't read of the complaints of the
New York Times ... There's something I'd like to add. If the American people want
to show true concern for the community of Northern Ireland, then they should cease providing the terrorists here with guns and ammunition. Do you know that
almost every soldier, every policeman, every politician, who is gunned down here, has been murdered with a weapon manufactured in the United States of America? Would you like to go to the police armoury? Would you like to see the
weapons we have captured from the terrorists? Americanmade weapons?'
The civil servant saw the journalist hesitate.
`My flight ... my next trip, perhaps ... I'd be happy to. Going back to the supergrass system . . .'
`There are other priorities in Northern Ireland today, which could be of interest to you.'
`Doesn't the supergrass system only alienate middle‐ground opinion?
'You're here ten years too late if you're looking for middle‐ground tolerance.
Today, the middle ground's gone. How could it have survived? The civilian population of Northern Ireland has been subjected to a peace‐time murder
campaign of a ferocity unequalled in western Europe this century. The middle ground has been shot and bombed to exinction. There are two camps here. In one camp are those who support paramilitary violence, in the other camp are those who support a democratic rule of law and order. There can hardly be a no
man's land between those two camps with 2500 already dead. I'm talking blunt
reality. We are fighting a difficult and cunning enemy ‐ regretfully that enemy has
destroyed the middle ground.'
The Secretary of State eased back, drew breath.
Ànd the prosecution of the war justifies the use of traitors, of Judas men?'
The civil servant saw the flare of anger in the Secretary of State's eyes.
Ìf you view the Provisional I.R.A. as Christ then the supergrass is indeed a Judas.
You won't be expecting me to take that viewpoint.'
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`What I was trying to say . . .'
The civil servant stood. Ì think that ground's covered, Mr Broekweicz, and there's
your flight ...'
During the hand‐shaking the telephone on the Secretary of State's desk warbled.
The civil servant took it, listened, replaced the receiver.
He showed the journalist out, shut the door on him.
`Bloody good riddance. Did I do alright?
'Perfect, sir.'
`That's no bloody answer, Fred.'
Ìt'll do ... Chief Constable was on. The charges are being laid tonight, on McAnally's word. The Chief Constable's rather spare with
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**information. He says that after yesterday's capers McAnally's as well as can be
expected.'
Ì'm gone, if he retracts.' The Secretary of State stared out of the window, down
across the Stormont grasslands. His triumph over Conrad Broekweicz of the New
York Times had given only short‐lived pleasure.
`The Coleraine Development Board are next,' the civil servant advised.
At the door of the supermarket, a huge, basic, covered barn of a place, Prentice
palmed McAnally five fivers.
He did it privately, hoping that Roisin wouldn't see. McAnally just passed the folded notes to Roisin. Prentice's effort was wasted. She put the money in her purse.
`Don't you want to get something, Gingy, something for yourself ?T 'She'll get all
I need.'
`What about the kids?
'She'll get what the kids need.'
The loudspeakers in the supermarket were playing scratched carols. Prentice reckoned it must be last year's tape, recorded off the previous year's record.
God rest you Merry Gentlemen Let nothing you dismay.
McAnally was like a lost man, and he held Little Patty's hand tight, and he didn't
respond to her excitements and pointings and pleasures that were the shelves.
He meandered without purpose, and away from Roisin who had settled Baby
Sean in the food trolley's toddler seat, and away from Young Gerard who stayed
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with his Ma. What price all the bright tinsel and the plastic holly and the gift-wrapped presents for the family of Sean Pius McAnally? He'd made his bed, the
bugger could lie on it. Prentice saw Goss fall in behind the informer, shadowing
him as he went between the shelf banks. Himself he went after Roisin; not too close, not so that she would be aware of him, crowded by him.
Jesus Christ, our Sav‐i‐our Was born on Christmas Day.
Always the shoulders and the raven dark hair of Roisin were in his sight.
Rennie came into the Chief's cell. With him were McDonough and Astley and a uniformed Inspector. Astley had his notebook opened. Rennie read from a sheet
of typewritten paper.
`Kevin Majella Muldoon, no fixed abode, you are charged that between the 1st day of November 1984 and the 1st day of December 1984 you and others
conspired together to murder William Horace Simpson, contrary to section 4 of
the Offences against the Person Act 1861. Do you wish to say anything? You are
not obliged to say anything unless you wish to do so, but whatever you say will be
taken down in writing and may be used in evidence.'
`Nothing.'
`Kevin Majella Muldoon, no fixed abode, you are charged that between the 1st day of January 1981 and the 1st day of December 1984, you belonged to a proscribed organization, namely the Irish Republican Army, contrary to section 21(1)(a) of the Northern Ireland (Emergency Provisions) Act 1978 ... Do you wish
to say anything? You are not obliged to say anything unless you wish to do so, but whatever you say will be taken down in writing and may be used in evidence.'
The Chief belched. `Nothing.'
The Chief turned his head to the wall, and the door shut on his back.
Out in the corridor, to Astley, Rennie said, Ìf I lose that bastard you might see me crying, sonny.'
At the next cell door McDonough passed Rennie from a thick sheaf of papers the
charge sheet of Oliver Anthony O'Brien.
Ì won't just be crying, I'll be blubbering my eyes out, if I lose any one of them.'
It would take them more than an hour to work through the charge sheets to be
served against the men named by Sean Pius McAnally.
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Mr Pronsias Reilly had a crowded morning schedule to sandwich between the Magistrate's hearing and his attendance at the Crown Court.
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He was pleased with his performance before the Magistrate, well satisfied as he
was led by a Court policeman down the steep steps to the cells where he would
be able to manage ten minutes with the Chief. At the hearing he had established
from a reluctant Detective Sergeant McDonough that the evidence against his client was based on the word of Sean Pius McAnally. And he had further
established that the same
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**Sean Pius McAnally had been granted immunity in respect of all charges he might have faced. Serious charges? Charges of Murder? Sean Pius McAnally had
been granted immunity from charges of triple murder? The solicitor had seen the
flickering movement of pencils and biros at the Press Bench. He had scored the
points that were there to be taken and had gone on to attack the media for what
he criticized as a circus of sensationalism in their coverage of his client's arrest. A good performance.
In the cell he talked to his client within the view, but outside the hearing, of the Court policeman.
`Who's taking care?
'Frankie Conroy. He's sworn he'll get you out. He's sworn McAnally won't testify.'
Ìt's one thing to swear.'
`Frankie's sworn it.' There was a quick smile at Mr Pronsias Reilly's lips. `There's not everyone was prepared to swear the same. If Frankie fails you then you'll be
waiting on the judge.'
`McAnally's for killing.'
`Frankie has to find him again.'
`Frankie has to kill him.'
Mr Pronsias Reilly slipped back on the cell chair. It was a new sight of the Chief.
This was the hard man of the Organization, and the solicitor sensed the whiff of
fear in the Chief's words. The charge of Conspiracy to Murder carried Eighteen or
Twenty. There were some of the big men who gave the judge two fingers when
they were sent down. Not this one. Bright staring eyes, and the breath coming in
little pants.
`Frankie has to stiff him.'
`Frankie's sworn it, he may not get all the help he wants ... There are some who
say there's better things for the Organization to be at.' `Which bastards?
'I didn't hear the names.'
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The Chief had hold of Mr Pronsias Reilly's hand, squeezed it, hurt him. Ìf people
turn their arses on me, then they're dead when I'm out; you tell every bastard that who turns his back on me.'
`Frankie knows what he has to do.'
A coasting day for McAnally.
The confrontations completed, the accused in court, a full day with the Branch.
Last night Roisin had cooked a good meal, and cooked for the minders as well,
and there'd been no talk of the bullet. And she'd washed up with Prentice, and he'd heard her laugh ... first bloody
time. And she'd made something of the house. In a day she'd made the house a
home.
The Branch man was an odd bugger. Grey hair onto his shoulders, and a leather
jacket like he was a teenager, and jeans, and beads round his bloody throat.
Proper queer one. Used a cassette tape as a notebook, so they could talk, and they could have a crack and a laugh. Not like taking the statements. Easier this,
relaxed, comfortable, and McAnally talking, and the Branch man prompting, and
later in the morning the snapshot book came out of a drawer in the Branch man's
desk. Bloody incredible photographs. Not mug shots, photos from the long lens
cameras. Funerals, street‐corner meetings, men into doorways, men out of
doorways, men on the pavement, men in cars. Who's that ...? Did you ever come
across him ...? That a fellow you ever met ...? Was he ever on your side of town
...? The talk was kept light and cool, and McAnally warmed to the Branch man because he had mahogany stains on his fingernails, and dirt under the nails, and
he hadn't shaved well, and McAnally could sniff his socks.
McAnally talked through that day. The first time that he had felt good talking.
Goss was behind him, in a hard chair, managing to sleep and snoring softly, and
McAnally was scratching his mind for memories of the men who had been
photographed by the surveillance cameras, and when he could tell a story about
a photograph the Branch man told him that he was bloody marvellous.
`He wants to go outside, can he or can't he?' Roisin challenged.
Through the living room door Prentice could see Young Gerard standing in the hall. The boy was silent, but seemed to whine like a dog that needed to get to the
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front gate and lift a leg. Prentice didn't know the answer. There should have been
a woman on the detail, a W.P.C.
`He's a boy, he's eight and a half, he's been cooped up inside since . . .'
... Since the family had been lifted out of Turf Lodge to go into hiding with the
breadwinner who was a tout. There couldn't be any harm in the boy going out.
He could walk around. He might find some kids to play football with. Prentice hesitated.
`He's not a bloody prisoner, whatever we are.'
If Prentice said that the boy couldn't go out, then he'd be back into the living room, glowering, and park himself across the carpet in front of the television, and
bicker with Little Patty.
`Not far.'
`What does that mean?
'It means he can go out, but he shouldn't be out of sight of the house.'
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**Roisin stared hard at him. `Why shouldn't he be out of sight of the house?
'Because I say he shouldn't,' Prentice said.