the slight man trying to make himself seem larger in the uniform.
‘Is this the usual thing,’ asked Macken, ‘to have a checkpoint here?’
‘Ah, no. We’re very quiet. Not like where you’ve come from.’
Good news spreads fast, thought Macken sourly.
The sentry carried on: ‘We had reports of manoeuvring in the woods. It’s just a precaution.’
‘And who’d be on manoeuvres round here?’ asked Macken.
‘Republicans. Free Staters from over the border, maybe.’
‘I thought we were done with all that. I hadn’t pegged Blackwatertown as a hotbed of insurrection.’ Macken cocked his head, as if considering it, then looked the other policeman in the eye. ‘Sounds more like poachers to me, Constable…’
‘Cedric Andrews,’ said the checkpoint guard, reddening.
Macken nodded. One puzzle solved. His guardian angel had been right. He looked for her, but she was gone.
CHAPTER 6
Blackwatertown was little more than a street, with only a few side roads before you were out the other side and into fields again. The dull corridor of grey buildings managed to impose a grimness despite the green countryside around it. Less of a town than a village, and most likely somewhere he could be forgotten about.
It had been somewhere once, though. The Blackwater river flowed into the vast Lough Neagh in the centre of Ulster. As an angler, Macken knew his rivers. The Blackwater was the county boundary between Armagh and its western neighbour Tyrone. Centuries ago, it had marked the furthest edge of English control in Ulster. Which would explain the ruined castle, thought Macken. Hadn’t there been some historic punch-up nearby? Wonder who won? Must have been us, he decided. Because if the other lot had, they’d still be marching to remind us.
All quiet now. No excitement of any kind.
To Macken’s left, a huddle of sheds spoilt the view of the riverbank and a small slipway. A small, black strip of wood above its front door betrayed the purpose of the first blank-faced house. In barely legible letters, it read: The Bridge Bar, Leonard Maginnislicensee. I’ve reached the bright lights now and no mistake, thought Macken.
High, windowless storehouse walls faced the dead public house. And from there, the drab lines of Blackwatertown’s main road slunk between terraced houses, yard walls, a couple of shops. The colour of last night’s ashes, cold and dead in the hearth. But any town is a wasteland compared to fields and forests, Macken reminded himself. Especially this early. Here and there, he caught the glint of the night’s dampness on roof tiles or kerbside, like the signs of a snail’s passage. Don’t do the place down, he told himself, before you’ve even met the people.
He couldn’t see a soul, but he felt the locals watching him. Curtain twitches and door creaks. Suddenly a loud voice commanded him to stop in his tracks. Surprised to meet yet another security check, Macken automatically obeyed. He heard a grunt of effort. Then the opaque contents of a bucket flew through the space into which he had been about to step, to splash over the roadway. A large woman of mature years in a housecoat looked out, taking his measure.
‘Just washing the floor down,’ she explained. ‘You the replacement?’
Without giving him time to answer, she waved him on. ‘March on, Constable. March on. Too early an hour for introductions. Drop by later.’
Once again, Macken did as he was told. The police barracks, halfway along the main street, was set back a couple of yards behind a low wall, with bay windows on either side of the front door. Its once-white walls made it stand out a little from the general greyness. The door and windowsills shone glossy black like a policeman’s boot. Each downstairs sill held a dark green wooden trough, from which geraniums jiggled in the breeze: their petals bright Williamite orange, blood red and the light pink of yapping tongues endlessly gossiping.
On the wall by the door were the Royal Ulster Constabulary crest and an official noticeboard with a sliding glass window. A poster warned of a gang of cattle poisoners Ragwort, Dock, Thistle, Ox-Eye and Dog Daisy. Farmers were warned on pain of prosecution to watch out for these noxious weeds and to cut, spray or other otherwise exterminate them.
Another notice drew attention to the Game Amendment Act (Northern Ireland) 1951, which made it unlawful to burn gorse on uncultivated land between the 15th of March and the 15th of July, in order to protect wildlife during the breeding season.
It was what he expected. A life regulated by the RUC code.
He heard a hacking cough. Another woman, same housecoat but skinnier, watching from the door. She made no effort to move out of his way, taking a long drag on her cigarette as she carried out her own inspection.
‘You’ve met Alena then. Looks like you escaped a soaking.’
She eyed his muddy boots and trouser ends. ‘Pity.’
‘May I come in?’ asked Macken politely. She began to answer, then just shrugged, and let him pass.
Macken immediately tripped on the uneven threshold. He stumbled forward onto shiny brown linoleum, scattering flakes of dry mud. He looked back at the doorstep, which was cracked from side to side, slightly higher at the back than the front. The doorway on his left led to the day room, the reception area of every police station, where Macken was again looked up and down – this time by a constable and a man in civilian clothes. Between them, on a large desk, was Macken’s bag of fish.
The desk officer shook his head sympathetically. ‘Don’t worry, that step catches everyone the first time.’
‘Why don’t you fix it then?’ snapped Macken in embarrassment.
‘Sure, you get used to it in no time. We don’t even notice it’s there.’
Macken identified himself. The desk constable said his own name was Bull. Macken had noticed the way Bull’s hand had instinctively dropped below the desk when he had entered. As he stepped round to shake hands, Macken noted the usual sawn-off shotgun on an easily accessible shelf, out of sight from the doorway. Bull introduced the other man as Trelford Dunlap.
‘Mr Dunlap is the boy we need to keep sweet, so we do. Isn’t that right, Trelford?’
‘I’m just hoping you’ll look after the place better than these boys, Constable Macken,’ Dunlap chuckled along. ‘I’m relying on you.’
With that, Dunlap became the latest to look pointedly at the trail left by Macken’s boots. Macken stammered an apology.
‘Yes of course, sir. It was a bit clabby underfoot, having to walk here.’
Dunlap tutted in sympathy.
‘That’s a hard station, making a man trek to his new posting. What’s the police coming to, Bull?’
‘A question I frequently ask myself, Trelford,’ laughed Bull. ‘Don’t worry, Macken. Mr Dunlap is not an inspector. Though he does like to inspect us every now and then.’
‘Ah,
