if they knew the truth it would be the end for you , Cedric ’
*
A whistle came from below. Macken folded the note and hid it in his pocket. Boots on, he clattered downstairs.
CHAPTER 7
Cedric and Bull were standing to attention in the private office. To one side was a man wearing the stripes of a sergeant. Almost as tall as Macken. Hard looking. No fool. The fourth man, a senior officer, was the only one to languidly turn his head as Macken entered.
‘Good you could join us. Macken, isn’t it?’
‘Yes, sir. Reporting for duty.’
Macken drew himself to attention.
‘Glad to have you. McReady’s my name. District inspector for this part of God’s country. I knew your father. He was a stickler, wasn’t he?’
Macken smiled politely. ‘Yes, sir.’
‘So, he’d be disappointed if I failed to remind you that, though we may be far from Belfast, we do try to observe punctuality.’
‘Yes, sir. Sorry, sir.’
McReady peered down over the moustache that gave him a certain Errol Flynn rakishness. ‘And Macken? We have certain standards of dress on parade, if that’s not too much for you?’ He waved his blackthorn stick at Macken’s feet, the shine on the polished wood a contrast to the still filthy boots. ‘We may have to wade through muck, but we don’t have to let it stick to us. Buck up, Macken.’
‘Yes, sir,’ Macken’s cheeks reddened. Wherever he went, his father’s illustrious reputation always lay in wait. From the corner of his eye, he detected a glare of renewed suspicion from Cedric.
McReady got on with business. ‘Just dropping by to keep you on your toes. Though I’d say Sergeant Gracey is well able for that task.’
The inspector turned his stick slowly in his hands as he spoke. Macken noticed a faint tremor and realised that his constant fiddling with the blackthorn was less affectation than an attempt to conceal a physical tic. He guessed that McReady had been one of the cadet officers commissioned into the RUC from the regular army after the War. Which meant he’d be a bugger about enforcing every regulation, but perhaps more open minded about other things, having swapped the narrow sectarian alleyways of Ulster for the broader killing fields of North Africa and France.
Inspection visits were routine. The DI made unannounced visits to each of the barracks in his patch – Blackwatertown, Keady and Benburb – and surprised constables on patrol, thus ensuring standards did not slip.
He praised them for their quick response to the reports, hopefully groundless, of subversive activity in the area. All that was a thing of the past, he hoped. So he was confident that Sergeant Gracey would be able to keep the statistics on an even keel.
‘We run a tight ship here when it comes to law breaking. Especially at this time of the year, isn’t that right, Sergeant?’ The inspector beamed, and turned to Macken. ‘You might even say we’re sticklers.’
*
The DI departed, which put Sergeant Gracey back in charge. He turned to Macken, and mentally weighed and measured him, his bottom lip protruding as he carried out the assessment. Then he stuck out a hand. Macken took it, and felt himself gripped tightly, while the scrutiny continued, this time boring into his eyes.
‘Welcome to Blackwatertown. Jolly, isn’t it?’
Macken got the message: Don’t think you can keep any secrets from me.
‘Just Macken,’ he replied, cursing once again his nickname.
‘Billy Gracey,’ said the other, ‘but you can call me Sergeant.’
Aha, thought Macken, Cedric’s partner in poaching.
‘Sort your boots out and we’ll get you out on patrol. Help you get the lie of the land.
‘Normally, I’d send you beyond the Catholic chapel. Constable McMahon’s beat, God rest him. But the rest of us have business there ourselves this time of the year, so you can walk out by the church instead. Not far for your first day.
‘Try to keep out of trouble.’
For a moment, Macken thought the sergeant was referring to his unedifying exit from Kilmurray. Then he realised it was merely a standard dismissal.
*
‘What’s all this about the statistics?’ Macken asked Bull. ‘Am I missing out on some private joke?’
Bull was doing a bit of cleaning himself – the shotgun from the front desk. He leant forward to assess Macken’s boots.
‘I suppose they’ll do, so they will,’ he tutted. ‘Joke? No joke. Harvest time, so it is.’
‘What’s that got to do with anything?’ asked Macken.
‘Important time of year. Harvesting the cash,’ said Bull. ‘Have to cover the rent somehow, keep auld Trelford contented.’
Bull could see Macken still did not understand. ‘Ah no, I’m messing with you. The RUC isn’t that badly off just yet. It’s for the statistics. The DI is a fierce man for the statistics. Very particular.’
Bull looked as though he seldom pounded the beat. He had the bulk of a bull but none of the energy. He explained that Macken’s normal beat would be the Catholic townlands across the river, but that he’d be covering the Protestant end of town until the current sweep was over.
‘It’s the same every six months, so it is. This is a sleepy sort of a place, bar the odd drunk. But we can’t have the powers that be thinking we’re dozing. They might close the barracks and shift us all to Belfast. We’d be rushed off our feet there.
‘Sure you couldn’t do better than here. Near the border, true enough, but quiet all the same. The Roman Catholics keep their heads down.
‘Though of course,’ chuckled Bull, hefting the shotgun, ‘this is always loaded just in case.’
‘So what am I supposed to do?’ asked Macken.
‘You don’t have to do anything,’ laughed Bull. ‘A nice easy introduction to Blackwatertown. They’ll be pleased to see you up that end, even when they realise you’re the new Roman. Oh aye, it’ll be all smiles this week. Only twice a year mind, so don’t go getting carried away.’
He grinned at Macken’s continued confusion: ‘Sure they know it means the rest of us are getting stuck in across the river. It’s only human to take a mite of pleasure from the misfortune of others.’
Macken picked up a typewritten list of minor offences and fines. There seemed to be an awful lot about bicycles – failure to display a functioning front light,
