accurate hail of stones into the mob of police and Orangemen.
Here’s me, thought Macken, a Catholic, leading a bunch of bigots against other Catholics trying to defend their village. But on the other hand, I’m a policeman and those corner boys on the barricade are trying to take my head off.
Baton aloft, yelling, Macken reached the barrier first and came face to face with the smart mouth who’d taunted him before.
As he leapt onto a boulder, Macken saw the man was holding a bicycle, preparing to flee the battle. No time for escape now pal, thought Macken grimly. The man glanced back over his shoulder, the blood draining from his face when he saw Macken so close. But as Macken scrambled closer, the man lifted and swung the bicycle. Then he let go.
Macken put up his arms to protect himself and became entangled in the bicycle’s works. He fell back, his head poking through the triangle of the frame and his baton arm caught in the spokes of the back wheel. The skinny man hared off through the heather as Macken went down hard.
*
Macken lay there, his face full of pedals and handlebars, as the combined forces of law and Orange Order surged over the barricade, scattering the defenders.
Beefy-faced farmers planted themselves on top of the barrier, leaning forward, hands on their thighs, catching their breath. The backslapping got underway, as they gathered in excited chatter round Big Jim, who sat panting, his vast girth quivering. Macken tried to extricate himself from the bicycle. He hissed in pain as a pedal dug into his side.
The Worshipful Master quietened the war whoops to lead three cheers and a prayer of thanks. He thanked the loyal officers of Her Majesty and drew attention to one in particular: ‘Sergeant Macken sadly does not have the stamina of people who are proud to walk the Queen’s highway. He’s found himself a bicycle.’
Macken staggered, crab-like, to his feet. This delighted his audience.
‘Look at the walking deckchair! He belongs in the circus.’
He gingerly disentangled himself and slowly straightened up.
‘Stop horsing around, Sergeant!’ barked the DI. ‘You’ll not catch them on that pile of junk. Let’s take control of the situation.’
Macken angrily dashed the buckled bicycle to the ground and pushed his way through to where Big Jim stood glaring at the DI, across the Lambeg drum, which sat squat like a broad, round table on the roadway. What now? Macken sighed to himself. Isn’t winning enough for him?
The sleeves rolled up over Big Jim’s broad arms revealed dull flecks of blood. Looks like he’s crushed a few noses, thought Macken.
Laid parallel across the drum like extra-long cutlery were two malacca canes – tapered and thinly splintered at one end, the fatter ends pointing to Big Jim’s brawny, reddened arms.
You have to admire the sheer brute will it takes to lug that beast, thought Macken, to whack it with such furious abandon that the hillsides themselves flinch. Red dots speckled the drumskin. Macken smiled ruefully at his earlier mistake – the blood had come from Big Jim’s own wrists, from repeated contact with the rim of the drum. No matter how bad things are, he reminded himself, jumping to conclusions always makes them seem more bloodthirsty than they really are.
Then Macken realised too late that he had just made another, even worse mistake. In some cultures, a smile may be disarming. In Ulster, a nod will do just as well. In fact, far better. You nod in acknowledgement, respect or agreement. A smile may be seen as weak, devious or ridiculing.
‘Funny, is it? Now we have this friend of the Fenians rubbing it in too!’
Spit from the irate drummer sprayed Macken.
‘Thank you, Macken,’ said the DI under his breath. ‘I was halfway to persuading them not to worry about it – until your helpful intervention.’
The DI looked up the hillside to where a couple of small figures were jigging about on a rocky platform. Macken cursed silently as he recognised the banner hanging from the projecting rock. It was the green, white and orange flag of the Irish Republic. An affront the Orangemen were not willing to overlook.
‘Get up there, Sergeant. Get the bloody flag, so we can get going.’
*
Macken made slow progress, plunging into holes hidden by heather and filled with sheep droppings. The large, flat rock above was a local landmark. Catholics had used it as a Mass Rock – the site of an altar for secret religious services when their priests risked execution under the Penal Laws. Legend had it that the great shard of granite had been thrown there by an ancient giant, during a duel with a rival across the Irish Sea. It was known to all as the Long Rock.
And on the Long Rock, waiting for Macken, were two more eejits keen to crack his head open. Can this day get any worse? he wondered.
Their first stones missed. Macken lurched sideways under the overhang of the Long Rock.
He slipped a finger inside his collar, feeling for the thin, metal disc on a chain round his neck. He pressed it for a moment as he gathered his courage. Back down the hill they were waving and shouting. He couldn’t hear what, but it wasn’t difficult to guess. Get on with it. He drew his baton once more and charged.
His charge immediately slowed to a stumble, making him an easy target. But as he scurried up onto the flat, stone shelf, Macken found it empty. Hardly believing it could end so painlessly, he stepped carefully to the edge of the platform and jerked free the Irish flag.
Another shower of stones fell around him. Macken wobbled on the edge. He realised that his attackers had merely retreated to a higher cairn of missiles.
Macken’s balance shifted again. He tried to plant his feet more firmly but still he gradually pitched forward. His stomach lurched and it seemed like the stone floor was rising to meet him. He fell onto his hands and knees, baton in one hand and flag in the other. The heather on either side of the Long Rock seemed to be falling away.
His brain could not process the information being registered by his senses. It was as if the ground was moving, and he was tipping further and further backwards. He saw the stone-throwers pointing, mouths agape. He blinked and their gawping faces were further away. It’s as if I’m the one moving, he thought, not them.
Macken felt another lurch beneath him and was suddenly lying flat, his cheek against the cold stone, with the hillside moving past. He finally understood that the great granite platform, the Long Rock itself, had tipped and begun to slide down the steep slope.
He heard a faint whimpering from his throat, as if the sound was coming from some other frightened animal. His heart and stomach plummeted far below. His legs and arms shook. His clenched fists pressed into the stone, unable to grip, as the world rushed by faster and faster. Macken rode the Long Rock, crashing and bouncing through the heather, gouging and scraping towards the marchers below – the green, white and orange flag in his fist billowing behind like the tail of a kite.
*
Darkness came down on him. Pouring in thick like tar.
Each
