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would his Da be shaking his head and telling him
    `Fucking well done, boy'? He wondered what future his son had that was beyond
    22

    the walls of the Kesh and the stones of the Milltown cemetery. He didn't think like that often, only when he was down. But a man who had blinded a Brit and taken out a constable could hardly cuff his son on the ear if the kid wanted to follow his father into the Organization.
    McAnally saw the frank admiration in the boy's eyes. He felt better, stronger.
    Ìnto Westrock Gardens, take the left, on the left‐hand side the second from the
    end.'
    `Thanks.'
    The boy grinned, pleased, and ran. McAnally saw that he had a school bag with
    him. Shit, couriering for the Provos before playground time. He saw Young Gerard's face and bit the flesh of his thumb to shift the pain.
    The door of the small red‐brick house was opened for him by a grandmother. She
    was old enough to be a grandmother, and in the hall was a playpen with a baby
    trapped in it. The woman had curlers in her thin hair and a Sweet Afton blowing a
    cloud from the side of her mouth, and she wore fluffy slippers that had once been
    pink, and she shouted over the noise of her vacuum cleaner. Ìn the back room.
    You'll take a cuppa?'
    He sat in the back room for half an hour. He cleaned his nails, he pinched hairs
    from his nostrils. Over and over again he planned his refusal to the Chief.
    Through the thin walls of the house he heard the front door's bell. He was standing when they came in with his hands held across his crotch, and he felt he
    was a bloody felon.
    `Morning, Gingy. Good to see you. Long time.'
    McAnally knew him, riot well but he knew him. A cold, hard fucker,. those that knew him well said he was. They'd met in the bars after
    McAnally had come out of the Kesh. They'd known each other when McAnally was a big man who was on the R.P.G.‐7 A.S.U. This was the Chief. There were three men behind him. None of them kids, none of them the prison fodder that
    were the Volunteers. Brigade men. Men that the Mirror called the Godfathers.
    The Chief wore a black donkey jacket with the collar up and round his cheeks, and
    he had a flat cap down over his eyes. His fingers were fidgeting, couldn't help himself. McAnally smiled. He had on the end of his tongue the name that the Chief was called. He was called 'Windsy'. Not to his face, but behind his back. It
    was said that he lived off Chinese takeaway, noodles and rice and spare ribs, and
    that was why 'Windsy'. Be a brave bugger, or a daft bugger, who would call him
    that to his face. A fierce face, power and authority jutting from the little that McAnally could see of it.
    23

    `Yes, it's been a long time.'
    `When was it you went away, Gingy, how long?' A grating nasal voice.
    `Two years.'
    `They all need a rest ... those that can get it. You'll be well rested now.'
    McAnally put his hands on his hips. He stood at his full height, and he was three
    inches shorter than the Chief. He smelled the soya.
    Ì quit . . .' McAnally said.
    `No, Gingy, you rested.'
    Ì said that I'd quit ... that's what I meant, you know how it is.'
    Ì don't fucking know how it is. You rested. There's boys here, brilliant boys, who'd give a lot for two weeks resting, not two years but two weeks. It's tiring fighting the war, Gingy, more tiring than resting for two years.'
    The Chief smiled. What showed of his face was pale except for the ruddy scar across his nose. A soldier's baton had done that back in '71. The story had it that
    seven soldiers had been needed to hold him down, and all swinging the batons,
    and him alone with his fists. A bit of myth was needed by a man if he was to make
    C.O. of Belfast Brigade.
    `The boys came to see you, Gingy, you told them to piss themselves. They spelled out the plan. They tell me that you said it was a crazy suicide plan . . .'
    McAnally blurted, `To stand in the Crumlin, daylight, with the R.P.G., too right that's suicide.'
    `My plan, Gingy, you farted on my plan,'