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move again up into New Barnsley. The Brigade staff in Belfast were anxious not to keep him long in one place, to hustle him round. Only the Brigade commander knew the value of the man the precautions were made for ... no one else was told, and in the house he was greeted with silence. He came in fast over the back fence, avoiding the kids" bikes, ducked under the washing lines and made his way through the damp, filthy scullery into the back room. The family was gathered in semi‐darkness with the television on loud‐‐Channel 9. His escort whispered into the ear of the man of the house, and was gone, leaving him. The man was not from this part of the city, and was not known anyway.

    His arrival and needs, after four years of warfare, were unremarkable. In the "Murph" his name could be kept secret, not his reason for running‐‐not after the Scotland Yard photokit had been flashed up on to the screen during the late‐night news. On orders from London the photo had been withheld until after the intelligence

    mat

    and Special Branch officers had attempted to identify the killer. With their failure the picture had been released. The family gathered round the set to hear the announcer.

    Scotland Yard have just issued a photokit picture of the man they wish to interview in connection with the murder of Mr Henry Danby, the Minister of Social Security, at his home in central London yesterday morning. The picture has been compiled from the description of several eye‐witnesses. Scotland Yard say the man is aged about thirty, has short hair, with a parting on the left side, a narrow face, with what a witness calls "pinched cheeks'. The man is of light build, and about five feet nine inches tall. When last seen he was wearing grey trousers and a dark brown jacket. He may also have a fawn‐coloured macintosh with him. Anyone who can identify this man is asked to get in touch immediately with the police on the Confidential Line of Belfast 227756 or 226837.

    High on the fireplace over the small fire grate was a carved and painted model of a Thompson machine gun, the present to the family from their eldest son Eamon, held for two years in Long Kesh. It was dated Christmas 1973. Below the gun the family registered no reaction to the picture shown on their screens.
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    In the small hours Theresa, Eamon's sister, tiptoed her way round the scarred door of the back room. She eased her path over the floorboards, still loosened and noisy since the army came to look for her brother. In the darkness she saw the face of the man, out from under his blankets with his arms wrapped around his pillow, as a child holds a favourite doll. She was shivering in the thin nightdress, transparent and reaching barely below her hips. She had selected it two hours before to put on before waiting to be sure her people were asleep. Very gently at first, she shook the shoulder of the man, till he started half out of bed, gripped her wrist, and then in one movement pulled her down, but as a prisoner.

    'Who's that?" he said it hard, tautly, with fear in his voice.

    'It's Theresa." There was silence, just the man's breathing, and still he held her wrist, vice‐like.
    With her free hand she moved back the bed clothes and moved her body alongside his. He was naked and cold; across the room she saw his clothes strewn over the chair by the window.

    'You can let go," she said and tried to move closer to him, but only to find him backing away till the edge of the single bed stopped his movement.

    'Why did you come?'

    'To see you.'

    'Why did you come?" Again harsher, louder.

    'They showed your picture ... on the telly ... just now ... on the late news.'

    The hand released her wrist. The man flopped back on the pillow, tension draining out of him.
    Theresa pressed against his body, but found no response, no acknowledgement of her presence.

    'You had to know, for when they move you on. I had to tell you ... we aren't your enemies.
    You're safe with us ...