The Glory Boys

The detective had to screw his legs under the wooden chair to leave room for the nurses who worked round McCoy's bed. They fussed and pecked at their patient and then went in crocodile line out through the door. There was light from the car park outside and shadows thrown against the wall. For what seemed an age, frighteningly long to the policeman, the Irishman lay still, unmoving, unblinking on the crisp white of the bedclothes.

When eventually he spoke it was too dark in the room for the detective to see his face.

'What happened to him?' The words were slow in coming, spoken so faintly that the other man had to lean forward, cursing in his mind the murmur of the distant traffic.

'Did he make it?'

The detective was uncertain what he was allowed to say, and kept silent.

'Did he get the bastard?'

Conscientiously the words were written down.

'Did he get him? For Christ's sake, tell me.'

'He tried and he didn't make it. Shot a soldier, fired on the Israeli. Missed. He's dead now, they shot him on the tarmac.' From the bed there was a deep, heaved sigh, then only the regular, drug-controlled breathing. McCoy said nothing more.

Through the haze of images there was a certain hard-won precision. Of how the news would spread from Cullyhanna to Crossmaglen, what the talk would be in Forkhill and Mulaghbane, what the men would say in the hills round Slieve Gullion and Lislea as they nestled in the bracken and grass and watched and waited with their binoculars and their Armalites. And he felt against the clamminess of his arms the white tiles of the cell walls that would be his. There would be bars and heavy doors, and iron-shod feet, and uniforms, and he would slowly rot away, praying and hoping each night for the mercy of sleep.

Behind the barman and hidden by the inverted spirits bottles the radio played music from the BBC Northern Dance Orchestra. Jolly and conventional and designed to cheer the customers of the pub. There was much noise in the 'Public', and the swill of beer before closing would soon be under way. There was talk of the day's affairs, not of the economy, not of inflation, not of sport, not of the boobs on the inside pages of the tabloids. Attention was gripped to the events of the airport. To be expected… the picture of the Agency man with his telephoto lens had made the final editions of the London evenings. Not much detail, but the figure on the ground, and the man above him with the gun were recognizable enough. The art department had helped with the gun. The photograph justified the headlines – 'Execution' and 'High Noon at Heathrow'.

Jimmy sat in the far corner, near the door, solitary, uncommunicative and now on his fifth double whisky. He was slumped low with his head close to the glass and his eyes deep in the amber, watching the stillness of the liquid, following its reflections, amused by the shapeless patterns of the bubbles that rose from the diminishing ice cubes.

No bitterness. Just a sense of regret. Passing of time.

Ending of an institution.

The barman ran the big ship's bell hanging above the polished counter.

'Last orders, gentlemen. Last orders. One more gulp for the road.'

Compulsive for Jimmy. Never could resist the last one.

Had to have it, rain or shine, success or cock-up. He was on his feet, pushing with the throng, thrusting forward his glass with the rest of them. The signature tune of the news headlines rose and faded above the shouting and demanding. First words indistinct, drowned by the big man wanting the big round. Fatuous face, filled out with beer and distended sub-skin veins. Heard the word 'Sokarev'.

Heard the words 'Heart Attack'.

'Shut up,' Jimmy yelled. 'Shut your bloody faces.'

A score of faces were turned on him, saw the power of his eyes, of his chin, of his shoulders. .. an hour after Professor Sokarev had been admitted to the intensive care wing of a Tel Aviv hospital it was announced by the Foreign Ministry in Jerusalem that the efforts of doctors to save his life had failed. The Professor, who was aged 53, was one of the country's principal scientists working at the nuclear centre at Dimona in the Negev desert. in London, Scotland Yard have still not given any details on the unnamed security man who shot dead an already wounded Arab terrorist on the tarmac at Heathrow after the unsuccessful attempt on Professor Sokarev's life this afternoon. But our political editor reports that Government ministers are demanding disciplinary action against…'

His deep, raucous, baying laughter shook the bar. Head well back, face taking on the crimson of exertion, body shaking. And all around the faces of hostility and reaction.

'What's so funny about that?'

'Nothing to bloody-well laugh about.'

'Warped little bastard.'

'What's the matter with him? Half pissed.'

He ignored them with grand contempt. So bloody funny.

Hilarious. Laughed till it hurt in his guts, till the pain came to his chest and was laughing as he stumped out into the coldness of the street. Cheated them all, you little bugger.