The Glory Boys

One at a time, my Provie boy. Let it work itself when you get there. Get the priorities sealed up first. But this bloody carry-on is not the way you do it. You don't stand up in Crossmaglen market square and blast a para and then wonder where you'll scarper. Doesn't work that way.

You plan it all out, think about it, have your watchers and your spotters and the woman who'll take the gun in her pram and the man who'll leave his back door open and the car that'll be waiting. You don't leave it to chance.

Donal hadn't a route planned when he fired – seventeen and couldn't read. He'd died in the alleyway behind his house, and everyone in the section shot him, big, bloody guardsmen, and they'd laughed. Sean hadn't thought it out when he drove the bomb to Newtown Hamilton and they stopped him at the check-point. Wasn't usually one there, not on that cross-roads, and he's fifteen years in the Crumlin Gaol to think on it. The bloody eejit way of getting stuffed, he'd told his men, to be out on the business without the preparation. You don't survive if you're in a hurry.

They'd expect something better of you, Ciaran McCoy, he thought. Piss themselves laughing in the boozer. Off on the big one, off on the spectacular, and no plan out. The beer would swill round their guts but there'd be no tears if the bastards shoot you, no protests if they nick you alive and lock you up the rest of your natural. Drink themselves stupid and talk and talk, and all to say that Ciaran McCoy had done a job across the water, and hadn't thought the way out. They'd hiccup and belch their way home, down the streets off the square and think: 'Stupid little bugger, and him the one that was always telling the rest.'

But there'd be no more trouble from the Arab. He saw that, the way Famy followed him, like a dog, half a step behind, frightened of disapproval. There'll be no more shouting. He'll do as he's bloody told.

Off the main roads the streets were deserted. Television had played the national anthem and was now quietened, the bed-time cocoa had been taken upstairs, the doors locked and bolted, cats shoved into the night. No one curious of the sounds came to an upstairs window as McCoy prised open the bonnet of an ageing Ford Cortina.

From his pocket he drew a packet of cigarettes and took one out. He slid his thumbnail down the join where the two ends of the paper met and brushed out the shredded tobacco, then squeezed off the filter, letting it fall into the gutter. With one hand he felt across the iron frame on the top of the engine till his fingers, guided by knowledge and experience, rested on the vital terminals. Into the gap between them he inserted the sliver of paper. Without asking he moved to Famy, took the grip from him, unzipped it and pulled out a shirt. He placed it against the triangular glass partition at the front of the driver's window, paused and then smashed his hand against the cotton. The blow was sufficiently muffled. There was no alert from those who slept in the houses around. The glass tilted on its axis. There was room for him to insert his hand down alongside the interior handle and carefully release it. When he had opened the driver's door he leaned across and freed the lock on the passenger side, then motioned for Famy to take his seat. When the Arab was there, door closed and the bag on his knees, McCoy returned his attention to the engine. Again his hands moved aross the greased bulk searching for the rubber, nipple-like button that he needed. When he found it he glanced again toward Famy, gave him the half-smile that meant success, and pressed. As the mechanism shook into life he eased the bonnet down and slipped into the driving seat. There was a last look up at the undisturbed drapes across the windows and he had edged the car out into the road and driven off.

He headed east, away from the policemen who shivered, bored and listless, at their road blocks.

'Piece of bloody cake,' he muttered to himself.

'What now?' Famy asked, cautious and uncertain of the Irishman's mood.

'Get some distance behind us. About half an hour's worth, and across the river. Find somewhere off the tracks, and get some sleep. We'll need a garage when it's light where we'll get some keys to this bloody heap. Out on the other side of town where there are woods and we'll lose ourselves there for the day. We don't come back into town till the evening.'

Famy nodded. He was conscious he was being told what he needed to know, nothing more. No frills on it, no embroidery, and above all no discussion.

McCoy sensed the mood.