LITMIR.BIZ

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and there, he caught the glint of the night’s dampness on roof tiles or kerbside, like the signs of a snail’s passage. Don’t do the place down, he told himself, before you’ve even met the people.

      He couldn’t see a soul, but he felt the locals watching him. Curtain twitches and door creaks. Suddenly a loud voice commanded him to stop in his tracks. Surprised to meet yet another security check, Macken automatically obeyed. He heard a grunt of effort. Then the opaque contents of a bucket flew through the space into which he had been about to step, to splash over the roadway. A large woman of mature years in a housecoat looked out, taking his measure.

      ‘Just washing the floor down,’ she explained. ‘You the replacement?’

      Without giving him time to answer, she waved him on. ‘March on, Constable. March on. Too early an hour for introductions. Drop by later.’

      Once again, Macken did as he was told. The police barracks, halfway along the main street, was set back a couple of yards behind a low wall, with bay windows on either side of the front door. Its once-white walls made it stand out a little from the general greyness. The door and windowsills shone glossy black like a policeman’s boot. Each downstairs sill held a dark green wooden trough, from which geraniums jiggled in the breeze: their petals bright Williamite orange, blood red and the light pink of yapping tongues endlessly gossiping.

      On the wall by the door were the Royal Ulster Constabulary crest and an official noticeboard with a sliding glass window. A poster warned of a gang of cattle poisoners Ragwort, Dock, Thistle, Ox-Eye and Dog Daisy. Farmers were warned on pain of prosecution to watch out for these noxious weeds and to cut, spray or other otherwise exterminate them.

      Another notice drew attention to the Game Amendment Act (Northern Ireland) 1951, which made it unlawful to burn gorse on uncultivated land between the 15^th of March and the 15^th of July, in order to protect wildlife during the breeding season.

      It was what he expected. A life regulated by the RUC code.

      He heard a hacking cough. Another woman, same housecoat but skinnier, watching from the door. She made no effort to move out of his way, taking a long drag on her cigarette as she carried out her own inspection.

      ‘You’ve met Alena then. Looks like you escaped a soaking.’

      She eyed his muddy boots and trouser ends. ‘Pity.’

      ‘May I come in?’ asked Macken politely. She began to answer, then just shrugged, and let him pass.

      Macken immediately tripped on the uneven threshold. He stumbled forward onto shiny brown linoleum, scattering flakes of dry mud. He looked back at the doorstep, which was cracked from side to side, slightly higher at the back than the front. The doorway on his left led to the day room, the reception area of every police station, where Macken was again looked up and down – this time by a constable and a man in civilian clothes. Between them, on a large desk, was Macken’s bag of fish.

      The desk officer shook his head sympathetically. ‘Don’t worry, that step catches everyone the first time.’

      ‘Why don’t you fix it then?’ snapped Macken in embarrassment.

      ‘Sure, you get used to it in no time. We don’t even notice it’s there.’

      Macken identified himself. The desk constable said his own name was Bull. Macken had noticed the way Bull’s hand had instinctively dropped below the desk when he had entered. As he stepped round to shake hands, Macken noted the usual sawn-off shotgun on an easily accessible shelf, out of sight from the doorway. Bull introduced the other man as Trelford Dunlap.

      ‘Mr Dunlap is the boy we need to keep sweet, so we do. Isn’t that right, Trelford?’

      ‘I’m just hoping you’ll look after the place better than these boys, Constable Macken,’ Dunlap chuckled along. ‘I’m relying on you.’

      With that, Dunlap became the latest to look pointedly at the trail left by Macken’s boots. Macken stammered an apology.

      ‘Yes of course, sir. It was a bit clabby underfoot, having to walk here.’

      Dunlap tutted in sympathy.

      ‘That’s a hard station, making a man trek to his new posting. What’s the police coming to, Bull?’

      ‘A question I frequently ask myself, Trelford,’ laughed Bull. ‘Don’t worry, Macken. Mr Dunlap is not an inspector. Though he does like to inspect us every now and then.’

      ‘Ah, now,’ said Dunlap in affable disagreement, ‘I just drop by to be sure you boys are getting on alright.’

      ‘Mr Dunlap is our landlord, making sure we’re issuing enough fines to pay the rent.’

      Macken laughed along dutifully. He was trying not to stare at his bag of dollaghan. A thick register for recording comings and goings had been pushed aside to make room for the fish. Behind the desk was a row of files and ledgers. Macken presumed they were the usual records of summonses and official notices, the patrol books in which were noted all incidents outside the barracks and the bicycle book that held the frame numbers of missing or stolen cycles. Fixed to the wall were the daily duty roster, some Hue and Cry notices and the standard litany of barrack rules: ‘The Undermentioned Regulations are to be strictly observed and enforced.’

      A portable bed was folded in the bay. The duty roster would ensure a twenty-four-hour presence in the day room, though visitors might have to shake the guard awake. Glowing coals in the hearth and the fire-blackened kettle on its holder gave a touch of homeliness.

      Bull recorded Macken’s arrival and then took him on a short tour of the barracks, holding the bag of fish in one hand and gesturing with the other. Halfway along the hall, steep stairs climbed to the right. Back left, behind the day room, was the kitchen.

      ‘Mind how you go there. That’s Molly’s territory,’ Bull cocked his head back to the front door. ‘She also cleans, or so I’ve heard. But it’s mainly the meals. If she’s time between fags and gossiping,’ Bull held up the fish, ‘I’ll get her to do something with these. Gift from a grateful public. I bet you didn’t get that in Belfast?’

      Macken decided it wasn’t worth correcting him. Moving clockwise, Bull pointed to the washroom and the old bog outside in the back yard. ‘Not somewhere you’ll want to linger.’

      Carrying on round, the door by the foot of the stairs led to the cells. Bull explained that they rarely used either of them. And finally, completing the circuit on the other side of the front door, was the private office.

      ‘For meetings. Though it’s cosier in the day room. We don’t lay a fire in the private office in case some visiting bigwig settles in too comfortably.’

      As they tramped upstairs, Bull told him they had room for eight in comfort, two per room, but that one of the back rooms was being used for storage. The barracks sergeant, called Gracey, had the other. Of the three remaining doors, Bull explained that the furthest one led to a small toilet room with a basin.

      ‘It’s the only improvement since this place was built,’ said Bull. ‘Saves you traipsing outside in the middle of the night, so it does.’

      He ushered Macken past the door of the first front bedroom and into the next room. Macken guessed he was now standing above the reception area and therefore in the noisiest spot.

      ‘This is you,’ concluded Bull. ‘I’m next door. Cedric’s your room-mate.’

      ‘We’ve met.’

      ‘Well then. I’ll leave you to get spruced up.’

      *

      Macken sank down on the free bed. The room was plain. A wardrobe with drawers beside each bed. And a heavy, iron-bound, black wooden box, the size of a tea chest, handles on either end. C. ANDREWS was stencilled on the front. There was space beside it for

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