Free Contact by A. F. N. Clarke

guard him. It's your war– get on with it.
    The search finished, the team get into their Pig and drive slowly away up the road towards the Crumlin. The rest of us start to pack up, taking care because it is at this stage that you become most vulnerable to attack. Everything going smoothly. just a minor disturbance with some kids flinging bottles, quickly taken care of, and a semblance of peace returns to the area, floating on an undercurrent of increasing tension and hate.
    Back in Leopold Street and everyone is taking the piss out of Hookey trying to break the door down. For us, it has worked off some of the feeling of impotence, drained, to some extent, the level of anger and violence that had been building up over the previous few months. There's nothing like a good fight to ease the savage in us all. But the light-headed euphoria of the moment is short-lived and the exhaustion of the past months catches up, creeping up the back of your neck to sock you between the eyes. It's flake-out in the Ops. Room chair again until the O.C. tips me out telling me that there's work to be done and no room for skivers. Get back on the street because there may be trouble after the raid.
    Cheers, thanks very much.
    Back out into the night, the armoured car moving slowly with the section on foot. Between the rows of vehicles lining the street, lit occasionally by the pale yellow glow of a street light, the rumbling sound echoing off the graffiti-covered walls.
    FUCK THE POPE, screams one. U.D.A. RULE SHANKILL, another informs us, PAR A S OUT, says one more, mirroring one in the Ardoyne.
    Shadows hurry into alleys to vanish amid the wreckage of derelict houses, pounding hearts, hoping they have escaped notice.
    Midnight on the Shankill, with occasional cars taking avoiding action at the sight of a patrol; those not quick enough are collared for a car search, to bear the brunt of accusing stares, sarcastic comments, in silence.
    We caught them this time, before they managed to have any defence ready, so the area is quiet with no reaction. Midnight on the Shankill, with the darkness lending a false sense of security to the patrol moving from street corner to street corner, tired eyes searching the blackness, tired minds beginning to switch off after twenty-four hours straight without sleep. If the opposition knew just how switched off we were at this moment, they would be round in an instant throwing everything they have. However, we have something far more valuable than a flak jacket or rifle. Our reputation. The myth that surrounds the "Paras", the image of supermen in smocks and denims. A load of rubbish, of course, we are just as vulnerable as everyone else, it's just that we don't seem to have the hang-ups about using force of the most vicious kind whenever possible. You can't train people to the ultimate in death-dealing and expect them to sit and do nothing. Memories of Bloody Sunday and the cheers that followed and the myths and awe that grew up around some of the toms who claimed to have shot four or five apiece, and the eager ears listening to tales of the gunmen falling, of piling bodies into the back of Pigs, some still warm, but not for much longer. Remembering the anger and horror as we pulled bodies out of the remains of the Parachute Brigade Officers Mess after the bomb went off. A leg here, a hand there, part of a head, blood-covered clothes up in the trees.
    Midnight on the Shankill, mind on the fact that I've missed a telephone call home, and perhaps I'll do it when I get back. Get my wife out of bed just to have someone to talk to. To feel again before suppressing all emotion once again.
    Mother, if you could only see me now!
    Mind snapped back to the present with the distant thump and vibration of another car bomb in the city centre. They really have had a pasting so far th is year. The centre of the city being slowly reduced to rubble by the people who have to live in the place. Go ahead, destroy it all, then there won't