Free Pray for Us Sinners by Patrick Taylor

the volunteers. Sean had been right. McKee hadn’t been so lucky. He and Frank Card had been arrested in April 1971.
    McCusker made a soft mew.
    Davy picked the cat up, tickling him under the chin. “The bloody Brits are the cats just now, McCusker, and us scuttling about like a bunch of mice.”
    McCusker bit Davy’s finger.
    â€œHungry?” Davy tucked the cat under one arm, lifted a small plastic bowl from beside the dresser; took two steps, one short on his bad leg, one long; opened a cupboard; and pulled out a bag of dried cat food. He put the animal on the floor and poured a few brown balls into the bowl. Only ten days ago he’d stashed the blasting caps in a bag like this. They were safe now in his hidey-hole in the room next door. He wondered when the hell he was ever going to use them.
    McCusker stood on his hind legs, front claws needling well up on Davy’s thigh.
    â€œTake your hurry in your hand,” Davy said as he placed the bowl on the floor. McCusker crunched the dry pellets with audible ferocity. Davy stood for a moment watching. He was fond of old McCusker and now he was all she had left him, except for the memories.
    Davy looked through the window. Gloom slid over the rooftops of the city, gloom shrouded in factory haze and drizzle. The undersides of low clouds, just visible in the gap between the terrace houses, reflected the wan glow of neon streetlights.
    Ah, bugger the Security Forces. He’d sat here feeling sorry for himself for a week. It was time to stir himself, go and have a jar and a bit of company.
    The clock on the wall said 6:10. He’d have to wait. Although Army Council frowned on drinking, they bent their own rules in the face of reality. Volunteers were only to avoid pubs before 7 P.M .
    Davy went back to the table, sat, and pushed the dirty plates away. Fiona wouldn’t have let him get away with that. Feeling guilty, he rose, carried them to the sink, and started to scrub off the congealed fat.
    McCusker looked up at the sound of the dishes clanking. He stopped and sat alert, ears pricked, whiskers pointing forward. Davy was sure that cats could pick up messages through their whiskers from other galaxies. As silently as he had entered the room, McCusker left through the still-open window.
    Davy called “enjoy yourself” after the departing tail. He wished McCusker well on his nocturnal pursuits, but feared for the mice that skulked in the shadows.
    The image of cowering mice lingered as he took his Dexter raincoat and duncher from a peg on the door and let himself out.
    Davy moved slowly through the narrow backstreets and alleyways. The Falls had suffered badly in the early days of the rioting, when Protestant mobs torched houses and pubs with homemade Molotov cocktails.
    He turned a corner where his usual pub, the Arkle Bar, used to stand, its fallen masonry and blackened beams mute reminders of the ferocity of Loyalist hatred that burned like the petrol they used to torch the building.
    The wind blew drizzle into his face, chilling him. He turned into a back alley, rutted and muddy. His leg ached. He stopped to massage his thigh, bending his head to the rain, failing to pay attention to his surroundings.
    â€œEvening, sir.”
    Davy stiffened then straightened up slowly. A British soldier in a mottled Denison camouflage smock and combat helmet—so he wasn’t a Para, they wore different helmets—blocked the end of the alley. Where the hell had he come from?
    â€œDirty night, sir.” Glaswegian by the burr.
    â€œRight enough,” said Davy.
    â€œOn your way home, sir?”
    â€œAye.” Jesus, the obvious next question was “Where do you live?” It would be difficult to explain why he was heading in the wrong direction.
    The soldier lowered his weapon, the raindrops coursing along the dark metal barrel. “You’re lucky, sir. Me and my mates are stuck out here for a fair few hours yet.” He