Free Pray for Us Sinners by Patrick Taylor Page A

pointed out into the street beyond.
    The rest of the squad would be out there, crouched in doorways, quartering the road. “Aye,” said Davy, thinking , and you want me to say thank you, don’t you, you skitter? “It’s a good thing you are; we could use a bit of peace and quiet.” He was relieved to see the young man smile. “I’ll be getting on, then.”
    â€œRight, sir. Safe home.” The soldier stood aside, letting Davy walk past the rest of the detail, meeting no one’s eyes, keeping his head down. Despite the pain in his thigh, he managed to disguise his usually rolling gait. He’d not give the bastards anything to remember him by.
    He did not look back until he had crossed the road and walked into the shadows of another side street. He stopped, leaned against a wall, and rubbed his thigh, hard, with the heel of his hand. Jesus, but it ached. Still, only a wee way to go. He continued, past a small tobacconist’s, mesh-wire-grilled windows, spilling a tiny pool of lighted comfort into the dark. Just round one more corner and three houses along. The door was shut. He rapped on the peeling-painted wood with his knuckles.
    The door opened and a white-haired man peered out. He sneezed, sniffed, and wiped his nose on the back of his sleeve. “How’s about you, Davy? Come on in.”
    The small living room of the house had been made into a bar. Men in collarless shirts and V-necked pullovers sat at tables or lounged against the walls. The air was blue with tobacco haze and smelled of unwashed undervests.
    He forced his way to the bar, exchanging greetings with the men he passed, men who had known him in the old days, men who had no idea that Davy was now an active Provo.
    â€œHow’s about you?” The barman leaned over and shook Davy’s hand.
    â€œRightly. Gimme a half-un.”
    The barman handed Davy a glass of whiskey. Davy paid and found a chair at a table close to the bar. Acknowledging the beery greetings of the other occupants with a nod, he sat, lit a Woodbine, and sipped his whiskey, grateful for its warm, peaty taste. He tried to ignore the whining about the injustices of being a Catholic in Ulster. If the Provos hadn’t taken him in, he might have become just like the rest of these deadbeats. Jesus.
    He finished his drink and was wondering about having another when he saw a man stand at the table opposite. The lad was about twenty—jeans, shirt, a woolen scarf loose round his neck. He was unshaven, his eyes unfocused, and he swayed slightly. He tilted his head back and opened his mouth.
    The notes were pure and sweet, the words sad and lovelorn. He sounded like a young John McCormack.
    The winter it is past and the summer’s come at last,
    The birds they do sing on every tree,
    Their little hearts are glad,
    But mine is very sad,
    For my true love is far away from me.
    The final line of the verse hurt. God, it hurt. Davy could see her, black hair, chuckling eyes. He mouthed the words of the chorus: “So straight I will repair to the Curragh of Kildare, and it’s there I’ll find tidings of my dear,” as the hum of conversation died.
    Despite the ache for her, Davy let himself be soothed by the music, lulled by the words. While the other men pounded out their approval, he rose and bought another whiskey, a double. The boy started to sing “The Legion of the Rearguard.” Davy turned his back to the bar. In the far corner three men were waving fingers in the air in time with the music. Two held two fingers aloft, the other a single digit. So the first two were locals from the 2nd Battalion and the lad with the one finger up was a visitor from 1st. He’d be down from the Upper Falls or Andersonstown or Ballymurphy. Their area of operations covered Lisburn and the surrounding countryside, too.
    Davy searched his memory. First Battalion’s CO was that shit Brendan McGuinness. One of the stop-at-nothing