Controlled Explosions Read Free Page B

in his school trouser pocket. ‘See ya.’
    OH MY GOD. She was ringing Saoirse right now, before
Neighbours
came on.
    ‘Sergeant Hamilton, I’m sorry—’
    ‘What is it?’ Bob didn’t turn around from where he stood, gazing out of the high windows of the incident room at the town below. In the afternoon sun, it looked like it was still on fire, though the riot had been broken up for now and the device made safe. That’s what they called it. Making safe. As if such a thing was possible.
    ‘Sir—’
    The admin girl was trying to get his attention. Aoife or something her name was. Why could none of them spell their names right? Let them go and live in Eire if they wanted, with too many letters in the words and not enough money, the potholed roads full of donkeys and unlicensed drivers. It was a mystery to Bob. You gave people benefits and free dentists and roads and hospitals and all they did was complain. You sent your soldiers, your sons, in to protect them, and they blew them up in the street. And now what? You let the terrorists out of prison, while the police officers who’d bled and died to keep the peace … you fired them. Bob wasn’t stupid. He knew all about the list.
    The List.
That was the word going round the place, whispered through the walls, gusting under the bottoms of doors, lurking in the car park. The list of officers who’d be put out when the Policing bill went through. A condition of the Good Friday Agreement. They’d been weighed, the RUC, and found wanting. Up there with parades and prisoners, an abomination, a part of the peace process that the other side had demanded gone before they would stop their shooting and bombing. And it had been agreed. They were going to scrap the uniform, the staff, even the name. All those dead officers, killed by cowards in the dark – this was how you rewarded them. You swept them under the carpet of history. You made them shameful.
    ‘Sergeant Hamilton!’
    ‘What is it, Miss Riordan?’ He wouldn’t say her Christian name. His mouth couldn’t mould to those letters. ‘I’m busy here. We’re going out on an operation first thing tomorrow.’
    ‘But you’re wanted on the phone.’
    ‘I’m busy.’ Busy watching his town burn.
    ‘It’s your wife, sir. There’s been … I really think you should come.’
    Everything was burning.
    ‘Linda?’ She never rang him at work. Never. She knew better, none of these personal calls in work time that the younger officers were always getting.
    ‘I’m sorry, I wouldn’t have bothered you except—’
    ‘What’s wrong, love?’
    ‘Bob, I’m up at the place. I …’ She didn’t want to ask but he could hear it in her voice. ‘I know you’re busy, but—’
    ‘Is it Ian?’
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘Is it bad?’
    ‘Bob …’
    ‘I’m coming. Just wait there for me.’ He wrenched open the door to the incident room. ‘DC Maguire?’
    PJ was at a desk, waiting for the phone call to say they were authorised to go out in the morning. ‘Aye, sir?’ He was always polite. You could never accuse him of being insubordinate, not in his words or his actions or anything concrete. Bob just wished things were different. So much bad blood there. Robinson, and Bob getting the sergeant job over PJ’s head, and everything that happened in 1993, that terrible year. No wonder he couldn’t meet PJ’s eyes.
    ‘I need to get away. Can you take over?’
    PJ had a wee girl of Ian’s age. Seventeen. Bob remembered the daughter – terrible height for a girl, and all that red hair. She’d be going to university next year, off out of the town like all the kids did. Whereas Ian …
    ‘You’re away?’ PJ was surprised.
    ‘Aye. Can you handle things here?’
    ‘Well, aye, sure I can handle them, but—’
    ‘Right so.’ Bob was aware he was moving quickly, gathering his jacket and wallet and radio. It didn’t come naturally to him, to be quick. Important things took time, but sometimes there wasn’t any. His car was in