performance. It would look like he was giving every assistance to Mr Whiz Kid. The car insulated him from the road and the sights which slowly swept by him as he stop-started in the traffic. He observed the frustration on the faces of people standing at bus-stops. Cars inched by him, then fell back again to pass him again. He made studies of the faces in the cars. Bank managers and accountants on their way home to the vacuum of suburbia. This was the Ireland which we had fought the British for?
A woman laughed behind glass in a Jaguar. She looked like a carnival mask with that sinister leer. Made up to the hilt and wearing those stupid glasses, copying anything and everything American.
No one would have the nerve to even think that he'd tip off the Brits. After they'd taken the car apart, the council would know that he'd been wise not to entrust such a valuable weapon to the Yank's scheme. Him and his cars and his couriers. We haven't come through the lean years just to hand over the reins to some jumped-up Houdini opportunist who was trickacting with the Soviets.
In a room on the second floor of Blackrock Garda Station sat two hefty middle-aged men. One, Galvin, remained on his feet, pacing the room in a measured pattern. Formerly dark-haired, he was now balding. He had found suits disagreeable these thirty years and more and it showed. A shelf of shirt stuck out from his belt and gathered the end of his tie, itself at half mast. Galvin had the face you'd see squinting on the steps of a Sunday church in Tipperary as he'd edge out into the daylight before the end of Mass. When he moved, however, no fat jellied around him. Removed from the company of farm animals these thirty years, nature had compensated him with the attributes of a suspicious bull.
His companion, Moroney, remained seated. He contented himself with picking imaginary pieces of lint from the knee of his pants. Moroney lacked the physical presence of his colleague Galvin; his body was beginning to sugarloaf at the belt. His face, mounted on thin lips, was completely out of place. Where one could reasonably expect swarthiness and a ruddy, heart attack complexion, a marbled model of cerebration rested atop the collar. To the side of Moroney was a pitted wooden table salvaged from a civil service department. The sole window in the room had been painted over with a heavy cream on the inside. A grid of wire mesh had been screwed to the window frame some years ago. The room smelled of damp and waiting. Under the window, a radiator which looked like a failed bellows tried to heat the air. The floor was made up of cracked and worn lino tiles which were flecked with cigarette burns.
On the table lay a portable tape recorder with a microphone attached. The seated man sat with his arms folded now. Occasionally he'd uncross his legs and then cross them again. He didn't speak to Galvin who was circling the room like a wrestler before the bout. They had been waiting for ten minutes. Every now and then they could hear the sounds of the building, the ticking of the radiator, steps outside. Five minutes ago, a young Garda had stuck his head in the doorway.
'Momentarily now, sir. He's on the way.'
Galvin and Moroney had travelled from Dublin Castle. They had made their arrangements for the proceedings in the car. Galvin stopped pacing as he heard footsteps outside. The door opened. Two uniformed Gardai walked in, followed by a young man in handcuffs. Another two Gardai followed in his wake and after an interval a plain clothes Garda, whom neither Galvin nor Moroney recognised, followed.
Moroney stood up slowly, watching the young man's face intently.
'Right, thanks,' he said to no one. The uniformed Gardai left. The plain clothes stood leaning against the wall and ensured that the door closed fully.
Moroney looked at the elastoplast over the man's left eye.
'Sit there,' he pointed to the chair he had vacated.
Galvin stood behind the chair. The young man turned slightly to look at him. Then he sat on the edge of the chair. His hair looked wet. His skin reminded Moroney of a jail-bird. Which is probably what he was. Moroney put him at about twenty-four.
The prisoner held his handcuffed wrists up from his knees. Moroney ignored the gesture. Instead, he switched on the tape recorder.
'Your name in full.'
'Volunteer James Duffy,' the man replied with assurance. Moroney glanced over the prisoner's shoulder at Galvin.
'And where are you from, Duffy?'
'The Six Counties,' he answered.
Without warning, Galvin grabbed him by the hair and lifted him out of the chair. As Duffy reached to his head with his arms, Galvin punched him under the ribs. Duffy wheezed and tottered sideways as Galvin released his grip on his hair. He squirmed on the floor, his face knotted. His sharp intakes of breath stopped abruptly as he was lifted into the chair. He sat crazily leaning with his eyes watering through the slits of his eyelids.
'I insist on medical treatment, to be examined by a doctor, that's my right,' he wheezed. He was beginning to open his eyes more to let the tears escape. He didn't open them in time to avoid a knee in the side of the face. The blow filled the room with a thock sound just before the screech of the upturned chair. He fell uncontrolled to the floor.
Galvin raised his eyebrows slightly. He nodded to Moroney who was now standing over the prisoner. Duffy was breathing through his nose in bursts.
'Up,' Galvin said.
Again he was lifted up by the hair. He was determined to keep his eyes open. Duffy sat shakily, fearfully checking the man standing to his side in the edge of his vision. His body was like a spring, arching away from the threat.
'We'll try again now. Your rights as you call them don't mean anything here. The policeman who was killed had rights too. Common sense should tell you to say all you know. There's no one else, just the three of us,' Galvin said quietly.
Duffy edged onto one buttock and darted his eyes from Galvin to Moroney standing beside him. He could feel his cheek thickening already, pressing up to his eye. He probed with his tongue and found two loose teeth. A glaucous liquid was leaking into his mouth from somewhere.
'Don't delude yourself. Your outfit talks about a state of war, so stop playing public house solicitor and bellyaching about your rights. You answer, the questions put to you and I'll see what I can do about you leaving here in one piece,' Galvin added.
'Now. Where are you from?' Moroney asked.
'Newry,' Duffy said thickly.
'What were you at this afternoon?' Galvin asked.
'Well-'
The chair was kicked from under him and he fell heavily to the floor. Before he had time to cover it, Galvin kicked him in the side of the head. A flare of light exploded in his brain and he heard a sound like a waterfall. Dimly he tried to roll onto his knees and get away. Halfway up he felt steadying hands on his back. Then a tremendous kick in the stomach almost lifted him off the floor. As though from a long way off, he heard someone telling him to get up. He decided that he wouldn't. A blinding pain in the small of his back made his legs tingle. He heard a yelp. He found himself back on the edge of the seat. Something was in his way as he looked to the side where he expected the cop to be.
'What were you at?'
'As true as God, nothing,' a voice said. His own voice, like out of a pipe.
'Continue.' No kick.
'We're down for a while to get a rest. Fun, a bit of a holiday,' he whispered. He looked up into the impassive face of the policeman.
'Are you part of an active service unit in your area?'
The prisoner hesitated. Then he recoiled at the slight movement of that shadow to his side which could only be that other cop.
'I'm a driver,' he blurted out. He swallowed more of the liquid in his mouth. 'I don't do the other stuff at all.'
The policeman by the door lit up a cigarette.
'Just a driver,' murmured Moroney. He looked at the prisoner's feet as if he were studying them. Then he returned his gaze to Duffy's bruised face.
