I Hear the Sirens in the Street

that this punishment was coming not from Belfast or London but from Washington, DC.
    I had pissed off the Americans, and the Americans wanted to see me punished.
    The old men on the board listened to the case against me, heard my defence, read their notes and retired to consider what should be done with me.
    I waited.
    The room was stuffy, but no one thought to open a window. The panel clearly were not going to be away for very long – andsure enough, they came back in after a pro forma fifteen minutes.
    Chief Superintendent Pullman called my name. My RUC counsel gave me a nudge, which meant that I should stand. I stood to attention. My thumbs pointing down along the seam of my trousers. My heels together. My gaze steady. My dress uniform spic and span.
    Chief Superintendent Pullman shuffled his papers, cleared his throat and read the verdict: “Detective Inspector Duffy, after long and careful deliberation, this tribunal has found that you have committed four separate breaches of the RUC code of conduct…”
    The stenographer began recording my various infractions. She knew it was chicken shit, too. I mean, until very recently they were still beating suspects with rubber hoses down the Castlereagh Holding Centre – they couldn’t talk to me about breaches of their fucking code of conduct.
    “You have disobeyed direct orders on several occasions. You have embarrassed the force on foreign soil …” Pullman continued.
    Embarrassed the RUC? Our name is mud in America. Read the Boston Herald some time, mate.
    Pullman continued talking. His lips moved, the other men nodded, I looked at them with contempt. Old men. Stupid men.
    “… In conclusion, Inspector Duffy, it is with great regret that we must inform you of the unanimous judgement of this disciplinary panel.”
    I swallowed and looked at a crack on the back wall.
    “Effective immediately, you will be reduced to the rank of sergeant.”
    Shit.
    “Back-dated to January first, 1982, your accumulated leave, personal days and other benefits will be similarly reduced to the benefits accruing to a sergeant.”
    Shit.
    Okay so it was bad. I’d lost a rank. But if they let me stay in Carrickfergus I’d still get to lead a team of detectives. Maybe if I kept my nose clean for a year they’d quietly bump me up again to inspector. And if they posted me to a big station in Belfast, a DS could get himself involved in some of the more interesting cases …
    Pullman took off his glasses and stared at me.
    “Do you understand and accept the verdict of this tribunal?”
    I was expected to respond in full for the benefit of the stenographer.
    “Yes, sir, I am being demoted to the rank of detective sergeant with full loss of seniority and remission, sir!”
    Pullman looked up at me with surprise.
    “No, Duffy, you’ve misunderstood – you are being demoted to a sergeant in ordinary. You are being removed from the CID lists.”
    My knees buckled.
    An ordinary sergeant? I wasn’t going to be a detective?
    A regular copper? A regular copper was little people. A regular copper was nothing.
    I sat down again.
    My lawyer looked at me to see if I was all right. He passed me the glass of water when he saw that I was not.
    “Do you understand the verdict, Sergeant Duffy?” Pullman said.
    “Drink this,” my lawyer whispered.
    I got back up and returned Pullman’s gaze right into his ugly mug.
    “No, I don’t bloody understand it! This is bollocks! Have you any idea what it’s like out there? Have you any idea what it’s like to be out there on the line every day of your fucking life?”
    Pullman shook his head at the stenographer who immediately stopped typing.
    “Duffy, we appreciate your service and we take these measures with great regret. But you have embarrassed the name of the—”
    “Fuck your regret and fuck all of you! And make sure you write that down, love,” I said.
    I clicked my heels together, saluted and stormed out of the room.
    They had a car for me but I went home by myself on the train.
    It was full of school kids and I had to stand, enraged, the whole way. I got off at Downshire Halt and made for the off licence. I bought a bottle of Jack Daniel’s and a six-pack of Bass.
    I walked up Victoria Road.
    “Oh, you look very nice, all dressed up,” Mrs Bridewell said, pushing a pram.
    “Thanks,” I replied curtly.
    I went into 113 Coronation Road, searched through my records and put on “Hellhound On My Trail” by Robert Johnson.
    I ripped