The Cold, Cold Ground

tendencies …
    Anywhere else this case would have been big news, but Ulster in 1981 had other things on its mind.
    I tried to forget it. I had physiotherapy to do and water therapy and exercises.
    I began exercising in the hospital. My mum bought me a Sony Walkman. Crabbie brought me a mix tape of country standards. Matty brought me a mix tape of Adam and the Ants and The Human League.
    I learned to walk again and I listened to music and an audiobook novel Laura brought me called Midnight’s Children .
    One morning in the papers I read that at the European Court of Human Rights in Strasbourg the case of the Dudgeon v UK had been decided against the British government. A panel of judges had ruled 15:4 that Northern Ireland’s laws against homosexuality violated the European Convention on Human Rights. Mrs Thatcher’s Attorney General said that the law in Northern Ireland would have to be changed. That homosexual acts between consenting adults would have to be made legal.
    The Catholic Church objected. The Free Presbyterian Church objected. The political parties objected. The paramilitaries objected. Something had brought the Protestants and Catholics together at last. But there was little they could do. Britain couldn’t leave Europe, or renounce the Treaty, the law was going to change …
    I got a new doctor. An intern from Nigeria. He told me that as soon I could walk fifty feet without a stick he would let me go. In a week I proved it to him by walking from one side of the ward to another.
    I was released from hospital on September 23.
    Laura drove me back to Coronation Road. My grass had been mown and roses planted in my garden. The hall was filled with cards and letters. I could barely get through the front door.
    Chief Inspector Brennan came to see me and told me to take my time before coming back to work.
    I told him I would.
    The next day Bobby Cameron came to see me. He brought bacon, milk and sausages. He told me that I had taken out a six man UFF assassination team and that under normal circumstances, me being a fenian and all, I’d be well advised to leave Northern Ireland, or at the very least Coronation Road.
    “But these aren’t normal circumstances, are they?” Bobby said with a sleekit grin.
    “Aren’t they?”
    He pointed heavenwards. “They see it as a rogue cell that they would have had to take out anyway. And Bobby and Shane being queers and all? You fucking did them a favour. What an embarrassment.”
    “So they’re not going to kill me?” I asked.
    “Only if, in the course of a future investigation, you step on anyone’s toes.”
    I grimaced. “It’s my job to step on people’s toes.”
    “And you’re still a peeler and a fenian peeler and a bit of a famous fenian peeler at that, so the other side will still be trying to kill you, won’t they?”
    “I suppose they will.”
    Bobby walked to the front door. “Congratulations on your police medal. Say hello to her majesty for me. I’ll see myself out.”
    Out he went.
    Days, nights. Autumn turning into early winter. I went walking around Carrickfergus. Along Coronation Road and the sea front and sometimes all the way to Whitehead and back.
    I grew stronger. I began lifting weights. Eating steak.
    I went to the range at the UDR base and practised my shooting.
    I had been home ten days when the great Maze hunger strike was formally ended at last. Two days later Secretary of State James Prior announced that IRA prisoners would be allowed to wear their own clothes, have separate cells and free association: “political status” would be returned in all but name.
    For the first night since April Belfast had no rioting.
    It was over.
    The very next day the man came to see me.
    He rang the bell just after I had gotten back from a run.
    I was in sweat pants and my Ramones T-shirt.
    He was dressed in a tweed suit and hand made shoes. It was a relatively dry day but he was wearing a raincoat, a trilby and carrying an umbrella. He was about sixty years old with a handsome face, sunken blue eyes and a grey pallor. He reminded me a little of Sir John Gielgud and his voice had the same commanding authority although tinged with a West Country accent.
    “Detective Sergeant Duffy?” he said when I answered the door.
    “Yes?”
    “My name is Peter Evans. May I speak with you for a moment?”
    I was breathing hard.
    “Are you quite well?” he asked.
    “I’ve just got back from a run. Let me get myself a drink of water, go on into