The Cold, Cold Ground

our body armour and Crabbie explained to the reserve constables that because this was both out of regular hours and perilous we could claim hardship allowance and danger money at the same time.
    At 5.30 a.m. two police motorcycles were the heralds for two fast-moving army Land Rovers, two equally speedy police Land Rovers and two bullet-proofed Jaguars that presumably contained the Prime Minister and her staff.
    I didn’t see her. All I saw was a blur.
    “Was that it?” Matty asked me. Nobody knew the answer and we got back in the Rovers feeling deflated.
    Fifteen minutes later on the way back to Carrickfergus we were diverted to young Shane Davidson’s muse, the Kilroot Power Station, where there was trouble.
    6.10 a.m. Kilroot
    Two dozen workers backed by another hundred and fifty men from God knows where had formed an illegal picket line in front of the power plant. The shift change was trying to get in and if they couldn’t all the lights in north Belfast and East Antrim would be out, which wouldn’t impress Mrs Thatcher during hernews conference about how everything in Ulster was just tickety boo.
    We parked the Land Rovers a hundred metres away.
    “Machine guns away, lads,” Brennan ordered and we advanced with side arms only. In my case this was an easy instruction to obey since my SMG was still back on my hall table in Coronation Road.
    “You lads wait here, I’ll go talk to the fucking scum,” Brennan said with the diplomatic savoir faire we had all grown to know and love.
    “I’ll go with you,” Sergeant Burke said and McCallister gave me the nod. I sighed and joined them. We walked to the picketers who were holding up signs that said “Thatcher = Traitor” and “No Deals With Terrorsits [ sic ]”.
    The headman was frickin Councillor George frickin Seawright who was rapidly becoming the Rosencrantz and Guildenstern of my little drama.
    “You have to let the day shift in. This is an illegal picket!” Brennan said in a voice that you could have heard at the top of the power station’s six-hundred-foot chimney.
    “We will not countenance deals with the blackguards in the H Blocks! Mrs Thatcher and the British government will know our wrath as the Amalekites knew the wrath of the Lord! Just as the Sodomites have tasted the fruits of their evil ways. Just as the Antichrist in Rome felt the wrath of the Lord’s divine justice!” Seawright yelled in his apocalyptic Glaswegian accent.
    Chief Inspector Brennan hooked his thumbs under the Velcro straps of his flak jacket. “I just saw Mrs Thatcher. We were part of the honour guard at the airport and after telling us what a lovely day it was she assured us all to a man that no deal would ever be done with IRA terrorists!”
    There was a cheer from some of the picketers. Seawright seemed to waver and Brennan grabbed the initiative. “Ok, lads, you’ve had your fun, now let these hard-working lads throughto do their job!”
    “Aye, let them though,” someone yelled from the crowd.
    I walked over to the first car waiting beyond the picket line.
    The driver was a thin, jumpy young man with tissue paper plastered over his shaving cuts.
    “Drive in, mate, don’t stop and you’ll be fine,” I told him.
    “It’s me mother-in-law’s car. She’ll go ape if they break me windows.”
    “Didn’t I just say you’d be fine? Drive, or I’ll bust your bloody windows.”
    He set off and the others followed behind. And with that the night shift went in and day shift came out and heat and light and power flowed to the citizens of Ulster and for once the Amalekites were triumphant.
    7 a.m. Carrickfergus
    Back in the RUC station we began hearing rumours that not one but two hunger strikers had been given extreme unction (or as the Proddies insisted upon calling it – the last rites).
    Two hunger strikers on the same day. Jesus. Already shops and businesses in Belfast were telling their staff to stay away in anticipation of a massive riot.
    Mrs Thatcher had planned a full day of events but at 8.15 she flew out on an RAF aircraft to London, which could only mean one thing: the rumours were bloody true.
    I somehow kept my eyes open until 9.15 and then I walked home, checked under the Beemer for bombs and drove to Ballycarry.
    10.30 a.m. Ballycarry
    A country chapel overlooking Larne Lough and Islandmagee and beyond that the North Channel and the blue, hazy outline of Scotland.
    Lucy’s Moore’s coffin just in front of the font where, presumably, she