Page 128 of Hang on St. Christopher

Discharged from the City Hospital with only cuts and bruises, I put on a suit and tie and went into the station to await my certain fate.

The fate arrived later that day when Superintendent Clare came by to see me with several new young protégés. I didn’t even bother to get their names.

“That was quite something, wasn’t it?” he said.

“Yeah, it was.”

“Amazing, really, that more people weren’t killed.”

“Well, one’s enough, surely?”

“I’m so gladyourteam made it out, safely.”

I had two ways to go here. I could say “yeah” and leave it at that, or I could piss off a Special Branch superintendent by stirring shit: Where the fuck did you go, pal? What the fuck were you doing?

Crabbie was doing his old telepathy trick and giving me a slight shake of the head.Let it lie, Sean. It’s all over and done with.

“Pity about Chief Inspector Preston,” I said.

“Yes. He was a good man. But it could have been a lot worse, couldn’t it?”

“I suppose it could, but like I said, one death is enough.”

Clare frowned. The local press had lauded Superintendent Clare and me for leading our respective Land Rover crews to safety. Superintendent Clare’s picture had appeared in theNewsletter,and his bravery commented on.

I couldn’t blame him for Preston’s death, but as far as I could see, he had abandoned his people “to go and get help.”

Help that never arrived.

“Yeah, we made it out safely,” I said, and then after a long pause added, “No thanks to you.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Clare said icily.

“You don’t abandon people under your command,” I said equally coldly.

“I didn’t abandon anyone. I went to get assistance.”

An icy silence.

Crabbie saying nothing.

Clare saying nothing.

I thought about the future.

Twenty-five months until I could leave the RUC with a full pension. Twenty-six months until Crabbie could leave with a full pension.

Clare was a coward and a liar, but he was a superintendent being groomed to be the poster boy for all the Catholic coppers on the force. He was important, and we were... we were nothing.

This was the crucial moment. The moment when I took this further or shut my mouth. The silence was so thick and moldy, you could cut it with a rusty penknife.

Frank Serpico had given a talk at the Royal Hotel in Glasgow a year before that I’d attended with a few Strathclyde Constabulary friends. He’d begun his talk with a quote from Burke: “In order for evil to flourish, all that is required is for good men to do nothing.”

But our pensions... the future...

I took a breath, sighed.

“Of course. Yes, sir, you went to get help,” I muttered at last.