Peace on Earth. Gordon Stevens

would do when they were inside.

      ‘Michael leaving his house with his wife and son, getting in cars.’ Enderson heard the voice of the man in the roofspace overlooking the street. McDonald the IRA planner, he thought, the man whose house was less than thirty yards from the drinking club where the informant had said the meeting was to take place. He wondered why he was leaving and what he was doing, why he was taking his wife and son, thought for a moment that the informant was wrong then knew that he was not, realised what McDonald was doing. Putting on a front, acting normally, covering himself for what lay ahead. Two hours to go, he thought. Stand-by, the voice in his head told him, stand-by, stand-by.

      The second report from the south came in at five, the men from Dublin closing on the city; he checked with the tail on the car from the north and heard the confirmation. An hour, less than an hour, then he and his men would move into position, any later and they would be too late, any earlier and they would be noticed.

      The car from the south entered the city, the car from the north closing fast. They seemed to have been waiting for ever, Enderson thought. It had been dark two hours. Time to move in. Except where the hell was McDonald?

      ‘Vehicle check, urgent.’ It was the voice of the man in the roofspace. Enderson took the make and registration number of the car and passed it to Lisburn; knew they would only take seconds to run the computer check. ‘What’s up?’ he asked.

      ‘Probably nothing, but the car’s been up and down the road twice now, first day I’ve seen it.’

      The computer check came through.

      ‘Stolen three hours ago from the city centre,’ Enderson told the man in the roofspace. Not kids, he thought, not the sort of car the teenagers stole for their joy-rides.

      ‘Passing by again.’ He heard the voice. ‘Slowing in front of Michael’s house.’

      The other reports were coming in, the men from Dublin driving through the city, the men from Derry just entering Belfast. He wondered what the car was doing, who it was. Not the Provos, definitely not the Provos.

      ‘Three men,’ said the man in the roofspace. ‘Windows wound down.’

      He knew what it was, began to radio the information back to Lisburn.

      ‘Michael’s car in street, slowing down. Stopping outside house. Michael and wife getting out.’

      He saw what was going to happen.

      ‘Car coming again. Opening fire, front and rear seats.’ The voice of the man in the roofspace was cold, clinical, factual.

      He knew the operation was off, that the men from Dublin and Derry would already have been warned.

      ‘Michael and wife OK, sheltering behind car. Other car still firing.’

      He knew they could not move, could not betray their positions, could not disclose the fact that they had been waiting for the men from the north and south. ‘Alert RUC and army,’ he was informing Lisburn. ‘Probably ambulance as well.’

      ‘Bomb going in,’ said the man in the roofspace. ‘Car catching fire.’

      The kid, Enderson was suddenly thinking, the IRA man’s bloody kid: he wasn’t there, the man in the roofspace hadn’t seen him. He knew that McDonald had expected trouble, had left the boy somewhere.

      ‘Boy in car,’ he heard the voice, still dispassionate. ‘Mother trying to get door open, door seems stuck. Car on fire. Attackers’ car moving off.’

      ‘Move it,’ Enderson was saying, the driver already accelerating, tyres screeching as they turned off the street. The women were already on the street, the crowd already gathering. ‘Fire spreading in car,’ the man in the roofspace was saying. ‘Can see boy inside.’

      He knew what they would say when he returned to base, how they would tell him he shouldn’t have blown the operation, knew the Special Branch people would accuse him of endangering their informant. They were in the Falls, the driver cutting between the crowd, he could see the car, the flames beneath it. ‘Cover me,’ he was saying, the driver braking hard and the men moving fast.

      Eileen McDonald heard the sound and knew it was the car again, knew they had come back for her and her husband, ignored it, pulled at the door, tried to get her Liam out. On the other side she could see her husband, picking himself off the ground, coming round, trying to help her. The car behind her was stopping, she half turned, waiting for the bullets, the next bomb, saw the men, faces blackened, British army uniforms. No insignia, she saw, no markings, knew who they were, did not have to think what they were doing there. The flames were spreading, the door handle jammed. The man was coming forward, the others protecting him, not looking at the car, looking out, guarding him. She saw the weapons on his body, the sawn-off shot gun in his hand. He was pushing her out of the way, pushing her husband out of the way, blasting the door open, pulling her Liam out, the fire licking at the petrol tank.

      The door was only half open; Enderson reached in, trying to open it, felt the tearing and burning in his arm as he pulled at the door, the flames on his jacket.

      She saw the man pulling the boy out, saw he had been injured, one of the other men coming forward, putting out the fire. She saw the injury to his arm, tried to move to help him, watched as he pulled her son away from the car, the men round him moving with him, everyone moving back, away from the car, away from the explosion. She was looking at her son, at the way the man was laying him on the ground, seeing the red, so much red she was suddenly thinking, the blood pouring from her son’s body, knew he was not breathing, knew he was dying, his insides pouring out, his tiny lungs giving up the fight for breath. Somewhere, she did not know where, she heard the ambulance, knew they would not know what to do, would not know how to save her son, knew they would be too late.

      The man with the blacked-out face was reaching to his gun belt, pulling out a pack, inserting the tube into her son’s mouth, clearing the airway, enabling him to breathe, pulling his body together, ramming the padding and bandages on his wounds, stopping the red pouring from him. Just like the accident unit at Birmingham Hospital, Enderson was thinking, just like when he had done his six months on the emergency unit, just like the night they had brought in the first victims of the motorway pile-up.

      The photographer was parking his car by the drinking club on the corner, his camera on the seat beside him. He had been on the nightly tour, hoping for a picture, knowing there would be nothing so close to Christmas, when he had heard the shooting, known where it had come from. He heard the sound as the car blew up, knew he had missed it and ran anyway. The crowd was parting, he saw the woman kneeling over the boy, knew who the man treating the boy was, not who he was, not his name, what he was. The ambulance was pulling up, the ambulancemen pushing through the crowd. One chance, he thought, was reacting automatically. Seven thirty, he checked the time, worrying about the deadlines, if he would make them, if the photograph was as good as he thought.

      Within twenty-five minutes he had developed the film and alerted the picture desks in London.

      The image began to appear, he tilted the tray, letting the liquid run evenly over the print, and watched the details emerging, growing stronger, saw that the photograph was even better than he had remembered, knew without thinking what he would call it, what they would all call it. It was so close to Christmas, he thought. Knew the impact the photograph would have, the impact the three words of the title would have.

      The saloon bar of the public house in Charlotte Street was busy, it would get even busier later. The walls were draped with decorations and a sprig of mistletoe had been pinned on the ceiling by the fireplace. Walid Haddad arrived five minutes early, bought himself an orange juice and stood against the bar, sipping it. Behind him a group of men he could not help overhearing were talking to two attractive young women he assumed were their secretaries. At eight thirty he made his way across the room, through the door at the side of the bar, and followed the signs to the gents’ toilet. A man in a business suit was leaning against the urinal singing to himself; he looked up, his eyes red and blurred, then turned back to the wall. The cubicle was empty, Haddad closed and locked the door and felt behind