"Danny, how’s things?" Cormac was on the slipway floor, passing a message from Tam Warnock to one of the shipwrights. He had to shout over the din of the riveters’ hammers.

"Things are fine."

"I hear you’re a regular in the first team with the Star of the Sea for a month now. That’s grand. You’re due to play the Thistle in two weeks. Maybe we’ll be playing against each other."

"Could be," said Danny walking off towards the slipway.

"You going to the St. Mary’s social on Saturday night?"

Danny did not stop, but called over his shoulder, "I might. I don’t know yet."

"Well, if you’re there. I’ll buy you a beer in the interval. Me and Beth are going. It’s going to be a great do. They’ve got that concert party from Wishaw. They say it’s the best in Scotland. The tickets are all sold out weeks ago. Father Innes is really pleased."

"Aye, we’ll see. Look, I’m in a hurry, so I’ll see you another time."

Cormac shrugged. Ah well, he thought. I tried. The Star of the Sea is the Gaelic Association football team, so he’ll have joined them as well. Pity, he’s a nice lad. They’ll fill his head with all their nonsense and he’ll turn into a bigot just like them. As he walked back to the cutting shed, something flashed past his head and bounced into the weeds beside the slipway.

"Sorry, pal, you all right? I missed it with the can. Kick it into that puddle and it’ll cool off in no time."

Cormac looked up from the red-hot rivet that had just missed his head, to the riveter on the scaffolding above him. The portable furnace for heating the rivets was on another level of scaffolding higher up, from where they were thrown down for the riveter to catch in a metal can before fitting them into the prepared rivet-holes and hammering them shut. Walking under a riveter was one of the most dangerous situations in a shipyard.

As he approached, Cormac had automatically looked up to check, and had seen no rivets being thrown. This had been deliberate. It was known to happen. That was why foremen in the yard wore bowler hats.

"No bother. Give us a shout next time." Confrontation would serve no purpose. He walked on.

That was the first of many incidents. Cormac developed sensitive antennae while at work. Delivery of his plates to the cutting-floor, while always ordered from the steel-yard on time, were invariably late.

Some weeks later, Cormac was sitting at home, talking to his father-in-law.

"Mr. Connor, I’m thinking of leaving the yard. It’s getting too dangerous. On top of that, there’s always somebody trying to pick a fight with me"

Jimmy scratched the fringe of white hair at the back of his bald dome. His deep blue eyes were worried. "What’s happened now?"

"I damn near got killed today. If one of the labourers hadn’t shouted, I would have been. They were delivering a plate to the cutting bay next to me on the floor, and the crane swung it too fast so that it swung over into my bay. It was big Kevin Kavanagh from Millar Road that shouted. I flung myself onto the floor just in time. It was a four or five ton plate. It would have cut me in two. I keep telling big Tam about it, but he just says he’ll warn them to be careful."

"Why not talk to Daly? He’s the manager."

"He’s the worst. And anyway, I couldn’t go over Big Tam’s head. He’s half decent. If he turned against me as well, I’d be dead or crippled the same day."

"Well, you do what you think’s best Cormac. But it’s good money you’re earning."

"I know. That’s why I’ve stuck it this long."

*****

"Hey you, get oot ma fuckin’ road."

Cormac, on his knees, looked up from where he was helping one of the platers to mark out the cutting line on a plate.

"Ricky, you know you’re not allowed to cross the cutting floor. Walk round like you’re supposed to."

"I’m no’ walking round any fucking Papist. And if you don’t get out the fucking way, I’ll fucking walk over the top of you."

Activity on the cutting floor stopped. Cormac realised immediately that this was being orchestrated. He got a rush of adrenaline.

Shit. I should have picked my own fight, in my own time and place instead of being pushed into something I’m not ready for. His testicles contracted into his scrotum.

He stood up. "Any time you think you’re up to it."

Ricky McEwan was the yard hard-man, not tall, but heavy and muscular. He was one of the most vicious men in the yard. At something like fourteen stone, he was at least half as heavy again as Cormac. A lot of the weight though, was fat, due to heavy drinking.

"Right, the pair of you, break it up." Tam Warnock appeared right on cue. "McEwan, you get off the cutting-floor."

McEwan looked from Tam to Cormac. Warnock, while not especially tall, had a commanding presence with his heavy build. His overalls were always immaculate and his bowler hat was always at an angle to the back of his head. He fixed his blue eyes on McEwan. Ricky slunk off the floor.

Tam’s not part of this. He can’t be. If he’s turned against me, I’m a dead man. I’m probably going to be when Ricky gets done with me anyway, he thought.

"Right, you and me at the back of the big shed at dinner time," said Ricky over his shoulder.

"Suits me fine Ricky. Don’t be late," said Cormac with a show of bravado he did not feel.

The steam-whistle sounded at half past twelve for the half-hour dinner break. Every man in the yard, for all had heard about the fight, made their way to the waste-ground between the big shed and the sea-wall. Managers and foremen were nowhere to be seen.

When Cormac arrived, Ricky was waiting for him, his boiler-suit already discarded. His affiliations were obvious from the tattoos of King Billy on a prancing horse on one bicep and the emblem of the Glasgow Rangers football club on the other.

Cormac removed his overalls. A space appeared in the middle of the crowd of men. The two fighters moved into it. A thin wind blew off the firth. There was ice on the ground from the frost the previous night. The temperature had remained below freezing the whole day. Cormac looked up at the blue, winter sky. He shivered.

I can’t let him get a hold of me like when they threw us out of the house. If he catches me, he’ll crush me. So, I’ve got to try to keep out of his reach and land some good punches to his belly to take the wind out of him. The longer it goes on, the more chance I’ve got, for he’ll have no wind.

"Come on Ricky. Kill the wee Papish bastard."

"Go and get the Orange fucker Cormac. Kick his fucking head in."

Ricky closed in on him and tried to grab him round the neck.

Cormac avoided the grab and swung a punch at Ricky’s head which missed, sending him off balance. Ricky, faster on his feet than Cormac had expected, grabbed him round the waist from behind. He was lifted bodily from the ground and swung round. The crowd roared its appreciation. Before Ricky could lock his hands together to get some proper purchase to crush the breath out of him, Cormac managed to get his arms between Ricky’s arms and his own body, breaking out of the grip and getting free.

Ricky made another charge which Cormac avoided easily. As he went past, completely off balance, Cormac tripped him up. Before he could get up, Cormac kicked him on the side of his head.

"Ya fuckin’ wee Papish bastard. I’ll fuckin’ kill you for that." Ricky got up and lowering his head, rushed at Cormac swinging wildly. Cormac stepped aside, but was still caught by a flailing fist and was forced back onto his left foot. Ricky turned and rushed at him again before he could catch his balance properly. The rush was so wild, both men crashed to the ground. Cormac was on his feet first, only to have his legs kicked from under him by Ricky who was still on his back. Ricky jumped on him before he could regain his feet. They wrestled on the ground and Ricky succeeded in getting a stranglehold round Cormac’s neck.

Cormac, on his knees, with his arms underneath him and his face being forced into the crust of ice on a puddle, struggled to break free. He heard the shouts of the men round them like the roar of a distant sea. In desperation, realising that struggling was doing no good, Cormac let himself go limp. Ricky, trying to take advantage of this, relaxed the grip of his right hand on his left wrist to tighten the stranglehold further. Having gambled on this, Cormac exploded into sudden, furious energy and got his neck out of Ricky’s grip. He still had Cormac’s head in the grip, but there was now enough room for Cormac to get his arms free from under his own body and wrap them around Ricky’s middle.

Now Cormac’s face was pressed into Ricky’s chest. With all his strength, Cormac managed to roll over so that he was on top, with his knees between Ricky’s legs. Pushing his own head under Ricky’s chin, Cormac forced Ricky’s head back. Then, with his arms still round his waist, he raised Ricky off the ground and slammed him down so that, with it being forced backwards, the back of Ricky’s head smashed against the ground. Cormac heard Ricky’s teeth snapping together. Three times more, Cormac smashed his opponent against the ground before a dazed Ricky let go of his head.

Cormac straightened up, and kneeling astride his chest, smashed his fists into Ricky’s face till he was unconscious.

"That’s enough Cormac. He’s out. Leave him be now." Kevin Kavanagh caught Cormac from behind, pinning his arms so that the assault on Ricky stopped. Cormac was pulled to his feet and taken away from the scene of the fight. The crowd melted away in silence to eat their dinner. Water was splashed on Ricky’s battered face till he came round. They took him to the nurse’s room where his face was treated with iodine and a few sticking plasters. Nurse Templeton suspected a broken jaw, and sent him to Kilmarnock Infirmary.

Cormac, white-faced, shook off Kevin’s restraining arms, picked up his boiler-suit, put it on and went back into the yard. He rounded the corner of the shed, out of sight of the crowd which was still watching Ricky coming to his senses. There, he vomited the contents of his stomach against the wall of the shed. Shaking, he walked back to the cutting floor, and started marking out the rest of the plate he had been working on. The whistle blew for the end of the dinner-break, and the others trickled back in to start work. No-one spoke to him.

He made no attempt to talk to them.

"Cormac, Mr. Daly wants you in the office." Tam Warnock’s voice made itself heard above the racket on the cutting-floor.

"Right Tam, I’ll away over there now." Cormac put on his jacket and walked over to the manager’s office beside the time-clock at the main-gate.

They watched him walk off the floor.

*****

"Sleanagh, come in and close the door."

Cormac did so and stood, facing the small man behind the large desk. His small, pig-like eyes were magnified by the thick lenses of his spectacles. He peered through them at Cormac. The sun was in Cormac’s eyes through the window behind the desk. The time-clock outside the office ticked loudly. There was a strong smell of furniture-polish. The dark-green linoleum gleamed.

"There was an accident this afternoon behind the big shed. I’ve been told that you were there when it happened. What can you tell me about it?"

"There was an awful lot of men there, Mr. Daly. It was difficult to see what was going on. I mean, I’m only a wee man, so I’m usually at the back where I can’t see very much."

"And I suppose you were at the back today as usual, and cannot tell me very much?"

"That’s right Mr. Daly." Daly looked at him in silence for a few moments. Cormac met his eye.

"All right Sleanagh. Get back to work."

Back on the floor, Cormac was approached by Kevin Kavanagh,

"You all right there Cormac? When we saw big Tam talking to you, and then you putting your jacket on and walking off the floor, we all thought you’d got your books."

"So did I Kevin, but Daly just asked me if I knew anything about the accident this afternoon. I said no, and he told me to get back to work."

"The fucking managers all knew that Ricky was going to give you a doin’ and they didn’t give a fuck. Then you broke his jaw, and they can’t let on that they knew anything funny was going on. Christ, that’s great Cormac. We finally got one over on the bastards."

Kevin walked off to spread the good news with a great grin on his face. Ricky McEwan never came back to the yard. He knew there would be no respect for him now, having been beaten by a smaller man, and a Catholic. He found work elsewhere.

*****

"Peter, Bertie Hayes needs a plate tomorrow. It’s for the floor of the hold. If we don’t get it done tomorrow, it’ll hold up the plating of the rest of the main deck, and we’re already two days behind. A whole plate, 15 by 10, quarter inch."

This was the first time he had to request a plate since the fight. Cormac was afraid that Boyd would refuse to co-operate with him, meaning that he would still get sacked. They would have no mercy on him. If he could not do his job, for whatever reason, he would be finished.

"It would be a damned rush-job too," he muttered under his breath.

"I’ll see to it myself Cormac."

Cormac was sure he heard the sarcasm. Things never change and Boyd will do nothing and say that I never told him. The management will back Boyd and I’m going to get fucked after all. I should’ve known I couldn’t win.

The following morning when he came onto the floor, Cormac looked in disbelief at the plate lying in bay four. Peter Boyd stood in the corner talking to Tam Warnock and Bertie Hayes, the plater he was assigned to. When they saw him on the floor, they came over.

"Got talking to Tam here yesterday," said Peter. "He was telling me that youse are really tight for time, and Daly’s fair boiling. Got wee Bert Allison and a crew to work a half-hour overtime last night and get that plate over for you right away."

"That’s right Cormac. If you get right on to it, I might even get it cut by the end of the day. If we can do that, they’ll get it in tomorrow, and they can start on the main deck first thing on Monday. That’ll mean we’ve picked up one of the lost days. Daly’ll be fair pleased," said Bertie.

"Right Cormac," he continued. "You get it measured up and let me know the minute you’re ready with it. I’ll check it and cut it and we’ll get a crew over with the crane to lift it and get it into the hold."

Cormac looked at Peter Boyd. "Aye, sure. I’ll get started right now."

He turned to Bertie. "If you gave me an apprentice for the morning, the two of us could get it lined out and you could get it cut by the afternoon, and Peter could maybe get it lifted in today as well."

"Aye. That’s no’ a bad idea. What do you think Tam?" Warnock nodded.

"Take Ally Venables. He’s in his second year. You can trust him. I’ll send him over to you."

Cormac and the apprentice checked and double-checked the thickness of the plate, and whether it had any flaws. This was part of the job, and Cormac always did it conscientiously. Now he scrutinised the plate minutely. There was nothing wrong. They measured and checked all the dimensions and angles. What the hell are they up to? Are they setting me up to take the blame for something? At quarter past eleven, the boy went to tell Bert Hayes they were ready. Hayes left the other job he was supervising and was there within ten minutes. He and the boy finished cutting the plate by half past three.

"Go and tell Boyd we’re ready for him, Cormac," said Bertie after he had made he final cut. Cormac left the floor to find him.

"That’s it ready Peter. Give us another fifteen minutes to take the rest of the rags off the edges, and you can have it."

"Right. I’ll get Bert to get a crew together, and I’ll warn the cranes. We’ll be here in about half an hour." Peter Boyd went off to make his arrangements.

"Thanks Ally. We did really good, didn’t we. When do you get your papers?"

"I’ve got three years yet."

"Ach. It’ll not be long going in."

*****

"Who wants the inch-and-a-half copper pipe? I’ve got thirty feet here and another thirty to come."

"Aye, that’s for me. Put them there behind the stairs."

Sanny Henderson put the lengths of pipe down where he was told and turned to go back for the rest. As he turned round, he backed into Francy Devine.

"Watch where you’re going, ya fucking eejit." Devine had a hangover. Aggressive at the best of times, this was not a good time to bump into him.

"Who the fuck are you calling a fucking eejit?" Recognising a Catholic, Sanny, a drummer in the Orange flute-band, was happy to take up the gauntlet.

"Listen you, you’ll get your head punched in if you don’t watch yourself."

"Aye, and I suppose you’re going to do it an’ all."

‘Aye. I’m just in the mood for punching some Orange bastard’s lights out today."

"Is that a fact now? Well here’s an Orange bastard that’s just right in the mood for letting some Papish bastard try it."

"Right, the pair of you. Just cool it. There’s nae need for all this shite. Francy, away you go down to the store and get me two brass elbows for a three-quarter pipe." The plumber tried to take the heat out of the squabble.

"Sanny away you and get the rest of them pipes."

Both men moved towards the stairs together, which was only wide enough for one at a time. The squabble became a pushing match to see who would go down first. Later both men would accuse the other of throwing the first punch. The result was a fight on the bridge of the coaster they were building. As fights went, it wasn’t much more than a bit of pushing and shoving, but honour had been impugned.

Both men swore to get their own back.

*****

Sanny licked his fingers, crushed the newspaper in which the fish and chips had been wrapped into a ball and threw it on the ground. That was good, he thought.

It was Saturday night. It was half past ten, and he was on his way home from the Copeland Bar. The Copeland was a Rangers pub. Sanny being an Orangeman, was naturally a Rangers supporter. It was mild for March, and Sanny sauntered along Millend Street, at peace with the world, with the contentment derived from five pints of heavy beer.

"Y’all right pal?"

"Aye, it’s a fine night." Sanny was everybody’s friend tonight. Rangers had won today, and the atmosphere in the pub had been conducive to global brotherhood.

"Got a match?"

"Aye, got one here. Just a wee minute." Sanny reached into his pocket. There were three of them, and Sanny, suspecting no danger, handed over the box of matches. While not drunk, neither was he sober.

"You work in the shipyard, do you not?" The enquiry was completely innocent. They made no reply. For the first time, he became aware of the typical Irish features of the three men. He sobered at once, thinking, what the hell are Papists doing here at this time of night? There’s nae Papists living round here.

The tall one finished lighting his cigarette, and held out the matches.

"Here, thanks pal." They made as if to walk on, and Sanny relaxed. The two smaller men walked past him while the tall one handed over the matches. Once past him, they grabbed him from behind, and the tall one punched him in the face.

"This’ll teach you some fucking manners, ya fucking eejit."

They left him bruised, bleeding and sore, with no serious injuries, but with the sure knowledge that Francy Devine had put some friends up to giving him a doing.

*****

Two weeks later, a similar scene was acted out in the Caley Road, with Francy Devine on the receiving end. Again, the phrase, ‘This’ll teach you some fucking manners, ya fucking eejit,’ was used.

Like Sanny, Francy was the follower of a football club. As a Catholic, Francy was a Celtic supporter. Both young men were popular in their own circles. Both had a large band of friends and acquaintances, based on their football affiliations.

A match between the two clubs led to a confrontation between the two groups. It took place at Seabank station when they arrived back from Glasgow on the same train. After the match, much beer had been drunk before getting on the

train, and a supply of McEwan’s screw-tops had kept them going on the journey. At the station, it came to a brawl involving some twenty men. There was more broken bottles that broken heads, but, again, honour had not been satisfied.

In the yard, the two groups polarised. The members were mostly among the labourers, who were constantly in contact with each other. The feud started as a labourers’ thing, but soon involved the whole yard. Both groups sabotaged the work of the other. A shunter in the railway yard, who had no involvement, was injured when a wagon-brake was released by Francy’s friends, and it ran over his foot. He was a church-going Protestant, who abhorred the Orangemen.

"You’re one o’ Francy Devine’s pals aren’t you. Right, well you tell him this from Sanny Henderson. Wullie Soutar’s in the hospital with nae leg because youse took the brake off that wagon. Well, we’re going to get youse for that. If youse have got any guts, you’ll see us at the sandy-hills behind the gas-works on Friday night after work at six o’clock."

"Right, we’ll be there. We’ll show youse we’re no’ feart for you."

*****

"Have you heard what they’re going to do? Them stupid buggers are going to fight it out on Friday night after work. All the young ones are getting ready for it. Some of them are talking about taking hammers and knives and razors and God-knows what."

"Damnation. We’ve just got some sort of peace, after Cormac Sleanagh fought that McEwan eejit, and now they’re going to ruin all the good work he did. Can somebody not do something to stop it?"

"Aye, who? Are you going to do it?"

A group of the older Catholics were talking at the entrance to the machine-shop. They were joined by some Protestant friends of the injured Wullie Soutar.

"Have youse heard about it as well?"

"It’s a bloody scandal, that’s what it is. Have you heard how Wullie is? I heard he had lost both his feet."

"No, it’s not as bad as that. I was talking to Nurse Templeton. She went with him in the ambulance to Kilmarnock. She’s back, and up in the dispensary again. He’s lost a couple of toes on his left foot, so he’ll not be playing any football with that foot any more. Not that he ever kicked with his left foot anyhow." There were some wry grins.

"There’s Cormac now. Hey Cormac, come on over here a minute."

"Has nobody got any work to do? Everybody’s standing about talking. Have I missed something?"

"Have you not heard? They’re going to have a battle on Friday after their work; in the sandy-hills."

"Who is?"

"Them young ones. Them that are at each others throats the last couple of weeks. Wullie Soutar’s been hurt, and it was them that did it. He’s lost some toes when a wagon ran over him in the shunting-yard. They let the brake off"

"Aye. I heard there had been an accident, but not that it was deliberate."

"Can you not talk to them Cormac. This is stupid. Somebody’s going to get killed."

"What good would I be, talking to them? Why would they listen to me?"

"Cormac. Since you fought McEwan, folk look up to you."

"Don’t be daft. They’d sooner listen to some of you. You older ones have a lot more influence on them than the likes of me."

"Don’t you believe it Cormac. Go and talk to them. Try it. You’ve got nothing to lose."

"I might get our lads to listen to me, but the others wouldn’t let me near them. No. It’s up to the management to sort this out. I’m having nothing to do with it."

Tam Warnock came over. "You got a minute there Cormac?"

"Aye, what’s on your mind?" The two men walked off to where they could talk privately.

"Cormac, have you heard about this fight they’re going to have on Friday?"

"Aye. We were just talking about it. Why?"

"Can you not talk to them? They’ll listen to you. I’ve seen this sort of thing before. They’ll not be happy till they kill somebody. They damn near got Wullie Soutar this morning."

"Well, if you think it’s worth it, I’ll have a go. But I don’t think it’ll do much good."

"Thanks, Cormac. Do your best. You’ll get Devine in the stores. We’re trying to keep them away from each other."

Cormac walked over to the stores.

"Francy, what’s this they’re telling me about this fight?"

"They’ve been attacking us Catholics now for weeks. It’s time we showed them we’re not having it any more."

"The way I heard it, it was you that started it, calling him a fucking eejit."

"He hit me first."

"I’d hit you if you called me a fucking eejit."

"No you wouldn’t."

"Aye, I suppose you’re right. I wouldn’t. But somebody like Henderson would. You should’ve known that. It’s your own damned fault that he hit you, and worse than that, it’s your damned fault that Wullie Soutar’s lost his toes. Aye, and probably his job as well. Are you going to pay his rent and feed his weans when he’s not able to?"

"I never let that brake off."

"Who did, then?"

"I don’t know. It wasnae me."

"No, you don’t have the brains to do anything except open that big mouth of yours. No, you just start things and then watch other folk getting hurt. You started this. Now its up to you to get it stopped."

"Aye, and how am I going to do that?"

"Well, finish what you started yourself?"

"How do you mean?"

"You go and see Henderson, and tell him you and him’ll settle it between the pair of you. It was youse that had the argument. So the pair of you can settle it; just the two of you. Or are you feart for him?"

"Feart for that Orange bastard? Not bloody likely."

"Right, I’ll away over to see him and tell him you and him will see each other tonight behind the big shed. Right? Half past five? That suit you?"

A very white Francy said, "Aye, all right."

"Right, you keep this to yourself. We don’t want Sanny getting to hear about it and running away or anything. You wait till you see me."

Out in the yard, he met big Tam.

"Well?"

"As well as can be expected Tam. It’s early days yet, but wait till I talk to Henderson. Where is he?"

"He’s carrying a hod down where they’re repairing the sea-wall again."

"Right, I’ll away down and see him. That all right with you?"

"Aye. Anything you can do will help. Take all the time you want. You need any help? Some of their own folk to break the ice?"

"No thanks, Tam. I’ll be all right."

"Mr. Russell, hello. Tam Warnock asked me to come over and talk to Sanny Henderson."

"Hello Sleanagh. Aye, Tam said he was going to talk to you. I’ll shout him over for you. Do your best. You’ll have your work cut out, for he’s not one of the brightest."

Mr. Russell turned to the squad and shouted, "Henderson, get yourself over here."

Sanny came over.

"Put your hod down, and go over there and talk to the man. You listen to what he has to say. If I see you giving him any trouble, I’ll see that your books are ready at the office tonight. Are you listening?"

"Aye, Mr. Russell," he said sullenly. He went over to where Cormac was standing at the edge of the sea-wall.

"What d’ye want?" he said aggressively.

"It’s not what I want Sanny. It’s what do you want?"

"What the fuck’re you talking about."

"Do you want this big fight on Friday night?"

"They asked for it. If they want a fight, we’ll give them a fight they’ll no’ forget in a hurry."

"The way I heard it was that you sent somebody over to call out Francy Devine and his pals. It was your idea."

"It was them that let the brake off the wagon that took Wullie Soutar’s leg off."

"Aye, you’re right enough there. It was Francy’s lot that let the brake off. But Wullie’s only lost a couple of toes. It’s bad enough, but he’ll likely be back at work in a couple of weeks. He’ll likely have a bit of a limp, but his wife and bairns’ll no’ starve, thank God."

"Who told you that?"

"Got it from Nurse Templeton. She took him to the hospital."

"So, what d’you want me to do?"

"Sanny, that’s what I’m asking you. What do you want to do?"

"I want that bastard Devine to get what’s coming to him. He can’t talk to

me like that and get away with it."

"So?"

"So, what?"

"So, why don’t you and Francy sort it out between the pair of you; man to man?"

"If he was a big enough man to do that, he would have asked me before this."

"Well, that’s why he sent me over to talk to you."

"I don’t fucking believe you. You’re just trying to take the fucking piss out of me. I’ll put your teeth down your fucking throat, ya fucking wee Papish bastard."

"Aye, well you’re welcome to try. Last month, Ricky McEwan thought he was going to do just that, but he got his arse tanned."

"Jesus. Was that you?"

"Aye, that was me. Now listen. I spoke to Francy, and he says he’ll meet you tonight after work, behind the big shed at half five, and the two of you’ll settle it there; just between the two of you; no gangs, no weapons, and nobody’ll get killed. Right?"

"Just him and me; nobody else. I don’t want half a hundred of his mates kicking the shite out of me."

"Just you and him. None of your mates’ll be there either. He’ll not want half a hundred of your mates kicking the shite out of him either. I’ll be there, big Tam Warnock’ll be there, and Mr. Russell will be there, to see fair play. That all right with you?"

"Aye." Sanny suddenly brightened at the thought of matching his testosterone against another young buck.

*****

"Right, you keep this to yourself. If you tell anybody, there’ll be a crowd there to watch the pair of you, and you’ll likely get that kicking you’re feart for."

"Right, I’ll wait till I hear what Francy’s doing. In any case, I’ll be behind the big shed at half five tonight. And I’m not telling anybody."

"That’s fine. I’ll get Francy to be there as well. I tell you what. You bring one pal, and I’ll get Francy to bring one as well. That way, you’ll both have your own witnesses that everything you tell folk later is true. Then you can’t accuse me and big Tam and Mr. Russell of making anything up. But for Christ’s sake, make sure they don’t tell anybody else. Right?"

"Right."

"Fine, you away back to your work, and I’ll go and talk to Mr. Russell."

"Mr. Russell, it looks like I’ve managed to get the pair of them to settle it between themselves, without half the yard being there as well. But, we need you to help." Cormac outlined the plan.

"That’s fine Cormac. I’ll be only too pleased to help. I’ve seen too many young men hurt or crippled. One even got killed with this sort of nonsense in my time."

"That’s grand. If you can be there well before half past five to keep an eye on things, I’ll take care of everything else." Cormac went back to the cutting-floor.

"Tam, here’s the way it is." He told Tam what he had agreed with the two young men.

"I knew you’d fix it. Good man."

"I’m away to talk to Francy."

When Francy had been told of the arrangements. Cormac spoke to big Tam again.

"Tam, listen. I’m a Catholic, I’ll always be a Catholic, and I’ll always look out for the Catholic interest. I’ll be straight with you. I fought and beat McEwan. That means that there’s no Protestant leader in the yard right now. If Sanny Henderson beats Francy Devine tonight, he’ll take McEwan’s place. Now, McEwan wasn’t very bright, and Sanny’s even dimmer. If Sanny wins, he’ll be their leader. Now you’re in the right place to can keep him under control.

Now, win or lose, Francy’s going to be the Catholic leader. Up to now, there’s never really been a Catholic leader. If Francy wins, there’s going to be no Orange leader, which means there’s going to be a competition for it. God knows who’ll win that, and whether he’s going to be controllable. Now, Sanny’s young and easy to control. If you and me make sure that Sanny wins tonight, we’ll both have a leader under our control. Believe you me, I’ll be making sure Francy’s listening to me.

What do you say? Between us we’ll have the whole yard in our pockets."

"I always thought you were smart, but this beats the band. Right. How do we arrange that Sanny wins the fight?"

"Have you got any whisky on you?"

"Well, not on me. But I know where I can get my hands on some."

"Good. Here’s what we’re going to do. I’m pretty sure that Sanny can beat Francy anyway. Just the same, I’m going to tell Francy that what he needs is a bit of Dutch courage to loosen up his reactions. Just a wee bit. The truth of it being, I’ll get Francy half-drunk, so that Sanny’ll win. We’ll see that Francy doesn’t get hurt. He’ll be able to tell everybody in the Catholic camp that he was the only one that was prepared to stand up to the Orange bastards, and they’ll fall in behind him. In the meantime, I’ll be there to keep him in line.

Now, where’s that whisky?"

It worked out exactly as Cormac had predicted. Francy put up a great fight but Sanny eventually knocked him out. Danny Taggart was Francy’s witness. He looked at Cormac with disgust when he saw him conniving with Protestant management to prevent the Catholics take their just revenge on their tormentors.

*****

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