April 1973. Cold morning. Deserted streets. Rows of terraced houses like calloused fingers stretching out Through the city. Silent shadows moving slowly from doorway to doorway. Tread softly. "In position now." Nameless doors, faceless windows. Silence. "GO!" THIRTY DOORS IN the Old Park district of Belfast splintered and burst open under the onslaught of Army fury and boots. Over a hundred people turfed out of bed. Screams, yells, thuds, all shatter the morning stillness. The elderly, the infirm, the young, the tired and the lonely. "Fucking English pigs!" "Para bastards, youse animals!" "I've got a heart condition, she's got epilepsy." "Youse broke my door, youse fuckers!" The abuse is never-ending, the quality never-changing. Now it just rolls off my back and I concentrate on the job.
