The cold air from the lough squeezed inland through the Newry ship canal and fanned up over the hillside. When they reappeared, it was always a Christmas moment, the hasty unwrapping and the fresh smell of something new. Both were usually stowed across the border in secret places, shuffled constantly between safe houses and taken care of like special children. My uncle Kevin’s Springfield was ‘Yankee Doodle’ and the Dragunov was known as ‘The Russian Lady’. We lay in the middle of a hollowed-out hawthorn bush, the long barrels of the rifles peeping out through a spray of white flowers into crisp daylight.
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