The Troubles (18 page)

CHAPTER 31: An te a bhionn suilach, bionn se scealach agus an te a bhionn scealach bionn se breagach (He who travels is talkative, and he who is talkative has a tendency to lie)

     Alastar Taggart…Tis the luck of the Irish that my fortune has turned so abruptly. To have taken a soul only to bestow another onto me cannot be sold lightly. Gifts such as these are rare and few and far between in the brick and mortar enclosure of these immature red faced and vengeful, common men and behind them, their women, coaxing and riling, testy, raw nerves. I must find a way, either to convince Kiera to stay in Belfast and in doing so, there must be some semblance of hope for peace here for her to do so, or if need be, I will leave this city by her side once and for all.

     ‘’Get up ya manky feen!’’ I roll over to ignore the commanding officer’s brisk morning insult with my single cot creaking and sighing under my weight. I have slept in woolen underwear and with some apathy, get up as quickly as the frigid morning welcomes me.

    “Aye men, we’ve got an important mission today.” The cowl necked, burly, redheaded man gives me and the twenty or so brigade members his militant expectations. “The lot of ya there, go to see Gerry Adams and ya lot, come with me.’’ I am a part of the regiment to file before Gerry Adams and receive my daily directive. I quickly pull on my sodden khaki’s in obvious need of laundering. I might be the manky feen my lieutenant was sizing up; I chuckle quietly at the absurdity to it all. I’ve never been so bloody filthy in me damn life.

     Gerry Adams stands unassuming before me with a grin stealthily buried beneath a full chestnut beard. He and I are exactly the same age of twenty-three, but to say our lives have been parallel would be an utter lie. He is in an authoritative position before me because of his staunch involvement with the Northern Ireland Civil Rights Association since 1967. There has been serious retribution against his preferred organization from loyalists and as his political prowess could not further the civil rights campaign in the face of the supporters of the crown, violence superseded and much of his intent was lost in dire bloodshed, to such degree, that in 1969 troops from Britain were called in to deescalate the evolving political turf war that he had surreptitiously created.

     There has been a smattering of talk on the streets, that under the Special Powers Act of 1922, he will be interned and as such confined and imprisoned for his many so-called, crimes. For now, he is before me toying with his hand sewn Easter lily breast badge, the symbol for those Irish Combatants that were either executed or died during the Easter Rising in 1916. He clearly wants all his compatriots to bear witness to his self- righteous bereavement, yet I too have donned this lapel during spring holiday.

     ‘’Yer name officer?’’ His disinterested query angers me. I have grown up with Gerry Adams, perhaps so much in his shadow, that I have been invisible to him.

    “Me name is Alastar Taggart.’’ His brown eyes glint with recognition, which he quells quickly as he regards me.

     “Fine. Well, today yer with me and I’m goin’ to need ya not to be a fuck up!’’

     ‘’Aye, Gerry, ya can count on me. It’s not me first time in the fight ya know. I’m no eejit.’’ My steady response tinges upon a grandstanding attitude and with cobra quick deadliness, he spits on the floor right before me.

    “What the fuck do ya know ‘bout the war? Ya didn’t want this fight ‘til but a moment ago.’’

     How did he know my previous intentions? I thought he didn’t know me.  “So, then, Gerry… Yer abreast to me goings on then?’’ My sarcasm is clear though unintentional. He turns away to face the doorway before us and I catch a slight touch of empathy in this small motion as under his breath he sighs.

     “Aye, s’pose. I heard ‘bout Quinn. Fine lad he was! He could have been a great use to us. Now have it on me toes and leave why don’t ya.’’

     The brown-leather seats of the four-door 1962 Cadillac are torn and weathered from overuse and cigarette burns. I am seated in the backseat to the far right with two noxious smelling men who must be my own age which I can tell from their immature frenetic cursing and fidgeting.

    “Bout time we do sometin’ to those fuckin’ Brits, Aye?’’ The man to my left asks me in such a manner that I can tell he cannot be bothered with my answer and is just speaking to fill the awkward void of silence in the stuffy vehicle.

     “Don’t worry ‘bout that.  It’s what they’re meant to be doing to us. All the Dubliners are soft as shite and will get hungry for some blood.” Gerry Adams interrupts with such a fear inducing answer; I can see the two men blanch with cowardice in my peripheral vision. Laughter fills the car with raucous volume as I catch Gerry staring straight at me with his cold eyes concealing his wide grin beneath. They are deathly sober!

     I have a feeling as though I am submerging in the Irish Sea, the waves and water enclosing upon me as I sink like cement. As I lay ensconced in my watery tomb, the pressure of the water depth snaps my eardrums and crushes my bones. The reflection and light of the surface plays tricks on my subconscious as I claw frantically at nothing but water, my grasp catching nothing. I have been exiled to this watery grave and am doomed to an eternity of longing for the light of the sun to touch upon my face once again.

     My head lulls forward and my body lurches forward suddenly. I am alone in the vehicle with the roll of the ocean nauseating me to alertness. My dreams are more and more frequent since coming upon the life drained remains of my brother. I have yet to dream of my own death and only dream of his as though the repetitive dreams are somehow pounding the truth of it all into my waking mind. Although as of yet they have failed.

     ‘’It was I who put that bomb together,’’ the young man seated to my right, as we have descended from the ferry onto mainland England, boasts greedily and stupidly.

     “Would ya shut the hell up? It was a bloody failure that was.’’ Gerry scolds the boy who I now know as Noel Jenkinson. They have been speaking in broken, disjointed codes about the London bombing of the BT Tower and now an exasperated Noel is defending his craftsmanship.

      “Did ya not place the device then mate?’’ He rudely retorts under his breath. From his demeanor, he looks to be a man on the verge of a vile explosion because of the insult to his grotesque pride.

    The IRA had regarded the mission as an embarrassing failure because it had, in all appearances, been the perfect location for mass casualties and publicity for the party. The 364-foot tower had been commissioned by the general post office and was used to support the microwave aerials that were used to carry telecommunications traffic from London to the rest of Britain. It had many extraordinary features as well as a restaurant for the general public on the 7
th
floor and although it had been finished six years prior, it still carried the London flag of ingenuity, as though it was brand new. I do not know the specifics, because there is such a degree of suspicious secrecy amongst our members one feels as though they are cavorting amongst enemies. You learn quickly to watch both your tongue and your back, but I was privy to enough back ally whispers to know a bomb had been detonated in the bathroom in the restaurant and although it had exploded as it was designed to do, there had been no causalities with just minor injuries.

    Noel might be wiser than his vacant visage credits him, as he has now manipulated the conversation from the muddled clumsy terroristic attempt at the BT Tower, to Gerry’s recent marriage, to Collette McArdle.

     “ Aye, yer lass is a feek beour. No wonder ya put a ring on her hand.’’

     ‘‘Watch yer tongue when speakin’ ‘bout me wife.’’ Gerry jokes and slaps his hand good-naturedly on Noel’s slightly concaved chest.

         “What bout ya Alastar?  Have ya got a lass back home in Belfast?’’ I cringe, as three sets of discriminating, street hardened eyes, peer at me with a dangerous mischievous-tinged interrogation, the innocent question has invoked.

     ‘‘Na haven’t met one that’s not a young tool.’’ Evasively I reply, for to tell them of my true romantic intentions would put Kiera’s life in peril. They all turn to watch as green lawns and rocky landscapes fly by the speeding vehicle, apparently satisfied by my straightforward denial until Gerry Adam’s resonant brogue breaks my relief.

    ‘’Was spakin’ with yer mate Lanary Sloan.’’

     ‘’Aye, he was me professor.’’

     “Aye, he told me ya fancy another one of his students.’’ Gerry’s brown eyes bristle and gleam as though he is has now cornered his prey and is sadistically toying with it. I gulp, feeling my life in this man’s cold gnarled jaw.

   ’’Na, I don’t know who he’s talkin’ bout.’’

   ‘’Ya don’t fancy a fine chestnut haired lass with long legs and a firm…’’ He trails off of the sexist jest leaving it floating unspoken in the dense air.  “Would he be talkin’ bout that protestant lass named Kiera Flanagan?’’ The two other men reel counterclockwise and with open distain, glare menacingly at the mention of a protestant.

CHAPTER 32: Is maith an scathan suil charad. (A friend’s eye is a good mirror)

     Kiera Flanagan…The February light is short and leaves as quickly as the sun’s heat warms the perpetually wet earth to an almost bearable temperature though dissipates quickly to leave the frigid surface lonely in its wake. Ena has been staring out of the parlor window for days now, her mute expression resolutely unvaried by my quiet, careful tending. When she began to shake uncontrollably one evening as though in a tragic, satirical déjà vu, I sat next to her. I wrapped her in grandmother’s hand sewn tattered quilt and silently rocked my friend as she stared blankly into the unlit, dark space beyond the windowpane’s barrier.

     The irony of this messy and unkind quagmire ensues me to respond in uncomely hysterics and as my entrance door clatters open before me, my private histrionics transform into a bizarre cackle. “Aye, what have ya got for me now, Lord?”  I swing the open door in a large mock performance of an actor’s disingenuous entrance. Gripping the icy stairs beneath them stands an unreadable Lanary Sloan and a visibly distraught Bobby Sands.

      Lanary’s deep blue eyes have a probing penetration to them that appears to be attempting to extract at least some reaction from Ena, yet against all of his entrancing, cold charisma, she remains closely catatonic in her interactions. These men have come from our purported archenemy ‘s camp to do none other than atone for the wicked aftermath of two Protestant daughters left to live alone in an overtly prejudiced Irish culture, without the mentorship of their Father’s and warm touch of their Mother’s.

    “Who did it?’’ I openly interrogate Bobby Sands as we sit sipping hot tea devoid of milk and sugar as my house is losing supplies gradually and until now, I have had no intention of remaining, therefore, my housekeeping has gone the way of my shyness. Survival has a wicked way of pushing you past previous vapid insecurities.

     ‘’We all know the mess we’ve made is too big a pile of shite to dig out of.’’ Bobby’s cryptic answer has the earmarks of contrition.

           “Damn it! Who in the bloody hell did it? Why did they have to shoot up that car? Her parents are just plain, same God fearing folks, as yer people.’’

    ‘’I know Ms. Kiera. Maybe Alastar knows who the culprits were but we’re not privy to that kind of information.’’

     ‘’I don’t give a monkey’s… Where is yer hoor Alastar, then?’’

The two men share between them a private, somewhat queer glance, both stalling to give a response to my simple question. My blood pressure rises instantaneously as though my core is molten lava with turmoil and there are fissures in the surface of the volcano that has parasitically transformed a once serene and calm spirit.

     ‘’He’ll be home soon enough.’’

     ‘’So then it wasn’t him who...’’ My eyes veer over to my morose friend as my flushed cheeks cool when relief takes over.’’ He’s not in Belfast, not on the isle?’’ I can only fathom the worst, as I am not naïve to what our undignified, yet noble adversaries, cause in my opinion, unwarranted havoc, off this island. That happens to be the terrorist’s intentions my father would say. My smarting anger turns to bruised resentment as I cannot imagine why he would put his future in peril, lest our unknown future kinship. Sounding like a love struck romantic I whine quietly. “We was meant to have a date this weekend. I s’pose he won’t make it.’’ In my gut the words seethe and nauseate with a double meaning, as it’s highly likely he might not come out of this last one alive.   “So why is it then, ya’ve come to call upon Ena and I?’’

      Bobby’s sandy blond curls cast a cherub shadow over his drawn yet fine features.  “Ena and ya work at the Short Brothers Aerospace factory.’’

    ‘’Aye, I did ‘til just recently and she, well… I don’t think she has her job waiting for her.  She’s been here on me couch for a week. Why?’’ I know why Bobby is asking if I worked at the most prolific armament factory in all of Ireland. His translucent, dark blue eyes storm and he appears to be swallowing the words to come as though the threat of a veiled remark of treachery could be made worse by appealing to Ena and me own loss and grief.  The men hade came to determine whether or not we are vengeful enough to break the law.

     “Ya have access to weapons girls that could give us the upper hand,’’ declares Bobby.