The Troubles (6 page)

     The creature across the table from me begins to unfurl his long frame and stretches deep back into his chair precariously. He allows my question to fester between us, apparently, not feeling the urgency, I as a young man combat, and yet, I suppose this heightened emotional state is a birthright to us all save age. I have no patience anymore and standing up abruptly I hiss through polite closed teeth, “Tell ya what, ya get in another round, while I head to the jacks.’’ Walking past the sadly comical patrons with my usually cordial, yet unintentionally aristocratic gate, I feel all their scrutinizing stares even as I avoid eye contact. One by one the distinctive scents of permeating masculine odor fill my nostrils, the heady smell of perspiration and the nauseatingly sour reek of dried urination bring a foul tang to the back of my dry throat as I make my way into the toilet marked 'fir jacks'. I have noticed the door appears to have no lock on its overworked handle as I unzip my unfashionable, faded blue trousers and relieve myself into the putrid basin before me, which sits like yellow cracked compost bin, cantered off balance on a floor of stone, of which the undergrowth of timothy grass and fertile soil appears to be taking over being the only redeeming aspect of the scene. As my head bows in concentration a soothing purr and distinct cottony scent of a cat momentarily stupefies me. There is a feral, yet affectionate feline having made her way through the pothole sized window of the small bathroom. She stealthily, with a grace only a cat possesses, jumps onto the floor and confidently begins to rub her body in a lazy figure eight against my shins. I find myself transfixed by her agile, gliding dance and bow down to stroke the tabby grey fur of her back as she arcs her spine and flexes with appreciation while my stream of urine has stalled.

     “Hey there. Where’d ya come from?’’ Her almond eyes stare deep into me fluorescently green with an alluring glow as she meows her soft response as though to say that if I could become her master, protect and care for her, all would be right in her world. “Aw… sweetheart. I’ll get ya something to drink then.” The kindness I possess for her is not isolated to cats, as I have, since a wee child, felt animals to be fully complex spirits, possessing a gentle, openly intuitive nature, only exhibiting malice out of instinct. Truly, they are God’s greatest creation and not the abased brute and lower life forms that most common folk deem them to be.

     Lanary had astutely observed my keen gentile interest in the animal kingdom from our classroom discussions about the moral nature of husbandry and he had rebelliously diverted from the official curriculum and in great length illustrated the classroom with a lively lecture about Ireland’s Celtic ancient religion with its insipid origins dating back to Theriolatry, a deity that respected and worshiped all creatures. Druidism, he had proclaimed had evolved from early primitive beliefs even though the form of worship matured into more erudite philosophies. Within its set of values, there lay a profound understanding that animals represented supernatural gifts and magical powers in symbolic form that humans fought to attain, therefore being superior, if not equal, to humans. Paradoxically, the feline in many Celtic legends was feared as an evil, ferocious creature and even Finn Mac Cumhill was said to have fought a clan of ‘cat-headed’ people, Lanary had explained in his thought provoking manner. The cat’s reputation had developed from a supposed inability to tame its independent nature and to further observations of it being a strong protector, especially when placed in a confrontation.

     Gathering the warm, purring creature onto my chest, I feel her relax and make my way through the dilapidated door to canvass for some scraps of meat or goat milk from the purveyors of the Railway Bar. Loud guttural laughter hoarsely welcomes me back to our seating arrangement. There is a large man who appears to be swallowed deep in gregarious conversation seated away from my incoming direction and I have yet to look upon his face. Lanary glances quickly at me and then at the cat in my arms.  A smile passes from his eyes to his mouth in a millisecond and as though he has not been distracted at all, he picks up once more, his conversation with the overly jovial, perhaps inebriated, locale. Dragging a chair from an adjoining table I finally examine who has joined my travelling companion for a drink.

     “Ya all right? I heard ya acting the maggot from way afar?’’ With a jest I intrude into the conversation. The strange, boisterous fellow grins a Cheshire grin of thoroughly improperly cared for, tobacco stained teeth. His deep-set ruddy eyes dart from Lanary to myself with little discernment and without much scrutiny, he quickly extends his hand. Presented before me is a workingman’s hand, with gnarled arthritic knuckles, sunburnt leathery skin and a girth only daily exercise would produce. “Me apologies I was earwigging,” I say and grasp the hand before balancing the now squirming animal in a sort of clumsy bear hug.

     ’’Me name’s Jamie. Jamie Egerton.’’ He has a slight lisp to his deep bellowing brogue. “Was just having a chat with yer mate here. A fierce fella Mr. O’ Sloan is.’’

     ‘’Aye, that he is,” I agree politely.

     “Ya got yerself a pet, Mr…?’’

     “Oh, I’m sorry, that’s Alastar Taggart and no, well, she just popped in on me in the loo.”

     “Well let’s have a gander at ya?’’ Jamie struggles to find his focus and looks over my features from my angular moss green eyes that have a penetrating quality to them, to my clenched muscled jawline. My siblings share my pleasant smile, as I bring a beleaguered grin to face.

     “Well a feek looking man ya are, Alastar Taggart.’’

     His words tumble out with no apprehension or embarrassment of stating the obvious. The shell of my body flinches with awkwardness and quickly deflects from the second compliment of the day from the drunkard.  Lanary smirks at me with a telling, ‘’I told ya with enough whiskey even the lads fancy ya.” I begin to vacillate back and forth and attempt to stammer a response with a distinct furrow of distrust on my brow and change the direction of this most bizarre of conversations.   

     “So Lanary, ya must be getting knackered at yer advanced age? Have ya mentioned to Mr. Egerton here, we’re on a trip to Dublin?’’ I ask.

     Jamie interrupts before Lanary has a chance to answer. “Y’all from Norn Ireland aren’t ya?’’ This is not a question but is stated almost as an insult. “It’s all shite ain’t it?’’ The man’s sentence trails off.

     “Well is all right, we might be not the full shilling but...’’ I lower my voice, “the Oglaigh na Eihreann's doing a fine job with what the damn UVF left fer us.’’

     “Oh right.’’ Sarcasm and liquor drips sardonically from this man’s unappealing gaping mouth, his breath reeks of stink. “Was here in ‘66 when those ‘peace marches’ came through making their way from Dublin to yer Belfast.’’ He looks at me aggressively then at Lanary who has been quietly observing us in an expressionless manner allowing space for our exchange. “Lot’s a good that’s all done.’’ Jamie snarls this statement with certitude of his conviction and as I regard this man with his thin lips curled exposing aging pink gums, I recognize that now is not the time or the place to have a debate or try to convince a stranger that perhaps he is in the wrong opinion.

     “Okay, well shall we see if there’s another train that’ll be leaving this afternoon?’’ My question is directed to both Jamie and Lanary. “Sir. Jamie…uh, Mr. Egerton, excuse me mate, we really must get to Dublin with some urgency?’’ I have a polite manner though my desire is to flee this small-minded man rustled in this small village of underdeveloped, scrupled and principled town folk. The cat I have nabbed attempts to get out of my strong grasp.

     “What are ya gonna do with that creature, Alastar?’’ Lanary is now getting to his feet as I athletically wrestle and pet her enthusiastically in an attempt to sooth and calm the agitated nerves of the sensitive feline.

      “Let’s get ya something to nosh on!’’ I say to my newfound pet.                                                         

     Jamie interrupts us both slurring his words into one long breath.                                              “Won’t be a line coming in a donkey’s year. Shite, outta luck ya tom’s!’’     

  ‘’Shut yer bake, before something clem happens.’’ Lanary grits his teeth so powerfully, I hear them gnash painfully from my position across from him and as his face turns cold, his jaw though barely visible, goes taut underneath his beard.

     ’’Lanary, we could get help from this bogger.’’ I am now by Lanary’s ear and have wrangled the hastily christened Coraline into my rucksack allowing me time to decide how to care for her. “Might he have a vehicle we could meander?’’ My question seems to deescalate the impending confrontation, as Jamie seems oblivious to the fact that we might have been offended in the first place.

     “Well for ‘bout fifteen pounds and some sorta agreement, I’ve got a busted up red Fiat 500 that’ll b’fheidir make the mission.” The man is so scattered from liquor he is more than willing to be taken advantage of by two strange men of opposite allegiance. I have no empathy for such foolhardy stupidity. 

CHAPTER 11: Fear gu apis, is bean gu bas (A son is a son until he comes of age; a daughter is a daughter all her life)

     Kiera Flanagan… Ena had photographed me on the side of the Lagan, my hair slick to my head and a look of exhilaration illuminated in my silver eyes, though the candid image will remain undecipherable to all but us, as it is our story to capture.

     Judgment will be there to greet me or so I anxiously imagine, as Ena and I walk hand in hand scampering lightly across aging cobblestone as though we are small children and not the foolish looking women we have grown into overnight. My apprehension is mounting after having been so severely disciplined. This is my most prevalent fear, which has surfaced unannounced, throughout my day’s events like a repeating loop from my favorite record. Although Ena has just reminded me, we must each lie to our prospective parents about the failure of truancy to our day’s obligations, my heart skips a beat along with the damned track.

     “Ya know that Bionn ciuin ciontach? Well if the quiet are guilty then ya would be sin free and I’d a been hanged a long while ago for me cam ways.’’

     ‘’Is mise, le meas Ena. Should I say anything? Perhaps Mother would understand I needed the day off from the toil of the Short Brothers plant?’’

      “Ya’ll be a fool to say it.’’ She is right. Capital is a rare commodity in both our households and we so flippantly, were brazen enough, to risk losing our jobs, for a laugh by the Lagan. Attempting levity, she laughs. “There’s no sore ass, like yer sore ass.’’

     “Ena!’’ I scold her as I am momentarily taken aback by my friend’s openness and lack of feminine charm and manners.

     “Ya’ll not mention it again Kiera or I will be the one to have yer arse!’’

     After the debasement I experienced from my parent’s last form of discipline, there is a rebirth to my resolve that I must conceal my true actions or resist punishment with more zeal. “All right ya little puss. What class shall we spake bout me Lord?’' As she winks and creases her face into a joker grin, I am reminded that she seems oblivious to how beautiful she is and if there is any awareness of it, her humility usurps any ugly vanity.

     Light is beginning to set early at this late fall hour and the air loses any warmth the sunshine might have given it. My breath is forming smoke clouds of frigid moisture as my lungs inhale and exhale rapidly with exhilaration and adrenaline. We are at least five long city blocks from Cambrai Street and the wind, using city streets like tunnels to increase speed, is tearing through our threadbare clothing. “Let’s run Ena! Come on, have at it.’’ 

     Lower Shankill is in the horizon of our field of vision when to my right in not so distant earshot; I hear boyish voices sharing exploits. “We’ve been throwing bricks at the peelers! Hush. Don’t announce that ya daft boggin’.’’ One of the voices breaks above the rest blanketing their immature excitement. A percussion of noises cuts through the shaded dusk as Ena and I hear a rush of stampeding, clodding feet and the frantic angry shouts of men. The voice of the British Army, the very paramilitary that has been keeping the peace are unyielding in their threats, to what I now assume, are a group of school age boys.

     ‘’Quick get out of sight.’’ I push my friend and we clamor to hide ourselves from view. We both are crouched behind a broken down ancient wall which crumbled years ago and no longer serves any use to the cityscape, but to us now, it is a private refuge. My heart is beating through my chest so loud I fear the clashing clans can hear it as clearly as the beat of drum, even though we are several yards away and for the moment out of sight. My blood has rushed so quickly to my brain, I feel faint and put my head down in between my crouched legs to catch my breath. Oh my Lord, not another incident. Thoughts flood my mind and I do not wish to be a witness to murder yet again. 

     Pushing down any resistance and cowardice I truly possess, I summon the courage to look through small crack in our embankment. I can barely see anything through the dim light. Could that be one of the familiar faces of my church? The outline of a man’s jawline and the shadows of his face appear recognizable to me. I shudder from the image that the known shadowy figure is present amongst such fear inducing Ulster Protestants, who have now divided the lines to preserve Northern Ireland's attachment to the British monarchy and have resorted to a supposed defensive violent tactic to oppose a united Ireland. The UVF paramilitary officers sound like wolves that have now stealthily hunted down and corralled a pack of feral scrawny dogs. I hear the youngsters screaming from agony and indignation as batons and hard steel tipped boots connect with the delicate supple bodies of the young self-governing anarchists. “We must do something.’’ My words are caught by the burgeoning biting wind that is beginning to spit it’s rain upon us and my desperate words lose any validity or strength as Ena clasps my hand tightly in sad resignation.