The Troubles (The Jessica Trilogy Book 2)

by Connie Johnson Hambley

  “Under my supervision,” she interjected.

  “I’ve done it. I’ve packed most of it.” Tim stepped forward, nearly knocking Doherty over.

  Doherty continued, ignoring the interruption. “As you see fit. Your flight out is at noon tomorrow. Don’t be late.”

  Jessica was about to say more and stopped, no doubt making mental lists of what she needed to do in a very short time. Michael’s expression reflected only calm and composure, but the tiny beads of sweat along his upper lip said otherwise. He barely twitched a muscle as he watched her turn on her heel and walk back to the cottage.

  BELFAST, NORTHERN IRELAND

  AOIFE O’SHEA HAULED a heavy basket filled with wet clothes outside to hang on the line. Placing it on the picnic table, she paused for a moment to straighten her back and tuck a loose strand of strawberry blonde hair behind her ear. Reaching up, she grabbed the nylon clothesline with her right hand, a handful of wooden pins with her left, and began the mindless task of hanging knickers and shirts. One horizontal line quickly filled with wet items. Within twenty minutes, all of the day’s wash was hung, the tiny backyard filled with flapping clothes. The slight breeze prompted her to judge how long the drying might take before the towering wall that butted the end of her yard eclipsed the sun.

  “Brilliant spring day, isn’t it?”

  Aoife turned and saw her neighbor sitting in her backyard. She gave a quick wave and replied, “Aye. ‘tis, Mrs. Reynolds. How are the tabbies today?”

  “My sweet Mittens caught a mouse, and Bits was beside ‘imself with envy,” the older and portly woman replied with a hint of pride. “Just look at how he’s struttin’ about to get your attention.” An orange tabby cat rubbed his whiskers against the screen that separated the porches of their flats.

  “I’ll come ‘round on my way back from the cathedral and give ‘im a good head rub. You all should enjoy our spot of sunshine while we have it,” she said glancing in the direction of the wall. “I’m guessing we have an hour if the clouds don’t cover it first.”

  Mrs. Reynolds assessed the sun moving across the sky and the height of the wall. “I remember when we had sun all the way to the horizon. We could sit out here on the step enjoying it until evening. Now we have the wall and rush about our tasks, dashing outside at the first hint of sunshine.”

  “You talk as if that was a million years ago. You’re only after tellin’ me yourself that you couldn’t sit out here because you were afraid to and that was only four years ago! You’re safe and sound. Top, sides and bottom!” Aoife shoved the wall for emphasis and looked up at the Plexiglas roof. “It’s a wondrous thing. Even keeps Bits out of my garbage and stops her from peeing in my plants. It should be called the Pees Line not the Peace Line!”

  The older woman covered her cheeks with her hands in feigned shock. “Aoife!” she said, exaggerating her name to ‘EEEE-faw,’ “The things you say!”

  Aoife enjoyed the distraction. She would never admit it, but she hated the wall. The decision of their civic association to erect a wall in West Belfast was a necessary evil after the last bit of rioting gutted the neighboring flats. They were not the first country or city to erect such a structure or the first to build it in a flash. The speed and efficiency of the project meant that opposition had no time to mobilize. Civic leaders held perfunctory public meetings while quietly meeting with corporate agents who then brought in engineers who hired builders. Within weeks, the wall was up. Done.

  The row of flats and townhouses where they lived was designated a hotbed area and, because of that, enjoyed the added feature of a translucent roof. The high-tech sheets of special Plexiglas shielded residents from decidedly low-tech petrol bombs—beer bottles filled with gasoline tossed with lighted rags shoved down the bottles’ necks. The crude, incendiary devices were the citizens’ army weapon of choice to hurl over squat buildings into the streets. The roof had proven to be a great protection and deterrent. It did not take long to realize that any petrol bomb that didn’t make it all the way over would roll back on the thugs who lobbed it up to begin with.

  Belfast’s wall along the intersection of Bombay Street and Cupar Way was a visible line of an invisible barrier. The peace line protected both Protestants and Catholics from the bottles and rocks that flew from the hands of the other and the rubber bullets and missiles fired by the Royal Ulster Constabulary, the RUC. A marvel of engineering, it stood twenty feet tall and grew up from a foundation of cement which served not only as a solid stand for the long pillars that held multiple sheets of metal and powerful spotlights, but as a barrier for any vehicle that wanted to drive through. A wire coil mesh crowned the top ridge. In different parts of the city, razor wire topped the mesh where simple barbed wire may not have been enough to deter anyone from the crazy thought of scaling it. Countries built walls to protect their borders and national interests—like keeping the Palestinians out of Israel or Mexicans out of the US. In the case of Belfast, the purpose was to keep Protestants from the Catholics and the loyalists from the nationalists.

  People understood which side of the peace line you should live on. When you lived in Northern Ireland, either you were loyal to the British Crown or you weren’t.

  Another puff of breeze patted against the sheet metal walls and enough escaped around it to flutter the laundry. Aoife grabbed her empty basket and headed back inside.

  “I’m going up to Taggarts for some bread and milk. Will the kittens be needin’ anything?” she yelled over her shoulder.

  Mrs. Reynolds appeared at her front door with two mugs of tea in hand. Aoife smoothed her hands over her khaki pants and freshly pressed white shirt. She drew herself up to her full height, aware that time and circumstance worked against her looking more polished. Mrs. Reynolds’ eyes narrowed. “Only Taggarts?”

  “Oh, stop looking at me that way you meddling old witch,” Aoife laughed. “If you’re to be watching my every move and logging my comings and goings, then you should be aware I’m stopping at the cathedral, too. I’m getting a few items for Sunday’s coffee hour with my shopping and will do a bit of cleaning for the daily service. Then I’m off to do some work at the women’s shelter. Does that meet with your approval?”

  Mrs. Reynolds wiped her hands on the floral apron protecting her dress. “When you step out for nights on end, I get worried for you,” she said with an exasperated sniff. She wagged a finger in disapproval. “I wish you’d find yourself one man and get on with your life. Livin’ your days cleaning the altar and nights God knows where is no life at all. You’re too fine a lass to be humping a pew.”

  Aoife roared with laughter. “Sounds like I’m getting to be a good influence on your language! The shock of you!”

  “From the young ye shall learn.”

  They smiled the smile of friendship shared through generations. Aoife tossed her head in the direction of her knickers flapping in the breeze. “You’ll take ‘em in for me when they’re dried?”

  “I will, but you should be thinking to be back in time for that. You’ll be longer?” Worry shadowed her face as she spoke. “The parades are today. Folks have been getting’ increasingly tense. It won’t take much to set them off.”

  “Och!” Aoife exclaimed in disgust. “The Orangemen should be as happy as we are that the bombings have stopped. They flaunt the fact they get to parade every Saturday while others are stopped from doing so. No worries. I’ve planned my errands to be done before then.”

  “This’ns not for the orange. It’s for the hunger strikers. Bobby Sands’ family will be at the front and the word is out for supporters to be wearing the black armbands for mourning.”

  Aoife sucked in her mouth. “I’m surprised they were able to pry a permit free. That took some doing, but just because I won’t be wearin’ the armband doesn’t mean I’ll have a target on my back. Those fecking loyalists march their parades with their Union Jacks right down the heart of our Catholic neighborhoods. It’s like waving a red cape at a bull. I hope today’s p
arade uses that precious permit well and marches dead center up the loyalists’ neighborhoods just to show ‘em a thing or two.”

  Mrs. Reynolds wrung her hands. “Oh, Aoife. You’re a moth to the flame. Don’t be naïve.”

  “I’ll be safe enough. They’ll have more to worry about than a church lady on a shopping mission. Think of it. If the Americans can have their Fourth of July parades without fuss, we get to have ours.”

  “But you’ve said so yourself. It’s different here. It’s not simply bands and banners. They might have stopped hurling bricks and stones, but parades are no less a weapon. Please be careful.” She bent down and patted Bits who had followed her into Aoife’s flat. The tabby rubbed its cheek along Mrs. Reynolds ample calf.

  Aoife gave her neighbor a quick hug and Bits a scratch under its chin. “It’s a fine day, and I’ll not take the main streets. I won’t press my luck. See you back here before the streets get crowded.”

  Receiving acknowledgment and taking a last mouthful of tea, she handed the mug back to Mrs. Reynolds, gathered her purse, and set off. Aoife didn’t want troubled thoughts to cloud her day. She wanted to enjoy it.

  Guided by sunshine, she decided to walk up to Lanark Way, then on to West Kirk and Shankill Roads. Usually she avoided what the politicians called the “interface area,” but she didn’t want to take the long way around. The streets were calm, and the gate between neighborhoods was open, its graffiti-covered panels served to lift her mood even more. She could see moms and children coming out of one area and walking into the other, nodding greetings to the RUC officer posted there as they passed.

  Aoife played a game with herself by looking at how they cradled their rifles to see if she was safe to venture to the other side. If they held them loosely in the crook of their elbow using only one arm, then they had no news or warnings of anything coming. If they held the guns with two hands, one on the barrel and one on the stock, then she knew trouble was coming and would cut her shopping and visits short. The young soldier tipped his hat with his right hand while keeping his rifle cradled with his left and continued his leisurely patrol.

  A mother emerging from the nationalist side struggled to hold on to her little boy as he strained to rush through the gate to the park beyond. She gave Aoife a slight smile and said, “I think we’re interfacing just fine this lovely mornin’, thank you.”

  Aoife smiled back and nodded to the boy trying to bolt for freedom. “Aye! And even the holes in the peace line are working wonders!” Both women laughed as she continued, “Best give him a good run today before the parades start. He’ll work up an appetite for certain!”

  The mother’s smile faded to an uncertain expression and she hurried her son along to the park.

  AINTREE RACECOURSE

  LIVERPOOL, ENGLAND

  THE SHORT FLIGHT from Galway, Ireland to Manchester, England was uneventful in every way except to signal a significant change in Jessica’s life. Rather than hustling through crowded terminals and packing like a sardine in coach class or even luxuriating in first, she was brought to a smaller area of the airport that catered to private aircrafts. Her car pulled up directly to a waiting jet, with gangway steps open for her. The afternoon sun reflected off the white jet painted with a corporate logo MMC, Ltd. As the only passenger, she had more than enough room to stretch her legs. The flight was short. Pressing her face to the oval window nearly the entire trip, Jessica saw the island of Ireland spread out beneath her, every shade of green quilting the ground.

  At the Manchester Airport, one of Michael’s men greeted her and grabbed for her suitcase as soon as she neared. When she hesitated, he muttered “Phoenix,” or, more precisely, “Bloody damned Phoenix.” Safe-word spoken, he walked ahead of her, bringing her to a limousine with tinted windows. Sliding into the back seat, she tried her best to look like she rode around in limos all the time, faking the ease that came with the trappings. A leather portfolio contained a map of Aintree Racetrack, stables, facilities and a brief overview of her responsibilities and accommodations. No expense was spared on the help she would have or her comfort. The ride to the stables at Aintree took about fifty minutes, and Jessica used the time to acclimate to her new world and gilded cage.

  The limo entered the manicured front gate and headed straight for the stables. At full capacity, Aintree holds over one hundred thousand people. Its facilities catered to the masses with open bleachers and the elite with enclosed pavilions named Lord Sefton, Earl of Derby, and the Princess Royal. Her notes stated that only the great windowed gallery of the Queen Mother Stand would be in use as it afforded the best views of the track. Heated box seats protected its occupants from England’s frequent showers. Every detail reinforced the fact that these races were attended by a class of people she had only read about.

  Jessica recognized Shamus Doherty immediately. He was older, about sixty or sixty-five years old, tall, and carried himself with a certain athleticism that said he must have been quite the player when he was younger. His shirt was unbuttoned to mid-chest, revealing a silver chain with an old Saint Christopher’s medal and a Celtic crucifix on tanned skin. His days of carousing may have been over, but his personality hadn’t dimmed.

  “Hello! Hello! Hello!” he called with his hand outstretched in greeting. “I trust your trip was good?”

  “Good enough to get me here,” Jessica answered, instantly regretting her icy tone. She needed to be smooth and even with no sharp edges to hint of nerves.

  Doherty stood beside her and motioned for someone to bring a horse forward. He interacted with everyone around him like someone accustomed to getting what he wanted. He was direct, roguish, focused on the horses, and exuded charisma. “Kilkea traveled well,” he said. “I’m sure you’ll want to check on him.”

  “And Planxty?”

  “Sold in a private sale. He would not be fit to race with his injury. You’ll ride Kilkea in the hurdles race one week from Friday.”

  The abrupt sale saddened her. “Planxty’s sold? I wish I had known.” Her heart wanted to say her goodbyes to him, but logic dictated she was playing on a different stage now. Sentiment would not be tolerated. This was business. She focused instead on Kilkea. “I doubt Kilkea is ready to compete.”

  “We’ll never know unless we get him out there.”

  “Mr. Doherty, with all due respect, if you put Kilkea in a race too early, you’ll ensure his ruin.”

  “His value to the syndicate was determined after his last race. Nothing will ruin that.”

  She was frustrated and concerned for Kilkea’s health. Doherty’s willful ignorance angered her. Frustration creased her voice. “I wasn’t referring to his value to the syndicate. I was talking about him as an athlete.”

  Doherty looked at her as if she was a little girl, sad that she hadn’t grown up yet. “The hurdle race is for maiden horses or younger jockeys that don’t have the experience running steeplechases. He’s already been a national champion. Racing him down a division has already been decided.”

  “I won’t ride him.”

  He didn’t skip a beat. “Kilkea has nothing to prove, but you do. Kilkea’s racing with or without you on his back. If I need to, I’ll have one of the workout boys ride him. Your name will still be on the jockey registry, but you’ll ride Saturday’s claiming race without the benefit of real steeplechase experience.”

  Jessica refused to be cowed and tried another tact. “How Kilkea will react is a wild card. If he’s ridden poorly he’ll be a hazard on the course.”

  Doherty shrugged. “True enough. There are those who say he’ll be more of a hazard if ridden by a woman, so suit yourself. I say get the experience together. That would be the best for both of you. Anyway, the important race is Saturday, and I want you to get a feel for the course and the other jockeys before that. Win or lose, riding that event will break you in nicely, too.”

  She gave him a look that made it clear she hated being spoken to as one of his assets. Being defiant would only prove his
point, but winning would put him in his place. She decided not to risk further friction and focus on her surroundings.

  “Fair enough. Can you show me around?”

  Doherty relaxed and slipped smoothly into the role of host.

  “The facilities here are first-rate. All of my horses has a team comprised of grooms, trainers, handlers, and jockeys. Each knows his job. I expect you to keep up with the detailed notes you did at the cottage.” He brought her into one of the five barns that surrounded a central paddock area and stopped in front of a stall specially equipped with rubber floor mats and showerheads. “We have far better facilities here for the animals. After every workout, I want the horses cooled, bathed, and massaged.”

  She hadn’t been around a stable as bustling as this one in a long time. Jessica suspected the care given to the horses was as much for their physical benefit as it was for the games of one-upmanship played by their owners. If gold-plated bridles wouldn’t have been laughed out of the barns, she suspected she would have seen them dotting the walls, too.

  They entered into another barn where a blue and green sign for Tully Farm hung over one end and a bronze and gold sign for Devon-on-Thames hung at the opposite end. “Each barn stables horses from several farms. Don’t stray. I suspect you’ll be most comfortable in this area.” A stable hand wearing dirty jeans, thick rubber boots and a grubby sweatshirt hustled past her and muttered a barely audible “Phoenix” under his breath. The thought that Michael’s men could be a bad display of earpieces and ill-fitting suits had worried her. She was grateful to see how they blended in.

  Doherty watched her reaction carefully. “The jockey you’re replacing was one of the best, so you’ll be scrutinized by our people and the other farms. I don’t have to tell you that withstanding the psychological gamesmanship is part of your training. Letting someone get inside your head to the point of unnerving you could mean the difference between having a clean ride or making a judgment error that could cause a crash or cost the race. We don’t have a lot of time and I need you to stay focused.”