The Troubles (The Jessica Trilogy Book 2)

by Connie Johnson Hambley

  “You’ve got a point. There’s enough food for an army, but that better mean you’re staying.”

  Michael wouldn’t look at her. “As long as I can. Treating you too well might backfire on me. After a bath, massage, and good food, I’m afraid you’ll sleep for a week. And then what will I do?”

  “It looks like you need some rest, too,” she said as she brushed her thumb across his lips. “What was the commotion about?”

  Before he answered, he walked over to the credenza and poured himself a Scotch, taking time to find decent music on the stereo. He chose a station with some jazz fusion and turned the volume up. His motions were deliberate and calculated to give him time before he brought his mouth close to her ear. “There was an explosion not far from here in Manchester at a shopping mall. The IRA has taken responsibility.”

  She gasped. “Today? Was anyone hurt?”

  “No one was killed. Some minor injuries were reported. It happened as the race was concluding.”

  Cold started at her scalp and fell through her, cell by cell. “Is the Charity behind it?” She was surprised at how matter-of-fact she sounded.

  “I can’t answer that... yet,” he began. “Someone made a call to the police and different news agencies warning that the area should be cleared. No question it was the IRA, but I don’t have any proof one way or the other if the Charity was behind it. I need time to trace the money.”

  Her heart started that little tattoo in her chest that forewarned of a rising swell of panic. She settled onto the couch and winced. Shifting, her robe parted, exposing her thigh. A long red welt traveled its length.

  “Jesus, Jessica. What happened out there?” he asked.

  “That’s nothing. There’s something I want you to see. Grab the vest for me?”

  He retrieved the vest from the vanity and examined it with interest, tracing the dent with his index finger. He turned it over and pressed on the bulge, feeling its rigidity. Before he could say more, Jessica held up the slug. His features changed into an unreadable mask.

  He reached over and smoothed her hair, bringing her face to his. His kiss was gentle and had lost the edge of desperation that had been there only moments before. He rested his forehead against hers, the horror of what didn’t happen mixing with the horror of what did. “Thank God you’re safe.”

  “This is a bulletproof vest! You knew something was going to happen. That’s why you had Doherty switch them out.”

  He hesitated. “He wouldn’t have done it if he didn’t see the need, too. The vest protects against all types of extreme impacts. A lot of egos were riding on that race. You faced a rough crowd out there. I’d heard rumors that in past races the jockeys can get violent. I wanted to give you as much protection as I could, but I swear to you I did not know anything about today’s bombing. What did you see in the barns?”

  Jessica told Michael the details of the past week. He listened carefully. “Hmm. Jax kept me posted, too, and what you’re telling me fits with what he said. I’m most interested in what happened on the course.”

  “Becher’s Brook is the only jump where the rider’s chest is exposed enough to get off a clean shot. I had no idea what hit me.” She looked directly into Michael’s eyes. “Is this something to do with you?”

  Michael fingered the slug. “I don’t know. Doherty told me about vicious talk from a few of the owners—oil nations mostly. This race attracts people who behave as if rules don’t apply to them, but I think we have to assume this bullet is connected to me. I want you out of here.” He made a quick call, giving instructions in an uncompromising tone. A few minutes later, he received a call back. He placed the phone to his chest. “You came in via Galway to Manchester. Right?” Jessica nodded. “Manchester airport is locked down, but we’ll work on something to get you out as soon as possible.” For the next few minutes he was like a lion in a cage, walking back and forth, hitting an invisible wall in each direction. One last call stopped his pacing.

  “Okay. The jet will be waiting and we’ll determine the best destination for you in the morning. I’ll stay with you until the car comes for you tomorrow.”

  Jessica laughed, happy to see him relax. “That’s one hell of a way to invite yourself to spend the night with a woman.”

  His relief was visible as he refilled her glass. “I’d like to think you’ve had worse invitations.”

  “Maybe, but not by much.”

  BELFAST, NORTHERN IRELAND

  AOIFE RESTED HER head on knees hugged to her chest. She tried to make sense of the past hours.

  Saturday had started as another spectacular day. Taking her cue from the cloudless sky, she had decided to get her provisions from Taggart’s mart. It was supposed to be a quick walk around the corner and down Shankill Road. The RUC officer at the peace line checkpoint nodded absently at her when she passed through. Even passing the huge murals proclaiming, “You are entering Loyalist Sandy Row, Heartland of East Belfast Ulster Freedom Fighters,” and others with images of fully armed and hooded figures—machine guns pointing in all directions—did not faze her. Each time she ventured outside her flat, she passed street paintings covering the sides of buildings and walls with pro-Union and pro-British sentiments. Normally that stretch of Shankill Road would cause her to quicken her step. But the day was a sunny day, and Aoife thought she’d make the most of it.

  Taggarts Market always had a TV blaring as Junior never wanted to miss his soaps. The name “Junior” was the only youthful thing about the wizened shopkeeper, but far be it for Aoife to break the news to him that upgrading his name to “Mister” might be more in keeping with his baldhead and missing teeth. She first heard of the bombing as she paid her tab. The news bulletins interrupted his program, and images of the smoke and terrified people filled the screen.

  Junior gazed up at the screen and then returned his attention to Aoife, who was looking at the money he had placed in his till. A cold shiver ran up Aoife’s spine, wondering if she would be denied the food that she had already paid for.

  “You picked a fine day to come around here. Now be gone,” said Junior with a toss of his head toward the door.

  She nodded at Junior and put on her best face. “You’ve the best bread around. Well worth the walk.”

  He grunted. “Not worth dying for.”

  Aoife hurried out the door, clutching her groceries to her chest. Being in a shop run by Protestants was fool hardy. She had no intention of staying longer and risking Junior changing his mind. Taggarts had been the recipient of more than one bottle of petrol lit with a rag stuffed in its neck, and today’s news could mean more such gifts.

  Aoife was barely on the street before she heard the first beats of the crowd. Her heart stilled for a moment as she listened with dread. The sound was far off at first, not much more than a rush of wind or waves crashing upon the shore. Each passing moment it grew louder. She looked down at the opening of the alley to the main thoroughfare and saw people rushing out into the street. Shankill Road was coming alive with people. Och, Aoife knew all too well what that would mean. The crowd consisted mostly of men, young and old, with shirtsleeves rolled up, and bats and bottles in their hands. Many women joined them, carrying what weapons they could find in their kitchens and making as much noise as they could by beating pots and pans. They all wore resolute expressions that told they walked up the street with full knowledge of what they’d be facing.

  The shortest route back to her flat would be the way she came. No way could she return through the peace line before they closed the gates; they would have done that at the first suspicion of trouble. She had to go down Shankill to Northumberland Street and up Divis before she could cut back over to Cupar Way. Hopefully, she would avoid anything else that might stand in her way.

  At first it seemed that her strategy worked. She moved eastward on side streets as the crowd moved west along main thoroughfares. Eventually the side streets filled, and she fought against the increasing tide of people with her head down, not
looking to either side, afraid that any eye contact—even with a friend—would spark trouble. The tension gave her feet an additional burst of speed when she realized she carried a bag emblazoned with “Taggarts” on it. She was a Catholic who had the nerve to shop at a loyalist shop in a loyalist part of town. The trouble she was in she had asked for. The Catholics would view her as suspect for supporting the economics of the other side, and the Protestants would be affronted at her brazen crossing of the line.

  A few blocks into her trek, she stopped to rest on a bench, taking her items out of the bag and turning it inside out, hiding the logo and a potential reason to harm her. Announcements through loudhailers urged people to remain calm and get off the streets. Aoife took her shoes off and rubbed her sore feet, cursing herself for wearing a skirt and low heels instead of pants and more sensible shoes. Then again, she thought she was only going out for a bit, not a hike. Her bench was in a grassy area under a large tree. She rested in the shadow of several murals. One commemorated the Belfast Dockers and Carters strike of 1907 was painted to look like a series of black and white Polaroid pictures with the slogan, “Not as Catholics or Protestants. Not as Nationalists or Unionists, but as Belfast Workers Standing Together.” Aoife thought it was pitiful that the grandsons shown standing shoulder to shoulder in the mural were about to pelt one another with rubber bullets and rocks. She wanted them to settle their differences so she could get Bits and Mittens their kibble.

  A low rumble worked its way through the bench into her gut and grew louder with each passing minute. Armored tanks and personnel carriers loaded with machine-carrying soldiers passed only a few blocks away, going up Shankill road to where she had just been.

  Others might not have taken time to rest in the middle of a public square, but she knew the chess game of offensive and defensive moves. Her decision to stay put for a few hours kept her from straying into harm’s way. Riots were common and most often kept to the main streets, not side alleys like she was in. Besides, she was confident in her ability to protect herself, especially if engaged in a one-on-one tussle. She rubbed her feet and listened to the building riot with passing concern, hoping it would blow itself out before it grew too big. Today seemed different. The energy released felt greater than other riots and the frenzy seemed to grow with each passing hour instead of slowing burning itself out. By the time she decided to move again, the sounds of gunshots, people screaming, and the roar of flames were all around her.

  It wouldn’t have mattered which way she turned when she left the relative safety of her park bench. Belfast exploded with the rage and frustration that had built up over months of stalled peace talks. Years of denied civil rights and generations of prejudice boiled over. This wasn’t the first time her city ignited with anger, and certainly wouldn’t be the last, but this time Aoife was caught in the middle. She had miscalculated and tamped down a growing desperation to find a way out.

  A tide of people rushed toward her, away from the deep rumble of the tanks. A few people stopped and picked up whatever loose debris they found then kept running. Within seconds, Aoife heard the sharp “wssss” of the rubber bullets overhead, but she remained seated, assessing the best route to take, still hedging that the commotion would bypass her square. The “wssss” increased in number and closeness, and people began to shout, “It’s live bullets!” and, “Bloody Hell! They’s real ‘munitions!” A few men dragged limp and bloodied bodies along with them as if to prove their point. The RUC turned the corner with their tanks and carriers. Soldiers, fully protected with helmets, visors, and bulletproof vests, carried rifles, belts of ammunition, grenades, and tear gas launchers. Aoife was left with her inside-out Taggarts bag, bread, and milk.

  Cursing herself for being so unprepared, Aoife ran—first with the crowd and then away from it—on any street she thought would carry her to safety. She wanted to run to the sanctuary of the cathedral, but she was on the other side of town, and streets were impassible. Hours passed as she moved with the same pattern; she listened to the gunshots and screams, caught her breath, then ran in the opposite direction. She zigzagged around the alleys of West Belfast, hoping against hope a bullet wouldn’t claim her. Gasping for a breath of air not tainted with the acrid smell of CS gas, she stopped in the nook of a doorway and pressed her back against a metal door, concealing herself in its shadow.

  She nearly lost her balance when the door flew open, and nearly fainted when she saw the long barrel of a gun pointed directly at her nose. She instinctively assessed the angle of the barrel and the fear in the soldier’s eyes, determining the best avenue for her defense. She must have not looked like much of a threat, for the men inside gave her a shove and told her to be on her way. When an opportunity presented to save herself, she knew enough to take it and run. She was halfway down the street before her brain began to use some power reclaimed from her fleeing feet. Could she possibly have seen what she did? Stopping midstride, she turned and looked back at the way she had come.

  Men poured out of their mustering place and into the street. They wore the cotton shirts, jeans, and trousers of poor men from the slums, but over that they strapped thick vests, munitions belts, and more of the same type of gear Aoife had seen the RUC wear. They had helmets, not exactly the same as the RUC’s, but with clear glass-like shields over their faces, all unscratched and very new. A few men worked together carrying a long pipe, about five inches in diameter and eight feet long. Others carried a drab green box filled with oversized bullets more than half the length of a man’s forearm, all strapped together on a long belt. The other end of the alley was suddenly blocked off, not by an RUC tank as Aoife feared, but by a short caravan of mismatched trucks and cars, each filled with shining equipment and fearless men.

  Aoife knew enough to get out of their way. She backed up between two large trash bins, flattening herself against the brick wall. The small brigade organized and pulled out into the main street. Within seconds, hideous sounds of explosions and gunfire ricocheted off the buildings.

  By the time Aoife stopped running and turned onto her street, only the throbbing of her feet seemed real. Orange flames licked the sky and the flashing lights of the fire trucks and Guarda lined her street. What she pieced together from the fragments of conversation that swirled around her was that the RUC had blown a hole in the peace line using military grade ordinance last used against the Germans in defense of London. They intended to hit an alleged IRA safe house on the first shot, but hit Mrs. Reynolds’ flat instead. The RUC kept trying until they got it right, shattering the peace line, and sending its pieces everywhere.

  A thick mantle of shock weighed on Aoife. She sunk down on a stoop that only the day before she had sat to sun herself. The tins of cat food for Bits and Mittens promised to Mrs. Reynolds clanked together as she plunked down her bag of groceries. The milk had warmed and soured, and the bread was flattened and squashed to hardly more than bird food. Her eyes burned from smoke and the CS gas that seemed to fill every inch of the city.

  Men yelled and pulled hoses around. Women stood in groups of twos or threes, clucking with fear and concern, thankful the destruction skipped their homes. They wondered aloud what the flat occupants had done to earn a bomb dropped through their roofs. Aoife stared blankly at the fire, feeling its heat on her face, and not aware when someone sat beside her. She only came out of her fog when an arm wrapped around her shoulder. Mrs. Reynolds, with soot on her face and a cat under her arm, hugged her. Both women sat silently as the heat from their homes evaporated tears before they could roll down their cheeks.

  Wordlessly, Aoife put her head on the older woman’s shoulders and kicked a shredded piece of metal. Thinking it may be worth salvaging, she used her thumb to brush the black ash off raised characters exposing the logo for “2100 Ltd.” She shrugged and threw it on the rubbish heap.

  LIVERPOOL, ENGLAND

  MICHAEL RECLINED IN bed with Jessica cradled in the crook of his arm, her head on his shoulder. She was in the deep sleep of th
e exhausted. He absently twirled a strand of her hair around his fingers and stared at the ceiling. He found it impossible to sleep as the myriad of scenarios shifted shapes and possibilities. Everything pointed to a well-planned and well-coordinated attack.

  The IRA didn’t need his father’s money to pull off a bombing, but the fact that this was more brazen than any attack before worried him. He calmed himself with the breathing trick he learned at the police academy to center himself before firing a weapon and to fight his instinctive revulsion at pulling the trigger. He drew in a deep breath for five counts and exhaled for ten. Eyes closed, he repeated this until his thoughts narrowed to only what he wanted to focus on.

  Columns of numbers and companies faded to the names and faces of countless people his uncle introduced him to over the past weeks. Liam had astutely sat Michael beside the most influential people, listening as he navigated the waters of his father. Michael turned each conversation over in his head, trying to remember any ill-turned phrase or sheen of sweat that would have hinted activities connected to the bombing. Even with his uncle’s whispered details, he gained marginal insight into the rifts inside the larger world of the Charity and even less on who was behind the Arndale bombing.

  The only tangible truth he gained was if he had been in full control of the Charity, no bombing would have occurred.

  The light on his cell phone blinked. He grabbed it and looked at the number of calls he missed. Too many. Each would contain questions he had no answers for. He scanned the incoming calls and saw that none were from Liam. He grumbled in disgust. His uncle no doubt preferred to spend the evening entertained by some trollop, rather than be bothered with current events. The clear message Liam sent was that his interests lay outside of the Charity and that this was Michael’s concern to deal with.

  The clock glowed 3:15 a.m. Sixteen hours. Sixteen stinking hours ago. He cursed himself for his stupidity and inability to stop the inevitable. The IRA was active again. What could he have done with more time? Running all scenarios through his head made him sick. Nothing felt like a coincidence. Instead, he felt played. The maddening part was that he didn’t know the rules of the game or who the players were. He only knew the clues when they slapped him in the face, and the vest was one of those pieces.