The Troubles (The Jessica Trilogy Book 2)

by Connie Johnson Hambley

  Current photos and interviews with people who may have seen them together would bring the readers to a fever pitch. So, the game continues. Oh, woe of woes! It’s true! Poor Jessica is entangled with the most evil of families. Michael Conant is indeed Michael Connaught. The dapper and duplicitous gent charmed his way into our lost girl’s heart and brought her closer to the evil world she was trying so desperately to escape. Where is she now? Does she realize the kind of danger she’s in?

  Friday’s issue would be when the real fun begins.

  Connaught and Wyeth Connected to Arndale Bombing

  Voila! Dally planned to dump the details on the betting slip and cargo arrival in Manchester. Wyeth’s horse was sure to be a loser but it won. Nobody is really going to care about that, but her name—well, at least what looked like her name—was on a betting slip in the truck. Dally’s efforts to trace the money trail on the truck’s purchase went nowhere. Even her investigator buddies couldn’t trace as much as a rat’s fart saying the trail was too convoluted. Dally wasn’t going to let a difficult, pesky fact get in her way of a good story.

  She intended to plaster the pictures from the airport and use the “It’s common knowledge that...” trick to insinuate that Conant or Connaught or whatever his name was perfecting his family’s tricks and was the money behind the new truck. Dally could weave a good yarn that Jessica was tricked into smuggling bombing materials into England. The fact that her flight originated from the Republic side of Ireland was that much sweeter. But the holes in Dally’s story were gaping. Don would need more to stand on if he was going to walk the plank with her.

  If all goes as planned, she’d be able to whip up a feeding frenzy for any shred of information in time for the massive uptick in newsstand purchases usually enjoyed on weekends. Any newspaper reporter worth her salt—or any tabloid hack wishing for more—knows having her story be on the cover, visible as the papers sat folded and ready in the newsstand, was a status symbol.

  The lofty space, referred to as “above the fold,” was the space she hungered for. Decreasing in importance were the stories on the right hand pages of the paper. Pages three, five, and seven—in descending order—were the pages readers scanned before they viewed the even-numbered ones. Stories on the front page but below the fold guided readers deeper into the paper.

  Dally’s sole goal was to be Page One. Above the Fold. Continued on Page Three. With pictures. Friday was the final testing ground to see which stories had ripened during the week. Friday was when she would get her on-air debut, with her words being in her own mouth and not Millie’s. But for that to happen, she needed a live source, someone who could give her tale some credence and serve as the catalyst for certain assumptions.

  That American reporter said the quality of her sources helped her climb the ladder, but Dally didn’t want to be hampered. Once, she had the best inside source a girl could have inside her knickers, and he bailed on her. Next time, she’d make sure her source would have more of a reason to stick with her and the story. No more magpies for her! She gave a whispered “whoop!” when she envisioned her series would be more than simply ripe—it would be rotted to the core and stinkin’ to high heaven.

  Writing for a paper dubbed “United Kingdom’s Source for News” did not dampen Dally’s enthusiasm for writing for her British audience and only her British audience. Those feckin’ micks across Irish Sea and the North Channel were not worth a moment’s breath, and she certainly wasn’t going to tailor her news to their interests. This story was her stepping-stone to be a news presenter and Irish sympathizers or perky-titted Millie Bartholomew would no longer stop her. Dally’s writing was top notch, now her research skills and connections would be on keen display. Not even the Bishop’s celebration of a priest’s retirement in Belfast would be enough to jar her precious baby off the front pages.

  SEPTEMBER 1966

  DERRY, NORTHERN IRELAND

  GUS ADAMS THREW his pack on the cot, kicking up a small cloud of dust. He should have been tired from his travels, but he quickly bathed and changed and was back outside walking down the dirt road. He didn’t bother to hide the spring in his step. A wooden sign with peeling paint pointed his way toward Londonderry, or Derry as the locals preferred.

  Strand Road followed the banks of the River Foyle, and he listened to its waters burble over rocks and logs. The river was full with recent rains and its water brown with turmoil. The road, too, was punky with wet, and he kept to the sides as much as he could, avoiding slick patches and puddles with agile jumps and leaps. He inhaled deeply and let warmth and calmness come over him. The air in the States was sharper, drier. He didn’t like it.

  Hamilton air smelled like pine trees and Boston air stank, just as the waters in its cherished Charles River did. The air he sucked in hungrily smelled like moist moss. The river was the color of mud, but he hardly cared. He was home and he loved it.

  Hope had been a stranger to him, but not anymore. His trips to Boston were becoming more frequent. He was staying stateside longer with each visit. He knew his work mattered. He had a chance and a calling to make a real difference and wasn’t going to blow it. He quickened his steps knowing he was soon to see Bridget.

  When they left the cottage in April, each had promised not to contact or see the others until after the protest marches had begun. The knowledge that they were at their most vulnerable made him wince. Those who knew the complete plans and who was involved with organizing the insurrection were the most valuable before events happened.

  Once the parades started, the RUC would have too many targets to run after to be bothered with the likes of them. But until the rebellion spread, the leaders were the easy marks. Any leak hinting at their disloyalty to the Kingdom would guarantee their arrest. They’d be thrown into Long Kesh prison, or worse—Maghaberry.

  As happy as he was to see Bridget, he knew doing so put her at risk. She had sacrificed too much, cared too deeply, and come too far to be stopped now. But he had news from Margaret that could help their cause, and he knew Bridget would want to hear her news.

  Messages were painstaking passed weeks ago according to a strict discipline. A series of communications and events was set up as a code. A classified advert in a local paper for nanny help with twin boys set off one series of events. A lace hanky on a light pole on a certain street on the first Monday of the month set off another. To mobilize large numbers, the Sagart would preach particular sermons and gospel readings to tell of something afoot. If anyone had found a single direct communication, that one message would not disclose the date and the meeting place together. One meeting required three or more coded communications for confirmation. He felt safe enough, but knew he would have taken any risk to see her.

  Black horse grit was still embedded under his nails and in knuckles that his hasty bath did not dislodge. He scrambled down the banks and vigorously rubbed his hands together, employing a broken stick for extra help, smiling as his mother’s voice rang in his ears, ‘You could grow ‘taters under them nails! Go wash up!’ He yearned to scoop up a palmful to slake his thirst, but the brackish water and promise of a pint stopped him. He splashed his face, giving himself an extra go.

  The fact that he was only minutes away from seeing her was a minor miracle. He was almost late by days. Shipping horses internationally was common for breeding and world-class competitions from racing to Grand Prix jumping. He had a strong preference for air travel, as the hours spent in flight were less stressful on the animals than the weeks aboard a ship. But, he never dithered when an owner decided to float or fly the beasts over the ocean.

  Both methods put horses into close quarters. Each horse had to have a meticulously documented clean bill of health and was subject to standard quarantines. Recent outbreaks of the potentially fatal equine infectious anemia exposed four-legged investments to too much risk. Syndicates and owners needed to prove the animal’s health at the border or entry to the new country would be denied.

  His return passage
to Sligo was complicated by the medical forms he needed to obtain for several horses under his care. He smoothed out the details in record time. He knew his way around paperwork, shipping containers, and customs. He could ship anything into or out of the country. Including humans.

  He was good with money and knew how to keep his mouth shut. The latter trait endeared him to Bridget even more.

  “You’re never one to make a peep, are you?” she had asked.

  His memories swelled with a summer years ago at the lake cottage. Bridget was twenty-four and in the full bloom of beauty that made his heart ache just thinking about her. He remembered how the sun made her freckles stand out against her pale skin and how the thin blue cotton of her dress stuck to her crossed legs from a mixture of humidity and sweat. They sat on a large flat rock surrounded by scrub and trees, overlooking the oddly shaped island. He liked it when they were sitting down. The difference in their heights was less obvious.

  “Not unless I have something to say,” he answered. He remembered her smile and the way she reached over and patted his hand.

  They had already been through so much together. Growing up in the flats in West Belfast without fathers or a pound between them made them lean on one another for support. She was devastated when he moved to the country to help a horse farm there, but they stayed connected, meeting at the cottage whenever they could. He remembered how she fretted when he began his trips to America.

  “I need you to listen for a few minutes. Whether you help me or not, you mustn’t speak a word of this to anyone.”

  How could he do anything but agree?

  He remembered how she took in a big breath as if bracing herself against an unseen force. “There’s nothing for Margaret here. She’s nearing fifteen years old. She’s educated. Hardworking... and Catholic.” She rustled through her pockets and produced a yellowed newspaper clipping. “Here’s a service in the United States that helps girls find work as governesses. I’ve written them and found a family in Boston that is interested in having her there to work.”

  He could feel it, then. Her desperation to have him listen and not question her. “We’ve spoken of this often. It’s not just your sister who could have a different life,” he wanted to say that she could have a different life with him—that he would share his life with her. “Americans would accept you. You needn’t change for them.” He wished he had said more. She had let him take the clipping from her hands. He remembered how their fingers brushed against one another. How she didn’t pull away.

  “I’ve saved enough for her passage. And yours.” She held up a hand to stop his protest. “I need you to escort her there, properly,” she emphasized, “I want no questions about her legitimate sponsorship and to make sure she’s in good hands.” He remembered how one tear began to descend her cheek before she quickly wiped it away as if it had never appeared. Her voice did not quiver as she talked. He was constantly amazed by her strength. Her unwavering conviction.

  “You can’t leave from the Belfast ports. Too many friends there with big eyes and bigger mouths. Dublin’s out of the question, too. Crossing the border to the south is too risky and those damn robbers would charge me triple if they whiffed my concern. I’ve chosen Sligo. The cargo ships have limited passenger berths—and I can pay. You said your farm transports horses to the United States, right?”

  He nodded, knowing she had done her homework.

  “You’re familiar to the Sligo officials, so they’ll take my money and not ask too many questions.”

  He wasn’t sure why he sat silent for as long as he did, but what happened next changed him forever. It was as if all the strength in her body drained and the desires she held in such close check were set free. Her fingers started entwining in his, a simple gesture they shared so often. When she looked at him, he saw an expression in her eyes he had longed to see but had resigned to stop looking for. Disbelief made him pause even longer, and that moment of hesitation was enough.

  Her mouth was on his before he could move. Her lips and tongue played over his, and she brought her body over him, pressing into him. He remembered how she tasted, the salty tears and a sweetness he had never tasted before. He sampled her, cautious that he would move too quickly and rouse her to her senses. The cotton of her dress was smooth under his hands, and he dared to grip her thigh to pull her closer. Instead of pulling away, he felt her open her heart to him.

  He gently settled her onto her back, and made sure his eyes asked the questions he was afraid to voice. “Is this alright? Are you sure? Is this what you truly want?” She answered him by not pulling her eyes away from his as she undid the front of her dress. He slipped her shoulders free and cupped her breasts in his hand, tasting her and kissing in a way he had only dreamed of before. She held his hand and guided it up her thigh and under her dress, letting him touch her and explore her soft folds. He was feeling her, caressing her, frightened that the hold on his own desire was going to break. He pulled back, not wanting to lose control and wanting the moment to last.

  Where he pulled back, she moved forward. Slipping his pants down over his hips, she let him kick his legs free before she explored him with equal passion. Somewhere, he found the courage to ask. He wanted to remember that he was noble enough to have risked ending what was happening between them, but he knew the truth was that they were far beyond stopping, far beyond a point where consequences and future mattered.

  “Are you sure?” he had asked, voice barely a croak.

  She lay underneath him, legs straddled and wide and gripped him, kissing and pulling at him with her mouth. He moved her hand, circling himself around her, knowing they were ready. He slipped inside and she arched her back to meet him, locking her ankles behind. He moved slowly, letting her set the rhythm, kissing her face.

  “I love you,” he whispered into her hair as she shuddered.

  She didn’t open her eyes as she rolled him over. He held back, sensing she needed and wanted more. He remembered looking up at her and seeing her head thrown back, mouth open and eyes squeezed shut, thin tracks of tears running from their corners. She moved on him with an urgency that finally shattered them both.

  He hardened at the memory and shifted himself in his trousers as he walked the mud-rutted path. That was the first time they were together, but after that, they would slip away whenever they could. He felt sealed to her from that moment on, and nothing would ever tarnish his love and loyalty to her. Not long after that, before he took Margaret to Boston, he lay entwined in Bridget’s arms again and promised her his heart forever and that no legal or religious convention was needed for him to be hers. How lucky he was she shared his passions and understood its risks. No other woman would tolerate his long trips or the need for secrecy, but Bridget understood, and he was her champion for it. He couldn’t keep from smiling knowing she was barely a mile away, waiting for him and, he hoped, having the same memories as he was. Could their first time have been almost ten years ago?

  The last time he saw her at the meeting on Lough Neagh, soft lines creased the sides of her eyes and mouth. Gone was any self-doubt she may have had in her younger years and any questioning of who she was. She had chosen her life and forged a new path for herself, knowing in her wake were other young women hungry for a chance of more. He knew they would accomplish more than Bridget ever could have imagined because of the trail she blazed.

  Gus’ heart ached at her bravery. He had wanted to take her then, to make love to her, and consume her in the way he knew she loved to make up for his long absences, but she had adopted the persona of Mrs. Harvey, and there were too many eyes around. He had learned to be patient and cautious to ensure their secret. They had greeted each other as close friends and comrades, and he had moved about her discretely, with hardly a brushed fingertip to give them away. Odd as it seemed, Bridget more freely gave her attentions to other men when they were in such gatherings, deftly deflecting any hint or rumor.

  The road changed from mud to stone to coarse pavement
the closer he got to town. The ancient walled city appeared in front of him and he never ceased to be amazed that a wall so old could still stand in a city so young and stupid. He passed a few closely set brick flats, stacked on top of one another, and turned up Waterloo Street, stopping to gather himself and assess the area. Locals called this area the Bogside. He could feel the distrust and tension in the air. Catholics and the RUC were butting heads. He knew it was only a matter of time before the lid blew.

  The streets were mostly empty this evening. Even though he felt secure, he walked over to a phone booth, took a cigarette from his pocket, and lit it. With one hand shoved in his pocket and the other bringing the butt to his lips for long thoughtful drags, he watched the pub across the street. He used the motion of stubbing out the cigarette in order to see if a piece of red paper shoved into the dial of the phone, a signal that it all was clear. He forced himself to walk slowly to the pub.

  In the moment it took for his eyes to adjust, he knew immediately she wasn’t there. He couldn’t feel her presence. The smell of the place was all wrong. A movement in the back corner saved him from showing his disappointment too clearly. A red felt cap pushed to the end of the table ensured he didn’t question the owner’s identity. As he walked back, his eyes met with the red-rimmed eyes of Anna Marie. She looked from him, over the table, back to the door. Gus’ heart dropped as he began to fear the worst had happened.

  “Gilchrist,” she said, standing and holding both his hands to her chest in greeting.

  He chuffed with warmth at her formality. “Miss Molloy,” he replied. He moved to sit at the table, but Anna Marie guided him to another farther toward the back. Gus didn’t question her discretion. He raised two fingers to the barkeep and waited until the pints of black stout with a creamy froth were set in front of them to begin talking. He used the time to slow his breathing and gather a facade of cool. Regardless, he could not be calm until he knew.