The Girl From the Killing Streets

by David Hough

  “Damn you!” she snapped.

  He stared back at her with barely a flinch, as if he was silently forgiving her for her angry words. And it was his calmness that unnerved her.

  She turned and walked away, wondering if the young soldier was still watching her. When she had gone one hundred yards she stopped and looked back. He was still there, standing in the middle of the pavement, eyeing her with a look that suggested sympathy.

  How dare he! How dare he show sympathy for her in her own country, her own city!

  She walked on.

  She put one hand into the pocket of her jeans and clasped that envelope with its telling list. The British would soon discover what Irish people could do when the chips were down. They would be caught up in it when... She stopped dead in the street once again and ran her free hand across her brow. Dear God, what was she thinking? Such thoughts belonged to Brian Fitzpain. Not her! Her heartbeat began to increase as she remembered what was about to happen here in Belfast. This very day. More bombs. More killing.

  She breathed deeply and forced herself to think carefully. Not an easy thing to do. Her anger slowly dissipated because that pip-squeak soldier was right, although she could never admit it to anyone like him. Too many innocent people had suffered and died already, and more were going to suffer and die before this day was ended.

  And she had written evidence of what was to happen.

  She had to get rid of it. She dared not be found with it in her possession. It could lead to her arrest. Last night she had seen Fitzpain holding half a dozen of those white envelopes, each containing a list of the planned bomb locations. He gave her one, told her what to do, and told her to keep her mouth shut until it came time to phone in a few hoax warnings.

  That was when the peeler came upon them.

  Another shiver ran through her. She remembered seeing the shock in the peeler’s eyes as he died. He raped no one, and he went to his God with his dick intact, but she saw him die. She saw the life drain from him just as she saw the life drain from young Hamish McGovern. One Catholic victim and one Protestant. An even score.

  And she had played a part in both murders.

  And then a dark cloud suddenly enveloped her mind and her mental alarm bells began to clang like the bells of hell. It was her Colonel Nicholson moment. Just like it was in the film. She’d seen it several times and that one scene stayed with her. Nicholson standing on the small beach beside the River Kwai. The realisation that the bridge had to be blown. The look of horror on his face as the truth of what he’d done sank in.

  The awful question: What have I done?

  Now it was her turn to ask the same question. Oh God, what have I done? And the truth was almost too much to bear.

  The realisation.

  The bells clanging.

  The guilt.

  What have I done… and what am I now going to do with that list?

  She squeezed her eyes tight shut, but her anguish refused to go away. The list of bomb location. The murders. The argument with Martin.

  What have I done?

  She breathed deeply when she opened her eyes. After a moment of panic, she pulled out the envelope from her coat pocket and opened it. Inside was a single sheet of paper which she slowly removed. Her hands trembled as she scanned down the list.

  Smithfield Bus Station

  Brookvale Hotel

  York Road Railway Station

  Crumlin Road

  Oxford Street Bus Station

  Ulster Bank, Limestone Road

  Botanic Avenue Railway Station

  Queen Elizabeth Bridge

  Ferry terminus, Donegall Quay

  Garmoyle Street

  M2 motorway bridge, Bellevue

  Upper Lisburn Road

  Salisbury Avenue

  Windsor Park

  Donegall Street

  Stewartstown Road

  Shops, Cavehill Road

  Railway line near Lisburn Road

  Grosvenor Road

  Albert Bridge

  Sydenham By-pass

  Ballysillan

  It was all madness, of course, just like the madness in that film. But life in Belfast was just one long story of madness. Many had died, and many more would die today: men, women and children who dreamed of nothing more than an unattainable peaceful life. Some would die instantly, and some would suffer a lingering death, and all would be the sad victims of a senseless war. A war she hated.

  She thrust the list back into her coat pocket.

  Was it within her ability to stop any of it? Yes. She had the list so she could contact the RUC and warn them about the whole damned plan. It might help her conscience and it would surely save lives, but it would also get her killed. Tortured and killed. If only she had the courage to call the Confidential Line. What the hell! She was in too deeply to become an informant. Look at Jimmy Fish; he was an informant and he had to die because of it.

  Oh, God, Martin, what have I done? What am I to do about it?

  Maybe she could warn the victims. Perhaps she could go to these places and warn the innocent bystanders. Tell them to get out of the way. Would that be enough to assuage her guilt? And, by God, she was feeling guilt already. In truth, she didn’t know if it would help anyone, but she would do it anyway. It was the decision of an instant. Nothing that had been deeply considered and carefully planned. Just a sudden idea that wouldn’t let go.

  She couldn’t hope to get to every bomb location, there were too many, but she could do her utmost to try to save the lives of as many innocent people as possible. Where would she begin? Where would most people be gathered? A bus station or a railway station perhaps? Yes, of course. Both were on the list of targets. She scanned the list again. What about the Smithfield bus station as a starter? Yes, she’d go there before the bombing began. The decision, once made, became even more solid in her mind. It might even give her a lever with which to square things between Martin and herself. A small hope, but the only one she had.

  As she walked on her thoughts strayed once more. She recalled the young soldier’s expression. His youthful face seemed to hold back feelings of sadness at what was happening on the streets of Northern Ireland. Isolated snatches of their conversation returned.

  “What are you doing in my country?” she had asked him.

  “Keeping the peace, Miss.”

  “What peace? You think we have peace here?”

  Of course they didn’t have peace. It was a stupid thing to say.

  This is what we are; two savage tribes at each other’s throats.

  How dare anyone talk about peace! And it came to her then that the violence she so abhorred was not the soldier’s perceived violence.

  It was her own.

  On an impulse, she turned and hurried back along the road. She was drawn back unwillingly, pulled along by her own conscience, shackled to a long rope that was being coiled in, step by step. She wished she could shake it off; pretend she had never met the young English soldier who was putting his life on the line because her fellow countrymen could not live in peace. Why should she feel such pangs of conscience after all the dreadful things the English had done to Ireland over so many years? The years… that was her problem, she realised. Most of what the English did to merit such resentment was in the past; long past. What the people of Belfast were doing was the now.

  And she was a part of it.

  They were, she thought, like an old married couple; the English and the Irish nations. Long ago they had been brought together through a badly arranged marriage, a marriage that had gone hopelessly wrong from the start. Neither side had made an effort to keep the peace, which is probably why it came to an acrimonious divorce. Now, the children of the marriage were at each other’s throats, both sides wanting control of the disputed remains of the estate. Sharing it was no longer an option.

  It was an all-or-nothing civil war.

  The young soldier had not moved away. He was still standing in the middle of the pavement, his ri
fle pointed at the ground, his face impassive as if this was something normal.

  She called out to him as she drew near. “Soldier!”

  “Miss?” He turned to face her.

  She stopped beside him. “Tell me something truthfully. Will you do that? Will you speak the truth?”

  He looked puzzled. “What do you want to know, Miss?”

  “Does it frighten you, being here in Belfast?”

  He nodded. “Too right it does. Scares the shits out of me.”

  “What is it that frightens you? The bombs? The shooting? The sight of all this?” She swung her hand across the scene before them.

  He adopted a thoughtful expression for a few seconds. “It’s partly all of that, Miss. But you want to know what really scares the hell out of me?”

  “Tell me.”

  “The people, Miss. The people here scare me. I never know which one of them is going to throw a bomb at me or shoot at me. I see them walking down the street here, looking for all the world like they’re out for a nice day’s shopping, and I know that one day one of them is going to try to kill me.”

  “Do you understand why they would kill you, Soldier?”

  “Yes, Miss. It’s because they hate me. They hate me because I’m English. They hate one another until they’re ready to kill one another. And then they hate me. That’s what scares the hell out of me, Miss. Never known such hatred until I came here.”

  He was right, he would never have come across anything like this, and the truth hit her hard. She wished she had not asked the question because the answer was far too painful.

  ***

  November 1980

  The letter came to an abrupt end. Even after a second and third reading it left me breathless. The writer had captured Sorcha’s feelings and emotions in perfect clarity. The images in my mind refused to fade for some time afterwards. The account was the work of a natural-born writer and that impressed me. I read the letter yet again and then I wondered if I might get to meet this competent letter writer when I next ventured over to Northern Ireland.

  Chapter Ten

  Early December 1980

  I received a phone call from Will Evans one Friday evening. He told me he would be in London the following week, attending a seminar on Irish terrorism.

  “The Met are organising it,” he said. “It’s their show, but they think I might have some useful input.”

  “Reckon they’re right, Will.”

  “Would you like to meet me one evening?” he went on. “I could tell you about a breakthrough we had in our investigations on the day of the Bloody Friday bombs. It was when the name Sorcha Mulveny first cropped up and we began to wonder about her. I thought it might be important to you.”

  “Too right it’ll be important.” I instantly became keen to hear about it. “Would you be free on Monday?”

  “Could be?”

  “Get a tube train out to Wimbledon. I’ll meet you at the station and take you out for a meal at a rather nice pub.”

  “Make it about six o’clock,” he said.

  “You’re on.”

  In the event he arrived a few minutes early. Over the course of the meal he told me how Sorcha came to the attention of himself and McIlroy.

  ***

  Friday 21st July 1972

  1115 BST

  North Castle Street RUC barracks was even busier when Will and McIlroy returned. The front desk was littered with official papers and Billy McRee, the duty sergeant looked tired and harassed, even though the morning was not yet ended.

  McIlroy walked straight past him, but Will stopped to speak. McRee handed him a foolscap sheet of type-written paper.

  “You know he was released,” he said with a disapproving tone. “That IRA man, Fitzpain. He was set free from Castlereagh.”

  “We know,” Will replied. “What have we got here?”

  “First report from the men who picked up Fitzpain at the hotel. Thought you might want to read it… even though he’s got off scot free.” The disdain in his voice was clearly evident.

  McIlroy paused in mid-stride, turned and took a step back. “Is there anything important in it?” He ignored McRee’s inferred criticism.

  “Not that I could detect, sir. Just a statement of what happened when they went in and made the arrest.”

  “Anything about the informant?”

  “No, sir. The uniform branch wouldn’t have known who the informant was.”

  “So there’s nothing new in it?” McIlroy took a dismissive tone. “In that case, my sergeant can deal with it.” He walked on.

  Will scanned through the brief account of the arrest. A single sentence noted that ‘information had been received by telephone,’ but there was no mention of Jimmy Fish being the informant. The following text highlighted the date, time and place of the arrest and noted that Fitzpain had been armed with a knife when the arrest took place. There was mention of two women being present at the hotel, along with a brief description and an address for one. The other was simply listed as the hotel manager residing at the hotel address. Yet more lazy report-writing. Would they never learn to record everything, especially names? The arresting guys must have dismissed the manager as unimportant. According to the report, neither woman was directly involved in what happened. They were just onlookers.

  Will followed McIlroy to their office and filed away the paper in a green cabinet.

  The senior officer removed his pistol holster, but he didn’t bother to sit down. “I’m, going to see Boyle to report on where we’ve got to. Go and get yourself a coffee, Will.”

  “Okay, boss.”

  Will ignored the instruction. When McIlroy was gone from the room, he sat contemplating their next move. Coffee and the admin work could wait. Something about Fitzpain’s arrest niggled in his mind. After a few minutes, he recovered the report and went back to Sergeant McRee at the duty desk. He waved the sheet of paper in front of him.

  “Who took the message from the informant?” he asked.

  The duty sergeant still looked harassed. His desk was still overloaded with documents. “I did.”

  “Not the guys downstairs?” Most informants were run by two CID men who worked in a locked room in the basement, and calls were usually made direct to them. The call that went directly to the front desk was, Will decided, a clue to the identity of the informant.

  “No.”

  “What exactly was the message?”

  The sergeant sighed and stood back from the desk. “It was a man who called. He gave the code word, Phoenix, so I knew it was probably genuine. He asked to speak to either you or DCI McIlroy. I said you were not here. He went a bit hesitant at that point, as if he was about to ring off. I said I’d put him through to the confidential line, but he said no. Then he agreed to speak to me.”

  “No name given, obviously.”

  “Of course not. He said… let me think… he said we should go to the Green Hills Hotel in Oldpark Road and we’d find the murderer of Mr Dunlop. I distinctly remember he called him Mr Dunlop. Not Constable Dunlop.”

  “Anything you can recall about the voice?”

  McRee shrugged. “Uneducated. Ye instead of you. He said ye’ll find the murderer when ye gets there. But that’s not exactly an uncommon mode of speech in Belfast, is it?”

  “Ye’ll find the murderer?” Will could easily imagine Jimmy Fish using those words. “And you said he didn’t give a name?”

  “Well, he wouldn’t, would he? I asked, of course, but he said it was more than his life was worth to give a name. That’s what he said. More than his life’s worth.”

  “And the uniform guys went to the hotel on the basis of that call?”

  “Yes. And they picked up Fitzpain.”

  “And when the informant called the second time? Later, after Fitzpain was arrested. It was the same man, was it?”

  “Near as I could tell, yes.”

  “What exactly did he say that time?”

  “He said, ‘Tell Mr McIl
roy and Mr Evans they’re barking up the wrong tree.’ Those were his very words.”

  “Barking up the wrong tree?”

  “Right.”

  “Nothing more?”

  “Only that he wanted to see you and DCI McIlroy again.”

  “Again? That’s another pretty good clue to his identity. We’ve only seen one informant this morning.”

  “That’s what he said: it had to be you two. Oh, and he said he’d want more money, but I was careful not to report that. Thought Superintendent Boyle might not like the sound of it.” The duty sergeant adopted a thoughtful expression and rummaged through the papers on his desk. “There is one interesting thing though, Will.”

  “Yes?”

  McRee pulled out a sheet of paper and laid it flat in front of Will. “This is a copy of the report on that lad who was found dead with his dick cut off. Look at the place where he was found. The alley behind Mafeking Street. That’s Nationalist territory and we now know that he was a Protestant. So, why was he there? Not exactly his home ground, is it? Now look at the address of the girl who was at the hotel where Fitzpain was picked up. Mafeking Street. Mean anything, do you think?”

  Will looked again at the paper in his hand. It held the information that two women were present at the hotel. One was the hotel manager, but no name was given. Will studied the information on the other woman.

  Name: Sorcha Mulveny. Age: twenty. Address: 23 Mafeking Street.

  That was important. She lived close to where the boy was killed during the night, and she had been seen in the company of Brian Fitzpain at the Green Hills Hotel this morning.

  “There’s something else, Will.” McRee stabbed a finger at the paper on the desk in front of him. “Look at the report on the killing. The poor wee lad had a cross carved on his chest. That’s interesting, don’t you think?”