by David Hough
Neither, she thought, could he ever kill her.
She finished her coffee and pushed the mug away. Damn the man! The connection between them was the reason she had taken the credit for something she didn’t do, the reason she had shown herself willing to protect someone close to him. When word got back to him… when he learned what she had done within the past hour he would have to look favourably on her. He just had to. She felt sure he would allow her to leave Ireland with Martin and neither of them would ever come to harm at his hand.
Because of what she claimed to have done.
She looked around the restaurant at a sea of faces and brought her thoughts back to the coming action. There was not a sign of trouble here in the restaurant: no antagonism or discontent. Not yet. She shook her head in despair. They would soon learn.
Just look at them!
Middle-aged, grey-haired men and women, glad of a moment away from the horrors of their sectarian ghettos. Young men wearing flared trousers and long hair in the belief it made them look cool. Young girls in mini-skirts and high heels, showing their thighs almost up to their panties.
They were sitting close to one another in the same room, and yet they had no idea who they shared this place with. There were Catholics and Protestants in here, eating together, enjoying a meal in close proximity with one another and it meant nothing to them. And yet, outside of here, they would keep to their own streets, they would send their children to their segregated schools and they would never dream of attending the same church. In here, no one gave a shit who was sitting near them. Why couldn’t it be like this everywhere in Belfast?
She slid a hand into her coat pocket and her fingers curled around the list. That list! She drew it out and stared at it. It was written evidence of what was going to happen. She could take this to the police now and they would be prepared. Knowing exactly where the bombs would be placed, they could be ready to stop the whole damned thing. Lives would be saved. Yes, she could do this now. The evidence was here in her hands. She could act to stop this madness.
Except that she couldn’t.
Her treachery would get back to the IRA and they would come looking for her. She would be killed. Brutally tortured and killed. Her mutilated body would be buried on some remote Irish moorland. No, she could not do it. She slid the list back into her pocket and felt a shiver run through her. She had the means to stop the inevitable deaths, but she could not do it.
She closed her eyes and asked herself the question, was she wrong to think only of her own life when others were sure to die? Could she really just walk away and pretend it was nothing to do with her?
When she opened her eyes again, she was jolted back into reality. She instantly recognised two men sitting barely ten feet away from her. They were staring at her, and there was the answer to her question. The curse of the Troubles was very much alive in here and she could not walk away because she was a part of it. She had seen pictures of these two in the newspapers and on the television local news. “Bad Boy” Georgie Blair and “Mad Mac” Calum McKinnon. There could be few people in Northern Ireland who didn’t know who they were: well-known members of the Protestant Ulster Volunteer Force. They were mindless butchers, the sort who actually enjoyed killing Catholics, and they were here, staring at her with evil intent.
She tried to act as if they meant nothing to her, until Mad Mac approached her with a glaring expression of pure hatred. He stood beside her, leaned forward and placed his two thick hands knuckle-down on the table in front of her.
“We’ve been followin’ ya. We know who ya’re, Sorcha Mulveny. We knows what ya did to poor wee Hammy McGovern. And we’re gonna get ya fer it.”
“Piss off,” she hissed back. She felt far from the self-confidence she pretended.
“Don’t act clever with me, girl. We knows! And yer gonna pay the price.”
Sorcha nodded towards an armed policeman buying coffee at the counter. “Why don’t youse go and tell him what youse plan to do?”
Mad Mac ignored the policeman. He leaned closer to Sorcha and hissed between clenched teeth. “Ya’d better watch yer back from here on, Mulveny. Don’t go down any dark alleys on yer own ’cos we’ll be lookin’ for the chance to cut ya to bits. Ya’re gonna be dead meat before this day’s out.”
She growled back at him. “Lay one finger on me and I have friends who’ll leave you screamin’ in pain.”
“Pain? Ya mean the Pain Men. Them pillocks! Don’t make me laugh. Ya’ve been warned, Mulveny. We knows where ya lives and we’re gonna come fer ya and the rest o’ the Mulveny family. None o’ ya bastards are gonna be safe now.”
He jerked himself upright at that point, while a figure in dark green uniform came up to the table.
“Any trouble here, Miss?” the policeman asked. Then he paused and said, “Don’t I know you? Yes, of course I do. It’s Sorcha Mulveny.”
Sorcha gasped as she recognised him. Mickey Murphy; a sturdily-built policeman with wide, honest eyes and a constant grin. He’d grown up in Ladysmith Road. They’d played together as kids. More than that, they’d been close to one another. Very close. What on earth was he doing in the uniform of a Belfast peeler?
He must have recognised the UVF man as well, but that was no surprise. Every policeman in Belfast had Mad Mac’s image constantly in mind.
“There’s no trouble here, Officer,” Mad Mac backed away. It didn’t do for a Loyalist to make a fuss in front of an armed peeler in a public place, and McKinnon must have known it. His violence was reserved for riot lines and dark corners on dark nights.
“On your way, McKinnon,” Murphy said. It was an instruction, not a question.
“Just leaving, Officer.”
Sorcha smiled icily at Mad Mac as he backed away, and she told herself to keep a careful watch behind her today. Her life would depend upon it. Dear God, was this the sort of existence she was fated to accept if she stayed here in Ireland, always looking over her shoulder, always expecting the worst?
“No friend of yours, I take it.” It was a rhetorical question. Mickey Murphy took an empty seat at her table and set down his coffee mug.
“They threaten any Catholics they come across. You know that, Mickey. How come you’re a peeler now?”
“’Tis a job, so ’tis. And it pays well. But what about you? I ain’t seen you in two or three years. Or is it longer? What are you up to now?”
“Not a lot, Mickey.” She suddenly felt uncomfortable. Not just because she was talking to a peeler, but because this particular one knew so much about her. Dammit, he’d bedded her when they were teenage kids with nothing better to do. Bedded her and spent the rest of the month praying for her next period to come on.
It didn’t.
When it was all over, they never spoke about it again. What was not said then, remained unsaid.
Did he remember that? Of course he did.
“Not married, I see.” He nodded to her left hand, devoid of rings.
“No.”
It was an unkind observation in the circumstances, and it left her feeling uneasy. She hurriedly finished the last of her coffee and made to leave. Better to go now than risk him raking up the past at this late date. Then she remembered the list, still in her pocket. This was her opportunity to show it to a policeman. Her opportunity to help stop the bombings. But she couldn’t do it. She couldn’t risk the torture and killing. It was bad enough to be threatened with death by those Loyalists, but what the IRA would do to her would be worse. The torture would be too much for her to even think about.
She forced a small smile to her face. “Look, ’tis nice to see youse again, Mickey, but I have to go. People I gotta see.”
“So soon?”
“Sorry.” She stood up. “Like I said, there’s people I promised to meet.”
“We must get together again, Sorcha. I always did have a soft spot for you.”
It was more than a soft spot, Mickey! God forgive you!
“We’ll do that,” she said
, but she knew they wouldn’t. How could she possibly meet up with him again, even if he wasn’t one of the hated peelers? How could she meet up with him and live easily amongst the residents of Mafeking Street? They all knew what happened. Pretended they didn’t, but they did.
So she walked away.
Her fear now was for the Loyalist thugs who had somehow discovered her part in the emasculation and killing of Hamish McGovern. They would be waiting for her to leave the store, those two. Waiting for a chance to kill her. Well, they wouldn’t get her today. Not today. She had a better idea in mind as she made her way out of the restaurant. A simple idea that could save her from a brutal death.
At the restaurant entrance, she turned and gave a final wave to Mickey Murphy. He looked back at her with puzzlement spread across his face.
The UVF men had left first, smiling at her as they walked away. They were, she decided, too confident of their ability to find her in some quiet spot where they could murder her. Well, she could outwit them on that score, just see if she could. A change of clothes would do the trick.
The shop was busy, so she mingled with the crowd while making her way to the ladies wear department. She had no more money with her, but in such a multitude it wasn’t difficult to get away without paying. She knew the tricks, had done it before without being caught. Shoplifting was an accepted practice for the residents of Mafeking Street and Sorcha had learned the tactics well.
Taking her time so as not to draw attention to herself, she selected a long, green dress and took it to the fitting room. One other girl was there, admiring herself in the mirror. Her painted face tried to say she was about Sorcha’s age, but her body was years past its best. She was stripped down to just her underwear and holding a brand-new dress in front of herself. Her outer clothes were draped over a chair: well-worn jeans that were torn along the seams, and a dirty blouse that would have looked at home in a dustbin. Her legs were painfully thin and her breasts looked shrivelled within her bra. You don’t look like you can afford that dress, Sorcha thought, but she said nothing. If the girl aimed to steal the dress, who was she to criticise? Besides, what was wrong with pretending you can look like a film star, even when you’re as poor as a church mouse?
She turned away from the girl and stripped off her outer clothes and her underwear, everything except her shoes. Who the hell was going to see her naked except the other girl? Nevertheless, she was hurried in the way she tried on the new dress. It was perfect – clinging to her figure like a second skin, emphasising her slim waist. And not a pantie-line in sight. More importantly, it made her look so different to the Sorcha Mulveny who had come in wearing the denim skirt and white tee shirt. She ran her hands down her front, noticing how her breasts looked more rounded without the bra. Could she feel confident enough to walk around in public without it? This was, after all, an age when girls everywhere were discarding or burning their bras. It seemed to cause the other girl in the fitting room no problem.
What the hell? She would do it.
She hung up her discarded clothes and walked confidently towards the door. It was warm enough to be walking around in so little, and it felt strangely exciting to be wearing nothing but the dress and her shoes. Something she had never before done in public. She glanced back and saw that the other girl was now watching her intently, almost mesmerised.
“You’ve forgotten your old clothes,” the girl called to her. Her mousey hair fell forward, partly obscuring her eyes.
“Don’t need them,” Sorcha said.
“You’re not going to leave them behind, are you?”
“Why not?”
The girl reached out for the skirt and ran a hand across the denim. She sounded surprised. “You mean you really don’t want these?”
“No.”
“Can I have them?”
“Help yourself.”
Giving them away wasn’t what she had intended, but it might help her plan. Yes, it would help her in a way the other girl would never understand. And it would enable the poor girl to leave the store without being tainted as a thief.
Sorcha took a step away, and then she stopped abruptly when an idea came to her. She turned and faced the other girl. “Youse can have me clothes if youse’ll rumble fer me.”
“You gonna steal that dress?”
“Aye.”
“Okay, give me a moment.” The girl put on Sorcha’s clothes and smoothed them down over her thin figure. “I’m ready now. Give me a minute.” She grinned as she walked out of the room.
Sorcha waited until she heard raised angry voices out in the store. She peeped around the fitting room door. The girl was arguing with a security guard and a floorwalker was hurrying towards the altercation. Shoppers stopped to watch the fracas. No one was looking in Sorcha’s direction. It was a classic act of deception. Smoke and mirrors.
Sorcha smiled to herself as she left the fitting room and strolled out into the mass of women milling around on the shop floor. Theft wasn’t so difficult when you knew what to do, and the other girl clearly knew the routine was well as her. Dressed in Sorcha’s clothes she was putting up a rare old act of aggression. And wouldn’t it be amusing if, as Sorcha now expected, the two UVF men followed the wrong girl out of the shop? She imagined the looks on their faces when they discovered their mistake. She was almost inclined to laugh.
***
December 1980
“Did you steal other things in those days?” I asked.
She sniffed. “We all did. Youse lived here once. Youse know that stealin’ and cheatin’ is a way of life in the ghettos.”
I knew it so I changed the subject. “Do you want to tell me more about the pregnancy?” I asked.
“No. Not now.” Sorcha stood up suddenly, clearly agitated. I didn’t understand why, she had raised the matter of her own accord.
“It could be important, Sorcha.”
“Another time. I’ll tell you another time. Not now.” She turned away and gestured to the warder. “I want go now.”
I watched silently as the warder escorted Sorcha from the interview room. I was left with only the prison visitor. We sat and looked at one another.
“How much of this story do you know?” I asked her.
“Less than you, I imagine.”
“What do you make of that admission of a pregnancy?”
“I’ve seen the same pain in other Irish girls. It hurts more than you might realise.” She stood up and gathered together her handbag and coat. “In Sorcha’s case, it hurts more than I had realised until now.”
“She’s not a bad girl,” I said. “I suspect she’s not a killer.”
“Because?”
“Intuition.”
On the face of it we had covered so little ground but, in reality, we had moved forward in Sorcha’s search for a way out of her predicament. More importantly, I was now getting a much firmer picture of her early life in Belfast. The revelation of an unwanted pregnancy continued to puzzle me as we walked back down the pee-smelling corridor, but an earlier hint had served to mask any sense of shock. Besides, it wasn’t by any means a rare problem in Catholic Ireland. The effect that pregnancy had upon Sorcha was something I was determined to learn later.
And then there was Susan Miller. She reminded me so much of Annie, and that affected me in a way that felt both uncomfortable and, at the same time, exciting. It was a contradiction I could not explain. Not then.
As we were leaving the prison, I asked her to join me for lunch at a restaurant in Armagh city. My heart leapt when she accepted and I should have been wary of that. I had long ago decided there would be no other special woman in my life.
“Sorcha told me your wife died,” she said after we had ordered our food. “I know it may be a painful subject for you, but I thought you ought to know what I’ve been told.”
“We were married for sixteen years,” I said, wondering why I had told her that. I quickly added, “We married young.”
“It was cancer, so Sorcha s
aid.”
“Breast cancer.”
“You miss her a lot?”
“You’ll never know how much.”
She put a hand over mine. “I’m sorry, but I felt I ought to raise the subject before we talk about other things. So we both know where we stand. Now let’s talk about this book you’re writing. What prompted you to write about Bloody Friday? Why not Bloody Sunday?”
I thought for a few moments. “I suppose it was because Bloody Friday more closely epitomizes all that’s wrong with Northern Ireland. Bloody Sunday was a mistake. A damn stupid and irresponsible mistake, and there are people who should be held to account for it. But Bloody Friday was a different matter altogether. It wasn’t a mistake. It was a deliberate attempt to intimidate and kill innocent people, and that murderous hatred is right at the heart of all that’s happened here. I remember seeing the images of Bloody Friday on the television news that evening. Bits of human body being shovelled into plastic bags. Did you see it, Susan, on your television? Did you see the bodies being bundled into bags?”
“Yes.” She stared at me with something approaching alarm, as if she suddenly realized she had stirred up something dangerous by her question. How does an Irish woman feel about stirring up the emotions of an Englishman? It occurred to me that she had been assessing me on the basis of my past rather than my nationality. That was not the norm in Northern Ireland.
“It sickened me.” I was aware my voice was growing louder as I spoke, but I couldn’t help it. “These were innocent people going about their lawful business, killed because of the deep hatred that pervades this place. I can’t wipe those images from my mind. I need to write about them.”
She studied me thoughtfully. “You sound like a man with a conscience. But the killing wasn’t any of your doing.”
“Of course it wasn’t my doing. I was in the Belfast Telegraph news office that day, taking reports of the bombs as they came in. But I went out into the streets in the aftermath, when the bombing had ended, and I spoke to people who went through the horror of it. I saw the effect it had on them. I saw their pain while it was still raw inside their heads, and I wasn’t able to do anything to help them.”
