by David Hough
And where were they now? Where were the mammies who routinely taught their children to hate the Prods? And where were the daddies who spent their miserable lives in the pubs and the betting shops, drinking and gambling away their dole money because it was the only way to blot out the ugliness of their existence? Where were they when their children were left to play in these foul streets?
In the next street half, the houses were boarded up, some dilapidated, some simply abandoned because it was no longer safe to live here. It was a common story. In this case it was probably the result of a Loyalist attack, he thought. Bricks and broken paving stones littered the road. Broken glass on the pavement came from shattered windows and alcohol bottles. Two shaven-headed men lounged against a wall. They were drinking from whiskey bottles and seemed unconcerned by the explosions. Their attention turned towards Martin and one of them stepped forward.
“Who are youse? Youse don’t belong here.” He sounded half drunk.
“I’m looking for my girlfriend. I want to be sure she’s safe.”
“Where does she live?”
“Mafeking Street.”
“What’s her name?” The man jutted his stubbly chin at Martin.
“Sorcha Mulveny,” Martin replied with a false air of calm.
“Her?” The man laughed, showing rows of rotten teeth. “I know her. Youse call her your girlfriend? She’s a fuckin’ whore, so she is. Seen more cocks than a chicken farmer.”
Martin clenched his fists. “I want to be sure she’s safe.”
“Safe in another man’s bed, most likely. Jaysus, but she’s been shagged more times than I’ve been pissed.”
The accusation cut deep into Martin’s conscience. Was it true? Had he been bedding a girl with the reputation of being a whore?
He said, “Look, I don’t want any trouble. I’ll carry on looking for her.”
“I told youse, boy! She’s a bleedin’ whore. Ask Mickey Murphy. He’ll tell youse, so he will. Ask him what happened after he shagged her. Ask him why Sorcha Mulveny was sent away from home. Youse just ask Mickey what he did.”
“Who is Mickey Murphy?” Martin asked. His mind began to whirl with shock. Realisation seeped into his thoughts; a cruel, ugly realisation that what the man was telling him might be true.
“Mickey Murphy? Sure an’ these days he’s a peeler, so he is. Bleedin’ traitor.”
“What did he do?” Martin asked, but he knew the answer already.
“Put her up the spout, so he did.”
Martin staggered back a step.
No! Not Sorcha! Surely not.
Before the first man could reply, the second man came up behind him. “You’re not from round here. Where d’youse live?”
Martin struggled to regain control of his emotions. It was time to take a risk. He gritted his teeth and replied firmly. “If you want to know more about me, ask Brian Fitzpain. You know him, do you?”
“Fitzpain?” The second man took a step back. “What’s he to youse?”
“Ask him yourself.” Martin pushed past both men and walked on. He didn’t look back and neither of the two men tried to stop him. He didn’t breathe easily until he was in the next street.
Mafeking Street was busy. A noisy mob was gathered at the junction with Ladysmith Road, building a barricade. Old furniture was dragged from nearby houses and flung onto a growing pile that stretched from one side of the road almost to the other. Just enough room was left for pedestrians and the odd vehicle to pass. Two men in black balaclava helmets stood guard with rifles, checking people in and out of the limited access. Mafeking Street was now a sealed ghetto within an outer ghetto. The residents seemed determined no one would attack this place. Martin eyed the growing barrier with puzzlement. Did someone important within the Nationalist movement live here? Or was it simply a case of local fear getting out of hand? Was paranoia now in control of the area?
Another makeshift barrier was being erected one hundred yards farther along Ladysmith Road, just beyond the junction with Rorke Street. It was another redoubt aimed at holding back any Loyalist gangs who came here with evil intent. But was it also intended to keep at bay any police or army patrols? In these streets the security forces were no longer the accepted guardians of the peace. Martin shook his head sadly. What peace was there to guard here anyway? Was this the sort of life that Sorcha endured? Was this what she meant when she said, ‘we live on opposite sides of the divide’? He hadn’t understood just how wide that divide really was.
He should have.
And he remembered again what the thug had said about Sorcha.
Up the spout.
Dear God, no!
He looked behind him. There was still no barrier in Ladysmith Road at the way he had come in. Not yet. Nor was there any barrier directly into Rorke Street. For the moment, he still had two possible exit routes if he needed to make a quick escape.
He walked on, keeping on the opposite side to the hooded gunmen.
No one made any move to stop him as he by-passed the Mafeking Street barricade and continued along Ladysmith Road. He wasn’t going to chance his luck getting into the sealed street. Maybe he could get access to the Mulveny house via the alleyway behind it. There had to be an alleyway. All of these streets had such putrid passages between the backs of the terraces. He walked along the rubble-strewn pavement, constantly watching in case he drew undue attention to himself. A car was parked a few yards ahead, right across the alleyway entrance. It was a light blue Vauxhall Viva.
Martin crossed the road, hoping there was no one inside the vehicle. Then he stopped to consider his next move. The rear end of the car hung low, a sure sign the boot was heavily laden. With a bomb, maybe? While he studied the vehicle, the front door of the next house opened, and three men came out.
One was Fitzpain. Martin recognized him instantly. He carried an AK47 rifle.
The IRA man walked straight to the car and pulled open the driver’s door. Then he paused and looked towards Martin. The other two men crowded up beside him. One wore a livid scar on his cheek.
It was Fitzpain who spoke to Martin. “I’ve seen youse before, and youse don’t belong round here. Youse was at the hotel this mornin’. Who the hell are youse?”
Martin tried his best to disguise the shiver that ran through him. “I’m looking for my cousin, Sorcha Mulveny.”
“Cousin? I know all Sorcha’s cousins and youse ain’t one o’ them.”
Martin clenched his hands tight. This was getting more dangerous than he had expected. “Do you know where I can find her?”
“If I did I wouldn’t be tellin’ youse. I got this bad feelin’ about youse, boy.” He turned to the man behind him, the brute with the livid scar. “Reckon we should rough him up a bit, Finn? Find out who he really is. Eh?”
“Could be a Prod, Brian.”
Fitzpain faced up to Martin again. “Are you, boy? Are you a filthy black Prod spyin’ on us?”
“There’s been rumours about Sorcha, Brian,” the man called Finn said. “Rumours about her droppin’ her knickers for a Prod. Are youse thinkin’ what I’m thinkin’?”
“If this boy is a Prod and he’s been seein’ Sorcha Mulveny, I reckon they both got somethin’ comin’ to them.”
“She could’ve been passin’ on information to the Prods, Brian. Or the Brits.”
“Youse could be right there, Finn. We all know there’s traitors passin’ on information for money. If ye’re right… Last night I cut off a boy’s dick because of what he did to a poor wee Catholic girl. I got this feelin’ I might do the same to this one. And as for Sorcha, she knows what happens to anyone who grasses on us.”
“You’re wrong,” Martin protested, but he knew he was already onto a loser.
Fitzpain scowled at him. “We eliminate anyone who passes information to our enemies. Is that what Sorcha was doing? Who was the information goin’ to? The Brits or the RUC? Were youse the Proddy contact passin’ it on?”
“No!”
> “Well, I don’t believe youse, and we ain’t takin’ any chances.”
“What about Sorcha, Brian?” Finn, the thug with the scar, glowered at Martin.
“If she’s been grassin’ on us I’ll kill her, so I will.”
Martin trembled at the anger in Fitzpain’s voice. It left no doubt that he would act upon his words. Killing was this man’s game and even Sorcha was not protected from it.
“There’s trouble, Brian.” Finn suddenly grabbed Fitzpain’s arm and pulled him round to see an army Saracen vehicle rounding the corner at the unguarded end of Ladysmith Road. Armed and armoured soldiers strode purposefully alongside it.
“Shite!” Fitzpain dropped to one knee and aimed his AK47 towards the oncoming patrol. He let off a single round before two shots were fired in return. Both scraped the road alongside the car.
Martin dropped to the ground and clasped his hands over his head. It was no more than an instinctive reaction to the danger. He saw the IRA men bundle themselves into the car and drive off. Two more army shots followed them, but the car was out of sight around the corner into Rorke Street in seconds. Martin continued to lie flat on his front, his hands still pressed tight into his skull, hoping no one would mistake him for a terrorist.
“Are you armed?”
He glanced up. A figure in combat uniform stood over him. An army SLR was aimed at his head.
“No.”
“Stand up slowly with your arms outstretched. Don’t make any sudden moves or we will shoot.”
Relief flooded through Martin as he stood up. “I’m glad you came when you did. Those men were about to kill me.”
“Why?”
The soldier was an older man, an officer, Martin noted. He registered the commanding tone of voice officers used towards their troops. If he joined the British army, he would expect to serve under an officer like this one.
Martin kept his hands in clear view. “They’re IRA gunmen and I’m a Protestant. Can you think of a better reason for them to want to kill me?”
“You’re not from round here?”
“No.” He scanned around. The streets were empty apart from himself and the army. The residents and the armed men had retreated into the houses. But how many hidden rifles were even now trained upon them?
“It seems like you’ve been extremely foolish to stray into this territory. I’m going to get one of my men to check you for hidden weapons. Don’t do anything sudden or my finger might slip on the trigger.” The soldier nodded towards his self-loading rifle and then beckoned to his patrol.
Another soldier stepped forward from behind the Saracen, now parked alongside the pavement a few feet away. This was a younger man who walked steadily and cautiously up to Martin, constantly looking from side to side. He handed his rifle to the senior man and began frisking Martin.
“Are you all right, mate?” He spoke casually with a southern counties English accent.
“Sort of. No real harm done.” Martin began to relax. Being frisked was nothing to worry about when you’d been on the verge of losing your life.
“Who were those guys?” the young soldier asked.
It was the same interrogation all over again, but Martin went along with it. In a strange way, he was glad of the conversation. It was reassuring.
“A couple of IRA hoodlums,” he said. “They were about to take me apart, bit by bit. Thanks for scaring them off.”
“Why were they attacking you?”
“Wrong religion. It accounts for more killings round here than you’d imagine.”
The soldier nodded in understanding. “I’ve learned about it since I came here. Sounds like you’re in the wrong part of town, mate.”
“I reckon you’re right.”
“Why are you here?”
“Trying to get away from the bombs. Took a wrong turn.”
“You can put your hands down now.” The frisking was finished.
Martin sighed, lowered his arms and dusted his hands together. The older man stepped forward and returned the young soldier’s rifle. He faced Martin square on, his sharp eyes never losing focus.
“My advice to you is to get out of here right now.”
“Good advice. Thanks again for your help.”
“Watch your back.” The senior soldier gestured to the rest of his patrol and they moved off in unison towards Rorke Street, the Saracen trundling along beside them.
Martin watched until they rounded the same corner as Fitzpain’s car.
What to do now? Common sense told him to do as the army guys suggested: get out of here, and fast. But that would not help him find Sorcha. And he was now more than ever determined to find her before she was killed by Fitzpain. Forget common sense, he was going to do what his heart told him. He’d come this far, and he wasn’t going to give up now. Despite the shock of the accusations those drunken thugs made about Sorcha, he was going to find her, one way or another.
When the army patrol was out of sight, the houses began to disgorge residents and gunmen alike. Work continued on the barricades as if it had never been interrupted.
“What was them army bastards sayin’ to youse?” A young acne-faced man armed with an Armalite approached Martin. He looked nervous, as if he was new to this sort of action.
“Asking me about Brian Fitzpain,” Martin replied. “I told them nothing. Told them I never heard of the man.”
“Youse know Brian?”
“Of course I do. He’s a friend of my cousin, Sorcha Mulveny. You know where Sorcha is, do you?”
“Dunno. At home if she’s any sense.”
“I’ll go and see.”
“You don’t live here, do youse?” The voice carried a note of suspicion.
“Visiting my aunt, Mrs Mulveny. Is this the right street?”
“Down there, number twenty-three. Tell her to stay indoors until them bombs is finished.” Apparently reassured, the young gunman walked on by. He paused a few yards farther along the street, looked back at Martin, and then continued as if his interest in the stranger had waned. He would, Martin thought, make a poor soldier. Not nearly inquisitive enough. At least he had served a useful purpose in showing the local residents that the stranger in their street had been checked out.
Martin cast around to make sure no one else had any interest in him before he turned into the filthy alley at the rear of Mafeking Street. On each side, the old brick walls were studded with wooden gates which gave access to the small back yards at the rear of the houses. Which gate would give him access to number 23?
A group of small children had been playing a few yards away. They looked to be no more than seven or eight years old and were scruffily dressed. Yet more kids who had not been drawn back indoors by their mammies. Their game ceased when they turned to look at him; suspicious looks that were learned early in life by kids around here.
Martin called to them. “Can you tell me where the Mulveny family live?”
A pug-nosed child pointed to a green gate.
“Thank you.” Martin opened the creaky gate and walked into a tiny yard littered with scattered rubbish, a rusty bicycle and a dustbin lying on its side. The lid was missing. He rapped loudly on the back door of the house.
An older woman opened the door, yawned and peered out. Was she older than her time, Martin wondered, or had she been on the booze already today? Behind her was a typical terrace kitchen, tiny and untidy. A rancid smell escaped through the open door.
“What d’youse want?”
“I’m looking for Sorcha Mulveny.”
The woman adopted the same suspicious look as the children in the alley. It seemed to be a uniform mask. “Why? Who the hell are youse?”
“A friend. Is she here?”
“What’s yer name?”
“Martin.”
“Piss off. She ain’t ’ere.” She slammed the door shut.
Martin heard the sound of bolt being rammed home inside. He stood looking at the door for a few moments. Who was that woman? Sorcha�
��s mother? He reeled at the thought of it. Was it worth trying again to speak to the woman? Probably not.
He walked back out into the rear alleyway. If this was the sort of life Sorcha lived, if these were the people she mixed with, it was no wonder she had been caught up amongst unsavoury characters like Fitzpain. He shivered at the thought of what she might have endured here. Then he remembered once more the insinuations about Sorcha’s past, and he shivered.
Up the spout. Pregnant.
Was it true? If it was, what did she do about it?
He shivered again and tried to calm his nerves.
He could take her away from this appalling place. Take her to England, give her a decent life. They could have nothing like this across the water, he was sure. Yes, they had run-down towns like the one in Coronation Street, but nothing like this. His determination to help the girl mounted up within him.
Whatever she had done wrong, he had to help her.
He hurried back into Ladysmith Road. Two men in balaclava helmets stood at the end of Mafeking Street. A teenage girl was chatting to them. Martin walked swiftly away from them, not daring to look back in case he appeared to be suspicious… which he was. He breathed a sigh of relief as he turned into Rorke Street… where two men grabbed him and pushed him up against a house wall. Martin recognised them immediately. Not the army patrol and not Fitzpain. They were now likely to be well out of the area. These two were ‘Mad Mac’ McKinnon and ‘Bad Boy’ Blair. There could hardly be a resident of any part of Belfast who had not seen their faces in the newspapers or on local television news broadcasts. There could be few who did not fear them.
“Ya’s got one chance to get away from here alive.” Mad Mac thrust his face into Martin’s. “Tell us where to find the Mulvenys and ya goes free. Otherwise…”
