by David Hough
“I don’t live round here,” Martin gasped. “How the hell should I know where they live?”
“Ya’s a filthy taig.”
“No. I’m a Protestant. A couple of IRA thugs picked me up, but I got away.”
Mad Mac didn’t seem convinced. “Prove it. Prove ya’s not a Catholic.”
Martin thought quickly. “Look in my pocket. The left-hand pocket in my jacket.”
Mad Mac KcKinnon fumbled in the pocket and pulled out a small envelope. He passed it back to his accomplice. “What is it, Georgie?”
Blair read the inscription on the envelope, slowly and deliberately, as if reading was not his strong suit. “’Tis a church collection envelope. The Reverend Ian’s church.”
“Damn!” Mad Mac released his hold on Martin. “Get the hell out of here, boy! And if anyone asks, ya never saw us, right?”
“Right.” Martin hurried away, once again not daring to look back. It was the first time felt glad to have had one of his aunt’s collection envelopes in his pocket.
***
January 1981
“You must have been scared out of your mind, Martin,” I said. “I reckon it was a sign of your courage that you carried on looking for Sorcha.”
He took out a cigarette and lit up. It was the first time I had seen him smoke. His hand was steady, but his eyes turned dull. “I did what I had to do. What will your English readers think? Will they understand what counts as normal over here? They don’t have bombs and riots like we have, do they?”
“They know only what they see on the television news. And that doesn’t tell them everything. For them, I think the riots are the most puzzling part of it. The bombs are planted by violent terrorists, they understand that, but the riots are the work of ordinary people. They don’t understand that.”
“Ordinary people. You think we’re ordinary over here?”
“They don’t understand how people like themselves can get caught up in violence.”
“But we’re not like them, are we?” He drew deeply on his cigarette. “I reckon you understand that. You do, don’t you? Even though you’re English. You know most of the rioters are there because they’re told to be there. It’s as well organised as a bloody play. You understand that, don’t you?”
I nodded. “Reckon I might quote you on that.”
“Thought you might.”
“And I’ll tell you this… on Bloody Friday there were gangs of Republicans cheering every time a bomb went off. Cheering! Bombs exploded, people died, and the mob cheered. Did you know that?”
I did, but I let it pass. “Do you want to tell me more about your search for Sorcha?”
“Another time.” He stood up suddenly. “You’re beginning to tire me, you and your damned book. You don’t scare me, but you tire me. I feel sick at heart every time I have to remember what happened. That’s enough.”
I took it as a blunt order to leave.
Chapter Seventeen
January 1981
I took a taxi to Armagh and met Susan in a small prison waiting room. She was dressed every bit as attractively as she had been the previous evening, and she looked every bit as alluring, but this was no time or place for a romantic conversation. The same beefy warder led us down the same pee and sweat infused corridor to the interview room where Sorcha was waiting for us.
“I’m glad youse both came,” she said, standing to greet us. “Glad youse came together.”
“We met in the waiting room.” I decided not to get side-tracked into any discussion about Susan and me.
She seemed to take the comment at face value, and I was glad of that. She sat down and asked, “What do youse want to talk about this time?”
“I spoke to Will Foster a couple of weeks ago,” I said. “He told me how he heard a young woman call out your name at the Oxford Street bus station just before the bomb exploded. Would you like to tell me what happened?”
Sorcha glanced at Susan who nodded back to her.
“Do the best you can, Sorcha,” Susan said calmly.
“It was a bad experience…” she began. “I felt bad even before the bomb went off.”
***
Friday 21st July 1972
1445 BST
Sorcha felt drained as she walked towards the Oxford Street bus station; physically and mentally exhausted. Her new dress was no longer as pristine as it was when she stole it. It no longer felt like an advertisement for a wealthy young socialite. Young socialite? Who was she kidding? She felt as grubby as she had this morning while wearing her own clothes; as grubby without her panties as she had felt when wearing them. Was that the fault of the dress, or a result of her melancholy and her aching head?
The road was busy now, not just cars loaded with people anxious to get out of Belfast, but ambulances and fire vehicles struggling to get to the bomb sites. Each hindered the other. The screech of sirens split the air. Army personnel carriers lumbered past, taking troops from one tragedy to another. Sorcha shrugged and walked on. The Belfast gasworks was visible in the distance ahead of her. An important part of the city’s history. It was built in 1822 and its profits helped build the Belfast City Hall. There was that big gasometer close by the River Lagan. And there was that lingering hint of gas that drifted along the river like the residue of a lethal weapon from a long past war in Flanders fields. It added to the miserable atmosphere. Today, the sight of the gasworks was, she thought, utterly depressing, as gloomy as the narrow, terraced streets where the workers lived. As tired and dirty as Mafeking Street. It was a reminder of the Belfast she had grown up in, and the Belfast she now detested. She swung her gaze over the city skyline, where the smoke from so many bombs rose into the summer air and she wondered if this was what those Nazi blitzes of World War Two had been like. The dull thud of yet another distant explosion reached her, and she saw yet another cloud of smoke climb up out of the city, but she couldn’t identify the location.
Her list of bomb targets was lost, but she knew that the Oxford Street bus station was on it. Frustratingly, she had no idea of the time the bomb here would be detonated. She was sure she had saved some lives at the Smithfield station, but could she now do the same here? If only she was not so fatigued.
She had the station in sight when an Austin 1100 saloon car came along the road. Instead of taking the bridge across the river and out of danger, it turned down a road that led to the rear of the station. Was it the carrier of the next bomb? Probably, in which case she was already in trouble. Everyone in the vicinity was.
She walked on, increasing her pace.
She knew this station well. Buses from here served County Down and she had many times left from here to visit her mother’s relatives in Ardglass, on the coast some five miles beyond Downpatrick. There was something puzzling about the families who had lived in Ardglass years ago, including her own relatives. It felt as if a million secrets were embedded in the village framework, never to be publicly aired. A million secrets, and she could only guess at the one that affected her personally.
It constantly upset her.
Other girls would know the truth about themselves by looking at their birth certificates, but not Sorcha. There was a name on her certificate that was a lie. Her mother denied it, but Sorcha was certain. Patrick Mulveny’s name was there for everyone to see, but he was not her father.
Couldn’t possibly be.
She continued walking.
Something was wrong here. As she came closer to the bus station, she saw that people were hurrying towards it instead of away from it. She put out a hand to a young man racing past her. “Where are you going?”
He pointed back the way he had come. “There’s a bomb somewhere back there. The peelers are telling us to get clear.”
“But the bomb is at the bus station,” she protested. “You mustn’t go that way.”
“How d’youse know it’s there?”
“It has to be.”
“To hell with that. We’ve been told to get to safety
inside the building.” The young man hurried on towards the station. Others followed him.
Oh God! Sorcha groaned. This was what the IRA intended with those hoax calls. Victims were being driven towards the bomb. Confusion surrounded the area at the front of the station. Armed policemen were shepherding a noisy group of passengers into the building. At the same time, more pedestrians were arriving from other streets, intent on getting to safety inside the station.
Sorcha was one hundred yards from the building when an armoured military vehicle pulled up outside. Troops poured out and immediately began trying to clear the area. An argument broke out with the police already on the scene.
“But we have to come here!” someone shouted. “We were told to come here!”
Other voices were raised in protest as the newly-arrived troops ordered pedestrians to get away from the station as quickly as possible. The confusion intensified.
Then a voice called out, “Sorcha! Sorcha Mulveny!”
She stopped abruptly. A figure was running towards her, a young woman seemingly caught up in the melee of confusion. Sorcha gasped in instant recognition. It was Moira McShane, a school friend she hadn’t seen in two or three years.
Sorcha raised a hand in recognition while Moira passed by two men. Both men turned and stared at her… and at Sorcha.
One hundred yards beyond them, at the entrance to the station, a military Land Rover pulled up and more soldiers clambered out.
Then the bomb exploded.
***
January 1981
Sorcha went suddenly silent and slumped back in her seat. Her head was bent forward, but the heaving of her shoulders indicated she was sobbing. Susan immediately went round the table and put an arm around her shoulders.
“Do you want to carry on?” she asked.
Sorcha shifted back into an upright stance. She took a deep breath, wiped at her eyes and nodded. Her voice was hoarse. “I have to. I have to get it all out now. If I don’t I’ll regret it later.”
Susan turned to the warder. “Could you ask for a glass of water, please?”
The warder went to the door and spoke to someone outside. The water was handed in just a minute later and Sorcha downed it in one go.
“I’m all right now,” she said. “Let’s get on with this, shall we?”
***
Friday 21st July 1972
1450 BST
Sorcha was never sure how long she was unconscious. It could have been a few seconds. It could have been several minutes. When she came to, a man was leaning over her, filling her vision.
“Are you in any pain?” he asked as he helped her into a sitting position. He had some sort of strange accent. Welsh, she thought but she couldn’t be sure.
“Must’ve got a bit of a whack on the head when I fell,” she replied and rubbed a hand across the back of her scalp.
She looked about her, still unsure what had happened. In the background, the bus station was afire, smoke and flames pouring through the windows and the roof. People were running away from it. Police and army personnel seemed to be marshalling survivors out of the building. Some looked bloodied and confused. Panic was all around. And there was an overriding smell of burning.
“Let me take a look.” The man knelt beside her and pulled aside her hair, searching her scalp. “No sign of any blood. But you may get a lump appearing in due course. Sit still for a moment while you recover from the shock.”
“I’m all right now,” she said and made a move to stand, but the man held her back.
“Just sit still. Sometimes a bang on the head can be more serious than it looks.”
“What about my friend?” She looked around. “I saw my friend coming towards me. Just before…”
“Your friend wasn’t so lucky, I’m afraid.” An older man stood a little behind the kneeling one. His accent was definitely Belfast. “A big piece of flying metal hit her.” He pointed to where Moira McShane’s body was face-down amid a pool of blood. The back of her skull was shattered. Brain tissue was spilled onto the pavement.
Dear God, no!
Sorcha turned away with a sudden overwhelming need to retch. The smell of the vomit was even stronger than the smell of burning. She wiped a hand across her mouth, and then vomited again. Several minutes passed before she felt able to speak.
“Is she dead?” It occurred to her only after she spoke that it was a foolish question.
“I’m sorry,” the policeman said.
“I hadn’t seen her in a long time… and now… oh God… she’s dead.” Sorcha felt a tear trickle down one cheek and she angrily brushed it aside. Life was so unfair.
“We will ensure her family are told,” the standing man said. “But you are more important at the moment because you’re alive and we want you to stay alive.”
“That’s why I’m going to ask you some questions,” the kneeling man said. “So we can assess whether there is any brain damage. Can you tell me your name?”
“Sorcha,” she said. “Sorcha Mulveny.”
“That’s good, Sorcha. And where do you live?”
“23 Mafeking Street.”
“Excellent. My name is Will Evans, by the way. I’m a policeman.”
“Police?”
A spasm of fear suddenly flamed through her. The last thing she wanted now was to be interrogated by the police. She tried again to get to her feet. This time the man didn’t stop her. What was his name? Evans? He seemed nice enough, but he was a Belfast peeler. No Catholic could trust a Belfast peeler.
“How do you feel now you are on your feet?” he asked, standing close beside her.
“I’m all right.”
She wasn’t. Her head ached and her vision was blurred for a few seconds. Her stomach felt queasy and she wondered if she was going to vomit again.
The older man seemed to see through her assurances. He put out a hand to support her. “I’ll tell you what we’re going to do now, Miss Mulveny. My colleague, Will Evans, is going to take you somewhere safe while I see what help I can give to the other victims.”
“I’m all right,” she protested.
But the older man was insistent. “I don’t like the way you have been swaying on your feet. I’d like to be sure you’re not suffering from concussion. We’ll get a medic to look at you as soon as we can, but they’re all going to be very busy in the station right now. In the meantime I prescribe ten minutes sitting down somewhere away from here, and a cup of tea if Will can arrange it. Can you do that, Will?”
“Leave it to me, boss.”
As he led the girl away another bomb exploded, not at the bus station but in the direction of the ferry terminal.
***
January 1981
It was clear we had to stop the interview there. Sorcha was, once again, sobbing quietly.
“That’s enough for now.” The warder took Sorcha’s arm and led her away. She went willingly and her shoulders still heaved as she staggered off down the adjacent corridor.
Susan gave me a sad look and nodded to the door. “We can’t do any more here. Not today. How about we find a quiet spot and talk about this?”
I readily agreed. “There’s a coffee shop at the hotel. How about…?”
“Yes, we’ll go back there to talk about this part of the story,” she interrupted me. “Then we’ll go to my place. You can stay there with me until we know that Sorcha is recovered.”
“Stay at your place?” I hadn’t been expecting that.
“You ought to stay here in Belfast for a while longer. Long enough to see Sorcha again. I know it’s hard on her, but she needs to work through this. Get it all out of her system now, if she possibly can. It won’t be easy for her.”
“I’d like to know what she said to Will Evans after that bomb… and what he said to her.” I went on to tell her more about Will Evans and the interviews I’d had with him at his home in Wales.
“Why don’t you ask him?” Susan said. “Ask Will what happened after that particular b
omb. You can use a telephone, can’t you? Do it today, while this session is still fresh in your mind. Go back to the hotel to collect your luggage, and make a call from there.”
She was right, of course. In the taxi back to Belfast I told her more of the detail I’d already amassed about the various people mixed up in the Bloody Friday bombings. She listened intently. When we got back to the hotel bedroom, I telephoned Will Evans. Susan sat on the bed beside me, one arm about my waist.
“I’m in Belfast,” I told Will and I’ve been interviewing Sorcha Mulveny.”
“Again?” It was only a mild expression of surprise. He knew well enough that my enquiries were on-going.
“Yes, again. She told me about the bomb at the Oxford Street Bus Station. She says you took her away for a cup of tea. Was that a ploy to get her to talk?”
“Of course.”
“What did she tell you? I need to know, Will.”
***
21st July 1972
1500 BST
Will understood perfectly what McIlroy wanted him to do.
In a way it was a stroke of luck. Gruesome luck, but still luck. The very same person they needed to interview, and she had been delivered right into their hands. He led her round a corner to a small Chinese Restaurant, the only suitable place he could find. It was empty, but the windows were intact, and the door was open, so he ushered Sorcha Mulveny inside. The room was small, with no more than half a dozen dining tables, and it smelt strongly of curry. Will hoped the smell would not make the girl gag.
A Chinese man dressed as a waiter approached them. He looked frightened, as if the horrors of Belfast outweighed any horrors he might have seen in his own country. He waved his hands at Will and shouted, “No. No. We’re closed.” His voice was heavily accented.
Will showed his warrant card. “Police. And you are open. Two cups of tea. Hot and sweet. Now!”
The fear in the man’s face intensified, but he backed off. Without another word, he went away to the kitchen. Will led the girl to a table well away from the front window. Although it was still intact another blast could so easily shatter it. He waited until the girl was seated before he sat opposite her.
