Michael’s heart quickened its beat and fluttered like a moth around a flame as he neared Flax Street. Anyone seeing him would know that he was a Catholic leaving Ardoyne. He stepped up his pace, pulled his blue woollen scarf around his neck and tucked his hands back into the pockets of his coat. He walked past the Mill, where Paddy used to work, increasing his pace. His right foot was sore. He had twisted it playing bowls. He wanted to go faster. The road was quiet. He needed a cigarette. He knew that he was walking too slowly and yet he stopped, took a cigarette from the packet in his pocket, flicked open the lighter with his thumb. His hand shook. He steadied it with his left hand, taking a quick puff to make sure it was lit. He fumbled the cigarette packet and lighter back into his coat pocket. It was exactly then that he saw the headlights of a car in the distance. It was maybe half a mile away and moving towards him. Was it an Ardoyne taxi? It moved slowly, only doing twenty miles an hour. He watched it turn left into a side street, do a three point turn and halt as though going to turn right and re-join the Crumlin Road. Why was it doing that? He had to keep walking. He took a deep puff from his cigarette and exhaled slowly. His breath quickened.
William waited until Michael was a few hundred feet in front of them. Fifty feet past the junction Michael thought that he was going to be okay. He took a deeper breath and tried to exhale slowly. He took another deep breath. He counted to seven breathing in. Mary had learnt that from her yoga teacher. She told him if he was ever stressed to breathe out really slowly. The taxi was stationery in the side street. Maybe they had lost their way and needed to turn onto the Antrim Road. That was more than likely what was happening.
William put his foot on the accelerator and turned right from the side street onto the Crumlin Road. The wheels skidded on the icy tarmac, hitting the pavement and mounting it slightly, a few feet behind Michael. He slammed on the breaks. The taxi shuddered to a halt. Cedric jumped out from the front passenger seat with a rifle, leaving the door open. Michael dropped his cigarette on the ground, hands by his side, he looked at Cedric who lifted the rifle high into the air behind him and swung it like a golf club, hitting Michael with the butt, whacking him in the stomach. Michael bent double, letting out a low gurgling cry. Michael could hear and feel the air exiting his body with a continuous and slow hissing noise. He couldn’t breathe in. Cedric lifted the rifle a second time high into the air and brought it down with his full weight, smashing it onto Michael’s back. Michael fell on the ground and Cedric kicked him in the neck. As he lay writhing on the pavement, Peter opened the back door of the taxi.
Cedric bent down and pulled Michael from the pavement, hoisting him onto the back seat. Michael’s upper body lay for a minute across Peter’s knees.
“Go. Go. Get out of here!” Cedric yelled. William put his foot to the floor, shouting as he stabbed the accelerator. “You stupid Fenian bastard! Not your lucky night.”
Michael moaned from the floor of the taxi as Peter pushed him gently from his knees. Only Michael’s head was visible if someone looked inside. An army Saracen accelerated up the Crumlin Road towards Ardoyne. William dropped his speed to thirty miles an hour. The Saracen tank passed. Michael looked up at Peter. Peter immediately turned his head, looking out of the window into the darkness as the taxi passed Crumlin Road jail. Michael tugged at Peter’s jeans. Peter turned to see Michael propped up against the back door; his arms by his side, knees bent allowing his feet to rest on the floor of the taxi. Peter saw Michael’s green eyes, his thick black eyebrows, the scattering of freckles over the bridge of his nose, his wide mouth. Michael stared into Peter’s eyes, now holding onto Peter’s knee with his hand. Peter’s felt the warmth of Michael’s blood, throbbing in his hand against his leg. Michael whispered as the siren of an ambulance rushing to the Mater hospital blared as it passed.
“Save me. I know you can save me. Don’t let them kill me.” He tugged again at Peter’s jeans. “Save me. You can do it.”
Peter turned sharply to look out of the window again, into the blackness where an occasional street light flooded the taxi with light.
Peter heard Michael crying softly on the floor still holding onto his jeans.
“You’re not going to save me are you?” Michael wept, his head now bent over his chest. He dropped his hand from Peter’s leg and joined his hands together. Peter felt the coldness of the icy air touching his leg where Michael’s hand had been keeping it warm.
When the taxi stopped at the Black Beetle, Cedric told Peter, “Get him out.”
Peter opened the right hand door of the taxi. Michael tightened his grip again on Peter’s trousers as Peter slid over to the right hand side of the car and jumped out.
“He’s yours.”
“Peter, where do you think you’re going?” Cedric took two steps after Peter. Peter stopped and stared straight ahead.
“Get the wedding ring off him. You know what to do now you fuckin coward. Do it!” Cedric pulled at Peter’s jacket. Peter turned to face him. Cedric lifted his hand and brought it across Peter’s face. There was a moment of stillness and silence before Peter walked towards the car, bent down and reached in for Michael.
chapter 5
Tuesday 4th January 1972
Michael had been dead seventeen hours when Rose walked the last few yards home from school, on Tuesday 4th January. Her leather schoolbag hung heavily on her right shoulder. The schoolbag slipped. She pulled it back into place. Curly red haired Clara from the year above was walking in front, talking and laughing with her best friend Mary. Matt and Eddie were part of the army patrol on Rose’s right, walking alongside the jeep. Max was inside the jeep. Rose kept her eyes on Clara and Mary as she moved closer to Matt – so close that her arm brushed against his. Her hand briefly touched his warm green woollen glove. No-one saw the white envelope pass from Matt’s hand to Rose’s as her long black hair swung from left to right with each step. She never looked at Matt as she passed Sean Graham’s betting shop on the corner of Brompton Park where three men stood leaning against the graffiti covered wall, smoking, with their backs to the black taxi. Clara turned to wave at Rose.
“Bye Rose – see you tomorrow.”
“See you.”
Rose watched Clara turn into the Fast Shop on the corner as Mary continued walking down Brompton Park. Rose gave Matt a quick look. He looked at her with his head slightly down, smiling. She noticed the curve of his shoulders, dark hair under the beret, light blue eyes with long lashes. He walked slowly. She saw the solidness of his legs, heard the crunch of his boots, treading the earth with what seemed like the strength of a giant. She felt in his eyes his energy connected with hers and for an instant there was the sense of tension, gravity, a pressure drawing them together. Even if they couldn’t touch she felt as though the edges of her being were mingled with his. The setting sun seemed to bounce towards sunset. Everything felt right. Everything felt as though it was exactly as it should be. She felt like a balloon at the point of bursting. She had never felt so intensely happy before. Matt looked at her again out of the corner of his eyes and it was as though he was reading her mind. She knew he felt the same. The jeep slowed to a halt. She had to keep walking, looking ahead as Matt jumped into the back of the jeep which then did a U-turn, heading back up the Crumlin Road with a screech of tyres. Rose turned to look as the jeep drove up past the shops, past Macdonalds fruit and vegetables, past the bakery. It felt as though Matt was an elastic band stretching away from her with infinite elasticity which would never snap. She fingered the letter in her pocket. What did he have to say to her? She couldn’t wait to read it, alone, in her bedroom.
William sat in the back seat of the taxi as Cedric drove. Peter was in the passenger seat. Cedric turned to William,
“That’s her isn’t it? Isn’t that the bitch we’ve seen coming out of the church after Mass?”
“That’s her alright. I remember the hair. Get a closer look at her face.”
Peter looked left as they drew level with Rose. She was look
ing straight ahead, walking with a determined step. She was singing. Not that he could hear the words but her lips were moving in slow motion and she was smiling. The wind tossed her hair over her face. She brushed it back with a sweep of her hand, hitching the satchel back into place. She looked to the right as though she knew they were looking at her. Peter stared into her eyes. She smiled at him as Cedric dropped his speed to twenty miles an hour. For Peter, it seemed as though time slowed down. It was as if the taxi was idling at four miles an hour – at walking speed. He saw her long thick black eyelashes, fine eyebrows, high cheekbones. His heart didn’t thump but was strangely still. Rose continued smiling at him as the car overtook her, moving past Kerrera Street, picking up speed as it reached the Mater Hospital. Peter caught the last few words of a conversation Cedric and William were having,
“So, that will be easy. Let’s make sure we have one more child-bearing Fenian who won’t have children.” William laughed.
“What’s going on?” asked Peter.
“That long-haired bitch, she’s for the chop. We only need to have a look in the diary and see when.” Cedric hit his hand against the steering wheel, laughing. He wiped a few tears with the back of his hand and put on a posh voice,
“William, can you tell me what the diary is looking like? When is the next available date?”
William snorted. “Give her a day or two to pray for her soul. She’ll need it.”
• • •
Clara opened the door of the Fast Shop on the corner of Brompton Park. A bell tinkled. Mr O Grady from the Fast Shop was on his knees behind the counter. He slowly got to his feet.
“Can I have a pan loaf please Mr O Grady?”
While Mr O Grady fixed his dentures in his mouth to reply, Clara surveyed the jars of sweets on the counter – pineapple chunks, lemon sorbets, rhubarb and custard, midget gems, wine gums, coconut mushrooms, liquorice allsorts and blackjacks.
Mr O Grady shuffled towards the counter with the pan loaf. He stared at her from behind thick rimmed glasses.
“How was school today Clara?”
“Great. Miss Donovan the Spanish teacher said if I wanted to do Spanish ‘A’ level, it would really be a good idea to try to get an au pair job in Spain this summer. I would need to save money for the flights. I am here to ask if you have any work.”
“Well, you’ve asked at the right time. I’m opening up a second shop in Andersonstown. I need to find someone to help out here. Why don’t you come round on Friday after school and we can talk. If you like what you hear you can start on Saturday.” Mr O Grady looked around to make sure no-one was listening. “I need you to hide the money from the till every hour in case they come in to rob you. It’s happened twice in the last month but they only got ten pounds.”
“Sounds like a good plan Mr O’Grady. Can I have a quarter of pineapple chunks and a quarter of liquorice allsorts?”
“You’re not going to eat me out of my profits when you’re here are you?” Mr O Grady chuckled, pushing his glasses back up to the bridge of his nose.
Clara blushed.
“Only joking. You can eat anything you want. You don’t want to put on too much weight though if you’re off to show your figure in Spain in the summer.”
Clara blushed again. She did have a sweet tooth.
“How much will I earn?”
“50p an hour.”
“Perfect.”
Clara imagined – two whole months without any rioting. Two months of not being afraid that someone would spit in your face or throw a brick at your head when walking home from school. She wondered what it would be like to able to go to bed at night without worrying that you might be killed in your sleep. Maybe those dreadful nightmares would stop too. The ones where she was lying in bed and someone broke down the front door and she heard heavy boots climbing the stairs. Clara would jump out of bed and straighten the sheets, and smooth the eiderdown to make it look as though no-one had been sleeping there. Then she would hide in the wardrobe and listen to whoever it was walk towards her father’s room.
She knew that the first place they would look would be under the bed. She sat on the floor of the wardrobe in the dark with the hanging jackets and trousers crumpled on top of her head. She held her hands over her face, pressing them into her eyes. When she loosened her fingers, the smell of the damp and mothballs surrounded her like a cloud of soggy mist. There was nowhere else to hide. She heard them turn the door knob of her bedroom. It squeaked. They clumped towards the wardrobe without even looking under the bed. Maybe that’s where she should have hidden there after all. The wardrobe door opened, light from the streetlamp outside shone on a black gloved hand and a parka. She woke up.
• • •
Ciaran McCann, Clara’s father, headed up the IRA in North Belfast. He read about Paddy’s and Michael’s murders in The Irish News while having a drink with Danny and Sean. The Easter Rising Club was dark inside, with no natural light. There were smelly drink-stained carpets which caught your feet slightly as you walked to the bar, and there were chipped tiled floors which occasionally crunched when Ciaran walked by onto fragments of broken glass. An Irish Tricolour hung from the wall near a small stage.
Ciaran had three children – Conor aged nine, Frances eleven and Clara sixteen. He fed them history, including the history of the Irish Famine, sitting around the dinner table for Sunday lunch. Poor Irish families depended upon the humble potato to survive during the early nineteenth century. On the banks of Lake Titicaca between Peru and Bolivia, in 4,000 BC, Peruvians spread the ‘Chuño’ or potato on the ground during frosty nights. When the sun rose the potatoes were covered with straw to protect them from the harsh radiation of a relentless sun. Later children trampled the potatoes to remove their moisture and peel, they were placed in a running river to remove any bitterness and lastly, they were dried for fourteen days and stored for up to four years. For the Peruvians the gormless potato was a God. The Incas counted units of time by the length of time it took to cook a potato into various consistencies. Potatoes were used to divine for Truth and to predict the weather. There were more than one hundred varieties of the potato in a single Andean valley.
For Ciaran, 1845 was a good enough starting point not only for the potato but for Irish history. In 1845 the potato blight hit Ireland. ‘Fungus phytophthora infestans’ arrived, evidenced by dark blotches appearing on the tips of the potato leaves and plant stems, and white mould under the leaves. More than one million people in Ireland died from starvation between 1845 and 1851. Another million were forced to leave, many dying on the coffin ships on their way to find a new life in America.
Ciaran told his children how the freezing winds from the Atlantic battered the frail frames of starving women, babies and children, struggling through the bogs of Connemara to walk north looking for food. Meanwhile on the East Coast carts carrying corn rumbled over uneven ground heading for Dublin where they were loaded with fattened livestock to be shipped to England.
Ciaran left The Easter Rising Club on the 4th January, and walked down Strathroy Park about two hundred feet behind Margaret Mulvenna. He noticed without much interest her frizzy curly brown hair, shopping bag, beige duffle coat (which looked a size too big), wrinkled woollen tights, purple skirt and flat black leather shoes. He saw her struggle with the weight of the shopping bag moving it from her left hand to her right. He didn’t see that she was carrying two pints of milk, half a stone of potatoes, six Paris buns, a plain and a pan loaf. He was more interested in what was happening ahead of Margaret.
Margaret was a small, slim-built mother of five. She had been born a Protestant but had converted to Catholicism ten years before when she married her husband Joseph, who was Catholic. Aged thirty-six, Joseph died unexpectedly from a brain haemorrhage while lying asleep in bed with Margaret on the 5th March 1970. A week later, she was burnt out of her house in the Protestant Glencairn District and moved for security into the inner district of Ardoyne with her five children. She was thirty
years old. Her youngest child was five. Every morning she wakened with a sense of dread about what the day would bring. Every day she said ‘Thank You’ to God for being alive.
Ciaran glanced at his watch. Danny and Sean should be in position. He wondered for a moment if Margaret was going to walk straight into the line of Danny’s fire. A burst of machine gun fire rattled for about thirty seconds only a hundred yards in front of Margaret. Ciaran stopped, took a packet of Benson and Hedges out of his pocket, lit a cigarette, watching to see what would happen next.
At Margaret’s gate, a young British soldier lay shot on the ground. One of his comrades held his head with the helmet still on, as another ripped open his green jacket. Margaret dropped her shopping bags on the ground, ran towards him, and knelt on the ground beside the soldiers.
“Can I help?”
She looked into the boy’s white waxen face. He was eighteen. He stared back at her, more resigned than frightened.
“How bad is it?” he asked.
Margaret, put her hand on his shoulder and leant forward. She removed his helmet, smoothing his fringe back off his forehead. She remained silent.
“You’ll be OK. Hang in there. We’ll get you to hospital.” One of his friends whispered, patting his hand.
“Let me get some towels.” Margaret clambered awkwardly to her feet, feeling dizzy. One of the soldiers helped her to steady herself before she ran down the garden path, past the tall oak tree growing in the middle of the garden. She turned a key in the lock, ran upstairs, tripping on the top step and banging her head against the landing. Pulling herself to her feet she searched for a basin of water, clean towels and a pillow. She ran back down the garden path with the warm water splashing from side to side. She lifted his head gently to place the pillow on the ground. The soldier’s head was heavy and wet in her hands. Then she realised that it was not so much that his head was wet but that her hands slippery and smeared with his blood. He must have hit his head hard when he fell to the ground. He smiled weakly at her.
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