The Troubles

by Unknown

  “It’s baltic cold out here!’’ The boys gathered themselves in a pigeon like formation weaving in and out of their misshapen circle.

  Quinn was so proud he had remembered to put on the thick woolen fleece hand me down his brother had worn at his age. He agreed colloquially through blue tinged lips. “Yer right. It’s like brass monkey’s this morn.’’ The teenagers were all a little anxious to meet with Bobby Sands but were too proud to admit it. In this group the moment one exposed themselves as fearful or timid the other boys would use that same insecurity to inflict a barrage of wrath upon their target. This was well known to Quinn and so he picked his head up high and straightened his posture standing his tallest at five feet. He was going to address Bobby this morning by looking directly in his eyes and he promised he would never again stutter or appear bashful.

  Bobby Sands had won over Quinn’s admiration one evening when all the boys had been gathered in an abandoned shack, which was now primarily used for covert meeting by Irish Republic members or the growing by day, sympathizers. Bobby had walked right in, obliviously clumsy and perhaps too boisterously, to be welcomed by this group he held in such high esteem. The room had vibrated with static electricity as the stranger before Quinn orated his latest poem in his calm authoritative manner.

  ‘’The stars of freedom light the skies. Uncrowned queens of yesteryear; They were born ‘mid shades of royal hue, from mystic wombs they did appear.

  Silver gem that pierce the dark. Heavenly virgins in disguise. That stir the heart with love and flame, And light great flames in all men’s eyes. Oh! Star of beauty in nightly hue, You have inspired bondsmen to kings, And lit the ways of despairing folk, From dreams to living things. In the seas of time you float serene, Oh! silver stars of nations born, And you draw a tear to free men’s eyes, Through dungeon bars forlorn. Oh! Star of Erin, queen of tears, Black clouds have beset thy birth, And your people die like morning stars, That your light may grace the earth. But this Celtic star will be born, And ne’er by mystic means, But by a nation sired in freedom’s light, And not in ancient dreams.’’

  While the dialogue was perhaps too evolved for Quinn’s mind to interpret, the emoting quality of Bobby’s soothing tone and his abject ability to captivate a room of such diverse intellectual ability ranging from the simplest of souls to men who truly comprehended the impact words could have, allowed Quinn to unite with his compatriots as Bobby Sands graciously basked in the positive reception.

  On this day’s meeting in the brisk breath of the morning mist, Bobby told them again to not take up arms but to help him publish some of his latest works while he and the remaining youth stood in the looming shadow of Alexander Coach Works shivering, fingers numb from the tedious exchange of paper leaflets. This had disappointed Quinn more that he was willing to admit to himself. He felt his violence like a liquid metal coursing through his veins at every mention of Protestant authority, as their condemnation of his birthright was a direct assault to his very being. What was so truly damning about being a Taggart? “Nothin’ at all,’’ Quinn remembered Alastar repeating, growing frustrated by the boy’s barrage of the repetitive line of questioning. “We believe in The Lord same as they do.” He had quietly tried to comfort his little brother’s squirming agitations. Alastar had failed to rationalize and clarify the complex situation for the then seven year old and over the years the anger grew and festered within the lad.

  Quinn had left Bobby Sands at Alexander’s Coach Works with the others as the group quarreled about the object of the mission. “That dipso does me head in,” the self-appointed leader of their motley crew barked, clearly frustrated they hadn’t been tasked with a vandalistic conquest.

  Quinn optimistically joined the conversation, which seemed to be going nowhere. “But I like him. He’s dead on.”

  The tall, squarely built, teenager turned and glared causing the rest of the group to imitate. “Ya are a bloody eejit, Quinn Taggart.’’ Disgust dripped sardonically from his twisted frown.

  ‘’What! Why would ya say such a thing?’’ Quinn was offended and embarrassed to his core by being called out in such a manner. Weren’t all of his peers as respectful of Bobby as he was?

  The bevy of boys walked in formation of a troop as they weaved conspicuously onto Brussels Street, the neighboring enemy territory. Pitching rocks at windows and fleeing gleefully when a Protestant was home to respond in frustration.

  “Ya wee lads are dirty blurts. I’ll kick your arse!’’ Debris and rubbish littered the sidewalk, which the boys quickly transformed to footballs for a prolonged, overly competitive game of the nation’s pastime. Quinn, distracted by getting in a corner pass in the midst of the more athletic boys random free kicks, neglected to recall Bobby Sands had relegated him to go to the printing press and distribute his latest work.

  ‘’Be a good lad and bring it to our Republican paper, An Phoblacht,’’ he had directed. “I’m trusting ya because I’ve got to go to me shift. I can’t afford to can out.’’ He had smiled with a bright white grin, instantaneously winning Quinn’ devoted reverence to him.

  At the immature age of eleven the desire for Quinn to follow his own convictions and do as he was directed, had been obliterated by the intense peer pressure his fellow travel mates bestowed with barbs of insults so cutting they could leave him crying himself to sleep or worse yet with actual beatings which would as well render him to wallow in self pity.

  “C’mere ya maggot!’’ The command was issued this time not by the grandiose chieftain Alroy who had earned the Celtic moniker name for his fire red shock of hair but by his side kick, the aptly named Coilin, which means little chieftain in Celtic.

  Quinn trotted over eager to please. “What is it, Coilin?”

  “See those damn loyalist peelers behind the wall? Fire this.’’ Coilin handed Quinn a heavy red brick and gestured in the general direction behind a tall similarly red-bricked facade. Quinn was too small to preview a glimpse of the British police unit until he crept close enough to the edge and stood his back facing the exposed side. He breathed in the heavy dust that blanketed the terra cotta brickwork and choked on the loose earthy grit, which now covered everything from the buildings to the streets like the dueling army’s arbitrary sediment.

  He again mobilized his stature to his tallest height and peaked one sharp fatigue green eye through to the other side. As he hesitated in his hands lay the brick gathering weight. Was it his imagination or was the brick heavier than any boulder he had ever carried? His fear was playing tricks because if he didn’t follow his marching order his friends would morph into his tormenters before his very eyes.

  The khaki green uniformed men toting eschewed black berets were there to maintain the peace or so had been unceremoniously decreed. A few months prior following an Orange Order march, acutely violent protests had broken out on Springfield Road with mayhem raging forward for three impossibly long days only to be snuffed out on April 3rd by the British Army. This was Belfast’s first taste of the now dreaded chlorobenzalmalonoitrile gas for exposure to it would immediately cause a burning caustic reaction to its victim’s eyes and mouth. The images of grown men gasping, vomiting and crying tears of agony were now burned onto the minds of all the bystanders and civilians who were unaccustomed to such a level of brutality. Thirty-eight Irish Republican Soldiers had been grotesquely annihilated during those three devastatingly morose days as countless other civilians had been injured. The victims of propaganda are now the faces of a disheartened and hopeless broken world.

  Quinn was at a crucial precipice now where perhaps his naivety and enthusiasm for the cause had put his young life in peril. As his short legs would not carry him swiftly away to safety, there would be no going back. Could he throw his condemnable weapon and quickly hide in the ruin of the alleyway? Did they carry tear gas with them in their rucksacks? A barrage of questions flooded him with anxiety and to all he was without answers.

  As he spied on the soldiers he was shoved from behind
with such force that his brutally connected with the hard surface he was facing. Metallic hot liquid seeped from his nostrils as his eyes wept cold salty tears in a reflexive physical response to the stinging pain.

  “Do it!” Alroy’s breath, a mixture of rotting lamb stew and tobacco, burned hot and foul behind his ear. Quinn gagged upon a reflex of bile and swallowed the release of pungent coffee down quickly. He would not give Alroy the satisfaction he obviously desired by bullying of Quinn in this way.

  “Aye.” He breathed in a deep breath of dust, moist rain soaked air and the putrid remnants of Alroy’s stench, left in the boy’s wake. With trembling muscles not yet made strong from puberty formed testosterone, he thrust the brick high above his head and with all of his mighty fury he threw. “Arghhh!”

  CHAPTER 13: An the mach bhfuil laidir, ni folair do bheith glib (He who is not strong must be clever)

  Alastar Taggart…. My temples are throbbing and with neither a relief rom the tobacco smoke and other pub related pollutants or a form of man-made medicine, I fear my headache will only worsen. The urgency of Lanary’s trip and mine has been lost upon the drunken purveyor of our only form of transportation to Dublin. He has managed to relegate to us about the exploits he and his fellow loyalists had patriotically perpetuated during the now infamous People’s Democracy march between Derry and Belfast. He gleefully, now seeming to enjoy our obvious discomfort, had boasted about the ambush in Burntollet in which 200 loyalists and off-duty police (RUC) officers armed themselves to the hilt with iron bars, bricks and bottles. The volley of men whom had accosted the marchers remained jubilant from their campaign of violence and propaganda. Jamie Egerton had consumed the propaganda as he would have eaten gluttonously every morsel of food in sight and now was the village voice spewing hatred.

  “There’s no more damn fenian’s to walk after the bating I gave ‘em.’’ His slurred thickly accented snarl is losing volume and his neck snaps forward in the customary inebriated lull.

  “Are ya cod, do ya know who I am?’’ The syllables have escaped my lips without my mind’s diplomatic permission. Jamie is so drunk he doesn’t acknowledge my incendiary admission and Lanary looks relieved at this slight. He is a strategic man whom has evolved as he has aged but it is apparent right underneath his stoic exterior there is a seething, pulsing volcano capable of unimaginable aggression. My stray stead, Coraline, has fallen fast asleep into a perfect curled bundle of fur. I’m not surprised at her ability to distance herself from the noise and clamor around her. She is but a feline wonder and their abilities to recognize safe passage and kind human stewardship always amaze me.

  Blankets of rain has washed the streets clean of everything from the customary patrons and workers who meander at a much less heightened pace than the citizens of the much more bustling impersonal Belfast to the remnant’s of red silt. Beholden to us are polite greetings that are the fabric to the town’s integral community. The residues of a day’s work, from discarded bottles, and glasses of lager to forgotten green potatoes all have been given a rough shining. I love my sodden lush green land and this town is a perfect representation of my enchantment with it and it’s creaking ancient dwellings, some having been retrofitted from 500 BC, as the coupling from our ‘modern’ life to our Celtic heritage is not lost on me. I find my purposefulness reinstated, as I am content to sit myself on a sidewalk and wait for Lanary to return from Jamie Egerton’s farm with the red Fiat we have been promised. Jamie had been so obliterated from his toxic mixture of cheap whiskey and dark Guinness that Lanary and I had simultaneously come to the agreement that one of us should drive him home and the other wait as the our borrowed vehicle was a tight two-seater.

  The crisp polite voice of the perfectly welcoming Finn melodically drifts across the street toward me. “Ach, ya alright, Mr. Alastar Taggart?’’ I am more than pleased to see the sweet, familiar face of the boy.

  “Aye, Finn. Bout Ye! Where’d ya come from? I didn’t think I’d see your mug again.’’

  He looks down at his bicycle and his mouth forms a childish pout.

  “Me bike is clinker. I’ve got to haul it to the shop to get it fixed.’’ “Awww… alright lad. Anything I can do? I’ve got a minute while I wait for me crusty old mate ya met earlier.’’

  Finn giggles at our shared joke. “Yeah he was a little crusty for sure.’’

  ’’Let’s see that fine piece of machinery now.'' I contort my neck at an annoying angle and peer at the single gear rusted chain, which is now missing as many links as those operational. The paint is chipped and worn off to a point that it would appear as though the original color is that of rust. Though on closer inspection I see remnants of the dwindling light blue it was in its glory days.’’ She must have been a fine carriage back in the day.’’ I appease to the child’s sensitivity attentively as I’m more than accustomed to the psychology of reaching children. I have been both mother and father to my own ragtag crew of siblings.

  “Aye she was,’’ Finn reminisces nostalgically. “I wasn’t allowed to use it then, though. She was first me big brother’s and he sure pounded the shite outta her.”

  “That’s what big brother’s do,’’ I say. “Well Finn, Lanary and I are on our way to Dublin and we are very delayed in our journey.’’ The mostly unproductive day is quickly transforming itself into the darkening dusk of the mid fall season and as I try to disguise my tense demeanor from my young companion, I am agitated again with Lanary, as he is has now been gone for over an hour. “Where is that oul lad?’’ I mutter under my breath. The cat, Coraline, is still peacefully asleep sheltered by the coarse material of my bag although by now the ground beneath her is rapidly refrigerating from the temperature drop. The little pools of murky rainwater, the final reminders of the afternoons’ showers, are gathering frost.

  ‘’I think its best yer on yer way, lad.’’ Finn has craftily spied upon Coraline and I see his childlike enthusiasm to engage her superseding his genial respect for his elder. “Do ya like cats?’’ I ask him as his eyes widen with curious delight.

  “Aye sir I do! What’s her name?’’

  “Well I’m not sure, but I think Coraline suits her fine.”

  “Is Coraline yer animal?’’

  ‘’I s’pose she is now, lest her owners be in Derry.’’ I confide in Finn that perhaps I have been reckless by my kidnapping of the poor creature and she is not a stray but simply on the loose from a protecting abode.

  “Oh, she’s so soft.’’ His fingers stroke her lustrous grey coat. She has a patch of white under her chin, which she stretches with flexible grace to encourage Finn to scratch it.

  “She might be a street urchin? Can’t be sure. What do ya think Finn?’’ I carefully intertwine Finn into my line of thought as he is a resident of this village and to upset him might result in a poor reputation for Lanary and myself.

  “Ya taking Coraline to Dublin?’’ Finn is dubious from my unorganized spontaneous planning. “Well, would ya like to care for her ’til we return back to Belfast?”

  “Me?’’ His surprise is proudly plastered across his youthful features.

  “Why not Finn? Think ya’d be up for the task?’’ He is now desperately trying to restrain his hyper limbs from flailing with excitement and he is stuttering breathlessly.

  “Oh, of course Mr. Taggart! Thank you. Thank you! I’ll not let ya down Sir.”

  I pat him kindly on his fair, auburn mop of dense hair as I have caught his gleeful demeanor like a contagious fever. “I’d be grateful to ya.’’ The animal had relaxed from Finn’s coos and obsessive preening. “She’ll be better off here with ya for the time being anyway and ya’ll have a mighty craic together I’m sure of it.’’ I am relieved that I have surreptitiously encountered this child not once but twice today and on both occasions he has served me well. Lanary and I are procrastinating, whether consciously or subconsciously and I must deal with my confounded reality neither distracted by Lanary’s impairment’s or my own methods of whitewas
hing a petrifying encounter.

  The lurching growl of an engine pings my eardrums shortly before the humble but adequate bright stop sign and the red Fiat comes into my line of sight. I sigh rudely and Finn looks at me quizzically as somewhere in my latent mind I might have feared abandonment or worse from Lanary. There are so many variables dealing with his dueling personalities and as I spend more time alone with him, doubts spring like fissures of water leaking into an accumulatively skeptical mindset. I am more ambiguous than I was previously. Our encounters from years earlier were monumental to my growth of character but as life chips away at human façade, I see the multitude of flaws behind the ecclesiastic minister on this pedestal I constructed for him.

  With what must be his very last rolled fag from the supply of tobacco he has been touting like some sort of precious treasure, I am growing irritated as this confined space of the vehicle is functioning like a sauna and the harsh pungent smoke has, in but moments, filled the entire space with grey tendrils that work their insipid dance into every cranny, seeping into every porous material that will grasp the foul odor. ’’We’re sure lucky we didn’t have to nuck this car, huh, Lanary?’’