White Church, Black Mountain

by Thomas Paul Burgess

  “Well, there were two reasons why you joined an Orange band back then. One was it was the closest thing to being a musician that any of us were likely to get. And two, for the women – the girls, I mean.”

  Anto’s libido was nudged. “Oh aye?”

  “Kick the Pope bands, that’s what they were called – blood and thunder. But that’s the bands that always attracted the wee Millies.”

  “Millies?”

  “Mill girls… from the time when there was work in the linen industry – in the mills. They used to dance in a straight line across, behind the band leader with his flailing mace; ahead of the side-drummers. Hard young girls, waving their mini Union Jacks and tight wee arses in tartan trousers.”

  He laughed at the memory.

  “It was the closest thing to groupies we could imagine.”

  Anto seemed intrigued. “You were a drummer?”

  Eban puffed up. “Leading tip… but it couldn’t last.”

  “Did you pack it in?”

  “Well… I mean… some of the older members of the band were bloody certifiable, and everybody knew they were… connected.”

  Anto seemed intrigued. “Any time I’ve seen it on the TV – the Twelfth of July I mean; the big day – it all seems a bit mental to me.”

  Eban knew what the young man meant, but didn’t know how to answer him.

  Of course it must have appeared like some kind of malign drink-sodden circus to someone like Anto or Ruairí.

  The Glorious Twelfth.

  For him it had all come to a head one particular Twelfth of July.

  Coming back from the field, the word went around that the customary, ritual baiting of the Taigs was imminent.

  The band would come to a temporary halt outside Donegal Street chapel.

  The police escort would turn a blind eye, and the lads would pump up the volume.

  Sidney Tweed, the drum major, would pass amongst the ranks of the young drummer boys, exhorting them through gritted teeth, bulging veins, eyeballs popping, to “Play up! Play up! Let the papist whores hear ye in Rome!”

  In reality, the closest thing resembling a Catholic or Republican stood five hundred yards back from the road, behind the massive canvas screens that the British soldiers had erected.

  They were grateful for the advance notice though, because down reined the old ‘Belfast confetti’: razor blades and Stanley blades slipped into cakes of soap and dug into potatoes.

  Olympic shot-put records were about to be rewritten.

  The others in the band would turn their drumsticks around to the fat end and blatter and blatter… blisters, skin and blood flying from the friction burns.

  And when it was all over and their drum skins were burst and battered, the band returned, drenched in sweat and soaked in the certainty of their own superiority.

  “We are the people!”

  Ruairí Connolly had been taking it all in silently. At last he spoke.

  “You’re quite the closet Loyalist, aren’t you Mr Barnard?”

  Eban was knocked out of his reverie, surprised, a little thrown.

  “Not really… not at all actually.” He reddened.

  Ruairí sneered at him. “Don’t you have the courage of any convictions?”

  Anto’s antennae twitched with the entry to the fray of his friend. “Yeah… why did you pack it in Eban?”

  Eban felt a little as if they were circling him like hyenas. He’d felt this way since they had begun joshing with him, but something had perceptibly changed in tone. He sought to draw back. Retreat.

  “I’m just saying… none of it made sense any more. Walking back to the Orange hall in silence to a single beat on the one surviving drum… I felt ridiculous. Blue cap with orange plume, white shirt, red trousers with black stripes down the side, like a fuckin’ clown… things were never the same after that. I handed back the uniform and equipment at the next band meeting. No-one seemed too concerned.”

  Anto lit a cigarette. He smiled mischievously.

  “Pity… for a minute there I thought you might be someone I could learn to hate.”

  Ruairí wasn’t letting up, however.

  “No, Eban’s not worthy of that Anto – are you, Eban? See, Eban doesn’t know what he is: he’s nothing, so there’s nothing to hate… isn’t that right Eban?”

  Eban was stung.

  “You know nothing about me,” he shot back.

  Both young men looked at each other, smiling, and simultaneously made a mocking ‘Oooooooooooooooooo’ sound, in pretend, scornful fear and awe.

  Anto smirked and stood up. “International man of mystery.”

  Ruairí joined him, standing at his side.

  “Oh, I know you alright; know your type… think you can come in here and clock up a few hours’ community service in the hope that it will put your mind at rest about slappin’ your kids around or cheating on your wife. Or maybe you feel bad that you don’t visit your old mother anymore… is that it?”

  Eban was crushed by this bitterness that seemed to have come from nowhere.

  He looked crestfallen.

  “You go to college, Eban?” spat Ruairí.

  “Yes.”

  “Course you did… do you think anyone else in this room did?”

  Eban was becoming increasingly agitated. “I don’t know. Look—”

  “Anto; me; Sinéad? No-one here’s ever finished school. D’ya thinks that makes us stupid, Eban?”

  “You could go further if you wanted to… you’re smart.”

  Ruairí suddenly sprang across the room.

  In an instant his face was close to Eban’s face. His finger aggressively stabbing him in the chest.

  “Too fuckin’ right I am, mate… and don’t you forget it. I’m your equal in everything but opportunity.”

  Anto’s blood was rising. He hovered over Eban menacingly. “Spot on mate.”

  Eban wilted pathetically. “My father… was a labourer.”

  Ruairí wouldn’t relent. “Oh yeah – ye hear that, Anto? That’s referred to as the ‘labour aristocracy’ – the ship-building jobs; the aircraft makers… yez kept all those jobs for yourselves.”

  Forced to defend himself in such a manner and with no obvious justification for the wrongs visited on those less fortunate than himself, Eban Barnard was hoist upon the politically correct, liberal petard of his own making.

  The foundation on which he had justified his entire homecoming, and the community relations sense of purpose that had provided him with a personal and professional momentum, collapsed around him like a flimsy house of cards.

  He was becoming emotional.

  His voice wavered.

  “You’ve got me all wrong… I do want to help… because you don’t know… you can’t know…”

  Perhaps it was the weariness.

  Or the harrowing nature of earlier events, but in the blink of an eye Eban Winston Barnard had lost it completely.

  He buried his face in his hands and began to sob quietly.

  Ruairí stood over him, deriding him, scorning him.

  Then like flicking a switch, he broke off the attack and turned away, dismissive, as if the game was no longer worth the effort.

  “Where do they get these people?” he wondered aloud to himself. “You’re such a drama queen Mr Barnard.”

  Sinéad, who had returned from making tea, stopped at the sight of Eban in disarray.

  Colour flooded into her pale cheeks and she banged down the tray, sending mugs falling onto the floor.

  “I swear to God, I can’t leave yez for two minutes!”

  Ruairí looked at her. “Whadaya takin’ his side for?”

  She mustered a convincing, authoritative maturity in her putdown. “Fuckin’ grow up will ya?!”

  Ruairí couldn’t let her away with it. “What’s it to you?”

  “One more word out of you and I’m going, Ruairí… I swear to God I am.”

  She crossed to where Eban sat.

 
“Don’t let these scumbags get to ye Eban… here… let me get you a cup of tea.”

  She fetched the one remaining half-filled mug on the tray.

  Eban was staring at the floor now. Too embarrassed to make eye contact with her.

  Unbeknown to any of them –perhaps even himself – something had broken inside him.

  Simply given way.

  Some line had been crossed.

  At that moment he could not tell who he hated more. Ruairí or himself.

  Suddenly, unexpectedly, his mind began to race.

  Drying his eyes on the back of his sleeve, he reached into his trouser pocket and produced a handkerchief. Blowing his nose, he was well aware how he must appear to these hard, young jackals: old, stupid, irrelevant. An object to be used and teased and ultimately derided for being stupid enough to offer them his time and his concern, for having deluded himself that he might have something to contribute here.

  But when you reach rock bottom you come up again.

  And to do this it was necessary to jettison something.

  So Eban Barnard resolved that he wanted to speak.

  He had a story to tell.

  And he wanted them to listen to it.

  That was his price.

  His one demand.

  For the unwanted intimacy, the humiliation, the rejection… they would have to listen.

  And when it was over, they would know who he was.

  Who he really was.

  And maybe they would understand.

  Maybe not… it didn’t matter.

  He pulled himself together, and composing himself, turned to face them.

  “Sinéad, have you ever heard the saying that for evil to prosper, it just takes good men to do nothing?”

  She raised her pencil-thin eyebrows in surprise. “No, but Ruairí will have.”

  “Well I did nothing and every day I wake up, and every night I go to sleep, I know… in here” – he pointed to his chest – “I know I did nothing.”

  Ruairí sensed the change in the atmosphere and it felt uncomfortable.

  Barnard looked different somehow.

  More composed.

  Fatalistic perhaps.

  A man resigned in some way.

  Ruairí crossed the room, sat down and began to play solitaire. Superficially indifferent, but all the while listening.

  Sinéad sat down at the table and placed her hand on Eban’s.

  She too sensed a shifting of the tide. “You go ahead Eban… if you want to, luv… get it off yer chest,” she offered encouragingly.

  Eban turned to face both her and Anto, whilst effectively turning his back on Ruairí.

  “Do you have a brother, Anto?”

  Anto was wary, and fearing that this would be a tactic to divide them replied, “Ruairí’s my brother… the only brother I need… isn’t that right mate?”

  Ruairí Connolly never looked up. He just kept slapping card down on top of card.

  Sinéad, still angry with her partner, chipped in spitefully, “Frankie was Ruairí’s brother. He could never stand up to him… still can’t stand up to the memory of him.”

  Eban quickly became animated at this. “YES! YES, that’s exactly right. You hear that Anto… it’s not that easy. You don’t get to choose… blood’s blood!”

  Without warning, Ruairí Connolly exploded.

  Throwing over the card table, he flew across the room to where the others sat. He grabbed Eban by the throat and pushed him down.

  “OKAY, BARNARD… WHO ARE YOU? WHY THE FUCK ARE YOU IN HERE?”

  Sinéad screamed and pushed herself between the men. “RUAIRÍ… NO!

  Anto, excited, clapped his hands together like a clockwork monkey. “Now we’re cookin’ on gas!”

  Eban had a wide grin on his face. He made no attempt to protect himself. Rather, he let himself fall lifeless. He was being shaken around like a rag doll, smiling like an imbecile.

  “That’s okay… that’s good… if that’s what it takes,” he said.

  Ruairí, confused by this reaction, was disturbed.

  He let Eban go and he fell back into his seat.

  All three looked at the older man, instinctively waiting for him to explain his behaviour.

  Eban waited an eternity.

  Dawn was sending early shafts of sunlight into the room.

  When he spoke, it was in a whisper.

  “What I’m going to tell you… I’ve only ever told this to the woman I believed I loved, and I regretted it the minute it was out of my mouth… regretted it ever since, saying the words; hearing myself say them. I thought it would help… but that’s why I came back… from England… why I’m here…”

  He looked at Ruairí directly. “I’ve always been here… no matter where I go, I can never leave. You’ll find that, Ruairí… if you run…”

  Ruairí, to his surprise, found that he could not hold the man’s gaze.

  Anto fell back on machismo. “Who’s running?”

  Sinéad maintained a hold of his hand. “Take your time… I’ll not judge you,” she whispered.

  Eban was talking to the others, but never broke his gaze from Ruairí.

  “Ruairí and me, we’re more alike than he knows… I’ve a big brother too, Ruairí.”

  Ruairí found that he still couldn’t look at the man. “So what?” he said, failing to sound nonchalant.

  “When I was a little boy, I used to mitch off from school by hiding in an old burnt-out pub… McGrew’s pub and wine lodge, that was it. If I stood on tiptoes I could see the corrugated iron roof. In the centre of it” – he smiled at the memory – “there was a skylight…”

  45

  Shankill Road,

  Belfast, Northern Ireland

  May 1970

  Unfamiliar, raised voices and the low-velocity crack of small-arms fire woke him abruptly.

  He ran to the barricaded window. It was after dusk outside.

  The interior of the pub was darker than that again.

  Darker than at any other time he had been there before.

  Curiously, what he noted first was the absence of the milk bottles from the doorsteps.

  Could it be tomorrow already? Had he slept throughout the night? Surely not!

  His da would kill him.

  Then he saw why.

  Saw the young men struggle and falter under the weight of crates and crates of bottles.

  Bottles filled with petrol, washing up liquid and stuffed with rags.

  A makeshift barrier of wooden planks, upturned bins and rubber tyres was thrown across Snugville Street.

  Men, their faces covered with scarves and handkerchiefs, ran back and forward in panic.

  “They’re comin’ up from the Falls… they’re comin’ to burn us out!”

  Eban had often heard Alex say, “There’s no way the Taigs will ever get up this far… not our street… no way.”

  People listened when Alex spoke.

  Alex had had a trial for Linfield FC.

  People liked Alex.

  But the scene unfolding below him suggested that his brother was wrong.

  Small pockets of young men swayed back and forth, back and forth.

  Advancing, then repulsed.

  Yelling and screaming.

  Summoning up false courage in their bellowing and shrieking.

  Bottles, bricks and petrol bombs flew back and forth through the midsummer night.

  Plumes of smoke filled the air, along with oaths and cries.

  Some men had been separated from the main melee and lay on the ground, trying to cover up. Their heads being kicked and stamped on.

  Abruptly, there was a heavy crash.

  The sound of a fallen crateful of bottles.

  A sudden slash of brightness and heat that lit up the room all around him.

  Looking down, Eban saw a man lit up like a blowtorch.

  He wriggled and thrashed on the ground like a maniac.

  The flames and sparks from him all fa
nned out and spread upward in crazy eddies and currents. Twisting like flaming. grasping fingers.

  Incredibly, the man did not scream.

  He made no noise save for his desperate rolling and thrashing.

  Eban was transfixed.

  Rooted to the spot.

  Unseen. He craned his neck.

  At the other end of the street the smoke was thick.

  Opaque with a low, orange-red glow behind it.

  The tinted smoke itself was mesmerising.

  Hypnotic.

  It would all of a sudden stir itself, whirl up and around then check one way or the other.

  It would dart and slant and settle, then jump up and swirl again.

  Coming right at Eban.

  Finding ways into the building, through the holes and gaps.

  Stinging and watering his eyes.

  The glow and the smoke and the sound of the crowd…

  High-pitched screams and that low rumbling noise of the crowd.

  A big crowd. A huge crowd.

  Activity seemed to be coming from everywhere.

  From what seemed the entire city.

  A man’s voice, clear above the pandemonium.

  “Clear the street… clear the street… open up… let ‘er go, Billy!”

  All at once the confusion below took on a unified sense of purpose.

  Men ran for cover, scattering off the main thoroughfare in all directions.

  Rifle shots exploded loud.

  Eban stood fixed at his vantage point, staring through a hole in the metal screen.

  Red tracer bullets streaked up and out of sight overhead.

  He knew Alex and his father would be out looking for him.

  His mother moaning and wailing and clutching at her breast and sure her youngest was dead or dying.

  He had been unaware of his breath rising and falling until it froze in him.

  There was a desperate banging and clawing outside in the back alley where he entered and exited.

  At the very back door of McGrew’s Pub.

  The door had been nailed shut and reinforced, but it seemed to Eban like someone was coming, clawing straight through it.

  Thin, whining noises, weak and vulnerable and pathetic, seemed to juxtapose the explosive, violent sound of heavy blows and splintering wood.

  Eban knew at once that whoever was on the other side of the door was very afraid, and singularly focused on escape.