Freedom First, Peace Later

by Jeanette Hewitt

  Freedom First, Peace Later

  By: Jeanette Hewitt

  ISBN: 978-1-877546-39-6

  All rights reserved

  Copyright © Oct. 2009, David Bowman

  Cover Art Copyright © Oct 2009, Brightling Spur

  Bluewood Publishing Ltd

  Christchurch, 8441, New Zealand

  www.bluewoodpublishing.com

  Names, characters and incidents depicted in this book are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of the author or the publisher.

  No part of this e-book may be reproduced or shared by any electronic or mechanical means, including but not limited to printing, file sharing, and email, without prior written permission from Bluewood Publishing Ltd.

  Special Note: This book contains UK Spellings.

  Dedication

  This book is dedicated to the memory of my grandmothers; Daisy Wozny and Ivy Hewitt, both avid readers who would have enjoyed my tale.

  Huge thanks to my parents, Janet and Keith, who have encouraged me to follow my heart and have always supported me in any decisions I made. Thanks also to the support from my partner, Darren, and my family and friends.

  Thanks to all those people over the years who read my work and a final thank you to those who read this book and enjoy it – I ask for no more than that!

  Chapter One

  Stu

  He was a soldier who felt like he wasn’t sure what he was doing, that he had stumbled into this life on some form of pretence. Now, as he sat looking at the order he had received from his superiors, he felt that his last two years in the army had been spent playing at being a soldier, much like he had when he was a child. Oh, of course he had passed all of the tests – the physical and the mental, the exams and trials – but putting it into practice was a whole new ballgame, one that he had not yet had to face. It was not a great way to sell himself, he knew that, which is why he tried desperately to keep his head down and avoid looking ignorant. So far it had not been difficult; he had been based in London during his first year in the army. As a fresh faced eager sixteen-year-old it had been exciting, being away from home, just training, getting fit, learning the drill. The second year of his army career was spent in Bradford, which was great, because it meant that he could go home most weekends to see his family and mates.

  Now, he sat on his bunk and read through the papers in his hand. The bitter taste of dread filled his mouth, and for a moment he feared he was going to be sick. He closed his eyes and breathed deeply for a few minutes before he looked once again at the file, reading over and over again the papers that were responsible for his panic.

  A seven-month operational tour of Northern Ireland, which was to begin in the second week of December 1980, stationed in a camp in a town called Crossmaglen, about eighty miles south of Belfast.

  He didn’t know anything at all about the town, indeed, he had never even heard of Crossmaglen. Just the thought of Northern Ireland was enough to scare him – its reputation preceded it. When he had begun his army training the likelihood of being deployed to Northern Ireland was a high possibility and the conflict had been explained to Stu and his classmates. They were told in the briefest of terms that the two main communities’ were Catholics and Protestants. Most Catholics considered themselves to be Irish and were Nationalist in their political outlook, which meant they would like to see the whole nation, including Southern Ireland, reunited and independent of Britain. Most Protestants however, considered themselves to be British and were

  Unionist in their political views therefore, they wanted Northern Ireland to remain part of the United Kingdom.

  As Stu lay back on his bunk, he fingered the papers in his hand and breathed deeply. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad? After all, if he had not heard of Crossmaglen, perhaps it wasn’t in the forefront of the fighting that dominated the news so much.

  The door swung open and an older soldier, Richard Byrnes, strode in and over to his bunk.

  “Rick, you’ve spent time in Ireland. Do you know anything about Crossmaglen?” asked Stu. Rick, his back towards Stu, stiffened noticeably before he turned to face him.

  “Why?” he asked, frowning.

  Stu waved his papers in the air. “They’re sending me there…”

  Rick leaned back against his own bunk.

  “It’s rough man,” he said eventually. “It’s mainly Catholics in Crossmaglen and they hate us. They hate the Protestants too, which is why there’s not many living there, although there’s enough of them to spell constant trouble.”

  He held his hand out for Stu’s order papers and glanced through them. “The camp is small, it only takes about seventy soldiers.” He looked up at Stu, who was pale-faced and silent. “You’ll be fine mate.”

  Stu nodded and took back his papers, leaning back on his bunk. He had a feeling that the relatively easy life of London and Bradford would be a distant memory. He would spend three quarters of the next year in Northern Ireland, and when he returned to England he would most likely be a changed man. In Ireland he would face hatred, based purely on his nationality and his job. As a blue-collar white boy, he had never faced racism or prejudice. As an army soldier, he had never yet killed, and the question he asked himself was could he?

  * * * *

  Bronwyn

  Many miles away, across the Irish Sea, twenty-one year-old Bronwyn Ranger was getting ready for a night on the town. It was Saturday night, and even though there had been a curfew

  placed on her hometown of Crossmaglen, Bronwyn knew the places to go where folks scoffed at the word ‘curfew’. She was waiting for her boyfriend, Danny Adams, to collect her. She swore softly as she glanced at her watch and saw that he was already half an hour late. Turning to her mirror, she appraised her reflection. Bronwyn was tall, almost six feet, and with her long, black hair and dark brown eyes she had no trouble charming the men in the area. But, Danny Adams had been the prize that she had bagged after a lot of hard work. It had been difficult because he had known her since childhood, was her brother’s best friend in fact, and, being four years older than she, it had taken a lot of effort on Bronwyn’s part to get him to look in her direction. But finally she had snagged him, and now they had been together for a year. Suddenly her pager beeped and she snatched it up. Danny’s name flashed up on the screen and she cursed under her breath. It was a secret code that Bronwyn knew well and, picking up her leather jacket while mumbling crossly, she left the house. Walking down the street, she slowed her step and looked around. This town she had lived in her whole life had been the setting for a lot of heartache and fighting, and all of a sudden the troubles seemed to have taken their toll. She had never noticed before how grey it was around here. From the buildings right down to the cobbles there was an air of oppression that seemed to hang over the streets like a fog. Her footsteps echoed eerily, and though Bronwyn had never been one to think too long or hard about her future, for a moment the drab land that surrounded her caught up with her, and, for a single heartbeat, she was suddenly very frightened. Not in the physical sense of who might be lurking in the cold, grey streets, but of what was to become, not just of her, but of her family, her friends, and even her country. She shook her head, long hair flying as though it could shake off both the fog and the thoughts, and she picked up her step as she broke into a run down to the phone box at the bottom of her street.

  With a fervent glance around, she stepped inside and immediately put her hands on top of the telephone. Moving her fingers, she skimmed her hands lightly over the top of the phone, moved them down the sides and underneath. She t
urned in a 360-degree circle and, when she was satisfied she was alone, she squatted down and peered underneath the telephone that hung on the wall of the phone box. Her job done, she straightened up and leaned against the cold glass, watching her breath steam up the window while she waited, counting silently in her head. Before she reached thirty, the phone rang and she picked it up.

  “Dan?” she said.

  “Hey, babe, I’m not going to make it tonight,” said a voice from the other end.

  “Shit, Danny! One of these days I’m going to—” she broke off without finishing her sentence. There was no use threatening him. Danny knew as well as she did that she was never going to carry out any of her threats after she had tried so hard to get him in the first place.

  “I’ll make it up to you, babe,” he said.

  “I know,” she sighed and twisted the phone cord round her fingers. “Will I see you tomorrow?”

  “I’ll be along later tonight. I’ll let myself in. Oh, and Bronwyn?”

  “Yes?”

  “I was with you all night, yeah?”

  She sighed again and nodded into the phone. “It goes without saying, Dan.”

  After he had hung up, she stood in the phone box for a while before heaving the door open and looking out into the night. Now, her evening was ruined. She couldn’t even go out to meet her mates in case her alibi was ever needed and somebody was to see her without Danny.

  “Shit!” she hissed and stomped back along the cobbled street up to her house.

  Chapter Two

  Barry

  When Bronwyn had turned into the gate of her house, a young man stepped out of the shadows near the phone box and glanced up the street. He lit a cigarette, and for a moment the glow of the match illuminated his face in the moonlight. Anybody watching at that moment could not fail to notice that he was Bronwyn’s twin brother. Although they were fraternal twins, the physical similarities between Bronwyn and Barry Ranger were endless. Same jet-black hair, same height, same shape faces and features. But that was where the likeness ended. Barry was calm, while Bronwyn lived her life in the fast lane. Barry was quiet, while you always knew if Bronwyn was in the vicinity. But, different or not, they loved each other fiercely, and knew all of each other’s secrets. Or so they thought…Bronwyn had no idea that Barry was an agent for the British government, pretending to be an integral member of the I.R.A, while all the time reporting their plans and movements back to his bosses. Barry had only been an agent for a year, but he had been involved long before it became official. How it happened was a common enough story; a man had approached Barry while he had been hanging around the corner shop one day, back when Barry had only been seventeen. The man, who called himself Johnny, had dropped hints about the kind of work he was in, and how beneficial—money wise—it could be for Barry. Just one glance at Johnny had proven how profitable this job could be with his Rolex, his sharp designer suit, and the seemingly never ending bank roll of notes that appeared out of his pocket. Being brought up on the breadline, the thought of spare cash that he wouldn’t normally have made Barry agree to the requests that Johnny had. And oh, what easy money it had been at first. Listening to the men down at the social club or the guys that chatted easily about their work on the street corners where Barry spent most of his time. Nobody took any notice of a boy like him; being Bronwyn’s brother he was used to blending into the background, and he found he had a skill for picking up information that he could take back to Johnny.

  That was where it had started, and now Barry was in deep. As soon as he turned twenty, they offered him the role of an agent. There were many benefits, among them the money and easy hours. But, there was always the constant threat of being found out by his fellow I.R.A members. And Barry knew that if that day ever came, he would, quite literally, be a dead man. The group, or cell as it was commonly called, that Barry was a part of consisted of four other members. They were a mixed group. There was Andy, the cell leader, a girl in her mid twenties called Kay, and two men of around Barry’s age, Kian and Jones. Outside the I.R.A they were good men, men that Barry would have shared a pint with at the pub. But fraternising was not allowed. If they saw each other in the street they would not acknowledge each other, it was too dangerous. Another thing that Bronwyn was not aware that he knew was that her boyfriend Danny was a member of the I.R.A. This had been the biggest surprise going in undercover; a shocking discovery that had nearly made him quit the job as well. And the time that Barry had been dreading had arrived, his link to Danny had been discovered, and they had asked Barry to find out information about Danny’s plans, as well as keeping them informed about his own cell. So far, he had discovered nothing, which was good news for Danny and good news for him. For, if the truth be told, Barry didn’t want to have to tell on Danny. After growing up with him, and being in such close fraternity since he was now seeing Bronwyn, he loved Danny like a brother. And the realisation that he could not put off the inevitable forever was devastating.

  When Barry arrived home, he poked his head around the living room door and called out a greeting. His mother, Alia, and Bronwyn were huddled on the sofa watching the television.

  “Barry!” Alia waved him in. “Come sit with us and take a cup of tea, won’t you?”

  He shrugged and came into the lounge, throwing a halfhearted greeting at Bronwyn.

  “Hey, bro,” she said and turned back to the television.

  “No Danny tonight?” he asked.

  “He’s upstairs sleeping,” Bronwyn lied without batting an eyelid. “Don’t disturb him.”

  Barry gaped at his sister and her blatant lie. How did she have the nerve? She should have been an agent herself for sure; she could fool everyone with her acting abilities. Barry sat down heavily in the armchair opposite Bronwyn and studied her. For all of their life they had confided in each other and shared everything. Now, on the brink of adulthood, she knew nothing about him, and it saddened him.

  She sensed him staring and she turned to face him.

  “What?” she snapped.

  He stood up.

  “Nothing. I think I’ll turn in. Night all.”

  “Don’t wake Dan!” she called as he left the room.

  He didn’t reply.

  * * * *

  Rosina

  Across town, Bronwyn’s best friend, Rosina James, was also up to her eyeballs in a lie. For six months now she had been seeing a lad, Connor Dean. There was a huge problem with that since Rosina was Catholic and Connor was Protestant. They say you cannot help with whom you fall in love, and for these two it was certainly true. And now, as Rosina hurried through the dark streets, head low and glancing around lest anybody should see her, she wondered whether she was doing the right thing.

  “But you always wonder that,” she muttered to herself as she turned down an alley to cut through to the Protestant side of town. “And you keep on bloody doing it anyway.”

  She hated walking through these streets alone to meet him, but would never tell Connor how much she dreaded the walk to his side of town. It always started when she left her house. She felt that with every step she took, one more person looked out of their window or poked their head out of their front door, until eventually it seemed that the whole of her neighbourhood were falling into step behind her, knowing what she was doing, where she was going, who she was seeing. When she reached Connor, invariably she was a nervous wreck, and she had always convinced herself that this was it, this was the last time. But then she would see him – Connor standing in the shadows, his handsome face half hidden in the moonlight, seemingly lost in his own thoughts, until she made her presence known and then his face would light up at the sight of her, and she knew never, ever could she leave him, no matter what the risks.

  It happened now, as she came out onto Grosvenor Street and saw him sitting on the wall of one of the back gardens. He jumped down and waved and she stepped up her pace and waved back, her heart beating ever faster and a ridiculous grin on her face. Suddenly, she sto
pped. Three men had appeared out of the shadows behind Connor. They wore black ski masks and she knew, even though she couldn’t identify them, that they were from her side of town. Before Connor even realised that they were there, she knew what was going to happen.

  She stalled; her whole body froze for a split second, as the dangers of intervening splintered through her brain, before her heart kick-started her legs into gear and she broke into a run.

  “No!” She yelled and a look of confusion came over Connor’s face before it was replaced by shock, then anger as he was knocked to the ground by one of the men. The third man ran towards Rosina and, as she attempted to dodge past him, he caught hold of her and swung her around to hold her in a vice-like grip as she cried out in fear.

  “You watch this, Rosina James, and then you tell me if you wanna get involved with Protestant pig shit again,” he breathed into her ear and gripped her chin, forcing her to watch the spectacle unfolding in front of her.

  “Face down!” yelled the man holding Connor, and Rosina moaned in helpless terror as she saw the shotgun in his hand.

  A dreadful howl rang through the silent night as a bullet ripped through the back of Connor’s knee. Rosina honestly didn’t know if it were her or Connor who had screamed so terribly.

  “You fuckin’ leave our lasses alone,” hissed the man into Connor’s ear. He stood up, and turned towards Rosina.

  “Keep a hold of her,” he said menacingly and aimed a kick at Connor’s inert body.

  “Please, stop,” sobbed Rosina and, twisting out of the man’s grasp, she aimed her foot high like Bronwyn had taught her, catching the lad where it hurt him most with her boot. He released his grip on her as he doubled over in pain, and, seeing her window of opportunity, she sprinted off down the street. She heard a yell and cursing behind her, but it only spurred her on as she ripped through the gardens and back alleys she had come to know so well. Over garden walls she leapt, not daring to stop, almost feeling the breath of her pursuers on the back of her neck, tearing through the washing that hung on the lines, not caring when she got caught up and it trailed across the gardens behind her. She was literally running for her life.