The thought had occurred to her as well and she nodded, but inside she was screaming. She had to go out, if she didn’t put her plan into motion today she would start to think more rationally about it and lose her nerve.
“I know, I thought about it too. Let me just get the milk off the step and you can make me my tea, okay?”
Connor glanced down at the tea he had made. In his foggy state of mind, he hadn’t even thought about milk. He gave a nervous laugh and turned back to the sink. When Rosina opened the door she looked out into the street and closed the door quietly behind her. Then, as fast as she could, she ran down the street towards the town centre.
* * * *
The train journey to Banbridge was fraught with tension for Alia and Bronwyn. As they traveled north towards Belfast, Bronwyn stared out the window and watched the towns as they rolled past. She was finding it hard to believe where they were going; to see Barry, in a mental institute. It somehow didn’t seem real. A thought struck her and she turned to Alia.
“Ma, what if it’s hereditary?”
Alia, on the verge of dropping off, snapped her head up and looked at Bronwyn.
“What?”
“This thing, whatever’s wrong with Barry, what if I could get it too?” Bronwyn was worried now and it showed on her face.
“It’s not, you’re fine, honest,” replied Alia.
Bronwyn turned back to the window. Alia couldn’t know that, but what else would she say?
Eventually they arrived at the town of Banbridge, and as they stood on the platform, they looked around for a taxi. Alia flagged one down and as they clambered in and told the driver their destination, Bronwyn saw the pitying look the cabbie gave them in his mirror. The drive was silent, and when they arrived, Bronwyn got out of the car and looked up at the huge building that was Banbridge House. It was a sobering sight, huge, grey, and set in what seemed like acres of land. It looked as depressing as Bronwyn had imagined. Few people were outside on the bitter December morning and, bracing themselves against the cold, Alia and Bronwyn hurried up to the front entrance. The first thing that Bronwyn noticed was the safety measures; glass screens around the reception desk, double locked doors that had security number pads above each door handle, and the guards that walked the corridors, burly looking men that could easily pass for night club bouncers. It was no surprise that few people ever left this place; there was certainly no chance of escape.
When the doctor treating Barry came to see them, he advised them that the rules of the house for new residents were only one visitor at a time.
“You go in first, Ma,” said Bronwyn.
Alia gave Bronwyn’s arm a grateful squeeze and followed the doctor down the hall. Bronwyn wandered outside and sat on a bench near the reception area. She hadn’t wanted to be the first to see Barry; if the truth were told, she was fearful of what she might find. Was he in a padded cell? A straightjacket maybe? Or doped up to the eyeballs, sitting at a table and dribbling, incoherent and unable to recognise her. For someone who had been her other half her whole life, it was a frightening thought. For if she lost Barry, her twin, it would be like losing a piece of herself. Bronwyn turned her thoughts away from Barry and wondered what was happening with Danny’s body. She wondered whether to tell Barry that his best friend was dead and decided against it; it would probably be a major setback, perhaps tip him over the edge, and she didn’t want to be responsible for that. Memories of the night before came rushing back and she put her head in her hands. Like jet lag, it had suddenly crept up on her how serious the events had been; how she, Rosina, and Connor could have easily died out there.
Connor.
Like an angel’s breath, his name whispered in her mind and she tried to push thoughts of him away. What was it about him anyway, that had her so hooked? He was everything in a man that she never went for; safe, reliable, loving, thoughtful…the list was endless. Before she could sink further into her reverie, Alia came out of the doors and Bronwyn stood up to meet her.
“He’s asking for you,” Alia said, and noting Bronwyn’s alarmed expression she took her daughters hand. “It’s okay, he’s doing all right.”
The doctor, waiting in reception, beckoned her over and as they walked down the hallway Bronwyn felt her heart thudding harder with each step she took. The doctor stopped at a door and showed Bronwyn through.
It was not a padded cell, there was no straightjacket, and Barry, sitting at a table, looked more relaxed than she had seen him in weeks. He stood up when he saw her and all of her concerns and fears washed away. She ran to him and hugged him tight.
“I was so worried about you!” she said, studying the bandages that were bound around his wrists. “Are you going to be okay?”
He pulled her over to the couch and sat her down. His eyes were eager and bright and she took his hands between hers.
“I’m fine, but Bronwyn, I need to tell you something. It’s very important, and it’s part of the reason I’m here,” his voice was loaded with urgency and she nodded to show that she was listening.
“I’ve had a nervous breakdown. I was on the verge of something far bigger than that but, now that I’m here, I’m going to be okay. There were reasons for me being like this, and I’m going to explain them to you because I don’t want you to be in any danger. You’re smart, Bron, and I need you to help me to work out what to do next.”
Eyes wide, Bronwyn glanced back towards the door to make sure the doctor had left them alone. The room was empty, except for the two of them.
“Go on,” she said.
“You know I was a member of the I.R.A, well, I was actually there undercover. I’ve been an agent for the British government for nearly a year now. My job was to collect any information about the I.R.A’s plans and take it back to my people, who would then use this information to stop attacks and the like. But it was getting harder, and I’m pretty sure that when I decided to quit both
organisations I had been found out. That’s why I’m here, it got too much and it nearly tipped me over the edge.”
Bronwyn’s eyes were wide and she stared at Barry in shock.
“But, I’d have known!” she spluttered.
“No, you didn’t. Nobody could know, not you, or Ma, or anyone. The thing is, Bronwyn, now that the I.R.A know about me, it could put anyone around me in danger, and that includes Danny.”
At the mention of his name, Bronwyn looked sharply up. “What?”
“They might think he was in on it. They know that he’s a close friend and about his connection to you. If they suspect any involvement, they’ll go after him now and ask questions later.”
“Was Danny an agent, too?” Bronwyn asked, pale faced.
Barry shook his head impatiently.
“No, he was for real but they don’t know that. They’ll be suspicious of anyone linked to me.”
Barry noticed that Bronwyn was crying and he looked alarmed. “Hey? What’s wrong?”
“Oh, Barry, I wasn’t going to tell you…” she tried to choke back her tears but failed.
“What?” Barry paled considerably. “What is it?”
“Danny’s dead,” she whispered.
Barry turned away and stared out of the window.
“So, they got to him already,” he said quietly.
“Christ, no, it was nothing to do with that,” Bronwyn said. “I guess I should tell you the whole story, but it’s between you and me okay? If it gets out that I was there when it happened, then I’m dead too.”
She told Barry the tale of the night before, her connection with Stu and her instinct to run into the camp when the first bombs had exploded. When he learned that Stu had shot Danny to save Bronwyn, the first tears fell.
“Jesus, how did it come to this?” he said softly.
Bronwyn had stood up and was pacing the room. Her priority now lay with Barry and her need to protect him. She knew what would happen to him if he returned to Crossmaglen; he would just be another sad story that might one
day be talked about, like Connor’s shooting or Danny’s untimely demise. The death list went on forever and, in Northern Ireland, more names got added to it every day.
“How long are they keeping you here?” she asked suddenly.
Barry shrugged.
“They want to do a few more tests because of the palpitations I’ve been having, make sure I get some rest, and see if they can’t stabilise my sleeping as well. Why?”
Bronwyn came over and sat back down next to him.
“I’m gonna put the word around that you’re here. If you’re in Banbridge, nobody will touch you, and we’ll keep it that way until we can figure out what to do next.” She looked at him and said fiercely, “You won’t be another statistic, I won’t have it.”
Barry nodded, and for a while they sat together, neither saying anything until Barry spoke up.
“Ma told me about her friend,” said Barry. “Cally? Yes, that was her name. I promise you this family won’t end up torn apart like that. Don’t you worry about me, Bronwyn. My head is in better shape than everyone thinks.”
“I should go.” Bronwyn stood up and before she left she hugged Barry tightly. “I’m glad you’re on the mend.”
Barry buried his head in Bronwyn’s shoulder and blinked back tears.
“Love you, sis,” he murmured as they finally separated.
As she left, Barry walked over to the window and watched her as she exited the building and ran over to their mother. Barry felt a huge sadness descend upon him as he watched them go. He wished he had been able to say goodbye properly because, as far as Barry was concerned, it was probably the last time he would see his mother and sister for a very long time indeed.
When Rosina came home the house was in darkness and she wondered where Mary and Connor were. The note on the kitchen table told her; Connor had taken Mary to her friend Meg’s house where he had insisted she stay for the time being. According to the note, he would be back about seven, after making sure she had settled in. She glanced at the clock and saw it was just after five; no time to waste then.
She shrugged off her coat and ran upstairs to the bedroom, where she emptied the contents of her carrier bag onto the bed and sorted through them. She stood the bottle of water she had bought on the bedside table and hurriedly changed into her pajamas. That done, she crawled into bed, poured a glass of water and took out the letter she had spent most of the day writing. It was already in an envelope with Connor’s name on the front, and she propped it up against the lamp. Next, slowly and methodically, she took the five packets of paracetamol tablets she had bought and
counted out fifty of them. Although she had a total of one hundred twenty-five tablets, Rosina reckoned fifty would be enough.
This little pile of paraphernalia—the tablets, the letter, and the bottled water—had been how Rosina had spent her last day.
She knew that chemists would only sell so many packets of painkillers in one go to a customer, so she had visited five pharmacies around Crossmaglen to purchase her desired amount. Then, walking aimlessly, she had planned her own death with meticulous precision. How many pills, that was the question? Not enough and she might just wake up in the morning with something that felt like a stinking hangover. Too many and she might vomit them back up before they could work. She finally decided on fifty, and if they weren’t working she had another seventy-five as back up. The letter, ah, now that had not been so easy. How did one explain to their nearest and dearest that they had simply lost the desire to live? So, all afternoon she had sat in the Cross Café, where she had gone for breakfast with Mary and drank endless cups of coffee, as she composed her final letter. Eventually she had finished, and now she just had to take those pills, one by one until she drifted off to sleep and wouldn’t have to wake up to the nightmare that had become her life. Rosina frowned as she looked at the clock. It was now nearing five thirty, and the last thing she wanted was for Connor to arrive home early and rush her to the hospital; waking up with her stomach pumped would be too much to bear.
Taking a deep breath Rosina took the first pill and swallowed. Then another…three, four, five, six. The seventh pill made her gag and she threw back more water. Eight, nine, ten, eleven. On the eighteenth pill she had a moment of panic, asking herself, Is this what I really want? Then she closed her eyes and pictured Kathleen, envisioned her the last time she had seen her in the kitchen, calling her devil’s spawn and admitting she had never loved her daughter. It was enough to spur her on. Nineteen, twenty, twenty-one…
After pill number forty-six, Rosina couldn’t face swallowing any more. Her throat felt raw, so she slipped down beneath the covers and turned on her side to look at the clock. The digits were fuzzy, but she thought it said six-fifteen. She turned back over to stare up at the ceiling. How will it be when I die? I don’t want Connor to come in and see me with my eyes rolled back in my head, all glassy eyed and looking stoned.
With that thought, Rosina reached out and pulled the quilt over her head, so none of her could be seen. It was dark now, and she couldn’t work out if it was because she was under the quilt or
because her eyes were closed. Now her eyes were heavy, the pills were winning and everything was getting hazy. As she slipped under she let out a little cry, “Connor…”
Around ten minutes later, Jason Brady stormed up the street towards Connor Dean’s home. He was alone, except for his Thompson sub-machine gun, and that was the way he preferred it. If there was a job that needed doing, trust nobody but yourself. Mickey had come through with the goods; he had confirmed that it had been Connor Dean who had witnessed the attack on the Crossmaglen army barracks and, once he had received verification, it was all Jason needed. On his journey on foot from his house, he hadn’t met anyone, and now he had arrived. He looked at the house and saw a lamp in the upstairs window. Before he went inside, he circled the perimeter of the house, peering in all of the windows. Well, if anyone else was in there with the Prod, then they would get it too. He marched up to the front door and leaned back on one leg, aiming his other to give the door a good kick. The door went flying inwards. Once in, he knew he had no time to waste and he sprinted upstairs, walked the length of the landing, kicking in all of the doors as he went. The final door he opened was the room at the front of the house, where he had seen the light on, and as he towered in the doorway he laughed aloud at what he presumed was Connor hiding under the bedclothes.
“Fucking pussy,” he said and opened fire.
* * * *
On the main road that led into Protestant territory was a turning that the locals called The Rise. It was a hill and halfway up, anybody travelling, either by foot or by car, could look down onto the houses that nestled together. Connor did this now, on his return from taking his mother to Meg’s house. After the mile or so he had walked, he paused on The Rise to look down at his house as he always did when taking this route home. As he stood and looked at his house, he was pleased to see the soft glow of the lamp in the bedroom that Rosina had claimed as her own. He was glad she was home; he had been worried when she had gone off this morning on her own. As he was just about to resume his walk he stopped and glanced back down to his house as a flash of light caught his eye. He squinted and looked carefully; there it was again!
Suddenly, he knew. The illumination in the bedroom window, it was just like he had seen in the barracks the night before.
It was machine gun fire.
“Fuck, no! Christ, no!” he shouted, and broke into a run. It was another ten-minute walk from The Rise to his house, but Connor broke the speed record as he sprinted along, not noticing when he once again pulled the stitches and blood trickled down his leg.
The front door stood open and little wisps of smoke curled down from upstairs. Connor didn’t even stop to think somebody could still be in his house. He hurtled upstairs and into Rosina’s bedroom, and the sight that met him made him slump to the floor. The bed—the big double bed that Rosina had loved—was filled with bloodstained bull
et holes. Noting that the room was empty except for him, Connor crawled over to the bed and, whimpering, he pulled away the quilt.
Rosina lay underneath it, quite dead in her pink pajamas that were now stained an ugly red colour. He let go of the quilt and turned away, putting his hands to his head and pulling his hair. His face contorted with pain as he glanced back towards Rosina. He let out a yell of pure anguish. On his hands and knees, Connor edged back to Rosina and gathered her up in his arms. He buried his face in her hair and sobbed out her name, over and over. As he held her, he noticed a heap of bottles that lay half-hidden under the bed and, still holding Rosina with one arm, he leaned down and knocked them out so he could see better. Paracetamol bottles, five in all, which certainly hadn’t been there that morning. Carefully laying Rosina back down on the bed, he bent down to pick them up when the envelope on the bedside table caught his eye. It was addressed to him and he picked it up, trying not to dirty it with his bloodstained hands. Carefully, he opened it, and as he read it, he slumped back against the bed.
Dear Connor,
It’s a coward’s way out I know, but I can see nothing else in my future except the image of who I am and where I come from. Even you, who made me happier than I ever deserved or expected, cannot take away what I have become since I found out the truth. I love you so much that I’m letting you go.
I only ask that you do the same for me.
Love…Forever,
Rosina
Connor let the letter drop from his hands and watched it as it landed amongst the empty pill bottles.
“She was already dying!” he whispered, and then, louder. “She was already dying!”
He began to chortle, not through humour or mirth, but with sadness and incredulity at the irony of it. And the harder he laughed, the more hysterical his laughter became. It was a long time later, hours, in fact, when he stopped laughing and the full extent of what had happened hit him.
Freedom First, Peace Later Page 15
