by Tom Bradby
He checked that he had his keys and then walked back into the kitchen to check that he hadn’t left the cooker on – which he hadn’t used since last night anyway. Finally he shut the door behind him.
It was windier this side of the house and he felt the cold. The snow was blowing in his face as he walked down to the traffic lights. The cars were moving slowly, their windscreen wipers working to keep the snow clear. Ryan once again found himself thinking about the quality of the cars. Some people here were doing very nicely.
He felt good, buoyant, and he was walking quite fast. The snowflakes were small and as he walked down Balmoral they began to gather on the front of his jacket. It reminded him of Christmas holidays in the Alps a long time ago and it was a comfortable feeling.
But fifty yards further on, it began to worry him. He looked down at the jacket again and wondered if it was simply too new. He hadn’t noticed before and he cursed himself for not looking in a mirror. He slowed. Too new? They weren’t all poor, these people.
He stopped. There was a development of new houses on the left of him, a comfortable-looking ‘Brookside’. He turned round and very slowly began to head back. Indecision. He thought about what else he could wear. Realistically, too cold to be out in a sweater, and anyway, the Browning might easily show then. He thought the truth was that the sensible thing was to abandon this.
He sauntered slowly homewards for a few more minutes and then suddenly spun round and began striding out again. Fuck it, he thought. Jenkins would have gone home, but then Jenkins wouldn’t have been doing it in the first place.
It was a longer walk than he’d expected down to the top of the Lisburn Road. He was walking on the left-hand pavement and he almost crossed over to the newsagent at the bottom end of Balmoral to buy some cigarettes, but decided that would only be a delaying tactic.
He drew level with the King’s Hall and walked under the road bridge. He was walking slower now and, to him, this point marked the end of middle-class south Belfast, though in fact it continued for another hundred yards or so. Musgrave Park was on his left and he watched the snow drifting across it. He looked down. It was settling in the corner of the wall by his feet. A bus hurtled past him and he realized he was close to the edge of the road.
He came to the roundabout at the end of Balmoral and had to run to get to the other side. The security barriers were open today. He put his head down and tried to walk at an even pace.
There was a garage on his left, another on the right. Two young men walked past him, talking. They didn’t appear to take any notice. He looked up. He was approaching another roundabout and he could see a Tricolour flying from a rooftop in the distance. The road was terribly familiar.
As he turned into Andersonstown Road he could feel the adrenalin in his bloodstream, and he breathed in deeply to try and calm his nerves. He repeated what he’d told himself in the house. There is no good reason …
Twenty more paces and he could hardly believe his eyes. He swore quietly to himself and seriously considered turning back. That would be asking for trouble. He walked on, with his head down, hoping. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see the man coming towards him, opening his notepad.
‘Excuse me, sir … EXCUSE ME.’
He had to stop.
‘Could I just ask you where you are going, sir?’
Ryan kept his voice calm. He managed a smile. ‘I’m just off to the Sinn Féin press office.’ He watched the man’s uncertainty as he heard the accent. A different kettle of fish altogether.
‘Do you have any ID, sir?’ The man’s accent was southern English. Ryan saw the tell-tale parachute emblem on his arm.
Ryan smiled again. ‘Sorry, I don’t, actually – I was just looking for my wallet a few minutes ago, but I’ve left it at the hotel.’
The soldier seemed uncertain of what to do. Ryan watched him open the notepad. ‘Better just take your name, sir.’
‘David Ryan. Sunday Telegraph. Over to do a feature. Staying at the Europa Hotel.’
The soldier wrote it down methodically and looked up the street. The patrol was moving on. He snapped the notepad shut. ‘Thank you, sir. Good luck.’
Ryan walked on twenty yards and then turned briefly to watch them go. It was oddly comforting to know they weren’t far away, though he knew that was a stupid thought.
He crossed the road before he got to the Felon’s club and slowed as he approached the roundabout. An elderly woman was leaving the cemetery and she nodded a greeting. He smiled and then walked in. The snow had petered out and a few rays of sunlight were beginning to break through the clouds, catching the white gravestones. He walked up a tiny slope and then the cemetery was spread out before him. He felt awed, somehow, by his own presence here more than anything else. It was bigger than it seemed on television, stretching down the hill towards the M1, with Belfast spread out across the horizon, the sky there streaked now with orange and blue, behind the big yellow cranes. There were a few figures in the distance and he stopped for a moment to get his bearings. He knew the Republican plot was down to the right and he knew the spot he was looking for was close to that – close to, but not a part of. He began to walk slowly, his progress through the gravestones made easier by the fact that the ground was frozen. He could hear the sound of his boots on the solid earth.
It took him perhaps ten or twenty minutes, but eventually he found it.
Colette thought the weather was turning. She enjoyed the brief rays of sun on her face. The cemetery was quiet and peaceful and she walked down through the gravestones lost in thought.
She felt as though she were on a different planet. She couldn’t think straight.
She told herself the boy was going to die. He was going to die.
She walked on down past the rows of graves to the bottom of the path, where a neat plot was surrounded by a freshly painted green fence. It was raised a foot or so above the ground and had a short path running through its centre, lined on either side with small fir trees. There were a number of headstones, all listing the names of the IRA volunteers who had died ‘in action’. There were fresh flowers on most of the graves, some of them catching in the wind, their vases tilting and creaking eerily.
As she stepped onto the plot, she noticed a man crouched over a gravestone about 20 yards away. There was something familiar about the figure that she couldn’t place. She watched for a second, but couldn’t see his face, and so proceeded into the Republican plot.
She crouched down beside one of the headstones. The inscription read, ‘David McGraw. Executed by the SAS. Coalisland, 28 February 1992.’
She laid down the flowers, and, as she looked at her reflection in the polished marble, she felt a sense of loneliness and isolation. She spoke quietly to him. ‘I’m sorry, Davey my love. I hope you understand. I know you probably don’t. I know it wouldn’t have been your way, but … well, we’ve got to move on, don’t we? Got to think of the future.’
She sat back and forced herself to think of Davey, her husband, and to visualize his face.
Sometimes, now, it was so hard to picture him.
She almost smiled. ‘They never found your tout, did they, love? Never found the one that did for you. Probably still looking for the bastard.’
She looked up and saw him. He was right there, not 10 yards away, walking alongside the plot. She could scarcely believe it. She felt a surge of anger. He had his head down and, for the first few seconds, he didn’t see her. Then he was next to her, stopped dead and staring at her with what looked like genuine surprise in his eyes.
For a split second they both stood still. She reacted first. ‘You’ve been following me!’ There was anger in her voice.
He didn’t respond.
‘For Christ’s sake. You’ve been following me!’
He seemed to recover. ‘Keep your voice down, Colette.’
She felt her anger deflating. She felt a sense of sudden, inexplicable warmth at the use of her Christian name.
�
��What are you doing here?’ she asked.
‘Quietly—’ He took a step forward, closing the gap between them, his knee now resting against the small green fence.
‘Why were you following me?’
‘I wasn’t following you.’
There was a firmness and strength to his voice. She was confused. ‘What are you doing here?’ she asked quietly.
She thought he was going to say, ‘None of your business,’ but he exhaled audibly and said simply, ‘I’ll be seeing you. Keep in touch.’
He turned and walked about 5 yards – to the end of the plot – then he stopped and came back again. He walked to the fence and pushed his face towards her. She saw intensity, determination, tension.
‘Be careful, Colette. You understand me. Be careful, be bloody careful – and watch Gerry. We have to know what he’s doing. The next meeting as planned.’
He was gone before she could say anything and she wondered if she should follow. What did he mean? What in the hell did he mean? She looked round the graveyard, but could see no-one. She watched him go, walking fast, his long legs driving him up the slope. Be careful. Be bloody careful. What was that supposed to mean? And why were they so obsessed with Gerry?
He’d called her Colette.
She tore her eyes away from him and looked down at the grave, forcing herself to try to think of Davey. How dare he come here, she thought. How dare he violate this place. She tried to conjure up a mental image of Davey’s face, but couldn’t. When she looked up again, he had gone.
For a few minutes she stood there in silence, her mind swimming. Then something occurred to her and she walked back out of the Republican plot and over to the area where she had originally seen the figure crouching. Had that been him? Surely it had. She walked along the rows of the dead. Rafferty. Walshe. Downes. She took a step back again. Walshe? She read the headstone and could hardly believe it.
She walked back slowly to Davey’s grave and knelt down in front of it, her mind racing. What did it mean? Everything and nothing. She didn’t move.
Her thoughts drifted.
The hand on her shoulder startled her. ‘I thought I’d find you here, love.’
Her mother was smiling kindly. Colette leaped to her feet, her voice harsh. ‘How long have you been here?’
She saw the shock and surprise register on her mother’s face. ‘I’m sorry, love. I arrived just … just this second.’
Colette felt suddenly embarrassed. She didn’t think her mother would have seen anything. She dropped her gaze and muttered an apology. ‘I’m sorry. You just startled me, that’s all.’
She squatted down again to rearrange the flowers and her mother did the same beside her. Even out here in the open air Colette recognized her mother’s scent. It was the comforting smell of her childhood. They crouched together in silence, staring at Davey’s headstone.
After a while, they stood. Ma had two bunches of flowers in her hand and Colette knew what that meant. She followed her mother to the other side of the cemetery and they both knelt in front of her father’s gravestone. Then they walked the last few yards – to a small grave at the very end. Ma bent her head in prayer and Colette looked at the inscription: ‘Sean McVeigh. Murdered by Crown Forces, aged eleven …’
The grave was so well kept. She tried to focus her mind on her baby brother and the horror of that day. She shivered at the memory. So long ago and yet neither forgiven nor forgotten. She thought of what Gerry had said. It was so cruel that this of all things should prove divisive.
That’s what all this peace talk is doing, she thought. Our memories – our tragedies – are dividing us.
She looked at her mother. Despite the tragedy and sadness, despite the basic bloody harshness of their lives, Colette felt a sudden, overwhelming surge of gratitude for everything her mother had done and everything she was: tolerant, strong, principled. She was about to say something when she suddenly imagined what she would feel if Ma was here in this graveyard, dead and buried. The thought frightened her. One of us has to go first, she thought, and the only consolation is that it will probably be me.
Eventually they stood and walked up to the gate in silence. They turned right onto the Falls Road and began walking home. The streets were crowded, families taking advantage of the bright morning to finish off their Christmas shopping. Colette had Sean in her mind now – and Ryan, the two connected. She wanted to say, ‘Bastard.’ What in the hell did he mean anyway? Be careful. Be bloody careful.
Ma spoke quietly. ‘Will you be at home for Christmas?’
It hadn’t crossed Colette’s mind. ‘Christmas. Christ! I haven’t even got any presents. I was going to go shopping in London…’
‘I’ve brought presents for the kids. Nothing much, but I think it’s what they want.’
Colette looked down at her feet. ‘Thanks, Ma. I’m sorry.’
They were passing the Falls Park now and the iron fence shook as a football hit the top edge of it and bounced back towards the makeshift goal. Colette felt the need to continue. ‘I know I’ve not been great with the kids.’
Her mother looked at her. ‘You were better before Davey died.’
It was a statement of fact and Colette didn’t reply. As if they’d reached a silent, telepathic agreement, they turned into the park and sat down on the nearest bench. Ma touched her shoulder. ‘It’s your life.’
Colette noticed her mother’s hair was completely grey now. ‘I know.’
‘But I think you must be careful. Mark has to go to school next year and we haven’t talked—’
‘I know, Ma.’ Colette could hear the tension in her own voice.
‘You’ve got to think about it. They’re not happy.’
‘I know.’
‘And it’s no use blaming it on me.’
Colette looked at her mother and patted her leg. ‘I’m sorry. I know what you’re saying. I am trying.’
Ma was staring into the middle distance. ‘You’re always finding fault with me. Everybody seems to be these days.’
They sat in silence for a while watching the young boys tearing around their makeshift football pitch.
‘What’s happening with the war?’
Colette was not surprised. Her mother always asked so many questions. ‘I don’t know, Ma.’ She paused. ‘You’d better ask Gerry – or Paddy. They know. I’m just back.’
‘Is it over?’
Colette sat for a few moments, staring ahead, rubbing her hands and pushing her knees together to keep out the cold.
‘I don’t know, Ma, I really don’t. I don’t think it’s over, but … there’s a strange atmosphere at the moment and nobody seems to know what’s going on. I don’t, anyway. Gerry knows, I think. He – and maybe some others – have lost faith in the leadership and think they’re preparing for a sell-out, without any guarantees from the Brits.’
Her mother sat neatly, her old, battered white handbag placed firmly in the middle of her lap. She looked at her daughter with tired eyes. ‘It’s time for it to end. It’s gone on too long already.’
An idea struck Colette and she looked at her watch. ‘Ma, do you mind if I run? We’ll talk later, but there’s something I’ve got to do before picking up the kids.’
Colette did run – for the first few hundred yards anyway. Then she hailed a black cab and got in for the journey down the Falls to the city centre. Even in here, everyone was talking about peace – two middle-aged women, one with a young boy. Colette said with a smile, ‘I’ll believe it when I see it.’
She looked at her watch as she walked down the pedestrian precinct and realized this would be tight.
She took the stairs up to Humanities three at a time.
The room was uncomfortably familiar. In her intelligence-gathering days she’d come here often. Faces in newspaper cuttings of men now dead.
She asked the woman behind the counter for the Belfast Telegraph for July and August 1990 and, rather puzzlingly, received two small cardboard boxes. Th
e woman saw her confusion and said, ‘It’s all on microfiche now, I’m afraid.’
She struggled with the machine – it seemed needlessly complicated – and had to get the woman over to explain it to her. She got the hang of putting it on the reels, but couldn’t control the fast-forward lever, which spun the pages past at the rate of about ten per second unless it was tweaked ever so gently.
Finally she mastered it. It was slow going because they included every edition. She tried September and almost yelped out loud as she found the trial. It took another ten minutes to find his evidence and, when she got to the day, she sat and stared. There was a picture of him in the back of the car. He was trying to shield his face from view. He didn’t look frightened. More, kind of…
‘Hello, Colette.’
She felt a chill sweep over her as she heard Mulgrew’s voice and then felt the adrenalin in her body. Adrenalin and fear. She could feel the sweat breaking through her skin. She looked at him. ‘Hello, Martin.’
She had an almost irresistible urge to push the dial, but she restrained herself. ‘What are you doing here?’ she heard herself ask.
He smiled, his face right in hers. ‘Come here all the time. You should know that.’
He put his hand on her shoulder, shifted to the right and bent down to look at the screen. ‘”Man was running away, claims platoon commander.”’ He paused and then read part of the text beneath the headline. ‘“Relatives of Declan Walshe had to be escorted from the court room today after the platoon commander of the soldiers charged with murdering him told the court that their son had been running away from the patrol at the time of his death. Mr Walshe’s mother screamed, ‘Bastard!’, from the public gallery…” ’ Mulgrew paused. Colette’s mind was racing as he went on: ‘ “Lieutenant Ryan told the court his soldiers had three times demanded that Mr Walshe stop, before chasing him down the street and opening fire. Corporals Lawson and Jones are on trial for the murder of Mr Walshe in June of last year …” ’
