Bury the Living (Revolutionary #1)

by Jodi McIsaac

  Also by Jodi McIsaac

  The Thin Veil Series

  Through the Door

  Into the Fire

  Among the Unseen

  Beyond the Pale: A Thin Veil Novella

  A Cure for Madness

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Text copyright © 2016 Jodi McIsaac

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  Published by 47North, Seattle

  www.apub.com

  Amazon, the Amazon logo, and 47North are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.

  ISBN-13: 9781503935518

  ISBN-10: 1503935515

  Cover design by Rachel Adam

  for Mike

  Contents

  Abbreviations and Terms

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Historical Note

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Abbreviations and Terms

  Free State—The term for semiautonomous Ireland from 1922 to 1937, before a full republic was declared. Does not include the six counties of Northern Ireland.

  IRA—Irish Republican Army

  Irregulars—derogatory term for supporters of an Irish republic during the Civil War

  NDU—North Dublin Union

  PIRA—Provisional Irish Republican Army (active in Northern Ireland 1969–2005)

  Provos—slang for Provisional Irish Republican Army

  RUC—Royal Ulster Constabulary, the British-controlled police force in Northern Ireland from 1922 to 2001

  UDA—Ulster Defense Association, a Protestant paramilitary organization in Northern Ireland

  Chapter One

  Belfast, 1990

  When she was fifteen years old, a simple knock on the door changed Nora O’Reilly’s life—again. The knock was hard and impatient, like the people in her neighborhood. Nora ignored it. Maybe, just this once, her mother would rouse herself off the sofa. But no. Her mother hadn’t answered the door since the day Nora’s father had done so and been thanked for his trouble with a bullet through the eye. Nora’s small red footprints had tracked across the beige linoleum. The Saint Brigid’s cross that had hung over the doorway for as long as Nora could remember had failed in its promise to protect them.

  Ten years had passed, and now the linoleum was more gray than beige. Nora slipped to the front window and peered out. It was the middle of the afternoon; she’d only just arrived home from school. There’d been no warning of a raid—no banging of dustbin lids on the sidewalks to announce that the peelers had dared venture into Andersonstown. Two men she didn’t recognize stood on her doorstep. They must have been looking for Eamon.

  Nora opened the door a crack. The first man jammed his black boot into the opening. Ballix. Adrenaline flooded her body. She shoved the door against his foot, berating her stupidity. What had she been thinking? What if these men were Prods, come to finish off the rest of them?

  “Relax, kid. We just want to talk.” The man forced the door open farther. “You Nora O’Reilly?”

  “Depends on who’s asking. Who’re you?” He had bottlebrush hair and wore a brown leather bomber jacket. He looked old enough to be her father, only her father had been wiry, and this man looked like a rugby fullback. His companion had a thin, sharp face and kept looking over his shoulder.

  “Doesn’t matter. We’ve been told to fetch you.”

  “Fetch me where?” Nora tried to push the door closed again, her mind lurching. Whoever these men were, she wasn’t going anywhere with them.

  “The commanding officer of West Battalion has a few questions about your extracurricular activities. C’mon now. Let’s go without a fight.”

  Nora’s fear turned to dread. “Like hell I’m going with youse.” She stamped on his foot, but he responded by putting his shoulder to the door and sending it flying. Nora staggered backward, colliding with the coatrack.

  Shite, shite, shite. She scrabbled to her feet. She’d almost rather be caught by the Brits. The Provisional IRA didn’t tolerate petty crime in their area, and they certainly didn’t believe in such luxuries as courts and trials.

  “Ma! Ma!” she screamed. Her mother would know these men; Nora’s father had been a PIRA member from the beginning.

  Her mother came padding into the hall, still in her dressing gown, weaving slightly, a glass of whiskey clutched in her hand. “Paddy Sullivan, what is the meaning of this?”

  “Sorry, Mrs. O’Reilly, but O’Connor wants to see her. Seems she’s been selling drugs up at the school.”

  Think, Nora, think. She grappled for an explanation, a plausible denial, anything that would get her out of this. But panic clogged her brain, and all she could think was I’m fucked.

  She didn’t know her mother could move so fast. Suddenly they were nose to nose. “Oh, aye? Is that true?” Mrs. O’Reilly demanded.

  “No, it’s a load of shite!” Nora protested.

  “You watch your language. Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, what am I going to do with you? What would your poor father say?” Her mother shook her head, then turned back to the PIRA men. “Whatever she’s done, we’ll take care of it here, so we will. Youse all head out, now.”

  “Sorry, Mrs. O’Reilly, but we’ve got our orders.” Paddy nodded to his companion, who brushed past Nora and her mother and pounded up the stairs toward the bedrooms.

  “Oi! Houl on! Youse said you just wanted to talk!” Nora shouted after him. Mrs. O’Reilly looked like she was about to follow, but Paddy laid a hand on her arm.

  “Just let him do his job,” he said.

  “Ma, I’ve done nothing wrong! I swear it!” A faint sheen broke out on her forehead, and the blood drained from her fair skin.

  The sound of drawers being emptied and furniture being overturned traveled down the stairs. Mrs. O’Reilly sank down into a kitchen chair and took a large gulp of whiskey. She set the glass down with a clunk and put her head in her hands.

  “Ach, Nora, I’ve tried my best with you, sure I have. Where is Eamon?”

  “He went out with the lads,” Nora mumbled. She glanced toward the door.

  “Don’t you be thinking of doing a runner,” Paddy warned. He wrapped his meaty hand around Nora’s upper arm.

  “I’m not! But youse wait until Eamon gets home. He’ll sort youse out, all right.”

  “She’s quite the lip on her, hasn’t she?” Paddy said to the slumped form of her mother.

  Loud footsteps on the stairs made them all look up. Paddy’s friend tossed him a clear plastic jar of tiny white pills.

  “Oh, aye, what’s this, then?” Paddy asked.

  “It’s not mine! I don’t know where you got it,” Nora said.

  “I got it from your room,” the other man said wit
h a sneer. “Unless you’re telling us your ma or your brother put it there?”

  “Don’t be an eejit,” Nora spat.

  “Nora! Are you trying to get yourself killed?” Mrs. O’Reilly said, locking her watery gaze on her daughter. “Do you think I don’t have enough trouble as it is? Answer the man! Is this yours? What’s in that bottle?”

  “I don’t know. I said they’re not mine. Headache pills, prob’ly.”

  “Oh, aye?” Paddy said, his grin widening. “With wee happy faces stamped on them? Looks like a fine stash o’ Molly to me.”

  “It’s not,” Nora said. She stared at the floor, letting her lank red hair fall forward to hide her face.

  “Right, we’ll be off, then,” said Paddy. “We’ll bring her back after.”

  “Where are youse taking her?” Mrs. O’Reilly asked.

  “Can’t say. She’ll not be hurt. But O’Connor wants to talk to her himself, so he does.”

  “Then tell him he should come here!” Nora said. They ignored her.

  Mrs. O’Reilly groaned. “Maybe he can talk some sense into her. But sure and you’ll be bringing her back here as soon as he’s asked his questions.”

  “Aye,” Paddy said. “Don’t you worry. No one’ll be hurting Jimmy’s daughter.”

  “Ma! You’re not letting them take me?” Nora’s brown eyes widened with panic. “They’ll knee me, so they will!” She’d seen it once, a man with both kneecaps shot through. She could still hear his screams, see the blood running down his legs. But then again, he’d been lucky not to get a bullet in the head, like her father.

  “You and I both know they’ll not give us a choice, now, don’t we? Go on with the lads, and answer their questions,” her mother answered, pulling herself unsteadily to her feet. “Mind you be polite. Maybe you’ll listen to Mick O’Connor more than you do your own mother.”

  With a nod to Mrs. O’Reilly, Paddy and his friend each took hold of one of Nora’s scrawny arms and dragged her out the front door toward a waiting van.

  “Someone help! I’m being kidnapped!” Nora yelled, craning her head frantically in search of a savior. Neighbors peeked out from behind curtains, and two boys stopped their game of football down the street to stare. No one came forward.

  “Shut yer gub!” Paddy said, giving her a rough shove into the van. “I told yer ma we wouldn’t hurt you for your da’s sake, but if you make it hard for us, all bets are off.”

  “Eamon!” she yelled, clinging to the door, hoping her brother was somewhere nearby. He’d stand up to the Provos. He’d protect her. “Eamon!”

  Paddy gave her another shove, then climbed in behind her and slammed the door shut. The other man jumped into the passenger seat. Nora fell hard into the back of the van, which started moving almost at once.

  “Christ, Nora,” said Paddy. “Yer just like yer da. He had more spirit than brains, too.”

  “Don’t go talkin’ about my da. I’m not ascared of youse. Youse don’t know shite. He’d kill youse for this!”

  The driver laughed. “Whaddya pick up, Pad, a live grenade? Best bag her. She’s not to know where we’re going.”

  “No!” Nora scrabbled to the back of the van. She glanced hopefully at the door, but if she threw herself out of the van, she’d more likely kill herself than escape. Besides, the Provos would find her. They were gods in this part of town.

  “If you don’t struggle, I’ll just put it on loose-like, so you can still breathe fine. But rip it off and I’ll tie your hands, y’hear?”

  Nora stared back at the man with as much loathing as she could muster. “I’m one of youse,” she said. “Why are youse doing this?”

  Paddy’s face softened. “Your da was a good man, and a good fighter,” he said. “And I know your ma’s had a hard time of it. But it’s our job to keep order here.”

  Then he pulled a heavy black bag out from under his jacket and tugged it over Nora’s head. Behind this rough veil her face crumpled, and heavy, silent tears began to run down her neck.

  They drove for at least twenty minutes, though Nora couldn’t be sure of the time. The blindness and fear of suffocation had sent her into fresh waves of panic. Finally, the van stopped and a door slammed.

  “Where are we?” she asked as Paddy hauled her to her feet.

  “Don’t matter,” came the brusque reply. “Watch your head.”

  She let him guide her out of the van. She listened for any clues as to where they might be, but there was only the sound of distant cars. It was cold and damp, and she hadn’t brought her jacket. She stumbled along beside Paddy, who jerked her to a sudden stop. A sharp rap on metal, the sound of a door opening, and then Paddy shoved her inside.

  “Can you take the bag off now?” she asked, not daring to lift it off herself.

  “Not yet.” Paddy steered her into a chair. “Sit down.” She felt for the chair beneath her and lowered herself into it.

  “This her?” came a new voice.

  “Aye.”

  “Take the hood off, for fuck’s sake. Christ.”

  Paddy yanked the hood away, tearing out a handful of hair in the process. Nora blinked rapidly and sucked in a lungful of air. They were in a warehouse of sorts, no bigger than a large garage. Men armed with Armalite rifles stood at each of the two doors. Nora’s hair was matted and sweaty against her forehead. She pushed it off her face, then got to her feet and glared at the men directly in front of her.

  “Sit down,” said the new man sharply. He had thick black hair and a long face. Half his ear was missing. He didn’t look much older than Eamon.

  She stood her ground for a few more seconds, just to prove she could, then sank stiffly back into the chair.

  “You’ll be Mick O’Connor, then?” she asked.

  “Aye. And you’ll be Jimmy O’Reilly’s wee brat.”

  “Fuck you. I’m no one’s wee brat.”

  He quirked a dark eyebrow and shook the pill jar they’d found in her room. “Tell me about these.”

  “They’re not mine.”

  “Then what was it doing in your room? Were you keeping it for a friend? Your brother, maybe?”

  “My brother doesn’t go near that stuff,” she said.

  “So we’ve heard. He’d make a good Volunteer,” O’Connor said.

  “He wants nothing to do with youse. Leave him out of it.”

  O’Connor shook the jar again. “Then tell me the truth. You’re young, Nora. I know you’re not the only one involved. I can’t say that I even blame you.” He squatted down so they were at eye level. “This war’s been hard on us all. Father dead, mother on the dole. No one would fault you for wanting a little extra money. Maybe buy a nice dress . . . save up for a car . . . Making a few quid on the side sounds pretty good to all of us.”

  Nora clenched her jaw. She pressed her hands under her legs to keep them from shaking.

  “But you see, Nora,” O’Connor continued, “if these were just for you, well, then I’d say it’s none of my business. But word has it you’re selling these to your schoolmates. And that’s creating a problem for us. D’you know why?”

  Still, Nora said nothing. O’Connor leaned in closer. She could smell his breath, stale tea and vinegar. He reached up and patted her cheek. “I said, d’you know why?”

  She shook her head.

  “I’m not the bad guy, Nora. I’m just trying to keep our lads out of trouble. Because if we’re going to win this war, I need every able-bodied young man I can muster. D’you follow?”

  “Aye.” What else was she supposed to say?

  O’Connor stood up and crossed his arms. “Good. I’m glad we’re in agreement. Now I’ll ask you one more time. Tell me about these pills.”

  The chair beneath Nora seemed to be sinking. If she told them the truth, she didn’t know what they would do to her. But if she insisted they weren’t hers, suspicion would fall on Eamon. Why hadn’t she hidden the pills better? Who had ratted her out? Her eyes flickered to the guards at the door. She di
dn’t even know where she was. There was no chance of escape. Finally, she spoke.

  “It’s just E.”

  “Speak up.”

  “Ecstasy. It’s what’s in the pill bottle.”

  “And what exactly are you doing with Ecstasy?”

  “I was just . . . sharing it. With my friends.”

  “Oh, aye? What if I brought someone in here who said you sold it to them?”

  “I . . . It was stupid, I know. It’s like youse said, I just wanted the extra money. I thought it might . . . help.”

  “Help what?”

  “Help us . . . start over.”

  The look on Mick’s face told her this had been the wrong thing to say. “Right. You’re going off to England to find work, is that it?” Mick paced in front, running a hand through his hair. “I’m sick of it. Everyone saying how much they love Ireland but leaving the first chance they get. Is that what you were planning?”

  “I don’t know; I hadn’t really thought it through yet. It wouldn’t be forever—”

  “Were you selling these drugs in the school, Nora?”

  “Aye, but—”

  “And where did you get them?”

  “I can’t.” Nora shook her head. She tried to steady her voice. Failed. “If I . . . if I tell you, he’ll kill me.”

  Mick squatted down in front of her again. “If there’s one thing I hate, it’s people who turn their own countrymen into drug addicts. But you know what I hate worse?”

  Her voice came out in a squeak. “No.”

  “Men who get children to do their dirty work.”

  She wanted to say she wasn’t a child but stopped herself. “I promise I won’t do it again.”

  Mick stood up, leering down at her. “Nora, Nora, Nora. You’re one of us. Your family’s always been one of us. This isn’t about you—you’re just a kid who got caught up in something you shouldn’t have. But we have to stop it. Tell us who gave you the drugs.”

  “Are you going to kill him?”

  “That’s none of your concern.”

  “Just talk to him . . . I know he’ll stop. He doesn’t mean any harm . . .”

  “Give me a name!” Mick’s hand jerked toward her, but he stopped it in midair. She flinched away, and a memory flashed through her mind: the sound of a gunshot, her father lying faceup on the linoleum, blood seeping from his head.