by Jodi McIsaac
“I’ve answered your questions,” she said, clutching her rucksack close to her stomach. “Youse said you’d leave me alone.”
“Things change. C’mon. Let’s go.”
“I’ve got to get to class. I’m late.”
“We’re on the way to see your brother. Don’t you want to come?”
Nausea swept through her. He was bluffing, sure he was. But what if he means it? “I told youse to leave Eamon out of this! What do youse want him for?”
“Ernie never showed up to your little meeting, did he?”
Nora felt faint. “I just . . . wanted to talk to him.”
“Uh-huh. Seems you didn’t take our warnings seriously. Now come on. We don’t want to make a scene here in the school, do we?”
Nora felt as though her legs were embedded in the ground. All she could do was stare at Paddy, unable to move, while the world spun around her. She had to ditch the bag, somewhere, somehow.
“I . . . I just have to . . . I have to use the bogs first,” she stammered.
“I’m sure you can hold it,” he said. His hand clamped on to her arm, and he marched her out of the side door, where a car was waiting. She shifted her rucksack to one hand and prepared to drop it in the bushes, but he grabbed it.
“For a petty criminal, you’re pretty daft, Nora.”
“Wait, please, you don’t understand—”
“You’ve got balls, I’ll give you that. Thought you’d just pick up where Robbie left off?”
“No! I was just trying to get rid of it, I swear.” Nora tried to wrestle herself from Paddy’s grip, panic building in her like a smoking volcano. “Don’t take me to Mick. You can have the coke—it’s worth a lot of money.”
“Mick’s interested in something far more useful to him than coke,” Paddy answered as he stuffed her into the back of the car. He got in the front seat, then turned around. “I think he’ll be wanting to make a deal.”
Nora drew back against the upholstered seat, horror spreading across her face. “He’ll not . . . be wanting . . .”
Paddy grinned again. “To pimp you out? Is that what you’re afraid of? You’re an attractive girl, Nora, but Mick’s not like that. He’s a decent lad.”
“Then what?”
“You’ll find out.”
A few minutes later, they pulled up outside a pub Nora’d never seen before. It looked run-down, but then most Belfast pubs were rather sketchy. She was just glad they hadn’t put the bag back over her head this time. She still hoped she could buy them off with the coke and a lot of bravado.
Paddy nodded to the bartender and headed toward the wooden stairs at the back of the pub. The bartender called out to him to wait, and the two of them had a hushed conversation. The other man kept glancing in her direction. Finally, he seemed satisfied, and Paddy took her by the elbow again and led her upstairs. He knocked twice on a closed door at the end of the hall. Mick O’Connor opened it.
“Listen, I’ve a good explanation for this, and you’d better listen to me!” Nora said, stomping into the small bedroom and jabbing her finger at Mick’s chest.
“Oh, aye?” Mick said, the corners of his lips twitching. Nora ignored this.
“Yes, and it’s the truth! Robbie left me with all these goods, and I just wanted to be rid of them. Why flush them down the bogs when they could be put to a good cause? I was going to sell them to get them off my hands, then give the money to youse.”
“You were, were you?” Mick asked, this time grinning broadly.
“I was. But youse ruined my plans, so you can take the goods and sell ’em yourself.” She snatched the rucksack from Paddy, grabbed the bags of powder from it, and tossed them down on the bed.
There was someone on it, bound and gagged.
Eamon.
Mick barked a loud laugh at the look on her face. “Well, this has been much more amusing than I’d reckoned.”
“Eamon!” Nora ran to her brother and reached for his bonds, but Paddy grabbed her arm and held her back. Eamon’s golden-brown eyes were wide with fear . . . and fury. Nora wrenched herself out of Paddy’s grip, leaving stinging nail marks on her pale skin. “Let him go!” she said, her own fear forgotten. She charged at Mick, her fists flailing. Paddy came after her, but a well-aimed kick to the groin sent him sprawling on the ground.
“That’s enough!” Mick said, grabbing Nora by the hair and holding her at arm’s length. “Calm the fuck down.” He shoved her onto the bed beside her brother.
“Please,” she begged. “Leave him alone. He had nothing to do with this.”
Mick bent in closer, his face only an inch from hers. “I’ve got more important things to do, Nora. You’re gettin’ annoying, so you are. But I like your spirit. So here’s what we’re going to do. We gave you a warning, and you ignored it. So now you owe us. I’ll allow you to work off your debt, so to speak.”
“How?” Nora asked. Now that it appeared she and Eamon weren’t going to be immediately shot, she was beginning to recover some of her confidence. Or the appearance of it, at any rate.
“Delivering messages. Helping us transport supplies.”
“Running arms, you mean.”
He shrugged. “Maybe. Not likely the Brits will suspect a pretty young thing like you.”
“Leave her alone!” Eamon had managed to work free of his gag, and his sudden outburst made both Nora and Mick start.
Mick recovered himself quickly. “I thought you might have something to say about this. Untie him,” he said to Paddy. While Paddy set to work on Eamon’s wrists and ankles, Mick drew a handgun out of the desk drawer and pointed it at Nora’s head. “Just so youse don’t do anything stupid.”
Nora slowly turned her head and looked at her brother. “I’m so sorry,” she whispered. “I just wanted to help . . .”
“Shut up, Nora.” With his hands held out in front of him, Eamon slowly got off the bed so he was facing Mick. “I know what this is about.”
“Do you now?”
“You want me to join youse.”
“I want you to want to join us. You’ve the makings of a great Volunteer, Eamon. Just like your da.”
“Fine. I’ll do it.”
“Eamon, no!” Nora cried from the bed.
“I said shut up,” he shot back, and Nora cringed into the pillows. “Just leave my sister out of this. She’s not to be involved. At all.”
Mick lowered the gun and held out his hand. After casting a glance at Nora, Eamon clenched his jaw and shook Mick’s hand, then let it go as if it had burned him. Without looking at her, he said, “Come on, Nora.” She slid off the bed, head down, tears dripping off her chin.
Chapter Three
Almost a year passed without incident. Nora kept her promise to Eamon and took religion more seriously. She went to Mass several times a week with her mother, and Eamon joined them as often as he could. When her mother was too drunk to leave the house, Nora went alone. She found a strange comfort in the ritual of it all—the prayers, the kneeling and the rising. Whatever was happening in her own life, the church remained unchanged. Her prayers became more fervent and sincere.
Then the phone rang.
It was close to midnight, but there was no sign of Eamon. She rarely saw him anymore. He kept to his room or sat quietly with their mother in the sitting room, staring blankly at the television. Once she’d made the mistake of asking him when he thought they could leave. His only response had been to shake his head sadly and leave the room. She hadn’t asked again.
The Troubles continued to rage around her. The Ulster Volunteer Force and Ulster Defense Association continued their campaigns of terror against the Catholics while the police force looked the other way. The Provos responded accordingly. She tried not to think of what Eamon had seen—or done—to cause that vacant look in his eyes. Tried not to panic every time the phone rang or there was a knock on the door. She turned off the television whenever there was news of a bombing, not wanting to know if Eamon had been invol
ved. Then she would turn it back on, unable to resist.
Mrs. O’Reilly had gone to bed with her bottle hours ago, and Nora was up finishing a paper due the next morning. When the phone rang, her pen skidded across the paper, leaving an ugly black scar. She stared at the receiver hanging on the wall, then forced herself out of her chair.
“Hello?” she said, her voice barely above a whisper.
“Nora, it’s Paddy Sullivan.” She relaxed. Paddy came over loads now that he and Eamon were working together. He kept trying to be her friend, to make jokes and ask about her school, as though he hadn’t kidnapped her the year before. She ignored him as much as she could. It wasn’t unusual for him to ring their place, looking for Eamon.
“Eamon’s not here.”
“I know. He’s at the Mater. You need to come.”
She stopped breathing. “The hospital? What’s happened to him?”
“Just get your ma and get over here.” He hung up.
She stood staring at the phone in her hands for a long moment, unable to block out thoughts of revenge beatings and assassinations, of blown-out knees and bullets in foreheads. Her hand flew automatically to the rosary nestled in her pocket and convulsed around the beads. Then she slammed down the receiver and sprinted up the stairs.
“Ma! Ma!” She burst into her mother’s room, but she was already asleep—or passed out, judging by the smell. Nora shook her a few times, but her mother only grunted and rolled over. “Ma, get up, it’s Eamon. He’s in hospital!” The only response she got was a deep sigh.
Too anxious to wait, Nora ran back down the stairs and rang for a taxi. She found money in her mother’s purse and went outside to wait. The street was empty, and the lamp closest to their house was flickering. Normally she’d not dare to be alone on the street at this time of night, but all her fear was directed toward Eamon.
“Come on . . . ,” she whispered, stamping her feet to keep warm. If she could just get to him, he’d be all right, whatever had happened. The seconds seemed as long as hours as she stared fixedly down the road. Finally the taxi’s lights turned the corner, and she waved to hail him. “The Mater,” she said as soon as she got in the backseat. The driver gave her a dark look but didn’t say anything. Nora was starting to think they’d get there in record time when the taxi slowed down.
“Security check ahead,” he said. A roadblock had been set up in the middle of the street, and the flashing lights of the Royal Ulster Constabulary ordered them to a stop. The driver rolled down his window as a police officer approached.
“My brother’s in hospital, please let us through!” Nora yelled from the backseat. The officer beamed his flashlight in her face and then turned to look at the driver.
“Is that where you’re headed?”
“Aye.”
“Which hospital?”
“The Mater.”
“Both of youse get out. Open the boot, please.”
“What? No, we have to keep going!” Nora cried out.
“Mind you do what they say,” the driver warned. Fuming, Nora got out of the car and stood with her arms crossed while the officers went through the car in minute detail. Then she held out her arms like a crucifix while a female officer patted her down. It was all she could do to stand still and not sprint off into the darkness.
After several excruciating minutes, the officer who’d stopped them said, “It’s clean.”
“If my brother died while youse were treatin’ us like criminals, you’ll pay for it,” Nora snarled.
The taxi driver stepped between Nora and the officers and ushered her back to the car. “Are you trying to get us both arrested?” he said. “Now get in and keep your gub shut.”
A few minutes later, they pulled up to the hospital. The driver waved away her money. “Get in there now and see to your brother.”
Paddy was waiting for her in the entrance. He wasn’t smirking this time. He shook his head.
“I’m sorry. He’s gone.”
The floor wavered beneath her, like pavement in a heat wave.
“No.”
It was impossible. Paddy was lying. Eamon was her brother; he was the only one who truly loved her. He couldn’t—wouldn’t—be dead.
“I’m sorry, Nora. We tried to save him . . .”
“No, you’re having me on. Where is he? I want to see him.”
A nurse looked up from the reception desk. Paddy put his arm around Nora, but she jerked away. “Don’t touch me.”
“I’ll take you to him. Where’s your ma?”
“Plastered, o’course.” A rage burned in Nora unlike anything she’d ever felt before. She followed Paddy down the hall, still telling herself it was all a terrible mistake. They were just trying to trick her, scare her. Eamon would be all right.
Her family’s priest was leaving the room just as Paddy stopped outside it.
“Father Donovan!” Nora said. “It’s not true, is it?” Surely the priest wouldn’t be messing with her.
Father Donovan’s brown eyes were full of pity. “I’m sorry, Nora. It is.” He placed a heavy hand on her shoulder. She shrugged it off and took a step back. “He made his confession,” the priest said, as though that would comfort her. “His soul rests with the Lord now.”
“But . . .”
“Where is his mother?” Father Donovan asked Paddy over Nora’s head.
“She’s at home. We’ll send someone round for her.”
“I have to see some other patients, but I’ll come back,” Father Donovan said.
“Ta, Father,” Paddy said, steering Nora toward the door.
“Wait,” the priest called. “Are you sure she should see . . . ?”
“I’m going to see my brother,” Nora said, her teeth clenched. But the priest’s words worried her. Why shouldn’t she see him? What had happened to him?
“She can handle it,” Paddy said. “Come on, now. Just prepare yourself. He’s looking rough.”
Nora stepped into the room. There were other people gathered around the bed, but she took no notice of them. Her eyes were fixed on the still figure that lay in front of her. She wavered on the spot, but shook off Paddy’s arm when he tried to steady her.
It was Eamon, but she hardly recognized him beyond the shock of red hair against the white pillow. His face had been beaten so badly it was a mass of purple and deep red gashes. His nose was crushed, and his jaw jutted out at an unnatural angle.
For a long moment, all she could do was stare, conscious of the sudden silence that had fallen on the room. She tore her eyes away from his ruined face and watched his chest under the white hospital sheet, certain that if she could only see it rise and fall, ever so slightly, everything would be okay. They wouldn’t wait until they had the money this time; they would leave Belfast the minute he was released from hospital. They would do whatever it took to survive outside this godforsaken country.
But his chest remained still.
Someone reached over and lifted the sheet over Eamon’s head, hiding his face from her view. It was Mick O’Connor.
“How?” Nora asked, her voice foreign to her own ears. “Who did this?”
“UDA,” Mick said. Ulster Defense Association. “Picked him up on his way home from the factory. Dumped him outside the pub where we were meeting. He was still alive when we brought him here, but he didn’t last long. Father Donovan’s just done giving him the last rites.”
“They . . . beat him to death?”
“Aye.”
“And he was unarmed?”
“Aye.”
“But why?”
“Why else? He was a Catholic,” Mick spat. “The UDA and the rest of the Prods want nothing more than to kill us or send us running. That’s what Eamon was fighting for, Nora. An Ireland where you can be safe. Don’t forget that.”
“Mick, I don’t think this is the time . . . ,” Paddy started, but Nora was only half-listening. Her eyes were fixed on the stillness of the figure beneath the sheet, her thoughts consumed
by one dreadful realization.
This is my fault.
She pushed past Paddy, heading out of the room. The bright lights of the hospital corridor mocked her. She walked, not caring where she was going, just needing to get away from the suffocating guilt in Eamon’s hospital room.
A chapel loomed at the end of the hall. She stormed up the center aisle and threw herself on the railing in front of the altar. She squeezed the wooden rail with her hands, as though it would keep her from dissolving completely. She tried to pray but couldn’t remember the words.
“Nora?”
Her head whipped around at her name. Father Donovan stood in the doorway. He came and knelt beside her.
“I’m very sorry about your brother,” he said.
She couldn’t answer. Her nostrils flared with the effort of breathing.
“He was a very good lad,” Father Donovan continued. “One of the best of us.”
“I need . . . ,” Nora croaked. “Confession.” But it didn’t matter, not really. Nothing could absolve her now.
“Confession? Ach, Nora, this wasn’t your fault. It’s natural to feel that way when someone you love has passed away, but you mustn’t blame yourself.”
“He only joined up because of me,” Nora forced out. The weight of Father Donovan’s hand settled on her shoulder.
“His was a noble fight, my dear. You should not regret that.”
“But he’s dead.” The statue of Jesus on the cross behind the altar seemed to glare at her. Judging her. “He’s dead.”
“You didn’t kill him, Nora. But you can continue his fight.”
She tore her eyes away from the crucified Christ to look at the priest.
“What do you mean?”
“We need young people like you to fight for Ireland.”
And end up dead, like Eamon?
“I’m afraid,” she whispered.
The priest’s hand tightened on her shoulder. “God will be with you.”
Something stirred in Nora’s gut. What else was she to do? Avenging her brother’s death would give her purpose. And if she met with the same fate . . . well, it would be no more than what she deserved.
She stood, still gripping the railing. “Sign me up.”
