A Belfast Child

by John Chambers

  By this time, my sister Margaret knew what was going on and although only sixteen herself, would challenge Alistair about his behaviour.

  ‘He’s a lazy little arse,’ she was told, ‘and I’m keeping him busy because otherwise he’ll just go around creating trouble. Is that what you want?’

  The truth was that I didn’t need to ‘create’ any trouble. There was enough of this going on all around us. Northern Ireland was heading into the days of the Republican hunger strikes in the Maze prison and the tension across Belfast was ratcheted up to boiling point. Every death brought angry people on to the streets and as the protests became louder, so the daily bombings and shootings increased. Riots were happening all over the place and the killing of soldiers and police officers prompted widespread anger among the Loyalist community. Northern Ireland felt ready to explode and with every passing day and death I hated the IRA more and more.

  In the midst of all this anarchy, discipline on Glencairn was maintained by the UDA and they could be very harsh policemen indeed. Teenage boys who got up to no good were particular targets. Right across the estate, young boys who’d fallen foul of the paramilitaries for various reasons were threatened, beaten or non-fatally shot as a punishment. The latter was known as ‘kneecapping’; very often it applied to the knees, but the paramilitaries extended it to other parts of the body, including calves, thighs and arms. We all knew boys who’d been kneecapped for something or other and we lived in fear of the knock on the door and the message to meet such-and-suchabody up at the UDA-run Community Centre immediately. When this happened, the terrified boy would scuttle up to the appointment where he’d be told of his fate. A beating was bad, but a kneecapping was much worse and could end in permanent disability. One afternoon I was passing a block of derelict flats with my brother David when we heard a couple of shots from inside the building, followed by terrible screaming. We ran inside to find a teenage boy lying on the floor, his face a mask of agony, and blood pouring from both knees. Those who’d dispensed the rough justice had disappeared in a flash, and the kid’s screams were punctuated by the sound of an ambulance siren wailing up towards Glencairn. The paramilitaries doled out the most savage punishments possible to those who’d upset them, but they almost always had the courtesy to phone for an ambulance minutes beforehand and tell the operator what was about to occur. The boy was a known ‘hood’, a young troublemaker, and I felt he’d got what he deserved.

  Some boys took kneecappings in their stride, so to speak, and would ask the shooter (who was invariably known to them, Glencairn being such a tight-knit community) for permission to change out of their best jeans and into an old pair before the shot was delivered, or if they were going on holiday to postpone the punishment until they’d returned.

  So it was difficult for Margaret to argue against Alistair’s insistence that his methods would keep me out of trouble, even though I knew the bastard was a bully who enjoyed tormenting me. The best I could hope for was that now she was going with a fella called Richard she might get married soon, and she’d always promised me that if she got a house of her own I would be allowed to live there. In the meantime, I just had to sweat it out with the pair of them and wait until I could escape.

  Matters came to a head one winter’s day a few months after I came out of hospital. Betty had gone in to have her baby and, as usual, I was keeping house and catering to Alistair’s every whim. It was that bleak time just after New Year when all the partying is over and done and all you’ve got to look forward to are the dark days at the tail end of winter. Alistair was rabbiting on, demanding that I do this, do that, cook this, clean that. On and on, until I could stand no more. Compared to this, I’d rather be in a children’s home, or dead. Or anywhere else at all. I knew that at some stage he’d be heading into town to see Betty and the new baby. Once he’d left, so would I.

  ‘And mind you don’t forget to polish the table and chairs,’ was Alistair’s parting shot as he closed the front door.

  ‘Fat chance, mate,’ I thought.

  I waited until I heard Alistair’s car make its way down the road before dashing upstairs to get ready. It was a freezing cold late afternoon and I stuffed a couple of extra jumpers into my school bag, just in case. I never had much money – a couple of quid here and there, borrowed from Margaret or Granny if they were feeling generous. I also had a bit left over from Christmas that I hadn’t spent. It was enough to get me where I wanted to go.

  I grabbed my bag and coat and slammed the front door hard, hoping never to have to see this place again. I trudged along the icy pavements to the phone box by the shops. There was no guarantee that it wasn’t banjaxed, so I said a wee prayer to God and this time He listened. Looking around to make sure the coast was clear, I slipped into the box and dialled the number of the local taxi firm, Alpha Cabs. There was no way I was walking down into the town on a winter’s day ever again.

  When he arrived, the driver attempted to make some conversation but I was non-committal. I said I was meeting someone at the main bus station in Oxford Street.

  ‘So youse’ll need a ride back, then?’ he asked.

  ‘Ach. Probably not . . . we might look round the shops for a bit.’

  ‘Up to you,’ he said, ‘but don’t hang around down there too long, will ye? It’s not a place for kids after dark.’

  In those days, Belfast wasn’t a place for anyone after dark. Fear and death stalked the streets. You got lost, or you met the wrong person, or you were just plain unlucky. Either way, you could wind up dead. I had no intention of lingering around the city centre for long.

  We arrived at the bus station. ‘Take care, wee man,’ said the driver as he took my fare money. He drove off and now I was alone. I walked up and down the stands, looking for the destination I wanted, casting my mind back five or six years to the last time I’d felt truly happy. I conjured up images of warm summer days, the smell of sea air, the feeling of the sun on my skin. Fish ’n’ chips on the beach, and my dad and his brothers swilling pints of Harp while we kids threw sand at each other, laughing and squealing. Better times: the days before Dad died, the days when we were a family bonded by love and laughter, even though our mother was gone. I wanted to go back to those days.

  ‘Is this the bus to Ballyferris?’ I asked the middle-aged driver who was enjoying a cigarette while he waited for someone to board his bus.

  ‘Why,’ he said, laughing, ‘are ye goin’ on yer holidays? Not much sun there today . . . ’

  ‘I’m just going there,’ I said.

  ‘Well then, get on,’ he said. ‘The last stop is Millisle. That near enough for ye?’

  I nodded. Millisle was just fine. Better, in fact. After a ten-minute wait the driver extinguished yet another cigarette in the ashtray by his seat and reversed the bus out of the station. This was it. I was leaving home, never to return. I stared out of the window into the heart of darkness that was Belfast and was pleased to see it disappear. I would miss my sisters and brother, but they could always come to visit. And I knew they would, because they felt the same way as me.

  An hour or so later, we’d arrived. I must’ve nodded off because the driver came down the length of the vehicle and gave me a gentle shove.

  ‘Hi you,’ he said. ‘C’mon on and wake up. We’re here. Millisle. It’s where you wanted, right?’

  I rubbed my eyes. The driver smelled of diesel and fags. ‘It’s grand,’ I muttered, picking up my bag and moving off down the aisle. I could sense him watching me as I stepped off the bus and into the darkness, limping away as quickly as I could before he started asking awkward questions.

  Now I was here, I wasn’t sure what to do. Out of season, the village was empty, deserted and silent. I hadn’t expected a sudden shift in the seasons but now, in winter, Millisle seemed strange and unwelcoming, just as in summer it was friendly and bustling. Instinctively, I headed for the funfair, the place I was always at my happiest during our family holidays. The gates were locked, and greasy tarpaul
in covers lay over the dodgem cars that were all covered in snow. I rattled the gates a couple of times, somehow expecting them to open for me so that I could enter the magic kingdom. They didn’t, so without even thinking I hauled myself over the six-foot fence and collapsed in a heap on the other side.

  I wandered round the deserted funfair. I don’t know what I was looking for – a comforting memory, perhaps, or a friendly ghost from the past. But only silence was here to welcome me. I’d expected to be warmed and protected by this place. Now, all it held were reminders of happier times past, never to return.

  I was very cold. I pulled my jacket around me but it was hopeless on this freezing winter’s night by the sea. I lifted the corner of a tarpaulin covering a dodgem car and climbed in, curling up like a hibernating animal on the plastic seat. I pulled the tarpaulin sheet back over myself and hoped that I would fall asleep quickly. Maybe, just maybe, it would all be all right in the morning.

  As I discovered very quickly, the cold was too intense for sleep. I pictured Dad’s face, watching with pleasure as I rammed a dodgem car into everything that moved, shouting and screaming with childhood delight. I felt him put a protective arm around my shoulder as he led me back towards the caravan park, the summer sun setting in the distance. And I knew that I would never see or feel his physical presence again. I started to cry, and for a whole hour, shivering under the tarpaulin, I howled my eyes out, raging against the unfairness of losing Dad, of not knowing where my mum was, of having to live with a bully, of having to exist in a country that was tearing itself apart and a God who didn’t seem to care for me.

  I cried till I was all cried out. By now, my fingers were sore and numb with cold and I couldn’t feel my toes. If I stayed here, I’d be lucky to last the night. Wearily, I lifted up the sheet and uncurled myself out of the dodgem car. Then I climbed the fence out of the funfair and stood on the pavement for a while, wondering what to do.

  Finally, I realised that if I went to the police and told them I’d run away, they’d probably send me to a children’s home. And if that meant not having to go back to Alistair and Betty’s, fair enough – I’d prefer that. I’d coped with months in hospital; I could probably look after myself within the confines of a home, no matter who else was in there. I went to a public phone box and called the police, telling myself that one day, when I was older, I would beat the fuck out of Alistair and I’d also try to find my mum. She wasn’t dead, I was convinced of that. And if she was alive, somehow she could be found. That meant I had something to live for.

  The cops came and took me to the nearest police station. The peeler manning the security gate at the station looked surprised to see a bedraggled boy coming in.

  ‘Bejesus, what are you doing out on a night like this?’ he said. ‘You look half dead . . .’

  ‘I’ve run away,’ I said. ‘I hate where I’m living. I want to go into a kids’ home. Can you help me?’

  Then I started crying.

  ‘All right son,’ said the cop, ‘catch yerself on and calm down. Now, what’s happened?’

  I told the cop about losing my dad and Shep, and all the hassle I was having at home. He listened patiently as I sobbed out the sorry tale.

  ‘Not a lot I can do, son,’ he said when I’d finished. ‘There’s no crime being committed and you’re only a wee boy so you’re gonna have to go home. Tell you what, though – the chippy over the road is still open. Do youse want a pastie supper before I drive ye back to Belfast?’

  I was, and always have been, a sucker for a pastie supper and I was bloody starving by this stage. ‘All right,’ I said, smiling. ‘Thanks.’

  ‘No problem,’ said the policeman. ‘And when we get you home I’ll go in and have a word with this fella. Give him a warning, like. How about that?’

  It was a deal and full of the delights of a pastie supper I sat in the back of the unmarked police car, nice and warm as it travelled back to the city. The last place I wanted to go was Alistair and Betty’s, but oddly the experience of running away had given me a bit of determination not to put up with any more shit from him, and to focus on my future. The peeler was as good as his word and explained to Alistair what had happened, before letting him know about the bullying and the beatings. From the safety of the car I could see the officer giving Alistair a good talking-to. Then he summoned me out with a wave of his hand and ushered me to the front door, where an embarrassed and angry Alistair stood waiting.

  ‘So there’ll be no more trouble here now, right?’ The officer looked at Alistair until he nodded his assent. ‘Good. Then I’ll say goodnight.’

  As soon as he was away around the corner Alistair dragged me into the kitchen and gave me a hiding. In the middle of the beating Uncle Rab arrived and pulled him off me. Strangely, I wasn’t bothered by Alistair’s violence. I sensed that things would change now, and that he wouldn’t be very keen on the police or social services turning up to his door regularly. From then on, Alistair eased off with his bullying and blustering and it was only a matter of months before Margaret announced she was getting married. Finally, I would be able to escape this house and be back among my real family again, who loved and cared for me unconditionally.

  CHAPTER 9

  I

  was ticking off the days until Margaret and Richard’s wedding. My liberation from the stress of living with Alistair and Betty couldn’t come soon enough. Mags and Rick were planning to buy a house and were looking at a terraced property in Ottawa Street in the Woodvale area, which is at the top of the Shankill. The house was in a Loyalist enclave and most people there owned their own homes. However, it was just around the corner from the Catholic and ultra-nationalist Ardoyne area. Despite ‘peace walls’ and barriers, at the time this was arguably one of the most tense and dangerous boundaries between Protestants and Catholics in the whole of Belfast.

  I didn’t care. I just wanted away from Alistair and Betty’s and I thought that a move from Glencairn might do me good too. I was growing up quickly but was still very conflicted between my Loyalist instincts and the knowledge that my Catholic mother could be still alive somewhere. I prayed to God constantly to give me an answer but given that He seemed to be very quiet on the subject I could only conclude that He was working in mysterious ways.

  My behaviour at the time highlighted the inner conflicts I was feeling. At night, I still knelt at the end of my bed and said my prayers, like a good Christian boy. By day, though, I was beginning to slide off the rails and into trouble. It started with a bit of petty pilfering here and there, which left me feeling guilty – but it didn’t seem to stop my light fingers examining the shelves of various shops to see what I could walk away with. Then there was the glue . . .

  In the early 1980s, sniffing solvents was a cheap and easy way of getting high and leaving your surroundings behind for a while. It was the craic, especially among kids like us who needed very little excuse for wanting to escape the terrifying environment of unceasing violence that swirled around us. At the time the BBC series The Young Ones was drawing in thousands of young viewers with its mad antics. My entire school seemed to be watching this show, addicted to its anarchic humour that reflected our own lives.

  Around school, word spread very quickly that a jar of Timebond, Evo-Stik or UHU, plus a carrier bag, were all you needed to have a weird yet entertaining experience. I’ve always had an addictive personality and was the sort of kid who would try anything for a laugh. I persuaded Billy that having a go with the glue would be a great idea and, having nicked the necessary equipment from Woolworths in the town, we were ready to take our first trip.

  I enjoyed it from the very start. I liked being out of my head, even for a short time, and I loved the feeling of escapism that glue gave me. Although I was still wary of Alistair’s methods of discipline, I also knew that I had one foot out of his door and by the time of Margaret’s wedding to Richard, I was fifteen and had pretty much stopped giving a fuck what Alistair and Betty felt. When the date was set I lite
rally jumped for joy around my bedroom. Alistair came pounding up the stairs, screaming at me to stop in case I woke the baby.

  ‘What the hell do you think you’re doing!’ he yelled, inches from my face. ‘Stop that at once!’

  In response, I just smiled.

  ‘And you can take that stupid grin off your face,’ he said.

  ‘Why should I?’ I replied. ‘I’m out of here in a few weeks and I can’t bloody wait. So go fuck yourself!’

  ‘If it were up to me, I’d hoof you out now,’ he said, slamming my bedroom door.

  The day of Margaret’s wedding came soon enough, and we all went up to Paisley Park, a big Loyalist club in Highfield, for the reception, following the service at St Andrew’s on Glencairn. As with all good Northern Irish events – weddings, funerals, baptisms and birthdays – it was a very drunken affair, for the adults anyway. I took great delight in seeing Alistair get so scunnered that he threw up all over the place. Control gave structure to his miserable little life, and seeing him lose it was a joy to behold. David and I were pageboys and we paraded proudly down the aisle behind our sister in our matching outfits. I looked angelic that day, but behind the smiles there was the usual sadness that Dad wasn’t around to celebrate such an important moment in his family’s life. Still, Granda did a great job of giving Margaret away, apart from the fact he was a bit deaf at the time, and when Reverend Lewis asked if anyone present objected to the marriage, Granda said ‘I do’, to sniggers all around the room.