The Troubles (The Jessica Trilogy Book 2)

by Connie Johnson Hambley

  Kavan rushed to Bridget and enveloped her in his arms, kissing her face and running his hands down her shoulders and over her belly, using his sense of touch as if to see her fully in the dim light. He seemed to marvel at her changes and not know how to respond to her, but only knew he wanted and needed to experience her, this changed woman. He brought her hands up to his mouth, kissing her palms and up to her wrists. His hands never stopped moving, feeling, committing to memory what his heart said was impossible.

  Anna Marie cleared her throat, and he stepped back, remembering himself. He gave them a pack of food, water, and a flashlight, ushered them through a narrow door, and told them to stay in the main passages.

  “A car is hidden at the end. Other safe havens would be clearly marked,” he said. Anna Marie walked through and turned in time to hear Kavan whisper, “I’m so sorry. May God forgive me.”

  Bridget forced herself to walk for as long as she could. The passage was ancient, carved and bricked by unknown hands generations before. They took care not to talk or make noise. The sounds of the city above them washed and echoed through the walls, carried by a persistent wind that sometimes howled through the chambers enough to keep the stench from overpowering them. At times the floor would incline, and the sounds of the city would grow louder, sometimes accompanied by the smells of cooking or diesel, a welcome change from the stench of sewage. Other times the floor would slope, and the only sound would be their soft footfalls and breathing. By the time Bridget allowed them to rest, the sounds and smells of the city had disappeared.

  Around a sharp bend and protected from wind, the narrow passage grew larger and became almost room-like in size. Crude benches were carved into the walls, evidence that they were not the first people to need to flee the city in secrecy. Anna Marie swept the light around and walked over to examine a section more carefully.

  Chiseled into the wall with great care was a series of images. Curved lines depicted hillsides or lakes, and a circle with radiant lines marked the sun. The images were set in distinct groups, and the women determined that it was a map segmented by a day’s travels. At times, the travels were through tunnels like the one they were in. Other times, the trail passed through woods and the outskirts of rural towns. Friendly homes were marked, and a plinth of rocks designated the entrance to the next underground passage.

  The trail started at a crude rendition of the eastern coastline of Northern Ireland, Belfast and its cathedral clearly marked on Belfast Lough—more a mouth of a bay open to the North Sea than a lake in its own right. Lough Neagh was clearly drawn at the center of the map with a northern or southern route around it. The northern route showed a circle made of dashes and odd rectangles, a crude impression of something like Stonehenge. Over this marking was an open-ended square with a cross on its top, clearly denoting that safety would be found in the cathedral by the stone circle. The markings showed each church that would also afford haven. Both routes ended at the western coast, at the port of Sligo. The map was simple and easily remembered with a glance, giving comfort and direction to those who fled.

  Bridget felt Anna Marie’s worried gazes. She smiled and rubbed her belly trying to give assurances that all was well. Bridget yearned to go back to the stone circle where she imagined Gus waiting for her again but kept her flight of fancy to herself. Anna Marie wondered aloud how long they had been walking, deftly marking her concern. Neither had any idea if it was day or night, but only that they should eat and rest. They huddled together as best as they could and allowed themselves a fitful sleep.

  Anna Marie woke first, giving Bridget whatever additional rest she needed. They ate a few mouthfuls of bread and continued their trek. It took another hour’s walk before the air began to freshen and the sounds change, telling them that the end of the passage was close.

  “Wait here,” Anna Marie demanded and disappeared around a corner. Bridget had no time to worry because Anna Marie quickly poked her head around the corner and motioned for her to come.

  The two women were stunned when they finally emerged. The passage had ended on the outskirts of Belfast in a forgotten section of the city. Rows of empty warehouses and abandoned factories sat as a reminder of economic fortunes that never filtered down to them. Gutted buildings with rusty doors and broken windows told any number of stories but didn’t tell them which way to turn. Down the center of all of the buildings was a road, much wider than it needed to be for a double lane of trucks or cars. Unlike most of the infrastructure she could see, this broad stretch of pavement was swept clean of glass, debris, and even weeds. On top of some of the wider buildings perched tubes of remnant fabrics, fluttering in the light wind.

  Bridget looked around anxiously. “Where’s the car at?”

  “Father Hughes said it would be inside a nearby building. Will you be alright to wait?”

  Bridget nodded and settled down on a stack of wooden pallets, tolerating Anna Marie’s fussing, nibbling on food when asked, taking sips of water, and obediently rubbing her swollen ankles. She watched as Anna Marie took off at a fast trot around the concrete and weed pocked roadway. A few minutes later a battered and rusty car careened around the corner and the door flew open for her. They allowed themselves a smile at their good fortune and drove off.

  Anna Marie assessed Bridget carefully. “You’re looking too drawn, Bridget. I’m getting worried for you.”

  Bridget put her head back against the seat and moved her hand in a circle around her belly. “I’ll be better when I get back to the sisters. I’m not sure how patient this baby is going to be.”

  “The plan is to stay until nightfall at the house and only travel if it’s safe. I’ll sleep when I get you back to the convent. You look like you’re ready to go.”

  “I need to rest, then I’ll be fine. Thank you.” She gave Anna Marie her most convincing smile. “It’s not been easy on you to keep my secret, but it’s been for the best.”

  Anna Marie drew in her breath as if to say something, then thought the better of it, keeping her eyes on the road ahead.

  When they arrived at the safe house—a small and unremarkable wooden row house indistinguishable from all the others on the narrow street—the mark gave her comfort. A circle inside an open bottomed square topped with a cross was carved into one of the bricks at the top of the chimney, signifying this home was part of the same network depicted on the walls inside the passage. For a few blissful hours, both women rested and felt safe as they waited for night to fall to continue their journey.

  She understood perfectly what happened next but did not have the strength or the speed to react. She was wrong to feel safe because the air quickly filled with the flashes and roars of war. A series of clicks to her left made her turn her head in time to see orange-white flashes of light as bullets began to shower where she lay. The gunfire came through only one window signifying one assailant, but the element of surprise gave the needed advantage. Her heart lurched when she heard the distinctive rapid “thwunk-thwunk” of gas canisters. Instantly the hell that had been both of her brother’s last moments became clear.

  The stench of gas was overwhelming. Flames ignited from superheated vapors enveloped her. She could feel her hair shrivel and singe, and the skin on her face threatened to pucker. Anna Marie threw herself over Bridget, shielding her as best as she could. The force of their bodies colliding made Bridget gasp and suck in air that no human should ever breathe. White-hot agony filled her lungs as passageways blistered from chemicals and unforgiving heat.

  Bridget was starved for air, but the heat took her oxygen and fed it to the flames. She could feel her baby wake and kick, sensing the change, but was pressed to the floor by Anna Marie.

  “Anna Marie! The back door! Quickly!” She yelled but her voice was gone, burned away before she could utter one word. Struggling to free herself, she looked up. The young woman’s eyes and mouth were forever stilled wide with shock, rivulets of thick blood poured out over her tongue and lips.

  She could feel
the furnace heat increase as the flames devoured the thin curtains and threadbare couch. Rivers and spikes of red flames rippled over the sparse furnishings, working their way to her, melting her stockings and blistering her skin. She saw Danny’s face again, swollen and roasted, and knew she was feeling his pain. Her spirit yearned to be bound together with him in her last thoughts but hesitated to leave her.

  She started to make peace with God. The baby punched. The air fled. Her saliva wanted to boil. Her arm jerked aside. Anna Marie’s body rolled away. Bridget’s shoes pulled off her feet as her legs dragged along the floor. The pain of birth ripped through her belly to her back. The rough wooden floor changed to smooth linoleum.

  Her feet thumped over the threshold and down the crickety wooden stairs.

  She was outside.

  Alive.

  With Gus.

  BALLYRONAN, NORTHERN IRELAND

  MICHAEL AND MURRAY sat at the kitchen’s island surrounded by newspapers, journals, and empty coffee cups. They spent hours tracking down the network of possible sources Dally may have tapped into. From that very short list, they began the process of anticipating the substance for the next articles and what moves they should take to preempt them. When they finally took a break, Bridget’s journals provided a good diversion.

  “I’ve translated parts of her mother’s papers. She didn’t use names very often.” Murray leafed through the yellowed pages.

  “I know. When you think about it, that makes sense.” Michael sat on a stool pulled up to the table. “Most people back then probably used first names or nicknames in their own diaries.”

  Murray nodded in agreement and drummed his fingers on the table. The movement was subtle, but Michael began to watch his butler carefully. Murray averted his eyes when he asked, “What exactly does Jessica want to know?”

  “She wants to find her uncles. I figure they must be in their late fifties now. We should be able to find some public records on them and anything else on the rest of family. I’m hoping to find anyone who could share a memory and fill in some of the gaps for her.” He paused for a moment, rubbing the heels of his hands into his eyes. “I really want a way to help Jessica feel connected.”

  “Anything else?”

  “I want to know who this is.” Michael pointed to the other man wearing a straw hat in the only picture Jessica had of Bridget and Gus together. “What else have you learned,” he leaned over his pad of notes.

  Murray coughed and rearranged the papers, making the unconscious tells that killed any hopes of his ever winning at poker. “I learned that her mother was deeply loved,” he began slowly, “and that she was a remarkable woman.”

  A lump formed in Michael’s throat, surprising him. Hearing a trait that flowed through her mother to her was tantalizing. “Go on.”

  “The Irish salutations were the easiest for me to translate. Here,” he drew his finger over a line of fine cursive writing, An bhfuil sé indéanta go breá níos mó? “This was frequently written in her mother’s handwriting and says, “Is it possible to love more?” The other phrase was written in a different hand. The salutation was the same as on the letters hidden inside the book covers. I can only guess a lover wrote them. ‘Gach mo ghrá go deo’ means ‘All my love forever.’ It’s quite clear they both went to great lengths to keep their affections private.”

  “Is there anything that hints at who Gean Cánach was? I’m pretty sure Jessica has connected him with this man,” he said, pointing to Gus’ image, “but I want to be sure.”

  “You mean you want to make sure that Gus Adams was Jessica’s father.”

  Murray’s bluntness was too sudden. Michael gave a wary, “Yes.”

  “Well, there is enough information here for us to reconstruct her mother’s life. Let’s focus on her. No need to focus on this Gean Cánach character.” Murray fidgeted with the notepad, betraying exhaustion and nerves.

  Being resistant or evasive was uncharacteristic. Michael paid closer attention. “Okay. Any more ideas?”

  When he was especially tense or upset, Murray had a habit of tearing strips of paper and rolling them up into balls. Michael noticed the habit when he was a young boy. Murray would serve him biscuits and tea while the voices of Michael’s parents shrieked through the house. Murray would shred the waxy white paper wrappers that the biscuits came in as they pretended not to hear. The row of tightly rolled, perfectly aligned pea-sized paper wads always meant difficult times were at hand. “About Miss Jessica,” Murray began, too formally to give him comfort, “are you truly sure you want her to learn more?”

  The hopeful warmth slowly seeped out of him, replaced by a feeling of dread. “Yes. Definitely. She’s torn up by all that’s happened to her. You’ve seen her, Murray. It’s as if she’s been hollowed out inside. I want her to have answers about who her family really was.”

  Murray pushed the wads into a perfect triangle and said nothing.

  “Why? What are you seeing there?”

  Michael waited while Murray pushed the triangle’s dotted sides into three adjoining piles, making something that looked like a shamrock. “It’s just that... sometimes mistakes are made. You learn things about an ancestor that aren’t true. That family stories might simply be a bunch of malarkey.”

  “Out with it, Murray. I want to hear it all.” Michael could feel himself shrinking. The kitchen counters, walls, the doors grew and slanted around him in the odd angles of his childhood. He swallowed.

  “I had one of our men do a bit of research in the newspaper archives, a different man than we used to research Bridget’s marriage.” Michael nodded in quick understanding. “Patrick and Daniel Heinchon were leaders in the IRA and responsible for the bombing of Nelson’s Pillar in 1966. That fact was confirmed in later years as the conflict heated up. They weren’t considered the most notorious members by the British but were known to be part of the team that was the heart and soul of the fledgling civil rights movement.”

  “Daniel and Patrick are common names in Ireland. There could be any number of them. It doesn’t mean we’re talking about the same family.”

  Murray fanned Jessica’s notes. “I’ve no questions.”

  “So the men in the family were involved in the struggles. That’s hardly surprising. Most families in both Irelands have some kind of connection. Where are they now?”

  “The two men died in a Christmas day raid. Patrick was killed instantly. Daniel never recovered from his injuries. The raid was considered one of the most successful campaigns early on by the British to disrupt the leadership of the opposition. Their funerals sparked a week of unrest that many point to as the beginning of the Troubles.”

  “That doesn’t tell us anything about Bridget.”

  “No. But there is a connection here.” He shuffled through the papers and produced a faxed image. Even with the grainy quality of the newspaper photo, the image of the priest presiding over Daniel’s funeral was clear. Murray placed the picture of Bridget and Gus and the unknown man beside it. “The priest’s name is Kavan Hughes.”

  Michael cocked his head to the side in thought. “Would he be called Sagart Hughes?” Murray nodded. “That’s what the woman at the country store in Aghalee was trying to tell me. I thought she was telling me the name of the church, but she recognized Father Hughes. So, he was definitely in Aghalee with Gus Adams and connected to Bridget.”

  “It all fits,” Murray continued, “and the article makes even more sense. He was quoted as saying he was a childhood friend of the Heinchon family and that he understood why these boys of such promise had taken the lesser path of violence. He stopped short of endorsing them. He used the sermon to instruct on the growing gulf of opportunity and patience.”

  “So he took the middle road?”

  “He certainly didn’t fan the flames for either violence or assimilation. But it was enough for me to go back and re-read some of Bridget’s entries.” Murray cocked his middle finger onto his thumb and fired away at the wads like miniat
ure cannon balls.

  “And this priest, is he still living?” Michael wanted to be excited, but Murray’s manner betrayed more needed to be said.

  “Yes. Father Hughes has led a remarkable and successful life inside the church. He is now Bishop Kavan Hughes.”

  Murray retrieved the tiny paper balls from around the kitchen floor. Then he began to rearrange the wads into neat stacks, busying himself until Michael spoke.

  “Jessica’s going to want to meet the bishop.”

  “I’ve no doubt on that, Michael.”

  Michael paced the room, alternately looking at the picture and the newspaper photo. “With her uncles dead, this bishop is the only person who can give Jessica what she needs. Nothing will stop her from going to him once she makes the connection.” He stopped pacing. “Wait a minute. He must be living in the Belfast area and—”

  Murray put his hand on Michael’s arm and motioned for him to sit back down. He methodically closed and checked every window and door, putting on a kabuki theater of security and calm. He wore an expression of empathy, a look Michael knew and dreaded.

  “The papers said the brothers were part of a team. I had our fellow do more research to get names of any affiliates or anyone else who could be living and more easily accessible than a rising star bishop.”

  Michael sat obedient and silent, hunched over his stomach. The familiar feeling of the moldering pit sickened him to helpless waiting.

  “Bridget Heinchon Harvey was apprehended by the RUC in January of 1967. She was sent to the Mourne House Women’s Unit of Maghaberry Prison in Southwest Belfast where she remained waiting for a trial which never happened.”

  “My God, Murray. That’s when Jessica was born.”