This Man's Wee Boy

by Doherty, Tony;

  Then the silence was broken by a commotion on the roof of the Mex. I couldn’t tell what they were saying but it sounded serious. I took my chance, got up on my knees and made a bolt for the corner of our street and safety. A few minutes later, a Sixer with a red cross on the side drove at speed from the Mex towards Craigavon Bridge.

  * * *

  Fishing for fluke (a flat fish like a flounder) is something we did when we had nothing else to do, usually on a Saturday or a Sunday.

  Me, Kevin Morrison, Johnny Barbour and our Paul were out the Line, sitting on a low wall beside the river on a warm and overcast day. Our fishing equipment was a piece of stick with thick orange gut wrapped around it (the reel), a few hooks, a sinker and a float. We had a baked bean tin full of worms. The worms writhed in pain at being gored by the hook, but they were only worms. You then held the reel in your left hand and swung the line with the float, sinker, hook and worm on it around your head like a lasso and cast it into the brown water. The fluke were everywhere so you didn’t need to cast that far.

  We all cast out. It was a race to see who could catch the most. The fluke bit very quickly and you just wrapped the gut back around the wooden reel to bring them in, flipping and flopping in and out of the water as they realised they’d been caught. When you got your fluke in, you grabbed it and hit its head on the low wall until it was either dead or knocked out; it’ll die soon if it’s just knocked out. We laid out our dead in rows behind us as we sat on the low wall. The fluke we caught varied in size, from about the size of a twenty-pack of fags to a dinner plate. Sometimes the fluke came round after being knocked out and tried to flip off the wall back into their watery home. We laid the dead fish out, from the biggest to the smallest, along the wall and then counted them before we went home. We then threw them back in again before we packed up because we couldn’t eat them.

  After we’d thrown the fluke back in, we walked along the edge of the river towards home, then cut across the waste land between the river and Foyle Road. Suddenly I spotted a live bullet lying on the dry ground. As I picked it up I noticed that the bullet head was painted black at the tip.

  ‘Hi boys, look at this!’ I said holding the brass bullet up to show the other three. ‘I found a live bullet, hi!’ They gathered round to see it. It was heavy for being such a small thing.

  ‘That’s a rifle bullet, so it is,’ said Kevin.

  ‘What’s the black paint for at the top?’ I asked, pointing.

  No one knew. We all rubbed it through our hands.

  ‘What’ll we do with it? We can’t take it home,’ I said.

  We all agreed – we couldn’t take it home.

  ‘We could fire it over to the Waterside. There’s an army barracks over there,’ said Johnny, pointing across the river.

  I couldn’t see any army barracks, just trees.

  ‘How do you fire it without a gun?’ asked our Paul. ‘We’ve no gun.’

  ‘Put it on a hard stone and smash it with another hard stone,’ said Kevin. ‘There’s a stone there.’

  He went over and placed the bullet on the stone, with its black head pointing towards the Waterside.

  ‘Who’s goin’ to do it?’ I asked, feeling a bit scared. What if it goes off in the wrong direction, I thought, worried only about my own well-being.

  ‘I’ll do it,’ said Johnny. ‘Sure we can take turns until it goes off.’

  He lifted a medium-sized boulder from a heap of rubble. We all stood behind him as he dropped the stone from shoulder height onto the live bullet. The bullet rolled off the flat stone onto the dry dirt. He missed. He must’ve meant to miss. You couldn’t miss from that distance.

  I then placed the bullet back onto the flat of the stone, pointing it again towards the Waterside. I lifted the boulder with my two hands. The fear had gone but I was still really scared inside. I raised the boulder over my head and brought it down heavily onto the bullet. It didn’t go off. The boulder was too soft; it only made a chalky dent on the bullet’s rounded metal.

  ‘Don’t do it any more,’ said our Paul. We all agreed.

  ‘What’ll we do wi’ the bullet?’ I asked, picking it up and rubbing the dust from it.

  ‘I’ll take it into school and give it to the teacher,’ said Johnny, holding his hand out to me. ‘Everyone brings in stuff for the teacher.’

  ‘What kind of stuff?’ I asked, placing the black-headed bullet in his hand.

  ‘You know, bullets and all,’ he said.

  ‘What else?’ I asked.

  ‘Somebody brought him in a live gas CS canister once.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Somebody from the Bog. I cannae remember who,’ said Johnny.

  As we were talking about how to get rid of the bullet we walked back across the dumping ground between the river and Foyle Road. When we reached the road a long, dark blue car was parked in the middle of the road just outside the Mex. There was no one near it. We didn’t say anything, just kept walking across the road to the entrance at Hamilton Street, which had high mounds of rubble and clay on either side of the road, enough to slow cars down as they entered or left the street.

  We neared our house and our Karen was at the front door crying, her hand over her mouth. She went inside when she saw us coming. Me ma was in but me da was out, and me ma was trying to comfort Karen, who was saying something about a man and a woman being shot in a car outside the Mex, that there was blood everywhere. Me and our Paul eyed each other, went quietly out the door, back out to the street and ran round the corner towards the Mex. The long, dark blue car was still in the middle of the road and there was still no one near it. A few wains had gathered at the roadside to gawk across at the car, but no one had ventured anywhere near it. Me and Paul were the first.

  As we approached from the driver’s side we could see that the door was tilled open and the window was smashed. Small cubes of glass lay scattered on the road beneath the tilled door. We looked through the broken window and saw blood on the driver’s seat and on the fawn-coloured steering wheel, and there was a pool of blood on the floor. The passenger door was half open and the passenger seat was soaked in blood as well. There was a blood-speckled, gold cross earring lying on it, and the pearls of a broken necklace were strewn across the carpeted floor beside a woman’s handbag. The blood was a thin red colour, like Raspberryade, as if someone had diluted it, but it was blood all right.

  Soldiers appeared at the gate of the Mex, with their rifles pointing towards Creggan, and began making their way towards us and the long blue car. A few stayed at the gate with their rifles pointing. We retreated to the other side of the street and watched them surround the car so no one could get near it. No one spoke. The show was over. We went home.

  * * *

  Me and Gutsy were out the back lane behind our houses and it was pitch dark. A single streetlight stood at the bottom of the lane but its light wasn’t that strong. Gunshots rang out somewhere in the near distance – single shots. We hit the deck.

  ‘They’re firing at the Mex,’ said Gutsy.

  A burst of quick-fire shots followed. These shots were different, louder.

  ‘That’s the BA firing back,’ Gutsy told me.

  I kept my head down close to the ground. I hoped there were no rats around. I hated rats. They could run over my face at this level. I could smell the dry dirt as my face was almost touching the ground. More shots rang out from the first gun, then more in return. After that it was hard to say who was shooting.

  ‘They’re firing tracers. Look,’ said Gutsy and I looked up.

  The bright red tracer bullets were flying through the air, moving in an arc across the sky. We couldn’t see the Mex from where we were, but we could see the tracers coming from that direction.

  ‘Tony!’ I heard me da calling from the street.

  ‘There’s me da,’ I said. ‘I’m goney get killed for being round here at night!’

  ‘Tony!’ me da called again, this time getting closer. His repeated calls
of my name could be heard over and in between the rifle and machine-gun fire.

  ‘C’mon quick, Gutsy. Me da’s calling me.’

  We crawled towards the bottom of the lane where the single streetlight was; all the others had been put out weeks ago. I wasn’t sure why. More shooting started, this time it was very close – probably up the top of the lane. We crawled faster and reached the bottom, then got up and ran with our heads down towards the lane opening to the street.

  ‘Da! I’m here. You wannie see the tracers round the lane. The whole sky’s lit up wi’ them!’

  ‘Tracers? I’ll fuckin’ tracers you! Get round to that fuckin’ house!’ he shouted, grabbing Gutsy and me by our collars and running us out of the lane and into the street.

  As we came out of the lane, the darkened, empty street became gradually lit up by a greeny-gold colour from the sky, as if the sun has suddenly decided to shine a new colour. We all looked upwards as we ran to see a row of bright flares slowly descend from the sky ahead. We ran for our front doors. I could hear the Sixers and Pigs driving at speed on Foyle Road towards the Mex. Me da pushed Gutsy into the open door of his own house without stopping. We ran on up the street and in through our own front door. The shooting was still ringing out. It seemed to be coming from everywhere, but there were no gunmen to be seen.

  When we got into the house, everyone was on the floor in the sitting room looking up towards the window. The flares still lit the sky up. All the lights in the house were out, which was normal practice by now when there was shooting at night. The smell of fear was there. Me and me da got down as well. Looking up at the window you could still see the red tracers flying across the sky. The sound of gunfire filled the room and pounded in our ears and seemed to have got even closer. No one spoke. Eventually the shooting died down until only the odd single shot could be heard in the distance. We stirred to get up.

  ‘Stay down, stay down, it’s not over!’ said me da, and we all got down again on the oilcloth. I wondered how he knew when the rest of us didn’t.

  As I lay on the floor a glint from underneath the sofa caught my eye and I reached under and found a shilling. Saying nothing, I quietly slipped the coin into my trouser pocket. The shooting started again. This time it was in the back lane right behind our house. They were slow, aimed shots, followed by what seemed like a thousand shots in ten seconds. And then it was over. The quiet was deafening.

  After a few more minutes me da said, ‘It’s over and it’s late. Get your supper and get up to your beds.’

  Me ma stood up, pulled the curtains together and put on the sitting-room light. We all rubbed our eyes, the way you do when you come out of the cinema into daylight. Supper was toast and tea as usual. We all stood around the kitchen table as there were still only two kitchen chairs. It was exciting to be getting our supper at ten at night.

  All of a sudden our Paul, who was standing next to me, made a strange noise with his throat, dropped his tea on the table and fell backwards onto the kitchen floor, banging his head on the press door. The tea went all over the table and ran onto the floor.

  ‘What in under Jesus now!’ said me da in exasperation from the other end of the table.

  ‘He’s fainted, Paddy! He’s fainted!’ said me ma, glaring at him.

  They both went to see to him on the floor. We stood and looked down at the three of them on the kitchen floor. Me ma held Paul’s head up for a minute and me da held his hand, petting it. Paul woke up after a minute or two, smiled up at them and was helped to his feet. We all laughed and went to bed a few minutes later.

  The next morning me and our Patrick and Paul went out into the back lane to see what we could find. Sure enough there were empty bullet shells strewn along the back lane from behind our house to the top of the lane. There were long brass shells from rifles – dozens of them. They smelled of Hallowe’en bangers. We gathered them up and took them into the kitchen to show me ma.

  ‘Jesus, get them out of here!’ she shrieked. ‘We’ll be jailed if the army raid the house and find them. Get them out!’

  We hurriedly turned around and took them out to the back lane again, feeling a bit dejected by our ma’s tone of voice. They’re only bullet shells! Eventually, not wanting to ditch them altogether, we stashed them in holes in the walls that ran the length of the back lane.

  While we were stashing the shells in the walls, our Patrick called us over.

  ‘Look at that,’ he said, pointing up to the bedroom window of the house next door.

  There was a bullet hole in one of the panes with cracks running off it. An old couple lived there. We hardly ever saw them as they didn’t go out much. I formed a picture of the oul doll lying shot dead in her bed.

  ‘They could be shot dead in their beds,’ said Patrick, echoing my thoughts.

  We ran in to tell me ma, who was in the kitchen cleaning up. She told us it was all right, that our da had been speaking to them and that the bullet came in the back window, went through their bedroom wall and lodged in the front wall. ‘That’s why when there’s shooting you get down and lie flat until it’s over. No running about like a monkey, Tony Doherty!’

  I ran upstairs to check my Arsenal poster on our bedroom wall. It was okay – no bullet holes in it, thank God.

  Later that day I took two of the shells to the bankin’, where we had made the secrets a few years earlier. Using a piece of broken glass I scraped away the grass and a half inch of soil, placed the two bullet shells together in the soil and covered them with a piece of green-coloured glass. I scraped the soil back over and patted it down with my hand. The secret was now complete.

  * * *

  There was a riot with soldiers from the Mex. They were out on the road behind their vehicles. The rioters were teenagers, most of them wearing jeans. We were standing at the corner watching. There was a snatch squad behind the vehicles. The squad wore white shoes of some kind – slippers or baseball boots – and carried long, white batons. They ran towards the rioters to arrest them if they could get near enough. Me ma and da must’ve been out because no one was sent down the street to get us.

  The rioters started to get the upper hand, throwing stones and paint-bombs at the BA. Suddenly the snatch squad emerged from behind and charged at the rioters, shouting at the top of their voices. We took off up our street and stopped at our house. Some of the retreating rioters stopped at the corner and began throwing stones at the snatch squad, who had no shields on them for protection. The tables were turning. The snatch squad was exposed and hadn’t caught anyone. Sensing this, we ran back down towards the corner. I lifted half a red brick as I reached the corner. There were plenty of people in front of me but I threw it anyway and hit Davy Barbour, who was leading our younger charge, square in the back. He went down in the middle of the road in agony.

  ‘Who the fuck threw that?’ someone asked. They were lifting Davy up from the ground.

  ‘It was Gutsy. I seen him,’ I said, pointing towards the corner house, as if to say he threw and ran.

  Gutsy was nowhere to be seen.

  ‘That Gutsy’s a wee fucker. Wait till I get me hands on him!’ said someone else.

  * * *

  While we were playing football in the street, near the mound-of-soil barricade, there was the sound of gunfire in the distance. If it was far away you didn’t need to hit the deck. We went on playing. The flatbed of a lorry had been deliberately parked across the end of our street. Someone had let the tyres down to make it harder to move. There was a small gap to squeeze through on our side and a bigger one on the other side. There were three barricades now in our street.

  Sixers and Pigs came up Foyle Road in our direction. We stopped to look at them and gave them the fingers. They pulled up and dismounted just past the gap of Hamilton Street overlooking Anne Street, and an officer began pointing towards Creggan Hill and the cemetery. Soldiers lined up along a low wall, each on one knee, and aimed their rifles at Creggan. They looked like a row of toy soldiers. A small crow
d of us children gathered behind them to see what they were going to fire at. We couldn’t see anything, but the officer had a better view than us – he was looking through binoculars.

  All of a sudden one soldier fired a bullet and everyone hit the deck, covering their ears. The sound was really loud.

  The officer shouted at him, right into his face: ‘Don’t fire until I tell you! I didn’t give the order!’

  The soldier, a teenager, looked around at us lying on the ground. His face was blazing red with embarrassment.

  Then the officer turned to us and said, ‘There’s going to be a lot of shooting here, so you’d better go to your houses.’

  We scrambled to our feet and ran for the corner. There were about ten of us. Within a few seconds more shots rang out and we just lay in the street on our bellies until it became quiet again. It was difficult to tell if anyone was firing back at the BA, but after a few minutes the shooting died down, the soldiers got back into their Pigs and Sixers, turned on Foyle Road and drove away. There were no bullet shells for us to gather; they took them with them. We went over to the low wall and looked up the hill to see if we could see anything. There was nothing to see but houses and the speckles of black-and-white headstones in the cemetery. We went back to our football.

  * * *

  I awoke to the sound of heavy vehicles on the road outside. It was summer so there was no school, and everyone else was asleep. I got up and looked out the window. There were groups of soldiers with rifles standing on the other side of the street. One of them looked up at me and gestured at me to get back into the room. I gave him the fingers and he laughed.

  I got dressed and went downstairs. The front room was still in total darkness even though it was bright outside. Me da was standing at the front door looking up the street towards Melaugh’s shop. There was a thick fog in the street but we could see that the soldiers had brought in a heavy crane to lift the flatbed lorry. Despite the fog it was warm and clammy and the soldiers were in their olive-green shirtsleeves under their flak jackets. There were other soldiers further up the street driving green JCBs, tackling the concrete barricade. We could hear the JCB buckets shrieking from the top of the street as they forced themselves onto the iron girders set into the concrete. A small group of soldiers were still standing across the street outside Chesty Crossan’s cottage. There was no one else in the street. In the distance, you could hear the clanging of bin lids.