by David Hough
She turned her gaze away from him. “Youse’ll have to go where the army sends youse. Youse could be sent back here.”
“I’m not going to enlist as a foot soldier. I’ve an A level in maths and I want to join the admin branch... accountancy… book-keeping… something similar.”
“Paying wages?”
“Whatever’s on offer. I’ll tell them it’s in their best interests not to send me back here. I need to get away from all that’s going on here… or go mad. So… will you come with me?”
“I don’t know,” she said. “And that’s the truth. If it was just England... maybe. But with youse in the army… I don’t know.”
They both went silent when the old woman brought in a tray set out with two coffee mugs, milk and sugar. She put it down on a small, low table in front of them. She didn’t speak until she stood back and eyed the two of them warily. “Brian’s on the lookout fer youse, Sorcha. He phoned me a few minutes ago. Askin’ if I knew where youse were.” Her voice turned screechy, as rough as fingernails dragged down a blackboard.
Martin felt Sorcha suddenly grow tense alongside him.
“Why? What does he want?” she said.
“Dunno. None o’ my business, is it? But he’s on his way over here.”
Sorcha stood up suddenly. “Oh, shit!”
***
October 1980
“What happened when Sorcha came face-to-face with that man?” I asked.
“I don’t know. She made me leave.”
“But you saw him?”
“Only briefly, just as I was going. You’ll have to ask her what went on between them. You’ll be seeing her, will you?”
“I’ve arranged a visit this afternoon. I wanted to use that meeting to ask her about how you two first met. Now you’ve given me another topic to explore.”
The door opened and the child strode in. She stood beside her father’s seat and glared directly at me. The big round eyes held no hint of welcome. “Mummy says it’s time you went.”
Chapter Seven
October 1980
My mind was filled with yet more questions as I drove to Armagh, questions I needed to ask Sorcha. She was waiting for me in the prison interview room, leaning forward on a metal and plastic chair, her elbows on the bare table, as if she was anxious to get on with the meeting. One eye was badly bruised.
“What happened?” I asked even before I sat down.
She shrugged. “I refused to be part of the latest dirty protest. Don’t ask any more about it.”
I didn’t need to ask. I understood. The Republican women in Armagh gaol had a reputation for being every bit as ruthless as their male counterparts. ‘Join us or suffer’ was an instruction as persuasive as any religious dogma, but Sorcha was not persuaded. Whatever my concerns, however, there was nothing I could do to help her.
The same burly female warder stood against the wall behind her. I took a seat at the opposite side of the plain wooden table and pulled out my notebook. I began by telling her I had met with Martin that morning.
“How is he?” she asked, her interest peaking. “Is he happy?”
“He seems to be coping with life in his own way. He still lives in Belfast and he’s married now.”
A frown flittered across her face. “He’s married? I suppose I should have expected that.”
“What more do you want me to tell you?”
She shook her head forcibly. “Nothing. Nothing more. I don’t want to know about his life without me. Only that he’s happy. And you did say he’s happy?”
That wasn’t what I said, but I let it pass. I understood her feelings. “In that case, let’s go back to the past… let’s talk again about what happened eight years ago. Martin told me that you went to a small hotel in the Bone area and Fitzpain came to see you there. Do you remember that?”
“Yes.”
“What happened?”
“The police came along…”
“No, Sorcha.” I put up a hand to stop her. “Start at the beginning. Tell me the story from the moment you heard Fitzpain was on his way to see you. And Sorcha…”
“Yes?”
“Tell me more about your feelings for Martin. You did have strong feelings for him, didn’t you?”
“Feelings?” She looked away. One hand wiped slowly across her bruised eye. “Of course I had feelings. I loved him. And he saved me life, so he did.”
“Really?” I shuddered. “You hinted at that once before. Tell me about it.”
***
Friday 21st July 1972
0930 BST
A cold fear clutched at Sorcha in that dirty little hotel. She put a hand to her forehead and tried to steady her breathing. Martin was staring up at her, as if something was seriously wrong. Of course something was wrong, but she couldn’t tell him what it was.
He opened his mouth to speak, but she waved a hand furiously at him. “Don’t say anythin’, Martin! Not now.”
She turned away. Damn that eejit, Brian Fitzpain. How the hell was she going to explain this to Martin? Was this how their relationship would end? She’d kept so many secrets from him. He didn’t even know where she lived, except that it was in a Nationalist area. God help him if he genuinely believed she was a simple, innocent Catholic girl stuck in the wrong place. Surely no one could spend so much intimate time with her and still believe that. If only it was true though. Or… if only she could keep the truth from him forever. But she couldn’t. Certainly not if Brian Fitzpain found them together.
Did it matter?
Yes, it mattered because Martin was the only man to have demonstrated that he cared about her. That was the essence of her problem. He was the only one who didn’t look down on her as nought but a means of exciting sex. With him it was more than just a detached moment of sexual release. It was a prolonged moment of love that left her emotionally sated. Maybe there were others, Catholics who could do that for her. Maybe she just hadn’t yet met such a man. So why did she have to fall for him of all people, a decent-minded Prod? Why did she have to fall in love with a man who was one of Catholic Ireland’s hated enemies?
She had been to bed with many men from her own side of the divide and most of them gave her little or no physical satisfaction. Alcohol-sozzled kisses, fumbling hands and dicks that went limp within seconds of entry. Sometimes before entry. A surfeit of Guinness and whiskey had that effect. They claimed she was amazing in bed, regardless of their own performance, but what was the use of that? She cast her mind back. Until she was fourteen, she knew nothing but constant sneers and condemnation. Useless at school, useless at home, useless anywhere. She was a nobody. And then she discovered there was one thing she could do well.
“By God, ye’re a damn good shag, Sorcha,” men and boys would tell her. “The best around here.” And then she would feel a sense of elation because she was acknowledged to be better than other women. Better at something. In her own mind, she was recognised as having status within the community. Was that why she allowed herself to be seduced by men for whom she secretly harboured revulsion? How would Martin react when he discovered she’d been to bed with several Provisional IRA killers? Not Fitzpain, of course. How could she possibly give in to him, with him being who he was? But there had been others.
She wasn’t a prostitute. She never took money for sex, but she gave away her body too often in return for that admiration and sense of achievement. It might have gone on like that if Brian Fitzpain had not pointed out the obvious. “Don’t fool yerself, girl. They all laugh at youse behind yer back. They laugh at youse because ye’re a wee whore. A good-for-nothin’ bitch with a pretty face. That’s all ye’ll ever be, so get used to it.”
At first she refused to believe him, but the truth could not be so easily ignored. In time her opinion of herself changed. He was right, of course he was. Why hadn’t she seen it so clearly before? She wasn’t clever like Bridie. She wasn’t gifted with words and ideas. She was useless, except for what she had in her knickers. T
he revelation led her into a period of intense depression. She would never be anything more than a cheap whore living in a ghetto of hatred, bigotry and violence, so what was the point of going on? Inevitably, the obvious answer came to her and she accepted it. Better to end her life now, before she sank even further into the gutter. Suicide was the only realistic answer. So she gathered together the tools.
And then she met Martin.
He was different. He behaved like a gentleman. He showed her what real love was all about. He offered her a way out of her problem. A much better way than the one she had been planning when she met him. Could she go away to England with him? The prospect was so tempting.
They first met little more than a month ago. It was that critical Saturday morning when she had been shopping in the city centre, buying clothes for the last time. She chose carefully: a smart new pleated skirt, a new white blouse, a new comfortable bra and frilly panties. She had the pills and the booze stashed away in her bedside cabinet, and she would end it all that night. When the end came she would look good, like she never had before. She was determined on that. None of the worn old clothes that made her look so dowdy, so cheap. No, when her body was found she would be looking pretty, as a girl should look. That was how they would bury her, and that was how they would remember her; looking attractive. Not that she could afford to buy the clothes, but she had some cash in her purse, money she had stolen from her mammy’s rent tin. It didn’t matter. She would be dead before mammy found out.
She was leaving the shop on Royal Avenue when she tripped on a dislodged paving slab and fell, knocking her head on the ground. The man just ahead of her turned at her sudden cry for help.
“Oh God! What happened?” She felt dizzy, struggling to sit up.
“You fell.” He grasped her hand, pulling her into a seated position.
“Stupid thing to do.” Her vision began to stabilise.
“Blame the pavement.” His voice was soft, mellow.
She looked up at the man and saw that he was young, no older than herself. He wore a dark blazer and grey flared trousers and his flowery pink shirt was open at the neck. His hair was long, like David Essex, and his smiling eyes seemed to bore into her with some sort of pleasure.
“I must look like a damned fool,” she said.
“No. You look quite delightful. Just a touch unlucky.”
“Fuck me,” she said without thinking. No one had complimented her like that before.
He laughed. “That’s a very tempting offer, but shouldn’t we get to know one another first.”
There was blood on her face. He wiped at it with a clean handkerchief and then eased her to her feet. The dizziness persisted so he led her into the café next door and bought her a cup of coffee. He stayed with her until her senses returned to normal, chatting easily in that smooth, well-educated voice. He offered to see her home, but she refused. She had no idea which side of the divide he came from, but he promised to meet her again the next day. A gentleman who was willing to see her again, without a hint of wanting sex! Not then. A surge of excitement rose inside her. So she put off her thoughts of suicide. For the time being.
That night she dreamed of a change in her fortunes, hoping he would keep his promise. He did. He took her to a restaurant in Royal Avenue for lunch, and they talked until long after the meal was finished. When they parted, he gave her a phone number for her to contact him. She hid the fact her mammy couldn’t afford a phone. Instead she called him the following day from a call box in the city centre. The boxes near Mafeking Street had all been vandalised long ago.
It had been such a simple, harmless beginning, but it had become very dangerous as it continued. A few days… almost a week… passed before she went to bed with him. And it was so different to all the sex she had known before. He gave her beautiful orgasms and kindness in equal good measure. It was his thoughtful attention and the wonderful sex that persuaded her to hold off indefinitely from ending her life, and that was the worst part of it. As long as she continued living she had to carry on with those other things, the hateful things that blighted her existence; the things she had never revealed to him.
Would a life in England be the answer to it all?
Well, the question wouldn’t arise if Brian Fitzpain found them together. They would never get to England. He would kill Martin the moment he discovered he was a Prod. And he was on his way here.
She waited until old Maggie had left the room before she hissed, “Youse had better get out of this place, Martin. Now!”
“Why? What’s the matter?” He stood up slowly, puzzlement etched across his face.
He reached out to her, but she pushed him away. “There’s someone on his way over here and he doesn’t like Prods. Just do as I say, Martin. Get out now before he sees youse.”
Martin stepped back. “He’s coming to see you: that’s what the old lady said. Why? What’s going on?”
Sorcha grabbed at his arm and pushed him towards the door. “Don’t ask questions. There isn’t time to explain. Just go. I’ll phone youse later.”
She ushered him out into the reception area in time to hear heavy footsteps in the stairwell. Oh, God, the bastard was here already! She hissed at Martin in a low voice. “Go, now. And don’t even look at me.” She thrust him away from her.
“But…”
“Go, I said.”
He was at the far side of the reception area, beside the old lady’s desk, when Fitzpain reached the top of the stairs. The Provo’s face was filled with a look of thunder. He gave Martin only a cursory glance before he gestured Sorcha to follow him into the sitting room. She glanced back to see Martin leaving. God, what he must be thinking now!
Fitzpain pushed her back against the settee, jabbing at her chest. “I told youse to stay home, youse stupid bitch!”
She forced a defiant tone into her voice. “Didn’t see why I should.”
“The bombs, youse stupid fool! The bombs. Anyway, maybe it’s as well youse did bugger off because they’re onto youse, Sorcha. Damn youse! The UVF are searchin’ fer youse. Mad Mac McKinnon himself.”
“Why?”
“Can’t youse guess? Youse lured one o’ their people last night and youse delivered him up fer execution.”
“But ’twas youse what killed him, Brian. Not me.”
“And youse were seen, Sorcha. I wasn’t. One of his mates followed youse to yer house. Did youse not realise? If youse has any sense youse’ll not go back home. Not now. Get out o’ Belfast fer a while. Until things calm down.”
“Where? Where should I go?”
“How the hell should I know? And why should I care? Wherever youse goes, it won’t be fer long. Youse knows damned well there’s something much bigger gonna take their attention pretty damn soon.”
“But…” She turned away as Maggie came scurrying into the reception area from the kitchen.
“Stop arguin’, youse two! Youse were seen comin’ in here, Brian!” Maggie pushed Fitzpain towards a small window overlooking the street. “Look! ’Tis that eejit out there.”
Sorcha eased herself into a position alongside Fitzpain and peered through the glass. A shifty-looking figure in a dirty raincoat lurked beside a telephone box at the far side of the road. He took a long drag on a cigarette and then stared up at the window.
“Shite!” Fitzpain slammed a fist hard on the sill. “’Tis Jimmy Fish. An’ the bastard’s spyin’ on us, so he is.”
“Why should he do that?” Sorcha asked.
“How should I know? But he damn well is spyin’ on us. Damn him to hell!”
Sorcha stared down at Jimmy Fish. She knew well enough that the Codd family and the Fitzpains were related through a mish-mash of intermarriage within Ardglass village. But what was the runt up to now? There were rumours about Jimmy Fish, rumours about where he got his money, but no proof. As she watched, the devious bastard glanced back along the road to where something had caught his attention. Whatever he saw, it caused him to pull his beret
down over his forehead and scamper away in the opposite direction. Seconds later a police Land Rover screeched to a halt outside the building. Two burly RUC policemen, armed with assault rifles, jumped from the back of the vehicle and headed towards the hotel. Body armour covered their dark green uniforms.
“Shite! They’re comin’ here!” Fitzpain turned and ran towards the stairs. He stopped suddenly. The thump of heavy feet warned that the RUC men were already inside the building.
A deep, loud voice bellowed, “Police! Stay where you are!”
Fitzpain pulled a knife from his coat and pointed it towards the stairwell. “Don’t come any further,” he shouted. “I’m armed and I’ll kill youse.”
The same deep voice called back. “Don’t be foolish, whoever you are. Let’s do this quietly.” The policeman climbed slowly into view. His rifle was aimed directly at Fitzpain’s heart, never wavering from its aim. He paused at the top step. “Oh? So, it’s you, Fitzpain. We wondered if you’d be tied up in this.”
Fitzpain kept his knife pointed at the policeman. “What d’youse want?”
“It looks like we’re after you, man. Been butchering a peeler, have you?”
Sorcha felt her heart thump. The peeler who died last night: that was what this was all about. Would they want her as well? Did they know about the part she played in Fitzpain’s foul deeds?
But the peeler seemed uninterested in her. He looked around at the two women, showing surprising calmness for such a confrontation. “Sorry about this, ladies. I mean no trouble to either of you, so please move back.”
“I told youse, I’ll kill youse.” Fitzpain still held his knife at arm’s length, but his hands were shaking. His face had turned ashen. Had the policeman noticed that? Was that why he seemed so composed?
“Be sensible, man.” The policeman took a step forward as another uniformed RUC officer came up the stairs behind him. Then he spoke with the sort of formality that said he was simply doing another day’s work. “Brian Fitzpain, I am arresting you for the murder of Detective Constable John Dunlop…”