The Girl From the Killing Streets

by David Hough

  She withdrew her hand and leaned back in her seat. “I was briefly living in England at the time, working over there. I saw the same television news reports, but it didn’t affect me the same way. Revulsion, yes, but not the lasting pain you feel.”

  “This book will be my catharsis,” I said. I didn’t want to question her true feelings about Irish violence. Not then.

  “I hope it works,” she said.

  I took a deep, calming breath. “Tell me about your day job.” I said, anxious to change the subject.

  “Counselling.” She ran the tip of her tongue across her upper lip. “I help people get over traumas. There’s a big need for it here in Belfast.”

  “I can believe that. It must be a satisfying job.”

  She shook her head. “I wouldn’t call it that. I see too many emotionally and psychologically damaged people, and there are some I can never help. No, there’s nothing satisfying in seeing the real victims of this endless violence, even when I can help them.”

  “But you do help some of them. You just said so.”

  “That’s the whole point, isn’t it? I wish there was no need for it.”

  “You’ve helped Sorcha,” I suggested.

  “Not in the way you’re probably thinking. I’m not a forensic psychologist. Prison visiting is something I do as a sideline. Sorcha hasn’t opened up her heart to me, or told me why she killed those men – if she really did kill them - and I don’t press the matter. Mostly, I try to play the part of a friend. I think she has a real need for friends.”

  I had no answer to that, so I turned to more agreeable matters and I began to enjoy Susan’s company. In some ways it was almost like being with Annie again. Most of the time we seemed to understand each other without having to labour the explanations.

  At the end of the meal she drove me to the cemetery in Belfast and I showed her Annie’s grave. We didn’t stay long but I was glad she was there, listening while I told her how it had been for Annie and me. Then we drove back to my hotel. When I said goodbye to her, I harboured a fierce hope that I would hear more from this prison visitor. In the meantime, I needed to ready myself to talk to Martin Foster the next day.

  In my room I turned on the television news to hear that John Lennon had been shot in New York. Another mindless killing.

  Chapter Twelve

  December 1980

  The next day I telephoned Martin and asked him to meet me for lunch. I thought it might be easier for both him and his wife, Emily, if I did not turn up at their house. We got down to business over a very palatable meal in the hotel restaurant. I made a note to ensure the receipt went straight onto my tax return as a legitimate expense.

  “You said in court that you witnessed a riot and you thought Sorcha was caught up in it,” I said to him when the food was served. “I have the gist of it, so how about you now tell me what happened in detail.”

  “You really are going into this affair with a fine toothcomb, aren’t you?” he said.

  “That’s what journalism is all about. You find out everything in general and then sift out the bits that are important enough to warrant a deeper examination.”

  “And you won’t incriminate me in any way?”

  I grinned. “A policeman called Will Evans has the same reservations. You didn’t kill anyone, did you?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Well then, be quite sure, Martin, that I will not incriminate you. I just want to know the truth. All of it.”

  “You heard what was said in court.”

  “Yes. And I wonder just how much was not said.”

  ***

  Friday 21st July 1972

  1205 BST

  On his way home, Martin walked into a riot. He turned a corner at the junction of the Shankill Road and North Castle Street and there it was. A Loyalist riot. He had heard no gunfire as he approached the area so - at first - he wasn’t unduly worried; he’d seen too many riots in Belfast to get himself into an immediate panic. That level of alarm was reserved for when the serious shooting began. This incident was almost normality.

  Brick-and-petrol-bomb riots sprang up all over the city on a daily basis, like fast-growing weeds in a derelict garden. One minute there was no sign of trouble and then the whole area was aflame with feral insurgents baying for blood. Humanity went out the window to be replaced by callous violence. Some riots were spontaneous. Many, especially Republican riots, were planned right down to the cast list. Which Belfast mammies would shield the hidden gunmen? Which schoolchildren would distract the troops with a salvo of bricks while the snipers got into position? Often, it was a well-orchestrated drama.

  Sometimes the disturbances blew themselves out in an hour or two. Sometimes they went on for days. There was no apparent logic for predicting how any one of them would pan out. There would be a concocted excuse for this particular Loyalist riot; a police raid on a UVF house maybe? Whatever the excuse was, it would have been forgotten by now. Once started, Belfast violence became self-perpetuating, growing out of an in-built anger that defied all reason.

  The noise continued; exploding petrol bombs, bricks bouncing across the road, cars set on fire, loud voices raised in rage and resentment. An orchestrated symphony of civil war.

  The army riot squad stood well back from the mob, watching without interfering, deflecting any hurled missiles with their shields. The police were lined up behind the army, also watching without getting drawn into battle. Let the buggers tire themselves out seemed to be the tactic in use here, one which had worked well elsewhere. You didn’t need to be a soldier or peeler to understand the tactics in Belfast. It was all on regular display.

  One of the soldiers turned to look at Martin. He looked like a youngster, eighteen or nineteen years old, maybe. He must have been a recent arrival here because his eyes expressed his sense of horror. What on earth would he make of this outpouring of pure undiluted hatred? Would he have any understanding of why a Loyalist mob was attacking them? They were supposed to be loyal to Britain, weren’t they? Wasn’t that why they called themselves Loyalists? And yet they would kill a British soldier without a moment’s hesitation if the excuse arose. And if this young man was killed what would his English parents in their neat and tidy English villa in their quiet leafy suburban street make of it? What would their polite English vicar be able to say to them that would make any sense in the face of this madness?

  Turn back and face the mob, soldier, and try to make some sense of it. If you can do that maybe you will be better able to ensure something like this never happens in your own country.

  Martin breathed hard and tried to suppress the shame he felt for the behaviour of his fellow countrymen… his Loyalist fellow countrymen. Nothing could excuse such raw odium.

  He was about to walk on when he saw one of the rioters stumble and fall. It was a young woman wearing a short denim skirt, a white tee shirt and a short coat. The girl’s head was turned away from him, but he had no doubts about who it was. In those clothes it had to be Sorcha. What the hell was she doing here? Why in God’s name was she caught up amongst a Loyalist mob?

  “Sorcha!” The cry erupted from his lips as he ran closer to the police line.

  A uniformed policeman in riot gear, standing well behind the army front line, turned and put out a hand to stop him. “Stay back. You could get hurt if you’re not careful.”

  Martin pointed to the girl, now sprawled face-down on the ground. “I know who that girl is,” he said. “She’s not one of them. She shouldn’t be there.”

  “Nothing you can do about it,” the policeman said firmly. “Keep away. Look, she’s getting to her feet. Can’t be hurt too badly.”

  The girl staggered away from the front line of the rioting mob, heading towards a brick wall daubed with graffiti. Death to the IRA. Fuck the Pope. Taigs out! Someone from round here, it seemed, was able to spell.

  The girl was looking back at the rioters, her face partially hidden by the mousy hair flapping around her cheeks.
No one made any attempt to stop her as she continued along a pavement that skirted the fringes of the trouble.

  “She’s obviously had enough,” the policeman said. “She’s getting out. Coming our way too.”

  Sure enough, the girl lurched closer towards the security line. She reached the end of the confrontation, well clear of the bricks and petrol bombs that formed the centrepiece of the skirmish. Martin felt a surge of relief; he had every expectation that she would be able to continue to safety.

  And then a gunshot rang out.

  He felt his blood run cold as the girl threw up her arms and fell to the ground.

  “Oh God, no!”

  He wanted to run to her, but the policeman grabbed at his arm and held him back. A loud cry erupted from his mouth, but he had no control over his words. They were stifled back inside his throat.

  Something - he wasn’t sure what - made him switch his focus back to the mob and a figure in the background. Just a hazy image of a man holding a rifle. He knew enough about terrorist weaponry to know it would be an M1 Garand rifle of World War Two vintage. Belfast gunman had easy access to those rifles. That was no surprise. But the man… it was that UVF thug.

  Mad Mac McKinnon!

  Martin had seen his photographs in the paper and on the local television news. The figure melted back into the heart of the mob, which swarmed around him, forming a protective screen. Why would he want to kill Sorcha?

  Martin looked again at the victim, lying on the ground in a pool of blood. He put a hand to his racing heart and tried to speak, but couldn’t. Sorcha! Only a short while ago, he had turned his back on her and now she was shot, probably dead. A terrible bleakness filled his thoughts and the noise of the baying mob faded into the background. All he heard was the muffled noise of a loud wind in his ears. The sound of his blood pressure raised to danger level.

  Dear Sorcha! There was no way he could tell her he was sorry. For all the anger he had shown towards her, he was now very sorry.

  The army officer in charge must have given a new order because two men moved up from the rear and began firing rubber bullets. The sound was unlike the sound of ordinary gunfire. Each shot made a fuller, rounder noise. The soldiers aimed at the feet of the rioters and the long, black bullets bounced between their legs, bruising and paining as they flew. Under cover of the firing, a four-man snatch squad moved forward, two men in body armour holding riot shields, and two more sheltering behind them. They grabbed the fallen figure and dragged her back to the cover of their own line. There were no more gunshots from the rioters, but petrol bombs were now aimed towards the men who had recovered the girl. Her death was, seemingly, not enough to satisfy the mob mentality.

  Martin pushed aside the policeman beside him and ran to where the girl now lay, immediately behind the army line. She was face-up on the ground, an army medic already bending over her, and Martin saw instantly that it was not Sorcha.

  Thank God, it wasn’t her!

  “Is she…?” he asked.

  “Shot through the heart,” the medic said. “Didn’t stand a chance.”

  The policeman came up behind them. He caught Martin’s arm again. “You said you know who she is.”

  “No. Not her. That’s not her,” he said sadly. How could he be anything but sad at the death of a young girl, someone who should have had a whole lifetime ahead of her? “I thought I knew who it was, but I was wrong. It’s not her.”

  The policeman seemed far less emotional. “Too bad. It’s a fair bet one or more of the rioters will know who she is, but they’re not going to tell us, are they?”

  Martin took a step back and tried to think logically. Why was the girl wearing Sorcha’s clothes? Because, sure as hell, they really were her clothes.

  “Wherever you are, and whatever you’re doing, I hope to God you’re safe, Sorcha,” he muttered.

  “Maybe she’s got some identification on her.” The policeman rifled through her pockets and pulled out a sheet of paper. He studied it for a few seconds. “What the hell is this all about? A list of places in Belfast. Not a tourist, is she? We don’t get many tourists over here.” After a moment he folded it and put it in his pocket. “I’ll report this when I get back to base.”

  ***

  Friday 21st July 1972

  1225 BST

  Emily Foster was still at Aunt Judy’s house when Martin finally walked in the front door. She was busy at the kitchen sink, a diminutive figure in a light summer dress that emphasised her slender teenage figure, washing dishes that had probably not been touched since the previous day.

  “Where’s Aunt Judy?” he asked.

  Emily glanced back over a shoulder. “She went to the shops to get some bread. She wanted to make sandwiches for lunch. She should have been back by now.”

  He stood beside her, knowing full well that their aunt would have done little if any of the tasks that needed doing around the house. “Have you been working hard here all morning?”

  “There were things needed doing, Martin.” She pulled her hands from the water, wiped at them with a tea towel and turned to face him. “You look pale. Are you not feeling well?”

  He didn’t answer the question because he was not sure exactly what was wrong with him. Was it self-recrimination? Was it anger from the discovery that Sorcha was not as innocent as he had once imagined? Or, most likely, was it the residual feeling of horror that came from seeing a girl shot dead and thinking it was Sorcha?

  He picked up the kettle and asked, “Would you like a mug of coffee?”

  “Sure. And there’s biscuits in the biscuit tin.” A pause and then, “What’s worrying you? Something is, isn’t it?”

  “Something rather personal.”

  “Is it the girl you’ve been seeing?”

  He looked up suddenly. “You know about that?”

  “I may be younger than you, Martin, but I’m not stupid. I’ve seen you sneaking off time and again, and I’ve watched from my bedroom window and seen you come home late. It has to be a girl.”

  “Female logic.” He tried to rustle up a grin.

  “I’m right, aren’t I? There is someone. Do you want to talk about it?”

  Of course he did, and there was no one else he would rather talk to than Emily. But would she understand? Would she be prepared to keep his secret: that he had been to bed with a Catholic?

  He poured hot water into two mugs of coffee granules. He knew she liked milk and sugar. In fact he knew more about Emily than he knew about any other girl, including Sorcha. She was, he sometimes thought, like a kid sister; a sister he could be at ease with. Someone who understood him.

  They sat at the kitchen table. “There is someone, Emily. And I’ve been very naïve. Utterly stupid, in fact. I thought she was different to other girls. I thought I was in love with her. And now…”

  “And now…?”

  “I don’t know. The thing is… she’s a Catholic.”

  A look of surprise crossed Emily’s face. She grabbed at her mug and it rattled on the place mat. “Oh God, Martin. That could be a real problem. You know what Aunt Judy says about Catholics.”

  Yes, he knew well enough. The Reverend Ian’s condemnation of Catholic ideology made a big impact on Aunt Judy. “There’s more to it than that. This girl lives in a Nationalist area and I think she may be mixed up with some bad people.”

  “IRA?”

  “Might be.”

  “Are you sure about that?”

  “No. How can I be sure? But it seems possible.”

  “Find out for sure, Martin. Don’t condemn her until you’re absolutely sure. You may have made a mistake.” She sipped at her coffee. “What’s her name?”

  “Sorcha. Sorcha Mulveny.”

  “A sure-fire Catholic name. How did you meet her?”

  He was glad now that he finally had someone to talk to, someone who would at least try to understand. He told her about the time Sorcha tripped and fell on the pavement in Royal Avenue. He told her how he had take
n her to a café for a cup of coffee to help her. The more he talked, the easier it became, easier to unburden his secrets.

  “After that first meeting, we just seemed to click together,” he said. “We got on so well together.”

  “Have you slept with her?” The question came from Emily unexpectedly. She watched him carefully over the lip of her mug.

  He curled his hands around his own mug and stared down into the steaming coffee. “Yes.”

  “I see.”

  When he looked up, he saw that she had lowered her gaze and he thought he detected a look of sadness in her face. “Are you cross?” he asked.

  “Your life is your own, Martin,” she said.

  “She wasn’t the first,” he replied.

  “I know that. Your first was Marjorie Cummins, but that was never going to come to anything. She wasn’t right for you. Too pushy by far. There were other girls as well, weren’t there? Other girls who weren’t right for you. This girl, Sorcha Mulveny, must have come well down the list, but it looks like you might have made yet another mistake. You really are a one for getting mixed up with the wrong girls, Martin.”

  “Stupid?”

  “Utterly.”

  He couldn’t argue with that. “How will I ever know if she really is wrong for me?” he said.

  “Talk to her, Martin. You have to talk to her and find out the truth about her. That’s all I can advise.”

  “That’s the problem. I don’t know where she is. I thought I saw her on the way home. Mixed up in a riot. It was a girl wearing the same clothes, but it wasn’t Sorcha.” He decided to say nothing about the shooting. Emily didn’t need to know about that.

  “Well, you’d better go and find her, hadn’t you?”

  “I suppose so. And what about you, Emily? Will this affect our friendship?”