by David Hough
I put the project aside for twenty-four hours while I thought about it. That I evening I picked up a book at random. It was an analysis of the aftermath of World War Two; a book I had used several times while researching the war. The pages fell open at a chapter on holocaust denial. There was my answer. Horrific events in history were denied to suit a political agenda. That was why it was important for me to record in detail the experiences of Sorcha Mulveny, Martin Foster and Will Evans.
I took a sheet of paper, wrote in big letters, NEVER FORGET, and pinned it to the wall behind my desk.
Then I soldiered on.
Previous books had needed more interviews before I reached this stage, but I had learned from past experience. For this book, I was covering less ground in each interview, but I was covering it more thoroughly. I would never need to go over the same material a second time, but I knew that my next interviews would be harder to conduct.
I had now come to the point where the bombs began to explode.
PART TWO
When killing is a way of life,
who weeps for the dead?
Chapter Fourteen
December 1980
I flew over to Belfast one Sunday evening and booked into the Europa Hotel. The following morning I met Susan Miller in the restaurant at Anderson and McCauley’s in Donegall Place. It was a convenient place for us to chat over a cup of coffee before we headed off to the prison in Armagh. She seemed to be pleased to see me. I found myself glancing at her left hand and noticing the absence of both a wedding ring and an engagement ring. It wasn’t conclusive, of course, but I made a resolve to try to see more of her.
“The next bit of the story is going to be painful for Sorcha to talk about,” I said once we were seated well away from the few other customers. “How do you think she will cope with it?”
Susan gave it a moment’s thought, pursing her lips as she did so. “She told me weeks ago that she needs to do this, however difficult it may be. How will she cope? I think a lot will depend upon how you approach the subject.”
“Your advice?”
“Just let her talk. Don’t interrupt her with questions. Don’t try to guide the conversation. Let her find her own path through the mire. If you want to ask anything, wait until the end of the interview. If she clams up at that point you won’t have lost much.”
“Is this how you conduct your counselling sessions?”
She shook her head. “I’m not here to counsel Sorcha, just to be a friend. But I would also like to help you with your problems.”
She stared into my eyes and I felt very uncomfortable. “Help me? Why?”
“Because I think this book could help you find the sort of inner peace you need. You do need closure, you know.”
“Closure?”
“There are demons lurking inside your brain. I’ve watched you and I’ve seen the clues. Believe me, you need help.” Her voice was clear but gentle, and her eyes radiated an inner conviction, as if she was working on a deep assessment of me.
A sudden jolt of annoyance ran through me. No one had ever before confronted with such candid words. I forced myself to keep calm. “Why do you say that?”
Her gaze never wavered. “Every time you come back to Belfast you remember the life you had here with your wife. You need to move on.”
“You think so?”
“I know so.”
I blinked in surprise. “You could have misjudged me.”
“Possible, but I’ve a lot of experience seeing such things in others. You still keep the pain inside you. There are moments when I see it in your face and I hear it in your voice.”
“And the book will help?”
“It will force you to see pain in others and seek out the reasons. I think that will lead to you face up to your own destructive emotions.”
I tried to act as if I wasn’t convinced, didn’t want to be convinced, but I had an inner feeling she might have been right. And that made me even more uncomfortable.
Shortly afterwards she drove me to the prison. In the event, she was right on one count. I allowed Sorcha to talk uninterrupted and her words quickly took on a force of their own, as if she was desperate to tell all.
***
Friday 21st July 1972
1350 BST
Sorcha approached the Smithfield Bus Station with a measure of trepidation. Could she now do something morally good to make up for the bad things that lay behind her? Could she somehow atone for her sins?
The blue and white buses were operating as usual. Hordes of passengers were coming and going as usual. In fact, everything looked so normal here, she thought, just like any other Friday. But give it another fifteen to twenty minutes and it would all change. There would be carnage here unless these passengers and shoppers could be shepherded away to safety. Could she do the decent thing without being caught?
She paused at the corner of Samuel Street, deep in thought. By now there would be telephone bomb warnings to the police. So many warnings that the police would be completely overwhelmed. How would they determine which were real warnings and which were the hoaxes? The sheer number was all part of the IRA strategy to confuse the peelers and the army. Was that why no attempt had yet been made to clear this bus station? Was this one of the locations where the warnings had been swamped by sheer numbers and overlooked?
She gritted her teeth with a feeling of determination. What could she do here that might save a few lives? Could she go amongst the people and tell them all to get away? Now, quickly, before the first bomb exploded? It was an idea, but who would listen to her? No, she decided, that wouldn’t work. She had to get someone else to deliver a warning, someone the shoppers would heed.
Two peelers were patrolling just one hundred yards away. Could she warn them? And almost certainly get herself arrested on the spot? Only someone in on the act would be able to deliver such a warning. The police would have her locked up in double quick time. No, she would have to find someone else to sound the warning. Someone who would not be seen as a bomber.
She turned at the sound of a horn, in time to see a car swerve into an enclosed yard close by the station building. Two pedestrians jumped aside to avoid being knocked down. Shorcha recognised the driver straight away. She had seen him with Fitzpain on several occasions: a short fat man with a squeaky voice. He was reputed to have planted other bombs; bombs which had killed and maimed many innocents. The car disappeared from Sorcha’s view. She put a hand to her thumping heart: the Smithfield bomb was now in place. And nothing was being done to get people away. There was little time left. She had to act quickly.
Who would listen to her? Because she was wearing a brand new dress, she no longer looked like the backstreet scrubber she really was. Maybe she could take advantage of that. Maybe she could pass herself off as someone else, someone people would listen to. There was no time left to think about it: she would have to give it a try.
She went into a small café where a dozen or more passengers were taking a last cup of tea before boarding their buses. No one took any notice of her. Of course not; her new appearance would not signify any threat. The muted noise of easy chatter continued to fill the room; the sound of people who had no idea what was about to happen.
Two priests sat near the door. The older one was tall, heavily-built and balding. The younger one was thin, weedy with protruding teeth and a gawky expression. No prizes for guessing who was the senior priest and who was the curate. They had cups of tea in their hands and a plate of biscuits on the table in front of them, and they seemed to be deep in discussion.
It had to be them, Sorcha decided. But who could she pretend to be? There was no time to prevaricate, so she pulled up a chair and sat between them. She tried to adopt the sort of voice a policewoman would adopt. It wasn’t easy when she was confronting two priests and she was wearing nothing beneath the dress.
She said, “I want you to listen to me carefully.”
Both men stared at her, seemingly taken aback by
her audacity. The young, gawky one put down his teacup and it rattled in the saucer. Neither man spoke.
Sorcha continued, still struggling to put on an official-sounding voice. “Youse don’t know me, but youse have to believe what I tell youse. A car bomb is going to explode within the next ten minutes or so. It’s important to get as many people as possible away from here, but it has to be done without causing alarm.”
The older priest frowned at her. “Who are you and what…”
Sorcha held up a hand to stop him in mid flow, her mind working fast as she concocted her story. “Police. CID. There’s a couple of our uniformed men just across the road. I want youse to go over there and tell them to start clearing the area. If they don’t, people are gonna get killed.”
She leaned back in the seat. Damn. Why couldn’t she say ‘you’ instead of youse? The word just wouldn’t come out right.
“Why can’t you tell them?” the older priest asked.
She glanced around the room before replying. “Because I have to stay here and clear this café, and there are people in here… suspects I’ll need to follow when they leave. I can’t tell you any more than that. Youse’ll have to take my word for it.”
The priest sounded deeply suspicious. “Where exactly is the bomb?”
Sorcha pointed. “It’s a car bomb and it’s already in place, sitting in that yard over there.”
“Is this some sort of joke?” He didn’t sound convinced.
“No, far from it. God help me, Father, this is deadly serious. Either youse warn them two policemen or people are gonna die here.”
“How do you know about this bomb?” the younger priest asked.
“For heaven’s sake, stop asking awkward questions. Just do as I say.” She stood up. “This really is no joke, I promise you. There’s still time to get people away to safety, so go and warn those two men now. I have to stay here if I’m to keep track of possible suspects.”
The two priests rose from their seats in unison and the older man pointed a thick forefinger at her. “If this is a joke…”
Sorcha jabbed her clenched fists at her hips. “For Heaven’s sake! You must believe me.”
“You say you’re CID. How can we believe that? You could be one of the bombers.”
She lowered her voice to an insistent hiss. “Would I be trying to get people away if I was one of them? For God’s sake, don’t argue with me. Do it now!”
The severity in her voice must have worked because the men turned towards the door without another word. Leaving behind their tea and their biscuits, they hurried from the café. Sorcha watched them cross the road and confront the two policemen.
She breathed deeply to calm herself. So far, so good.
Now she strode up to the café counter and spoke to a fat, middle-aged woman pouring out cups of tea. She had a cigarette dangling from her mouth.
“Do you have a back door?” Sorcha asked.
“Who wants to know?” The woman didn’t even look up.
“Police. Plainclothes CID.”
For God’s sake don’t ask me for a warrant card.
“What are you up to?” The cigarette was glued to the woman’s lips as if by magic.
“There’s a car bomb across the road. When it goes off it’s going to blow in yer windows and cut up yer customers. It may even wreck yer café completely. We need these people out now. The back way.”
The woman took a step backwards, the tea pot still in her hand. “Shite!” Despite her shock, the message seemed to have sunk in immediately. Her mouth gaped open and the cigarette fell to the floor.
Sorcha pointed a finger at her. “Do this calmly. We don’t want any panic. Ask yer customers to quietly leave their seats and make their way out the back. Tell them to get as far away from the immediate area as they can.”
“We ain’t had no bombs in here, so we ain’t.” The woman looked frightened as she came out from behind the counter.
“Speak to the people quietly,” Sorcha said, struggling to keep her own nerves under control. “Don’t cause any alarm.”
But the woman wasn’t listening. She hurried out amongst the tables and bellowed with a high-pitched tone. “There’s a bomb alert. The p’leece says youse all gotta get out now, so you ’ave. It’s across the road, so get out through the back door.”
So much for keeping calm, Sorcha thought, as the customers scrambled towards the rear of the room. Voices were raised in alarm and people were elbowing one another aside in their panicky flight. While the woman was shepherding her customers out, Sorcha went back to the priests’ table and picked up one of the biscuits. She didn’t feel hungry, but it was going begging. Outside, she saw the two policemen directing people away from the bus station.
Her ploy had worked.
She bit into the biscuit and followed the last of the customers from the room. Her hands were shaking as she pulled the rear door shut behind her. The others were quickly dispersing, hurrying away from the bus station. Sorcha followed one group towards West Street. She had done her bit, and now she had to get away.
She pulled up suddenly when she saw the two priests running around a corner from the front of the building. They stopped at the opposite side of the road and turned to face her. The older one pointed towards her.
Then the car bomb exploded.
The blast wave knocked her to the ground. The noise of the explosion followed a fraction of a second later. It deafened her. She lay on her face, vaguely aware that a cloud of dust and debris was falling around her. Some of it landed on top of her. She felt something bump against her back, but she still heard nothing.
It must have been one hell of a bomb.
The thought lingered inside her head to the exclusion of all others.
One hell of a bomb.
She wasn’t sure how long she lay there. Neither was she sure what she ought to do. It was all a matter of confusion: the confusion inside her head and the confusion of what was happening around her.
She slowly rose to her feet and her hearing started to return. It began with a loud ringing noise, as if bells were now clanging inside her skull. Her legs wobbled when she was upright. Voices seemed to come from a thousand miles away, slowly growing louder. She put one hand out to a brick wall to brace herself and she looked up to see a pall of black smoke towering over the area. Flames and more smoke curled up from the yard where the car had been planted. Flickering fingers of fire emerged from the bus station building. The smell of burning filled the air.
The confusion continued. She heard other people a little more clearly now: they were screaming and shouting. A mixture or terror and fury. They were in the street around her; a haphazard scene of men and women stumbling over the rubble brought down by the explosion. Some were running away from the station, others were on their knees, crawling. Children were crying. Young girls and old men wept openly, hugging each other for safety as the plume of smoke rose higher above them. One of the priests was helping an old lady who looked injured. Neither of them seemed steady on their feet. A siren sounded nearby, drowning out the clatter of the continuing bells inside Sorcha’s head. Police or fire brigade? She couldn’t be sure. Her thoughts were still too confused.
Several minutes passed before she thought to examine herself for injuries. There was no sign of blood on her. Her hands were scuffed from where she had fallen, but nothing was broken or cut. Her dress was dirty because of the dust and debris that had fallen on her, but it wasn’t torn. She seemed to have come out of the situation reasonably intact.
“Are you all right, Miss?” It was one of the peelers. He gave her a quick glance as he walked past her.
“Yes. I think so.” It was all she could think to say.
“Good. Make your way over there and someone will help you.” He pointed to where an army ambulance was slowly driving into view. Soldiers were exiting a Bedford truck behind the ambulance. How did they get here so quickly? Had the warning been heeded?
“Thank you,” she mumbled
.
Sorcha waited until the peeler had moved on before she walked away from the emerging army presence. She had no intention of being examined or questioned by the British military. She hurried round a corner into… which street? She wasn’t sure. Her hearing was improving, but her head felt light, as if a dizzy spell was imminent.
She leaned against a wall and waited until her head became clearer. More cogent thought began to creep into her mind. There were so many bombs intended to explode today. Were any others planned to explode near here? She couldn’t immediately remember, but the list would tell her and she fumbled to find it in a pocket. Damn! There were no pockets in the dress.
Where the hell was that list?
Then she recalled the fitting room in the store. The list of bomb locations was still in her coat pocket; the pocket of the coat she had given away to the other girl.
Shite!
She stood at the corner and looked back, and she saw injured people being helped into an army ambulance. One young girl… a child… was carried on a stretcher. Her face was covered in blood. She clasped a teddy bear to her. A woman… probably her mother… staggered along beside her, sobbing piteously. Half her dress was torn away. Blood dripped down her exposed skin.
Sorcha felt a sudden physical pain run through her, as if her heart was struggling to leave her body. She clasped a hand tightly to her chest.
She hadn’t done enough. She should have stopped all of this!
***
December 1980
“What happened next?” I asked.
Sorcha put her hands flat on the table and stared down at them. “Can I have a glass of water?” She turned to the burly warder standing behind her. “Please. Me throat is so dry, so it is.”
The woman went to the door and spoke to someone outside in the corridor. She returned to her patch by the wall and the room went eerily silent until another warder entered with a glass of water. Sorcha drank it in one long gulp.