The Girl From the Killing Streets

by David Hough

  “Are you up to carrying on?” Susan asked.

  Tears began to stream down Sorcha’s cheeks. “’Tis the memory of it. The horror, the people running round in a daze, the blood…” She clasped her face in her hands and sobbed. “Oh, God! I can see it all again… just like it was…”

  Susan turned to me. “We must stop here. She can’t take any more today.”

  She was right.

  “That’s enough, Sorcha,” I said as I patted her hand. “You’ve done well to get all this out in the open. Let’s finish it another day.” I told her I would visit her again, and then the warder led her away, still weeping. The room seemed eerily quiet in the aftermath.

  “She’s been bottling all that up inside her head all these years,” I said.

  Susan nodded. “But it’s coming out now. That’s a good start.”

  I left the prison with Susan. My head was still filled with the images Sorcha had conjured up, painful images that refused to go away. We went to lunch together at a restaurant in Armagh, but our conversation was stilted to begin with. I think we were both reminiscing on what Sorcha had told us.

  “She’s not all bad,” Susan said, caressing her hands around a coffee cup as she began to open up. “She wanted to help people, wanted to save lives. She probably did save a few lives. We must give her credit for that.”

  I nodded. “She once asked me if people would hate her when they read the book. I told her I hoped not because she was a victim of her environment.”

  “Did she understand that?”

  “I don’t know. But I believe it.”

  I flew back to London late that evening, still emotionally charged by Sorcha’s experience. How could I possibly translate what I saw and heard into meaningful words printed on a page? And I knew full well there was worse to come.

  Chapter Fifteen

  December 1980

  It was coming up to Christmas when I drove over to Llandudno. Heavy rain made the roads slippery and ragged-bottom clouds dragged across the top of Great Orme, but festive lights were strung up in Mostyn Street and along the promenade. Despite the rain, there was a seasonal atmosphere and the shops were lively with Christmas trade. I arrived around lunch time, had a quick snack in a small café, and then drove to Will’s house. Milly was again out shopping and Will told me we would have at least an hour to talk. I figured we might need longer.

  We settled down in the kitchen with steaming mugs of coffee and Will pointedly topped up his mug with Irish whiskey. “It’s the bombs you’ll want to talk about now,” he said. “This is a crucial part of your book, isn’t it?”

  “It was a crucial part of your life,” I told him. “So, tell me about it in your own words.”

  ***

  Friday 21st July 1972

  1415 BST

  Two bombs exploded. They sounded little different to most of the other bombs that had blighted Belfast in the past three years, but Will and McIlroy knew this was the start of something really big.

  They had been warned.

  They heard the distant explosions as they drove towards the York Road railway station. The police radio told them one was at Smithfield bus station and the other at Brookvale Avenue.

  “Bombs,” Will said. “Plural. Just like Jimmy Fish said. How many more?”

  “Which of us is going to ask the IRA?” McIlroy pressed his foot down and the car sped through a red light. “They’re not likely to give us a detailed breakdown, are they?”

  “Confusion,” Will said. “That’s what Jimmy Fish wanted us to know. There’ll be so many warnings we’ll be overwhelmed. And we’ll get the blame for it afterwards because we won’t be able to cope.”

  The car’s police radio came alive with new telephone warnings. Oxford Street Bus Station, Great Victoria Street railway station, Crumlin Road, Liverpool ferry terminus. The list grew by the minute: warnings about the next targets. But which were genuine and which were hoaxes? There was no way of telling. And when were they set to detonate? If they didn’t know the order in which the bombs would explode, how could the police prioritise their response?

  Will cast a glance at his senior officer at the mention of the ferry terminal. He and his family should have set sail from there by now. They would be out on the Irish Sea, well away from the violence set to wreck the heart of Belfast. They would be safe… but for this campaign of destruction.

  McIlroy parked the car in Whitla Street, a little way down from the York Road railway station. The station served the north of Ulster, with the main line running from Belfast up to Ballymena, Coleraine and Londonderry. That was one of Will’s dilemmas: Catholics called it Derry, but to the RUC it was Londonderry. Which side of the fence would he fall today? He usually prevaricated.

  He glanced up at the clock on the station building tower. It showed exactly twenty minutes past two. Not exactly in the mould of Big Ben’s tower in London, but it was a local landmark for anyone from Belfast who didn’t possess a watch. With jobs drying up fast, too many people were getting used to seeing their watches in a pawnbroker’s window.

  The station scene was chaotic as Will and McIlroy strode towards the centre of the activity. The army was struggling to clear passengers from the area. A soldier approached and told them to leave immediately, but they showed him their warrant cards and walked on. In the distance smoke from the other bombs was rising ominously above the city skyline.

  “That’s DCI McCartney from Grosvenor Road barracks over there.” McIlroy pointed to a figure supervising the evacuation of the station building. “Let’s see if we can give him a hand.”

  It was a joint effort. Other policemen from other barracks were busily hastening people from the area. Will recognised Mickey Murphy, another Catholic peeler from Oldpark. Mickey waved at Will and then continued with his task. There was no time to exchange pleasantries. There was serious work to be done here.

  DCI McCartney called to them as they approached. “Glad to see you, McIlroy. Can you and your sergeant help with the evacuation? We’ve asked for more backup, but the Provo buggers are not giving us a chance. Too many warnings. Too many priorities.”

  “Where’s your particular bomb?” McIlroy said. “Have you found it?”

  “Yes, we know where it is, and we know what it is. It’s in a suitcase left on one of the platforms. The army won’t try to defuse it until we’ve finished clearing the area. They’re…”

  Then the bomb exploded.

  A bright flash and a huge bang.

  It was only three minutes after Will and McIlroy arrived.

  All three men dropped to the ground under the impact of the explosion’s blast wave. A few seconds passed before Will sat up and put his hands to his ears. His hearing was slow to come back on line. He looked around. Smoke billowed out from the station building. Flames licked from the blown-out windows. A huge piece of metal blown out from the canopy roof fell onto the road in front of the station entrance. Shards of broken glass tumbled down in its wake.

  McIlroy was first to stagger to his feet. He gave Will a hand, shouting words that were, for the moment, muted and unrecognisable. Will stared at the scene around him as his hearing gradually came back into focus. The crackle of fires within the building burst upon his senses.

  Nearby, a young woman was sat on the ground, screaming hysterically. She seemed to be no more than a teenager and her short minidress was ripped down the front. Blood trickled down her breasts. One of her bare legs was bent at an impossible angle. A man crouching beside her slapped at her face in an effort to make her shut up. It didn’t work. She screamed even louder. Was she in shock or extreme pain? Probably both, Will decided. Other pedestrians lay prone on the ground, making no effort to move. Were they dead, or badly injured? Impossible to tell.

  Will took a step towards the girl, the nearest victim, when a soldier ran up to him and grabbed at his arm. “Get away from here quickly. There may be a second bomb!” He pointed to where other soldiers were directing people into adjacent streets
.

  “But these people need help,” Will protested. “This girl…”

  “Leave it to us, mate. We’ve had a warning of a second bomb.”

  “But the girl…” Will pointed to where the teenager was still screaming. The man beside her seemed to have given up. He sat on his haunches, his white face staring into the distance.

  “We’ll deal with it,” the soldier insisted.

  Will scanned around the scene. The smell of blood filled his nostrils. Beyond the girl, a man lay in a pool of it. One of his arms lay on the ground a few yards away. A woman was spread-eagle on her back. What remained of her face stared up into the smoky sky.

  McIlroy grabbed at Will. “We’d better do as the soldier says. Let the army do its job.”

  Will resisted the move as he dusted down his clothes. “But they’ll need help. The army will need us. That’s why we’re here. To help.”

  “The army will know what to do here, and they can do it without us. Especially if there is a second bomb...” McIlroy turned to McCartney. “What about you and your men?”

  McCartney held back and put a hand to his head. “You’re right. I was wrong to involve you. You should both get out of here, right now. No point in you two being killed if there is another bomb, but my men need to see me making some pretence of being in control. God, what a mess!” He turned away and staggered back towards the station. Already his men were mingling with the troops, lending aid where they could. Two officers came up to the screaming girl and bent to her aid. When they tried to lift her, she fainted.

  Will and McIlroy followed the directions of an army officer who seemed to be taking charge of evacuating the area. He ordered them into a lane off Whitla Street where they stopped to consider their next move. Their shoes scrunched through the broken glass that littered every road in sight.

  “You know what I think, Will?” McIlroy watched as a stream of white-faced people left the station area: men, women and children still in shock. Some were bloodied, some were physically sound while others seemed to be emotionally dead.

  “We go back and help, boss?” Will said.

  “No. We call in to say we’re safe, and then we do what our beloved leader tells us to do.”

  “We should be helping here,” Will protested.

  “Doing what, Will? What if we go back and we’re killed by a second explosion? The guys back at North Castle Street should have some idea of the bigger picture. Let them decide where we’re best employed.”

  “If you say so, boss.” Will suddenly felt tired and then a grey mist crept over him. His head ached and his senses seemed to suddenly switch off. The world around him was just a dim outline of what it ought to be.

  “Will! Are you all right?” McIlroy’s voice seemed to be coming at him from afar off.

  “I’ll be okay in a minute.” He leaned back against a wall and waited for his senses to return. “Delayed reaction,” he said. “Just give me a minute.”

  “You look like a ghost. I reckon you need a cup of good Irish tea.”

  Will’s vision swam back into focus, rocking from side to side until it settled onto an even keel. “I’m okay, boss. Just a dizzy spell.”

  “Right. Let’s get back to the car and call in.”

  They walked back to where the car was parked farther along Whitla Street. Broken glass and dust littered the roof, but it seemed to be otherwise undamaged. McIlroy checked underneath for a mercury tilt switch and Semtex. There was none so he switched on the radio which came to life with a constant stream of reports. He waited for a gap in the transmissions, but it was an impossible task. Report followed report, bomb warning after bomb warning.

  “We’re small beer in this situation, Will. We’ll find a telephone and…”

  “McIlroy!”

  Both men turned at a loud shout behind them.

  It was McCartney and he was hurrying towards them. “You’d better come and look at this, guys. One of my men has discovered a body.”

  McIlroy snapped back. “One body? Haven’t you noticed: there are dozens of bodies round here!”

  “This one is different.”

  “Someone killed in the blast?”

  “No. Come and see.”

  He led them further along Whitla Street and then behind the station building to a narrow alley alongside the railway track. A well-built youngish woman lay on her back on a patch of waste ground, her arms stretched out each side. A blood-coloured patch was drawn across her ample chest. A uniform constable was examining the area around the body, but there was no one else at the scene.

  “I’ve asked for back-up to help seal off the site and examine the body, but…” He spread his arms expressively. “It’s just one body at a time when we’re under a concerted attack. There are too many other bodies. You could help us here.”

  “Knifed in the chest,” Will said. He knelt beside the victim, but held back from touching it. “Any idea who she is?”

  “Yes. We found some letters in her handbag. All addressed to someone called Bridie Mulveny.”

  Will looked up. “Mulveny? Really? And the address?”

  “23 Mafeking Street.”

  “Bloody hell.” Will glanced at McIlroy. “We know that address, don’t we, boss?”

  McCartney turned and pointed to an iron railing alongside the track. “In that case you may be able to tell us something useful. In the meantime… there’s something else. Come and look at this.”

  Will followed the other two policemen to where a sheet of lined writing paper was pinned to a metal post. It fluttered in a light breeze. A message was scrawled on it in an illiterate hand.

  We warnd youse so we did Sorsha Mulvny. Weel get al of yer famly Mulvny an weel get yous to.

  “All your family…” Will said. “They’re out to kill the Mulveny girl’s family.”

  “Mother and sister,” McIlroy replied. “This must be the sister. Sorcha Mulveny must have really pissed them off. Whoever they are.”

  “What should we do now?”

  “Someone ought to warn the mother, old hag that she is.”

  Will put a hand to his forehead and rubbed at it. “Not us, boss. Please, not us. Let’s get a message back to base and ask them to deal with it.”

  McIlroy stared at him. “You okay?”

  “Not really.”

  And the blackness seeped into his brain once again.

  ***

  December 1980

  “Do you get any of those attacks these days?” I asked.

  “No. That’s all sorted now. But the memories of that day… I doubt if that will ever be sorted.”

  “You’re not the only one, Will. Sorcha Mulveny broke down when I last interviewed her. Time doesn’t seem to heal anything, does it?”

  “I doubt it ever will.” He poured more whiskey into his coffee mug. “Do you know how many Belfast peelers…?”

  He stopped abruptly when the door opened behind him and Milly strode into the kitchen. She banged her shopping bag onto the table and glared at me. There was no way of avoiding the underlying message.

  “Have you finished now?” she snapped.

  I glanced at my watch. “I was hoping…”

  “Well, don’t! Will has had enough for today. I can see it in his face.” She picked up his mug. “And you’ve had enough to drink, Will. Don’t pretend it’s just coffee. You know what they told you at the hospital.”

  Will gave me a sad look. “She’s right. I think we’d better call it a day for now.”

  I nodded and stood up. I had a sudden feeling of guilt because I had been so keen to get him to talk. Was I wrong? Was I the cause of something bad? He had been reliving something that was probably better forgotten. And then I remembered again how Sorcha broke down when I asked her to relive her experience. The guilt stayed with me as I left the house and I wondered if I was making a big mistake in writing this book. Whatever the truth, I made myself a promise to phone Will in a couple of weeks. Right or wrong, I had to continue with the
project.

  Chapter Sixteen

  December 1980

  As usual, I spent Christmas alone, watching old movies on the television, and reading yet again the Christmas cards Annie and I sent each other in happier days. I set a couple of them on the mantelpiece and it made the room feel warmer, as if she was still around. Was that a mistake? Was Susan right in her assessment of my psychological needs?

  I telephoned Will Foster one evening between Christmas and the New Year. By chance and good luck, he was alone. Milly had taken the two girls to a party.

  After a few pleasantries, I said, “Can you spare me time to talk?”

  “About what?”

  “About the next bomb you encountered.”

  “Oh, that? That was when we came across the girl…”

  “Hold on. Start from the beginning, Will.”

  ***

  Friday 21st July 1972

  1445 BST

  DCI McIlroy drove carefully towards the Oxford Street bus station. Will was fully aware he didn’t want to go there. Neither of them wanted to go there. Both of them wanted to get back to the North Castle Street barracks and lose themselves in a whiskey bottle, but orders were orders.

  McIlroy had left it to Will to find a working telephone and call Superintendent Boyle. Someone would have to call on Barbara Mulveny and tell her about the death of her daughter. It would normally be a WPC who would break the news to the woman, but Will warned the senior officer that Mafeking Street was probably a no-go area for any female RUC officer today. A couple of uniform men would have to suffice… if they could get through the barricades. An army back-up would be wise, if one could be spared. Which was unlikely.

  Detective Superintendent Boyle agreed to try to find two uniformed officers. He ended the call by ordering McIlroy and Will to proceed to the Oxford Street bus station.