by David Hough
“The bomb warnings are the priority right now, Evans,” he said.
“And when we get there, sir?” Will had responded.
“Use your intelligence. What little you and McIlroy have between you.”
Will passed on the message in full and waited for McIlroy to make an insubordinate comment, but none was forthcoming. Maybe he was too tired to find something rude to say about the senior officer.
So they headed towards Oxford Street bus station.
Will recognised his boss’s tension and tried to direct the conversation onto something positive. “Do you remember, boss, this morning you said something about the Codds and the Fitzpains in Ardglass village. You said something came between the families.”
“Rumour, Will. Just rumour. Nothing you can rely on.”
“What sort of rumour?”
“The old, old story. Two men and one woman. So they say. I can’t confirm or deny it.”
“And the woman was?”
“I never found out for certain. Didn’t need to look into the matter until now. Made a few enquiries though.”
“You didn’t tell me.”
“I’m telling you now. Barbara Mulveny lived in Ardglass with her husband, Pat Mulveny. Nineteen fifties. Before they split up. Does that sound relevant?”
“Any idea why they split up?”
“Have a guess, Will.”
“She was playing fast and loose with someone else?”
“So the stories go. Two another men, if the rumours bear fruit.”
“Two of them?”
Will shook his head in disbelief. Such sexual promiscuity didn’t fit in with the image of the Barbara Mulveny they had seen earlier, but she would have been twenty years younger then. If the rumours were true, time had not been kind to her.
“You know what they say about the sexual prowess of us Irishmen, Will.”
“You go at it like rabbits, you mean? You do it all night long…”
“… and we still have enough left in us to wank over the wife’s corn flakes in the morning.”
“Yes, I’ve heard it often enough, boss. Crude and unkind. Never saw the funny side of it. Who were the men involved, do you think?”
“Again, nothing conclusive, but what families do we know who came from Ardglass?”
“Apart from the Codds and the Fitzpains?”
“Let’s stick with them, shall we? We now know that Sorcha, the offspring of Barbara Mulveny, is somehow linked to Brian Fitzpain. Makes you wonder, doesn’t it?”
“You think Fitzpain and Barbara Mulveny were…”
“Don’t assume anything, Will. We shall need to find out for sure in due course.”
Will lapsed into silence. What did it all mean?
McIlroy parked the black Cortina half a mile from the bus station. “We were lucky the car didn’t get too badly damaged last time. I don’t want to take any risks this time. We’ll walk from here.”
In the distance, smoke from previous bombs billowed up into the sky and settled over the city like a malignant plague. Belfast was dying on its feet. Another distant explosion rumbled across the city as they walked. More smoke billowed upwards.
People were moving fast along the Oxford Street pavement, mostly away from the station, some walking and some running. But, ahead of them, a crowd was hurrying towards the main building.
“Don’t like the look of that,” McIlroy said. “The bomb could be inside.”
“Something’s very wrong here,” Will replied as he and McIlroy began to quicken their pace. They were within one hundred years of the station when a young woman ran past them.
They heard her call out, “Sorcha! Sorcha Mulveny!”
“Did you hear that, boss? Did you hear the name?”
“I heard it, Will.”
They turned to see the young woman run towards another woman. This one was wearing a long, green dress that might have been glamourous in a different environment. It fitted her like a second skin.
“Could that be her?” McIlroy said. “Could that be the Sorcha Mulveny we’re looking for?”
As he spoke, a military Land Rover raced past. They heard a squeal of brakes as it pulled up at the station.
And then the bomb exploded.
***
December 1980 / January 1981
Milly arrived home at that point and Will had to terminate the call. I was left wondering what happened next, but decided against calling him again for fear of causing more trouble with his wife. It was like waiting for the next episode of a cliff-hanger television serial.
I used odd moments over the remaining holiday period to bring my manuscript up to date, but I deliberately waited until after the New Year before I arranged any more physical interviews. It seemed prudent to let the trauma of my previous meetings die down.
About a week into January I took an afternoon flight to Belfast, with arrangements to see both Martin and Sorcha the following day: Martin in the morning and Sorcha in the afternoon. I also harboured a secret sense of pleasure at the prospect of seeing Susan Miller again.
On a whim, I had phoned Susan that morning and asked her to accompany me to the prison. When she readily agreed I asked her join me for dinner at the hotel that evening. She said yes straight away. Something clicked inside of me then, the sort of feeling I knew when Annie was alive and we made a special occasion of something unimportant, just for the hell of it.
Susan came to the hotel dressed in a smart green jacket and skirt with a white blouse that fastened tight around her neck. An emerald brooch glistened on her jacket. A gold locket hung against her breast.
“I assume this is by way of a business meeting,” she said as she sat down at the table, but the sparkle in her eyes told me she was probably happy to accept it as a date.
“I thought we might go over tomorrow’s interview with Sorcha. I’m seeing Martin Foster in the morning and I’m hoping he might throw up some topics I can use with Sorcha in the afternoon.”
“And you want me there to hold Sorcha’s hand if things go wrong. Is that it?” There was a light tinkle in her voice, as if she was playing games with me.
I winked at her. “I reckon you’re probably pretty good at holding people’s hands in difficult circumstances.”
She went silent until the wine waiter had served us before she asked, “Who held your hand when your wife died?”
I hadn’t expected that sort of question. I sipped at the wine as a defensive move before I replied. “No one. I coped with things. I’m still coping. Coping well.”
She gave me a look that suggested disbelief. “Does the emotional pain still affect you at times?”
“Why do you ask?”
“Curiosity. Why are you writing this book? Is it a form of catharsis? Or is there some other reason?”
“Catharsis?” I avoided her smile. It was too intoxicating. “I know what you’re thinking, but Annie is my past. I got over it.”
“Sometimes, people try to cover up their own emotional discomfort by immersing themselves in someone else’s agony. Something even more painful. The bigger pain hides the lesser one.”
“Belfast isn’t my pain,” I pointed out.
“Oh, but it is.” She leaned forward and smiled again in a way that shook me to the core. “Belfast is where Annie was born, grew up and met you. It’s where the two of you enjoyed your lives together. It’s where you lost her, and I don’t think you’ve ever got over it. I saw that when we were at the graveside. I think you come back here time and again, exploring other people’s traumas, because you’re still trying to wipe out your long-lasting grief. Exploring other people’s pain is your way of coping.”
I was stunned into silence for a few seconds before I replied. “No one has ever said that to me before.”
“It’s time someone did.”
“You make it sound like I need help.”
“You do. Am I upsetting you?”
“A little.”
“Then let’s change
the subject. Would you like me to stay the night?”
I blinked in astonishment. “We hardly know one another, Susan.”
“Agreed. So we need to do something about it.”
“Why?”
“Because you need me.”
***
During the night I awoke with a start. I had been dreaming; troublesome dreams of Annie and me. Dreams that had their origins in the past, and refused to go away. Images of Annie the day we were told there was no cure. Annie in pain as the cancer progressed. Me in the hospital, holding her hand when the end was close. The minister reading a eulogy over her coffin. The empty house in the days that followed.
They were not ‘bad’ dreams, not the sort of dreams that would bring me out in a sweat and leave me gasping for breath. How could they be bad when Annie was there? ‘Troublesome’ was a better description. Memories of a difficult time. These dreams had come to me often since Annie died, and I had learned to cope with them. That was what I told myself: I had learned to cope.
Full consciousness came to me with the sound of a gunshot out in the city. It wasn’t too close and there was no answering blast. I reached out a hand for my wristwatch and my fingers passed over the smooth skin of a naked arm. I felt Susan shift in the bed beside me.
“You were dreaming,” she said. A sliver of moonlight passed between curtains that were not fully drawn together. It illuminated her face.
“Oh, you’re awake,” I said.
“Obviously. I was watching you.” Her voice was soft, hushed. I saw then that her hands were clasped together on the pillow.
I searched for something to say. “How did you know I was dreaming?”
“You were mumbling. Talking to yourself about Annie.”
That was a revelation and it left me wondering. How would a woman like Susan react to sleeping with a man who dreamed about his lost love? Would she be offended? I said, “Really? What did I say?”
“I couldn’t make out most of it. But I caught the name, Annie. Did anyone else tell you that you dream about her?”
“There never was anyone else.” I sat up and looked at my watch. It was only three o’clock. “I’m sorry if I woke you. Was that why you’re awake? Me mumbling in my sleep?”
The moonlight showed me she was smiling, clearly not slighted by my behaviour. “No. I had to go to the bathroom. And don’t be sorry. I understand why you were dreaming.”
“The grief you spoke about? Is that it?”
“I was right, wasn’t I?”
I wasn’t prepared to answer that, so I said, “As we’re awake, let’s do something good instead of just talking.” And it was good, until another gunshot echoed through the street outside. Closer this time, but just the one shot.
***
After breakfast I called a taxi and dropped Susan off outside her flat. I was sorry to see her get out of the cab and I stepped out behind her, searching for something appropriate to say. But my mind went blank.
“I’ll see you in prison,” she said before she gave me a passionate kiss in the middle of the pavement. I think the cabbie might have got a kick out of it.
Then I directed the taxi to Martin’s house. To begin with, Martin was far more composed than either Sorcha or Will when I last interviewed them. I began to wonder if he was emotionally the strongest of the three. I was wrong. His inner anxieties emerged soon after we sat down in his front parlour room.
“This is not going to be easy for me,” he said as we began to talk. “I’ve never discussed this part of it in any depth before, not even with Emily.”
“Take it in your own good time, Martin. Don’t rush it.” I took out my scribble pad and prepared to take notes.
***
Friday 21st July 1972
1440 BST
The Crumlin Road was sealed off. Armed soldiers and police held back anyone who tried to get beyond the barricade. The pot of trouble here was ready to boil over, but a more immediate problem loomed heavily in Martin’s mind.
Emily was right. He had been too quick to turn his back on Sorcha, and now he regretted it. He should have given her more opportunity to talk, a chance to tell him exactly what she was mixed up in. Maybe… just maybe… he had misjudged the whole situation. Maybe, as Emily said, she was not as guilty as he had imagined. He wouldn’t know unless he found her and talked to her. But where would he find her? He didn’t know exactly where she lived, but he did know that she had some connection with that dirty little hotel in the Oldpark Road. The people there might know how to contact her.
He stood at the Oldpark Road junction with the Crumlin Road, at the rear of a group of Republican locals from the Ardoyne; an aggressive assembly hurling insults at the troops and the police. The atmosphere was tense. He peered between the figures to the front of the gathering. Farther along that road a single car was parked alongside the houses of the Crumlin Road Prison warders, close by the Star Taxi premises. That one vehicle seemed to be the centre of attention. Armed soldiers and uniformed policemen were trying to herd the mob away from the vicinity. Could this be another car bomb? Or a hoax? The locals continued shouting obscene insults at the men who had the job of dealing with it. A small band of teenage boys began throwing bricks at them.
A cry of, “Go home, English!” came from the front of the mob. Others took up the chant, stabbing their fists at the troops.
Martin turned away in disgust and walked along Oldpark Road towards the Green Hills Hotel. He glanced from side to side as he walked, hoping he was not attracting attention. At one point he looked up and saw movement at an open window. The barrel of a rifle slid into view. It was not aimed at him so he walked on.
Away from the immediate vicinity of the Crumlin Road altercation, the atmosphere was marginally quieter, but the tension persisted. Hardened women in wrap-around pinafores stood on their doorsteps, watching and waiting. Sullen-faced youths lounged against the brick walls, eyeing Martin warily. Whatever they were smoking, it wasn’t nicotine. The murals and graffiti looked down on the morbid scene and gave it nothing but added hostility.
Martin was at the hotel door when the car bomb exploded in the Crumlin Road. The sudden blast of noise echoed between the houses, smoke billowed past the end of the road, and a solid wall of air pushed Martin through the door. He landed on the bare wooden stairs. He was deafened for a few seconds but unhurt. After a moment of confusion, he stood up, dusted his hands together and looked out into the street. The foul chants had given way to screams of terror. People were running now, running away from the Crumlin Road. Many of them raced down Oldpark Road. Was anyone hurt? There was no way of telling.
There was nothing he could do to help. Besides, he figured, this lot deserved all they got. Satisfied he was right, Martin climbed the stairs to the first floor. The same old lady was there, standing by a broken window, staring out. She turned to face him. Her face was ashen. For the moment he couldn’t recall her name.
“Did youse see it?” she said. “The bomb. Did youse see where it was?”
“Around the corner,” he said. “In the Crumlin Road, by the taxi rank.”
“Was anyone killed?”
“No idea.”
“One o’ theirs, or one o’ ours?”
“No idea.” He knew what she meant; was it an IRA or UVF bomb? But he wasn’t going to get drawn into that. “I came looking for Sorcha. She was here this morning.”
“Ain’t seen her since then.” The woman peered at Martin with a suspicious look. She still carried an odious smell. “She said youse was her cousin, so she did.”
“Yes.”
“Ain’t heard of youse before.” She stepped closer. “Where’re youse from?”
“Not far from here. Do you have any idea where I might find Sorcha? I need to make sure she’s safe in view of these bombs.”
“She can look after herself,” the woman said dismissively.
“You don’t know where I should look?”
“If she’s any sense she’ll be at hom
e in Mafeking Street with her sister.”
Mafeking Street? So that was where she lived.
Martin felt a sudden surge of relief. It was only partially dulled when a rattle of gunfire sounded nearby, just as he turned back towards the stairs.
He called to the woman. “You’re probably right. I would have gone there first, but there was a barricade and I couldn’t get through it. I’ll try again.”
Lies, all lies, he thought, but it didn’t matter because he now knew where to look for Sorcha. He hurried down the stairs before the woman could ask any more awkward questions.
Outside, people were milling around, confused, looking lost. A hooded man with a gun raced away down the street. A phalanx of locals closed around him, hiding him. Martin stopped to gaze at the scene. He couldn’t see the remains of the bomb, but smoke had drifted into Oldpark Road. Looking up, he saw a huge pall of blackness rise above the nearby buildings. An army Saracen vehicle was parked at the junction with the Crumlin Road, and soldiers were shepherding people away from the immediate danger. A fire vehicle raced past. A gang of youths threw bricks at it. To achieve what? Who could possibly benefit from this behaviour?
A solitary word ran again and again through Martin’s head. Evil, evil, evil…” He couldn’t rid himself of the echo. It engulfed every other thought. And he wondered yet again how Sorcha was caught up in it… and how he might help her escape.
Dear God, Sorcha, I have to get you away from this.
He turned to walk away from the Crumlin Road. His path would take him farther into Nationalist territory, but he figured the locals now had more to worry them than a solitary Prod tramping through their hallowed ground. And this route would take him to Mafeking Street.
Within the next fifteen minutes he heard four more explosions. Each time he felt a shudder run through him and he wondered if Sorcha was safe. He couldn’t pinpoint the locations, but none seemed to be close to him. Not that any bomb could do more damage than was already done by earlier random assaults. Further plumes of black smoke rose up over the house roofs. He could smell the burning in the air.
He walked down one street in which every single house was derelict, burned out from a sectarian attack that probably dated back a year or two. It was an old red-brick terrace with front doors opening directly onto the pavement, except that there were no front doors; just empty openings into charred empty shells. Children were playing in one of the ruins. Where are your parents? he thought. Why haven’t they taken you to safety? Wasn’t that supposed to be the reaction of local mammies when the IRA planned an attack on the army? Get your own children inside first, and then bang the dustbin lids to warn others.