The Girl From the Killing Streets

by David Hough

  McIlroy sat down again. “Okay, but before you do that, Will, take a look at this.” McIlroy gestured to the two sheets of paper on his desk. “This is the character outline on Fitzpain. I’ve just taken it from the file we got from Boyle. And this…” He fingered the other page. “… this is the report on Fitzpain’s arrest. It includes the two women the uniforms found at that hotel. Have a look at what it says about the Mulveny girl and tell me if anything stands out.”

  Will picked up both pages and looked at them. “Specifically, what should I be looking for.”

  “The dates.”

  “I don’t see it.”

  “The girl thinks Fitzpain is her real father. That’s what she told you in that Chinese Restaurant. Yes?”

  “Yes.”

  McIlroy stabbed at finger at each page. “Well, now look here… and here.”

  “Oh, yes! I see what you mean. It’s not what she thinks, is it?”

  ***

  January 1981

  “What did you see, Will?” I asked.

  He told me and it all made sense.

  Chapter Twenty

  November 1981

  Susan flew over to London one afternoon towards the end of the month and I met her at Heathrow. I drove her back to my flat in Wimbledon and we went straight to bed. I’d been married long enough to spot when a woman is sexually eager, and I wasn’t wrong.

  Afterwards, we both slept for an hour.

  Susan was the first to wake and she eased me back into full consciousness by tickling my chin.

  “Please, sir, I want some more,” she cooed.

  “Now?”

  “Yes, now. I want some more now.”

  “Your name is Susan, not Oliver.”

  She pursed her lips. “But I want…”

  “Supper can be made tastier by allowing it to simmer for an hour or so.”

  “I might go off the boil.”

  “Not you.” I kissed the tip of her nose. “Are you ready to fill me in with the detail about your chat with Martin?” I was now fully awake.

  “I told you the gist of it.” She shifted onto her back and pulled the duvet up over her chest. “I probably got on with him better than you did. He actually sounded glad to talk to me.”

  “Must be your feminine charm. You said he told you how he got confirmation that Sorcha really had been pregnant some time before she met him. What those thugs told him worried him, but he doubted the truth of it until it was confirmed by the policeman.”

  “He said the truth of it shook him.” She turned onto her side and snuggled closer. “What would you think of me if I had been…?”

  “Were you?”

  “Of course not. And don’t ever again ask such an unkind question. But, if I had, what would you think?”

  “Love should overcome problems like that. I’d still love you.”

  “Thank you for saying that. You’ve just ticked another box on your progress chart.”

  “Meaning?”

  “You and I are getting to the point where important decisions need to be made. Do we have a future together? I’ve had boyfriends in the past, obviously, but they all failed in one important final test.”

  “Which was?”

  “Would I want to spend my life with them?”

  “And…?”

  “In every case, I decided no. Sometimes it was because of a character flaw, and sometimes it was for a reason I couldn’t quite put my finger on. I will never fully commit myself until I’m totally sure it’s the right thing to do. Does that make me a difficult woman?”

  “I doubt it. Would you marry me?” I stared into her eyes, daring her to give me an honest reply. I hadn’t planned on asking the question, but it came out easily and I knew straightaway it was what I wanted.

  “Are you asking me, or just testing the water?”

  “Asking.”

  She thought for a few moments, chewing at her lip. “Far too early to say. But I’ll put the question in my pending tray.”

  “When do you empty it? Your pending tray.”

  “When it’s full.”

  “Please fill it. And in the meantime?”

  “In the meantime… you still need to get over the loss of Annie. And I still want some more.”

  I gave in. She deserved more.

  We continued the discussion about Martin Foster over supper.

  ***

  21st July 1972

  1545 BST

  It was probably a last option, Martin thought, but he had to try it. He had visited the North Castle Street RUC barracks and learned nothing about Sorcha. He had given the police information about Sorcha, but they had offered nothing in return. Now he would try the Oldpark barracks, the closest RUC base to that dingy hotel. This time he would be careful to give nothing away until he was offered something in return.

  It wasn’t easy getting inside the barracks. The sangar at the main entrance was well defended, but Martin persisted until he was able to talk to the duty officer at the front desk inside the building.

  “What is it you want to report?” he was asked by a uniformed sergeant who was clearly overburdened with other tasks and didn’t really give a damn.

  Martin replied civilly, but forcefully. “I’m not here to report anything. I’m trying to trace someone.”

  “Name?”

  “Sorcha Mulveny.”

  “Your name, laddie. Unless you’re some sort of poofter with a girl’s name.”

  “My name is Martin…” He stopped when he felt a hand rest on his arm. He turned to see a uniformed officer looking at him intently.

  “I overheard you asking about Sorcha Mulveny,” the policeman said. “Is that the same Sorcha Mulveny from Mafeking Street?”

  “Yes. And you are?” His hopes began to rise.

  “I’m Sergeant Murphy.”

  The name came back to Martin in a flash. Those Loyalist thugs had talked about someone called Mickey Murphy. A peeler, they’d said.

  Ask him what happened after... after... He couldn’t bring himself to face the unspoken memory of what the thug had said.

  “You’re not called Mickey Murphy, are you?” Martin stared at the man and his mind was suddenly filled with hastily-created images of him and Sorcha. In bed together.

  Could he have got it wrong?

  The sergeant nodded. “That’s my name. Should I know you?”

  Yes, it had to be him!

  The images hit home, hard. Unbearably hard. And the thugs’ insinuations; they hit even harder.

  Ask him why Sorcha Mulveny was sent away from home. Youse just ask him.

  “I doubt we’ve ever met,” Martin said.

  “So, what’s your interest in Sorcha?”

  It was warm inside the building and Martin loosened his coat. He felt a sweat form in his armpits. “Just a friend, but I think she may be in trouble. Real trouble. Do you know where I might find her?”

  Sergeant Murphy frowned. “In trouble, you say? You’d better come with me to somewhere quieter where we can talk.”

  He led Martin to an interview room; a small cell-like room with a plain table and wooden seats either side. It smelled stale, heavy with the odour of cigarette smoke. He sat down and gestured Martin to sit opposite him.

  “Now, tell me your name.”

  “Foster. Martin Foster.”

  “And how do you know Sorcha Mulveny?”

  Martin shrugged. He wasn’t yet ready to give away too much. “Like I said, we’re good friends.”

  “And why do you think she may be in trouble?”

  “Isn’t there enough trouble in the city today?” He had not intended to say more, but the ensuing words came out without prior thought. They escaped before he could close the exit. “Earlier, I saw a girl killed in a riot. She was wearing Sorcha’s clothes.”

  “Really? That sounds rather odd. And it begs the question; why would she be doing that?”

  “I’ve no idea.” He’d said enough, he decided. Now it was time to get so
me information in return. “Tell me, Sergeant, what do you know about Sorcha? You were more than just friends at one time, weren’t you? Much more.”

  The images were still there, still hurting.

  Murphy looked taken aback. “Who told you that?”

  “A couple of Republican ruffians I came across while I was searching for her. They told me someone called Mickey Murphy was romantically linked to Sorcha. Not that they put it so politely, but you’ll get the message.”

  “Romantic?”

  “Sexual would be a better way of putting it. Sexual with unwanted consequences.” Martin leaned forward to put extra emphasis on the second sentence.

  Murphy jerked his head back. “Does that concern you?”

  “Yes, it does. I love her.”

  Loved her and yet I walked away from her.

  “I see.” The sergeant stood up and strode across the room to a heavily barred window. He stared through the bars for a few moments before turning to face Martin. “Give me one good reason why I should talk about Sorcha’s past to you?”

  “I intend to marry her.”

  “Knowing what you’ve learned already?”

  “I told you; I love her.”

  Murphy gave it a few more moments of thought. “All right, I’ll tell you the truth, Martin. Sorcha and I were once lovers. You were not the first to fall in love with her. I was.”

  “When…?”

  The sergeant brushed aside the rest of the question. “It was a few years ago… five years ago. She was only fifteen and I was four years older. We lived in adjacent streets. And, yes, we went to bed together once or twice. Is that such a sin when we loved one another?”

  “What happened?”

  “I really don’t think...”

  “I need to know, Sergeant.”

  The sergeant looked down at the floor. “All right, I’ll tell you. Sorcha became pregnant. One of those stupid mistakes we Catholics make so easily because we listen to those brainwashed holy priests and we don’t bloody well think for ourselves.” He looked up suddenly, came back to the table and sat down, clasping his hands together. “Her mother beat her round the head and went screaming to the local priest. He arranged for her to be sent away to a Magdalene laundry where she had a very rough time. Rough? God help us, the cruelty of the nuns was unforgiveable. And they’re supposed to be Christians!”

  Martin felt no sense of shock. He had already guessed the truth in the light of the accusations made by those thugs. It hurt to hear it from Sergeant Murphy, but hurt was not the same as shock.

  “What happened to the baby?” he asked.

  “The baby was forcibly taken away and Sorcha was told it died.”

  “Died. Oh, God. Poor Sorcha.”

  “It may not have been true. Probably wasn’t. The child may have been adopted or sold to some rich Americans. Lies were a part of the cruelty.” He shook his head sadly. “That’s the freedom the IRA is fighting for, Martin. Allow the church to govern people’s lives and enjoy the ‘freedom’ to be slaves of religion. The ‘freedom’ for women to be treated with animal cruelty. It has to be stopped, you know. One way or another, it has to be stopped.”

  “And what did you do to help Sorcha?”

  “Not nearly enough, it shames me to say. I would have married her when she was old enough, but my parents intervened. They were embarrassed by what Sorcha and I did. Told me I’d disgraced the family name. They wouldn’t allow us to marry, and when you live in a place like that you don’t go against your parents. Not unless you want a punishment squad on your tail. Anyway, we moved away from the area soon after Sorcha came home again. Shame had a lot to do with it.”

  Martin nodded. “Thank you for telling me this. It helps me understand Sorcha better.”

  “Does it alter your feelings towards her?”

  “That’s something I shall have to think about.”

  But it won’t take much thought. I love her too much.

  “You still want to find her because you think she’s in danger?”

  “Yes. I’ve tried her home in Mafeking Street and she’s not there. I’ve also tried all the hospitals, with no luck.”

  Murphy leaned forward. “I’m going to help you because I like you, Martin. And because I owe it to Sorcha. Find a man called Brian Fitzpain and he’ll lead you to her.”

  “Fitzpain? I know that name. And finding him is easier said than done.”

  “Go to this address.” Murphy wrote on a scrap of paper and slid it across the table. “This is where Fitzpain lives. He won’t be there now. He’ll be out on the streets directing the bombings.”

  “You should be out there after him.”

  “We’ve men out looking for him. So have the guys over at North Castle Street. In the meantime, it’s my guess that if Sorcha is not at home she may well be at that address, or heading that way. Just be careful. It’s a Nationalist area. Speak to no one else in that street, and I mean no one.”

  “And if she’s not there?”

  “Wait there for her.”

  ***

  January 1981

  “You have to admire his love for her,” I said. “Most men would not have been so loyal.”

  “But their affair was still doomed to failure, wasn’t it?”

  “Probably. Tell me what happened next.”

  ***

  21st July 1972

  1605 BST

  The street looked eerily quiet, but Martin knew there would be inquisitive eyes behind the curtains at every window. There always were in places like this. Especially on a day like this. Even in normal times, a stranger would be viewed with suspicion, and today was far from normal.

  He glanced again at the slip of paper as he walked on. The next street should do it.

  Then he allowed his thought to return to Mickey Murphy. Had Mickey’s relationship with Sorcha been as intense as the one he had enjoyed? Did he lie on his back with Sorcha naked on top of him, thrusting and panting? Did she throw back her head and cry, “Yes, yes!” as she did when Martin ejaculated inside her? Did he enjoy wrapping his hands about her breasts and kissing her nipples? Did she suck his penis in the same way? Did she… ?

  He deliberately closed his mind to more memories. Why was he torturing himself when he knew all along that Sorcha was no virgin? Was it because of the baby, the ultimate achievement of sex?

  I love you, Sorcha, but this is too painful!

  He turned the corner into the next street, two lines of red-brick terraced homes facing each other across a dirty road. It was the same old story; general dereliction, along with broken bricks and broken glass littering the pavement.

  He started counting the house numbers.

  A black car drew up alongside him and Martin glanced sideways at it. The driver wound down his window and called, “You! Get inside. Now!”

  ***

  January 1981

  “Was that Fitzpain and one of his thugs?” I asked. I had one hand curved around Susan’s left breast. It felt warm and perfectly moulded. I could have left it there forever.

  She put a finger firmly across my lips. “No. Why don’t you just be quiet and listen to me?”

  “Sorry. I love listening to you, but it’s an exciting story.”

  “And you’re being impatient. It wasn’t Fitzpain.”

  ***

  21st July 1972

  1610 BST

  A distant bomb exploded as Martin got into the car, a black Cortina. Two men were seated in the front seats. Two plain clothes policemen. Martin recognised them instantly. They were the CID policemen from North Castle Street. The same two men who had interviewed him and told him nothing of value.

  What were they called?

  DCI McIlroy and DS Evans. The names came back to him suddenly.

  The younger one was Welsh, he remembered that. Remembered his tell-tale Welsh accent. God alone must have known what a Welshman was doing here, working for the RUC at a time like this.

  The older man, the Detective Ch
ief Inspector, was at the wheel. He leaned back and snapped, “What the hell are you doing wandering around these streets, Martin Foster? You could be shot on sight in a place like this. Bloody nearly were.”

  He even remembers my name!

  “I’m looking for Sorcha Mulveny. I told you that before.”

  “Why here, for God’s sake?”

  “I was told she might be at Brian Fitzpain’s house. He lives here.”

  “Who told you that?”

  “Sergeant Murphy at Oldpark police station.”

  The younger policeman gave his boss a knowing look. “I’ll phone him when we get back, boss. See that the hell he’s playing at.”

  Then he turned to Martin. “How did you meet Mickey Murphy?”

  “Went along to Oldpark barracks to see if they had any news of Sorcha Mulveny. It was just a wild hope, I suppose. It was pure luck I met Sergeant Murphy there.”

  “He knew her, I assume?”

  “Oh, yes. Knew her better than you might guess,” Martin muttered, avoiding the gaze of both policemen. “He gave me Fitzpain’s address.”

  The older man interrupted at that point. “Well, we’ve got news for you, boy. You were seen. There are two gunmen just around the corner in the next street, hidden in a doorway. Face masks, black berets and Armalite rifles. Does that mean anything to you?”

  “IRA.”

  “Right. If we hadn’t come along you would likely be dead by now.”

  “I was trying not to draw attention to myself.”

  “Well, you failed. Miserably. Now, let’s get the hell out of here while we still have our lives.”

  He floored his throttle and the car sped off along the road.

  Martin settled back into one of the rear seats. Outside, black smoke still lingered over the city. The smell of burning still refused to die down. Away from these mean streets the roads were still clogged with vehicles heading out into the countryside, but there had been no more explosions since he got into the car. Could this be an end to the day’s horrors?

  Eventually, the Welshman spoke. “What did Sergeant Murphy tell you about Sorcha Mulveny?”