by David Hough
Sorcha walked back along the road until she saw a young woman coming towards her. She was pushing a pram with one hand and holding onto a small child with the other. Sorcha stood waiting until the woman was within hearing.
“Excuse me,” she asked. “D’youse know anything about that car?” She pointed to the Vauxhall.
“No.” The young woman shook her head, a puzzled look on her slender face. She had long blonde hair and it swayed around her cheeks.
“It could be another bomb,” Sorcha said. “We should tell someone.”
The young woman smiled at her. “Oh, no. They wouldn’t plant bombs up here. We’ve had no trouble in this street.”
Sorcha held back from pointing out that a hijacked car had been driven to the shops in the Cavehill Road, which was not far away. It had been laden with explosives. The residents didn’t expect that one, but people were badly injured when it blew up.
“I still think it looks suspicious,” she said. She looked down at the child, a fair-haired girl no more than two years old; a pretty child who would one day become a beautiful woman like her mother. She stared back with a solemn expression. Sorcha clenched her fists. How could anyone put the life of such a child at risk? How could anyone kill an innocent like this?
“You’re not from round here,” the young woman said, drawing back Sorcha’s attention.
“No. I’m visiting a friend.” She turned to look again at the car. “I’d stay clear of that vehicle if I were youse. Just in case. I don’t like the look of it.”
The woman smiled and made to move on. “I’m sure you’re worrying unnecessarily. Look, I have to get home to feed the baby.” As if in agreement, a small gurgle came from out of the pram.
“Please be careful.” Sorcha spoke quietly, knowing she had no real proof there was anything dangerous in this road. All she had was a gut feeling and the knowledge of the man who had been driving that vehicle.
She watched the woman and her family go, and then she saw an army Land Rover fifty yards away, advancing slowly along an adjacent road. She could warn them. Yes, she could ask them to inspect the Vauxhall. They would know what to do. She hurried towards the Land Rover until she was out of sight of the suspect vehicle.
And then the bomb went off.
Although she was now in the adjacent street, the blast blew her forward onto the ground. She rolled off the pavement onto the road. The noise deafened her for a minute as she struggled to get back to her feet. She wiped a hand across her face and then saw that the Land Rover was still heading towards her. She stood in its path, not sure what to do, her head aching and her thoughts confused. A soldier jumped from the moving vehicle and pulled her off the road.
“Are you hurt?”
“I’m not sure… I don’t think so.”
“Stay here!” he shouted at her. “Someone will come to help you shortly.”
How did he know that? He was just giving her platitudes. She tried to speak to him, but he was already walking away. She watched the Land Rover turn into the bombed street, the soldier sheltering behind it. Then she stumbled after them. Her senses were returning now, remembering the young woman and her children. As she came in sight of the devastation, she saw people coming from their houses. Shocked and stumbling, they came from out of homes with shattered windows and doors. The soldier shouted at them to stay clear.
The Land Rover had stopped well back from the blazing remains of the Vauxhall, but Sorcha ran past it, on down the road to where the burning car was belching smoke and flames into the air. People called out to her to stop, but she ignored them. And then the horror became clear to her and she came to a halt.
Her face felt hot, not just because of the flames. Her heart pounded.
The pram was a smashed ruin blown farther along the street. There was no sign of the baby. The young woman… oh dear God… she had been blown off her feet and was impaled upon the railings. The arrowheads pierced her back, her arms fell limply to her sides, and her sightless face stared up at the smoky sky. Her hair was clogged with blood which dripped down her face, down her clothes, pooling on the pavement. And there was the child… she saw it now… the small child was no more than a bloody mess on the road a few yards away.
A mere child for God’s sake!
Sorcha clasped her hands to her face and screamed.
“OH GOD! NO!”
And she caught again an image of her mother, dead on the kitchen floor.
God, help me! I can’t take any more!
Someone came running behind her. A hand gripped her arm. It was the same soldier.
“Keep well away from it, Miss.”
She swung round to face him. Tried to tell him what had happened when she spoke to the young woman, but the words would not come. Just a noise. It was a loud screaming noise, her own loud screaming. She pounded her fists into the soldier’s chest, anger and despair filling her head. Then she pushed him away and vomited onto the pavement.
***
February 1981
Sorcha slumped forward, cradling her head in her arms. Her words tailed off, replaced by a deep sobbing sound. Her shoulders heaved.
“Enough!” Susan stood up suddenly, rounded the table and clasped her arms about the young woman. “That’s enough. She can’t take any more today.”
“I must!” Sorcha sat up abruptly and pushed Susan aside. “I must finish this now. Right now. I don’t want to have to come back to it later.”
“But it’s tearing you apart, Sorcha!”
“That’s why I have to do this. I need to feel the pain!”
***
21st July 1972
1710 BST
She sat on a hard wooden chair and sipped at a cup of hot tea. The soldier had taken her back to the same church hall and asked the people there to look after her. She had stopped screaming now, but tears still flooded down her cheeks. Her hands shook and the teacup rattled as she set it back onto its saucer and put it down on a table beside her.
Her thoughts were more coherent now. Mostly, they were thoughts about the dead woman and the child, but she found time also to think about herself. There was no possible future for her in Belfast now. How could there be? If she was anyone else, Brian Fitzpain would find her, and he would want to kill her because she was a traitor… someone who had slept with the enemy. But he wouldn’t do it because she wasn’t anyone else. She knew who Brian was, and she had smoothed the way for herself and Martin to escape to England.
But what would Martin do if he found out what terrible things she had done? Could she hide that from him? Hide it for the rest of their lives?
More memories fought their way back into her head.
Memories of last night when the peeler died. Dear God, why did it have to happen?
A voice suddenly cut into her thoughts. “Sorcha? What are you doing here?”
She looked up at a figure hurrying across the hall towards her.
It was him… it was Martin!
She leapt to her feet, spilling the tea, and clasped her arms about him. “I was looking for youse. But I didn’t know where to find youse. I searched everywhere.”
“And I was searching for you,” he said.
“Oh, God, Martin. Hold me. Please hold me.” And she wept across his shoulder as he wrapped his arms about her.
“I saw the aftermath of the Ballysillan bomb,” he said, speaking hesitantly. “I was looking for you and I saw what the bomb did. I saw the dead bodies. And I saw what happened when other bombs exploded. Dear God, I saw it!”
Sorcha sighed deeply. Certainty filled her mind now. If ever there was a reason to get away from Belfast, this was it. She pulled herself back from Martin’s grasp and saw then that his eyes were also filled with tears.
She gestured to the door. “Let’s go somewhere else.”
“Anywhere?”
She wiped at her eyes. “Yes. Anywhere away from here.”
He led her from the church hall. Outside, two heavily-armed RUC officers were t
alking to an army officer. Unlike other soldiers, this one was not wearing full military combat kit. He could have been dressed for a parade ground. One of the policemen turned towards Martin and Sorcha.
And that was when she saw her nemesis.
Fitzpain was across the road, slouched against the side of a white van, watching and smoking. He had seen her; that was obvious. He had seen her with Martin. What was he doing here? Had he come looking for her? Whatever his intentions, he made no attempt to approach her, but he didn’t need to. The look on his face told her what was in his mind.
“It’s him! It’s Fitzpain,” Martin said, nodding in Fitzpain’s direction. “I saw him earlier when I was looking for you in Mafeking Street.”
“What happened?” she asked.
“He guessed I wasn’t a Catholic and he would have killed me, but the army came along just in time. Saved my bacon, they did.”
Sorcha didn’t trust herself to reply straight away. She knew they were in dire trouble. Right now, Fitzpain would want to kill Martin… and her… but they had just one chance to stay alive. When she got him alone… when she was able to talk to him and explain what she had done for him. When Maggie confirmed what she said. Yes, that was important. Maggie had to confirm it, regardless of the truth. Then Brian would look well on her. She was confident he would let her and Martin leave Belfast and never come after them. Never send the Pain Men after either of them.
Besides, she knew who he really was.
He could never do any real harm to her.
She clasped Martin’s arm tightly. “We can’t stay here, Martin. We must get out of the city.”
“Something wrong, Miss?” One of the peelers took a step towards her.
“No. I’m all right.”
But the peeler didn’t look convinced. He followed her gaze to the man across the road. “You know that man?”
“No. I…”
“I know him.” It was the second peeler. He jabbed a finger at the lurking figure. “That’s Fitzpain, the Provo man. There’s word out for us to keep an eye open for him. What’s he mean to you, Miss?”
“Nothing.” She avoided his gaze. “He means nothing to me.”
“Really?” The peeler didn’t look convinced. “Let’s have a word with him.” He stepped off the pavement towards Fitzpain, but he wasn’t quick enough. Fitzpain threw down his cigarette and leapt into the van. Within seconds, the engine roared into life and the vehicle raced away down the street.
“Did you get the number?” the army officer called out.
“I got it,” The nearer of the two peelers replied. “Someone will want to question that man.”
Martin eased Sorcha away from the two policemen, pressed himself tight beside her and spoke quietly. “You’re lying, Sorcha. Fitzpain was the man who came to that hotel in the Oldpark Road. You made me leave the place because of him. You do know him, so don’t deny it. What does he really mean to you?”
She pushed him further away from the two policemen before replying. “He’s an IRA killer, Martin, and he’s found out about us. He knows we’ve been sleeping together, so he does.”
“How did he find out?”
“I don’t know, but it doesn’t matter. I’ve tried to put things right. I just need to speak to him alone.”
Martin looked puzzled. “What’s going on, Sorcha? Tell me.”
Sorcha struggled for a reply that would not immediately incriminate her. She looked away as she replied. “I will one day, I promise to tell youse everything.” But, deep down, she knew there were things he must never find out. Never.
Martin’ puzzled expression deepened. “And this man, Fitzpain? He’s pissed off about us sleeping together, is that it?”
“He’s a psychopath. A mad psychopath. He hates all Prods, especially Prods who go to bed with Catholic girls. In normal circumstances he would kill us. Both of us. But he won’t because of what I’ve done. I promise youse, I’ve tried to put things right for us.”
***
Friday 21st July 1972
1725 BST
They walked hand-in-hand looking for an easy way out of the city, just as so many other people wanted a way out. But there was no easy way. Motorists, caught up in the exodus, were offering people lifts, but they were careful to check on the passengers’ identity first.
“How are youse? And what’s your name then? Sorcha? And what school did youse go to?”
The same old story.
Martin and Sorcha were refused a lift because she had a Catholic name.
“We live in a medieval society here,” she said as yet another car moved off without them. “We’ve never grown up enough to fit in with the twentieth century. There’s no hope for us, is there?”
Martin said nothing, but she understood. What could he possibly say to her? They walked on in silence, with the truth of that day rattling round inside her head. The truth of her own involvement in murder. Last night she had seen a rapist die. Before that, she had seen a peeler die. And then… this morning… she had seen Jimmy Fish die. With Brian banged up at Castlereagh, it should have been his thugs, McKenna and Maginnis who carried out Jimmy Fish’s execution, but there was no way of contacting them.
He had grassed on Brian, and Brian had insisted that the runt had to pay. She remembered Fitzpain’s expression as the peelers led him away from the hotel. Both Maggie and Sorcha had picked up the message. Fish had to die. Sorcha remembered the glint of anger in Maggie’s eyes as she demanded that Sorcha should go with her to the café he regularly visited. She remembered the initial silence as they entered the café and the look of surprise Jimmy Fish gave them. He must have guessed why they were there because he gasped and muttered a comment about the pair of them coming for him.
“Oh Maggie! Fitzpain’s revenge, is it?”
Sorcha remembered the look in the runt’s face as the old lady drew out her long sharp sewing scissors. “No, I’ll do it, Maggie,” she said. Then she remembered what happened to the peeler and she doubted, even then, that she would have the courage to kill Jimmy Fish.
Maggie shook her head fiercely. “Youse think I haven’t the strength to avenge my Brian? Youse just watch me!” She threw herself at Jimmy Fish with a sudden move that caught him unawares, and the scissors were thrust into the man’s chest.
Sorcha choked. It was like the killing of the peeler all over again. The blood, the look of shock in the man’s face, the horror of it all. He slid to the floor with blood bubbling from the wound.
Maggie hurriedly pulled out a clear plastic bag from her pocket and dumped it on the table. It contained thirty sixpenny coins. “Now let’s get out of here.” She seemed quite unperturbed by what she had done as she led the way out of the café.
Sorcha followed her, pulling the door to behind her. She caught up with the old lady, her mind working fast, trying to come to a decision. Her thoughts were coming together even as she spoke. She gabbled as they walked. “Tell Brian it was me, Maggie. Tell him I did the killing.”
“Why?”
“I have my reasons. Just tell him. I want him to think it was me who did it.”
Of course she would never have had the guts to do it. She knew that, but if Brian thought she had been the one to take revenge on Jimmy Fish... if he thought she had done this for him… it might just help Martin and herself. He might then look favourably on her. It could be their ticket to get herself and Martin safely out of Northern Ireland with no IRA assassins coming after them. Yes, Brian would understand if he thought she had taken revenge for Jimmy’s Fish’s betrayal.
She felt her body shaking as they hurried down the street. They were brutal murders: the peeler, the rapist, and now Jimmy Fish. This one was no easier to stomach. If anything, it was worse because she actually liked the poor wee bastard. There was something about him… she didn’t know what it was… something of a connection between them. Was it because they had both acted outside the Law? Or was it something else?
Now the killing had to stop. De
ar God, it had to stop!
***
February 1981
“You were innocent of that particular crime, Sorcha,” I said. “You didn’t kill Jimmy Fish.”
She shook her head fiercely. “I wasn’t innocent, you should know that. I was there when it happened, so I was an accomplice. In law, I was guilty.”
She was right, of course, but I still felt for her. Such emotions are not so easily overcome. I tried to justify my stance by a futile assertion. “Maggie carried out the murder! She should be brought to justice.”
“Too late. She died three years ago. She’s buried in Milltown cemetery.”
I understood. Milltown in the Ballymurphy area was where most Belfast Republicans were buried.
“She knew the truth and she never spoke out,” I said. I felt a sudden moment of anger with Sorcha because she continued to take full blame for the killing. I was, of course, making a serious mistake. A mistake no journalist should make. I was allowing myself to get too close to the subject, too close to the central character in my book.
Sorcha, however, seemed unconcerned by her own fate. “And incriminate herself? Of course she kept her mouth shut. And I had to make Brian think I did it. You can understand that, can’t you?”
“But it wasn’t just a case of convincing Fitzpain, was it? In court, you took the full blame for the killing of Jimmy Fish. You confessed to the world at large.”
“I had to.” She’s voice took on a firmer tone. “Don’t you see? It was because I needed to take responsibility… take the blame on meself because of all those other killings. Not just the Proddy rapist, or the peeler, or Jimmy Fish. It was all the others who died that day. I was part of the problem, you see. I was there with a list of where the bombs would go off, and I should have gone to the police. They were fooled by hoax phone calls and I could have shown them where the bombs actually were. I could have saved lives. But I didn’t. And people died. I was as guilty as the rest of them and I had to make myself pay the price.”
“The police got the list anyway,” I said.