The Girl From the Killing Streets

by David Hough

  “Look at this, Will. Scissors with traces of blood on the blades. Didn’t make a very good job of cleaning them, did she?” He stared down at the woman. “Today a man called Seamus Codd was murdered. Stabbed through the heart. We have reason to believe he was known to you and your son, Brian Fitzpain.”

  “Dirty little informer, so he was.”

  Will tapped McIlroy on the shoulder. “Remember what the café owner said. Not you two, and the name Fitzpain.”

  “You think...?”

  “Two women... Sorcha Mulveny and Margaret Fitzpain.”

  “It figures. Brian Fitzpain was carted off to Castleragh and the two women took revenge on Jimmy Fish.”

  The old lady made a grab at the scissors, but McIlroy pushed her hand away. “Is that how it was? Was the Mulveny girl with you when you went to find Seamus Codd?”

  “He deserved all he got, so he did.”

  “And the Mulveny girl?”

  “She’ll get what’s comin’ to her when my Brian catches up with her.”

  “Why?”

  “Because she’s been sleepin’ with a Prod. That’s why.”

  “That’s all? It’s no crime in our book.”

  “She told the Proddy bastard all about us. She’s a traitor.”

  “Did she kill Seamus Codd?”

  The old lady nodded but said nothing.

  “Bingo. We’ve got her, Will.” McIlroy pushed Will towards the stairs. “Get back to the car and call in. See if they’ve managed to trace that white van. Quickly now. We need to find that girl before Fitzpain does.”

  “Should we follow the chase?”

  “Shortly. First, we’ll arrest this old woman and take her back to the barracks. She was in on the killing of Jimmy Fish. We can get an update on the situation from there. Then we’ll get out on the road after that white van. By then, the uniform guys should be able to tell us where it’s going.”

  “Hope we’re in time, boss. Hope we get to the girl before Fitzpain does.”

  “Don’t be too sentimental about her. She’s far from innocent in all of this, remember.”

  ***

  February 1981

  “At that point we had the girl firmly in our sights for the murder of Jimmy Fish.” Will’s voice went suddenly hoarse along the telephone line, as if he was trying to come to terms with a crucial mistake. “Fish was pointing the finger at her, not Fitzpain. We’d got it wrong.”

  “A simple mistake,” I said. “But she didn’t kill Jimmy Fish. Maggie Fitzpain did.”

  Will went silent for a few seconds. Then he said, “But the Mulveny girl confessed in court. That’s why she’s banged up in gaol.”

  I took a few minutes to explain what really happened.

  Will listened patiently before he said, “She took it all on herself? What a hell of a thing to do. But we still had to find her. And quickly. We knew then that Fitzpain would show her no quarter if he got to her first.”

  ***

  21st July 1972

  1740 BST

  They saw their target driving along the Downpatrick Road.

  “There it is!” McIlroy raced the black Cortina past the white van without slowing. “Watch as we go past, Will. Tell me if you see anyone inside the van.”

  “Just one person,” Will said. “And it’s Fitzpain. He’s smoking and staring straight ahead. Hasn’t spotted us. Probably thinks he’s got away scot free.”

  “He’ll soon discover the truth.”

  A mile farther on, McIlroy spotted a police car on a patch of muddy ground by a field gate. He pulled in the Cortina behind it and wound down his side window. A uniformed policeman darted out from behind a hedge.

  “What are you waiting here for?” McIlroy asked. “Fitzpain’s van is a short way behind us. It’s heading this way.”

  “We know, sir. We got the message ten minutes ago.” The policeman spoke quickly, his gaze darting between McIlroy and the road. “One of his accomplices has been seen in this area recently. McKenna, we think. We reckon they may be meeting up with others.”

  “You’re going to stop Fitzpain?”

  “Not immediately, sir. We’re waiting to see if he makes contact with the rest of their gang. If he does, we’ll be able to pick up several of the bombers.”

  “Fair enough, but save Fitzpain for me. I want words with him, and this time I might just get a little bit more determined than last time.”

  ***

  February 1981

  That was as much as Will Evans was willing to tell me. He said he had to go out to work, but I suspect Milly was in the background, urging him to cut short the call. I wasn’t too concerned. He had told me as much as I expected to get from him.

  “No more calls and no more interviews,” he said before he rang off. “You promised.”

  “I can get the rest of the story from Sorcha or Martin Foster. You’ll hear no more from me until the book is ready for publication,” I told him. “You have my word.”

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  February 1981

  Susan and I said little as we drove to Martin’s house. I had a general idea how the end of that day panned out for Sorcha. I had been there at the trial and I had read all the newspaper reports, but I was anxious to get Martin’s angle on it. There was, I knew, a lot of detail missing from the pages of the national and local press.

  Martin was at home, waiting for us. He ushered us into the parlour room and shut the door behind him. His wife, Emily, was cut off from whatever he had to tell us. Maybe that was a bad sign; maybe he should have involved her more deeply in the story. For the moment, however, I was simply anxious to hear how the end game played out.

  I introduced Susan and explained how she was helping me to put together a cohesive story of what happened on Bloody Friday. “Susan is a counsellor. She has a real insight into the way people behave and that’s helping me as I write about the events of Bloody Friday. Especially when I talk to Sorcha.”

  “You’ve seen Sorcha again?” he said.

  “Yes. We both went to see her this morning. She asked me to tell you she’s sorry it worked out badly for you. She loved you, Martin. She still does.”

  He gestured us to sit down on a small two-seat sofa while he sat in a seat facing us. His voice was hesitant as he spoke. “I wanted her to come away with me to England. Away from... from all that’s bad about Belfast.”

  “Walking away might not have solved anything, Martin.” Susan leaned towards him. “Sorcha’s problems needed more than that. I’ve done a lot of counselling with people affected by the Troubles and I’ve seen too many who thought they could escape it by simply walking away. It doesn’t always work.”

  Martin gritted his teeth, His moustache quivered. “You mean… you can take the girl out of Belfast…”

  “… but you can’t take Belfast out of the girl. Something like that.” Susan nodded, knowingly. “Sorcha was a victim of the extreme cruelty of her environment. Maybe… if she’d come from a real family with two parents who cared about her… maybe if she’d grown up in a place where people didn’t hate each other so much… maybe then it would have worked out well for the two of you. But Sorcha had no loving, caring family to help her and guide her, and she grew up in an atmosphere of bigotry and hatred. She had a baby taken from her in one of those appallingly cruel Magdalene Laundries. She was guided by people who were themselves a product of Ulster’s bigotry and hatred.”

  Martin clasped his hands together and asked, “What happens when they leave Northern Ireland? The ones who just walk away.”

  “The lucky ones survive and move on.”

  “And the others?”

  “Many of them are lost in a world they don’t know or understand because it’s so much at odds with the way they grew up. Many of them give up and come back here to Belfast because they feel more comfortable in the world they know… cruel and heartless though it is.”

  “We could have made it work,” he said assertively.

  “But th
e odds would have been against you.” Susan sat back in the seat and glanced at me, seemingly looking for support. “She confessed to two murders, but we now know that one of those confessions was false. She did not kill Seamus Codd. We’re still not sure about the other murder.”

  “You’ve told the police she didn’t do that one?” Martin asked.

  “Not yet,” I said, “but I will when I have the full story.”

  Martin clasped his hands in front of him, almost like a penitent. “I still feel sorry for her. But what can I do?”

  “Nothing, Martin. You now have a good wife and a nice family. You have a future. Sorcha has nothing. She said something rather sad when we last saw her. She said to tell you it’s best this way.”

  “I wish I could believe that,” he said.

  “Think about it, Martin. But first, tell us what happened when Fitzpain finally caught up with you.”

  ***

  21st July 1972

  1745 BST

  They eventually managed to get a lift out of the city. The driver wasn’t going far and he dropped them off in a lay-by on the Downpatrick Road.

  But their troubles were not yet over.

  “Look, Martin! It’s McKenna!” Sorcha grabbed his elbow and pointed to a car farther along the lay-by. The driver leaned against the side of the vehicle. “He’s waiting for something… or someone. Do you think he’s seen us?”

  “I don’t know.” Martin scanned around the area. He pointed across the road. “There’s a pub, over there. If he has seen us, he won’t dare confront us in front of other people. Let’s get over there quickly.”

  The smell of burning and the silence were overwhelming, even this far out of Belfast. Martin wished they could be farther away, but at least they were clear of the immediate danger within the city. And McKenna did not come chasing after them.

  The pub was one of the few still open. The smell was the worst part of it, lingering in the air even inside the bar. He and Sorcha sat at a window seat, staring out to where thick clouds of smoke lay malignantly over the city. They gulped at their beers and they said nothing. What was there left to say? A dozen others sat at adjacent tales, but no one spoke. They too stared out the windows at the smoke clouds hovering over Belfast. Grey faces and pale faces watched the city’s agony. When had they ever experienced anything like this?

  “One day…” Martin began.

  “Yes?”

  “One day there will be peace in Ireland, but today has set it back by fifty years at least.”

  Sorcha sniffed and said nothing. What could she say?

  “I met Mickey Murphy earlier today,” Martin went on. It had to come out sooner or later. Better get it out in the open now.

  A look of alarm spread rapidly across her face. “How come?”

  “I saw a girl wearing your clothes killed in a riot. Why was she wearing your clothes?”

  She told him.

  He thought about it and then he said, “She died because she was in your clothes.”

  “I never intended that.”

  “Of course you didn’t. But it happened. The Loyalists were after you, not her.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “I went to Oldpark police station to ask if anyone knew what happened to you. That’s where I met your friend, Mickey. He’s a peeler based at Oldfield Park.”

  “And what did he tell you?” A worried expression passed across her face.

  “He told me all about you. Him and you. He told me what happened. How you got pregnant and you were sent away to a Magdalene Laundry. He told me that your baby may have died.”

  “Died, or was sold. Do youse hate me because of that?”

  “No. I don’t!” He shook his head fiercely. “I love you.”

  “Youse’ll forgive me?”

  “No need to forgive anything. You’ve suffered enough.” It was, Martin thought, all he could say for the moment. Maybe, in days, weeks or years to come, they would talk more about it. They would have to. But not now. Now was a time for facing up to the atrocities of today, not the suffering of yesterday.

  He switched his attention back into the room when the barman turned on a television. It was a wall-mounted set in one corner of the room, and they were just in time for the six o’clock news. The sound was turned off but that didn’t matter. The black-and-white images were too graphic to need explanation. He focussed on film of mutilated bodies being shovelled into plastic bags at the Oxford Street bus station. Images of buildings blown apart. Images of shoppers looking distraught beyond understanding. And he felt shame. Shame that people from his own city could do such things. Shame that Northern Ireland had become famous for such horrors. Shame because these pictures would, right now, be beaming around the world and people in civilised lands would be looking at them and shaking their heads in disbelief at the barbarity of it.

  Someone shouted, “For God’s sake switch it off! Haven’t we had enough of it today?”

  No one objected when the barman complied.

  The silence returned.

  When they had finished their first drinks, Martin went to the bar and ordered more. The barman served him mutely, hardly daring to look up. His hands were shaking as he pulled at the beer pump.

  Martin broke the silence when he sat down again, as close alongside Sorcha as the seats would allow. “What are we going to do now?” he asked. He wasn’t too sure what sort of answer he was expecting, but he knew they had to talk about their immediate plans. The time for avoiding that was past.

  She shook her head and wiped a stray wisp of hair from her face. “I don’t know. I don’t know… what to do… what to say.” Tears trickled down her cheeks. She wiped at them angrily.

  “This bombing campaign is the work of your murderous IRA friends. You realise that?” He deliberately injected a tone of accusation into his voice. This wasn’t about an unwanted pregnancy, a lost baby, this was about murder. He knew he should not be accusing her, but he had to let out his anger towards someone. She was just unlucky to be in the firing line.

  “Who said they’re friends of mine?” she snapped back.

  He tried to sound logical in his reply. “You did, in as many words. Anyway, why should the police be after you unless you’re mixed up with the Provos?”

  “You think they’re after me?”

  “I know they are.”

  She came back at him more firmly than he expected, as if she resented the accusation. Maybe she was right. “Because they think I’m mixed up with the IRA? Is that it? Youse just don’t understand. We’re all mixed up with them on our side of the line. ’Tis they who rule us, not the British state. When they give us orders, we do as we’re told. There’s no other option.”

  “You could have walked away.” It was the only response he could bring to mind, but he knew it was a weak argument. Sorcha was right. No one argued when faced with an Armalite or a blood-soaked Black and Decker drill.

  “Walk away? Bullshit, Martin! Youse don’t know what it’s like living in a Nationalist area. All that hatred and violence. Youse don’t just walk away from it. They won’t let youse walk away. I wanted to put an end to it even before I met youse. And I would have too.”

  “Put an end to it?” he queried. What the hell did she mean?

  She stared down into her beer. “Do youse remember the day we first met?”

  He nodded. Of course he did. Never forgot it, never would. “You fell as you were leaving the shop.”

  “I was going to kill myself.” She lowered her voice. “I’d got enough pills to do it. And I would have done it.”

  He jerked back in his seat. “Kill yourself? You mean… suicide?”

  She nodded and her hair fell forward across her eyes. “I’d bought some new clothes so that I’d look smart when they found me. Can youse believe that? I wanted to look good at the end. Wanted them to see me looking better dead than I ever looked alive. I wanted to die looking clean and decent. I must have been out of my mind.” She glanced up quickly an
d then slowly lowered her head again.

  He shook his head in disbelief. “Why? Why kill yourself.”

  “Because it would be so easy. You don’t have to explain anything to anybody when you’re dead. You just do it and that’s the end of it all. It’s gone. It’s done.”

  “The end of what?”

  “I told youse.” She looked up again and this time she stared into his eyes. They glistened with incipient tears. “It was because of all the hatred and the violence and the killing. Day after day, week after week. And it was because of me. I was leading a shitty life and I had no future to speak of and I couldn’t get out of it. No way. I’d had more than I could stand and I just wanted to end it all. The easy way. In years to come we’re gonna have a whole generation living on Valium and I don’t wanna be a part of it.”

  “Easy? You said the easy way?” he queried.”

  “Youse’d need to live my life to understand.”

  “But you didn’t go through with it.”

  “No. That was because of youse, Martin.” She stabbed a forefinger at him. “I fell in love with youse and that made all the difference. I put away the pills because I loved youse and wanted to be with youse.”

  He went silent for a few seconds, struggling to understand. He visualised the good times they’d had together, in bed and out of it. Then he focussed on the feelings he had towards her, feelings he still had despite everything. It was love, of course it was; the purest sort of love. Not just sex. It was far more than that. How could he possibly deny it?

  He mellowed his voice when he asked, “What about your Republican friends? You didn’t part company with them, did you?”

  She shook her head. “I tried, but they wouldn’t let go of me. I tried ignoring them, tried telling them to leave me alone. But they wouldn’t. They said I had to do as I was told or I would end up like all the others who turned against the cause. Dead.”

  “They threatened to kill you?”