The Girl From the Killing Streets

by David Hough

  She nodded silently.

  “That man, the one called Fitzpain?”

  “No, not him. He might hate me, but I don’t think he could ever bring himself to kill me. Not him. He couldn’t… just couldn’t.”

  “But others would.”

  “Except that Brian will stop them once he knows what I’ve done.” She drew a deep breath. “I have to speak to him again. I have to be certain we can get away without being followed. I’m sure I can convince him.”

  “How?”

  “I have it all in hand, Martin. Trust me.”

  “There’s no way you can stay here. Not now. You realise that, don’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  “You’ll go with me?”

  “Do you still want me?”

  “Of course I still want you. I love you. I want to marry you, dammit!” There, he had said it. He had not planned on saying it, not here, but the words had come out, so there could be no going back now.

  She put a hand to her mouth. Her eyes were dilated. Was that shock? “Marry youse? But youse don’t know what I’m like. What I’m really like.” There was something in her voice that hinted at reasons why she could never marry him, but whatever it was remained unspoken.

  “I’m finding out, Sorcha. Now that I’ve spoken to Mickey Murphy, I’ve discovered a lot that I didn’t understand. Give me time to find out the rest of it.” He clasped an arm about her shoulders. “I know what you’re like when I’m with you. As for what’s in your past, that will only matter if we stay here. Let’s get out of Belfast, Sorcha Let’s… let’s… let’s get the hell out of here.”

  A small grin crept across her face, causing a tremble in her lips. She leaned forward and kissed him. “I’ll try to be worthy of youse.”

  “How?”

  “In future I’ll try to say ‘you’ instead of ‘youse’. Would that do as a starter?”

  “For the time being.” He laughed and rose to his feet. “Look, we can’t stay here all night. We could get a bus or taxi, if they any of them are still running. Get out of town and find a hotel for the night; somewhere well away from all this.”

  “And tomorrow?”

  “We’ll fly over to England.” He paused to think. “I’ll have to say goodbye to Aunt Judy, but I don’t think she’ll mind. She might even be glad to see the back of me.”

  “It doesn’t matter.” She squeezed his hand. “I’ve done somethin’ to help us get away. We’ll have a new life, and it’s going to be better than this, Martin. Better than this.”

  “What have you done, Sorcha?” He frowned.

  “’Tis not so much what I’ve done, but what I’ve said I’ve done. I’ll tell youse all about it some other time. Be patient. I’ll tell youse soon enough.”

  He shrugged and clasped her hand tightly as they walked towards the door. After such a frightening day of disaster, a feeling of relief began to invade his mind. His mind was made up. He was leaving and Sorcha was willing to go with him. She hadn’t actually said she would marry him, but he took it as a foregone conclusion. The darkness of the past twelve hours was lifting.

  Then everything changed.

  He saw the gunman the moment he stepped outside the pub. It was Fitzpain and he was carrying a pistol! What the hell was he up to? The Provo man stood at the opposite side of the car park, leaning against a white van. He jerked upright when he saw Martin and Sorcha appear.

  “Get back inside!” Martin grabbed Sorcha’s arm and drew her backwards so hard she stumbled and fell. She struggled to regain her feet.

  Fitzpain had his arm raised now, aiming along the barrel of his pistol.

  “Inside!” Martin roared, but it was too late.

  Martin felt a tremor run through him. “It’s him! Fitzpain! The mad psychopath. The one who nearly killed me at Mafeking Street.”

  Sorcha turned and put her hands against his chest. “’Tis all right, Martin. He won’t hurt me. He couldn’t ever hurt me.”

  “But he’s got a gun, Sorcha. Get inside now. Quickly.”

  A determined look rippled across her face. “Leave this to me. I know how to handle him.”

  “What does he want from us?”

  “Never mind. You go back inside, but just leave Brian to me.”

  She turned and began to walk towards the gunman.

  “Oh God, Sorcha, no!” Martin’s heart thumped heavily inside his chest as he went after her, following a few steps behind. How could he do anything but follow her? The girl he loved was putting herself in danger.

  “Put your gun away, Brian,” she called out as she came close to Fitzpain. There’s only us here. No peelers.”

  “That’s the Prod youse been sleepin’ with!” Fitzpain gestured towards Martin. “Don’t deny it, Sorcha. Ye’re a turncoat. Grassed on me with a Prod, so youse did! Grassed on me! I saw youse with them peelers. Saw one o’ them point the finger at me. I saw it! And youse was there. Youse grassed on me.”

  “No, Brian. I’d never do that. It was Jimmy Fish who grassed on you, not me. It was me who did for him. Didn’t Maggie tell youse? She was there. We both went to find him and I killed him.”

  “Maggie, youse say? I ain’t seen Maggie since this mornin’.”

  “’Tis true. I did it for youse, Brian. For youse!”

  “Why?”

  “’Cos I know who youse are. I know what youse meant to me mammy.”

  “Yer mammy?” A frown filled his face. “What d’youse mean?”

  Martin watched in fear as she continued forward at a slow pace, her arms by her side. “I was born more than a year after Pat Mulveny walked out on mammy. He wasn’t me daddy. Couldn’t have been.” She was close up to him now and slowed to a halt. “It was youse, wasn’t it? You’re me daddy, ain’t youse? That’s why youse’d never kill me.”

  Fitzpain gave her a look that was a mixture of contempt and anger. “Stupid bitch! What’re youse talkin’ about? Course I ain’t yer daddy.”

  She took a step backwards. “But I thought…”

  “I was in gaol when yer mammy got pregnant with youse. Banged up in Crumlin Road Gaol, so I was, from fifty-one to fifty-three.”

  She gasped. “Youse were... Jeezuz!” She turned away from him then, her mouth agape as she faced Martin. “I thought… I honestly thought…”

  “Youse want to know the truth, girl?” Fitzpain waved his pistol. “While I was banged up in gaol, yer mammy took in a lodger to pay the rent, and he spent his nights in her bed. Made her pregnant, so he did. Know who that was, girl? Do youse? ’Twas Jimmy Fish. He was yer real daddy!”

  She turned to face him again. “No.” The single word slipped from her lips in a soft hush of breath, almost like a prayer. “Not…”

  “Yes, him! He never knew the truth of it, the poor sod. He thought I was yer daddy. But it was him fer sure, yer mammy told me so. And, youse know what? He was an informer, right enough, but he grassed on youse when youse were at the hotel, not me!”

  “No! The peelers came fer youse.”

  “The peelers got it all wrong. But it was Jimmy Fish who sent them there. We saw him outside the hotel, didn’t we? We all thought he sent the peelers to pick up me. But he didn’t. He sent them there to pick up his illegitimate daughter. The dirty little rat.” He let out a long, exasperate sigh. “Ironic wasn’t it? He squealed on his own child, even if he didn’t know it, and youse’re tellin’ me youse killed him! Stupid bitch!”

  “Why would Jimmy Fish grass on me?” she said. Her voice trembled with emotion.

  “Because he needed the money. Up to his ears in gambling debts, he was. And the peelers paid him to grass on anyone worth the money. He phoned them and told them where to find youse at the hotel, but he didn’t know I was on me way there.”

  “He really was me daddy?”

  “True enough.”

  “I didn’t know...”

  “Neither did he. He was a thief, caught by the peelers and banged up in gaol before yer mammy discovered she was pregna
nt by him.”

  “I thought...” she mumbled. “I thought he squealed on youse. And I thought youse would want me to kill him because of it. Thought youse would let me go away from Belfast if I did that. Thought you’d let me go and never come after me.”

  Fitzpain gave her a sour look. “I’m not yer daddy, Sorcha. No way. But I’ll tell youse the truth, girl. I was Bridie’s real daddy. That was why Pat Mulveny walked out on yer mammy. Because I shagged her and made her pregnant.”

  “Bridie!” A look of anger erupted across her face. “You... you bastard, Brian Fitzpain!”

  “Aye, t’was me. And them UVF guys killed Bridie, so they did. Killed my child. The dirty bastards. Filthy Prods, just like the bastard youse been sleepin’ with. Youse’re as bad as them, Sorcha. Youse deserve all that’s comin’ to youse.”

  Martin stared into the IRA man’s face. Despite the danger he felt no fear of him. His only concern now was for Sorcha. She stood stock still in front of him, saying nothing, as if further words were trapped inside her, unable to break free.

  On a sudden impulse, Martin grabbed at her shoulders. This had gone far enough. He had to stop it now. “Come back inside, Sorcha. Please, come inside now.”

  But she made no effort to move, rooted to the tarmac as the implications sank deeper into her brain. Then she turned to him and muttered, “Oh, Martin. I’m sorry. I thought it would help us if Brian thought…I thought it would help us get away without his men comin’ after us. I thought…”

  A single gunshot cut off her words. She clutched at her right elbow as she slumped forward in his arms. Blood oozed from around the wound. Behind her, Fitzpain was scowling, his pistol still pointed at her. “She’d be better off dead,” he said, aiming his weapon for a second shot.

  “No, Sorcha! No!” Martin clasped her tight to him.

  He was only vaguely aware of a black saloon racing into the car park, screeching to a halt just a few yards from the gunman. It swerved through ninety degrees so that the passenger side was closest to Fitzpain. Martin gasped in astonishment. It was them! The two peelers who’d saved him this very afternoon: Evans and McIlroy. He recognised the car before he recognised the occupants.

  The younger policeman, Evans, leapt from the vehicle with his pistol firmly held and supported in his outstretched hands. He dropped onto one knee and aimed at the killer. He was in a perfect position to shoot.

  Fitzpain glared at him.

  Evans shouted, “Put the gun down!”

  Martin spotted the other peeler, McIlroy, exiting the car on the opposite side. He took cover on his side of the vehicle. Evans was still in the better position to shoot.

  “Fuck off, peelers!” Fitzpain roared. Then he lunged forward and grabbed at Sorcha.

  Martin tried to hold on to her but Fitzpain was the stronger man. He ripped her from Martin’s grasp and swung the girl round to shield him from the two policemen.

  And then something happened to the younger policeman, something unexpected. He jabbed a hand to his head and lowered his gun. He seemed to be in a daze. Or was he blacking out? It was difficult to tell.

  McIlroy shouted at him. “Shoot, man! Shoot!”

  But Evans was in trouble. He still had the perfect line, but he was seemingly unable to aim his pistol. Something was seriously wrong with him. His gun dropped from his hand and he collapsed to the ground.

  Martin turned his attention to Fitzpain. Why hadn’t the IRA man fired at Evans? Why had he wasted a few precious seconds? Then he understood. The man was afraid because Evans was now unarmed. Fitzpain was used to shooting at armed policemen from within the cover of a mob. He was so used to having others surround him and protect him. But it wasn’t so easy when you killed an unarmed peeler in the sight of so many witnesses. Too many witnesses.

  But the other peeler was still armed. He stood up to get a better aim and moved out of cover.

  Still using Sorcha as a shield, the IRA man swung his gun towards the police car. Then he fired. Twice. The first shot went wild. The second caused McIlroy to cry out in pain. Martin saw the older policeman crumple to the ground, clutching his groin.

  In that same moment, he heard McIlroy shout, “Take him, Will! Take him!”

  Evans seemed to be recovering, he was staggering to his feet, reaching out for his fallen pistol.

  Again, McIlroy shouted. “Do it, man! You have the best line of shot. Take him now!”

  Fitzpain fired a third time and, in that moment, Sorcha dragged herself free.

  But Evans was hit. He was stumbling when he finally pulled his trigger.

  Just the one shot.

  And that was when Fitzpain cried out and fell.

  He would have been dead before he hit the ground.

  ***

  February 1981

  I left Martin’s house confident I now had most of the story. Not just the facts of the bombings, but the effect it had on three people who were out there on the streets at the time: Sorcha, Will and Martin. It was almost enough for me to complete my manuscript. Almost enough. All I needed now was to find out more about the killing of the Police Constable Dunlop. What exactly happened that night? Despite the way my story was coming together, I felt no sense of satisfaction as I walked away from the house. How can there ever be satisfaction in other people’s suffering?

  There was a call waiting for us on Susan’s answerphone when we got back to her flat. It was the prison’s deputy governor asking us to come and see her. She wouldn’t tell us why, only that it concerned Sorcha Mulveny. Susan and I drove to the prison straight away. On arrival we were shown into an office on the first floor.

  The deputy governor was a smartly-dressed woman with a commanding presence. A middle-aged clergyman, grey-haired and wearing a grey suit, stood beside her. She indicated seats for us before she and the clergyman sat down.

  “This is the Reverend Mayfair, the prison chaplain. I’ve asked him to be here because we have some bad news for you.” She spoke in a solemn voice, the sort of voice the chaplain might have used at a funeral. Instinctively, I braced myself for what was to come next. “Miss Mulveny died earlier today. She committed suicide in her cell.”

  In the pregnant silence that followed, Susan grabbed at my hand. It took a moment or two before I was able to ask, “How?”

  “She hanged herself.”

  “Oh God.”

  The woman looked at me with the expression of someone who had been through this act before. Any semblance of sympathy was clearly an act. She picked up a notepad from her desk and studied it for a few seconds. “I see that you had a number of interviews with Miss Mulveny. I need to ask you if she gave any indication that she had such a thing in mind.”

  “No. No indication at all.”

  “Never?”

  “Never.” That was not true, of course, because Sorcha had told me how she considered suicide years ago, before she met Martin. I didn’t intend the lie, it was just an automatic reaction to the news, an attempt to protect Sorcha’s memory.

  “Is there anything she did say that stands out in your mind?”

  “What sort of thing?”

  “Anything that may throw some light on her state of mind.”

  “No. Nothing.” Then I remembered then Sorcha’s final words to us. ’Tis best this way. But, once again, I held back with the truth. I wasn’t going to get mired in words that might be turned against Sorcha’s memory. She didn’t deserve that. She was, after all, the ultimate victim.

  “She talked about a brutal killing before she died,” The deputy governor said. “She asked to see the prison chaplain and she told him about her part in it. In view of your involvement with Miss Mulveny, I think you may want to hear this.”

  Without waiting for any comment from either Susan or myself, the Reverend Mayfair leaned forward. “She confessed to the murder at the trial, but she never revealed what actually happened... until now. She was in tears by the time she had finished telling me.”

  “Are you allowed to tell
us about it?” I asked, aware that my voice was shallow and hoarse.

  He smiled grimly. “Yes. This was not a Catholic confession. And I am not a priest, just a Presbyterian minister. More to the point, she actually asked me to tell you what happened to that young policeman, Constable Dunlop. She wanted you to know, but she didn’t want to tell you herself.”

  ***

  Thursday 20th July 1972

  2345 BST

  She had been with Fitzpain on a street corner in the Ardoyne. He had a fistful of the bomb target lists, sealed inside envelopes. It was information to be shared with other Provo thugs, the ones who would give the hoax warnings. Beneath a streetlamp, one of the few lamps still working, he handed one envelope to Sorcha with a demand that she call the police with false information once the campaign started. He gave her the telephone code word, Phoenix, telling her she had to make sure the peelers never knew which way to turn.

  And then the lone peeler came walking along the street.

  Fitzpain was first to spot him. “D’youse see that bastard across the street, Sorcha, the one watchin’ us?”

  Sorcha glanced around. Sure enough, there was a solitary man standing just one hundred yards away, staring at them.

  “D’youse know who he is?” she asked.

  Fitzpain nodded. “A traitor called Dunlop. A Catholic who joined the RUC pigs. We’ve got his picture in the Provo files. We’ll get him one of these days, the bastard.”

  “Not now.”

  “No. He’ll be armed.”

  “Why’s he starin’ at us?”

  “Because he’s recognised me, that’s fer sure. I’ll bet he’s wonderin’ what we’re doin’ here.”

  “Let’s walk away,” she suggested.

  “Just walk easy, Sorcha. The chances are he doesn’t know youse, so don’t make any sudden moves.”

  They were fifty yards farther along the street when Sorcha turned to look back. The peeler was beneath the same streetlamp, bent over and picking up something.

  “He’s found something, Brian,” she said. “It’s an envelope. Shite! Youse must have dropped one of them. If he reads that we’re done for.”