by Dan Mahoney
On his way out McKenna obtained a Belfast city map from the receptionist and was surprised to find himself wondering if she was Catholic or Protestant as he left to rejoin Ryer in the car outside.
Ryer was listening to the news on the radio. Thor’s Saga Hotel interview from the day before was being aired and Ryer was listening so intently that he didn’t seem to notice McKenna. Then the announcer said something that caused McKenna to listen just as intently; Martin McGuinn, an IRA spokesman, denied that the IRA was responsible for the bombing.
Could that be? McKenna wondered briefly before he dismissed the statement as a crafty piece of nonsense. No, it can’t, he concluded, but we put them into a corner by linking their bomber to the murder of Meaghan Maher. She wasn’t just “collateral damage,” another unintended innocent bystander caught in a crossfire or killed by one of their bombs. She was a very different kind of victim, an innocent girl who was sexually tortured and horribly murdered by their bomber for reasons that had nothing to do with the IRA’s cause. It’s a public relations disaster for them, so they’re trying to put some distance between the IRA and Iceland. They don’t know just how bad it is yet, but I’m sure gonna show them. It’s real bad, and that’s good for me. Mulrooney’s gonna pay.
The thought caused McKenna to smile. Then he noticed that Ryer was staring at him and looking confused. “Can that be? Can McGuinn be telling the truth?” he asked.
“No, it can’t. McGuinn is lying. Mulrooney’s IRA and always was,” McKenna answered.
“Then that’s a first,” Ryer said, shaking his head. “McGuinn has never lied before.”
“Everybody lies at least once in a while,” McKenna said, but Ryer still looked unconvinced. McKenna figured it was time to again change the subject. “How many times has this place been bombed?”
“Thirty-one times, last I heard.”
“They’re pretty good at repairing the damage,” McKenna observed.
“They’ve had plenty of practice,” Ryer said matter-of-factly as he pulled away from the curb.
Within minutes of leaving the hotel McKenna noticed signs of the conflict. On the outskirts of the downtown area they passed a formidable new city prison, surrounded by razor ribbon and occupying an entire city block. There was a guard tower every fifty yards, each manned by two alert constables standing behind bulletproof glass as they surveyed the traffic and the sidewalk outside.
Ryer didn’t have to tell McKenna when they entered the Ballymurphy neighborhood. The tricolor Irish flags flying everywhere and the graffiti announced that as soon as Ryer drove past a very old building, the Royal Victoria Hospital. Roughly spray-painted on many of the buildings were slogans: STOP THE RUC BEATINGS, UP THE IRA, and ENGLAND OUT OF IRELAND.
McKenna was used to seeing graffiti scrawled on the walls and buildings of urban American slums, but Ballymurphy wasn’t a slum. If the neighborhood could be lifted up and transported to New York, it would be considered solidly middle-class. The two-story row houses looked small from the outside, but many were new and most were in good repair. McKenna was just beginning to wonder what the Catholics were complaining about when Ryer braked suddenly. A convoy of the RUC’s armored Land Rovers was approaching them from the opposite direction.
“Why are you stopping?” McKenna asked.
“Safety precaution. They rarely stop and never signal for a turn. I hate when they test your brakes and reflexes by turning right in front of you.”
“I guess you’re not the only one,” McKenna observed. All traffic in front and behind them had stopped, but the convoy didn’t turn. As it passed them, McKenna counted four Land Rovers. As far as he could tell, the first two were manned by only a pair of uniformed constables, but the last two were troop carriers full of soldiers in full battle dress. There was a gun turret manned by two alert soldiers with automatic weapons at the ready on top of each on the military Land Rovers. To McKenna, the soldiers looked young, but distinctly unfriendly. “What happens if you don’t stop?” he asked.
“Usually, nothing,” Ryer answered as traffic resumed its flow. “However, if they turn in front of you and you wind up hitting one of their vehicles, then they presume you’re IRA setting them up for an ambush. We have some very unhealthy motoring conditions here in West Belfast.”
“I take it that the Catholic neighborhoods are all in West Belfast?”
“That’s right. The Protestants live in East Belfast on the other side of the Shankill Road.”
“How far is that?”
“About a quarter of a mile that way,” Ryer answered, pointing.
“Are things any different over there?”
“I hear they are, but I couldn’t say for sure. I was raised a few blocks from here, but believe it or not, I’ve never been there. Never even been on the Shankill Road.”
McKenna had read that the Catholics and Protestants in Northern Ireland rarely mixed except in the workplace. They lived in separate neighborhoods, went to separate schools, read different newspapers, usually shopped in separate stores, and even gave birth and died in different hospitals. But a quarter of a mile? “What do you think would happen if you took a stroll down Shankill Road?” he asked.
“Maybe nothing,” Ryer said. “But then again, maybe my tortured body would be discovered in a few days in some ditch outside of town. It’s happened before to Catholics, many times.”
“How would they know you’re Catholic?”
“You mean you can’t tell the difference between Catholics and Protestants here?” Ryer asked, giving McKenna an amused smile.
“No. Can you?”
“Of course. I’m from here, remember? Here in Belfast they make a science out of telling a person’s religion in seconds,” Ryer said. Then he made a left turn and drove a block in silence.
“You gonna tell me about it?” McKenna asked.
Ryer pulled the car to the curb and shut off the engine. “Sure, but it’s going to have to wait until later. We’re here.”
Ryer had stopped in front of a neat row house with an Irish flag flying from a flagpole on the small front lawn next to a neatly painted sign that read:
DISBAND THE RUC
93% PROTESTANT
100% UNIONIST
“Is that your aunt’s house?” McKenna asked.
“That’s it. Aunt Bridgette.”
“I take it that a unionist is someone who wants to keep Northern Ireland in the United Kingdom, isn’t it?”
“Yeah, but the titles are a little confusing. The overwhelming majority of the Protestants here are strong unionists, also referred to as loyalists. On the other hand, those who favor becoming part of the Irish Republic are called either republicans or nationalists.”
“And that would be the overwhelming majority of the Catholics here?”
“A good percentage of them, but certainly not an overwhelming majority. It’s complicated, but quite a few Catholics wouldn’t mind if the North remained part of the U.K. They’d just like to be treated better, that’s all.”
“I see. But I thought you said your folks weren’t involved in the politics here,” McKenna said, nodding his head towards Ryer’s aunt’s front lawn.
“My mom and dad aren’t, and I never was either. But Aunt Bridgette and Uncle Kevin are a different story.”
“Is Kevin your father’s brother?”
“Far from it. Kevin Hughes and my father never really got along, but they’re polite to each other these days. Bridgette is one of my mother’s younger sisters.”
“Is politics the reason your father and your uncle don’t get along?”
“One of them. My father never condoned murder by either side, but there are two Hughes boys doing time in the Maze Prison right now and Uncle Kevin’s always getting brought in for a few days on suspicion of this or that.”
“Two of their sons are in prison?”
“And probably will be for a long time, unless the IRA wins.”
“What are they in for?”
�
�They were suspected of ambushing a UDR man, but the RUC couldn’t prove it.”
“What’s the UDR?”
“Sorry. The Ulster Defence Regiment. It’s like your national guard, but much more. It’s really the Protestant army. They’re well armed and they’re always training, even on their own time. When the Brits pull out, they’re the ones the Irish Army will be up against if the country is ever reunited.”
“Maybe the Brits will disband them and disarm them before they go.”
“They wouldn’t think of it.”
“Why not?” McKenna asked. “Seems to me it would save a lot of bloodshed.”
“Because the UDR is part of the regular British army and the regiment has covered itself in glory in all of the Empire’s wars. They lost five thousand men in one day going over the top in the Battle of the Somme, July first, 1916. It’s still a national day of mourning here.”
“So I take it the IRA regularly targets the UDR men?”
“Whenever they can.”
“If the RUC couldn’t prove your cousins ambushed the guy, what did they get them on?”
“An Armalite was found in the boot of their car, so they got ten years apiece for weapons possession.”
“Isn’t the Armalite the preferred IRA rifle?”
“So I hear.”
“Then I take it that your aunt and uncle are IRA sympathizers, at the very least?”
“I might go a wee bit further than that. Matter of fact, people say that Uncle Kevin and Martin McGuinn have been good friends for years.”
“Besides being the IRA spokesman, just who is this Martin McGuinn?”
“He’s Gerry Adams’s right-hand man.”
McKenna knew the name. Adams was the head of the Official Sinn Fein party, the IRA’s political arm in the North. In an effort to present himself to the British and the Irish governments as a political leader rather than a terrorist, he consistently denied with a wink ever having been a member of the IRA or having taken part in any of their terrorist operations, but everyone knew that was hogwash. But neither government minded the deception; they had to deal with someone to end the madness, and Adams was the one, the only IRA voice shouting reason from the darkness. In his efforts to bring peace he would talk to anyone who would listen and had met at one time or another with President Clinton and the prime ministers of both the U.K. and the Republic.
This Uncle Kevin business and his IRA connection is getting a little complicated, McKenna thought. But is it good or bad for me? Maybe good for me and bad for Mulrooney, he concluded.
McKenna thought that Bridgette was a good-looking woman somewhere in her midforties, but her mourning clothes did nothing to enhance her appearance. She answered the door wearing an old-fashioned black dress with her graying red hair pulled back into a severe bun and her face devoid of makeup. She was wearing an apron around her waist, but even that was black.
McKenna guessed from Bridgette’s outfit that she had seen more than her share of wakes and funerals. He could also see that she had been crying hard sometime in the last few hours, but she still knew how to smile. Her face lit up when she saw Ryer on her doorstep. Without saying a word, she grabbed him and hugged him hard, patting his back as if he were a child being burped.
Ryer returned her embrace and stroked her hair as he held her. Bridgette’s eyes filled once again with tears, but this time they were tears of joy.
Then it was McKenna’s turn, but he didn’t get the same treatment. Ryer made the introductions, but Bridgette stopped him short. “I’ve already heard all about Detective McKenna from your mam,” she said, then formally extended her hand. “Thank you for finding Meaghan and bringing her home, Detective McKenna. Our whole family is forever in your debt, so we are.”
Bridgette’s Belfast speech pattern caught McKenna off guard for a moment and he didn’t know what to say to her expression of gratitude, so he just shook her hand and said simply, “Pleased to meet you.”
“Where are my mam and da?” Ryer asked her.
“At the funeral home. They wanted some wee time alone with Meaghan before the crowd shows up.”
“And Uncle Kevin?”
“He drove them there and he’ll wait for them. Your mam said she’d be back soon and that I’m to take good care of you, so I am.” Bridgette grabbed their hands like children and led them through the entrance hall, past the kitchen where something that smelled delicious was being prepared, and into a room that served as a combination living and dining space. It wasn’t a large room, but McKenna guessed that the place would soon seem much smaller. Meaghan was to have a traditional Irish wake; bottles of whiskey and glasses lined the credenza and fifteen folding chairs from the funeral home were stacked against one wall.
Bridgette told Ryer to bring his suitcases to his cousins’ old bedroom upstairs, then she went into the kitchen to make them tea. McKenna found himself alone for a few minutes and took a look around. He immediately recognized the type of handicraft and ceramic pieces that were proudly displayed on the walls and the end tables and knew where they came from. The ashtrays, the crucifix centered on the wall over the TV, the picture frames, and the small wood sculptures of old men, children, horses, and dogs all had that same look. During his police career he had frequently been in such sad homes where objets d’art made by husbands or sons in a prison handicraft shop had been the principal decorations. From the excellent quality of the pieces, McKenna concluded that the boys had been away honing their artistic skills for a few years.
On one of the end tables in a wooden frame inscribed with hearts and harps was a formal family portrait. It showed a younger, smiling Bridgette standing next to a large man who looked uncomfortable in his suit. Each had a hand on the shoulder of one of their young boys standing in front of them.
McKenna picked up the photo and studied the faces. Kevin looked like a tough guy, a solemn, confident man who was used to being in charge. However, there was nothing in the boys’ appearance that suggested to McKenna that they were headed for violence and would be spending a good part of their lives in prison. They appeared to be about eight and ten, but they just looked like ordinary boys, maybe a little unhappy at being dressed up and forced to stand still, but innocent enough and without a hint of mischief on their faces.
Ryer returned quietly, surprising McKenna. He was dressed for the first time as McKenna expected a priest to look, wearing a black suit and shirt and a white Roman collar. McKenna self-consciously replaced the photo on the end table, but Ryer picked it up again and stared at it. “You’re asking yourself, ‘How did it happen? How did those boys grow up to do the things they did?’ Right?”
“I guess I am,” McKenna admitted.
“Happens all the time here. It all starts with history and it begins in the schools. You see, the Catholic children here all go to parochial schools and they’re taught one version of history. The Protestant kids go to the state-run schools and they get the other version. History breeds hatred, and hatred is the dominant emotion in Ulster.”
“Which side is being taught the lies?”
“Neither. Everything they’re all taught is true and based on actual, sad, historical events. It’s a question of emphasis, deciding which series of vicious massacres is to be taught, highlighted, and memorized for all time. The Catholic children are taught about the slaughters under Cromwell and the plantation of Ulster in 1609 by the British and the Scots. That’s when the ancestors of most of our Protestants today arrived and quite forcibly ejected the Catholics from their land.”
“Sixteen-oh-nine? That was long ago, just about the time those same folks colonized America,” McKenna observed.
“Yes, and they did it in much the same way in your country. What it amounts to, basically, is that they threw the Indians off their land. Sometimes by trickery, more often by force, but the results were pretty much the same. The difference is that in America, nobody’s seriously suggesting that the Indians be given their land back.”
“And th
e Protestants? What are their kids taught?”
“All about 1641, the year of one of the Catholic uprisings that was centered in the North. They’re told how the Catholics butchered every Protestant they could get their hands on—men, women, and children. Slaughtered about ten thousand and gave our Protestants the siege mentality that they’re still holding on to.”
“So what’s the solution that’ll end the fighting? Eliminate history as a subject in school?” McKenna asked with a touch of sarcasm.
“Unfortunately, there is no solution that will do that right now. Neither side is ready or willing to tone down the hatred and compromise with the other, so the killing is going to go on and on for some time,” Ryer said with sad conviction.
Ryer’s statement raised many questions in McKenna’s mind, but Bridgette brought the tea service in before he could ask them. Ryer put a smile on his face and sat down on the sofa. McKenna figured that politics should be avoided in Bridgette’s presence, so he did the same. The three drank their tea and talked about Ryer’s work in New York until Kevin arrived with Peg and Thomas Maher. Like Bridgette, the three were dressed in the traditional mourning black. The Mahers had both been crying and looked beat, but they brightened when they saw McKenna and Ryer. They greeted McKenna just as warmly as they did their son.
On the other hand, Kevin was the picture of reserve. He was a big man who carried himself erect and without a trace of humor. He greeted McKenna correctly, but certainly not warmly, saying only, “I’ve heard a wee bit about you, McKenna, so I have,” as they shook hands.
Then Bridgette announced that it was time for dinner and everyone took seats at the dining room table. Peg insisted that McKenna sit between her and Thomas. Kevin was seated across the table from him, saying nothing as he stared openly at him. McKenna was hungry, but felt uncomfortable.