He was half way there when a bullet struck him in the back and then another. He fell forward, his gun flying from his grasp.
For a moment he tried to crawl onwards. His eyes seemed to be growing puzzlingly dim.
“Phil,” he heard a voice muttering. Was it his?
“Phil.”
As he crawled on, he could see her clearly just ahead of him, laughing at some silly joke he had made, throwing her head back and pushing back her dark hair with one hand.
“Phil,” he muttered again. “Oh, kiddo. Oh, Phil.”
Then the picture began to blur and a silver lake crept up and over his eyes, blotting out everything else in a liquid pool, drowning his thoughts.
And then there was only darkness.
And a bright light.
Chapter Seventy-Four
Phil heard on the six o’clock news that a man had been killed in the course of an inter-gang gun fight.
The identity of the man in question would be announced on the following day when his family had been informed.
To Phil, expecting her baby in the next few weeks, the blow when it came was cushioned by its unreality.
Only later, when she held her little boy in her arms and traced his father’s features in his face, did she find herself weeping helplessly.
Mary heard the news in the communal living room where she was sitting with the other members of her community after supper. Unlike Phil, when she first heard the name, Mary wept.
Later, she went quietly into the room which had been set aside for prayer and knelt at the small altar.
“Lord,” she said, when at last she could say anything, “forgive us and help us.”
Then she bent her head into her hands and remained there motionless, unable to find further words while the tears fell unheeded.
“What’s to become of this country?” she thought, and struggled against the despair.
It was some time before she found words for her prayer again.
At last she became calm.
Then, taking herself to task for her weakness, she set herself to pray for Phil and for the child who was to be born.
After this she prayed for Sheila and for her brother John as she had done so many times.
Finally dredging up the words, she prayed again for this poor country which she loved.
For an end to death and violence.
* * *
Sheila had gone back to work again. She was feeling increasingly unsatisfied with life. But when Delmara rang up to check if she would be available in mid June as they had agreed, she could think of no reason to refuse.
Her father had recovered from his heart attack. She couldn’t hang around at home forever.
Francis had set up a number of shows in Dublin.
Sheila felt that she would enjoy meeting some of her southern friends again. She wondered about Sebastian O’Rourke. What did he feel about her now?
But apart from this, a fleeting thought only, she could raise little enthusiasm for the programme before her.
She had been badly shaken by the news of Phil’s imprisonment. Phil had told her not to be silly when she had spoken of her own feeling of guilt and responsibility, but although they had moved back into their old friendship without another word, Sheila had not managed to rid herself of the guilty feelings.
On top of that had come the meeting with Mary and the revived memories of the past. Sheila realised, with a sickening pain, that she had not succeeded either in getting rid of another feeling, her feeling for Mary’s brother. John Branagh still mattered.
Sheila felt helpless, trapped in her own emotions.
Everything she had been doing for the past three years, the career she had built for herself – had it all been meaningless, a game to distract her from reality?
She did not intend to contact John herself. He had made it very clear, she thought, that he never wanted to see her again. If he had changed his mind, why did he make no move?
She had broken all his rules, why should he feel anything for her but anger?
So by mid June, she was gone and did not know that, only days later, John phoned her apartment. When the message on the answer machine told him that she had left the country, he rang off without a further word.
Chapter Seventy-Five
John heard the news about Davy Hagan’s death with a horror which surprised him.
He and Davy had never been close friends. Their ways had long since separated.
But Davy, like others who had been shot over the past few years, had been at school with him, and now had gone.
How many of his school mates were left, he wondered?
Where had all their bright hopes for life vanished to?
And his own life? Where had it gone?
A new determination grew up in him, hardening into a resolve not to allow his life to vanish, like Davy’s, without at least attempting to make it different.
He thought again of the conversation he had had with Mary when he had admitted to her some of the mistakes he had made. He knew now that the breakdown of his relationship with Sheila had been his own fault. He had condemned Sheila, when in fact it was his own insecurity which was to blame.
Mary seemed to think Sheila still cared about him. Was she right? He found himself hoping desperately that she was.
He needed to find Sheila and to tell her that he knew now how badly he’d treated her. Would she be prepared to listen? Was it still possible to get his life, both their lives, back on track?
There was only one way to find out.
* * *
Late in December, just before Christmas, Francis Delmara set up another show in Belfast.
Sheila felt that she would enjoy going home, seeing her parents, seeing Phil’s new baby. But apart from this, she could raise little enthusiasm for the programme before her.
Her thoughts went constantly to John Branagh the last time she had seen him.
He had been so angry, so jealous when he had realised that her employer, Francis Delmara the fashion designer, was the man who had kissed her by the banks of the River Lagan. Until he saw Francis at Sheila’s apartment, he hadn’t known.
He must have believed that there was some still sort of sexual or romantic relationship between them.
He had, as always, Sheila thought, given her no chance to explain.
Francis Delmara had long ceased to be more to her than an employer and friend. She smiled wryly to herself when she remembered that it was jealousy of Francis which had first caused John to break off their relationship. There had never been anything but a slight attraction on her side and whatever there had been on Francis’ side had by now disappeared with the need to maintain their business relations on a secure footing.
John saw the posters advertising that Sheila Doherty was back in town, for a fashion show at the Hilton Hotel, as he drove through town on his way to the BBC building one morning in the run-up to Christmas.
All thoughts of arriving at work on time flew out of his head. He turned the car abruptly, earning a series of shouted curses from the drivers nearby, and sped in the opposite direction towards the Hilton.
He parked at random in Lanyon Place and burst into the hotel, making straight for the reception desk.
“Sheila Doherty?” he demanded. “Is she staying here? I know she has a show here in a few days. Is she in the building now?”
But Sheila wasn’t staying in the Hilton, nor was she there practising, and no-one at the Hilton admitted to knowing where she was to be found before the date of the show. The pretty, dark haired receptionist, who thought John looked cute and sexy, would have been very happy to earn his gratitude, but had to tell him, regretfully, that she had no idea where Delmara was holding his trial runs.
John stood beside his parked car with the light sleety rain falling on his hair and face and phoned Sheila’s flat, but there was no reply. He realised she would have to be out practising somewhere, since she wasn’t at the Hilton itself. But where?
John moved heaven and earth to find out, calling in all his contacts, built up by now to considerable numbers during his time with the BBC. Reporters, people in the fashion business, celebrities he had interviewed. None of them knew anything helpful.
John stood in the now heavy sleet, feeling near to despair.
Suddenly his mobile sounded. It was his mate Brian from the BBC calling him back.
“I just thought, have you tried Kevin Kernaghan?” Brian said. “He’s a guy who plays five-a-side with me, so I can give you his number, and his girl friend Chrissie works part time for Delmara Fashions. She a hairdresser, I think, or some such. Anyway, maybe worth a ring?”
John rang.
* * *
The rehearsals for the new show were taking place in a hall normally used for plays and concerts. Instead of the usual catwalk curving down into the audience, there was a platform of uniform height.
Sheila found it hard to relate her movement across this stage with the more intimate descending walk into the heart of the audience.
However, she was a professional by now. It was up to her to do her best.
“When will we get a chance to practice in the real setting, Francis?” she asked.
“The Hilton’s function rooms are booked up until the day before the show, Sheila,” Delmara explained briefly. “You’ll have plenty of time then.” He turned back to his immediate preoccupation, adjusting the length of the gown Chloe was wearing to suit the height of her shoes.
The door at the far end of the hall burst open.
Sheila felt her heart jump out of her body.
It was John. John Branagh.
Banging the door shut behind him, he strode down the hall, ignoring the stares of the assembled models, dressmakers, hairdressers and the designer himself.
He came to a halt in front of the platform and stood there, legs planted firmly apart, one arm shielding his eyes to let him see through the murky gloom.
“Sheila Doherty!”
“Yes, John?” Sheila gulped. She felt oddly breathless, unable to speak in more than a croak.
“Well, Sheila Doherty, are you going to marry me or not?”
Sheila gave a funny little yip. She could feel her heart bounding in her breast.
“Don’t you think we’ve wasted enough time already?”
Kicking off her shoes, Sheila flew to the edge of the platform. “Oh yes, John! Yes, John!” she shouted, as the breath flooded back into her lungs.
Then she gave one final blissful squeak of happiness and hurled herself down into his arms.
John, his feet still firmly planted, was able to catch her with only a slight rocking motion.
His arms went round her, hard and strong, his lips found hers and he held her against him as her knees began to quiver and give way.
The kiss went on for a long time.
Then John raised his head, looked round him at the gaping audience and said, speaking firmly to Sheila alone, “Then come on! I’ve got a licence here and I’ve booked a slot at the registry office. No time to waste. The taxi’s outside.”
He took Sheila by one arm and began to lead her along the hall.
“But, John –” Sheila began weakly, looking down at the model dress she was still wearing.
“What? Do you want to change your mind? You don’t think we’ve messed around long enough? I’ve been a complete self righteous fool, okay, but I don’t mean to be any more. Maybe I’ve grown-up a bit, or something. Once and for all, Sheila Doherty, do you mean to marry me?”
The dress could wait. She could give it back to Delmara later, when she talked to him about breaking her contract.
“Yes, John,” Sheila said meekly and allowed herself to be led, shoeless, along the hall to where the taxi was waiting outside.
###
Chapter 60
About the author
Gerry McCullough has been writing poems and stories since childhood. Brought up in north Belfast, she graduated in English and Philosophy from Queen's University, Belfast, then went on to gain an MA in English.
She lives just outside Belfast, in Northern Ireland, has four grown up children and is married to author, media producer and broadcaster, Raymond McCullough, with whom she co-edited the Irish magazine, Bread, (published by Kingdom Come Trust), from 1990-96. In 1995 they published a non-fiction book called, Ireland – now the good news!
Over the past few years Gerry has had more than fifty short stories published in UK, Irish and American magazines, anthologies and annuals – as well as broadcast on BBC Radio Ulster – plus poems and articles published in several Northern Ireland and UK magazines. She has also read from her novel, poems and short stories at several Irish literary events.
Gerry won the Cuírt International Literary Award for 2005 (Galway); was shortlisted for the 2008 Brian Moore Award (Belfast); shortlisted for the 2009 Cuírt Award; and commended in the 2009 Seán O'Faolain Short Story Competition, (Cork).
Belfast Girls, her first full-length Irish novel, was first published (by Night Publishing, UK) in November 2010. Danger Danger was published by Precious Oil Publications in October 2011; followed by The Seanachie: Tales of Old Seamus in January 2012 (a first collection of humorous Irish short stories, previously published in a weekly Irish magazine); and Angel in Flight (the first Angel Murphy thriller) in June 2012.
The Cuírt Award-winning story, Primroses, and the Seán O'Faolain commended story, Giving Up, will be included in a new collection of twelve Irish short stories written by Gerry, to be published shortly. Also in the pipeline are, Lady Molly and the Snapper – a young adult novel set in Dublin; and Not the End of the World – a humorous, futuristic, adult fantasy novel.
More info at:
http://gerrymccullough.com
http://gerrysbooks.blogspot.com
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Danger Danger
http://www.amazon.com/Danger-ebook/dp/B005W7TUQQ
http://www.amazon.co.uk/Danger-ebook/dp/B005W7TUQQ
Two lives in parallel – twin sisters separated at birth, but their lives take strangely similar and dangerous roads until the final collision which hurls each of them to the edge of disaster.
Katie and her gambling boyfriend Dec find themselves threatened with peril from the people Dec has cheated.
Jo-Anne (Annie) through her boyfriend Steven finds herself in the hands of much more dangerous crooks.
Can they survive and achieve safety and happiness?
“starts with a bang and never quite lets up on the tension ... it will hook you from the beginning and keep you spell bound until the very last sentence.”
Ellen Fritz, Books 4 Tomorrow
“The emotional intensity of the characters is beautifully drawn … You care for these people.”
Stacey Danson, author
an amazing, page turning, stunning novel ... equal to Belfast Girls in every respect. I can’t wait for her next novel to be published.
Teresa Geering, author
an attention-grabbing plot, strong writing, and vivid characterization, ... fast-paced and highly addictive
L. Anne Carrington, author
Danger Danger
Gerry McCullough
Published by
Prologue
***
The shining red car hurtled across the road towards them.
‘Dec!’ Katie shrieked.
Declan swerved to the left, jammed on his brakes, and felt the Honda bike skid to a shuddering stop. Then it toppled over. There was a blinding pain in his left leg, then nothing.
Katie felt herself flying through the air. She landed on her left arm. The black leather jacket ripped apart. She felt her head crash into the hard surface of the railing in the centre of the road. Her helmet tore loose. It wasn’t attached to her head any more. It flew across the road, landing far away from her. Then darkness, and silence.
###
The motorbike had come up out of nowhere. Steven saw it vaguely out of the corner of his
eye. He’d thought he could make it across, in the last moments after the lights changed, just before any traffic came from the other direction. But here came this bike, way before anyone could have expected it. He dragged on the wheel, tore the Mazda round away from the bike, towards the right. Had he managed to miss it?
He felt the car wheels squeal across the wet slippery surface of the road. The car was spinning, out of control. He heard a scream which pierced his ears agonisingly. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Annie’s shoulder bang against the passenger door, saw the door burst open, saw her shoot out of the car. He wrenched at the wheel, trying obsessively, passionately, to regain control of the car. But it was too late.
He was crashing into something – he wasn’t even sure what. The concrete bollard with the blue direction arrow in the middle of the road, perhaps. A moment later, his head hit the windscreen. And then there was nothing more.
Chapter One
Time – 14 May 88, twenty-three years ago.
Place – St. Austin’s Maternity Hospital.
Marie Sinclair, aged seventeen and single, lay in a hospital bed, struggling through the first stages of childbirth.
She had been to the ante natal clinic, had learnt how to relax, had learnt all about the second stage, about panting like a dog and not pushing until the doctor or the midwife told her to push.
She had hoped that Jamie would be with her when all this was happening. She had to admit that she was scared.
Natural childbirth, that was the thing to go for, everyone had said. But right now, there were only two things she wanted. One was a hefty dose of some helpful drug, something, anything, to take away the pain.
Belfast Girls Page 33