Stormclouds

by Brian Gallagher

  Maeve stumbled out the hall door and collapsed onto the street. The air was acrid from burning houses and vehicles but nonetheless she gulped it into her lungs. Despite the wet blanket her hair was singed, and her hand was painfully blistered and burned, but Maeve didn’t care. She was so relieved to have escaped the blazing front room that she couldn’t think about anything else right now. She continued to gulp air into her aching lungs as her head began to clear. She still felt a bit woozy but she gingerly dropped the blanket, sat up, and looked around.

  Bombay Street was like something from a nightmare. Along the street her neighbours’ homes were on fire, and the roadway was like a battlefield, with bricks, bottles and other missiles scattered everywhere. Gunfire was still being exchanged nearby, and the mob that had set fire to the houses was milling about. Some of the men were armed with rifles, the rest carried clubs and iron bars.

  She needed to get out of here quickly, but as she went to rise, a brick missed her head by inches. She turned around in shock to see a boy of about fourteen pointing at her. ‘Wee Fenian bitch!’ he cried, then he picked up another stone from the ground. This time he didn’t throw it, however, but instead held it threateningly in his hand and started towards her. Terrified, Maeve struggled to get to her feet, but she still felt light-headed. The boy smiled maliciously, lightly tossing the stone from hand to hand as he made his way towards her.

  Sammy ran past burning houses, sickened by what he saw. It seemed that the people around him were no longer individuals, but had instead become unthinking members of a blood-crazed mob. Explosions rent the air, machine gun and rifle fire added to the din, and everywhere was the roaring of flames and the searing heat from the blazing houses. Worst of all, though, was the sense that he had left it too late to save Maeve. Bombay Street was a war zone, and Maeve’s side had obviously lost this battle. And then, incredibly, he saw her. She was grappling fiercely with a teenage boy. The boy had a rock in his hand and he was trying to club Maeve with it. Sammy felt a surge of fury and he ran forward. Maeve had gripped the boy’s wrist and was putting up a good fight. The boy was bigger and stronger than her, and with a sudden jerk he freed the hand holding the rock. He swung back his arm to strike, but doubled up in pain as Sammy ploughed into him and punched him full force in the stomach. The boy spluttered, but Sammy rounded on him. It was as though this thuggish boy represented all the awful things that Sammy had seen today. He angrily drew back his left fist, then unleashed a powerful upper cut that sent the bigger boy sprawling backwards onto the ground. The boy lay there groaning, and Sammy turned to Maeve.

  ‘Sammy!’ she said disbelievingly.

  ‘Are you OK?’

  ‘Yeah, just a few burns. What are you doing here?’

  ‘I heard what was happening. So I came to get you.’

  ‘Across Belfast?

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Oh, Sammy!’ said Maeve, ‘You’re a friend in a million!’ She squeezed his arm gratefully, and in spite of everything he found himself grinning at her.

  ‘You can thank me later. Can you run?’

  ‘Yes’

  ‘Is your aunt here?’

  ‘No, she’s up in Ardoyne.’

  Sammy indicated a couple of club-wielding men who were walking towards them.

  ‘Time to get out of here!’

  ‘OK,’ said Maeve, ‘let’s go!’

  Maeve ran down Bombay Street with Sammy at her side. Despite the horror all around her she felt a sense of exhilaration that her friend had crossed a war-torn city to rescue her. She had so many questions that she wanted to ask him – to say nothing of thanking him properly for the huge risks that he had taken in coming here. But now wasn’t the time, and they both ran on, aware that they were far from being safe. Gunfire was still echoing through the streets, petrol bombs were exploding and vehicles, shops and houses were still being destroyed.

  Maeve ran instinctively towards the Falls Road. She had heard on the radio that there was fighting on the Falls as well, but at least it was the centre of the nationalist area, and the route there would take them in the opposite direction to the loyalist Shankill. Now they suddenly slowed, seeing a group of armed men coming out of one of the burning houses.

  ‘This way, Sammy!’ she called, aware that he wouldn’t know the warren of streets as well as she did. She ran away from the men, trying to find a route that would avoid the roving mobs. She ran past a smouldering car whose tyres were on fire and reached a corner. She could hear Sammy several yards behind her, then she began to round the corner. Suddenly there was a massive blast. The car erupted as its petrol tank exploded, and the last thing Maeve saw was a blinding flash of light, then everything went black.

  Dylan and Emma walked down the hospital corridor in silence. All the words had been spoken now, and nothing could change the horror of the last few days. Belfast had finally calmed down, through a combination of exhaustion and the arrival on its streets of the British Army as peacekeepers. In the four days since the burning of Bombay Street the troops had imposed order, and had erected barbed wire barricades between loyalist and nationalist areas. When the cost was counted, it emerged that eight people had been killed in the rioting, over seven hundred were injured and more than five hundred homes and businesses had been destroyed.

  The scale of the devastation was shocking, but Dylan hadn’t been able to take it in. Instead the last few days had been a waking nightmare. Before now he hadn’t known anyone who had died, much less had to go to the funeral of a friend. Yesterday though, he had watched in a daze, standing in the bright sunshine that bathed Belfast City Cemetery, as his friend who had died following the car explosion was laid to rest. It had been the saddest day of Dylan’s life, and as he thought about it now he felt tears welling up in his eyes again.

  He walked on down the polished hospital corridor, trying to hold in his emotions, but his mind was in turmoil. Sammy had died a hero, because he wouldn’t leave Maeve to her fate in Bombay Street, but that didn’t make his death acceptable. Dylan felt angry when people had gone on about Sammy’s bravery, and he had felt like standing up in the church and shouting that Sammy shouldn’t have needed to be a hero. Why couldn’t people admit that instead of it being heroic, it was obscene that Sammy had died because hate-fuelled adults were rioting?

  He felt a tear rolling down his cheek now, and Emma halted. Dylan stopped too, and Emma looked at him, then tenderly dabbed his cheek, offering him her handkerchief.

  ‘Thanks,’ he said, drying his eyes. ‘I’m sorry, Emma, I–’

  ‘It’s fine,’ she said softly. ‘Really, it’s fine. But before we go in to Maeve, I want to say something.’

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘It’s … it’s awful about Sammy. And I know he was your best friend. But we could have lost two friends. We could have lost them both, Dylan, and we didn’t. That’s the way we have to look at it. And if Maeve can be brave, so can we. OK?’

  Dylan realised that Emma was right, and that they had to be strong for Maeve. He finished drying his eyes and gathered himself.

  ‘OK?’ repeated Emma gently.

  ‘Yeah, OK.’

  ‘Come on then,’ said Emma, and they continued down the corridor, with Emma gripping a carrier bag containing grapes and Lucozade for her friend. They stopped outside the door of Maeve’s hospital room, then Dylan knocked and they entered.

  Maeve was sitting in the bed, propped up on pillows. Her burnt right arm was swathed in bandages, her face was purple with bruising, and she looked so sad. Dylan thought she might be regaining her strength, however, and she definitely appeared better than when they had visited her yesterday after the funeral. They all exchanged muted greetings, then Dylan and Emma sat in chairs beside Maeve’s bed after giving her the grapes and the Lucozade.

  ‘How are you today?’ Dylan asked.

  ‘I can’t stop thinking about Sammy. I can’t … I just can’t believe he’s gone.’

  ‘I know,’ said Emma. ‘We’re the same.�
�

  ‘I couldn’t sleep for ages last night. I never got to thank him properly. And I keep thinking that if he hadn’t come for me he could still be alive.’

  ‘It’s not your fault, Maeve,’ said Dylan, ‘you didn’t start the riots.’

  ‘I know, but–’

  ‘No buts,’ said Emma gently. ‘It was just bad timing, you got round the corner, and Sammy didn’t. It was no-one’s fault – well, except for the fools causing all the trouble.’

  ‘Please, Maeve. Don’t blame yourself, that makes no sense,’ said Dylan. To his relief, he saw Maeve nodding.

  ‘I know you’re right,’ she said. ‘But it’s hard.’

  There was a brief pause, then Emma spoke. ‘So, what do the doctors say about you going home?’ she asked, in what Dylan saw was a discreet attempt to change the subject.

  ‘They told Aunt Nan I might be able to go home after tomorrow.’

  ‘That’s great,’ said Dylan.

  ‘Except we don’t actually have a home any more.’

  ‘You could stay with us till you get sorted out,’ suggested Emma, ‘we’ve loads of room. Your aunt and uncle too.’

  ‘Thanks, Emma,’ said Maeve ‘but we’re leaving Belfast.’

  ‘To go where?’

  ‘The Irish government is setting up camps across the border for people who’ve lost their homes.’

  ‘Really?’ said Dylan, shocked at the idea of refugee camps in a country like Ireland.

  ‘It will only be for a while. When Dad comes back from Cyprus we might live in Dublin.’

  ‘Right,’ said Emma sadly. ‘Sounds like we’re all going to be split up.’

  ‘It’s not that far,’ said Maeve. ‘You can both come and visit me.’

  ‘We’re not going to be here that much longer,’ explained Dylan.

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Mom says Dad has more than played his part here. That someone else can do the reporting in future.’

  ‘So where will you go?’ asked Maeve.

  Emma shrugged. ‘I don’t know. To Leeds to begin with. After that, maybe back to the States.’

  ‘So we’ll all be broken up,’ said Maeve.

  ‘Yeah,’ answered Dylan. ‘Though of course we’ll still write to each other.’

  ‘And we brought you a present,’ said Emma, reaching once more into the carrier bag. She took out a bulky brown package and left it on Maeve’s bedside locker.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘A souvenir of our time together. It’s a miniature tape recorder, with the edited radio programme.’

  Maeve looked taken aback. ‘I’d forgotten all about that. Thanks, Emma, thanks, Dylan.’

  ‘It, eh … it has the recording we did of Sammy,’ said Emma.

  ‘Oh God …’ said Maeve.

  Emma reached out and squeezed Maeve’s uninjured arm. ‘I know it’ll be really sad to listen to that now, but it’s still great to have a record of him.’

  Maeve looked thoughtful, then nodded. ‘Yeah, it is.’

  ‘And you don’t have to play it till … well, till you’re ready,’ said Dylan.

  ‘No. I’ll play it tonight.’

  Dylan looked at her in surprise, but Maeve explained. ‘Aunt Nan says when someone dies it’s really sad, but you can’t shut them out of your mind to save yourself from the sadness. She says that only makes it worse in the long run. So even if it makes you cry, you cherish their memory.’

  Dylan was impressed and he nodded.

  ‘And Aunt Nan says that when you’re not sure what to do, ask yourself what would the dead person want you to do.’

  ‘So what do you think Sammy would want us to do?’ asked Emma.

  ‘I’m not sure,’ said Maeve. ‘What do you think, Dylan? You were his best friend.’

  Dylan considered for a moment. ‘I think he’d want us to go on and have happy lives. Good lives, where we did something useful. He never got to follow his dream, so I’d say he’d like us to follow ours. And I think … I think he’d like us to remember him sometimes.’

  ‘Why don’t we make a promise?’ said Maeve. ‘Why don’t we promise that we’ll never forget him, and that every year on the day he died, no matter where we are, we’ll stop and remember him?’ She stretched out her uninjured arm on the bed, and turned her hand face up. ‘I promise, I’ll never forget Sammy,’ she said, her voice breaking.

  Emma laid her hand on top of Maeve’s and, blinking back the tears, made her pledge. ‘I promise, I’ll never forget Sammy.’

  Dylan swallowed hard and placed his hand on top of the other two. ‘I promise, I’ll never forget Sammy,’ he said softly. Then he closed his eyes as all three of them gripped hands, and for the first time since his friend had been killed, he felt the beginnings of a sense of peace.

  Maeve breathed a sign of relief as Uncle Jim’s van pulled out the exit gate and she left the hospital behind. She had been treated well by the doctors and nurses, but she was glad to leave the place that would always remind her of the saddest days of her life. She sat in the back seat of the van, looking out the window on the city that had been her home for the last three years. Although some efforts had been made to clear up the streets, Belfast still looked like a war zone, with rubble and burnt out buildings on view as they drove along. Aunt Nan and Uncle Jim sat unspeaking in the front of the van, and Maeve knew it must be really strange for them to abandon their home with little more than the clothes on their backs.

  They were driving south to the border this morning. The plan was to stay at Gormanston air base, in one of the refugee camps set up by the Irish government, and Maeve was struggling with mixed emotions. Part of her was worried about living in a refugee camp, even temporarily, yet part of her was relieved to leave behind the bitterness and hatred generated by the previous week’s riots.

  She looked out the window as Uncle Jim left the Falls behind and drove into the city centre, and towards the road that led to the south. It was only now as she left her own area that she realised how much destruction had been caused in the fighting. And for what?

  It would be really easy to hate the people who had started the riots and caused Sammy’s death, yet she knew instinctively that hatred would make her bitter and unhappy. There were bad people on both sides of the divide, but there were lots of good, decent people too. Sammy’s mother was living proof of it, and Maeve had been deeply touched when Mrs Taylor had sent her flowers and a get-well note at the hospital, despite the fact that she must have been overcome with grief at her son’s death. And then there was Sammy himself, who had crossed a city engulfed in violence, because his loyalty to a friend meant more than blind allegiance to his own tribe.

  Maeve’s thoughts were interrupted as her aunt indicated a signpost that showed the way to Dublin. ‘Well, that’s the end of us and Belfast,’ said Aunt Nan quietly.

  They were leaving the city, and Maeve turned around to take a last look. She had had good fun in Belfast, especially since becoming friends with the Goldmans and Sammy. Now, though, it would always be associated with sadness and the death of her friend. But while Sammy’s death was heartbreaking, Maeve was determined that it would also inspire her anytime she doubted the basic goodness of human nature. She would keep forever the pledge she had made with Dylan and Emma, and she would never forget Sammy, the best friend she had ever known. Consoled by the thought, she sat back in her seat as the van left Belfast, then she looked ahead, ready for whatever the future might hold.

  The Goldmans moved back to America. Emma went on to train as a journalist and had a successful career in radio and television. Specialising in music and entertainment, she made numerous award-winning documentaries. She settled in Washington where she became a noted middle distance runner, and nowadays she still competes in senior marathon races.

  Dylan founded a big sports equipment company in New York. Every summer he organises the Wanderers Soccer Camp on Long Island, and on the final day he presents a cup called the Sammy Taylor Memorial Trophy.
r />   Mrs Goldman continued to work as an artist and her work was exhibited in galleries in Dublin, Leeds, Boston and New York.

  Mr Goldman remained an influential and respected journalist on both sides of the Atlantic and was highly regarded for his first-hand accounts of the early days of the Northern Ireland Troubles.

  After Sammy’s death his father ended all involvement with street violence and paramilitaries. He never got over his son being killed, however, and died of a heart attack the following year.

  Sammy’s mother emigrated to Canada with her remaining children. After several years she remarried happily, and with her new husband she opened a business importing Irish linen for distribution to shops across Ontario.

  Gordon Elliot drifted out of football and into the illegal Ulster Volunteer Force. He died at the age of twenty-two, when a bomb he was transporting exploded prematurely.

  Mr Doyle and his family left Belfast after his home and shoe shop were burnt down. He moved to Cork, where he had relatives, opened another shop, and became involved again in training runners.

  Buckie was shaken by Sammy’s death and never boasted again about his days as a paratrooper or a special constable. After the B Specials were disbanded in August 1969 he concentrated all his spare time on coaching with Wanderers Football Club.

  Maeve, Aunt Nan and Uncle Jim lived for a time in the refugee camp set up by the Irish government at Gormanston, County Meath. Maeve settled in Dublin with her father after he left the army. Aunt Nan and Uncle Jim settled in Dublin also, with Uncle Jim and Maeve’s father setting up a company that made garden sheds. Maeve stayed involved with amateur running and went on to become a PE teacher. She married happily and had children, but every year she makes a journey, on her own, to Belfast, to lay flowers on the grave of her childhood friend, Sammy Taylor.

  In the aftermath of August 1969 there was mass upheaval, with thousands of refugees from the conflict in Northern Ireland coming south of the border and staying in camps in the Republic of Ireland. By October 1971 approximately twelve thousand refugees had passed through Gormanston Camp in County Meath.