They shake their heads.
‘That stuff doesn’t make the news here. No one gives a toss about what’s happening in Belfast,’ Joe says.
‘Three squaddies on foot patrol got shot up.’
They exchange covert glances.
‘You don’t need to tell us that,’ Joe says. ‘We’re glad you’ve joined us.’
‘Brendan’s not.’
‘He’ll be grand when we get going,’ Tommy replies.
Tommy moves into Joe’s room, giving me the box room. I dump my bag in a corner and, still in my boots, drop onto the narrow bed. A plane drones towards Heathrow. Direct it’s only an hour’s flight to Belfast, back to Liam and Rory, lads who know me, and Sean, an OC who trusts me. But I’m needed here. And going back there wouldn’t get me closer to Aiden. I shut my eyes, try not to think.
Knocking wakes me. I sit up, chest tight, hands clenched. When I uncoil my fingers blood oozes from four crescent-shaped wounds on each palm.
‘Caoilainn, you alright?’ Joe calls.
‘Fine.’
‘Brendan wants a word.’
‘I’ll be down in a minute.’
I swing my legs off the bed. It was only a dream; Aiden is where he’s been for months, somewhere in East Tyrone, probably a crofter’s cottage, sitting with his feet up on the range, getting fat on griddle cakes and waiting to join Jim’s lads on their missions, helping keep order in ’Ra country. Until I’m told differently this is what I have to believe.
They’re waiting for me in the living room.
‘Nice wee beauty nap?’ Brendan sneers.
Burning to bite back, I take up the armchair opposite and fix him with a blank stare.
‘Aye, well,’ he mutters, dropping his gaze. ‘We’ll have a briefing.’
It’s a familiar scenario: England’s difficulty is Ireland’s opportunity. The Argies have trumped us, temporarily, as enemy of the empire. GHQ wants us capitalising on this, hitting military targets on the mainland while the Brits are engaged overseas. Brendan reels off some installations. One is Fylingdales.
‘You’ll not get near that,’ I tell him.
‘Why?’
‘It’s in the middle of nowhere, on the moors, not enough cover for a rabbit, never mind us and a couple of cars.’
‘Been on a recce have you?’
‘Demo, actually, CND, years ago, but it’ll be no different now.’
The muscles along his jaw flex. ‘Fine, you suggest something.’ He tosses his notepad at my head.
I catch it. ‘What about targets in London?’
‘Who’d you think ya are, bleeding Guy Fawkes?’ Brendan snaps.
‘We don’t have to break into the Tower of London.’
‘What then?’
‘There are soldiers on the streets every day,’ I say, thinking at 90mph, wishing I’d given myself time: distance. ‘Changing of the guard for example.’
Joe and Tommy grin at each other. Brendan drags on his cigarette, massages his creased brow.
‘Suppose we could put it on the list,’ he mutters.
I spend May, including my twentieth birthday, watching the changing of the guard. I go with Joe, with Tommy and with Brendan. My hair is up, down, straight, curly. We wear hats, sunglasses on bright days. I buy three wigs; short and dark, long and brown, red ringlets. Twice we go in a borrowed orange Cortina. We vary our outfits and choose different vantage points. I carry my camera and, mingling with tourists, we take photos which I get developed at the chemist on Putney High Street. I tell myself it’ll be OK. There’ll be a warning. We’ll be careful; it’s busbies not bystanders we’re after. But I know it’s a soft target, one I suggested in self-defence.
One hot Saturday towards the end of May Tommy and I detour through Regents Park on the walk home. He buys ice-creams and we stroll round the boating lake, holding hands, a cover I instigated.
‘Have you a boyfriend back home?’ he asks.
I nibble the soggy cone. ‘Why?’
‘Just wondering what he’s thinking about you over here.’
‘If he’s thinking anything it’s that I’m doing my bit.’
‘There is one?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘That’s a funny answer,’ Tommy says.
‘We had a row; I haven’t seen him since.’
‘About you doing this, was it?’
‘Sort of. We draw the line differently.’
‘Is he not involved?’
‘He’s Aiden O’Neill.’
Tommy pulls his hand free and strolls to a bin, dumping his half-eaten cone. A cloud of flies buzzes up. He carries on walking, heading for the bandstand with its wrought iron railings and spiked green parasol roof. It’s a bit like the one in St Stephen’s Green. It draws me forwards, and backwards. I inch towards it, wishing I knew if Aiden’s alright, if we’ll be alright one day when this is over. My heart throbs in panic, the pounding terrifying me.
Jesus, I’m in love with him.
A notice board is propped against the bandstand. I stare sightlessly at it, Aiden’s face blurring, fading. I blink the image and the tears down, and pull myself into now, reading the poster. The Royal Green Jackets regimental band will play songs from the West End musical Oliver! in a lunchtime concert in mid-July.
Tommy is at my side. ‘They never do the good ones,’ he says, pointing. ‘Grease, West Side Story, that craic.’
‘Handy of them to advertise, though,’ I say.
‘You’re not thinking we could…?’
‘I am.’ The sooner this is done, the sooner I can get back to Ireland: to Aiden.
That night, eating fish and chips off the latest Falklands headlines, we tell Brendan. He praises Tommy for suggesting it. Tommy starts protesting but I shush him; we’re a team, the operations are what matters. I’m not after winning Brendan’s approval. Joe fetches a map and a notepad; we sketch out the details.
The concert, on 20th July, gives us seven weeks to prepare. Brendan suggests, as we know the exact time and date, a bomb on a timer, planted under the bandstand weeks beforehand. For maximum effect we’ll hit the changing of the guard the same day. Our best chance there is a car bomb along the route, detonated by radio control. We flip through my photos, marking possibles on the map.
‘What’s this?’ Brendan flaps a picture of Tommy and me, his arm around my shoulders, the Blues and Royals trooping past all swishing tails and gleaming buttons.
‘It’s just near the…’ Tommy says.
‘I don’t give a shite where it is, I mean this, the two of yous. Who took it?’
‘A Japanese tourist. He saw me taking pictures of Tommy and offered.’
‘And got himself a good look at yous while he was about it. Jesus, you’re not even disguised.’ Brendan flicks my face in the image, my fair hair flowing over my shoulders. ‘Are ya trying to get us lifted?’
Under the table Tommy grabs my hand. ‘He won’t remember us.’
‘Not now maybes.’
‘You really think he’d connect a photo taken in May with a bombing in July?’ I retort, fighting to control my fury and crushing the shit out of Tommy’s helpful hand in the effort.
‘It was stupid,’ Brendan says.
‘It would’ve been a hell of a lot stupider to make a fuss, refuse. He’d remember that,’ I reason.
‘I shouldn’t’ve let them send you,’ Brendan rages. ‘Yous’ve got no idea how to be discrete, always making a show of yourselves, coming over hysterical at the slightest wee thing.’
‘You’re the fucking hysterical one. Jesus, get a grip.’
He thumps the table. ‘Wind your neck in, silly bitch.’
I fire heavy calibre words at him. ‘I will, if you stop waving your dick in my face.’
He launches across the table. I leap to the side. Tommy gets between us.
‘We can’t be carrying on like this,’ he says.
‘Get her outta my fucking sight,’ Brendan spits.
Joe take
s my arm, coaxing me towards the door.
‘Bloody women, yous’re nothing but…’ Brendan shouts after us.
I spin back but Joe shuts the door on Brendan’s insults.
‘For Christ sake, cool it,’ he tells me, ‘’less you want sending back to face a court-martial.’
‘He’s been on at me since I got here and I’m sick of it. I shouldn’t have to take this caveman crap.’
‘I know and, Christ, you’ve had it rough but you’ve managed so far and me and Tom don’t want you going, or getting into trouble higher up. We know the score; you’re sound with us. Take yourself out for a bit. We’ll talk to him.’ He nudges me onto the front step and nods encouragingly.
I walk to the pub on the corner, crazy thoughts goading me: I’ll be on the first flight to Dublin in the morning; I’ll make them send me to Belfast or better, East Tyrone; I’ll fix things with Aiden; I’ll jack the whole thing in. Fuck the ’Ra. It takes the barman interrupting my private tirade with, ‘What can I get you, darling?’ to make me realise I’m in the pub.
Whiskey. Double. Fuck it, just pass the bottle.
Volunteers are warned that drink-induced loose talk is SUICIDE.
‘Hurry up, darling, there’s punters waiting.’
‘I’m not your fucking ‘darling’.’
I stalk out before he can bar me for cursing in the lounge, where there are ladies present.
I’m half-way down the street when I hear my name, turn and see Sheila from across the road chasing me.
‘Are you alright?’
I mumble about a row at home.
‘Men!’ she says. ‘Can’t live with or without them.’
‘Pardon?’
‘I’ve been stood up. Again.’ She shakes her head.
‘Oh. Yeah. Men!’ I copy her head shake.
She links my arm. ‘Why don’t we have a girls’ night? I’ve already paid the babysitter so I might as well enjoy myself. We can have a proper bitch about them and a damn good drink.’
But I can’t trust myself. I’m too angry, with the barman, Brendan, even Aiden. Not that he could contact me here. The cell’s security outranks everything. However much he might want to make it up he can’t. We can’t. Not even a fucking postcard. I take my arm from her comforting touch.
‘I best not. I should…’ I stare at the house. Should what, apologise? Rage at him? Quit?
‘Well, maybe another night,’ she suggests with a smile.
I smile back vaguely. She’s being kind. I’m grateful. But I can’t befriend her. She’s a civilian: a British civilian.
I wait until she’s closed her door then head off, wandering the streets until dawn, trying to be thankful it’s a short, warm summer’s night.
When I return the house is empty. Exhausted, I stumble upstairs. A note is stuck to my bedroom door. Brendan’s block-capital lettering greets me: ‘Wee present for you in the usual place! xxx.’ I troop downstairs, through the kitchen and out to the matchbox garden. Digging keys from my pocket I undo the shed’s padlock and fall into damp darkness. Clattering a spade, rake and hoe aside, I prise up the two loose boards that cover our hidey-hole. On top of our stash of incriminating bits and bobs is a shocking-white, slightly soggy envelope. I pick it up, tug its innards free; a map, coded notes: the Hyde Park plans. I take them outside, standing in the sun to read them. My stomach contorts. I slump against the shed, the plans screwed up in my fist.
I meet Brendan at the door, not giving him chance to get his jacket off or me chance to change my mind. If I don’t confront him hard, now, on something this important, I might as well sign for every one of his sexist putdowns.
‘What the fuck is this?’ I wave the map.
He snatches it and barges past me, into the front. I follow.
‘You can’t be serious.’
‘Can’t I, now?’ He plants his boots on the coffee table.
‘A nail bomb this size on South Carriage Drive?’
‘Aye.’
‘And no warning.’
‘Aye.’
‘What about the spectators, tourists: civilians? There’ll be a media lynching if you go through with this.’
‘I knew you’d not the stomach for a real job.’ He snorts. ‘Not the balls either.’
‘That’s got nothing to do with it. This’ll be carnage.’
‘What it’ll be is a successful attack on an enemy target.’
‘A soft target.’
‘You suggested it.’
‘Not like this I didn’t. There should be a warning. Or a smaller bomb.’
He strides over. I don’t retreat.
‘We’re needing to remind these bastards what it’s like to be under attack. Have you forgotten why you volunteered, those innocent folk at home who’ve suffered; internment, raids, Bloody Sunday?’
I picture Cathy, her chest ripped opened by bullets issued to a soldier, fired by a murderer.
‘Of course not, but there’s no need for this.’
He backs me into the wall.
‘Get it straight in your mind, wee girl, this is a fucking war. If you’re not prepared to fight fuck off and leave us to it.’
That’s why he’s doing this.
‘I am prepared to fight, to kill. But we don’t have to be butchers.’
There’s a roar. The side of my face explodes. Pain blinds me. When my vision clears I’m on the floor, Brendan leering over me.
‘You’ll do this or I’ll have you thrown out for disobeying orders.’
I get to my feet, pressure splitting my head. ‘Not before you’re thrown out for striking another volunteer.’
It’s a serious charge: instant dismissal.
Brendan recoils, panicked by what he’s done. Blood tickles my cheek. I don’t wipe it away. Let him see the evidence that’ll get him officially bollocked. His mouth twitches. He’s trying out words, rejecting them, scrabbling for excuses, counter-accusations, maybe even apologies: anything to save his own arse.
‘Ah, I, er, I lost it there.’ He rubs a trembling hand over his mouth. ‘Sorry. But, er, you know, heat of the moment. No need to report me, eh?’ He recovers himself. ‘But you’ve to remember I’m in charge. You can’t speak to me like that.’
Reminded of Martin’s warning about the command structure, respecting it, I falter. If I complain will they listen? Act? Even if they do I risk being tarred: that mouthy bitch, she got a good volunteer dismissed. I refocus on what matters, those brutal plans, and change tactics.
‘Have you Army Council sanction for doing this no-warning?’
‘I’m cleared to do whatever I think needs doing. And you’ll do as you’re told or go home.’
Home: where he thinks I belong, in the kitchen, and the bedroom.
All volunteers must obey orders from a superior officer regardless of whether they like the particular officer or not.
‘I’m going nowhere. But when the press’re baying for Irish blood, getting Loyalist thugs killing innocent Catholics in Belfast and Derry, you’ll wish you’d…’
He shrugs. ‘Ach, the boys can take care of things at home. If you’re so keen to fight for the Cause, shut up and do what I say.’
I don’t have any other fucking choice.
Two days later we’re meeting the first courier, bringing funds from Dublin. After doing a recce on the shopping centre Brendan picked for the meet we move into place, watching for her arrival from predetermined vantage points. When she appears, sitting outside WH Smiths as instructed, I see she’s about my age, wearing a flowery sundress and sling-backs. She carries a small clutch bag, green patent plastic to match the print on her dress, and a shopping bag. Large sunglasses hide her eyes. Once we’re sure she’s not been followed Brendan signals me to approach her. I hesitate, feeling in my pocket for the note, folded tight as a prison comm. Not all jails have bars and Belfast doors. I shouldn’t be sending it. I still might not. The only permissible contact with Ireland is vital military communications. Anything else is a mon
umental regulation breech that could get me dismissed but I have to know he’s OK., try to hold onto him. Without that I’ll drown. Brendan signals again.
I greet her friend to friend.
‘Briege! Jesus, how are you?’
She pushes the tinted lenses onto her head, holding back her sleek, chin-length, auburn hair with them and revealing kohl-rimmed eyes shimmering with purple shadow and surprise. She forces a smile and stands.
‘I was expecting…’ Her gaze fixes on my black eye, ‘I’m grand, thanks. Yourself?’
‘Fine. Let’s walk,’ I tell her, sticking to the approved format.
In a hushed voice she chatters nineteen words a second. This is her first run. She’s dead pleased to be helping us. She had an easy trip over. She’s never been to London before. Isn’t it so hectic, so mad? How do you cope? Her Galway brogue tests my Britishized ears. Frustrated, I ask if she speaks Irish and, when she says yes, suggest we use that. Struggling for words I haven’t spoken in a while, I hear Daideo’s voice helpfully hushing them.
I fascinate Briege. Under the cover of our alien language she asks me about life as a volunteer. I can’t say much, a few vague answers, nothing about the isolation crushing me. I ask why she’s chosen to help but to not be a volunteer. The question silences her. Eventually she says:
‘It’s different, isn’t it?’
In the bag she carries is a bundle of well-worn notes, money for buying fertiliser, six inch nails, a radio controlled toy plane we can cull a detonator from, a VCR for the timer.
‘What do you mean?’
‘Sure, I couldn’t. I’m not brave enough.’
‘What makes you think I am? I just believe we’ve the right to use military force. It’s the only thing that evens the odds. Once you believe that you do what needs doing. Even if you are crapping yourself.’
She goes quiet again. I’ve said too much. We stop at a kiosk and buy drinks. She gets a coke. I roll the comm in my pocket, weigh the risks again but it’s never going to balance: duty vs. love. Don’t. Do. Don’t. Fuck.
‘Would you do me a favour when you get home?’
Herself Alone in Orange Rain Page 16