‘Aye.’ Her head wags like a dog’s tail.
‘Can you get this to the East Tyrone Brigade.’ I pass her the note. ‘To Aiden O’Neill.’
She glances over her shoulder. ‘Have yous a problem?’
‘No. It’s… personal.’
‘Ah, your fella, so?’ she guesses with a shy smile.
‘I haven’t heard from him since I came over. I need to know he’s OK.’ I rush out excuses, explanations, instructions. ‘There’s nothing incriminating in it, no names or anything about what we’re doing so it should be safe. It’s only a couple of lines, letting him know I’m alright.’ I nearly tell her about the row, how I’m frantic for that not to be our end, but back away before I get there. ‘Even so, make sure you hide it until you’re through customs. If there’s any chance it’ll be found, destroy it. Just in case.’
She nods again.
‘Look, don’t take it if you’d rather not.’ I change my mind for the umpteenth time, reach to take it back from her. ‘Forget it, it’s too risky.’
‘Sure, I will not. It’ll be grand. Yous need some comfort from home. How’ll I get you the reply?’ There’s a sudden strength glowing in her. Underneath the flimsy flower-print dress are resilient roots. She wants to help, not just the Movement, but me. There’ll be no problem. She won’t allow it.
I withdraw my hand. ‘He’ll manage that himself. If he can.’ If he even wants to.
‘Will I at least give you my phone number in case you’re needing to be in touch?’ she suggests.
‘I wouldn’t be able to ring you. They might trace the call,’ I explain.
‘Ach, you’d be fine using a phone box. Anyway, my folks run a wee bed and breakfast; what would be suspicious about a call to somewhere like that? If they even could trace it, it’d just look like you were making a booking,’ she reasons.
There’s sense in it. ‘OK.’
Briege smiles. ‘Grand.’ As she passes over the shopping bag she murmurs the number slowly enough for me to remember it.
We part with a hug, real friends now as well as comrades, then she totters off on her heels. Watching her go, my note in her pocket, her bag straining my arm, I wonder what’s coming.
Joe and I start shopping. Tommy puts the Regent’s Park bomb together in the kitchen. Chemical smells poison the air and there are no clean pans so we make do with sarnies and takeaways. Joe dismantles the brand new VCR. I watch everything they do, learning frenetically.
While Brendan’s doing a final recce of Regent’s Park I go to the PO box we have, rented in a postal district on the other side of London to our base. My heart flutters with hope that my brain can’t talk it out of. There’s one letter, addressed to ‘K’. The handwriting is Aiden’s. Expressionless, I take it from the clerk. Make myself wait until I’m at the bus stop to open it.
Just three sentences, in Irish:
Tá mé buartha. Tá mé i ngrá leat. An bpósfaidh tú mé?
My brain dumps every Irish word I’ve ever learnt and they pulse through me.
Pósfaidh? Marry?
I have until the next time Briege comes to figure out my answer.
The last Wednesday in June Joe and Tommy plant the bomb under the bandstand, the timer set for 12.30 P.M. on July 20th. Brendan and I wait at home, in separate rooms, protecting our fragile truce. I lie on my bed, thinking about Aiden, knowing what answer I want to give but fearing it’s the wrong one. Is a volunteer, like a nun, married to a higher power? I merge the two images; me in a habit, expression piously cynical, hands clasped in prayer, gun holstered at my waist.
The front door bangs. I stare down at the notebook I didn’t realise I was holding, the blue biro sketch of Sister Caoilainn I didn’t know I was actually drawing. I screw it up and charge downstairs.
‘We’re set,’ Joe says.
A week before the 20th Brendan buys a blue Morris Marina at a car auction in Enfield. He drops it with a contact who parks it in various west London locations, never the same place twice. The next day we have another meeting with a runner. Just in case it’s Briege I have my single word answer hidden in my pocket. The meet is the same routine, different location. And it is Briege.
‘Did you ever hear back?’ she asks in eager Irish.
There was no candlelit dinner. No bended knee. No sealing it with a kiss. There’ll be no engagement party or ring. No warm congratulations. Snub that romantic bullshit all you want but don’t kid on you’re not wishing things were different. Tell her. Share it with her. Make it real.
‘He wants to marry me.’
‘And?’ She squeezes my arm.
I nod and slip my note to her.
‘Sure, when they said I’d be running errands for the Movement I didn’t think it’d be this romantic,’ she says, hugging me.
But I’m not so sure it isn’t more tragedy than romance.
The night of the 19th I go to bed early and lie awake, thinking of the people, sleeping in easy ignorance, unaware of tomorrow’s coming catastrophe. In our quiet corner of London the war doesn’t exist; tomorrow it will be headline news. People will be dead because of it: us. Me. A montage of faces; Daideo, Cathy, Sands, plus a faceless couple, the parents I’ll never know, scrolls round in my head. We have to do this. But I wish we didn’t.
London—20th July, 1982
Before dawn Joe and Tommy load the bomb into their van, amongst plumbing supplies. Brendan watches, face dour, as I squeeze in next to Tommy.
‘Don’t bollock this,’ he warns me.
I shut the door.
Brendan’s contact meets us in a Kensington car park, leaning against the Marina, smoking. Joe reverses the van up to the car’s backend.
‘Hey, Sean, how’re ya?’ Tommy greets him.
The contact shakes his hand. ‘Grand, but I’m using ‘John’ these days.’
‘Right ya’re,’ Tommy says.
John glances at me, eyes widening.
‘This is Caoilainn,’ Tommy replies.
John shrugs and reaches into his pocket. ‘Keys,’ he says, ‘and yous’ll need this to get out of the car park.’ He holds out a ticket for the barrier machine, offering it to Joe.
I reach for it. He raises an eyebrow.
‘Cheers,’ Tommy says.
‘If yous need anything else, Brendan knows where to find me. I’ll be watching the news, shall I?’ Before there’s any answer he strolls away, whistling, leaping the barrier at the exit.
‘Is he alright?’ I ask.
‘Dead on,’ Tommy says. ‘Anyway, he knows nothing ’cept he’s been minding a mate’s car.’
They transfer the bomb to the boot and Tommy primes it; I watch, taking every chance to learn. When he’s done I get into the driver’s seat. Liam taught me to drive months ago and I’ve been practising in the van to be ready for today but the pre-mission cocktail of adrenalin and anxiety impairs my co-ordination. I stall at the barrier. Breathing curses, I restart the engine. The clock on the machine says 6:50. I’ve got to get the car in place before London is awake. I slot the ticket in. The barrier lifts and I’m away.
South Carriage Drive runs south of the Serpentine. Trees line the road’s lake side. In a few hours tourists will shelter under them, waiting for the parade. I decide to park across the road, in front of the commercial properties there. It’s the only compromise I can make. I climb out, tuck my gloves away because it’s a warm morning, and walk to the bus stop without a backward glance.
Brendan and I, posing as Mr and Mrs Ordinary, forgotten before we’re noticed, stroll among joggers and city workers criss-crossing Hyde Park. He links his arm through mine. I shudder and wish he’d let Joe or Tommy come with me instead. But he set the exam, now he wants to grade my performance. He carries the camera. I wear the short dark wig. The detonator is in my handbag. He buys tea from a stall and we sit on a bench. A dapper old gent opposite doffs his trilby and smiles a greeting. Brendan nods back. I force a smile and focus on forgetting the man’s face, in case later he’s o
ne of the dead. Brendan checks his watch. He keeps checking it. At 10.30 he nods to me and I reach into my bag, feeling for the two switches that power up the remote control and transmit the signal.
‘Come on,’ he hisses.
I flick the switches and pull my hand out, clutching a packet of cigarettes.
In the millisecond between button-press and boom that divides ‘before’ and ‘after’ a hand lets go of a balloon and it’s lost forever.
A bang echoes through the park.
People stop, look at each other. Some start heading for the sound.
Brendan takes the cigarettes, lights one and stands.
‘Let’s go.’
We flow with the curious, blown towards the epicentre.
As we get closer, cries and sirens hurry us along. Ahead people are scattered under the trees, some running, others frozen. The smell of burning meat wafts over. I hear the whinnying of horses. Brendan grips my elbow, restraining, not supporting.
A woman is on the ground, her hands pressed to her thigh. Blood seeps between her fingers.
I pull free, go to her, kneeling down, gathering words in my head, making sure they’ll sound English when I say them.
‘Are you alright? What’s happened?’
‘I don’t know. Oh God.’
‘I’ll get someone for you.’
I sprint from the park and into a dense cloud of dazed and wounded bystanders. Ambulances are arriving. The Met boys are already here. More pull up as I watch. Across the street the Marina is belly-up, flipped by the blast.
On the tarmac, lying on their sides, are seven beautiful black horses.
‘I’m a first-aider. Are you hurt, love?’ a man asks.
‘No but there’s a woman over there.’ I point towards the trees.
‘Thanks.’ He dashes off.
The police set up a cordon, clear the street. Paramedics dart through the swirling crowd. One crouches beside a fallen soldier. A colleague races to help but the first shakes his head.
A car pulls up. A man in a tweed jacket and brown trousers scrambles out and goes to the nearest policeman. They talk for a minute, the copper pointing to the horses. The man fetches a bag from his car and crosses to the injured animals, moving on quickly from the first two but stopping at the third, stroking his hands over the horse’s flank. At his touch the horse lifts its head and neighs a feeble plea. The vet keeps stroking, his lips moving, crooning a comfort. One hand caressing the horse’s neck, he reaches into his bag with the other.
‘What the hell’re ya doing?’ Brendan spits in my ear. He yanks my arm.
‘Get off me,’ I reply. ‘Unless you’re wanting me to ‘go hysterical’ in front of all these peelers.’
He lets go.
The vet stands. In his hand is a bolt gun. Arms outstretched, he aims for the horse’s forehead. There’s a shot. People freeze again in the cold-water shock of panic and fear. The vet replaces the gun in his bag and moves to the next horse. I hear more shots as Brendan drags me up the road, his hand crushing my arm.
The bombings headline the lunchtime news. The explosion in Regent’s Park only went off at 12.30 so reports of that are sketchy. Three Blues and Royals are dead from the Hyde Park blast. A third is on life support. An unspecified number of civilians are injured. Seven horses have been killed. Tommy’s chin quivers at this news and Joe mutters, ‘Ach, them poor creatures.’ Brendan’s hand trembles as he reaches for a cigarette but he says nothing. I wish I’d thought about the horses before; maybe he would’ve listened to that argument. The newsreader continues:
‘Reports from Regent’s Park are yet to confirm casualties. There is speculation the IRA were behind the attacks.’
Our statement’s not been issued yet.
Brendan threatens, again, to have me dismissed, this time with ignominy, for breaking the execute-and-leave protocol to help that woman in the park. He’s on stable ground and I’m falling. I stew over an essential apology but before I get it out he starts calling me the usual names. Savaged by his patriarchal bullshit I retaliate, calling him a pathetic prehistoric wanker, telling him I know his barbaric plans were about beating me, not winning the war and countering his attempts to corner me with a threat to report him for that, and for hitting me. Tommy and Joe try reasoning, pleading, shushing. Brendan keeps raging, giving up ground with every bigoted insult. I force down futile arguments, win by regaining control first. Defeated by my silence his threats wither; he’ll report my misconduct, have me recalled. When the filtering new reports don’t mention either a young woman with short dark hair or a round-faced older man he sulks out. I seethe. I let him bait me and fucked up because of it. But the harder the lesson the more it’s worth learning. I apologise to Tommy and Joe for putting us in jeopardy. They forgive me, blame Brendan. But the fault’s not all his; I insist on that. They reassure; I’ve taken an undeserved drubbing from Brendan. Taken it, Tommy points out, survived it. Done my duty despite it. I’m the stronger for it.
Maybe, once I recover.
Joe makes tea. Tommy makes me sit. A marathon runner at race end, I collapse into myself, let them mother me and guiltily enjoy it.
The mission’s success is marked soberly that night, each of us cocooned in the memories that led us here. We drink to lost comrades, murdered loved ones and to Martin Hurson, hunger striker number six who died a year and a week ago.
Shockwaves mushroom out, bowl into me, washing over me in a hot plume of energy, hurtling me skyward. I flounder in air, clawing for a hold on nothing. I fall, the ground rushing up to me, the space shrinking, time compressing. In less than a second I will be dead.
I wake with a jolt; sink back onto the sweat-soaked pillow.
I stand over a sleek black horse. It lies in the road, a jagged pink gash startling against the dark flank. It rolls its head back. Warm brown eyes plead for mercy. In my hand is a gun. I pull the trigger but the gun only clicks. I pull again. Another empty click. The horse whinnies. I crouch, put out a hand and stroke the silky neck, soothing pain. Under my touch the horse starts to shrink. There’s a moment of relief when I think it will vanish into its own suffering. But as the dark neck becomes shorter it pales, pink skin breaking through the glossy coat. The mane grows in reverse, shortening into a man’s dark tousled hair. The front legs become arms clad in a leather sleeves; the back ones wear blue denim. The hooves are hands, feet wearing mud spattered boots. The brown eyes blue. The horse is Aiden. The pink wound is in his chest. He licks bloodless lips, croaks:
‘Le do thoil.’
I aim again, pull the trigger again. And again. And again. Click follows click, the hammer striking a cruelly empty chamber. His eyes stay on mine, the blue fading to grey.
When I wake for the second time, shaking and breathless, I vow I’ll never do another no-warning bombing. I’ll fight as fairly as the enemy will let me.
IRA Carnage in Royal Parks
Massacre Kills Eleven Men
and Seven Horses
In a statement issued yesterday the Provision IRA claimed responsibility for two bomb attacks which took place on 20th July in Hyde Park and Regent’s Park.
The first explosion, at 10.30 A.M., killed three members of the Household Cavalry, the Blues and Royals. A fourth man, the regiment’s standard bearer, died later in hospital. Seven horses were also killed, some needing to be euthanised at the scene. An eighth horse, Sefton, and his rider, are receiving treatment for their injuries.
The second explosion, in Regent’s Park, occurred at 12.30 P.M., as members of the Royal Green Jackets regimental band were performing numbers from the musical Oliver! Seven bandsmen were killed at the scene and witnesses reported seeing one man thrown thirty yards onto an iron fence by the blast.
There were civilian casualties at both locations and police said it was a miracle there were no fatalities among those gathered to watch the changing of the guard or concert.
In their statement, echoing the prime minister’s recent words about the Falklands c
onflict, the IRA said, ‘The Irish people have sovereign and national rights which no task or occupation force can put down.’
Visiting injured servicemen, Margaret Thatcher said, ‘Our anger at those who did this is total. They’re just barbaric and vicious, the people who did this.’
The next courier drop brings much needed money and a letter for me, marked with my initials but not by Aiden’s hand. My heart stops.
He’s dead. This is from his OC. ‘With deepest regret etc.’
All the way back to the safe house the letter smoulders in my pocket while dread corrodes my heart.
Alone in my room, shaking fingers tear raggedly into the envelope. It’s a coded instruction for me to ring a number I don’t recognise at a precise date and time.
If Aiden was… would they…? The ‘no personal contact’ rule is theirs to break. But they wouldn’t. The most important thing is security.
Bollocks. It must be from high up. Who else would contact me like this? They’ve caught on to me using military channels for personal communications. A flush of panic scorches my face. I’m finished.
It’s no more than I deserve.
Two days later I sneak out to make the dreaded call, resigned to my punishment.
Inside the phone box I dial with fear-drunk fingers, listen to the ring and wait for the expected male voice that’ll summon me to the court-martial ending my IRA activism.
A woman answers.
‘Hello?’
‘Caoilainn, is that yourself?’
‘Nora?’
‘Aye, love it’s me. Thank goodness you got my message.’
What the fuck…? Overwhelmed by the reprieve, stunned by the reality, instilled instincts take charge.
Herself Alone in Orange Rain Page 17