Herself Alone in Orange Rain

by Tracey Iceton

  Connor can’t adjust. He panics if we shut doors. He can’t sleep inside so Tommy and Joe pitch a tent in the backyard and he sleeps there. He won’t leave the house but doesn’t like being left in alone. I give up my straggling art class, life drawing this term, to stay with him but being cooped up drives me crazy and too many times I ride off on the Honda, worries pounding my head. We’re not a rest home for recuperating Republicans; we’re an ASU; without meaning to, Connor could expose us. He nearly does once, sleepwalking outside in his underwear. Sheila sees Tommy and me coaxing him inside at midnight and asks who he is. Using a small truth to camouflage a bigger lie, I tell her he’s a relation of mine, just released from prison. She repeats her favourite phrase, ‘Men!’ and leaves it there.

  Briege is the only one who can handle Connor. She’s patient when Tommy, Joe and I are irritable. She sits, talking to him in soft Irish, holding his hand. She cooks proper Irish dinners; Connor begins to lose his death-grey pallor. My jeans bite into my waist and I blame Briege’s hearty plates of coddle and stew. One day she persuades him to walk to the corner. The next day they make it as far as the bus stop but Connor won’t get on. The underground is unthinkable. Gradually she gets him to a nearby park, into a newsagents, the corner pub, into the van so Tommy can drive them to the outer reaches of Connor’s universe: Richmond Park. He’ll have to leave soon, should be gone already. Every day he’s here we’re teetering on a precarious outcrop. But I fear sending him away’ll cause us to topple and fall; you don’t leave a trail for others to track if you’re not on the move. I resolve to sit still a bit longer, waiting until I’m as sure as possible that we’re not being stalked.

  By the end of October two things are confirmed: Harrods will be the target for the Christmas campaign and I’m pregnant. Joe and Tommy take turns recceing Knightsbridge with me, carrying shopping bags, pretending to be bored boyfriends. Tommy gathers supplies for the bomb. Joe buys a second hand banger, a red Triumph, rents a lock-up and leaves it there. Briege baby-sits Connor.

  I arrange an abortion, no ‘soul searching’, ‘looking into my heart’ or ‘sleeping on it’. The Army claims your total allegiance without reservation…it fragments your family. I convince myself it’s the right thing. This life is my choice but I won’t chose it for someone else. That wouldn’t be fair.

  Not able to shoulder their guilt when I’m buckling under my own I tell Briege and the lads GHQ have called me over to discuss the mission and I’ll be gone a few days. Then I check into a shabby hotel in Earl’s Court for a three night stay. In the morning I take the tube to the clinic. The doctor is Asian and avuncular. He talks me through the procedure, describing how they will open my cervix, insert a tube into my womb and vacuum out the foetus. I listen, expressionless. He reads my forms and, so he can be confident this is the right decision for me, asks me why I want this. An antagonistic voice in my brain screams, ‘Because there’s a good chance I’ll be spending the rest of my life in jail for terrorist atrocities.’ I silence it, saying that I have to; it’s a no-choice choice. Maybe it’s my unemotional tone, or the blank look in my eyes but all he says is:

  ‘You’re on your own?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Today, I mean,’ he clarifies. ‘You didn’t bring a friend?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘But you want to go home today?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘We don’t let people leave alone after they’ve had a general anaesthetic.’

  ‘Can’t I have a local?’

  ‘That is possible,’ he nods, ‘but some women find it harder, being awake during the procedure.’

  ‘I’ll be fine.’

  ‘If you’re sure?’

  ‘Yes.’

  There’s a pause.

  ‘This won’t have any detrimental effect on your future fertility,’ he concludes.

  I paste on a polite smile.

  I lie, legs apart, knees in the stirrups. A well-meaning nurse holds my hand. The doctor rolls over on a wheeled stool, his head disappearing into my crotch. I focus on the ceiling, try projecting Daideo’s ‘Green Dawn’ painting like I practised during training, for resisting interrogations, but the image won’t come. Instead, a single line of Celtic-lettered text writes itself on the iceberg-white tiles: our revenge will be the laughter of our children. How can we ever win if there’s no one left to live the victory? The suction device is turned on, whirring like a vacuum cleaner. Memories rush at me: the old man I shot, his head blown apart; Cathy in her bloodstained jumper; the maimed horses, lying on their sides; the carnage outside the embassy in Dublin; Daideo’s emaciated form, upright and sightless in his armchair. I can’t stop them so I feed off them, vowing to make every sacrificed life matter.

  By three o’clock, loaded with painkillers, I’m returning to the hotel. On the way I stop at an off-licence, buying a bottle of Jamesons. The cramps start later. I swallow more pills and drink until I’m numb.

  The next day I’m weak, drained, and sleep fitfully, waking to a siren, shouting, bins clanging. I drag myself into the grim bathroom a dozen times to change the blood-sodden pads wadded in my knickers. There’s more blood on the sheets. I’m too tired to care and lie on the sticky stain as the day darkens to night.

  It’s still early when someone raps on the door. I stumble up and open it. A swarthy middle-aged woman, grubby apron over her tracksuit, peers through the crack.

  ‘You go now,’ she says. ‘Check out or Lady be mad.’ She means the surly, bottle-brunette manageress who rules reception.

  ‘Isn’t checkout 10.30?’

  ‘Yes, but Lady mean, always make people go soon. I tell you so you no get into trouble.’

  ‘Thanks, but I’m not ready yet,’ I say. ‘I’ll go when I’m ready.’

  ‘When you be ready?’

  ‘10.30.’

  The elderly cleaner grins. ‘You brave girl,’ she says and waddles off down the passageway.

  I close the door and slide into a crumpled squat on the floor, laughing, crying, my stomach throbbing.

  I’m back in Putney by teatime. The bleeding has slowed and the pain eased.

  Tommy calls out as I enter and I follow his voice into the front room.

  They’re waiting for me. Tommy stands. Joe stares. Briege avoids my eyes. Connor fumbles for a cigarette.

  ‘Where the fuck have you been?’ Tommy demands.

  ‘What?’

  ‘You heard.’ He strides over, slamming the door closed behind me. The bang resounds in my head. ‘’Cos you haven’t been in Dublin.’

  I say nothing.

  ‘We rang GHQ. You weren’t there. So where the fuck were you?’

  His arm twitches. I look down; he’s holding a gun. We never have guns in the house. We can get them but only for operations, like when Joe and Tommy were doing the bandstand. I’m trapped between a lie that’ll get me shot for a tout and a truth that’ll have me crucified as a baby-killer. Another no-choice choice.

  ‘Not that it’s any of your fucking business but I’ve been in Earl’s Court, having an abortion.’

  Briege yelps then covers her mouth. Tommy steps back. Joe glances away. Connor stares at me.

  I snatch the gun off Tommy. ‘Gimme that. What the hell were yous gonna do, shoot me in the kitchen, dig me into the garden? Eejits.’ I unload it.

  ‘Caoilainn, Christ, why didn’t you say?’ Joe asks.

  ‘Because of this.’ I wave the empty gun over them. ‘The looks on your faces. I’ve enough to deal with without your Catholic guilt. Here,’ I toss Joe the gun, ‘get this back to the cache now or I’ll have the lot of yous on a charge: taking weapons without the cell leader’s consent.’

  I storm out. Across the road Sheila is struggling the pushchair down the steps while trying to hold onto the wee man. She sees me and waves. I ache to go over, lend a hand, give her chance to ask me so I can confide, cry, be consoled. But I fucking can’t because of who we are, not two women fighting our way through a manmade world but one
woman and one Irish Republican Army volunteer, fighting in parallel, but very different, worlds. I wave and turn away, walking in the opposite direction to the park Sheila is heading for, where kids go to play. On the corner I look back, see her bending to check inside the pushchair before zipping up the oldest’s coat.

  When you have the most, you have the most to lose.

  I regret nothing.

  I return to apologies and awkward glances. Briege hugs me. Tommy mutters something supportive. Joe makes tea. Connor is quiet. He stays up after the others go to bed and I brace for the accusations.

  ‘It was Aiden’s?’

  I resolve to be calm. There’s no need for anything else.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Did you tell him?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Will you?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘He’s a right to know.’

  ‘But he deserves not to.’

  Connor exhales a cloud of cigarette smoke, screening his face.

  ‘You could’ve given this up.’

  ‘And Aiden?’

  Connor shrugs. ‘It’s his duty.’

  ‘But not mine? Christ sake, Connor, after what you’ve put yourself through how can you ask me to quit this?’

  The smoke clears. He rubs his eyes. ‘Because of what I’ve been through, that’s how.’ He sighs. ‘If we ever get the Six back there’ll not be a man fit for it. Look at the state of me, Caoilainn.’

  ‘Give yourself time, you’ll be fine.’

  His shoulders shake. He covers his face with his hands. I think of calling Briege, end up cradling him, stroking his hair. He sobs. My shirt is soaked. We don’t speak. When he settles I get the Jamesons from my bag. We empty the half-full bottle and Connor falls asleep on the couch. I leave him there, hoping he’ll stay indoors tonight. In the morning the sofa is cold and Connor curled up in his tent.

  Sitting round the kitchen table, sink full of plates spattered with the remains of one of Briege’s stews, we finalise the Harrods plan. We’re after maximum chaos but minimum casualties so it’s a lunchtime attack with a proper warning, a car bomb on a timer, parked up mid-morning in Knightsbridge. There’s a debate about who’ll do this. Although we’re a team and not ruled by ranks, officially I’m in charge so when there’s disagreement the decision’s mine. And it’s easy. I don’t want Briege having the responsibility so soon and it’ll be harder for Tommy or Joe to blend into the crowd of shoppers and city workers. I can wear one of the wigs, a sharp suit and park up as though I’m going shopping, slip into the nearest public loo, where Briege will be waiting, change and the two of us can leave inconspicuously on foot together.

  ‘One of you can ring the warning through,’ I tell Tommy and Joe.

  ‘I’ll do it,’ Connor offers.

  ‘You’re not here on active duty,’ I remind him. ‘You’re laying low until we can safely move you somewhere secure: suitable.’

  ‘Please, let me be useful,’ he begs.

  ‘You’re not fit for it.’

  ‘And I won’t ever be if I don’t start up again.’

  His eyes flash with anger but I know it’s himself, not me, he’s raging against. He needs this.

  ‘OK., but take one of the lads with you,’ I agree.

  ‘I’ll go,’ Joe says.

  ‘I don’t need you to,’ Connor argues.

  ‘I’ve said,’ I reply. ‘This is important. I’m not having another Hyde Park.’

  Connor scowls but I’m right to insist; he’s still wobbly in public places.

  We agree on the 17th December. We have a month to get ready.

  Coalisland, Co. Tyrone—4th December, 1983

  SAS Ambush IRA Gunmen

  British special forces, on covert operations in East Tyrone, have shot dead two IRA men and wounded a third, who escaped. The operation took place near Coalisland, where, last month, three Protestant church elders were killed.

  An army spokesman said the SAS, who were patrolling in the vicinity, encountered two armed IRA men who failed to lay down their weapons when ordered. The soldiers opened fire, killing the two men instantly. A third man made off in a car. The SAS believe they shot and wounded the driver. The vehicle was found later with blood stains on the front seat.

  It is understood the two dead men, Brian Campbell (19) and Colm McGirr (23), were carrying machine gun-type weapons at the time of their deaths and there is speculation that they were approaching an IRA weapons dump. The Provisional IRA has yet to confirm the two dead men as members.

  Local Republicans accused the SAS of operating a ‘shoot to kill’ policy in Northern Ireland which endangers the lives of civilians. British army regulations give soldiers the authority to open fire without warning if there is a risk of injury to themselves or others.

  Police continue to hunt the third man.

  London—13th December, 1983

  Public Warned of Possible

  Christmas Bombings in the Capital

  The Metropolitan Police have issued a statement warning of a possible IRA pre-Christmas bombing campaign centred on London shopping districts.

  In the statement a spokesman for Scotland Yard said, ‘While we are not aware of any specific threat by the IRA, intelligence sources suggest there is a strong possibility that this terrorist organisation may target commercial properties in the run up to Christmas. We advise members of the public to remain vigilant and report anything suspicious.’

  Addressing the House of Commons shortly after the statement, Prime Minister Margaret Thatcher said, ‘We will not bow to terrorists and criminals.’

  London—17th December, 1983

  At 10 A.M. Tommy, Joe and I travel to the lock-up in the van. Tommy transfers the bomb to the car, resprayed black, sets the timer and checks everything. I wait in the van, trying not to get my new fawn skirt, cream sweater and red wool coat dirty. Around my neck is a string of costume pearls; matching studs adorn my ears. I wear the curly red wig and have the short dark one, plus another outfit, in a John Lewis bag.

  Joe signals to me. I scramble over lengths of pipe and tool boxes. Tommy moves the van while I get into the Triumph. I drive one way, they the other.

  I pass Harrods twice, searching for a suitable space. On the third loop a car indicates into traffic. I stop, letting the driver out, then nip into the gap. I put four hours on the meter. The ticket reads 11.23-15.23, enough time to collect the car if something goes wrong.

  I walk briskly along the Harrods shop-front, armpits damp, mouth dry, heart thrumming. Gaudy window displays advertise crap nobody needs; people rush to buy it before it sells out. I want to scream, laugh, cry. Now their biggest problem is what to get Aunt Mabel. Later it will be the ultimate ‘almost’ moment, a story they’ll tell over Christmas lunch. But at 1.30 they’ll be reminded that life is more than complaining about repeats on telly and checking their share dividends. If they could remember that for longer than five minutes, care about something other than their own needle-in-the-groove lives I wouldn’t be planting a bomb.

  I’m jolted and look down to see a little girl tumble to the pavement. Stunned by the fall, she stares up at me, eyes large. A woman crouches beside her.

  ‘Darling, are you alright? Let Mummy kiss it better.’

  Realising she’s supposed to be hurting, the girl bawls. I merge into the crowd, reassuring myself; we’ve prepped meticulously, there’s a proper warning, no one will die.

  I drift with the current of laden shoppers heading for the tube. Round the corner, passing Harvey Nichols, head light and stomach heavy, I cross to the Hyde Park Hotel and into the ladies’ room which Briege and I recced last week. Inside I enter the last cubicle but one and tap on the dividing wall. Briege taps back, then flushes her toilet. I do the same a beat later and when I emerge, outfit and wig swapped, Briege is at the mirror, powdering her nose. A matronly woman in tweeds, comes through the door. Briege and I greet each other with air kisses, exclamations of surprise and suggestions to take coffee. The woman
enters a cubicle. Briege and I leave.

  We take the Piccadilly line to Gloucester Road. Briege swaps to the District while I stay put. We arrive at the house a few minutes apart.

  ‘Fecking bus was late,’ she chunters as I unlock the door. ‘You OK?’

  ‘Dying to get these shoes off.’ I throw the door wide, kicking the crippling stilettos up the passage.

  She giggles.

  Tommy appears in the kitchen doorway. His face is white. The cigarette in his hand quivers.

  Briege stops laughing.

  ‘What’s up? Has something happened?’ I demand.

  Tommy nods.

  I charge at him. ‘Is it Joe and Connor? Aren’t they back yet? For God sake, tell me.’

  ‘We’re running behind, they’ve not long since set off.’

  I glance at my watch. ‘Jesus, Tommy, it’s gone half twelve. We said an hour’s warning. Was it Connor, did he…?’

  Tommy shakes his head. ‘Forget about the bloody warning, will ya? This is more important.’ He pushes open the kitchen door. Sitting with his back to me is a lad, dark tousled hair, wearing a leather jacket. He puts a hand to his head, rubbing fingers through his hair.

  ‘Aiden?’

  He turns. It’s Danny. I haven’t seen him since the wedding. A light shading of stubble stains his chin. His spindly frame is padded with budding strength. He’s smoking. He is the younger Aiden to Conner’s older one.