Herself Alone in Orange Rain

by Tracey Iceton

  Panicked by his presence here, in the kitchen of a safe house no one’s meant to know about, I pitch uncatchable questions at him.

  ‘What’re you doing here? How did you find us? What’s going on? How did you get here?’

  ‘Steady, Caoilainn,’ Tommy cautions. ‘We’re OK. He’s been careful. We’re not exposed.’

  ‘Connor wrote to me,’ Danny explains, ‘said where he was.’

  ‘He’d no right,’ I snap, horrified by Connor’s breach, the piling calamities.

  ‘I haven’t told anyone,’ Danny insists.

  ‘Sure, Connor was just wanting some contact with home,’ Tommy excuses.

  ‘And we don’t?’

  ‘But you can understand,’ Briege says, laying her hand on my arm, ‘after everything he’s been through.’

  I shake my head. I can understand. Bollocks. But, fuck sake, secrecy is our only armour-plating. And fuck knows what the fallout of this’ll be. I picture the car on Knightsbridge, the bomb quietly ticking time away…

  ‘You’ve no business coming here, Danny. Whatever’s happened at home, you being here makes things worse for all of us.’ I go to him, snatch his cigarette. ‘And you’re too young for these.’

  ‘I’m not a fucking baby; I’m seventeen.’

  I slap his face. It crumbles as it did before; he’s a child again. He storms to the backdoor and dashes up the garden. A second too late I realise it’s Connor I should be caning.

  ‘Caoilainn.’ Tommy pats my shoulder. ‘You best sit down.’

  Aiden collects Colm from the farm. Colm has the two Armalites, both empty, that are for returning to the cache. Wee Brian is with him, their latest recruit. Colm suggests he comes along to see the armoury. There’s no harm so Aiden agrees. Colm’s ma was making soda bread in the kitchen and heard them so this much is known, reported and reportable.

  The cache is a dugout under a hawthorn bush in a field. (The brigade QM confirms this later.) Aiden parks in the lane below. Colm and Brian head for it, each carrying a weapon. The Armalite is heavy in Brian’s hands. Maybe he remembers the stuttering kick against his shoulder when he first fired one during training. Maybe Colm hurries them; perhaps his brother is having a few pints in town and he wants to get along.

  In the car Aiden probably lights a cigarette and idly watches their progress across the sodden ground. Maybe he thinks about me, will I be home for Christmas? Maybe he tries to remember the smell of my hair, the warmth of my skin, the feel of my lips on his. Maybe he wonders what’s for tea.

  Soldiers spring up—a fact vague enough to make it admissible in BA records.

  Aiden drops his cigarette and scrabbles in the glove box for his handgun which is found later by his OC in the top drawer of the bureau in Mrs Donovan’s spare bedroom.

  The soldiers shout. Colm half-turns to the sound, the Armalite held loosely by his leg. As the bullets strike his side and back he might just have time to think he won’t be joining his brother for that drink later. Does he die looking into Brian’s terrified eyes? He falls as the guns sight Brian.

  Aiden remembers where he left his gun. Probably he swears. Fuck. Bollocks. Jesus Christ. Colm and Brian are dead. He starts the car, too hurried to close the glove box. The soldiers hear and turn on him, opening fire as he reverses up the lane. Bullets strike the windscreen, shattering it. More strafe the sides. Aiden feels the heat of one in his thigh, another in his shoulder, a third in his belly. Blood pools in his lap. Sweat and pain pour off him. He swings the car round and speeds away, bouncing off the grass verge, the road blurred and shimmering. The physical evidence, skid-marks, bullet holes, blood stains, recount all this.

  He knows he has to get help. He heads for Jim’s place, over the ridge.

  The car crashes against something. Aiden staggers from the wreck, clutching his side, hands slick with his own blood. Jim’s wife opens the door, taking on the bloody story. Aiden collapses into her arms, smearing red palm prints onto her pale blue blouse. She drags him inside. Jim is away but she knows what to do. She calls the doctor they use, presses towels to Aiden’s wounds, keeps talking to him.

  Aiden hears her voice. They say it’s the last sense to fade. Maybe he thinks it’s me; Jim’s wife is blonde too. He raises a hand, feels warm fingers wrapped around his cold ones, squeezing gently. He takes a breath. His chest is loaded with a crushing pressure. Air come slowly, through a straw. It isn’t enough. He takes another breath. The pressure doubles. He can’t understand why I don’t lift the weight from his chest so he can breathe. He looks at the hazy face bending down to his, fair hair falling into my eyes. He wills himself to live for me. He fights for that next breath, gasping, guttering, drowning in a red vortex…

  I stop here, afraid of wrongly reconstructing his last thoughts.

  Tommy starts at the end. Danny arrived an hour ago after three days hitching down from Stranraer with two quid in his pocket. He’s run away. Because Aiden’s dead and he didn’t know what else to do. Briege utters a prayer and crosses herself. I walk slowly into the garden, to where Danny stands swallowing tears, kicking the straggly perennials that border the lawn. I hug him. He sniffles against my neck. I think about Connor’s security breach, scripting the words I’ll have with him over it. Doing that is better than scripting the words I’ll never be able to have with Aiden.

  We’re still outside, clinging to each other, when Joe and Connor return. He comes to us and Danny pulls away, wiping his nose on his sleeve.

  ‘Hey, kiddo,’ Connor says, and hugs his baby brother.

  I go to leave them but Connor catches my arm.

  ‘Where’re you off? Come here.’ He draws me back and the three of us fall in on each other.

  I postpone reprimanding Connor until after tea when I take him into the lounge and shut the door.

  He reaches out to hug me. I draw back.

  ‘You told Danny our address.’

  His expression morphs into surprise. ‘That’s what you’re wanting to talk about? My brother, your husband, has been murdered by the Brits and you’re gonna give me a telling off for writing home.’

  ‘For risking exposing us,’ I correct calmly.

  ‘Jesus, what kind of woman are you?’

  The bullet goes straight to my heart. I’m afraid of the answer. I give myself five, then five more, seconds, to recover.

  ‘This cell is my responsibility but we depend on each other. Our first, most important, duty is not to family, or home, or even missions; it’s to each other. Because over here that’s all we have.’ My voice volumes up. I stop to turn it down. ‘Connor, you can’t do stuff like that.’

  ‘And you can’t do shite like this,’ he rages.

  ‘Yes, I bloody well can. It’s my job,’ I snap. ‘Consider this an official warning. The only one you’ll get. And yous are both going home as soon as I can arrange it.’

  The door bangs open. Danny is there, face screwed down, hands balled into fists.

  ‘Stop yelling at each other,’ he screams. ‘Stop it. Stop it!’ He turns and runs. Three strides and he makes the front door, bangs through it.

  I chase after him. Catch up a few houses down the road and manage to get a hand to his jumper. I claw at it, miss with the first go but get a decent hold with the second, hauling him to a halt. He tries to fight free.

  ‘You’ll tear it,’ I warn.

  The motherly words press some kind of pause button on him and he surrenders. I let go and we stand in the street, gulping down air.

  ‘This is why you shouldn’t be smoking,’ I say with a wry smile. ‘You’ll be puffed out and run out.’ I throw a sisterly punch at his arm.

  He looks down at his trainers, scuffs them over the tarmac.

  ‘Sorry,’ he mumbles.

  ‘Me too.’ I squeeze his arm. ‘Come on, it’s cold, let’s get in.’

  I nudge him towards the house but he doesn’t move. He rubs a hand through his hair again; my heart cries.

  ‘Can’t I stay here?’


  ‘It’s not safe. Anyway, I don’t even know if we’ll be staying.’

  ‘I want to do something,’ he says.

  ‘And you can, when you’re eighteen.’

  ‘I don’t want to wait.’

  ‘You have to.’

  We lock eyes, deer locking antlers. He’s thinking it’s not fair. He’s thinking he hates me. He’s thinking of running. He’s thinking he’ll do anything to get rid of the pain.

  If I don’t stop him he won’t see eighteen.

  I grab his arm, crush down through polyester, skin, flesh. Pain flickers across his face. He wriggles but I’m on a familiar nerve and the more he fights the worse it hurts.

  ‘Caoilainn, you’re…’

  ‘I know.’ My grip tightened on bone, I pull him back to the house.

  Connor and Briege are huddled in the doorway, watching for us. I tow Danny through to the lounge.

  ‘Sit.’ I shove him into a chair

  He surreptitiously rubs his aching bicep.

  I flick the television on, looking for what I’m dreading, what I’ve been shirking.

  ‘You’ve no idea what it’s like, doing what we do.’ I find the news. ‘See that?’ I point at the stuttering images of people, their faces smut-stained and bloodied, fleeing a smoke-filled Harrods. ‘We, I, did that. The agony that’s been tearing through you since you heard about Aiden, these people, their families, tonight they’ll be feeling the same way. How do you live with that?’

  ‘You don’t think about it,’ he challenges.

  ‘Yes, you do, no matter how hard you fight not to.’

  His gaze slides off the screen. I turn the volume up, making us both listen to a bystander telling us we’re cowardly murderers.

  ‘That’s me he’s talking about. And Connor. And Aiden. Every volunteer. You, if that’s what you choose.’

  Danny snuffles, wipes at his nose. I sit next to him.

  ‘I’m not trying to keep you from joining, but you’ve got to be doing it for the right reason. If you’re not, you’ll never survive in here.’ I tap his forehead.

  He nods.

  I glance again at the screen, listing those right reasons in my head. The camera pans along the street, showing the charred building, survivors squatting amongst the ruins. One of them, a man, turns, looks into the unblinking lens, looks straight at me. It’s Aiden. I stand. The man rubs his grimy cheek. It’s not Aiden. Of course it’s not. I fragment, crumbling onto the sofa. I’m ash, scattered by the breeze. Danny sniffs again. The sound draws me together.

  ‘It’s got to be justified. And it’s not if you’re doing it for revenge, for Aiden or anyone else. Promise you won’t do anything until you’re ready to live with it as well as die for it.’

  ‘OK. I promise.’

  The door creaks behind me. Connor is hovering. He’s wiping his eyes, smiling a small, meek smile and nodding his head. He’s heard the answer to his question, he thinks, about what kind of woman I am; I heard it too, but I can’t believe in it.

  The only luck the Irish have is bad. Because of Danny turning up today of all bastard days they didn’t ring the warning through until 12.50. The bomb went off at 1.30. The media crucify us. The IRA statement counters, saying the warning was adequate. I know it wasn’t. I also know it wasn’t our fault. Six people are killed, three of them civilians, ninety are injured. I cry for them, locked in the bathroom because it’s the only place I can be alone. I cry for their families. I don’t cry for myself: for Aiden. If I did, it would kill me.

  Running hard trying to outrun it keeping ahead of the shockwave cloud running with feet and thighs arms and hands lungs and heart running in fear panic despair away from the noise the light the heat hoping you can run to safety as brick and rubble somersault through air hit pavement people fall behind fall down fall dead you keep running back to the invisible plume that mushrooms through space through no space spraying glass flying rubble gushing smoke you run over ground that drops away you pass a hand a leg a torso a head flecked with red grey black you see the end flashing blue slices of luminous yellow the finishing line you keep running feeling the resistance of air like a brick wall blast against your chest knowing their waiting arms will grab you pull you in stop you you keep running driven by the cracking crumbling ending of everything.

  You stop running.

  It is the only dream I’ve had where I’m on the other side.

  I creep downstairs, find Connor on the sofa, smoking his way through a pack. Danny’s in Connor’s room tucked up, not sleeping. He’s been here four days and we’ve decided he’ll have to stay until after Christmas. Connor makes room for me on the couch.

  ‘How’re ya?’

  I shake my head. He tosses over his cigarettes.

  ‘How did you do it, in the Kesh?’

  He sits up. ‘Ya mean the strike?’

  ‘All of it. How did you keep going?’

  ‘It’s that or be beaten,’ he says.

  ‘But weren’t you? Aren’t we?’

  He grabs my hand. ‘As long as we’re still fighting, they can’t win.’

  ‘But we can lose.’

  He sighs. ‘If you want out of the Movement no-one’ll think badly of you for it; you’ve done your bit, so you have.’

  If I quit it’ll all have been for nothing. If I go on there might be nothing left. Another no-choice choice. I won’t know until the last second of my life if the decisions I’ve made are right: Aiden, wishing he’d parked somewhere else, not forgotten his gun; the people in Harrods, wishing they hadn’t come shopping; my ma and da, wishing they’d picked home with me instead of away on a mission.

  ‘Do ya, want out?’ Connor asks.

  The question hurtles towards me, transforming midair into some fragile, precious thing. Yes or no? Drop or catch? I stretch my hands out…

  ‘Don’t know that I’ve a choice after this,’ I reply, aware the real answer doesn’t exist yet.

  ‘Don’t be daft,’ he says. ‘They’re just wanting a report from you.’

  ‘They didn’t call Brendan back after Hyde Park.’

  ‘Because they were planning on pulling him. This isn’t like that,’ he tells me.

  ‘What is it like? How’m I gonna explain this?’

  ‘It’s not your fault. If those SAS bastards hadn’t…’

  The enemy exploits a volunteer’s mistakes.

  ‘Don’t, Connor.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because it’s fair enough, isn’t it?’

  ‘Jesus, they were unarmed. They didn’t have a chance.’

  ‘And if it’d been the other way round, wouldn’t we have done the same? Haven’t we already, shooting off-duty UDR lads, squaddies, peelers?’

  ‘And what’re we supposed to do?’

  ‘Nothing, just what we have. I’m not going against the armed struggle; I’m saying this is what it is: war. Enemy killing enemy. We’ve to accept that. But when civilians are hurt…’

  ‘That’s down to the Brits,’ Connor says. ‘They’re why we’re doing this.’

  For the next few days unanswerable questions hover in the air above me. I think over everything from my life, Daideo’s and beyond, out of memory; I predict, playing out hypotheticals and correcting for a cross-wind. I step back far enough to watch things in slow motion and come in close enough to see every detail. Then I go for the catch: make it. Relief gushes over me; I know it’s the right answer.

  On Christmas day Briege produces a stash of goodies, bought bit by bit with her miserly pay so she can do a decent dinner. I send Joe to the pub with our last tenner and he returns with bottles of Newcastle Brown and a half bottle of Bells. We pull his leg about it being Scotch instead of Irish, pretending to be poisoned by the first sip. He offers to drink it all himself, leading to more jibing about his imagined inability to hold liquor. We laugh, even Danny, who sneaks a tipple when he thinks I’m not looking. There are no presents or crackers and we don’t have a pudding slathered in rum sauce but we have Ir
ish humour and that sees us through until the Queen starts her speech, providing us with thirty minutes of booing and cursing at the telly, releasing anger and pain we can’t vent any other way. Briege does the washing up while we’re swearing our heads off and when Connor goes too far I send him in to help her. When Liz is done, I get up to fetch the biscuit selection given to Tommy and Joe by a grateful widow as a thank-you for fixing her boiler two days before Christmas. In the kitchen steam rises from the foamy sink; dishes, in various stages of washing, are stacked on the counters. Connor and Briege are locked into a deep kiss. I creep out.

  The day after Boxing Day we meet a courier bringing two more fake Irish passports, one for me and one for Danny. They’re in the name of O’Leary to match Connor’s. The three of us will travel to Ireland as a warped version of ourselves; Mr and Mrs plus kid brother.

  Joe drops us at Heathrow and we fly direct to Dublin. Connor’s beard and the forged passports coupled with the general lethargy of an immigration officer with a post-Christmas hangover gets us through and I take them straight to Daideo’s house.

  That’s what it’s reverted to now it won’t be mine and Aiden’s. The place is cold. The power’s been cut. Three red bills lurk on the mat. I use them to light the fire. Connor goes to the corner shop for crisps and pop. At 3 o’clock I leave for my meeting at the florist’s.

  The shop is in darkness. A silver Rover is parked outside. As I walk over the front window drops and the driver says:

  ‘Get in.’

  He drives through the university quarter and towards Rathfarnham. The modest semi he parks at has Christmas lights twinkling in the window.

  The driver stays in the car, watching me walk up the neatly paved path to the freshly painted door, nerves sweating from me despite the December chill.

  A man I don’t know opens it.