Herself Alone in Orange Rain

by Tracey Iceton

  Pat sits.

  A distant voice intones, ‘Go and announce the gospel of the Lord.’

  I hear Pat telling me we can leave, feel his hand on my shoulder, but I can’t reply or move. I’m behind glass.

  ‘Caoilainn.’

  The voice’s urgency scatters the haze. Noise and colour rush me as the congregation clatters out. I’m steered down the aisle.

  On the street I head for the seafront.

  ‘Where’re you going?’ Pat calls.

  ‘To see the sea.’

  The water is grey; wind whips white spray up from the waves. Dogs chase breakers that lap the shore in foamy clouds. A boy peddles his bicycle over the pebble-crust beach. I stand at the railings, picking at scales of flaking paint, watching the sea’s endless in-and-out motion, the world breathing.

  I find Pat on a nearby bench and join him.

  ‘What do you get from it?’ I ask.

  He fixes me with dark eyes. ‘Hope.’

  We normalise ourselves, visiting tourist attractions. Palace Pier is reassuringly kitsch, Victorian bawdiness and childish amusement wrapped in colourful paper. The aquarium is educational; Pat reads each exhibit’s information board.

  ‘Where is it?’ I ask at one tank, the home of the blue spotted stingray.

  ‘There.’ Pat points to a corner.

  Two small brown bobbles that I thought were pebbles blink at me. The ray flicks itself off the bottom, darts to the other side and shuggles back into the sand, blending with its surroundings.

  ‘The greatest danger’s the one you can’t see,’ Pat comments.

  At the Royal Pavilion we listen to the curator explaining how the former seaside palace of the Prince Regent was transformed into one of the most exotic buildings in the British Isles. Styled on an Indian palace, plump domes crown the roof, lattice-work panels adorn the walkways and minarets spike upwards, piercing the sky. The guide boasts that it’s a spectacular legacy of the British Empire. Pat and I swap glances.

  ‘Doesn’t something have to be dead to leave a legacy?’ I whisper.

  The next morning I pack while Pat arms the bomb. As I zip the case closed he emerges from the bathroom.

  ‘Ready?’

  ‘Aye. You?’

  ‘Just the timer to switch on.’ He hesitates. ‘Do you want to do it?’

  I’m culpable either way but if I do we can share the responsibility.

  ‘OK.’

  We crouch on the bathroom floor. I press the switch; Pat watches. Then he slides the bomb under the bath, replaces the panel, we collect our bags and check out.

  The flight from Heathrow to Dublin is uneventful. We’re met at the airport, driven to a house, not his, where Kevin meets us.

  ‘No problems?’ he asks.

  I think of my nightmare and going catatonic in church.

  ‘Not a one,’ Pat replies.

  ‘Grand. Here’s what we’re thinking for the statement.’ Kevin passes Pat a sheet of paper.

  The last line reads, ‘Give Ireland peace and there will be no war.’

  Pat nods. ‘Sure, that’s the truth.’

  We sip tea. Pat and Kevin chat. I fidget.

  Pat excuses himself to use the toilet; I pounce on the opportunity.

  ‘I want you to send me into Belfast.’

  ‘You ready for that?’

  ‘Yes.’

  He pouts. ‘We could use you up there. Did you hear about Sean? Lifted last week. Liam’s heading up things. He’d be glad to have you back.’

  ‘Fine.’

  An hour later Pat and I leave on foot, take the bus to town and part in the city centre.

  ‘Take care of yourself,’ he tells me.

  ‘You too. Thanks for not saying anything about…’

  ‘We’ve all got scars.’

  He shakes my hand, turns and vanishes in the crowd, lost among lunchtime shoppers, blending with his surroundings.

  Belfast—12th October, 1984

  Thatcher Cheats IRA Murder Plot in Brighton

  Cabinet Members Among Those Injured

  in Barbaric Bombing

  Margaret Thatcher has narrowly escaped death when, in the early hours of today, the Grand Hotel in Brighton became the latest target of terrorist atrocities. The huge blast, which ripped the building apart, claimed the lives of five people including the MP, Sir Anthony Berry. A further 34 were injured. Norman Tebbit, the trade and industry secretary, and his wife, were among those who had to be rescued from the rubble. They are being treated for serious injuries. The attack was a ruthless attempt to murder the Prime Minister and members of the Tory government gathered for the Conservative Party conference.

  In its statement the IRA admitted planting the massive bomb and threatened they would make further attempts to kill the PM saying, ‘Today we were unlucky, but remember, we only have to be lucky once. You have to be lucky always.’

  A resilient Mrs Thatcher insisted the conference continue on schedule and, despite nearly losing her life, used her speech to vow that terrorism would not defeat democracy. Calling the attack, ‘an inhuman, undiscriminating attempt to massacre innocent, unsuspecting men and women,’ she added, ‘The fact that we are gathered now… is a sign not only that this attack has failed but that all attempts to destroy democracy by terrorism will fail.’

  The explosion, at 2.53 A.M., caused the hotel’s five tonne central chimney to collapse, wiping out a large section of the eight storey building. Witnesses described hearing a huge bang and seeing a ‘torrent of rubble’ tearing through the hotel. John Gummer, Conservative Party Chairman, said the attack was, ‘Not military action but a cowardly act of terrorism.’

  We move every few days, dossing in various West Belfast homes, staying one step behind the Brits, going where they’ve just been with the idea that they won’t think to come back. The ASU is me, Rory, Ciaran and Danny, now eighteen: old enough to die.

  Ciaran’s twenty, from Fermanagh, been in the Movement a year, transferred to Belfast as part of the strategy to confuse Brit intelligence by having volunteers operate outside their home ranges. He works in a city centre bar as a cover. At first I’m not sure about him; he’s quiet around me, stares a lot. I wait, ready to cut him down the minute he criticises women in the Movement, but he doesn’t say anything so I tell Rory who howls with laughter. He’s told Ciaran about me; not the specific ops obviously, but generally that I’m dead on. It’s wide-eyed awe not narrow-minded chauvinism making him gape. One night, when Rory and Danny are on a recce, I have a chat with Ciaran. He blushes, smiles his shy admiration and says he’s chuffed to be working with me. I say, ‘And me with you.’ After that we’re OK.

  Danny’s a trickier problem. I always knew he’d join but that doesn’t stop me wishing he hadn’t. Father a Republican internee, one brother an escapee from the Kesh and two others in Milltown; he’s a known face. At sixteen the peelers did their usual number, pulling him, prints and photos for their files. His risk is twice ours because our mug shots aren’t pinned to the board in Castlereagh: yet. Not that I think he’ll get us lifted, we’re vigilant, but if that ever happens he’ll be the one IDed first; the one who’ll cop it for everything, anything, things we haven’t even done, because, with his background, he’ll be an easy fit up. Rory argues it’s better he’s with us; we can look out for him. I insist on extra precautions. Danny starts a mechanic’s apprenticeship with a fella called Mick, who runs a garage off the Falls. That keeps him busy most days; most nights he sleeps at home, keeping things normal. He doesn’t do an op alone. He only carries a gun when it’s essential.

  Rory and I are the unit’s full time volunteers. That means spending hours in other people’s kitchens, smoking ourselves to death, our stomachs awash with tea. Officially Rory is cell leader but he often asks my advice and we make decisions democratically. Liam checks in on us when he can but he’s running several cells across the city and he knows us too well to worry about us so we only see him sometimes. We’ve a good network of supporte
rs who give up their beds, cook our teas and wash our clothes. We do whatever is needed. Without noticing, I’ve become a veteran volunteer, aged twenty-two.

  ‘Mammy says Briege is up next week,’ Danny announces.

  We’re in the kitchen of a two-up off the Falls. The old woman and her hubby are in bed. Rory is trying to fix a handgun that keeps jamming. Ciaran thumbs a copy of Republican News. I’m watching the black and white portable in the corner. Thatcher is on. Her lips move. No sound comes out. I keep the volume off, something I’ve been doing since Brighton, because she can’t say anything I’d want to hear but seeing her stiff bouffant, stone eyes and that long sharp beak down which she views us with personal loathing keeps me burning. I don’t blame her for hating us: I thank her. If she won’t let it be political everything is justified.

  ‘She wants to know if you’ll come to tea?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘When Briege is here,’ Danny explains.

  I reach over the table. ‘Let me.’ I take the gun off Rory and start stripping it.

  ‘Don’t you want to see her?’ Danny presses.

  ‘We have to be careful,’ I say.

  ‘You’d be alright going for tea,’ Rory offers.

  I hide a scowl. Briege and I have only met a couple of times since she and Connor married. She’s stayed on as a volunteer, leaving Connor at home in Galway; Christ knows how he feels about that but with the peelers still hunting him he can’t serve. Her operations have kept her in the Republic so we haven’t had many chances to get together. Not that I’ve tried very hard. Her happiness, and my jealousy, fucking terrify me.

  ‘Jesus, when did you last clean this?’ I ask Rory.

  ‘So I’ll tell her you’ll come, will I?’ Danny presses.

  I wait until it’s dark and use the back lanes to reach Frank and Nora’s. On the way I pass a Honda XL 125cc like the one I learnt to ride on in London. Seeing it dumps me back there, on the day I heard about Aiden. I kick down the past and let myself into the O’Neills’ yard.

  The house reeks of fish; it’s Friday. Haddock drowns in boiling milk. Callum sits at the table, hunched over a maths textbook. He glances up as I enter.

  ‘How’re you?’

  ‘Busy,’ he grunts, scribbling algebraic equations.

  ‘Caoilainn, you made it.’ Nora comes into the kitchen and hugs me.

  ‘Aye, but I’ve eaten already.’ I gesture to the pan. ‘And I best not stay long.’

  ‘Oh.’ Her smile fades. ‘Well, come through. Briege is dying to see you. Callum, set the table when you’re done.’ She nods her head at his spreading schoolwork. He doesn’t acknowledge her.

  In the front Frank is swaddled in his armchair. Danny leans against the sideboard, smoking. Briege rushes to meet me.

  ‘Caoilainn, how’re you?’

  ‘Fine. You?’

  ‘Grand,’ she says, smiling and tugging me towards the couch. ‘I’m so glad you came. I’ve something to tell you.’ She beams round at us.

  Nora takes the other armchair. Danny perches on the arm of his da’s seat. We wait. Briege starts giggling in that shy way of hers. I guess what’s coming and brace.

  ‘We’re having a baby.’

  Nora claps her hands and gushes congratulations. Tears glisten in Frank’s eyes. Danny kisses Briege’s cheek shyly and blushes when she mentions him being an uncle. Then she faces me.

  ‘We thought if it’s a wee lad we’d call him Aiden Francis.’

  I paste on the smile she deserves and manage a brief hug. Then I stand. ‘I should be going.’

  ‘You’ve hardly been here a minute,’ Nora protests.

  ‘I’ve got something to do.’ I go through to the kitchen and am at the backdoor when Danny calls after me.

  ‘Do you need me?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘What’s up?’

  Callum is staring at me.

  ‘Nothing. I’ll see you tomorrow.’

  Outside I stand in the alley, lashing at thoughts that ambush me from behind. The Honda is a few yards up. It kick-starts first time.

  I scream through Belfast, cutting a jagged line in the teatime traffic, car horns swearing at me as I jump queues and nick into wing-mirror scraping gaps. On the dual carriageway I carve up the middle, a tightrope rider balanced on a broken white line. Brake lights glare at me. I don’t look them in the eye. I slit Bangor up the middle, engine revving a warning to pedestrians; they leap away from the kerb as I race past. Turning south down the coast, the A2 quietens. I ease off to a cruise, salt-wind bumping the bike, sea and sky a solid black mass on my left, houses cowering to my right.

  Between Millisle and Ballywater the bike splutters to a halt, out of petrol. Lights from both villages punctuate the darkness. Millisle looks closest but not close enough. Too tired to face pushing the bike into the village I wipe it clean of prints and dump it at the roadside; the peelers will just have to add it to their joyriding stats. I walk the exposed coast road in November wearing only an anorak and jeans, fingers, feet and face already frozen by the ride. On the town’s outskirts I step off the road, jump the seawall and land, boots sinking unevenly, on sand. I sleep in the shelter of a grassy bank, an unthought thought about the rising tide in my head.

  I wake, limbs contracted from a night spent shivering into myself. The sunrise is orange, tingeing the rain from squally clouds with an acid hue. The beat of horse hooves drifts down from the road above. I stand, wrenching cramped muscles, blood burning its way into iced-up veins. A young lad in a raggy jumper and dirty jeans rides a piebald mare towards me. He reins the animal to a halt.

  ‘Ya alright, there?’

  I nod.

  ‘Ride to town?’ he offers, nodding towards Millisle’s tiny urban encampment.

  ‘Cheers.’

  He stretches down a hand, hauls me up behind him. The smell of manure and sweat fills my mouth. I hold his shoulders, study the frayed neck of his jumper and fight for my seat, legs dangling heavily. We clip-clap into town, pantomime cowboys from a comedy-western.

  He stops half-way along the high street, parking his mount between two cars. I slide down.

  ‘Phone box there.’ He points.

  ‘Thanks.’

  He grins yellowed teeth at me.

  ‘’Twas a cold night for camping. You must be hard as ice.’

  ‘Frozen solid,’ I reply.

  He grins again, gees the horse and trots off.

  It takes three attempts to reach Liam. When he final comes to the phone his voice croaks a sleepy hello.

  ‘It’s me.’

  There’s silence then, ‘Where’re you?’

  ‘Millisle.’

  ‘What the…? Jesus. Never mind. Can you get into Bangor?’

  ‘Probably.’

  ‘Christ sake, can you or not?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I’ll have you picked up at the tourist info centre on the quay. We’ll have words when you get back.’

  In Bangor I wander down the shopping street towards a seafront guarded by garish hotels. Grey clouds colour a flat sea. The tourist info centre faces the harbour, corning the road. It’s a cream-washed building with a mock-medieval stone tower attached. Putting my back to it, I perch on the harbour wall, staring at a forest of masts leaved with rigging, trying not to think about the words Liam wants, the ones I owe him. I guestimate how much boats cost, wonder how difficult sailing is, fantasise about life at sea.

  Two hours later a car turns into the car park. A woman in her forties gets out, comes across.

  ‘Caoilainn?’

  ‘Aye.’

  She jerks her head towards the car. ‘I’ve not got all day.’

  I trail her to the motor. She tuts as I shed muck inside her neat wee Chevette and drives back to Belfast without speaking, depositing me at a house on Servia Street. Liam opens the door, waves her a thank you; she returns with a curt nod and leaves.

  ‘Who’s that frosty cow?’

  ‘Cumann na mBan.’
>
  ‘Oh.’

  ‘And you’d be frosty too if you’d to waste the morning rescuing AWOL volunteers. In.’

  He leads me into the kitchen. I follow, grim thoughts twisting my stomach, apologies burning my throat.

  ‘So?’

  I mutter, ‘Sorry.’

  ‘Sorry? Jesus Christ, Caoilainn, that’s not good enough.’ He kicks a chair leg. ‘We were thinking you’d been lifted. Rory and Ciaran’ve been up all night, mad with worrying.’

  ‘I needed to be alone.’

  ‘And you couldn’t have told us?’

  ‘I didn’t think.’

  ‘You bloody should have. I can’t have volunteers going off like that, not even you.’ He shakes his head. ‘I’m suspending you pending a disciplinary.’

  ‘You can’t.’

  ‘I can. I’m your OC.’

  ‘Can’t I explain first?’

  He sighs and sags into the kicked chair. ‘Go on.’

  Briege’s announcement cowers in a dark corner of me. I tell him I’m still upset over Aiden, it was a temporary attack of grief. Liam softens, reaching for my hand. I don’t deserve sympathy. Shame scalds my face. I dodge his concerned gaze, concentrate on not crying. Say again, sincerely, that I’m sorry and ask for mercy. If I lose the right to fight there’s nothing left for me.

  ‘We’ll forget the disciplinary but you’re still suspended.’

  ‘If you’re going to do that you might as well charge me with something, otherwise let me do my job.’

  ‘Your head’s not right. You’re no use to us in a state.’

  ‘I’m not in a state. I bollocksed up but it won’t happen again.’

  ‘I’m worried.’

  ‘There’s no need.’

  ‘There is if you’re putting yourself and your unit at risk.’ He studies me, trying to see through me. ‘There’s no shame in needing a break, you know. We all get there some times.’