‘He’s done nothing. Leave him.’
Their wall becomes granite-hard.
I’m twelve. We’re outside the Houses of Parliament. The UK has vetoed a UN General Assembly motion to expel South Africa over apartheid. My placard reads ‘End UK Trade Deals With Racists’…
‘Dad, I’m hungry. And cold.’
‘I know, Kaylynn, but we’ve got to be here.’
‘Why?’
‘To show our government we won’t put up with their mercenary, immoral trade dealings with fascist regimes guilty of crimes against humanity.’
‘Mum, can’t we go soon?’
‘Love, you know we’ve got a duty to stand up to injustice, especially when it’s our own politicians corrupting the system. It’s sickening, Kaylynn, thinking we’re trading with barbaric bigots to satisfy capitalist greed.’
‘Why do they do that, Mum?’
‘Power can be a potent poison, love.’
‘Susan, they’re sending in the police. Take my arm, Kaylynn, this might be a rough one.’
‘Dad, I’m scared.’
‘Don’t be. Come on, we’ll sing, show them we’re not afraid. We shall overcome.’
‘We shall overcome.’
‘That’s it, love. Louder. Make them hear how strong we are.’
‘We shall overcome some day.’…
Singing was always their final salvo. I know doing it here, now, is reckless, something no self-respecting volunteer should do in this situation. But I have to. It’s my fucking fault Danny’s lifted, getting pulped with worse to come. I arm myself with words, start singing:
‘Oh, Paddy dear, and did you hear, the news that’s going round?
The shamrock is forbid by law to grow on Irish ground.
No more Saint Patrick’s day we’ll keep, his colour last be seen:
For there’s a bloody law agin the wearing of the green!’
The soldiers exchange glances. I raise my voice for the next verse, hoping the rebel song will keep Danny’s rebel spirit burning.
‘Oh, I met with Napper Tandy, and he took me by the hand,
And he says, ‘How’s poor ould Ireland and how does she stand?
She’s the most distressed country that ever I have seen:
For they’re hanging men and women for the wearing of the green.’
Voices from the watching crowd chime in with the last four words; the song flounders, a swan trying to get airborne.
I fumble for the next verse:
‘And… and…’
‘And since the colour we must wear is England’s cruel red,
Ould Ireland’s sons will ne’re forget the blood that they have shed.’
The rich tenor voice that gives me the lost line is Gaz’s mate’s. His eyes meet mine. Across the road the song swoops skyward:
‘Then take the shamrock from your hat and cast it on the sod.
It’ll take root and flourish still though under foot ’tis trod.’
Gaz’s mate bends down, his lips brushing my ear.
‘We know Ireland’s history as well as you, hinny. We’re not just thugs with guns. We’re doing a job, that’s all. It’s not our fault, or yours.’
I glance at Danny. He’s on his knees, spitting blood. Whose fucking fault is it?
‘You cannae blame us for getting wound up, like, not when we’ve lost a mate,’ he adds, following my gaze.
He’s right. I can’t, don’t, blame them.
The singing soars for the final refrain:
‘…We’ll live and die still wearing of the green.’
Sirens shoot down the final notes. RUC Land Rovers squeal up, spilling peelers in riot gear. One goes to the army captain, who offers over my bag, explaining. The watching locals are silent, grim faces knowing what’s to come.
We’re cuffed and thrown, one into each van, to be driven to Castlereagh interrogation centre. I twist my head, looking for Danny who cranes to see me. One eye is swollen shut and his lip split but he manages to wink.
The interrogation room is small, dim and bare; a table, three chairs, no window. Sitting, hands cuffed in front of me, waiting, I run a finger round my neck, feeling for my locket but the chain was snapped off at the desk when they were printing and photographing me. I drop my hands, focus on recalling anti-interrogation techniques, wondering what I should paint. I decide on a massive landscape of Pearse’s cottage rendered in thick oils, the Twelve Pins glowering in the distance, the lough dulled like old silver. Blank canvas prepped in my head, I mentally flick through the script, reminding myself of the acts and scenes in the play that will start, not with a rising curtain but an opening door.
The door bangs. Two Branch men enter. They, like most peelers, are locals, Prods. For them it’s always personal. They want to break me. When arrested a volunteer should expect the worst and be prepared for it. They sit opposite. We’re actors now, it’s opening night and we’re ready to headline in the drama of our own lives.
Cop 1: Name?
Me:
Cop 1: You know we’ll find out.
Me:
Cop 2: Come on, love, tell us who you are and we’ll have you home tucking the kiddies in bed tonight.
Me:
Cop 1: Tell us what you know and we’ll sort this.
Me:
Cop 2: It was your boyfriend, wasn’t it, did the shooting?
Me:
Cop 1: What were you doing at the Divis Flats?
Me: Visiting an old lady.
(Cop 1 and Cop 2 exchange glances)
Cop 1: Who?
Me: Mrs Murphy, number 347.
Cop 2: What were you doing?
Me: Taking her shopping.
Cop 1 (sneering): Asked you to buy her an Armalite, did she?
Me:
Cop 2: Is the gun your boyfriend’s.
Me: No.
Cop 2: Sure, it can’t be yours?
Me: No.
Cop 1 (banging on the table): Then who’s is it?
Me: Dunno.
Cop 2: What about the car?
Me: Borrowed it.
Cop 2: From who?
Me:
Cop 1: We’ll find out.
Me:
Cop 2: Are you a member of the IRA?
Me:
Cop 1: We’ll find that out too.
Me (shrugs):
Cop 2: You’ll go away for a long time unless you help us. How will that be for you, your family? The kiddies? How many have you?
Me:
Cop 2: They’ll be missing their mammy, won’t they?
Me:
Cop 1 (jumps up): Get this into your head, love: you are gonna talk to us. We’ll make sure you do.
Me:
(Cops 1 and 2 exit. Caoilainn stays in the chair at the table. Blackout)
(Lights up. Interrogation room. Caoilainn is in the chair at the table. Her appearance suggests she has been there several hours. Cop 2 enters with a plain clothes detective. They sit opposite her.)
Cop 2: Are you ready to talk to us, love?
Caoilainn:
Detective: Let’s go over today. You were asked to drive. That’s all. You didn’t know your boyfriend was going to shoot that poor wee soldier.
Caoilainn:
Detective: We know all about your boyfriend. He’ll get twenty to life for murder. Help us and you’ll not face the same.
Caoilainn:
Cop 2: Listen, love, you don’t want my mate coming back. He’s dead against you lot. There’s no telling what he’ll do.
Caoilainn:
Det: Help us help you.
Caoilainn:
(Det and Cop 2 exchange glances.)
Cop 2: Have one of these.
(He puts cigarettes on the table. Caoilainn ignores them.)
Det: Let’s get these off you.
(He removes Caoilainn’s handcuffs.)
Cop 2: Can we get you anything?
Caoilainn: A solicitor.
Cop 2: What about tea? Food? You mu
st be hungry.
Caoilainn: Just the solicitor.
Det: Tell us who you are and we’ll let your family know you’re here.
Caoilainn:
Cop 2: You want to talk to us, so you do. I hate to think what’ll happen if you don’t.
Caoilainn:
Det (to Cop 2): Put her in a cell. We’ll get her boyfriend to spill his guts.
(Det replaces handcuffs and drags Caoilainn from chair, shoves her onto Cop 2 who takes her arm and leads her from the room. Blackout.)
(Lights up. Caoilainn is in a cell, on a metal-framed bed with no mattress. Cell is completely bare apart from the bed. Lights are brilliantly blinding. Loud static like a radio tuned to a non-station can be heard. Someone bangs or kicks on the cell door. Blackout.)
(Lights up. Interrogation room. Caoilainn sits at the table. Cop 1 stands by the door. Detective enters, carrying a file. He sits beside Caoilainn.)
Det: Your boyfriend’s come to his senses. Told us everything for a deal. But I’m feeling sorry for you. Now’s your chance to save yourself some jail time. (He waves the file at her.) Tell us everything and I’ll not hand this to my governor. I’ll give him your statement instead. You’ll be the one with the deal.
Caoilainn: Is my solicitor here yet?
Det: Love, you’ve no need of a solicitor. This is the only way you’ll get out while you’re still young. You’re what, nineteen? twenty? Help us and you’ll only do a few years; still time to have a life, a family.
Caoilainn: What’s my name?
Det (laughs nervously): Have you forgotten?
Caoilainn: Have you found out?
(Detective slams folder onto table, bangs his fist.)
Det: Get her out of my fucking sight.
(Cop 1 pulls Caoilainn up, bends to say something to her as he does. Caoilainn punches him. He yells. Policemen rush into the room. Caoilainn is swallowed up by them. Blackout.)
(Lights up. Cell. Lights still brilliantly blinding; white noise louder than before. Caoilainn lies on her back on the mattressless bed. One eye is shut by a purple bruise, her lip is swollen. Blood crusts her nostrils. She is awake. Voices shout through the door: slut, whore, bitch, cunt. She doesn’t move. Blackout.)
(Lights up. Cell. Caoilainn still on the bed. Lighting and noise as before. She stands, walks to the door and bangs on it. The peephole is opened; an eye appears. The door opens. A female RUC constable enters. )
WPC: What is it?
Caoilainn: I need the loo.
(WPC slams the door. Caoilainn waits. The WPC returns with a slop bucket which she throws down.)
WPC: Here.
(Caoilainn eyes the WPC, the bucket then the WPC.)
WPC: Need the Pope’s permission to piss, do ya?
(Caoilainn drops her jeans and pants, squats over the bucket, pisses into it. The WPC watches. Caoilainn stands, pulling up her clothes, picks the bucket and flings the contents at the WPC. She screams. Three male offices charge into the cell. Blackout.)
(Lights up. Interrogation room. Caoilainn stands against the wall. Cop 1 stands in front of her. Cop 2 sits at the table, smoking.)
Cop 1 (shouts): Whore. Slut. Fenian fucker. I bet all the lads in the ’Ra’ve had a ride on you, haven’t they? Pass you around, sticking their wee patriotic pricks up your cunt, don’t they? Doing your bit for the Cause? Letting them fuck you front and back.
Caoilainn (looking over Cop 1’s shoulder at the wall):
Cop 1: Let’s see what I’m missing, eh?
(He strokes Caoilainn’s cheek. Moves his hand down her neck and chest, squeezes her breasts. Begins unbuttoning her shirt.)
Cop 1: Aye, you Taigs’ll fuck anyone. That pure virgin stuff’s shite, so it is. Anything for a ride.
(Caoilainn’s shirt is unbuttoned. Cop 1 slips a hand inside, fondling her breasts. He moves it down to her jeans, unfastens her flies and gropes inside.)
Cop 1: Shall I see if you’re wet? Bet ya are. Dying to have a go of a proper man, aren’t you? Not them pathetic little shites yous’ve got in the Provos.
Caoilainn: (looks directly into Cop 1’s eyes.): Go on, so. Fuck me. And when I’m out of here I’ll make sure all your peeler mates know you’ve had yourself a Taig. What’ll they think then, when they know you’ve had your dick up a Fenian cunt?
(Cop 1 snatches his hand back. Strikes Caoilainn in the face, twice, begins punching her stomach and chest. Cop 2 rushes over and pulls him off. Blackout.)
(Lights up. Interrogation room. Caoilainn and two different RUC officers sit round the table. The policemen smoke. Caoilainn is wearing only her bra and knickers. The bruises on her face are yellowing. Around her ribs and stomach are fresh purple ones.)
Cop 3 (offering cigarettes): Sure you wouldn’t like one?
Caoilainn (stares at the wall behind him):
Cop 3: A hard bitch, you are.
Cop 4: Let’s see how hard.
(He throws photographs onto the table. They show severed and bloodied limbs, torsos and heads. Caoilainn continues staring at the wall.)
Cop 4 (shouts): Look at them!
Caoilainn (doesn’t move):
(Cop 4 comes round to Caoilainn, bends her over the photographs.)
Cop 4: Fucking look at them. It’s your fucking handiwork.
(Caoilainn looks but doesn’t react.)
Cop 4: You’re murderers, baby-killers, cowardly, brutal, vicious thugs that slaughter innocent people and pass it off as political.
Cop 3 (gathering photos into a pile, leaving an armless torso uppermost): Look, love, I understand. Yous think you’re fighting a war. You’ve been brainwashed since you were a wee ’un: Ireland’s right to rise in arms. I admire the sentiment. My granddaddy was one of you, back when there was a war to fight. But those days are over. Don’t you want peace for Ireland?
Caoilainn: Yes.
Cop 3: Then help us. Tell us what you know.
Caoilainn: What day is it?
Cop 4: If you’re thinking of getting out soon, forget it. We’ve enough to charge you for the gun, killing that soldier. You’re going away for the rest of your life for the murdering whore you are.
Caoilainn: So charge me and let me see my solicitor.
Cop 3: You’re in no position to give orders, love.
(Cops 3 and 4 exit, leaving the photos on the table. Caoilainn flicks through them. She cries. Blackout.)
(Lights up. Cell, bed removed. Caoilainn, now dressed, is curled up on the floor. Lights and noise as before. The door opens. Two officers rush in, grab her, push her against the wall, twist her arms behind her, handcuff her wrists and march her from the room. Blackout.)
(Lights up. Caoilainn is marched into a room with a mirror stretched across one wall. She is made to stand facing it, flanked by the two officers. One grabs her hair, yanks her head up. Pause for ten seconds.)
Voiceover: OK. Take her back.
(Caoilainn is dragged from the room by the officers. Blackout.)
(Lights up. Interrogation room. Caoilainn, bruises visible, sits at the table. Glass of water on the table. She raises it with cuffed hands, drinks. Her hands shake. Cop 2 and detective enter. Det carries a folder. Both sit. Caoilainn puts the glass down.)
Det: Isn’t this the thing? We’ve gone from no name to three. What is it we should call you; Kaylynn Ryan, Caoilainn Devoy or Caoilainn O’Neill?
Caoilainn (raises head, stares):
Det: We’ve had you identified by a reliable source, someone who knows all about you. He’s done us proud this time. Shall we talk about Hyde Park? Or would you rather start with a wee history lesson? Your granddaddy, the 1916 legend?
Caoilainn (looks away):
Det: Aye, we know everything. Probably more than yourself.
Caoilainn: It’s Caoilainn Devoy.
Det: Grand. Well, it’s like this, Caoilainn, you’re going down for the murder of that wee soldier, you and your Fenian brother-in-law. And with what our man’s told us, we’ll add conspiracy to cause explosions,
possession of explosives, eleven other murders and we’ll throw in membership of a proscribed organisation, shall we?
Caoilainn: Can I see my solicitor now?
Det: Wouldn’t you like to know what else we’ve found out, first? Maybe something more recent, your ma and da, (thumbs the file) Charlie and Fiona?
Caoilainn: Murdered by yous lot.
Det: That what you’ve been told? Ach, I’m sorry for you, having nothing but lies to believe.
Caoilainn:
Det: But I’ll tell you the truth, so I will. My wee favour to you, giving you something to think on in that eight-by-ten that’s waiting for you. (He lights cigarette, offering Caoilainn the pack.) No? Suit yourself. So this is what we’ve learnt from our man. Your da kept up the family trade, IRA lifelong, so he was. ’Til they surrendered in ’62. Then what’s a man like him good for? He’s been broken by the jail, given his life to the Cause and suddenly there’s no Cause? Still, he’s a pretty young wife, wee ’un coming soon. So he thinks on a fresh start for yous: America. But your ma, she’s one for running about with a gun in her knicker leg, two more in her shopping basket. Won’t hear of leaving, deserting the Cause. Your da knows she’ll only go when there’s nothing left of the ’Ra for her to mother. So he has a think, figures out a way he could mebbe do it. It’s risky, mind; I reckon seeing you born’s what decides him on it ’cos he starts talking soon after. Talking to people like me, telling us what we’re wanting to hear. And don’t we start finding weapons dumps, collaring men we’ve been after for years? Aye, Caoilainn, your da was a tout.
Caoilainn: The hell he was.
Det: Sure, you’ll not want to believe it. It’s true, though. And there’s more. Doesn’t your da go and make the biggest bollocks up of things? Tells us where there’s a certain cache, gives us a date when there’ll be certain fellas there we’d like locked up. Only he doesn’t realise your ma’s gonna be there too. There’s a shoot out. Your poor, dutiful, stupid mammy gets herself killed. Eejits should’ve surrendered but yous prefer your heroes dead.
Caoilainn (stares at him):
Herself Alone in Orange Rain Page 25