Herself Alone in Orange Rain

by Tracey Iceton

  Det: Your da got her killed. Then what? All our man could tell us was that they found your daddy in the backyard, his brains making a mess of the begonias, his trusty gun beside him. Be nice to think it was his guilt killed him but mebbes his comrades found out what he’d done. What d’ya think your precious Army would’ve done if they had, Caoilainn? And now you’ll spend the rest of your life in jail wondering why the fuck you’re there for the Cause that made you an orphan.

  (Blackout.)

  Castlereagh Interrogation Centre—12th December, 1984

  They put me in a fresh cell. It’s quiet and the lighting is subdued. There’s a bed, blankets and pillows. A WPC brings soggy toast and lukewarm tea. I force the food down, drain the cup too quickly and lie on the bed, grateful for the exhaustion that separates me from the pain in my body, and my head. Sleep comes. Ghosts hunt me through my dreams.

  A clanking wakes me. The WPC is back.

  ‘Your brief’s here.’

  She escorts me along a corridor, into a room. There’s a window. Outside the sky is light. At a table sits a man, late twenties, in a crinkled navy suit, tie pulled slack and top button undone. He comes towards me, hand outstretched.

  ‘Thank you, Constable,’ he says.

  The door closes with a soft click.

  He takes my hand in both of his and presses it warmly.

  ‘Mrs O’Neill, I’m Patrick Michael Duffy. I’ve been engaged to represent you.’

  ‘By who?’

  ‘Sinn Fein, Mrs O’Neill.’

  ‘Don’t call me that.’

  ‘May I call you Caoilainn, so?’

  His accent is gentle, university Irish with a hint of Limerick or Kerry. I cling to the two syllables that are all that’s left of me. He steers me to a chair and retakes his seat.

  ‘Your mother-in-law sent this.’ He deposits a bag on the table. ‘A change of clothes, cigarettes, chocolate.’

  I notice there’s an ashtray and a packet of Players on the table, a jug of water and two glasses. He pours water for us both. I take the cigarettes and light one with trembling fingers.

  ‘Are you alright?’ he asks, pushing the glass to me.

  ‘Fine.’

  ‘You haven’t signed?’

  ‘No.’

  He nods. ‘You’re stronger than most.’

  ‘I’ve had to be.’ I’ve forgotten how to be anything else.

  He smoothes his neat brown hair, running a trim nail down the ruler-straight side parting. ‘I’m sure you have. Shall we talk about the charges?’ He pulls a notepad from his briefcase.

  ‘Is Danny alright?’

  ‘He is. He didn’t sign either.’

  I feel like a puppet who’s had her strings cut. I sag into the chair, exhaling smoke and relief.

  ‘The charges?’ he prompts.

  ‘What’s there to talk about, Mr Duffy?’

  ‘Plenty.’ He smiles, tightens his tie. ‘And call me Patrick.’ He rubs his shaved-smooth chin. Aftershave wafts across the table.

  My hair is itchy with grease and my skin with dirt. I’m rank; sweat and blood. I fold my arms against my chest.

  ‘They’ve a tout.’

  ‘So it seems.’ He scribbles something on the pad, tilts it towards me. It says, ‘They are listening. Do you speak Irish?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Grand.’ He switches to Irish, speaking so softly I have to bend my head close to his. ‘Any ideas who?’

  I write on the paper ‘Brian’, circling the speech marks, hoping he’ll understand.

  He continues, in Irish, ‘Someone you worked with?’

  Conscious of uncleaned teeth, the sour-milk taste in my mouth, I nod.

  ‘No doubts?’

  ‘He’s the only one who,’ I figure out a coded way of explaining, ‘went to the park but not the shop.’

  Patrick nods. ‘Don’t worry. You didn’t do what they’re claiming. Their informant is mistaken.’ He stares at me with steady grey eyes.

  ‘It doesn’t matter. The gun, the soldier…?’

  Patrick grins. ‘They’re after charging you both with murder for that.’

  ‘I’ll confess. Danny didn’t…’

  ‘No!’ He says the word sharply, in English, before returning to Irish. ‘They’re making a mistake, one we’ll not be pointing out. There’s a precedent: Rose McAllister, McAdorey then she was. She and her son were both charged with possession of a single gun with intent to endanger life. The judge threw out her case; two people cannot both intend to endanger life with one weapon. And that being so neither can two people commit murder with one weapon.’

  I shake my head. ‘It’s too risky. I can’t let Danny…’

  ‘If you confess they’ll change Danny’s charges to accessory. Sentences for that are nearly as long. You have to trust me, Caoilainn.’

  ‘What does that mean?’ I hiss.

  ‘I don’t want to give you false hope. There’s a fight ahead but,’ he smiles, ‘we’ve a chance of winning.’

  London—14th December, 1984

  Blonde Bomber Accused of Slaughtering Eleven

  Woman Held Over Hyde Park Attack

  Police in Northern Ireland have announced they are holding a woman over the 1982 IRA bomb attack on Hyde Park and Regent’s Park.

  Kay Lynne Ryan, (21) was arrested following the shooting of a British soldier in West Belfast earlier this month. Found in possession of a semi-automatic weapon, Miss Ryan was detained under the Prevention of Terrorism Act, pending investigation into the carnage in the royal parks.

  The bombing killed eleven members from two regiments as well as causing the death of seven horses taking part in the changing of the guard ceremony. This is the first arrest in connection with the attack.

  Miss Ryan, thought to have strong Republican connections, is known to have grown up in England and it is believed that she used a fraudulently obtained British passport to travel to London for the bombings.

  Photographed by journalists as she was remanded to Armagh Women’s Prison, Miss Ryan, a petite blonde, defiantly confronted reporters, gesturing to bruising on her face, understood to have been sustained when she resisted arrest. She refused to comment on the charges against her.

  Addressing the Commons last night Leon Brittan, Home Secretary, confirmed he would seek the swiftest possible response from the Justice Department in this case. He said, ‘The families of those who lost their lives in July 1982 have already waited too long for justice.’ The trial is expected to begin early in the new year.

  Dr Malcolm Devine, a criminal psychologist who provides mental assessments for the Home Office in terrorism cases said, ‘I have no doubt Miss Ryan, and other girls like her, are duped into joining terror organisations, brainwashed by boyfriends. It is time that ruthless terror groups stopped hiding behind these girls who are as much victims as those injured in their attacks.’

  In 1973 the arrest of sisters Dolours and Marian Price for the Old Bailey bombing shocked the world. They were sentenced to twenty years for their role in the attack. It is likely that Miss Ryan would serve a similar period if convicted.

  Armagh Jail—25th December, 1984

  I’m on B wing, where remand prisoners are held: in solitary. Special Branch don’t want me having any free association, even though that’s part of the regime since the no-wash protest ended in ’81. Patrick has petitioned prison officials but, desperate to crowbar out the confession that’ll make their jobs easier, they won’t budge. Neither will I. They’re doing their duty. So am I.

  Mairead Farrell, who’s OC here, is the only Republican prisoner I’ve met. She’s serving fourteen years for an attempting bombing on a Belfast hotel in 1976. Before that she was a medical student. She’s been twice to my cell, explaining that I’m to communicate with the prison authorities only through her and checking on me. She’s furious about my solitary, has seen the governor about it. He says it’s not his ruling. She’s worried I’ll break and perches on my bed, tucking dark hair behind n
eat ears, a half-smile on her lips, her young face old. She chats, keeping me afloat. When she goes I sink down again. Poisonous thoughts course in my veins. I apply a tourniquet, stopping them reaching my brain, killing me. Lying on the bed I paint the out-of-reach ceiling; cliffs and mountains, loughs and seascapes, wee white cottages, friendly faces: anything peaceful. I crave gloopy oils, stiff brushes, finger-blacking charcoal. They won’t even give me a fucking pencil.

  Barb, the screw in charge of me, opens the cell.

  ‘You’ve a visitor, lucky you,’ she grunts.

  I follow her along the empty wing. Everyone else is in the dining room, forcing down the drab Christmas fare.

  She takes me to an interview room. Patrick is by the window, watching sleet swirl lethargically. He comes to me; Barb leaves.

  ‘How are you?’

  ‘Fine. How’s Danny?’

  ‘He’s OK. Nora and Frank were up a couple of days ago. Said he’s settling in, the lads are looking after him. I brought these.’ He produces two packs of cigarettes. ‘I’ve asked Nora to sort out some clothes for you, for the trial.’

  I sink into a chair.

  He withdraws some papers. ‘We need to talk about your case. We’ll be pleading ‘not guilty’, naturally.’

  I nod.

  ‘We’ve a date for it: January 18th.’

  ‘That soon?’

  He grimaces. ‘I’ve tried stalling but dear old Baron Brittan is baying for your blood. However, they’re going to try you on all charges here.’

  ‘They’re not extraditing me to England?’

  He smiles and shakes his head. ‘There’s a row brewing over people arrested in the Six Counties being sent to mainland courts. It’s complicated, political; some in the legal fraternity are arguing that if this is one united kingdom people should stand trial where they are detained. Having extradition orders between two parts of what is claimed as the same country is contradictory.’

  I start shivering. Patrick takes his coat from his chair and drapes it round my shoulders before sitting next to me.

  ‘Do you want your Christmas present?’ He nods to the coat.

  I slip a hand into the inside pocket and feel a hard paper knot which I transfer to my own pocket.

  ‘But it could be to your advantage, being tried in a Diplock here where you’ll only have the judge to contend with, especially given that they’re sending one over from London to placate those who wanted you in an English dock facing an English jury.’

  I snort. ‘You think I’ve a better chance with an English judge?’

  Patrick smiles. ‘You might. His name’s Haskell and he’s a reputation for not suffering police incompetence.’ He winks at me.

  ‘You’re sure about this business with the gun, this precedent?’ I press again.

  ‘Certain.’

  ‘So Danny’ll be alright?’

  ‘Yes. It’s only the one charge they have him on.’

  ‘But I’ll…’

  ‘Be fine.’ He squeezes my hand. ‘Nollaig Shona.’

  I roll the comm between the fingers of my other hand. Merry fucking Christmas.

  I wait until the day screws have gone home to their fat children and lazy husbands, and the wing is locked down for the night before unfolding the comm. It’s from Liam. I read the cramped writing three times, repetition making it real. I don’t cry or cheer the news. I chew and swallow it, to keep the screws from finding it later.

  Newcastle, Co. Down—26th December, 1984

  IRA Shoot Informer

  Body Found on Cliff Path Near Minerstown

  The body of a man has been found on a cliff path outside Minerstown. The man, identified as Brendan Gallagher, 35, had sustained two gunshot wounds to the back of the head. Police say he had been stripped and beaten before death. A note, left with the body, claimed he had been working as a British agent for the security services and warned against others becoming ‘touts’.

  A spokesman for the RUC said, ‘We are investing the circumstances surrounding Mr Gallagher’s death.’

  No comment was made regarding the claim that Mr Gallagher was one of their informants.

  The use of so-called ‘supergrasses’ to obtain convictions against those tried for political offences has been an area of controversy in recent years. In a 1984 report into the use of supergrasses former judge Lord Gifford denounced the system of accepting the statements of informants without any corroborating evidence, saying it was, ‘not justice,’ and, ‘led to the telling of lies and the conviction of the innocent.’

  Belfast—18th January, 1985

  Flashes pop as the Land Rover’s doors open. A WPC helps me down, my manacled wrists denying me a handhold. I face the waiting press, expression neutral, no make-up, hair tied into a neat bun, the skirt and blouse Nora sent only slightly crumpled during the journey from Armagh. Questions are fired at me: Will you be entering a ‘not guilty’ plea? Is it true the IRA killed an informant in an attempt to derail your trial? Are you the Hyde Park bomber?

  ‘You’re famous, love,’ a peeler mocks.

  ‘Infamous, ya mean,’ another replies. ‘Sure, whatever happens, the Provos’ll not want you after this, not when your face’s been plastered over every front page between here and London.’

  I’m rushed through the scrum into Crumlin Road courthouse.

  Patrick joins me in a side room, watching as I’m uncuffed and the WPC steps back, guarding the door.

  ‘Have you a cigarette? They wouldn’t let me smoke in the van.’

  He gives me one. ‘I brought you something.’ He reaches into his pocket, brings his hand out, my chain wrapped around his fingers, the locket and ring suspended from it.

  I drag deeply. ‘How’d you get that?’

  ‘Asked.’ He fastens it round my throat. ‘Fixed the catch for you.’

  The court is held ‘in camera’, howling media hounds barred. Armed police guard every door. I’m led to the dock. Patrick smiles at me from his defence desk. Across the aisle from him the prosecution shuffle papers, heads bowed, lips moving urgently. My legs tremble. Struggling to stand for the judge’s entrance, I reach for the locket, rubbing my thumb into the familiar, comforting dent.

  The judge, Lord Haskell, glides through a panelled door and takes his throne.

  ‘Be seated.’

  The charges are read: eleven counts of murder; two counts of conspiring to cause an explosion with the intent of endangering life; two counts of the possession of explosives with the intent of endangering life; one count, jointly with Daniel Seamus O’Neill, of murder; one count, jointly with the aforementioned Daniel Seamus O’Neill, of the possession of a prohibited firearm with the intent to endanger life; one count of membership of a proscribed organisation, specifically the Provisional Irish Republican Army.

  I never knew Danny’s middle name was Seamus.

  ‘Miss Devoy, do you intend to enter a plea?’ Lord Haskell peers at me over half-moon spectacles.

  Patrick rises. ‘Your Honour, I will be entering the plea on behalf of my client: not guilty in response to all charges.’

  Haskell removes his glasses, rubs the loose flesh around his eyeballs. Sighs.

  ‘Very well.’

  Heat creeps up my neck. I should be speaking out against the oppression of Ireland by foreign troops, proclaiming the right of Oglaigh na hEireann to take up arms. But that would be received as an admission of guilt. The Army Council want me cleared of all charges. My hand gropes for the chain.

  I tune out the opening statements; Patrick’s I’ve heard before and the prosecution add nothing new. A clock punctuates the silences between the words. Haskell listens, hands clasped. Evidence is presented: the Armalite; ballistic reports on the bullet dug from the squaddie’s brain; written statements from the BA boys who lifted me and Danny and the arresting RUC officers, who, for their own safety, don’t testify in person. Patrick calls Mrs Murphy who will declare my innocence with old lady credibility. Haskell waves his hand.

&nbs
p; ‘Unnecessary, Mr Duffy; I’ve read Mrs Murphy’s statement.’

  ‘Your Honour,’ Patrick protests.

  Ignoring Patrick, Haskell turns to the prosecution.

  ‘Mr Whittingham.’

  The barrister leading the attack rises.

  ‘May I assume you contribute to the revenue of Her Majesty’s treasury?’

  ‘Your Honour?’

  ‘And, presumably, like everyone who pays their taxes, you prefer not to see that money squandered.’

  ‘Yes, Your Honour, but I don’t see…’

  ‘Then perhaps you will explain to the court why you have wasted an inordinate sum on this trial, pressing ludicrous charges?’

  ‘May I approach the bench, Your Honour?’ Whittingham whimpers.

  ‘You may not. You may explain to me how it is two people can both kill, or even conspire to kill with a single weapon.’

  There is uproar. The clerk calls for order.

  ‘The joint charge of one count of murder and associated charge of possessing an illegal firearm are hereby dismissed,’ Haskell intones.

  ‘Your Honour, I request an adjournment,’ Whittingham shrieks.

  ‘Denied.’

  Patrick winks at me. I inhale deeply.

  Lunch is called.

  I’m returned to the side room where Patrick joins me.

  ‘See?’ he says, grinning.

  ‘Aye, but…’

  ‘But nothing. Eat something.’ He produces a lunchbox, decorated with Mr Men characters, and offers me a cheese sandwich. I gag on the first bite and make do with three cigarettes and a glass of water.

  Court resumes at 2 P.M. Brendan’s anonymous statement is read, detailing the Hyde Park operation, right down to me pressing the button. The term ‘trigger-woman’ is used three times by a red-faced Whittingham. Memories crowd me: the boom; the chaos; the woman, her leg bleeding; paramedics and policemen scrabbling for survivors; the fallen horses, gunshots ending their pain. The room recedes until I’m looking at it through the wrong end of a telescopic sight. It shrinks down to a tiny dot. Disappears.