He pushes the plate away. ‘Go on.’
‘My brother’s coming on Tuesday.’
‘What brother?’
‘Danny. He’s going to stay here, with us. He’ll bunk in the spare room and find himself a wee job, mechanic if he can.’
Patrick drums his fingers on the table. ‘Does he know about us?’
‘I’ll talk to him when he arrives.’
‘Liam says you’ve had threats.’
Brendan and I are in the snug of a country pub in Donegal, heads bent together, talking in voices too low to be overheard by the old codgers playing dominos two tables over.
‘I’m not exactly popular with my neighbours,’ I say.
He shakes his head. ‘Are you sure it’s them?’
‘You’re thinking it’s Loyalists?’
‘Maybe.’ He gulps at his pint. ‘They’re on about sending me to the States, fundraising.’
The non-sequitur forces me to ask.
‘Aren’t you meant to be heading up operations, getting us on the offensive?’
‘Seems not everyone’s got the stomach for that.’ Ash drops from the end of his quivering cigarette.
‘What’s that mean?’
‘I’m starting to think… maybes some in the leadership are fighting a different war just now.’
Dread stiffens me. He can’t fucking mean... I don’t get to finish the thought.
‘It’s power they’re fighting for. Political power. If they can win themselves a say-so in Northern Ireland I reckon they’ll happily forget about a united Ireland.’
His words are monstrous, terrifying, fucking outrageous. He must be wrong. Or mad. Or drunk. It’s not true. They’d never betray the Cause: us.
I’m seven, eight, ten, twelve, sixteen…
‘Too powerful for our good.’
‘We won’t be bullied by self-serving bureaucrats.’
‘They screw you over for their own ends.’
‘Power can be a potent poison, love.’
‘Power perverts principle, that’s always their problem.’…
Hughes continues:
‘Someone’s pushing hard, from within, talking of putting up our guns: negotiating.’
‘They’re after running down the armed struggle?’
‘Why else pack me off when we’re readying for the big push?’
‘Maybe it’s tactical,’ I suggest, trying to silence childhood lessons about power’s corrupting potential.
He shakes his head. ‘It’s other things, too: Loughgall.’
The word ices me. ‘You still think there was a tout.’
‘I do.’
‘You know who?’
‘I’ve an idea. He can’t be touched.’
‘But you’re on the Council, surely…’
Brendan shakes his head. I cower from pressing him to explain.
‘I’m thinking the mission was sabotaged to get rid of Jim and his lads because they’d never agree to swap their bombs for ballots,’ he says. ‘There’re powerful men straddling both sides of the line, using their influence to weaken us so’s we’ll have no choice but to support peace talks.’ He taps his empty pint glass on the table. ‘Those who won’t move to a political solution will be forced over or forced out.’
He heads to the bar for a refill. I stumble, trip, fall into an unseen abyss.
Ballygawley, Co. Tyrone—12th July, 1987
Danny and I stand in the lane, taking turns with the binoculars, spying on the Orange Order parading through Ballygawley.
Even without 10x magnification the orange slash, ripped up and down the village’s L-shaped main road, goads us from our serene vantage point.
‘Look at the shites,’ Danny mutters.
‘It’s just willy-waving,’ I reply. ‘Them kidding on they’re the ones in charge. I’m getting fried out here, let’s go.’ I head for the cottage’s shady garden.
We shelter under the apple tree. The oppressive whomp-whomp of Lambeg drums drifts up from the valley. I close my eyes and draw down the sounds; flutes and whistles, the machine gun rattle of snares, cheering, singing.
‘How can you listen to that racket?’ Danny demands.
‘If you let it bother you they win.’
There’s a scrabbling then a clatter as he pitches a rock at the garden wall.
‘When’re we gonna do something? I might as well’ve stayed in Belfast.’
‘We’ll have a meeting soon.’
‘Tonight?’
‘No. Patrick’s coming down.’
Another rock cracks the wall.
‘Are yous getting married?’
‘No.’
‘Why not?’
‘I don’t want to.’
‘Why not?’
‘Christ, how old’re you, two?’
He routes through the shaggy grass for another rock. I stamp a hand over his.
‘Pack it in.’
‘I’m just trying to work out what the fuck you’re doing,’ he snaps, pulling his hand away.
‘Having a life. Half a one, anyway.’
‘I thought we were your life.’ He glares at me.
I don’t know if he means the IRA or the O’Neills and I’m afraid to ask. I know he’s grassed to Nora about me shacking up with Patrick.
‘I still miss him, you know. But we’ve got to go on living, otherwise they,’ I wave my hand in the direction of the village, ‘win again. Here.’ I offer him a cigarette, hoping for a peace pipe effect.
He lights up, puffing thick smoke into the heat-heavy air.
‘Promise you won’t disappear,’ he says, eyes on the horizon.
His family is fractured, crumbling. He needs scaffolding.
‘Catch yourself on, of course I won’t. Stop worrying. You want a choc-ice? There are some in the freezer.’
‘Aye, thanks.’
I take Danny to a motor auction. We buy a late 1960s Norton Navigator 350cc. It’s a wreck but Danny’s sure he can fix it. After nearly breaking my ankle on the kick-start we get it going and I ride back to Ballygawley, Danny tailing me in the car Liam got us, in case the bike conks out.
It doesn’t. We wheel it into the garage. In the morning we’ll start stripping and tuning it.
Patrick and I lie in bed. Heat from his body cocoons me. It’s Saturday night. We spent the day hill walking, picnicked by a lough. We’re so convincing as pseudo-us, hyper-us, we’re beginning to believe it ourselves.
I check the clock. It’s after eleven. Danny’s not home from the pub yet.
‘Caoilainn, are you awake?’
‘He should be in by now.’
‘He’s fine.’ Patrick’s hand creeps up my bare back. ‘Are you planning something?’
‘What makes you think that?’
‘The bike.’
‘I just miss riding, plus it’ll keep Danny busy.’
‘I know when you’ve something on your mind.’
‘Then you should know not to ask.’
‘Please, be careful.’ He reaches for my hand, twirls the plain wedding band.
‘You’re the one married to a trained guerrilla,’ I reply.
‘But I’m not, though. I mean it, be careful.’
‘I will.’
Patrick leaves earlier than usual on Sunday, returning to Belfast to check everything’s ready for Rory’s trial which starts tomorrow. An hour later Ciaran, Tommy and Joe arrive, Ciaran parking his old green Hillman in the garage next to my Navigator, now tuned beyond the standard 80mph. They’re boisterous, kids geed up for excitement: soldiers ramped up for action. I usher them inside. Danny pours tea and opens custard creams. I sit at the table.
‘Are we on for something?’ Tommy asks.
I slide a sheet of paper across to him.
Tommy glances at it, passes it to his brother and it goes round to Ciaran and Danny before coming back to me. It’s a map of Fivemiletown, a route traced in pencil, Xs marked and 10.53 P.M. written up.
‘It’s a BA foot p
atrol,’ I explain.
‘What’s the plan?’ Joe asks.
‘A bomb, medium sized, Semtex, remote control. We dig it into the verge here.’ I tap an X. ‘Practically zero risk for civilians; there aren’t any houses near and it’s on the return route to the barracks. There’s a spot here.’ I tap another X. ‘A hill, few trees for cover, so we can see who’s in the area before we detonate. Snipers here and here in case.’
The lads nod.
‘Where’re we gonna make the bomb?’ Tommy asks.
‘Disused barn outside Garvaghy. How long will it take you?’
Tommy rubs his eyes. ‘Dunno. Does it have to be Semtex?’
‘It’s what we’ve got in the cache, otherwise we’ll be faffing around with fertiliser and I’d rather not wait; they might change the patrol route.’
‘It’s just, I’ve not used that stuff yet.’
‘Couldn’t Briege help?’ Danny suggests.
‘Maybe. I’ll ask.’
‘Grand,’ Tommy says. ‘She can train me up.’
‘When’s this on?’ Ciaran asks.
‘Soon.’
We agree Tommy will do the detonation with Joe waiting in the van so they can get away. Ciaran and Danny will take the sniping posts and I’ll set the bomb.
‘What about weapons?’ Danny asks.
‘Armalites for you and Ciaran. I’d rather we,’ I glance at Tommy and Joe, ‘didn’t carry anything; safer if yous are stopped afterwards. You can pretend you’re on an emergency callout and there’ll not be anything to say you’re lying.’
‘Fair enough,’ Tommy says.
Danny shakes his head. ‘Aye, but what about if you’re stopped carrying the bomb? You should have a gun. It’d give you half a chance of getting away. You could always chuck it after if you don’t want to risk being stopped with it.’
‘Sure, we’d never have someone planting a bomb without a weapon as backup,’ Ciaran agrees.
‘Fine, I’ll take a handgun. Anything else?’
There isn’t. Ciaran, Tommy and Joe leave. Danny starts dinner, bangers and mash. I ring Briege, who offers to come on Tuesday night. Talking in code she says Semtex bombs are her speciality now and promises it’ll only take her a day, meaning we can do the job Thursday night, by when she’ll be at home putting Saoirse to bed. I contact Liam, arranging to have bomb-making materials and weapons at the barn on Wednesday.
Danny shouts through from the kitchen: do I want beans? I say yes and wonder if, in the canteen of the Fivemiletown barracks, the squaddies are getting a similar choice. They’ll be setting out on tonight’s patrol in an hour’s time. Four evenings from now they’ll be doing the same but some of them won’t be returning for cocoa or whatever they have to unwind after tramping through enemy territory for three hours, faces painted and weapons cocked. They’ll be the latest war stats.
On Tuesday Danny collects Briege from the station in Monaghan. Tea that night, stew cooked by Danny, reminds me of evenings with the London cell; we tell jokes and laugh, drinking Guinness and getting merry. I notice Briege only sipping hers, refusing more when Danny tries to top up her glass, blushing when he teases her about being on the wagon.
She glances to me. ‘Actually, we’re having another baby.’
‘Jesus, why didn’t you say? I wouldn’t have asked you to help.’
‘It’s OK. I’m fine. I wanted to.’
‘Well, thanks and good on you,’ I say, hugging her tightly.
She smiles then steers the conversation back to the operation.
We sit up late, talking and drinking. Briege persuades Danny to sing, then surprises us by singing herself, in Irish, a lullaby, she tells us.
‘It was all that would get Saoirse to sleep when she was teething,’ Briege adds. ‘Although Connor was for rubbing her gums with whiskey.’
‘Aye, get her a taste for it while she’s wee,’ Danny jokes.
‘I’ve a taste for it now, myself,’ I say. ‘Have we any?’
Danny finds a bottle, hands around glasses. Briege puts hers down without drinking.
‘Don’t if you’d rather not,’ I say.
‘I’m just being a bit careful,’ she says, ‘after last time.’
‘I’ll put the kettle on,’ Danny offers.
‘Ah, I’m sure one won’t hurt,’ she replies, ‘and we should have a toast.’
‘To what?’ Danny asks.
‘A successful operation?’ she suggests.
‘It’s you we should be toasting,’ I say. ‘Comhghairdeas! Sláinte!’
Briege blushes but raises her glass.
I’m glad I can be properly happy for her this time.
Next morning, a whiskey headache splitting my skull, I study my reflection in the bathroom mirror. I look younger, like four years have been wiped out. Taking the chain from around my neck I remove the wedding ring, tracing the Celtic scrolls with my fingernail before shutting it in the bathroom cabinet.
It’s lunchtime before we head to the barn; Danny and I are still hung-over, Briege suffering with morning sickness. When we arrive Tommy’s van is parked outside and also, Liam’s car. He and Tommy are dragging on fags.
‘Where’ve you been?’ Tommy asks.
‘Inspecting the inside of my loo bowl for cracks.’
‘Big night?’
I shrug.
‘You alright?’
‘Fine. What’re you doing here?’ I ask Liam.
‘A minor hitch,’ he says, crushing his dog-end underfoot. ‘We couldn’t get to the cache last night: Brits on the loose. You’re alright for the bomb, I’ve got what you need from another dump but I’ll have to send to Fermanagh for the guns.’
‘I’ll go myself.’
‘You know I can’t let you have access to a cache in another brigade area. Don’t fret, they’ll be here tonight. You can collect them when you pick up Briege.’
‘I’ll wait, then go through to Ciaran as soon as the weapons arrive.’
Liam scans the surrounding countryside. ‘No. Best you’re not all here. You never know. Come back later.’
‘I’ll take Ciaran his on the way home,’ Tommy offers.
‘No unnecessary risks, Caoilainn,’ Liam warns. ‘That’s an order.’ He grins.
I agree with a nod and a smile.
But the line between unnecessary and essential risks is only as thin or thick as the Brits decide to draw it.
With nothing to do, Danny and I kick around the house. He tidies the kitchen and bakes tattie scones. I get my sketchpad and start a family portrait of Briege, Connor and Saoirse, leaving a space for Baby in Briege’s arms. Waiting is the worst part of operations.
At 10 p.m I go to the car. It won’t start. I call Danny who prods the engine.
‘Starter motor’s dead.’
‘Can you sort it?’
‘Aye, when I get another one.’
‘Shite!’ I don’t want Briege left at the barn longer than necessary. There’s no phone there so I can’t ask Tommy to drive her back, plus, he’s needing to go to Coalisland with Ciaran’s rifle. ‘Get me the spare skid-lid and my rucksack. I’ll go for her on the bike.’
Danny grins. ‘She’ll not like that.’
‘I’ll ride like a nun,’ I joke.
Twenty minutes later I arrive. Briege is waiting for me.
‘What’s this?’ She points at the bike.
I explain about the car and ask if she’s done the bomb.
‘Easy. Tommy’s taken it, and Ciarnan’s Armalite. Yours are inside.’
We go into the barn. I strip the second Armalite, pack it in the rucksack and tuck the handgun into the back of my jeans.
‘Good job I didn’t wear a skirt,’ Briege says, eyeing the bike.
‘It’s fine. Hold on here, feet there.’ I point out the grab rail and foot pegs. ‘Lean with me in the corners.’
‘Jesus,’ she mutters, cramming auburn curls into the open-faced helmet which squishes up her cheeks so she looks like a greedy hamster.
She fumbles with the helmet’s buckle. I kick the bike over and feel the suspension bounce as she clambers up behind me. We bump down the lane, the headlight marking a jittery path through the darkness. Briege sits stiffly behind me and I fifty-pence the turn onto the A5 because she counters the bike’s lean but the rest of the road is pretty straight and we’ll be safe home soon enough.
As we approach Ballymackilroy I slow for a hairpin. We wobble round it. White light blares out half a mile up the road, illuminating an RUC checkpoint and two peelers, standing by their Newry ice-cream van, ready to stop oncoming motorists.
‘Fuck.’ I slow the Navigator further, dropping into second. ‘They weren’t here when I came through before.’
Briege presses up against me. I feel a draught on the small of my back and icy fingers against my skin as she takes out the gun.
‘What’re you doing?’ I hiss.
‘Don’t stop,’ she instructs.
‘They’ll shoot us.’
‘And what’ll they do when they find we’ve two guns?’ she demands. ‘Put your foot down or whatever it is you do on this thing.’
I want to reason with her but the checkpoint is rushing towards us despite me dropping my speed to a crawl. One of the peelers gestures for me to stop. I nod, slow to walking pace and pull the bike into a wide arc towards him. Thinking I’m complying, he drops his arm.
I snap my visor down. Briege’s knees pincer me, bracing. I release the throttle for a second, shifting my hand forward for a grip that’ll let me wind on the power. The bike lurches, threatening to stall. The peeler steps to the side, pointing for me to park up. I nod again, start tightening the turn, straighten out with a jerk of the bars, kick down into first gear and snap the throttle fully open. The Norton’s engine rages. Three shots crack out. I flick the bike’s lights off, throwing us into cloaking darkness. In the rear view mirror I see the rozzer crumple to the tarmac. The bike skitters about as Briege twists to fire again. More gunshots bark. I feel a jolt. The bike slithers. I wrestle to keep us upright. Lose. The bike’s backend washes out. Laws of time and motion implode. Glass-clear thoughts pierce my brain; we’ve been hit, the bike’s going, the peeler is still shooting, don’t get trapped under the bike: jump now!
Herself Alone in Orange Rain Page 34