Herself Alone in Orange Rain

by Tracey Iceton

  She pecks me on both cheeks and hands over a parcel of bread and meat for the journey.

  Tommy is still slobbering over Gloria. I get into the car, slamming the door. They jump apart. He sneaks a final snog, climbs into the passenger side and leans across me to wave and catch her flung kisses as we drive off.

  ‘What the hell are you doing?’ I demand.

  ‘My bit for international relations,’ he replies, grinning.

  ‘Christ sake.’

  The drive to Marbella, where we’re meeting Mairead, is four hundred miles through Spain’s arid interior. On the resort’s outskirts, sheltering in a national park, we’ll transfer the bomb to her hired car. As we cruise down the A-4, the sun roasting us inside the car, my stomach twists and churns. Sweat beads on my forehead and under my arms. My mouth dries up; the taste of soured milk coats my tongue.

  We’ve done a quarter of the distance, the road a stretching black snake slithering across the scrubland, when I first feel it: a drifting, moving outside myself, sidestepping my body. I blink. The doubled yellow lines settle into singles again. My stomach lurches. My mouth fills up with saliva. My heart stops then restarts in double-time.

  ‘You OK?’ Tommy asks.

  ‘Fine.’

  ‘You’ve gone a wee bit pale, so you have.’

  ‘I’m bloody fine,’ I lie, dismissing the shivering as nerves.

  Road signs count down in kilometres. My stomach knots around itself, coiling and flexing. Heat burns my cheeks but I shudder with a bone-deep cold. The road swings out of focus. A horn screams at us. I feel the car jerk, see Tommy’s hand, knuckles white, gripping the steering wheel.

  ‘Fuck sake, pull over,’ he gasps.

  I drag the car to the verge, swerving to a stop, open the door, step out and am immediately sick, splashing the coarse grass with the remnants of breakfast: pastries and coffee. I puke, my stomach clenching and heaving, turning inside out until there’s nothing left. I sink to the grass.

  ‘Caoilainn?’

  I feel a hand on my neck, beneath hair still bobbed and brown.

  ‘I’m OK. Give me a cigarette, will you.’

  Tommy hands me one, lit. I take a puff and retch again.

  ‘I’ll drive,’ he offers. ‘Do you want a few minutes?’

  ‘We can’t be late.’

  I let him help me up. We swap places and continue, waves of nausea swelling in my stomach, splashing into my throat. I keep the window down but the dry Spanish air is stagnant, flushing my face with dizzying heat, filling my nose with sickly fragrances: patchouli, thyme, jasmine. Tommy keeps glancing over but says nothing. I daren’t eat the lunch Alazne made and make do with sipping water. We have to stop twice more for me to vomit the mouthfuls of clear liquid, turned cloudy by stomach acid that burns my chin as it dribbles down. We reach Marbella half an hour late.

  ‘Is everything alright?’ Mairead rushes across as I scramble from the car, heaving up bile.

  ‘She’s been like this the whole way,’ Tommy explains.

  I lean against the car, rinse my mouth with water.

  ‘I’m fine.’

  ‘You look terrible,’ Mairead croons, her hand cool on my cheek. ‘You’re burning.’

  ‘It’s 40 degrees in the car,’ I snap.

  ‘Was it something you ate?’ she presses.

  ‘We’ve eaten the same,’ Tommy says.

  ‘I’ve said, I’m fine. Let’s not hang about here.’ I glance at the scrubby trees, their leaves blue-green shards that flicker in the evening breeze. The road is hidden by their spindly silver trunks but the thunder of traffic penetrates the grove threateningly.

  With a sigh Mairead skips back to the hired Ford Fiesta; against nature’s muted colours its red paint bellows a warning. Tommy opens the boot of our Fiat. I stand shakily, steadying my balance, then join them, helping to transfer the crates, the urge to gag caught in my throat.

  When everything is loaded and Tommy’s been over the detonation procedure with her, Mairead comes to where I’m lying in the cool grass, shadows lengthening across me. She crouches down.

  ‘How’re you feeling?’

  I sit up. ‘Better. Fine. Is everything ready?’

  ‘Aye. We’ll go into Gibraltar tomorrow, have a final recce and be ready for Tuesday.’

  ‘The lads you’ve got, they’re OK?’

  ‘Dead on.’

  ‘And you’ve not seen any trouble?’

  ‘I haven’t, and I’ve had a bloody good look,’ she says.

  ‘Keep looking.’

  ‘I will.’

  ‘You shouldn’t be doing this,’ I tell her. ‘You’re too well-known now.’

  ‘Not out here,’ she insists.

  I hope she’s right. ‘I wish you’d had a timer. Then you’d be on your way home before…’

  ‘I’ll not be happy unless I trigger it myself, to be sure we’ve no civilian casualties.’

  ‘We should’ve brought you guns,’ I say. ‘ETA had some for us.’

  ‘There’s no need. Sure, this is as easy as it comes.’ She takes my elbow, helps me up.

  I brush dry grass from my jeans. We hug and whisper lucky wishes to each other. She shakes Tommy’s hand.

  ‘See yous in Dublin in a few days,’ she calls as she gets into the Fiesta, her brown curls flecked with gold in the sun’s low-slung rays, life dancing in her eyes.

  We wave her off as she steers out of the clearing. Our car radio plays ‘Days’ the new Kirsty McColl version.

  Tommy and I wait, giving Mairead time to get most of the way back to Marbella before we drive in the opposite direction, heading for Jerez, the airport where we’ll leave the Fiat to be collected later by an ETA comrade. From Jerez, it’s hop to Madrid, skip to Amsterdam and, finally, jump to Dublin.

  London—7th March, 1988

  SAS Heroes Foil Deadly IRA Bomb Plot

  Three Terrorists Killed in Shoot-out

  on the Rock of Gibraltar

  Three members of an IRA unit were killed yesterday afternoon in the British territory of Gibraltar. Caught planting a lethal 500 lb bomb, the terrorists, two men and a woman, were challenged by the SAS. In the shoot-out that followed all three were killed by soldiers.

  Acting on intelligence from sources in Belfast and working with the Spanish authorities, the terrorists, named as Mairead Farrell (31), Daniel McCann (30) and Sean Savage (23), were shot when they refused to surrender to the SAS. Witness reports suggest McCann and Savage were in the act of drawing weapons when the SAS opened fire, preventing bloodshed on the sunny Gibraltar streets.

  Following the gunfight, British military personal carried out a controlled explosion, making safe the suspect car. The MOD have confirmed that the explosives used suggest ETA involvement.

  The incident took place on Sunday, at around 3.30 P.M. Gibraltar time as the IRA members were identified walking along Winston Churchill Avenue. Just prior to this one of them had been observed, by MI5 undercover agents, parking a white Renault 5 near the official residence of the British governor of Gibraltar. The Convent, the governor’s seat, is close to the scene of the ceremonial changing of the guard which takes place every Tuesday. Intelligence sources confirmed this was the IRA’s target. In 1982 the IRA carried out a similar attack in Hyde Park when a blast killed four soldiers and seven horses taking part in the changing of the guard in London.

  Prime Minister, Margaret Thatcher praised the SAS for their bravery and skill in acting to take down three merciless terrorists without the loss of innocent lives.

  Dublin—8th March, 1988

  British Foreign Secretary Admits

  Gibraltar Three Were Unarmed

  SAS Shoot-to-Kill

  Claims Three More Republicans

  In a statement to the House of Commons Sir Geoffrey Howe has admitted that the three Republicans gunned down in Gibraltar were unarmed. He told ministers that those killed, ‘were found not to have been carrying arms.’ He also confessed that no bomb was found in the Ren
ault 5 car that had been parked in the locale of the changing of the guard.

  Yesterday the IRA confirmed that three of its members, Mairead Farrell (31), Danny McCann (30) and Sean Savage (23) had been killed while on active service.

  Eye-witnesses refute the SAS’s claim that they issued a warning before opening fire on the ASU. Mr Derek Luise, who was at the nearby Shell petrol station when the shooting occurred, told reporters, ‘There was no shouting, just shots, about five or eight, one after the other. There was blood everywhere.’

  The families of those killed are calling for a public inquiry into why, despite several opportunities to do so, no attempt was made to detain Farrell, McCann and Savage, who had been under surveillance by Spanish and British security forces since their arrival in Spain on Friday.

  The Irish Government, while acknowledging the need to tackle terrorism, has reacted to news of the shooting of three unarmed Republicans with unease, calling the events, ‘gravely disturbing.’

  A book of condolences will be opened outside the General Post Office on O’Connell Street tomorrow for those wishing to pay their respects to the latest victims of the SAS shoot-to-kill policy which has claimed the lives of more than fifty Republicans.

  Belfast—17th March, 1988

  Loyalist Gunman Murders Three

  at Republican Funeral

  A Loyalist gunman has attacked mourners attending the funerals of the three IRA volunteers shot dead on Gibraltar ten days ago.

  The lone assassin, named as Michael Stone, a member of the outlawed Ulster Freedom Fighters, opened fire with a handgun, killing three people and injuring a further fifty.

  The first shots, fired as the three coffins were lowered into the ground, were initially mistaken for the IRA salute. As Stone continued to fire into the crowd Sinn Fein President, Gerry Adams, who was to give the graveside oration, used the loudhailer to warn mourners to take cover.

  Stone then threw grenades into the crowd before being chased by unarmed young men who apprehended him as he attempted to escape on foot up the M1 motorway outside Milltown cemetery. He was arrested by the RUC who arrived on the scene minutes later.

  Speaking after the attack, Mr Adams accused the security forces of collusion, saying that the reduced police presence at Milltown, negotiated by members of the Catholic Church in deference to the memory of those being laid to rest, had been known to only a few people in advance.

  Those killed were two civilians, Thomas McElrean (20) and John Murray (26), both married men with young families, and Caoimhin MacBrádaigh, an IRA volunteer. Wounded mourners, several critically injured, were rushed to the Royal Victoria Hospital in private vehicles.

  Tom King, Northern Ireland Secretary, condemned the attack and called for calm in the wake of the tragedy, warning against reprisals. The Loyalist paramilitary group, the Ulster Defence Association, under whose direction the UFF are believed to operate, denied sanctioning Stone’s actions but stopped short of condemning him.

  London—20th March, 1988

  IRA Mob Executes Two British Corporals

  Two off-duty British Army Corporals have been killed by the IRA after inadvertently driving into a Republican funeral cortege in West Belfast.

  The murdered men, Corporal Derek Wood (24) and Corporal David Howes (23), were attacked after they became trapped in the procession making its way to Milltown cemetery for the funeral of Kevin Brady, the IRA man who died four days ago while attending another Republican funeral.

  Howes and Wood were surrounded by a mob of angry, violent Republicans who smashed into their vehicle and dragged the soldiers away. Despite the intervention of local priest, Father Alex Reid, the soldiers were driven to waste ground, stripped, beaten and executed.

  Northern Ireland Secretary Tom King condemned the killings and praised the soldiers for their, ‘incredible restraint in using their loaded personal protection pistols only to fire a warning shot in the air.’

  Images of the shocking attack were captured by journalists attending the funeral. The executions were also recorded on camera by a British Army helicopter surveillance team. Police are appealing for witnesses to assist in the hunt for the murderers.

  Belfast—20th March, 1988

  IRA Defend Republicans

  During Second Funeral Attack

  The Provisional IRA has admitted responsibility for the deaths of two members of the SAS, executed after they launched an attack on the funeral of Vol. Caoimhin MacBrádaigh.

  MacBrádaigh was shot dead four days ago by a Loyalist assassin while attending the burial of three comrades murdered by the SAS on Gibraltar. As his funeral cortege left Andersontown for the Republican plot at Milltown a VW Passat, driven by two plain-clothed members of the SAS, drove into the procession. The car’s passenger fired shots into the crowd, causing terror among the mourners who feared a second attack by a UFF death squad.

  Funeral stewards, on duty to prevent an attack similar to the outrage that occurred last week as Mairead Farrell, Sean Savage and Danny McCann were laid to rest, rushed to the scene, quickly overpowering the two soldiers and taking them away in a black taxi. They were subsequently shot by IRA members. Father Alex Reid of St Agnes Church was present to administer the last rites.

  In its statement the IRA confirmed it had executed, ‘two SAS members who launched an attack on the funeral cortege of our comrade.’ It added that, unlike the three Republicans gunned down on the Rock, the men killed had been armed and only the swift reaction of funeral stewards prevented the deaths of innocent Catholic civilians.

  Monaghan—22nd March, 1988 (morning)

  There’s a voice, the stone-ring of an echo to it, the words densely filtered. I try drawing it down to me but it won’t come. I stretch my limbs, putting my hands out, feeling cold clay under my fingers, my toes curling into gritty ground. The smell of soil, loamy and metallic, fills my nose and mouth with each tight breath. Darkness burns my eyes as I strain to see through absolute black. I’m lying in my own grave. The voice retreats; they’re going to leave me here. I claw at the earth entombing me, feel it pattering down on my face like raindrops. The voice volumes up as I haul myself towards it. I make out my name. The blackness turns red, dawn light against closed eyes. The electric red becomes luminous orange, incandescent yellow: blinding white.

  Patrick leans towards me.

  ‘Welcome back, Caoilainn.’

  My tongue is bloated. Words burn in my throat.

  A bang resounds and a jolt charges up my arm: a remembered gunshot. I’m in bed in a white room. I sit, pushing a question through the flaming in my throat.

  ‘Have I been shot?’

  Patrick caresses my cheek. ‘No, Caoilainn. You collapsed yesterday but you’re fine.’

  I feel over my body; head woolly, eyes gravelly, stomach clenching, hands throbbing. I lift them, flex stiff fingers, knuckles that are purple and puffy. They strain, tightness constricting movement. I plunge into hazy memories for an explanation that slips from my pain-charged grasp.

  A doctor enters. ‘Mrs Duffy, you’re awake.’ He scans the chart hanging at the bed’s foot.

  ‘What am I doing here?’

  ‘You don’t remember?’ He glances at Patrick. ‘That’s not uncommon in cases of nervous collapse, a result of shock, brought on by stress and the exhaustion and dehydration you were suffering. How long have you been vomiting?’

  Acid pools on my tongue, a Spanish motorway swings out of focus. Tommy yells for me to pull over.

  ‘Since yesterday,’ I say.

  ‘A fortnight that I know of,’ Patrick corrects.

  A fucking fortnight? I gape at him.

  The doctor replaces the chart, studies me. ‘Twenty-four hours on fluids have you back to normal now.’

  ‘Twenty-four hours?’

  ‘I brought you here yesterday,’ Patrick murmurs.

  I search the view from the window. ‘Where am I?’

  ‘Monaghan,’ Patrick replies.

  ‘I want to go home
.’ The words are childish. I don’t care. I want to fucking go home.

  ‘I’d advise staying another night,’ the doctor says, ‘for observation. It’s fortunate you didn’t miscarry.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Lose the baby,’ he explains.

  ‘Baby?’

  ‘You didn’t know you were pregnant?’ he chides.

  ‘I can’t be. I’m on the pill.’

  He tuts. ‘Nature isn’t so easily defied. If she insists on leaving you must ensure she rests, Mr Duffy.’

  Fucking God-complex chauvinist. I start to get up. A sharp tug on my left arm stops me; a length of clear tubing, disappearing into a green vein, pulls taut.

  ‘I will,’ Patrick says.

  The doctor strides out. Rage leeching away, I sink into the pillows, keep sinking, down through the bed, the floor and into the cool dark earth where I come to rest lying on my back, the world reduced to a thin shaft of light that I can close myself to. I shut my eyes.

  They stopped being men when they were hauled from the car, becoming tumours to be ripped from Belfast’s belly, monstrous and malignant, oozing the putrid puss of our eight hundred years war. Now they lie like fresh-picked scabs, bloodied and ragged around the edges. But they’re not the cancer to be cut from our hearts; they’re a symptom, not the cause, of our pain and rage and fear: they’re victims of it as much as we ourselves.

  Their naked bodies sprawl, raw-pastry pale, on the gravel-mottled ground. Limbs contort in agonising poses. Muscles pulse with pain. Their faces are the pulped flesh of rotten plums crushed underfoot. They whimper, lost kittens calling for the queen, and exhale breath rank with putrefying blood. Desolation vibrates the air; I feel the shivers against my cheeks. I can end their suffering.