Freedom First, Peace Later

by Jeanette Hewitt

  Rosina—his Rosie—was dead, and the perpetrators thought that they had killed him. This meant that he wasn’t in any immediate danger, but, once they found out they had killed the wrong person, they would be back for him. Realising that he should get out of the house, he stood up. The carrier bag that Rosina had transported her goods in laid by the bed. He scooped up the Paracetamol bottles and Rosina’s letter to him, and wondered where to go. Of all of his mates he couldn’t think of one that would be able to help him, tell him what to do next. He didn’t want to go to Meg’s; it wouldn’t do to put his mother in any more danger. It only took a moment more of mentally running through a list of his friends before Bronwyn’s name came to mind. He took one last look around the room then leaned over and kissed Rosina tenderly. When he felt that he was about to lose control again, he bolted from the house and into the dark night.

  * * * *

  Alia had booked herself into a bed and breakfast so she could be near to Barry while he was in Banbridge House, and Bronwyn had not been home long when there was a frantic hammering at the door. Cautiously, she opened it a crack and was shoved backwards into the hall as Connor came crashing in. She took one look at him, sweating, bloodied, and disheveled and pulled him into the lounge, kicking the door shut after him.

  “I’m real sorry, Bronwyn, I didn’t know where else to go,” he said.

  “Bloody-hell, Connor, are you okay? Where’s Rosie?” she asked. At the mention of Rosina’s name, a transformation came over Connor. He screwed his face up, clenched his fists, and Bronwyn stared on in horror, as tears ran down his cheeks. She knew straight away, but still she asked him.

  “Connor? What’s happened to her?” She pulled him down onto the sofa and sat beside him.

  “Dead…” he managed, before a barrage of sobs escaped him. Bronwyn slumped back in the chair while Connor broke down in front of her. She felt nothing, with all of the revelations of the past few weeks, Danny, and Barry, this latest news just left her numb.

  “She can’t be…” she trailed off, closing her eyes.

  Rosina, her best friend for her entire life, couldn’t be dead. Suddenly she sat up.

  “How?” she demanded.

  Connor got his tears under control and handed her Rosina’s note. She read it grimly and then handed it back.

  “But there’s more,” Connor said, his voice hoarse with emotion. “When I was nearly home, I saw gun fire from the bedroom window. She was in bed, dying, and whoever did this thought it was me in that bed.”

  “Christ, Connor, I don’t know…” Bronwyn stood up and stalking over to Alia’s drinks cabinet, she poured herself a tumbler of vodka.

  She couldn’t think clearly and, as the drink burned her throat, she handed the rest of the glass to him.

  “We need to think. They’ll come back for you,” she said, more to herself than to Connor.

  “You’re not to go home. You should have left already.” She glanced at him, almost accusingly. He pulled an envelope out of his pocket and handed it to her.

  “What’s this?”

  She opened it and when she saw the two plane tickets, she sat heavily back on the sofa.

  “I just got them today. The flight’s tomorrow. Now what am I going to do?” he asked with unconcealed dismay.

  “You were going to New York?” she asked him as she read the destination on the tickets.

  Connor nodded and told her of his late father’s plans to leave Crossmaglen for New York with Mary, and how he had been killed before they could flee the country.

  “You must go. My ma’s friend is in New York, and I’m sure she would see you all right.”

  Bronwyn was thinking fast now, planning for Connor, as he was in no state to arrange anything himself.

  “With any luck nobody will realise you’re still alive and when they do, you’ll be long gone. Does your ma know about this?”

  He nodded.

  “Right. Well, you can’t go back to the house. We’ll kit you out in some of Barry’s things. Then, first thing tomorrow, you can leave and by tomorrow night you’ll be in New York.”

  Connor leaned forward as he was struck with inspiration and he grabbed Bronwyn’s hand.

  “Come with me,” he said urgently. “Leave this shit hole behind you and come to America with me.”

  Bronwyn was stunned at his proposal and pulled her hand away from his.

  “I can’t. I’ve got Barry to worry about. I can’t leave Ma on her own,” she exclaimed. Connor sat back and ran his hands through his hair.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “I wasn’t thinking.”

  They sat in silence until Bronwyn went upstairs to pack some of Barry’s clothes for Connor to take with him. As she packed, she thought about what Connor had said. What would he have done if she had accepted? But, as much as she hated the thought of sending him off on his own, she couldn’t leave—no way.

  With a small bag packed, she took it downstairs and left it in the hall. She went back into the lounge and stopped in the doorway when she realised Connor had fallen asleep on the couch. Rather than wake him, she fetched a blanket and, pulling it over him, sat down next to him. Poor Connor. From the look of the dried blood crusting around the top of his boot, it looked like his leg was bleeding again. She would have to patch him up before he left in the morning. Her eyes traveled up to his face and even now, despite the tragedy that had befallen them, just looking at him sent a tremor through her. His eyelids fluttered rapidly and she wondered if he were dreaming. As she got up, she noticed the two plane tickets on the floor. Heading upstairs, she left them both on top of his bag.

  Back in her room, Bronwyn made a telephone call to Cally in New York. Once she had explained who she was and why she was calling, Cally, well versed in the troubles of her home country, assured her that she would look out for Connor and try to set him up with a place to stay, and maybe a job. Bronwyn thanked her and hung up the telephone. Her hand hovered over it as she debated whether to call the police. She decided against it. The longer Rosina’s body went undiscovered, the better chance Connor had of getting away safely. It was a terrible thought, but she knew that Rosina would understand. As Bronwyn crawled into bed, she called her mother at the bed and breakfast in Banbridge. Alia was understandably devastated; she had known Rosina since childhood, and as she wept over the telephone line, Bronwyn felt strangely detached. Once her mother had calmed down, Bronwyn told her what Connor’s plans were and that she had phoned Cally in advance. Alia told her that she had done the right thing.

  “He asked me to go with him,” Bronwyn said and twisted the phone cord around her finger as she waited for her mother’s reply.

  “And?” Alia asked.

  “I said I couldn’t, what with Barry and all…”

  “Baby, oh, God, Bronwyn, I wish you bloody would go,” Alia’s voice was thick with tears and at the other end of the telephone Bronwyn started in surprise.

  “Go? But, I thought—”

  “Oh, sweetheart, if I had the chance I’d get out of this Godforsaken place and make a new life. As much as I love my country, it’s so full of heartache and pain. Look at Cally’s family, Danny, Rosina, and Kathleen.”

  “Oh, Ma, I can’t, not just yet,” replied Bronwyn and she heard her mother heave a heavy sigh at the other end.

  They hung up after that, with Bronwyn promising to call the next day to find out more news of Barry.

  Bronwyn awoke the next morning and, for a second, everything seemed normal. Then she remembered. Rosina was dead, and Connor was in her lounge, sleeping in his grief. The first thing that she noticed as she hurried down the stairs was the bag that she had packed was no longer there. With a feeling of trepidation, she opened the lounge door. Connor was gone, the blanket folded up neatly next to the couch.

  “Shit,” she muttered, and for a long while she stood looking at the place where he had slept last night.

  Eventually she went into the kitchen and flicked the switch on the kettle. It wasn
’t until she sat down with a mug of tea that she saw the envelope on the kitchen table. She put her tea down and ripped it open. A letter, hastily written, and a plane ticket to New York fell out. With shaking hands she picked up the letter and began to read.

  Dear Bronwyn,

  Thank you for being there last night, and please thank Barry for his clothes. I left early this morning so I could get to the airport without anyone seeing me. I won’t come back here, I can’t come back as you know, so I’ll try to pick up the pieces and start a new life away from Crossmaglen.

  Bronwyn, you must realise by now that you can’t change peoples’ perceptions of who we are, and I ask that you, too, leave Crossmaglen before it crushes your spirit, because that would really be a terrible thing. I’ve left you the ticket, and if you change your mind about coming with me, then the plane leaves at midday.

  Please, for your own sake, get out of here.

  Connor

  Bronwyn laid the letter out on the table and picked up the ticket. It was a life-changing moment. She knew that, and as she glanced at the ticket, she frowned and let out a sigh. In her last year at high school she had completed an English project on a British mountaineer called Alison Hargreaves, who had actually died on the mountain K2. Alison had a motto, which for some reason had stuck in Bronwyn’s head and had been a pearl of wisdom she had carried with her since.

  Take the hardest path. If you fail, at least you know you tried. If you don’t, you’ll always wonder.

  Bronwyn had lived by the rule of applying that statement to everything she did, but it had never been truer than it was now. Since her childhood she had been on the same road, and now she had come to a fork in the path. Staying in Crossmaglen was the easy option, and with sudden clarity, she knew what she had to do.

  The taxi ride to Belfast Airport seemed to take hours, and Bronwyn leaned over the seat, glancing nervously at the meter. It was already standing at forty-three pounds and, although she now had seven hundred with her in cash, she didn’t want to spend it all on a cab fare. At ten past eleven the cab pulled up outside the airport. Bronwyn threw the money at the driver and raced up to the flight desk, slapping the ticket down in front of the startled man behind the desk.

  “Am I in time? I’m not too late, am I?” she babbled to the attendant. He looked at his watch and then took her ticket.

  “You might be in time but you really need to get to that boarding gate,” he said, handing her the boarding pass.

  She grabbed it and raced through the airport, praying that the plane wouldn’t leave without her.

  Connor let all of the other passengers onto the plane first and, when the final call came for his flight, he picked his bag up and looked around at the now empty departure lounge. He thought she might have changed her mind, but it looked like he was heading to New York on his own. As he turned to board the plane, he suddenly heard the sound of someone running down the corridor that led to the departure lounge and he stopped to listen. When Bronwyn rounded the corner, sprinting like an Olympic champion, he dropped his bag to the floor and felt immense relief as she ran towards him.

  Feet pounding the floor, Bronwyn fully expected to see an empty departure lounge when she came running in. But he was there, waiting for her, and as he came forward to meet her she threw her arms around him.

  “You came!” She heard him cry and she held him tighter as they spun around, tangled in each other’s arms.

  He pulled away and picked up both the bags in one hand, taking her hand in the other.

  “Come on,” he said and together they ran through the door, towards the aeroplane that would take them to their new life.

  Chapter Fourteen

  New York

  The funeral of Rosina James took place four days after her death on New Year’s Day. The verdict was, of course, murder. With her body riddled with bullets, the coroner did not do a post mortem. He, like everybody else, presumed she had died at the hands of a revenge attack for the lifestyle she had chosen. There were few people at the burial. Kathleen was there, looking shell-shocked throughout the whole service, and Alia, on her own without Barry or Bronwyn. Mary had stayed away, and the people who knew that Rosina had been living with her assumed it was because of the disappearance of her son, which had occurred when Rosina had been murdered. Mary, of course, knew the truth of her son’s whereabouts but she was telling that to nobody. When the mourners drifted away, Alia went back into the church to utter up a prayer for Rosina, and also for Connor and Bronwyn. When she came back out of the church, she saw the stooped figure of a lady standing over Rosina’s freshly dug grave. She knew instinctively it was Mary, Connor’s mother, and she walked over to stand beside her.

  “Missus Dean?” she asked, and Mary looked up, startled.

  “I’m Bronwyn’s mother,” Alia said by way of explanation, and Mary relaxed and shook her outstretched hand.

  “Shall we walk?” Alia asked, and together they made their way through the graveyard.

  “Have you heard anything?” Mary asked.

  “Yes, Bronwyn called me two days ago. They’re staying with my friend, Cally, in New York, until they find their feet. I was hoping you were going to be here today. I brought Cally’s number so you can call your son.” Alia handed over a piece of paper and Mary took it silently. They walked along through the stillness of the graveyard until Mary spoke up.

  “You’ve got a real good girl there, and I’m glad she’s with my boy.”

  “Me too. I told her to get out of here. I miss her like crazy, but she’s made the right choice,”

  replied Alia.

  “You must be glad you’ve still got your boy with you,” said Mary in reply. Alia stopped walking and turned to face Mary.

  “Barry’s not at home. He’s in Banbridge, and I don’t know when he’ll be back.”

  “I’m sorry,” Mary was aware of Banbridge and why someone would be there.

  “I’m sure he’ll be well again soon.” Alia held out her hand and Mary shook it solemnly. “And when you call Connor, make sure it’s not from your house. They might have tampered with your phone lines.”

  Mary nodded and watched Alia walk away.

  On the day of Rosina’s funeral, Bronwyn sat alone in Cally’s apartment and tried not think about her friend. Alia had informed her the burial was today, but, although she had not shed any tears for Rosina, she was still not ready to reflect on the fact that she was dead. Things had happened so quickly since they landed in New York three days ago and made their way to Cally’s home in downtown Manhattan. When they had left the airport and stood on the sidewalk, Bronwyn had been overwhelmed by the hustle and bustle of the city. After the sleepiness of Crossmaglen, it was a big change. They had hailed a taxi and arrived at Cally’s, who had been surprised to see Bronwyn arrive with Connor, but had welcomed them both into her home. Cally had done well for herself since leaving Belfast. She had married a rather well off businessman, Sam Mason, and they had set up home in Manhattan in a four-storey house. Sam worked for I.B.M and his highly paid job meant that Cally could enjoy the luxury of being a stay at home wife, something that she was quite content to do. Cally was also six months pregnant with their first child, and when Bronwyn learned this, she promised that they would be out of her hair as soon as possible. Cally was happy to have them around; she assured them it was nice to see someone from the place that, even after twenty years, she still thought of as home. When Cally led them upstairs, Connor and Bronwyn were stunned by the size of the fourth floor that was to be their temporary home. It had two bedrooms, which Bronwyn was quietly relieved about, and an ensuite bathroom for each bedroom. It even had its own lounge area, with windows that stretched from floor to ceiling, boasting panoramic views over the city. Today was the first day that Bronwyn had been left alone. Cally was visiting Sam’s relatives in Queens, and Connor was out looking for work. Connor and Bronwyn had not discussed their plans any further than finding work, and Bronwyn was worried about how to broach the subje
ct. Was

  Connor intending to find a home for both of them to share? Or, now that they were here, did he expect them to go their separate ways?

  Bronwyn sat on the wide window ledge and looked out across the city. She was confused and tired. She missed Barry and her mother, but most of all she missed Rosina. A vision of Rosina flitted across her mind, a vision of her friend, slumped over her bed, riddled with bullets and blood. How had she felt when she had died? When the pills took effect and she closed her eyes for the very last time, was she regretting it? Did she think of Bronwyn, or Kathleen, or Connor? Did she wish for one last chance to try and resume her life as best she could?

  I won’t think about her…not yet.

  She clenched her fists and leaned her head against the cold window, trying to think of something else, something to take her mind off the thoughts that ran through her head. She glanced at the clock and realised the funeral would be over by now. Had Kathleen attended? Most probably, doing her mourning-widow act, and pretending that she was devastated over the loss of the daughter who she had never loved.

  Realising that she was close to breaking down, Bronwyn climbed off the ledge and reached for her coat. It was time to go and look for a job.

  When Connor arrived back at the Masons’ house, Cally told him that Bronwyn was out job hunting.

  “Take some dinner with us, won’t you?” she asked as she busied herself in the kitchen.

  “I’m not all that hungry,” he replied. “But, thanks anyway.”

  “Rubbish, you’ve not eaten a proper meal since you got here. You need to keep your strength up, lad.”

  Connor sat down at the kitchen table.