He remembered a freckle-faced firebrand leaping to his defense, reducing her mother to tears and her father to howls of irresponsible laughter. In those long-ago, careless, sunlit days, no one dared cross Jilly Fitzgerald of Kildare Hall. But this was different. She was in way over her head, and it was time someone did.
He reached for her hand, enclosing it in a viselike grip. “You’re coming with me. We’ll find a place t’ sit this one out.”
“Where are we going?”
“Keep quiet.”
Jillian allowed him to lead her across the road, down a small side street, and into a modest home that had recently been occupied. A kettle still boiled on the stove, and the bathroom mirror was thick with steam as if someone had just showered. “Where’s Connor?” she asked, leaning against the counter and rubbing the wrist he had just released.
“With Mrs. Flynn.” He spooned tea leaves into a pot. “What do you hope to accomplish here, Jillian?”
She looked surprised. “Nothing, really. The rest isn’t up to me.” He handed her the cup. The heat warmed her hands. “I feel so removed from it all,” she confessed. “Everything I know comes from what I’ve read. It isn’t enough. I feel as if I were blind.”
Frankie swallowed a mouthful of hot, sustaining tea. “We’re not expectin’ you to change what can’t be changed. No one person can do that.”
“What time is it?”
“Nearly midnight.”
She looked around. “Where are we?”
“Sean Dunbar’s home. He’s the Sinn Fein representative in the area.”
“Nothing is scheduled for hours yet. Do you think he’d mind if I napped on his couch?”
Frankie shook his head. “I’ll wake you if anything happens.”
Within minutes, she was asleep.
He watched her for a long time, her hand curling against her chin, the way her hair spilled across the cushion, her lashes resting like gold-tipped crescents against her cheeks, the even rise and fall of her chest when she breathed. She turned only once, sighing deeply, lashes fluttering, arms settling bonelessly into familiar places.
It hit without warning, instantly, irrevocably, like the glancing blow of a boxer’s punch. How long had it been? Two years? Three? A lifetime? Had he ever known that kind of desperate, hopeless desire, the kind that weakens the knees, strips clean the defenses, and exposes the longings hidden deep in one’s soul?
He drew in his breath, walked unsteadily into the kitchen, turned off the light, and sank down into a straight-backed chair. The darkness settled him, bringing with it a semblance of sanity. Jillian was beautiful, and he was lonely. Colette’s passing had stirred the embers of appetites he’d repressed since her accident. He was a man, for Christ’s sake, and a bloody tolerant one. Three years was a long time. The platonic nature of his marriage had been Colette’s choice, not his. It was only natural for a man, celibate against his will, to react when confronted with a lovely, compassionate woman who obviously adored his son.
It was impossible, of course. She was an aristocrat and a Protestant, not to mention his political adversary. The press would hang her for a conflict of interests that would make the Windsor scandals appear tame in comparison. He would end this cat-and-mouse game they played. After tonight, the only communication he would have with her would be across the bargaining table during peace talks.
The shrill blast of the community siren pierced the silence. Frankie leaped from his chair and headed for the sitting room. Jillian met him halfway, her eyes wide with terror.
“They’ve sounded the alarm,” he said quietly. “It means British troops have secured the area around Drumcree Church.”
“What shall we do?”
“Nothing.”
“You didn’t come here to wait in Sean Dunbar’s house.”
“No. But I didn’t expect to find you, either.”
Her eyes flashed. “I’m going outside, Danny,” she said deliberately. “Don’t try to stop me.”
He watched her sling the backpack over her shoulder, push open the screen, and walk through the door. Cursing, he flipped off the sitting-room light, zipped his jacket, and followed her. When he caught up with her and took her hand, she did not pull away. He found a spot on the corner with a good vantage point.
Peaceful protesters shouting encouragement lined the road. Above the joviality, Jillian heard the cadence of marching feet. Within minutes, the RUC, outfitted in black and wearing complete body armor, sealed off every route into the Garvaghy Road and encircled the protesting residents who began singing the strains of “We Shall Overcome.” British Saxons and RUC armored Land Rovers moved into position.
It was nearly dawn. Fingers of morning light streaked the sky. Slowly, the police fanned out and approached the crowd. The protesters linked arms, tightened their circle, and began to pray. Jillian bit her lip. She wanted very much to look away, but Frankie’s mocking glare kept her eyes stubbornly fixed on the nightmare unfolding before her.
Targeting the perimeters of the circle, the RUC began peeling away individuals, one and two at a time. Four policemen, swinging clubs, waded into the middle. They lifted the clubs above their heads and brought them down, full force on the heads, shoulders, backs, and arms of the protesters. Across the street on the sidewalk, another unit assumed the kneeling position, took aim, and fired. Bodies fell to the ground. Shouts, screams, and profanity sounded through the peaceful dawn.
Pressing the back of her hand against her mouth, Jillian watched as heads split open and nationalist blood spilled, once again, on the streets of Ireland. She did not protest when Frankie’s arm came around her, his hand pressing her head into his shoulder, his voice murmuring a soothing mantra in a language she did not understand.
After three hours of physical brutality and military precision, the occupation and containment of the Garvaghy community was complete. The wait for the march began in earnest. Tensions were high.
Frankie pulled Jillian into the shadow of a building to avoid the inevitable confrontations among residents, the soldiers, and police. Hours passed. He no longer felt his feet. Jillian slept occasionally, her body a limp weight against his chest.
It was Sunday morning, and Saint John’s Parish Church was surrounded with barbed wire. Surrounded by British tanks and soldiers in full riot gear, local priests carried tables to construct an altar for an open-air mass. Catholics assembled and knelt on the concrete while their priests prayed. Cameras flashed, and reporters spoke with hushed voices into their microphones.
At one o’clock in the afternoon, they came, a somber group of twelve hundred Orangemen, marching in rows through the ominous silence, backs straight, eyes forward, faces tight with fear, orange sashes bright beneath bowler hats.
An angry murmur surged through the crowd. “You call yourselves Christians!” a woman screamed.
“Rot in hell!” a man called out.
Within minutes, they were gone. But the rage of the community had increased. Nationalists spewed venomous insults at the RUC. Young men raised their fists and chanted to each other from the rooftops, “I-R-A, I-R-A, no cease-fire, no cease-fire.”
Jillian watched in shocked silence as the citizens of Garvaghy Road were left to strip away the barricades, ropes, and barbed wire from the contained areas. “We can still sort it out,” she said under her breath. “This is over. Next year will be different.”
“Will it?” Frankie’s mouth twisted bitterly. “When will you people recognize an ultimatum when you see one? The Catholics of Garvaghy Road are telling you that they want no part of Thomas Putnam’s peace train so long as it has just two carriages, first class and Catholic.”
Someone else might have assumed her unnatural pallor was the result of shock or pain. But Frankie, sensitive to her slightest nuance, knew that it was anger, white-hot and all-consuming.
When he didn’t answer, she smiled sadly. “I thought better of you, Danny Browne. I believed in the man who was Colette’s husband. I hoped—” She took a deep breath. Her mouth trembled.
Words failed him. He reached out, but she backed away.
“Don’t touch me.” Her voice broke. “Please, don’t touch me. I can’t bear it.” With a final anguished look, she turned and crossed the desolate street.
***
Bertie Ahern, the Irish Taoiseach, called the march a travesty. John Bruton, the Fine Gael leader, expressed regret over the course of events concerning Garvaghy Road. Eamon O’Cuiv, the new minister of state for the Republic of Ireland, criticized the heavy-handed approach of the RUC and the British troops. Thomas Putnam, prime minister of England, was furious.
Amnesty International had publicly denounced the actions of the British government and demanded that Mr. Putnam bring Britain’s laws into line with international standards in relation to Northern Ireland and to set up a human rights commission. The group called for an inquiry into the significant numbers of deaths while in police custody.
Putnam’s youthful forehead was furrowed as he walked back and forth across the wooden floor of his office at No. 10 Downing Street. His secretary’s voice floated through the speaker phone. “Mrs. Graham is on the phone, sir.”
He pushed the red light. “Jillian, are you there?”
“Yes.”
“You’ve seen the papers?”
“Yes.”
His voice rose. “What in bloody hell are we to do?”
“I beg your pardon?”
He could not miss the frost in her voice, and it grated on his already sensitive nerves. “I apologize,” he said stiffly. “What is your opinion on the matter?”
“I would do exactly as they ask.”
“That’s preposterous.”
“Why?”
“It makes us look like fools.”
Was he imagining the edge to her words, or was Jillian Graham actually impatient with him?
“On the contrary,” she said. “It will look as if you and the Labour Party are enlightened. Your government is still new enough to pull it off if you act quickly. Institute parade legislation immediately, set up a human rights commission, investigate the Bloody Sunday murders, and enforce the rights of suspects to remain silent during police interrogation and trial.”
“I’ll call a press conference.”
“That should help.”
“When will the talks resume?”
“We expect trouble in Belfast,” she said quietly. “When it’s clear that the nationalists are appeased over Garvaghy Road, their leaders will come back to the table.”
“I want to speak with Wilson and Browne first, before the press conference. Can you find them?”
The silence stretched out.
“Jillian, are you there?”
“Yes, Tom.”
“Will you find them?”
“I’ll try.”
Jillian waited for the click at the other end of the line before replacing her receiver. West Belfast was a war zone and the last place she wanted to be. She could call Frankie at the Sinn Fein office, but the chances of finding him there were slim. He had given her his home number, but she shied away from using it. It was too personal and, after the way they last parted, too immodest. She would have to wait for him in front of his flat, and that meant crossing the barricades late in the day.
Perhaps she would see Connor. The thought lifted her spirits. He was such a dear little lad. She would bring something along to cheer him up. If small boys were anything like girls, they loved toys with moving parts. She would find something appropriate tomorrow.
The following morning, Jillian waited her turn in the queue of autos lined up to cross into West Belfast. Octagonal guard towers with automatic rifles pointed menacingly in the direction of West Belfast towered above the Peace Wall gate. Soldiers checked the papers of Catholics and Protestants wishing to cross over to opposite sides of the city.
A young man about Casey’s age poked his head into her window. “Papers, please.”
She passed them over, watched him scan her identification, and saw his eyes widen. “Begging your pardon, ma’am, the streets are a mess just now. I wouldn’t go in for a few more days.”
Jillian smiled politely. “Unfortunately, my business won’t wait. Thank you for the warning. I’ll be careful.”
He nodded, handed back her papers, and waved her through.
She should have brought a driver or taken a black taxi, those notorious hearselike autos that operated in West Belfast under the direction of the Irish Republican Army. Driving her expensive sedan with its Ulster plates through smoke-filled streets was an invitation for trouble. She stared straight ahead, praying for lights to turn before she came to a full stop.
Ahead of her, a crowd of men, women, and children milled in front of the community center. On a hastily erected dais, a tall, dark-haired man with a full beard addressed the crowd through a loudspeaker. “I have demanded the rerouting of the parade scheduled for the Lower Ormeau Road,” he said to the angry crowd. “All right-thinking people will agree with us.”
A man shouted from below. “They said they couldn’t hold the barricade against the Orangemen.”
Robbie Wilson laughed, a short, sharp bark that held little humor. “Ask any nationalist how long he can hold a barricade on the Falls Road. He’ll tell you forever. The unionists behave the way they do because the British government lets them,” he said. “If we—”
The low rumble of a tank engine drowned out his voice. Jillian pulled over to the curb and looked behind her. The color drained from her face. Three armored Land Rovers rolled slowly, steadily toward the assembly. A woman screamed. The crowd scattered in every direction, and the sharp crack of gunfire ripped through the chaos. Glass shattered, and the smell of chemicals filled the air.
From the end of the street, a small black-haired boy darted into the path of the oncoming tanks. Dear God! “Connor!” Jillian screamed. Horrified, she flung herself out of the car, praying that she would be in time. The dreadful crack of a sniper’s rifle whistled past her ear. Petrol bombs and rocks crashed around her.
The boy’s small body crumpled to the ground in a heap. The rat-a-tat-tat of gunfire came from all directions. Smoke filled her nose and burned her eyes. Jillian could no longer see. “Connor!” she cried out again. Falling to her knees, she began to crawl.
“They’ve shot a boy, the bastards!” The cry rang out from the street. “A wee lad is down!”
“Connor!” A man’s agonized cry came from a shop on the corner.
Through streaming eyes, Jillian saw Frankie race into the street. A soldier in green camouflage lifted his gun and took aim. She opened her mouth to call out when a voice, calm and soothing, reached her ears. Go back, Jilly. Go back now. I’ll take care of this.
Confused, Jillian stared at the scene in the street. Frankie had reached Connor and thrown his body over his son’s still form. A woman stood over them, fearlessly facing the tanks. She spread her arms, encompassing the man and the boy in a circle of pale hair and windy light. Nell! Petrol bombs exploded all around them, and bullets riddled building walls, car doors, lampposts, billboards, everywhere but inside the small nucleus of light.
Jillian looked back at the steadily approaching Land Rovers. Somewhere, through the chaos, she heard the voice. Now, Jilly. Now they need you.
Reacting instinctively, Jillian ran back to her car, turned the key with shaking hands, and careened wildly i
nto the path of the oncoming tanks, stopping beside the two figures lying in the street. Frankie knelt on the pavement, holding the boy in his arms. “Get in!” she shouted at him, leaning across the seat to open the door.
He lifted a ravaged face to hers. “He’s alive.”
“We haven’t much time.” She forced herself to remain calm. “Get into the car. I’ll take you to the Royal Victoria.”
Somehow, she made him understand the urgency. Without another word, he climbed into the automobile.
Jillian never knew how long it took to drive through the angry streets of Belfast, but it seemed the longest journey of her life. She called ahead on the car phone and when she stopped at the emergency entrance to the hospital, a full retinue of doctors greeted them. Within minutes, Connor was stabilized and on his way to surgery.
Frankie was in shock. Even Jillian, inexperienced in medical science, knew what the blueness around his lips and the pallor of his complexion meant. Quickly, she called for help, slipped her arm around his waist, and led him to the waiting-room couch. A nurse and an orderly rolled in a gurney. Together they lifted him onto the clean white sheets and draped a blanket over his body. Then they wheeled him away.
Jillian looked at the cheerful picture-lined walls, at the stacks of colorful magazines arranged on the coffee table, at the coffee perking in its spot on the shelf. Then she sank down on the couch, rested her head in her hands, and wept.
Twenty-Four
Jillian’s hand tightened on her cell phone. “I don’t care where Mr. Flanagan is,” she said tightly. “Either he returns my call within the hour, or I’ll take steps to remove him from his position as chief of police.”
The voice on the other end of the line was silent. “I’ll relay your message,” he said at last.
The doctor stepped into the waiting room. “The boy’s injuries are not serious, Mrs. Graham. The bullet grazed his head, causing a concussion, nothing more. We’ll watch him tonight and release him tomorrow morning.”
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