The next morning before the inevitable street battle started, Thomas took his turn sliding down the hood of a burned out vehicle with his friends in the Bogside of Derry. He caught sight of his da and stopped rough housing to watch what was happening.
A group of men, carrying bricks taken from a construction site, started shouting “Free Derry.” Thomas’s father threw a brick that knocked a British soldier down and started a riot. Bedlam ensued. Rubber bullets chipped pieces of buildings as more and more people joined the brawl. Thomas knelt by the burned out vehicle, unable to move. Through a haze of tear gas and tears, he watched as a soldier frog marched his da away. I have to help him. I have to help him. After this day, paralysis in the face of fear would curse Thomas for years to come. His eyes stung and tears filled with tear gas streamed down his cheeks. Only when he calmed down and a soldier bent over him to ask if he was hurt did he notice the puddle of urine he was kneeling in. I let him down and I pissed myself too. Da, I wanted to help, honest.
“You took my da. My da,” blurted Thomas, spittle escaping his mouth.
The soldier stood up and shook his head. I’ll never understand it here, he thought, as he backed away, one finger on the safety.
Ashamed, Thomas made his way home. His mother was waiting for him in the doorway. She took one look at him and knew the worst. She saw Thomas grinding his teeth and rocking back and forth. Holding Thomas close, she took him inside.
“There, there, but I told you not to get involved with your pa’s politics. You’ll come to nothing if you do. Believe you me. You were there, weren’t you? Imagine a lad of your age doing this to himself in public. Anyway, get out of those clothes and into the tub. I don’t know what I’m going to do with you.”
Thomas followed his mother into the kitchen. She was boiling some water in a large kettle and she filled a great bucket from the cold faucet.
“In you go. It’ll make a man of you,” she said to Thomas as he stood naked beside the cauldron of cold water on the kitchen floor. He climbed in and shivered, but the water washed off the stink and the stigma at the same time.
“Thanks Ma, for not being too mad at me about the pants.”
“Now what happened down there today?”
“Sit, Ma.”
“For a six year old you’re a serious one. I’ll sit when I get some warm water in that tub.”
She reached for the kettle and turned back to face Thomas. As she poured the scalding water, Thomas blurted out his news.
“They got Da. They took Da. I saw ’em marching ’im away.”
Thomas’ ma leaned back and placed the kettle on the cooker again. She turned to Thomas and looked deeply into his eyes, a decision forming in her mind.
“This is no place to raise a family. I can’t believe I’m saying this, but we have to move from here. Thomas, you finish up with your bath. You’ll come to no good just like him if we stay here. I’d best be getting to the station to see about your da.”
Thomas stood up and walked over to the stove. He pulled up a chair, got up onto it and picked up the kettle and filled up the bath tub with hot water. He climbed in and squeezed his knees to his chest. The heat soothed him. After washing up, he went to his bedroom and fell fast asleep.
****
In his sleep, he dreamed of running after his father and jumping on the soldier who was taking him away. He jumped into the air and, when he landed, his da wasn’t there and he dropped onto the cobblestones, bruising himself. He tossed and turned so violently that he awoke on the floor beside his bed, a bruise forming on his shin from striking a chair leg as he fell from his bed. He sat on the floor and rubbed his leg. Then he heard a low sob coming from the kitchen. The sounds of chairs moving and several people speaking in hushed tones made him more alert. Something’s happened to Da.
Sure enough, when he made his way down the hallway towards the kitchen everyone stopped talking. A tall gentleman with a pipe, someone that Thomas recognized as one his da’s IRA friends, chimed in as Thomas came into the room.
“There’s the lad. Stand tall. You’re to take care of your ma and sister now.”
Thomas felt puzzled, not frightened, not hurt. He had no emotional reaction. Something’s happened to Da, he thought over and over again. Thomas’s mother spoke up.
“Hush. He’s only a child. Come here Thomas. Your ma’ll take care of you.” She addressed the man with the pipe. “You and your politics - look where it got us. You and your kind are no longer welcome here,” she cuddled Thomas as she pointed towards the door. When her guests did not move she became impatient.
“Out, I say,” she screamed.
“We’ll pass the hat at the pub tonight. He was a good man. He knew what he was getting into. Can’t you see? It’s why we’ve gotta be free,” said the tall man, speaking with a pipe dangling from the side of his mouth as he made his way out.
“I’ll let myself out. Father Connolly’ll be by in the morning. There’ll be a parade before the coffin and a masked, gun salute. You can’t stop it,” he added before closing the street door, leading directly onto the sidewalk.
Thomas’ mother wouldn’t let Thomas or his sister go to the funeral because of the IRA men and their gun salutes and because she feared more trouble. So Thomas waited.
A week later, Thomas spoke up at breakfast.
“I wanna go to the cemetery, Ma.”
“I can’t make myself go there, Thomas. Maybe your aunt will take you. She’ll be by later today.”
“Alone, Ma. I wanna go alone.”
He wrapped up some flowers his mother had given him and he made his way to church first, to pray. The calm of the church and its rituals eased his pain, crowded out ‘the troubles’. Thomas knelt in a pew. The church occupied a religious site dating back to 546 A.D., something which always amazed him. Thomas was soon lost in thought.
A priest genuflected in the center aisle, cleared his throat and turned towards him. Their eyes met for an instant. Father Connolly cleared his throat again and moved into the pew behind Thomas. Thomas ignored him. His impatience with all forms of authority and growing sense of isolation since his father’s death won out. He got up, made the sign of the cross and sidled out of the pew.
“Thomas,” said Father Connolly.
“Father.” Thomas acknowledged him without making eye contact.
Thomas continued walking. The priest got out behind and followed at a distance. Dreary overcast weather accompanied them as they walked separated by about twenty paces. On Palace Street, they turned right onto Bishop Street. When he got to the right turn on Orchard Row, Thomas stopped and waited for the priest, upbringing overcame his pride.
“What might I be doing for you, Father?”
“Could I walk with you a wee bit, my son?”
“Suit yourself, Father. Only one t’ing-”
“What might that be then, my son?”
“I’m not the son of any man alive, Father, and especially not yours.”
Tears welled up into his eyes, but not one was shed. Thomas took control of his emotions. “This is my problem, father. I need to face it alone.”
“A man after your father’s heart, Thomas. I’ll just accompany you to the front gate then, if that’s alright with you?”
They walked together up Orchard Row, then along Lecky Road to the left, Thomas’ hands pushed deep into the pockets of a tweed jacket several sizes too big for him and rolled up at the sleeves.
“Get to the grave and get it over with, Thomas,” said Father Connolly as they stopped just near the entrance to Derry City Cemetery. The burial ground was opposite Celtic Park.
Thomas made his way to his father’s grave. First he saw the epitaph: ‘Died in Custody for a Free Derry’, then the date: ‘August 13, 1969’. Now he knew he was not going to be able to maintain his composure. He let the tears flow.
He swept the gravestone and placed the flowers his mother had given him in a vase full of stale water. He genuflected and left abruptly, ushering
in a period of emotional mourning that would stretch into his forties. From that day forward, Thomas gave up trying to make sense of the jumble of voices in his head that grew louder by the day. I never want to be a man, he thought.
Gangs and the DEA Destroy Calm
Thomas’ mother stayed true to her word. She packed two suitcases, one for Thomas and his younger sister, Patsy, and one for herself. She coerced her father, a widower who’d escaped ‘the troubles’ by moving south to Killorglin, into leaving. Still in a state of shock, they boarded a ferry in Dublin that made for the port of Liverpool. There, her father used his fishing connections to get them passage on a freighter to Boston.
At first, Thomas was furious, but the emptiness of the Atlantic appealed to him. Its swells bashing into the bow of their rust-bucket freed him of the suffering he felt. On one occasion he awoke in his bunk in the bow of the ship in the early morning. They were many miles off the coast of Newfoundland, Canada. An unusual sound startled Thomas from his deep slumber. Something whacked against the bow, echoing under Thomas’ bunk. He slid the curtain isolating his sleeping area from his grandfather’s bunk in their double room and he slipped into his boots, laced them up tight and made his way to the deck. He took his parka from a hook on the back of the door.
The late September air jolted him alert and he realized that something was frightening him, but he didn’t know what. He walked slowly along the deck. He had the run of the ship by this stage of the voyage and no one took particular notice of the insular boy who loved wandering the various structures.
Thomas glanced over the bow at a point near the forward winches. He pulled himself into a position that allowed his short frame to view the ocean churning beside the ship through the railings. Then the sound repeated itself, frightening him again. He froze. I should get Ma and Sis and Grandpa. Doubt gripped him. Then the echo repeated itself twice, more loudly. Thomas’ heart beat in his throat. He was holding the railing and listening intently when the night watchman appeared beside him.
“That noise be only the fall of the year, knocking winter’s hello,” said the ‘Newfie’ night watchman.
Thomas’ heart settled down. The watchman and he had become fast friends on the voyage; the Newfoundlander’s easy warmth broke into Thomas' shell by providing Thomas with a fund of seaman’s information. He had given the young boy a cherished sailor’s knife. ‘Newf’ silently continued his rounds, sounding the ballast along the port side, spray from the frigid waters wetting his heavy black rain gear.
Thomas returned to his cabin and as quietly as possible opened the door.
“Where’d you get to?’ asked the voice of his grandfather behind his privacy curtain.
“Just on deck. The little icebergs scared me.”
“Aye. I thought it might be that. You alright now?”
“Ya. ‘Newf’ told me about ’em.”
“Get some shuteye now,” Gramps said.
“How much longer, Gramps?”
“Sleep now, Son.”
Thomas tried to sleep but the adrenaline stirred in his blood by the sudden awakening and the ensuing fright didn’t let him. He got up again when his grandfather started snoring. He made his way to the bow, sat in the protected space between the anchors and just out of the splash from the Atlantic. Soon the sunrise bolstered his spirit. A whale spouted its unique breathing song and Thomas made his way ‘aft’ to the kitchen.
The hook-nosed cook, a grump who talked daily of the ‘hair of the dog’ he needed in the mornings, slid Thomas’ breakfast over the counter in the galley. Two eggs with buttered white toast crumbled into them. Thomas went to his spot in the corner and silently gobbled away.
****
Before he knew it, the voyage was over and the family was disembarking at Boston. His mother and Gramps told the customs agent who boarded the freighter to process their arrival that they were returning to Ireland in three weeks. They had tickets to prove it, but Thomas knew otherwise. Thomas couldn’t believe the size of the book the custom’s man carried.
“What’s in the book, Sir?” asked Thomas, coming out of himself with this remark.
“Nothing to concern you, Son,” said the officer.
Thomas’ curiosity overcame the seething inside him at the use of the word ‘son’ by yet another stranger in reference to him.
“But what are all the names, Sir?”
Impressed by Thomas’ persistence and his manners, the customs man explained that it was a list of current felons to be kept out of the country.
“What’s a felon, Sir?”
“I’m busy, young man. Next-”
The two other passengers came forward and presented their documents and Thomas followed his grandfather, mother and sister out on deck. Thomas went first. He took Patsy’s hand and made his way ahead of the adults down the gangway.
“Don’t let go of your sister now, Thomas.”
His mother and grandfather carried the two bags that contained their past and prepared their future. A scruffy looking man smoking a pipe waited at the bottom of the gangway. He tousled Thomas’ hair and paused when Thomas growled, but then his hand quickly went to greet Thomas’ grandfather.
“Not a day older, Danny boy. This’ll be Mary? My sincerest condolences. He-”
“He was a good man. None of your politics with me, Sean O’Hare. We’re here to forget the past and move on. Where’s your car?” Thomas’ mother asked.
“Can’t bring it to the dockside. I’m parked outside the port area. My son’s waiting in the car,” replied O’Hare.
“We’d best be gettin’ started. They tell me Maine’s a long drive,” said Mary.
“That it is, Lassie. That it is, but it’s almost as pretty as the old country,” added O’Hare.
They walked out of the area, passing by the docks and under the enormous loading cranes. Thomas pulled a cart which O’Hare had provided. They arrived at a Ford station wagon and Thomas slid into the worn but comfortable back-facing bench. Same as Liverpool, he thought as he looked at the massive machinery of the port.
Thomas’ grandpa sat in front with Sean O’Hare. As Thomas had guessed, he was an old friend of Thomas’ father and a man of the movement. The men got right into a discussion but they avoided any talk of politics in deference to Mary’s wishes. O’Hare owed Thomas’ granddad a debt and was living up to his word that day. Unknown to Mary, one time long ago, Gramps had saved O’Hare’s life by hiding O’Hare in the boot of his car after a skirmish with the ‘Brits’ in County Omagh.
“We’re off to a place called Stonington, Maine. I found a used lobster boat for you there. You’ll have to talk to the children before we get there.” He lit a cigarette.
“Do you have to use those vile things in the vehicle?” asked Mary, leaning over from the back seat into the front seat.
O’Hare cracked open the small triangular, draft window near his dashboard and allowed most of the smoke to escape.
“That better, Dear?”
“Don't Dear me, but ‘aye’. Now. What do we have to talk to the children about?” asked Mary.
Her father piped in: “You didn’t think we could use our own names to live here, did you, Darlin’?”
“It never occurred to me. So much new here,” she replied.
O’Hare passed some passports and plasticized documents to Dan, his eyes carefully avoiding Mary’s disapproval.
“Father, there’s the smell of your politics here. How’d you get those, O’Hare?” Mary asked shrewdly.
“An old debt, Mary. Your da and I go back a long way and that’s all I’m saying. Like it or not.”
Before Mary could speak further, her father turned to her and his eyes told her not to interfere. The Irish way. Best not to talk of it, she thought. Mary sat back and looked at the backs of the heads of her children in the third seat. The view out the rear fascinated them. She felt content despite her misgivings. It’s for them. It’s for them, I’m doing this, she thought.
After pass
ing through the A & W Drive Thru, Thomas and Patsy sat munching the food in Styrofoam packages and sipping something called root beer. The world of Interstate I-93 rushed past them. Patsy liked the serving girls on roller skates and the fries too. Thomas wanted to complain, but he wolfed down the food.
Something caught Thomas’ attention a while after lunch.
“Ma, did you see that sign?”
“No, Son, but don’t be bothering me now. I’ve a lot on my mind.”
“We’re on the road to Belfast,” continued Thomas.
Sure enough O’Hare had just turned east on route 3 on his way to Belfast. “You’re keeping up, Thomas. We’ll be going through Belfast before getting to our destination, Stonington,” said O’Hare from the front seat.
“Talk to Thomas first,” suggested Dan, as he leaned over the seat and passed Thomas’ identification cards to his daughter.
“Thomas, climb over the seat, will ya? I’ve got something to show you,” Mary said.
Patsy looked disappointed when her mother told her to stay in the back for now. Thomas clambered to the place beside his mother. Before he changed seats, Thomas gave his sister a picture coloring book he picked up on the way to the washroom at the A&W. She turned the pages showing line drawings of bears standing alongside serving girls on roller skates. She smiled happily, her mind at ease now despite being left alone in the back seat.
“What, Ma?”
“You see this, Thomas,” she said, showing him a picture of himself in a plasticized case.
“Is that a cousin or something, Ma? Looks just like me.”
“We’re going to play a game, Thomas. Just for fun, we’re going to use different names for a while. You have to remember this name because now it’s your name.”
“I wanna keep Da’s name, Ma. I don’t want this name.”
Diamond Rain: Adventure Science Fiction Mossad Thriller (The Spy Stories and Tales of Intrigue Series Book 2) Page 3