Exit Unicorns

by Cindy Brandner

  “Sylvie Larkin,” a small, rough brown paw extended itself under his nose. “Thank you for looking after my sister.”

  “Christ on earth,” he muttered as the numbness began to wear off and the pain tore in needling ripples across his head, “yer welcome.”

  He felt a light hand touch his head, pull his hair aside, “Ye’ve cut yerself an’ yer bleedin’, ye’d best come back with Sarah an’ me an’ I’ll bandage it for ye.”

  “It’s kind of ye but I really should get back.” He straightened himself slowly and met the calm yet somehow stern gaze of Sylvie Larkin.

  “Get back where?” she asked, “It’s still a battlefield back there an’ it’s shapin’ up to last a bit more. Come on, don’t stand on yer manners while yer bleedin’ to death.”

  With Sarah clutching his hand and chatting a mile a minute, Pat followed the slim form of Sylvie Larkin to her home.

  It was a small house, squeezed between a butcher’s shop and a rundown storefront that advertised shoe-repair and beeswax soap amongst its services. Pat, left to sit in the front room while Sylvie bustled off to get antiseptic and tape for his head, surveyed the threadbare yet homey surroundings. Everything was clean, well polished and had obviously seen many years of use. Sarah was perched opposite him, a smudge of chocolate licking the tip of her nose and a ragged tear in her blue dress.

  “Are ye married?” she asked, swinging her legs back and forth in a cheery manner.

  “No, I’m not,” Pat said.

  “Sylvie’s not married either, mam says she never will be if she doesn’t stop havin’ so many ideas in her head. I’ve got too many ideas too, but it’s alright ‘cause I don’t want to get married. Mam’s married an’ it doesn’t do her no good anyhow, daddy lives in England an’ we never see him. Would you like to get married?”

  “Sarah, leave off the poor man an’ go clean yerself up,” Sylvie, coming back into the room with a pan of hot water under one arm and a fishing tackle box under the other, cast a stern glance at her sister. “An’ leave yer dress on my bed, I’ll mend an’ wash it tonight.”

  “Sorry,” she flashed a shy smile at Pat as Sarah scampered off, “she thinks everyone’s business is hers for the askin’ an’ ours hers to share.”

  “Curiosity’s a good thing,” Pat responded, then clutched the arms of the chair he sat in as Sylvie applied a hot cloth to the top of his head.

  “It’ll get her in trouble one of these days,” Sylvie said and opening the tackle box took out antiseptic and applying it liberally to the cloth, put it back on Pat’s head.

  “Were ye in the march?” Pat asked, trying to distract himself from the unholy stinging that was sending shivers through his scalp.

  “Nooo...well I suppose yes I was, though I didn’t entirely intend to be. Mam had told me I wasn’t to be anywhere near it an’ I’d promised I wouldn’t go, but then I just had to see.”

  “See what?”

  “History in the makin’, I wanted to be there an’ not just read about it in the newspaper or hear someone else’s comments about it that hadn’t been there themselves. I didn’t expect it to turn into a free for all with the police, though in this neighborhood I suppose I ought to know better.”

  “Have ye always lived in Derry then?” Pat asked as a deft and light hand swabbed the cut on his head.

  “Born here, probably die here.” She sighed, “They say in the papers that right now all roads lead to Derry but I just wish I could find the road leadin’ out. Where are you from?”

  “Just up from Belfast for the day,” he said as she leaned over him to inspect her work and he smelled the old-fashioned scents of lemon verbena and lilacs.

  “You smell nice,” he blurted out, made awkward by her proximity.

  “Thank you,” she said simply and patting his hair into place stepped away and closed her box up with a snap.

  “Ye don’t need stitches though it looks like a near thing, it’s a narrow cut an’ ye’ll have to keep it clean. Do ye have someone at home that can do it for ye?”

  “Aye.”

  “Good, are ye hungry? I need to fix dinner for Sarah an’ I an’ ye look as though ye could use a bite.”

  “I shouldn’t impose, ye’ve been very kind, but I really ought to get back out there an’ see what the damage is an’ if I can’t locate a way home.”

  “I think goin’ back up near the bridge is a very bad idea, ye may not have noticed on the way in but they’re puttin’ up barricades around the neighborhood, that’s not a good sign, there’s like to be plenty of trouble tonight.”

  Pat rose and went to the front window, parting the lace curtains carefully and angling his head to peer up the street. In the distance he could see dim figures running, hear the echo of shouts and a drifting haze on the air that looked like smoke. The girl was right, larger trouble was brewing.

  “Come an’ sit, I’ll make ye some eggs an’ toast an’ then if ye’ve a mind to go out there into that at least it’ll be on a full stomach.”

  “Okay,” he nodded and followed her to the small kitchen, where she began to take down bowls and plates, eggs and milk.

  “Can I help ye with anything?”

  “No, sit down an’ rest, a blow to the head like that is nothing to mess about with.”

  She took out a loaf of bread and sliced it neatly so that it fell away in perfect, narrow slices. She then cracked a half dozen eggs into a bowl, added a little milk and set to beating them up to a froth.

  “Does yer father work in England?”

  “Aye, an’ it’s not so bad as Sarah made it sound, he works there, he lost his job after Darin was born, that’s my little brother, an’ he couldn’t find another to save his own life. So he went over to England, he’s relatives there an’ found a job. He sends as much of his pay home as he can.”

  “Why don’t ye join him there?”

  “Mam refuses to leave the Bogside, she grew up here an’ she says she’s not leavin’ it til they cart her out feet first. Couldn’t see herself livin’ in England she says.”

  Pat watched as she poured the eggs into a hot skillet, smoking with bacon fat.

  “An’ how about you? Could ye see yerself livin’ elsewhere?”

  Sylvie glanced over her shoulder at him, one eyebrow quirked.

  “Oh could I, I dream about it all the time.”

  “An’ when ye dream where are ye?”

  “Oh, I don’t know that it’s a specific place, it’s dreams after all, but it’s always warm in my dreams an’ there’s sand an’ flowers an’ a lot of water. Really blue water.”

  “I dream about California,” he said quietly. He’d never said it before, hadn’t felt an urge to share, but now in this instant he’d wanted to tell someone.

  “Want to be in the pictures, do ye?” she asked and lifted the skillet to dole the eggs out onto chipped china plates.

  “No,” he replied though he knew her comment had only been teasing. “It just seems a grand place, don’t ye think? Right on the ocean but with mountains an’ huge trees an’ enough fog at times to make even an’ Irishman feel comfortable. An’ ye could be anything an’ do anything an’ no one would care who your family was or what religion ye came from.”

  “I imagine even people in California have troubles,” Sylvie said practically, setting down eggs and toast in front of him.

  “Aye well,” he said feeling foolish that he’d shared this much with a complete stranger, “it’s only a silly dream.”

  “I don’t think it’s very silly at all,” Sylvie said with a look of seriousness on her face. She smiled then, a quick, bright smile that wasted nothing and lit her face up like a candle. “Sarah,” she yelled, “yer supper’s ready.”

  Sarah bounded down the stairs, freshly washed, hair brushed to a soft gold, clad in a well-mended pink nightie. Sylvie said grace in a l
ow and even voice and after a cluster of murmured amens everyone set to eating.

  “The eggs are very good,” Pat said, hungrier than he’d realized, he’d polished off his plate while the two girls were scarce halfway through their own. Sylvie took his plate and going to the stove, wordlessly refilled it and returned it to the table.

  “Thank you,” Pat said.

  “Well I imagine it takes a bit more to fill ye up than a bit of eggs an’ toast, what with yer size but I didn’t get out to the shops yesterday so it’s what was left in the cupboards.”

  “Don’t ye think my Sylvie is pretty?” Sarah asked, bored with all the adult politeness.

  Sylvie turned a black look on her sister and snatched up Sarah’s plate as well as her own, though neither of them was done eating.

  “She is,” Pat nodded at Sarah, meeting her merry brown eyes in a smile of complicity. “She’s a lovely name too.”

  “It’s French,” Sarah said, accepting the piece of toast Pat handed her off his own plate and pausing to liberally load it with jam. “Our Granny was French.”

  “Sarah,” Sylvie said, “it’s bedtime for you. I want those addition sums done before you go to sleep an’ ye know Mam likes ye to read a chapter of the bible.”

  “The bible,” Sarah leaned confidentially across the table, “is wretched borin’, ‘cept now I’m on the Psalms an’ that’s not so bad. Specially the bits about kissin’.”

  “Sarah Anne Larkin,” Sylvie said in such a tone that Sarah jumped up and hastily licking jam from her fingers, fled up the stairs.

  “She’s very bright,” Pat said, picking up plates and glasses and carrying them to the sink.

  “Too bright for her own good likely, it’s a hard contrast between her and our little brother, he’s four an’ completely deaf. Mam’s gone over to London for a few days, Da’ managed to get an appointment with a specialist an’ he’s to look over Darin. We’re hopin’ there’s somethin’ can be done for him.”

  She had filled the sink with hot, soapy water and was briskly washing the dishes. Pat grabbed a tea towel and set to drying them.

  “My mam’d have fits if she saw a man doin’ dishes in her kitchen, she says it’s the only place she’s queen an’ she’ll not a have a man muckin’ about in it.”

  “She’d really have fits in our house then, there was nothin’ but men all our growin’ years.”

  “Did your mother die?” Sylvie asked pausing to look at him as she pushed a strand of hair out of her eyes with a soapy finger.

  “No, just left.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “It was a long time ago, but thank ye all the same.”

  Just then there was a strange woofing boom outside, causing the tea cups to rattle in the cupboard. Pat knew the noise for what it was and shoved Sylvie down to the floor, dropping himself beside her.

  “Bomb?” Sylvie asked, face ashen.

  Pat nodded, keeping low to the ground and beginning to crawl towards the small entryway. “Petrol bomb. Go check yer sister,” he said tersely. He listened for a moment at the door and then standing, opened it narrowly and stepped out into the street. Twilight was falling, edging the events outside with a surreal softening light. At the head of the street, he could see a knot of people, the dissolving silhouette of flame throwing darkness down upon their heads and onto the paving stones.

  “What’s goin’ on?” he asked a winded lad, who was slouched against a wall.

  “Barricades are goin’ up, bastards chased us down into the Bogside an’ everyone’s afraid if there’s no defenses they’ll start bustin’ up the whole damn neighborhood.”

  “An’ the bomb?” Pat asked.

  “Don’t know,” the boy shook his head, “they had to expect it would get ugly after today.” He looked up at Pat, eyes narrowing suspiciously, “Were ye out for the march?”

  “Aye, got doused with the water cannon an’ batoned across the head.”

  “Me as well,” the boy turned up two hands whose palms were scored and scraped, then tapped his face where a glorious bruise was coming out in shades that ranged from ocher to ebony. “Bastard caught me right across the cheekbone, thought he’d smashed it, it’s still throbbin’ like a bugger mind. It’s not as bad as it might be though, there’s a regular battle goin’ on up in Little James Street an’ police attackin’ people in Williams Street.”

  Pat nodded, hearing over the crackle of fire the screams that reverberated in the distance. It was hard to say if they were those of fear or fury. He began to walk, hardly knowing where his feet were leading him, only aware that he had to outrun the pounding in his own head. His very blood seemed to demand something, movement, forward motion, a reaction to the action being taken on these streets, in this neighborhood where oppression had been the norm for far too long. If a man was down on his knees long enough, he learned to walk on them. He’d be damned if he’d get used to it. He was running before he knew it, stopping only to grab a tattered tricolor from its resting place above the door of a pub, his legs pumping faster and faster until he had the giddy sense of being close to out of control, of almost flying.

  The air that streamed past him and caught the white, green and gold of the flag, smelled of fire and a heady freedom. It smelled to Pat in the dark autumn night like the beginning of something new, like a thousand possibilities attached to a million more, like a whiff of revolution. And the scent of it alone, borne on the night, seemed worth dying for.

  He saw fire in front of him, felt stones whistle past his head and knew he was approaching a barrier in more ways than one. Did he have the courage to go past it?

  What did courage demand? What did the blood of dead ancestors call for in a moment like this? And before he knew it, he was past. Behind him someone screamed “Get back ye daft bastard, they’ll kill ye!”

  Behind him a torrent of stones were let free and then a whistle that told him a bottle had been launched. Ahead of him, shoulder to shoulder, glittering like malevolent beetles in their shiny new government supplied helmets, black clubs gleaming, were the police. Paid to protect their own and no other.

  The bottle landed in front of them just before he did, exploding in a vicious spray of glass and leaping, roaring flames. Several of the police were distracted and he used the opportunity to slip past, climbing the base of the hill that ran up to the old, walled city.

  It became a bit like a deadly game of rugby after that, with Pat holding the most desired ball in existence. He feinted, dodged, caught a harsh blow to the head and felt the blunt end of a club across the back of his knees. He kept running though, eyes on the wall ahead. Counting down the distance as the ground dissolved beneath his feet, the rhythm of his childhood drumming in his head. ‘Ten for the Papist, nine for the Prod, eight go to hell and seven get to God...’ . A club raked the side of his head, leaving a swathe of fiery pain in its wake, ‘Six for the Lady, Five for the Queen,’ a hand grasped at his ankle, biting the flesh through to bone and then tore off, a hot trail of blood trickled down his foot. ‘Four for the orange, three for the green, Two for the fountain,’ he made the wall, felt the impact of stone against his chest and drove the tricolor into a crack in the wall. And yelled ‘one for the fire’ just as the first club caught him full in the back of the head and an expanding halo of light exploded before his eyes. Then all was blissfully black.

  “...was always a stubborn little bugger ye know..”

  “...already had a head injury, fixed it up as best I could but...”

  “Aye, well he’s the Riordan skull, take more than a couple dozen clubs to break it. Are ye awake then Sleepin’ Beauty?”

  “Water,” Pat croaked around a pain that seemed to fill the entire room it was so weighty.

  “Here, no don’t sit up for god’s sake yer like to pass out for another twelve hours, I’ll tilt the bed up, there ye go. Yer right eye’s swollen shut an�
� the left isn’t much better, can ye see anything at all?”

  Pat slit the eye with exceeding caution, the small flutter occasioning several needlelike ripples of red-wired pain to scuttle across his eyelid and then trot briskly down his cheekbone. “Ow,” he said succinctly.

  “That’s an understatement,” Casey muttered grimly, sticking a straw between Pat’s teeth.

  “How’d ye get here?” Pat asked after taking several long sips off the straw.

  “Yer friend here, Miss Larkin, got ye to the hospital an’ then had the graciousness to call me. Though ye’d not be a hard man to locate today.”

  “What?” Pat asked, the dull throb of his head, teeth and face pinching the coherence from every second word.

  “Open that eye wider my bonnie boy an’ take a look at today’s headlines.”

  Pat felt the smooth weight of newsprint being laid on his lap. He opened his eye as wide as he could and blinked to focus. Under the banner of the Irish Independent was his picture.

  “Large as life an’ twice as cute,” Casey said wryly.

  The headline in bold black read ‘The Fires of Revolution’. The camera had caught him at the exact moment he’d thrust the flag into the wall, gloriously backlit by a sheet of flame.

  “Yer on the front of the Times an’ the Examiner as well,” Casey said tossing two more papers onto the bed. “An’ rumor has it the New York Times ran the photo on page three.”

  “The New York Times,” Pat echoed, struggling to absorb what he was hearing and seeing.

  “Aye, yer the darlin’ boy from the Ardoyne today, likely the RUC is wishin’ they’d finished ye off well an’ truly last night.”

  Pat looked up from the paper to meet the gaze of Sylvie Larkin, dark and tense.

  “It seems I owe ye thanks again. How’d ye find me?”

  “Followed ye,” she said, looking away from him to the floor. “Only a small ways at first but once ye started runnin’ I had a bad feelin’ an when I saw ye grab the flag I knew ye were goin’ to do somethin’ crazy.”