And then he saw her, fifteen yards upriver from the photographer, kneeling in the river, hair streaming and eddying on the river. He started to run and then crashed to his knees as a stunning blow caught him hard in the kidneys. His attackers having knocked him to the ground were happy to deliver a couple of blows to his head before they moved on. Rising up on his knees and fighting back a wave of nausea from the pain, he desperately searched the river again and saw Pamela struggling to get up on the bank. And saw the man on the bank who waited, spiked stick in hand for her. He yelled and then cursed his stupidity, for hearing his voice she’d raised her head and gave the stick-wielding thug the opportunity he’d been waiting for. The nail caught her right below the cheekbone, sinking deep in the hollow until it made contact with her upper jaw. Even from a distance he could see the surprise in her face, the shock and her first instinct to tear away from the offending object. Blood sprayed as the nail tore out and then streamed brightly down her face.
He made the water’s edge seconds later, the look on his face enough to make the attacker seek meeker pastures and flee back towards the bridge with great haste. He checked both banks of the river and seeing they were still thronged with swinging clubs he grabbed Pamela by the shoulders and pushed her upriver through the current.
“How’s yer face?” he asked tightly in her ear as he glanced behind him to be certain no one was following.
“It hurts,” she said in a small voice, the hand that clutched the side of her face streaked with drying and fresh blood. “Where are the police?”
“Standin’ on the road talkin’ to the stone-throwin’ bastards.”
“Oh God,” she said hollowly, “how can this be happening?”
“It’s Ireland,” Pat said bitterly, “how could it not?”
They had to wade a good half-mile by Pat’s estimate before they reached a comparatively safe spot.
Pat made her sit and then hunkered down in front of her, “Yer goin’ to have to let me look at yer face.”
She nodded but didn’t move her hand away from her face. He took her fingers gently and pried them away from her skin. They came away with a sticky, sucking pop, a fresh well of blood appearing in their absence. With all the blood it was hard for him to tell what the damage was, though it didn’t look good. There was a deep open gash following under the cheekbone and blood was beginning to run out of the corner of her mouth from the cut inside.
“How bad is it?”
He shook his head, forcing a smile onto his face, “Not so bad, couple stitches an’ it’ll be fine.”
“You’re not a good liar, Pat,” she said and made a grimace that he realized with a shock was meant to be a smile. “I suppose I got the better end of it. They spent a good minute trying to decide whether they should throw me in the river or rape me. All things being equal I’m glad they decided on the first option. Are you okay?”
“I’m okay.” He looked around eyeing the pale winter light. “We’d best get back on the road, find ye an ambulance. What the hell is that?” For from the sodden ball of her coat she had pulled a square black object.
“Exactly what it looks like,” she said, and checked the camera over for damage.
“Yes but how’d ye get it?”
“The photographer threw it to me, I guess he thought I’d have a better chance of keeping the pictures safe than he would.”
“But I saw him with his camera only minutes ago.”
“I think he must have had two, one to decoy and the other with the actual goods in it.”
“An’ which do you have?”
“Won’t know until the film’s developed will we, there’s extra rolls taped to the bottom too.” She looked the camera over with an air of excitement that disturbed Pat.
“That thing is only goin’ to invite all sorts of trouble, ye’ll never get it past the police when we find ye an ambulance.”
She rose to her feet, clothes soaked and icy, a look of grim determination on her face.
“I’ll not go in one of those damn police tenders, not after what they did. I’ll walk. There’s only seven miles left to Derry, let’s go.”
It was a shattered and bleeding lot that staggered into Derry while their opposition seemingly had jumped in their cars, taken time for tea and refreshments, only to show up in force on the streets leading into the town. Faces, now unhappily familiar appeared on the escarpments of Spencer Road on the outer fringes of Derry, stones rained down and police, amiable faced and compliant, allowed the attackers to have their fun.
Once again, Union Jacks danced at the front of the marchers, leading the way into the town with old Orange songs that gloried in the spilling of Catholic blood. And then, after seventy-five miles of road paid for with blood and broken bones the marchers were denied entrance within the walls of the town on the grounds that it was too inflammatory.
“Sacred an’ hallowed Orange ground is more like it,” Pat muttered, as the weary mass of marchers was shunted down yet another re-route. “They’re lettin’ those bastards up inside the walls though ye’ll note. Leaves them in an optimum position to keep droppin’ rocks on our heads with the police neatly lined up to protect them against us of all things.”
“Four days ago I’d have thought you were cynical,” Pamela said bleakly, a bruise spreading out from her cheek in deep and heavy shades.
Ahead of them loomed the Guildhall and the streets were now lined with crowds of friendly, cheering faces. Pat searched them wearily without even knowing what he was looking for until he saw the fine blonde hair, the freckled nose and the smile that burst out from the mass of faces at him. She was waving wildly and he grinning back was swept past her and onto the Guildhall Square.
Michael Farrell, injured on the road into Derry, was hastily brought in from the hospital to speak to the weary crowd and the people of Derry. He summarized the events of the march, reiterating the goals and intents of the People’s Democracy. He was followed by other speakers of the PD and then he nodded at Pat, a questioning look on his face. Pat nodded in return and winding his way through the crowd, took the speaker’s platform.
“Well I suppose if nothin’ else,” he began, “we’ve shown them that these Fenians have no intention of lyin’ down.” A triumphant roar greeted his words. He held his hands up, “All jokin’ aside though, it’s been a difficult few days, an’ some of us are lyin’ in the hospital as a result. But we stuck to the promises we made ourselves, we marched for the rights of our own people an’ people who likely would have been more than happy to see us dead today. We can be proud of ourselves an’of all the people who supported us. Now I for one could use a hot meal an’ a soft bed.”
He rejoined the crowd amidst tremendous cheering, people patting him on the back and clasping his hands. His eyes glanced past them all, flickering here for a moment, there for a second until at last his eyes lit on a small, light intense person, who smelled, even in the melee and crush of bodies, of lemon verbena and lilacs.
“Hello,” he said feeling suddenly shy.
“Hello yerself,” she said, “I’ve come to offer ye that hot meal an’ soft bed if ye’ve a mind for it.”
“That’d be grand, but I’ve got to get Pamela to a hospital first.”
“Pamela?” she said, an embarrassed look flashing across her fine features.
“Aye, she’s my brother’s girlfriend.”
“Oh,” she flushed self-consciously, “she’s welcome to come as well.”
Just then Pamela came up, squeezing through the massed crowd, blood-streaked rag pressed to her bruised cheek.
Riots and small scuffles were already breaking out in the streets as Sylvie led them down and away from the Guildhall.
“There’s small first-aid clinics bein’ set up in the houses, or we could get ye to the hospital though ye might wait a while for someone to attend to ye. Are ye in a great deal o
f pain then?” she asked, brown eyes sympathetic but not pitying as she surveyed the mess on the left hand side of Pamela’s face.
“Do I need a lot of stitches?” Pamela asked, giving Pat a level look.
“Aye, ye’ll need a fair few an’ a good cleanin’.”
“Is there anyone at the clinics qualified to sew up my face?”
“I know just the place to take ye,” Sylvie said firmly and led the way out of the crowd and away from the developing trouble.
The place turned out to be the front room of a small two-up, two-down in the Bogside.
“Is Father Jim here?” Sylvie asked a harried looking woman who was putting rags on to boil in the kitchen.
“Aye he’s out back takin’ a minute.”
“I’ll be back,” Sylvie said and true to her word returned a moment later with a rangy, dog-collared man in tow.
“I’m Father Jim,” he said and went directly to Pamela. “Let’s see what we’ve got here, girl.”
“You’re American,” Pamela said and winced as the crusted fabric was pulled away from her face.
“You as well,” Father Jim said and nodded to Sylvie, who swiftly disappeared into the kitchen. She returned with a bowl of steaming cloths and a tray with alcohol, sterilized instruments and swabs on it. Pamela blanched when she saw the array of wickedly sharp needles.
“It’s alright,” Father Jim said reassuringly, “I’ve got to clean the tear up before I can assess the damage, but I’ve got Novocain to numb your face.” He turned and donned a pair of surgical gloves, “I was a medic in Vietnam, I’ve patched up worse than this and seen them come away with only a little scar. Now you’ll need to sit down, maybe your friend there,” he gave Pat a cursory glance, “can help to hold your head still.”
Pamela sat in a kitchen chair that seemed provided for the purpose and Father Jim pulled a stool up near her, angling himself so the maximum amount of light hit her face directly. “Are you ready?”
She swallowed, took a shaky breath and nodded.
“Alright,” Father Jim soaked a sterile cloth with alcohol, “this is going to hurt like holy hell.”
Pat took her head between his hands and realized he was shaking. Pamela’s right hand came up and covered his own, “Today we fear no man, right? Not,” she gave a wary glance at Father Jim as the cloth approached her cheek, “even him,” she finished and promptly passed out.
Chapter Eighteen
Peace Be Unto You
Pamela felt like sifted smoke. Fine, airy and able, like the angels, to dance lightly upon the head of a pin. The small part of her brain that was recovering from the shot of Novocain and the painkillers that Father Jim had given her, told her she wasn’t actually invisible or invincible but she quashed the thought swiftly and continued on her way.
She hadn’t actually intended to lie to Sylvie, she really had been going out for a breath of air but then she’d seen an altercation occurring down the street and light-footed, the drugs drowning out danger signals, had followed the sounds of rage and fear. The camera had still been around her neck and so when she’d seen a group of thugs beating an old man she’d begun to shoot the pictures. They had been so caught up in their savagery they hadn’t even noticed her which, unfortunately, only added to the aura of invincibility she felt snugly cloaked in.
Now however confusion was beginning to set in just the slightest bit. She wasn’t entirely certain she could actually find her way back. Everything looked the same. Red brick on the left and red brick on the right and cobbled pavement under her feet. Quite suddenly she wished Casey were there to protect her, to guide her by the hand out of this maze of narrow, winding streets, with buildings that seemed to loom ominously over her head.
From a distance, she heard singing, a vaguely familiar melody that she couldn’t place and the jolting sound of breaking glass. The voices approached and she, still confused, sidled towards it. As the words of the song became audible she recognized the song as one she’d heard the flag-waving children singing. Pat had told her it was called ‘Derry’s Walls’.
...For blood did flow in crimson streams,
On many a winter’s night.
They knew the Lord was on their side,
To help them in their fight.
The voices paused for a moment and there was the sound again of glass shattering and falling out onto the street and then they happily resumed.
...At last, at last with one broadside
Kind heaven sent them aid...
Pamela turned a corner, stepping up into the shelter of a shop entryway and crouching, peered down the street, the scene before her freezing her blood cold. A group of about twenty policemen, swinging riot clubs, were the singers. On the apex of every verse, one would step from formation, raise his blackthorn stick and smash a window out. They were only about twelve yards away from her, coming around the twisting close. It was too late to run, they’d see her certainly if she stepped out into the street, but if she stayed here in this dingy entryway, clutched in close to the filthy brick, she might escape notice. They’d taken up a new tune with a somewhat jauntier beat, the leader twirling his club in the air like an orchestral baton:
A rope, a rope
Tae hang the pope
A pennyworth of cheese
Tae choke him...
She managed to shoot off the last two frames on the film as the men gleefully shouted the end of the ditty. She leaned back into the brick, breathing rapidly, swimming in adrenaline, fumbling as she removed the finished roll and fought to control her fingers enough to insert the new one and wind it onto its spool. When the camera was securely locked into place a strange silence had descended onto the street. Holding her breath she peeked around the corner and saw to her horror that a small man, his back hunched discernibly on one side, was coming up the street. He’d a bag of groceries under one arm and his gait was extremely awkward by virtue of one leg being a good four inches shorter than the other. The police were grouped loosely, like a pack of milling wolves, waiting leisurely for the prey to present itself.
The little man walked with his head down in a manner that suggested it was the habit of a lifetime, a necessity demanded by his crooked body. He was only about twelve yards off from the police when the unnatural silence seemed to finally impress itself upon his senses. He looked up blinking, eyes aslant in a soft, dreamy face. From her hiding place, heart thumping painfully, Pamela thought he looked like a tiny owl forced to look straight into the noonday sun, dazed and uncomprehending.
“ ‘Tis a bad day to be about on the streets Paddy,” said one of the idling policemen, blackthorn stick swirling in a delicate eddy from the base of his palm.
“M’name is Timmy, not Paddy, ‘tis Timmy ye know.”
Pamela felt her heart crash into the pit of her stomach. The man had the bright, innocent voice of the mentally handicapped, of one eternally trapped in childhood. He had no intimation of danger, no instinct to warn him, no shred of self-preservation.
“Timmy, is it? Were ye named fer the monster who fathered ye?”
Timmy shied away a bit, the grocery bag knocking against his side. “No, mam named me for the saint she did, ye know. Named me for him, didn’t she? Grace, mercy an’ peace to follow him all of his days an’ mine as well. Grace, mercy an’ peace from God our Father an’ Jesus Christ our Lord. Born on a Saint’s Day I was, an’ named so.” He was doing an agitated little dance now, the words rolling off his tongue faster and faster, setting up a chain of freneticism in his body by their well-worn recitation. “Timothy made miracles ye know, he did then. An’ mam says I pray hard enough to him an’ someday he’ll make me whole then won’t he, won’t he then?” He nodded vigorously, seeking approval from the men who ringed him now entirely, evenly spaced and cutting him off from any salvation. “I’ve got to go home now, I’m bringin’ Mam her tea, I am, tea an’ milk an’ the papers she likes them ever
y evening, six on the dot Timmy she says, we’ll have the tea then won’t we Timmy an’ she’ll read me the paper. Mam doesn’t like me to be late, so excuse me then, excuse me then please.” He shuffled his feet in a small circle in a vain effort to sidestep the men in his path. “Grace an’ peace be unto you,” he said rocking his upper body back and forth in agitation, “Grace an’ peace be unto you an’ excuse me then please. Got to be home before dark then, home before dark or mam’ll be scared. She will then won’t she, won’t she,” his free hand had begun a frenzied jig up and down the side of his body, like Rachmaninoff caught in the last frenzied notes of a piano crescendo.
“A genuine freak,” said one policeman, his bright blond hair catching the dim light in the streets. “A freak an’a Fenian, two words meanin’ the same thing, what’s that called? I said, what’s that called freak?” The man lifted his club and stuck it hard in the bent curve of Timmy’s neck.
Timmy shook his head frantically, the hand fluttering in the dark of the street like a damaged butterfly. Pamela swallowed hard, clicked the flash of the camera on by feel alone and stepping into the street called out loudly. “Two different words meaning the same thing are a synonym you dumb bastard.” Then she lifted the camera, shot off three frames, the flash illuminating the street like explosions of lightning. And then she ran as she had never run before in her life. Ran blind and without a mental map, with absolutely no idea of where she was going or how this might all end. Only knowing she had to get those men away from that poor, frantic broken boy in the street.
She could hear them behind her instantly, knew they were young and strong and able-bodied and even though she was fleet of foot that it was only a matter of time before they caught her and then there’d be hell of a kind she couldn’t quite imagine to pay. The streets were dark, cobblestones slick with damp, one winding into the next as she took bends willynilly, scraping her elbow on a brick corner, thumping her shoulder hard on a post, trying frantically to discern in the unfamiliar blurred terrain a place to hide, a hole to bolt through, a white rabbit miracle to shoot her from this world to the next. Then she saw it at the top of the steeply curving street she was running up, a back laneway that shot sharply right off the street. She spared one last frantic glance behind then slid hard into the turn and ran for the shadows. She hid in the overhang of a doorway, heard the thumping of her pursuers feet go past the head of the lane and waited until all was silent before venturing out.
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