by Eoin Dempsey
Mick picked up the drawing. “This one’s not your best,” he said, crumpling it in one fist. “Try to draw me something else. Have you ever been to the zoo?” His voice was shaking. Tony was sitting beside the phone and was no doubt planning on keeping them here all day, or at least until the parade ended at four and the clubs made their way to Memorial Hall. That was six hours.
The mother got up.
“My sister will be calling over in a few hours. She comes for lunch every Saturday, and what if the kids’ friends call to the door?”
“Call your sister, tell her no lunch this week, and if the kids call, we just won’t answer,” Mick said.
“No funny business when you’re on the phone,” Tony warned.
The mother made the call, her voice calm and even, and sat back down after she’d hung up. Tony seemed satisfied and resumed his position staring out the window. Mick thought of the marchers at Memorial Hall. Most had families just like this. Would Terrence have been out there himself today? There were no union jacks in the house, no pictures of King Billy or Ian Paisley. It was a house like any other, like the houses in Bogside, or Creggan. He thought to try and reason with Tony but dismissed that idea immediately. He was beyond reason, only sustained by hate. Even being around Protestants, people only different from him because of their political beliefs and the religion they happened to be born into, was probably repugnant to him in every way. He probably felt dirty.
Two hours passed, Mick’s nerves growing with every second that passed. Apart from the mother taking the boy to the bathroom an hour before, no one had moved, or even spoken. He had Tony’s trust now. He knew he’d passed some unspoken test in his mind, breached some threshold. Tony had visibly calmed, was smoking a cigarette at the table and reading the newspaper as if this was his house. All Mick had to do was wait for his chance to get to that telephone on the wall above Tony’s head.
Mick got out of the chair to stretch out the muscles close to cramping in his lower back. Tony didn’t take his eyes off the newspaper. Mick excused himself, walking out of the kitchen to the bathroom. He was at the washbasin rinsing off his hands when he thought of climbing out the window, or even running out of the front door to the nearest pay phone. This was a loyalist area. Tony would never chase after him waving a gun, or would he? Tony didn’t seem to care. Would calling the police put the mother and children in danger? Time was trickling away. The afternoon sun was high in the sky. It would be a good day for the parade. No one he knew had ever paid it any attention before, other than throwing coins and bottles at the marchers when they were kids. Yet thousands of people marched in it every year in this city of just ninety thousand. He went back downstairs where the boy was eating lunch as his mother read to him. Tony seemed almost in a trance. He’d barely moved in hours.
“Billy, are you all right?” Mick called to him.
“Just beautiful, Shay. Waiting for the fireworks to begin.” He smiled.
“How about we have our other colleague bring Terrence back to his family now?”
“And have them see our comrade’s face too?” Tony made sure to use the correct, socialist term. “I don’t think that would be a good idea. Just sit tight. We’ll be out of here in a few hours.”
The mother’s eyes flicked up and then back to the pages of the children’s book she was reading to her son. She read to the end and placed it back down on the table, picking up another to begin.
Tony applauded and got out of his seat. “That was great. If you’ll excuse me for a minute –call of nature.” He closed the kitchen door behind him, Mick’s pulse racing. Mick listened for Tony’s footsteps, holding his finger to his mouth to shush the woman as she read. The bathroom door closed and Mick jumped out of his seat, running to the phone.
“What are you doing?” the woman asked.
“Calling for help. We can’t let this happen.”
“What are you talking about? He’ll kill Terrence.”
Mick dialed the confidential police hotline, heard the phone ringing on the other end.
“Don’t do this, please,” the woman screamed. “Stop! He’ll kill my husband!”
“He won’t, you didn’t do anything,” he said to her as a male voice answered the phone.
“No, you can’t,” she said, running at him, grasping at the phone in his hand. Upstairs, the door opened and Mick heard the footsteps thundering down toward him. He pushed the mother back as she flailed at the phone, holding it out of her reach with his other hand.
“Hello? There are several bombs in Memorial Hall.” She scratched at his face as he put his foot in front of the door. The handle turned, the wood bulging from the pressure Tony was exerting from the other side. Mick put his full weight against the door, pushing the woman away. ‘The bombs were delivered last night, disguised as kegs of beer, delivered by Terrence Turner. I’m at the Turners house right now….”
The door crashed open and Mick felt his body flung onto the kitchen floor, the phone ripped out of the wall, coming down on top of him. The woman retreated into the corner, shielding her children with her body as Tony aimed the gun at Mick’s prostrate body on the floor.
“A tout? You’re a bloody tout? Oh Jesus,” he said kicking Mick in the side. Pain shot through him.
“Don’t hurt them, they tried to stop me,” Mick moaned.
“Oh no, please, no,” Tony said, with tears in his eyes and his hands on top of his head. He kicked Mick again. “Three years. I was planning this for three years,” he roared. “You’re gonna pay for this.” He brought the black of his boot down on Mick’s face and the world went dark.
Chapter 29
Sean poked at the food on his plate, threw his fork down and picked up the glass of whiskey. Martina, his girlfriend, reached across the table to him, but he moved his hand away. This was all her fault. How could he have told her about their plans? What was he thinking? How could he have let her convince him to run, without telling Mick? He’d deserted him, his best friend. Surely Mick hadn’t gone through with it without him. It had been hard to make out the news report in the pub, but there had been no news of any large-scale terrorist activities. There was only a small breaking news story about some bombs discovered in some beer kegs or something. The parade had gone without a hitch. Why hadn’t Mick answered his phone? Why wasn't he home? No republicans would be out in the pub tonight. All but the most staunchly republican pubs would be wall-to-wall orange. He got up from the table, pushing past the waiter as he made for the phone booth by the men’s bathroom. Martina was crying as he left, the tension from the previous twenty-four hours spilling over, but there wasn’t time for that. He called Mick’s number again, then Tony. Neither answered. He cursed out loud, slamming down the phone. He tried Pat, the phone ringing twice before Pamela picked up. He coughed as he spoke in an attempt to wipe the frustration from his voice. Sean changed his mind about telling him several times in the ten seconds it took Pat to get to the phone.
“Pat, it’s Sean.”
“Hi, Sean, how are you doing? You don’t sound too good.”
“Where’s Mick? Is he with you?”
“I haven’t seen him since yesterday evening. I thought he’d probably be in hiding like the rest of us Fenians,” Pat laughed, but his tone dropped as his quip was met with only silence. “Are you all right, Sean?”
“No, I’m not all right. I’m very far from all right. Mick and I were meant to go on an operation with my brother today.”
Pat laughed but then stopped. “You’re joking? This is a joke isn’t it?”
“I wish it were. Tony’s been talking about this massive operation to change the face of the war. We figured we could stop him.”
Pat felt his entire body go cold, anger and terror taking a hold of him with icy fingers. “What was it? What the hell are you guys doing mixed up with him?”
“We were trying to stop it. He didn’t say what it was, just that it was going to be huge.”
“Was it the bombs they foun
d in the beer kegs, in Memorial Hall? Was that it?”
“I don’t even know. Probably.”
“Oh my God, he’s taken Mick, he’s taken my brother.” Pat’s skin was cold as marble. He attempted to swat away conflicting thoughts, the fear creeping across him. He tried to focus. “Where are you? Have you any idea where they might have taken him?”
“I’m over the border, in Manorcunnigham. I had to get out. I couldn’t take it. I left him alone. I left him….”
“Oh no,” Pat said. Pamela and the kids were in the TV room just a few feet away. “Where is he?”
“I think I know. He’s mentioned a house on the Buncrana Road, called it his personal safe house. They might be there. Can you call the police?”
“And say what? That an IRA man is torturing another IRA man somewhere on the Buncrana road? They’d laugh down the phone at me. And today? Half the force is down at the Memorial Hall. No, Sean, this is up to us. I’ll go over to his apartment and call his girlfriend to make sure. You get on the road. Call me from a payphone in half an hour when you’re back in Derry. Leave right now.”
Pat slammed down the phone. He felt like he was drowning.
“What is it?” Pam asked as she walked in.
“Nothing, just a personal problem Sean Campbell wants to see me about.”
“What? On a Saturday night?”
“I don’t know anything right now, let me speak to him first,” Pat snapped.
Pamela held her hands up, walking away. Pat ignored her, focusing on finding Melissa’s number. It was written on a pad by the phone.
“Hello,” came Melissa’s voice.
“Hi, it’s Pat. How are things?”
“Fine, yeah. You haven’t seen that brother of yours around, have you? I’ve not been able to get a hold of him all day.”
Pat’s blood ran to ice as the decision to tell her or not was forced onto him.
“No, I haven’t. I was hoping he was there with you, to be honest.”
“Is there something going on?”
“Nothing’s going on. Everything’s fine. I’m sure he’s out having a few drinks somewhere. Did you have plans with him?”
“Nothing substantial, but I was expecting a call. Why were you looking for him?”
“No reason, just wanted to ask him a question. I’ll catch up with him tomorrow, I’m sure.”
“All right. Make sure to come over and see us before we leave next week.”
“Sure, yeah, we’ll organize something,” he said and hung up.
The sound of the TV drifted through the door, his family there. He could stay in with them. Mick was probably fine, must have been walking or in the pub. “This is probably nothing,” he said out loud, but he knew something was very wrong, felt it inside him. He’d check Mick’s apartment, he might have been asleep on the couch or had the TV on too loud. Pat stuck his head into the living room to say goodbye. Pamela and the three kids barely acknowledged him, their eyes caught by the glare of the TV screen. He shut the door behind him and made for his car out front. The crisp night air hit him like water in the face. It was just after eight and the traffic in the city was getting back to normal after the reroutes and gridlock caused by the parades earlier in the day. He was over at Mick’s apartment in minutes. He pressed the buzzer with no reply, ran up the stairs to knock on the door, but nothing. He ran back down the stairs and pushed into the nearest pub, wading through the crowd as he searched, calling out through the smoky air, his voice raw and torn.
*****
Mick felt the wet first and then the searing pain as he wrenched his eyes open, stung by the light. He heard the broken sound of his own breathing; felt his arms curled around his back tied together, tied to the same chair Terrence had been in. His ribs burned from where Tony had kicked him, the pain slicing through him as he tried to move his torso. Warm blood sluiced down his face onto the mess of his t-shirt below. Several teeth felt loose, his entire face raw. He was alone? Or was he? Tony came into view through swollen eyes. He was sitting on the couch opposite, smoking a cigarette and reading the newspaper. He hadn’t noticed that Mick had come to. Mick thought back, remembered the morning and the family, Terrence and the kegs. Faint remembrances of being bundled into the back of the van outside Terrence’s house came to him but then faded into nothing like dark clouds disappearing over the horizon. He remembered the fists, pummeling him in the chair. Tony and Martin hadn’t even bothered to ask any questions. It was hard to believe that level of hatred existed. He wondered what they’d done with Terrence. They must have let him off at his house when they picked him up. The comfort of that quelled the fear and pain he felt for a few seconds at least.
Tony flicked the newspaper down to reveal his sneering face.
“Wakey wakey, eh? The tout has risen” He stood up and punched Mick full force in the face, breaking his nose. Mick’s eyes filled with water as his vision faded and the agony felt like fire spreading through him. “Was it worth it? Saving all those Huns? Those filthy unionist pricks who wouldn’t piss on you if you were on fire?” The blood gushed down Mick’s face, drenching him all the way down to his jeans.
“What about Terrence?” Mick gasped.
“What was that? I didn’t quite catch that,” Tony said, stubbing the cigarette out on Mick’s hand. Mick screamed almost vomiting as the stench of his own burning flesh filled his nostrils. He rocked back on his seat, but the wall was only inches behind and righted him almost immediately.
“What about Terrence and his family? What did you do to them?”
“It’s touching that you’re so concerned about those orange pricks. I suppose I owe them a debt too. If it weren't for that dumb bitch, I’d never have known that it was you who called in the warning on the bombs, that it was you who ratted me out.”
Martin walked in from the kitchen, a cup of tea in his left hand, the saucer in his right.
“Are they OK?” Mick repeated.
“They’re fine. Killing them would have been more of a hassle than it was worth. Killing you is going to be a pure joy, however. A pure joy that I’m going to prolong for days.” The light above his head cast down deathly shadows, darkening every hollow in his face, his beard black as night.
Mick closed his eyes, anything to try to block out the pain. He attempted to conjure the picture of Melissa, of his mother, of Pat, of his son, but the images were garbled and even trying to think was like a dagger through his brain.
“When is our guest arriving?” Tony said, turning to Martin, who was standing in the corner.
“Any minute now,” Martin replied.
“Good.” Tony leaned down into Mick’s face. “We have someone coming to see you, someone very eager to make your acquaintance again. And once they’re through with you, things are going to get nasty around here. What we’ve done to you so far is going to seem like flirting once we get the blowtorches out.”
Tony punched him again, strong and hard in the middle of his chest, and Mick passed out.
*****
The wash of panic had set in. Pat felt it, spreading through him. A part of him was still trying to shake it off, to tell himself that nothing was going on, that it was a coincidence that Mick had gone missing after the operation with Tony. But these thoughts were counter-productive now, a waste of time and energy. Time was against them. He knew Mick wouldn’t see the morning. Where was Sean? He cursed as he arrived back at his house, somehow hoping that Sean would be there. He slammed down on the steering wheel as he brought the car to a halt, the pressure inside him building, the pain wetting his eyes. He took deep breaths, in through his nose and out through his mouth. Getting Mick back, if they found him at all, might be just the beginning of their problems. He shook the premonitions of death and torture from his mind and stepped out of the car, smoothing down his hair and wiping his face as he went into the house. Pamela greeted him in the living room with a smile, the distress etched onto his face hidden in the half-light. He sat down, picking Siobhan off the
seat she was slumped in and placing her onto his lap. She lay back, the softness of her hair lapping down onto his chest. He took each of her wrists in his hands, rubbing his fingers along the smoothness of her skin.
Michael lay on the floor in front of them, propping his head up on his hands, his legs wiggling in the air above him. Peter was beside his mother on the couch, his head against her shoulder. No one said a word; the only sound other than the television was Siobhan’s soft breath. Pat reached down and kissed the top of her head. The phone rang. He lifted her off his lap, feeling the absence of her as soon as he stood up. He patted Michael on the head as he passed him and sat down on the couch with the others, the phone still ringing. Pamela gestured to him to get it and he kissed both her and Peter. He closed the door behind him, no one turning to watch him go.
“Hello,” he gasped.
“It’s me,” Sean said. “Did you find him, has anyone seen him?”
“No, nobody’s seen him all day. Have you heard anything?” Pat asked even though he knew the answer.
“Not a thing. Tony must have him…out in the house.” Sean coughed, his voice heavy, weighed down with sorrow and regret. “We have to get him.”
“Where are you now?”
“Just over the border, in Bridge End, about ten minutes away from the house.”
“We’ve got to get over there right now. If he’s still alive…” Pat’s words faded out.
“I’ll meet you at the end of Branch Road, where the roundabout is. It’s just down there.”
Pat looked around, bringing his voice down to a whisper. “We can’t walk in there with just our good intentions. We’re going to need some serious hardware.”