Herself Alone in Orange Rain Page 12

  That night, curled in my sleeping bag, I play out what’ll happen if I’m caught, planning what I’ll do, how I’ll survive:

  You’re yanked out of the meat-wagon, the door slammed behind you so hard it causes an airquake. Your arms are twisted up your back, pulled so high you’re lifted off your feet. Your wrists are bound with a cable tie, the thin band cutting through your flesh. You hope the fear thrumming in your heart doesn’t show on your face. A hood is pulled over your head. Before it goes down you close your eyes, hoping if you make the blackness yours it won’t be so frightening. Your other senses take over: the feel of hands gripping your arms; the stink of diesel fumes from the van; the rutted ground under your feet; the slosh of water as you stumble through a puddle; the banging of a heavy door; the sweet-sour blend of wafted sweat and aftershave; heat, through the hood, from another face close to yours: silence.

  A chair is rammed against your legs. Your knees fold and you jolt down onto it. The hood is snatched off. A branch man leers over you. At the door is his partner. You pick a spot to his left, where the wall is flat and grey, and let your eyes blur it, getting ready to think yourself out of there.

  I settle on repainting Daideo’s ‘Green Dawn’ piece as my survival strategy. Rolling onto my back I stare at the barn’s beamed ceiling and start projecting it, brushstroke by brushstroke; the verdant sky, the Hermitage’s square form, the flaming lawn, finishing with fine strokes and signing my name. I pray it will be enough to keep me from breaking.

  Towards the end of the second week we get target practice with live ammunition. I like the gun. It gives me power, makes things fairer. I surprise myself, and the lads, by being a decent shot, keeping the Armalite braced against my shoulder and producing a grouping of hits on the target. Casey is less astounded.

  ‘Women are often good shots,’ he tells the boys. ‘Something about hand-eye coordination, they reckon.’

  There’s a ripple of muttering. I aim again. As I click the trigger someone bumps my elbow. The rifle jerks skyward; the shot misses.

  I spin round. Three lads are clustered behind me, smirking.

  ‘Aye, great shot,’ one says.

  I glance at Casey. He’s seen but doesn’t step in.

  ‘Can I have a fresh target?’ I ask.

  He raises his eyebrows but walks the fifty yards to the board and replaces the torn paper.

  ‘The next three shots in the bull’s eye,’ I tell the lad, ‘if you don’t cheat.’

  He smirks and shrugs. I aim, hold my breath and fire: bang, bang, bang.

  Casey collects the target. There’s a single hole in the central ring.

  ‘Ya only got the one,’ the lad mocks.

  ‘Do you not see?’ Casey asks him, tracing the tear which is shaped like Mickey Mouse’s head. ‘She got all three through the same hole. Now it’s your go, boyo.’

  On the final night we’re sent out in pairs with a map, compass and orders to get to Knockatallan, two miles from the Six Counties border into Fermanagh. Liam and I set out at midnight.

  We head north, tramping through fields, wading streams and clambering fences, skirting the villages between us and the pickup point. In the distance occasional cars drone; overhead owls screech. We follow the compass which Liam checks by the flicker of his lighter, dark hair falling into his eyes each time he bends to read the bearing. The half-moon glow lets me pretend he’s Aiden. I wish he was here, that we were doing this together, sharing the ordeal and looking forward to laughing over it later.

  ‘How far ya reckon we’ve come?’ Liam asks when we’ve been going a while, the words snatched between breaths as we lean into an incline.

  I stop on the hilltop and point east towards a cluster of lights. ‘That’s gotta be Three Mile House.’

  Liam checks the map. ‘You’re dead on.’ He clicks his lighter shut and strides off.

  I fall in beside him.

  ‘Heard you’re Aiden O’Neill’s lass,’ he says. ‘Is that how you got involved?’

  ‘Yes, but it’s not why. I’m here because I don’t like the way things are. I believe in fighting for our rights.’

  ‘Fair enough. Me too.’

  ‘And I’m not ‘his lass’. We don’t belong to yous, you know.’

  ‘Aye, sorry. I didn’t mean…’ He trails off.

  I pull him to a halt. I want the air clear and warm between us. ‘I’m not a ball-breaking feminist, I just want…’ He recoils from my words. I drive head on at his pink-bows-and-purity picture of womanhood. ‘And that’s the problem! Don’t think I’m so different from you. I swear. I drink beer. I like orgasms.’ He drops his gaze. ‘I even fart.’ His lips twitch into a grin. ‘Do you want me to drop one right now to prove it?’ His shoulders shake and laughter erupts.

  ‘Jesus, no, I don’t,’ he splutters between chuckles.

  We giggle contagiously until I smother hilarity enough to speak.

  ‘But do you get it? I’m human. Treat me how you want to be treated. We’re comrades: equals.’

  ‘Aye. Sure. And friends?’

  ‘Yes, friends.’

  He tells me he’s a time-served fitter and turner fed up being passed over in favour of unqualified Prods. I realise the total truth of what I told Martin; all our reasons are the same. We’re wanting to make things fairer. That’s why Daideo gave up everything for this. It’s what’ll push me on no matter how hard it gets.

  For two hours we stumble with uneven strides, the boggy, rutted ground refusing us an easy rhythm.

  ‘Jesus, this is tough going,’ Liam puffs as we climb another hill.

  I scan the horizon and point to more lights. ‘Nearly there.’

  ‘Sure, it’s a rough life we’re letting ourselves in for. Hope I’m up to it,’ he says, lighting a cigarette and offering me one.

  Darkness covers the flush that spreads over my cheeks as an image of myself, seen from above, running away down O’Connell Street, torn pages and broken bodies scattered behind me, flits through my head. I won’t run again. I bury the memory. I know I can do this. It’s in me like the Irish words I’d forgotten I knew. I will do this.

  ‘Sure, you’ll be grand,’ I say.

  ‘So will you,’ he replies. ‘If you run out of bullets you can always cock your arse at them.’

  ‘Yeah, gas attack.’ I blow a raspberry.

  We laugh again.

  ‘Seriously, though,’ he adds, ‘if I’d to choose someone to fight alongside, it’d be you.’

  ‘Thanks. Let’s hope it works out that way.’

  ‘Jesus, you look like hell,’ Aiden says, greeting me at the door.

  ‘No worse than you most of the times you’ve shown up here.’

  ‘I’ll run you a bath.’ He goes upstairs.

  I ease my boots off. My ankle throbs. Overhead water gushes. Aiden comes down. I hobble towards him. He reaches for me.

  ‘You want a hand?’

  ‘Thanks.’

  He helps me upstairs then goes for towels and clean clothes. The bath fills, steam fogs the room. I strip off and step into the tub. The hot water cocoons me. I close my eyes and sink down, tension and dirt sliding from me. After blissful minutes of forbidden ease I sit up, reach for the soap and shake my head as I spot Aiden’s gun on top of the cistern.

  The door opens.

  ‘Can I do your back?’ he asks, grinning.

  He kneels down beside the bath and takes the soap, rolling it over my shoulder blades. I wince as he presses a bruise.

  ‘You alright?’

  ‘Bit sore.’

  ‘Aye, you’re black and blue.’

  ‘What did you expect?’

  ‘What did you expect?’ he returns.

  ‘This.’

  He sighs, leans against me, resting his forehead on my cheek.

  ‘I should be taking care of you.’

  ‘You are. But I’ve got to be able to take care of myself too, and that’s not about the Brits, the ’Ra. That’s about me.’

  �
�You don’t have to be tough with me,’ he murmurs.

  I know but I can’t be any other way. It’s not make-up to be removed: it’s a tattoo, indelible, part of me. The part that keeps me safe.

  ‘You left your gun.’ I point at the toilet.

  ‘Ah, shite.’ He retrieves it. ‘I’ll get tea on.’

  He slips out. I lie back, water lapping over my chin. All the things that have brought me here bob about in the bath: the hunger strikes, ten dead men; the support, resistance and apathy, mine and everyone else’s; the violence, what it destroys and creates; Daideo, his battles; my parents, both sets, their choices: their mistakes.

  I submerge myself, water smothering sound, soothing pain. There’s a bang, Aiden dropping something downstairs. In my head the bang becomes a gunshot. The jolt of a fired rifle snaps up my arm, jars through my body, its power filling me.

  And I’m on the other side, pain shredding me as bullets explode into muscle, tear flesh, shatter bone.

  ‘…your ma’s chest ripped open by bullets, your da’s face such a mess …’

  I surface, gulping air into hysterical lungs.

  Now I’ve felt the force I can imagine the agony. It’s a truth I wish I hadn’t been told.

  Aiden shouts, ‘Tea’s ready.’

  We sit in the kitchen, eating cheese toasties. I ask about Connor. He ruffles his hair, can’t answer, asks about training instead. I tell him, spilling words like water, and feel weirdly exhilarated, as though I’ve rerun the marathon and beat my best time. But it’s not what I’ve done, it’s what I’m doing now, telling him, that’s giving me this buzz. It’s the first dawning of what we are: of us.

  Belfast—3rd October, 1981

  Maze Hunger Strike Ended

  Families of Remaining Strikers Authorise Medical Treatment

  Senior IRA figures have announced the collapse of the hunger strike by prisoners in HMP Maze. The statement came after the families of those on strike said they would authorise medical treatment once prisoners lost consciousness.

  The six men still on strike are expected to request food and medical treatment today following a visit by the IRA leadership during which they made it clear that attempts to ring concessions from the British government were futile.

  As a result of violence fuelled by the strikes sixty-four civilians, soldiers and RUC officers have been killed.

  Ten men have so far starved themselves to death in an attempt to win political status for their terrorist crimes. In a statement released earlier, Mrs Thatcher said, ‘Crime is crime is crime. It is not political.’

  ‘It’s a fu… it’s a disgrace,’ Kelly jabs his finger at me, ‘sending a wee girl to do this. If it was up to me we’d not let yous in.’

  We’re in his sister-in-law’s front room, me, Aiden and Kelly who’s a hardboiled Belfast Provo.

  ‘Well, it’s not,’ I say, ‘and I am so…’

  Aiden digs me in the ribs. I suppress angry words; they’ll only convince Kelly I’m not cool-headed enough for active service ops.

  ‘This for the lads in jail, to show we haven’t forgotten them,’ Kelly mutters, ice-cold eyes burning me. ‘There’d better not be any cock ups.’

  ‘There won’t be,’ Aiden says.

  Kelly flicks his stare to Aiden. ‘It’s on you to make sure she does what she’s supposed to.’ He slides a scrap of paper across the coffee table. On it is a north Belfast address and the details of a car, including reg number. ‘No mistakes, love,’ he says, face stony.

  Outside I vent, firing off oaths about Kelly’s bigoted bullshit.

  ‘Forget him,’ Aiden says. ‘You need your mind on this.’ He waves the paper at me. ‘Are you sure you’re ready for it?’

  ‘I’ve said, haven’t I?’

  ‘Just be clear about it: this is a military attack on a legitimate target.’

  I shrug Kelly off, think of Daideo instead, his matchstick arms and legs, the tissue paper skin holding him together, old pains flickering behind his eyes. ‘I am clear.’

  At 2am, driving a commandeered car, we head for the address, bomb in the boot. The air is sleety; white flakes blowing into the headlights make it seem like we’re driving into a time travel vortex. I’ll wake up in my bed in Dublin last week.

  Aiden drives sedately, stopping at red lights even when the junction is clear. Around one corner a cat darts from an entry; Aiden brakes and we’re flung forward. I smash my arm on the dashboard and feel the handgun tucked in my belt jab the small of my back as I rebound against the seat.

  ‘Jesus. Did I hit it?’

  We both check behind and see the cat scurrying off up the road.

  ‘Christ, you alright?’

  ‘Yes, but I reckon we’re all down a life there,’ I joke, not letting myself think about the package in the boot being slammed around.

  Aiden drives on. A few minutes later we’re there.

  ‘You can stay in the car if you want,’ he offers.

  This bastard was one of them scrubbing the lads down with wire brushes, spreading them over mirrors and beating them up. He’s the enemy.

  ‘No. I need to do this.’

  ‘Fine. Don’t forget to…’

  ‘I know what I’m doing,’ I hiss, getting out of the car but leaving the door open.

  The silver Cortina is parked on the drive; I double-check the registration then get the bomb. The house is asleep, no curtains twitching or telly flickering. I open the wrought iron gate; the hinges whine. I freeze but no lights come on so I creep up the drive and wriggle under the car.

  It’s a small bomb, magnets for attaching it to the car’s underbelly, two primer switches, set on a timer. So it shouldn’t go off in my face, which is only inches from it in the cramped space beneath the car. Lying on my back the gun digs into my spine so I set it beside me and lift the bomb overhead, arms trembling with the strain. A second before touching it to the chassis the magnets snatch it from my grip, suckering it in place with a resounding clang that rebukes me for snapping at Aiden; he’s only wanting to keep me safe. Jesus, I’m a bitch sometimes. Get this done and I can be back with him, get us both safe. I pull a torch from my pocket and illuminate the switches I need to flick, starting the countdown that will end as the screw pulls up outside Long Kesh for another day’s grind.

  There’s a sound, like a book falling flat onto a wooden floor. I click off the torch, turn my head and see a pair of tartan slippers, wrinkled socks rising from them. They point towards the street, back towards the house and back again: towards me.

  I have the gun in my hand before I’ve picked it up. A face joins the slippers, peering under the car: there’s a moustache, grey and bushy; baggy, weather-worn skin. Eyes lock into mine, widening in surprise as they see me. The mouth opens to speak. I point and pull the trigger. The only sound is the gun’s crack.

  Trapped in the narrow space the recoil jerks my hand, the gun smacks me on the nose. Shards of shock pierce my brain. Scrambling static clouds my vision. I blink back the burning pain and dazzling sparks; see the slippers, upended, worn-through soles staring blankly at me. I fumble for the switches, feel the two raised pimples, and press. Then roll out from under the car.

  The screw is on his back, a dark hole in his forehead, a blood trickle trailing from the wound and a larger pool of inky blackness saturating the ground beneath his head where the exploding bullet churned tissue, shattered bone, ripped skin. He’s dead. And he’s not the screw. I see now he’s too old, frail, for the Kesh’s brutal work.

  Aiden flashes the headlights. I run down and throw myself into the car, not getting the door shut before he has his foot through the floor, speeding us away, the gun still in my hand. The stench of cordite fills the car.

  ‘Jesus. What the fuck happened?’ Aiden asks.

  I can’t speak. I’m trying to unload the gun but keep missing the catch that releases the magazine. He snatches the gun from me, tossing it on the back seat, speeds up. We’re thrown round corners, swiping traffic bollards
and lampposts, running red lights, heading for the Falls, the unlit streets that can hide us. My mouth fills with the salty metallic taste of blood. I feel myself ragged about but all I see is a pair of tartan slippers, the soles worn out.

  We’ve stopped. Aiden’s shaking me.

  ‘We’ve gotta go.’

  A door slams, his. I’m dragged out, hauled to my feet. The street comes into focus; shuttered shops, up-tipped bins, piles of rubble. Aiden leans into the car, grabs my gun and tucks it into his belt. His hand grips my arm and he jumps into a run, towing me, my feet stumbling to find a rhythm. Then I’m running on my own, his grip gone. We’re side by side, our boots belting over broken pavement slabs. I want to keep running, heart pumping, legs thrusting, lungs burning. I want to stay in my body; out of my head.

  We sprint down narrow entries and into the Divis flats complex where the concrete warren of Lego-stacked blocks squats. Aiden turns left, right, bangs through a door, mounts a flight of stairs and races along a walkway to a peeling blue-paint door. He pummels it. A light snaps on. A woman opens the door, clutching a pink dressing gown to her throat. She looks us over, holds back the door, letting us tumble in, then slams and bolts it.

  We stand there, panting. Blood drips from my nose, disappearing into the brown lino. I sag against the wall, shaking.

  ‘Sorry to wake you, Cathy,’ Aiden says, the words gasped between breaths, ‘but we’ve a spot of bother.’

  ‘Yous better come through.’

  She strides down the passage. We follow her into a kitchen, bright with yellow Formica and green cupboards. She’s at the sink, filling the kettle. Aiden pulls out a chair, makes me sit, tilts my chin, facing me into the light.

  ‘Jesus, you’re hurt.’

  I jerk my head away and pinch my bleeding nose.

  ‘Bathroom’s next door,’ Cathy says.

  On trembling legs I stagger into the loo. The mirror above the cracked white sink reveals the result of my self-inflicted make-over; purple bruises shadowing my eyes, nose swollen and pulpy, blood rouging my lips. I wash off the sticky red film that’s drying to a crust in my nostrils.