Herself Alone in Orange Rain Page 6

  ‘So you know all about it now.’ He puts his arm around me and we lean against each other, transfixed by the paintings. The suburban Dublin peace drones through my head, building from a hum to a roar. I don’t know it all, know less than bloody half, the half that’s been, not what is and what’s coming.

  ‘Take me to Belfast.’

  ‘You don’t want to be going there.’

  ‘I need to see it for myself, not that bullshit in the papers. This is my life, I’ve a right to it. And a responsibility for it.’ I wave my hand towards the paintings. ‘I can’t ignore something that’s still happening.’

  ‘It’s not safe.’

  ‘I’ll be alright.’

  ‘How’s that?’

  ‘Because I’m an art student researching a project.’ I think. ‘ ‘Art in a War Zone’.’

  ‘Don’t be an eejit.’

  ‘I’ve got my old PSAD student ID, an English accent and a British passport. If you don’t take me, Aiden, I’ll go myself.’

  ‘You can’t.’

  ‘You know I will.’

  ‘Your granddaddy’ll kill me if I let you away up there on your own,’ he mutters.

  ‘So you’ll take me.’

  ‘All right.’

  Belfast—26th December, 1980

  The border is fifty miles away. During the drive Aiden makes me re-rehearse our cover. I’m researching when graffiti is art and when it’s vandalism, less provocative than ‘Art in a War Zone’ and it gives us an excuse to cruise Belfast. Aiden, now Kenny because that’s the name on the fake Irish driving licence he got from a Dublin contact, is the helpful brother of an Irish girl I met at PSAD. We’ve loaded the car with enough luggage to suggest I’ll be staying a few days, a sketchpad of scribbled Dublin graffiti and a camera.

  ‘And for Jesus sake don’t call me Aiden,’ he warns as we pass a sign saying ‘Dundalk 2 miles’.

  ‘I’m not stupid. I know how to deal with the police. All those pickets I went to growing up…’

  ‘This is nothing like that.’

  ‘Of course not. Our protests were peaceful, mostly. But we were still in conflict with state forces. They made sure I knew the drill if we got arrested, which we did.’

  He glances over.

  ‘The first time was a sit-in.’

  ‘You weren’t breaking the law.’

  ‘Trespassing and disturbing the peace.’

  ‘What’s that get you, bound over? Hardly the same as a ten stretch for weapons possession.’

  ‘I know that. I’m just saying I’ve some experience of this sort of thing.’

  ‘You’ll need a lot more than that.’

  ‘If you’re so worried, get out. I’ll drive myself,’ I snap.

  He tightens his grip on the wheel. ‘You can’t drive.’

  ‘It can’t be that hard. I don’t need protecting,’ I say, recalling the row Daideo and I had about my trip north.

  Aiden shakes his head. He’s worried. This is a risk for him. For me it’s a chance.

  ‘I’ll learn fast,’ I say, ‘because I have to. And not just the driving.’

  British-blown craters have closed most of the border roads, funnelling us up the main artery. We’re stopped at a checkpoint where the N1 becomes the A1. Metal barriers are drawn across the road. On the verge squats a military bunker, solid, windowless and painted a pea-sick green. A colour-coordinated Land Rover is parked nearby. I blur them into geometric shapes and reach for the camera, picturing a cubist composition in oil pastels. Aiden grabs my hand, jerking his head at the soldiers in combat fatigues, flak jackets and helmets. My chest tightens when I see the guns they carry, like something from a Hollywood action movie but these aren’t props. The camera stays in my bag.

  Traffic crawls; cars are halted, occupants questioned. We inch forwards. Ahead a car is waved off the road. Two soldiers circle it with hunter strides. A third gestures with his gun. The driver, a man about forty, gets out. He’s thin, balding, his clothes those of a clerk. He produces ID. More soldiers surround the car, one has a mirror on a pole which he uses to check the car’s underbelly, a dentist inspecting a mouth for rotting molars. An officer joins the soldier questioning the driver. He takes the ID, conflabs with the private.

  ‘Whatever happens stay in the car,’ Aiden instructs.

  The man has his hands on his head now. The soldiers are shouting; Fenian scum, bog-wog, white nigger. Three soldiers hem him in, weapons raised. The man stands motionless. An order is barked: lie down. The man shakes his head. The soldiers look to their commander. The officer nods and strolls off, is a few feet away when one soldier drives the butt of his gun into the side of the man’s face. Red sprays from his nose. The soldier hits him again, in the stomach. The man drops to his knees, tries to stand, is kicked by another soldier and falls facedown. All three close on him, weapons slicing the air. The odds aren’t fair.

  Instinctively I reach for the door. Aiden grabs my arm.

  ‘I said stay in the car.’

  ‘They’ll kill him.’ I claw at Aiden’s hand. His grip tightens.

  ‘Not with us watching.’

  ‘So we just sit here?’

  ‘Aye. Unless you’re wanting to make it worse for him and us.’

  Fuck sake!

  He’s right.

  I force myself to do nothing except watch: witness.

  Two soldiers drag the man along the tarmac. His face is bloodied and misshapen, his jacket has been ripped off and his jumper rucked up, exposing his white chest. He’s lost a shoe. His hands are bound behind his back and his head lolls forwards. They fling him into the waiting Land Rover, slam the doors then straighten their uniforms. One squaddie wipes the butt of his gun; another lights a cigarette. The queue creeps forward.

  ‘You said you wanted to learn. There’s your first lesson, Caoilainn: pick your battles.’

  Rage ripples through me. I was raised believing inaction is collusion, apathy is culpability. We, they, never stood aside. But this isn’t a picket line, it’s a battlefield. If I want to survive I have to adapt. I wring my hands into tight fists, driving fingernails into palms. Pain replaces anger. Slowly I relax the grip on myself.

  ‘OK. Fine. Sorry.’

  Aiden nods and nudges the car forward.

  When it’s our turn he hands over our IDs before the soldier asks. My British passport and Aiden’s false driving licence are examined.

  ‘Step out.’

  Aiden complies. A soldier greets me as I open my door.

  ‘Over here, miss.’ He shepherds me away from the car, one hand on his gun, the other on my back.

  I sidestep his touch. Resolved to be innocently civil I ask, ‘Is something wrong?’

  The officer approaches, holding my passport. ‘Just routine, Miss Ryan.’ The old name jars me, jumbling up who I was and who I am. ‘What’s the purpose of your visit to Northern Ireland?’

  They stand Aiden in the middle of the road, make him strip off his jacket and kick off his shoes. They frisk him. I meet the officer’s cold gaze, repeat the story we rehearsed.

  ‘Art student, eh?’

  ‘After this I might specialise in war photography.’ I keep my tone neutral and paste on a sad smile.

  The officer’s moustache quivers. ‘We are authorised to carry out random searches.’

  I glance at Aiden. He’s down to his socks, jeans and t-shirt, not shivering, blanking the soldiers who search our car.

  I long to tell Captain ‘Dutiful’ that ‘authorised’ isn’t the same as ‘justified’ but know I can’t. He hears dissent in my silence anyway.

  ‘We’re here to protect the people of Northern Ireland from terrorist attacks. Random stop-and-search is effective in limiting terrorist movements. Civil rights are a peacetime privilege.’

  He thinks me an ill-informed do-gooder: Amnesty International, Greenpeace, that lot. My pretend parents would be so proud. I allow myself one small poke, just to test where the nerve ends.

  ‘And a warti
me responsibility.’

  He thrust my passport onto me. ‘Take my advice: get yourself home. Belfast’s no place for a young woman.’

  Aiden is sitting now, tying his laces. He snatches his jacket and sweatshirt, jumps up and slides into the car. I climb in beside him. The officer’s words about going home flash a flick-book of memories; a derelict terraced row, a dilapidated Georgian bedsit, a child-drawn bungalow. Which home? We’re waved through the cordon and cross the border lost in our own troubles.

  A few miles up the road, Aiden pulls into a lay-by and lights a cigarette. I don’t know if it’s cold or fear making his hand shake.

  ‘What did you say?’ he asks.

  ‘What we’d planned.’

  ‘You’re OK., so?’

  My galloping heart pulses in my ears. ‘Yes.’

  ‘It gets worse, ya know. Are you sure you want to keep going?’

  I fix my eyes on the way ahead. It’s a one-way system; the only route out is right round and down again.

  ‘The sooner we get there, the sooner we get back,’ I tell him.

  War-worn West Britain: boarded-up houses; rubble littered streets; barbed-wire topped walls; burnt out cars; weary women pushing prams; children, chapped-lipped, scuffing chilblained feet; men huddling in doorways; grey Land Rovers patrolling. Familiar signs, Woolworths, the Co-op, Boots the Chemist, cut into me and more memories of my discarded life bleed out. I press on the wounds.

  We swoop into south Belfast, through the university quarter. Queen’s, cloaked in gothic red brick, sprawls, imposing and regal. We pass grand Victorian houses, trim gardens and sparkling windows, so middle class this could be middle England. The war daren’t advance on these comfortable cul-de-sacs. Aiden keeps driving.

  We loop the city anti-clockwise, watched by the gargantuan Harland and Wolff crane. Initials on gable ends tag territories: IRA, PIRA, INLA, UVF, UDA, UFF. It’s a war of vowels, ‘I’ versus ‘U’. The streets narrow, houses closing ranks, watching us darkly. They open out again, at ease, lacy net curtains fluttering at open windows. Aiden names neighbourhoods, Protestant or Catholic, Unionist or Nationalist, rich or poor. Fumbling through the paint-bled pattern, I start mapping the city, a tricoloured triptych; Catholic on one side, Protestant on the other, the neutral zone between. I snap photos from the car, collecting images for the painting that’s forming in my head.

  Aiden parks up. We walk into the city centre. A metal turnstile, like those at football grounds, bars our way. A uniform mans the barricade. We join the queue. The women ahead open their bags for inspection.

  ‘What’s this?’ I ask Aiden.

  ‘The usual, they’re checking for bombs.’

  When it’s my turn my face flushes with guilt at what I am and what I’m not but we pass unchallenged and stagger along busy shopping streets, bumping against people bored by the dulled novelty of war zone living. Shoppers browse among flashing neon, 50% OFF signs and tinny muzak, pretending today is normal. Aiden says it’s not; there’s no bomb scare. I’m dizzied by it, relieved when we leave the madness of northern Irish normality.

  Driving away from the centre, Aiden points out a road.

  ‘The Crum’s up there.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Crumlin Road Jail. Not on the tour today.’ He drives on. ‘Shankill down there. Divis Street. We’re coming to the Falls now.’

  I peer through the rainy, mid-afternoon drear at houses small and narrow, most with at least one plywood window. Behind them tower blocks are stacked like Lego. Oily puddles shimmer on the tarmac; crisp packets clog the gutters. A woman dashes for the entry to the nearest block of flats. Behind her, patrolling soldiers sweep the scene for targets, walking two forwards, two backwards, either side of a monstrous motorised beast which oozes along, a mechanical slug on wheels.

  ‘What the hell’s that?’ I point to the armoured arthropod crawling on six heavy-duty tyres, its snout nosing forward, the entry hatch set on top like a pork pie hat.

  ‘Saracen,’ Aiden says. ‘It’s what the BA patrol in. The peelers use Newry ice-cream vans, those grey Land Rovers we’ve seen.’

  The soldiers’ faces are hidden by helmets; their guns are raised. I think of telling Aiden to go back but, ashamed of my fear, I don’t. People have to live here.

  We match our pace to the patrol, lagging behind. At the next junction they turn left. Aiden exhales, slumps in his seat and fumbles for his cigarettes.

  ‘Aye, they’re off up the Shankill,’ he says. ‘They’ll not want to be heading into the Falls now it’s getting dark.’

  There are more concertinaed houses, metal-shuttered shops, bald patches of waste ground. Then the land flattens on our right.

  ‘Belfast cemetery,’ Aiden explains. Houses spring up again on his side, fall away on mine. We come to a roundabout. An ornate stone wall, broken by a gothic archway, comes into view. ‘And Milltown cemetery.’ He parks at the arched entrance. ‘Where all good Republicans go.’

  ‘What about the bad ones?’ I joke, throat tight and chest thrumming.

  ‘Ditch in South Armagh.’

  I asked for that.

  It’s chucking it down. Aiden climbs out, passes under the arch. I follow, fat raindrops pounding my head.

  We walk through a forest of Celtic crosses and holy statues. Aiden makes for a tall grey pillar. At the monument he bows his head and blesses himself. Rain runs off the back of his leather jacket. I drop my gaze and study my trainers, now rimmed with sloppy mud. My wet jeans are clagged to my legs. I tuck soggy hair behind my ears and glance up. Aiden beckons me forward. There are dozens of names and dates, right back to 1866, etched on the stone. It’s a memorial to fallen Republicans.

  Ignorance burns my cheeks. I’d no idea it had been going on this long. I picture the patrolling Saracen, the soldiers and their guns. These lads died for nothing. My parents too. Anger warms me.

  Aiden leads me to a plain headstone, the age-blurred inscription reads: Lt. General. Henry O’Hanlon, West Cork Brigade. Killed on active service for the Irish Republican Army 28th November, 1920, Kilmichael, Co. Cork. Age 20. Originally of Belfast. Proudly Remembered.

  ‘Your granddaddy had me bring him here once.’

  I rub my fingers over the shallow words and remember Daideo’s photograph of the St Enda’s junior hurling team. ‘He had a school friend, Hal. Isn’t that short for Henry?’

  Aiden shrugs.

  Another question turns in my head. I force myself to ask it:

  ‘Are my parents here?’

  ‘Don’t think so. This is the only grave he visited,’ Aiden says.

  ‘Then where?’

  ‘Glasnevin? Ask your granddaddy,’ Aiden suggests.

  I dodge his gaze. ‘I can’t, not after what he said, how he was when…’

  ‘Aye, maybe best left,’ Aiden mumbles.

  ‘What do you know about them?’ I press.

  Aiden shakes his head. ‘Just what I’ve said, they were active service volunteers.’

  ‘Someone must know more.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Anything; favourite food, bad habits, jokes they told: anything. Jesus, he doesn’t even have photos of them.’

  ‘That’ll’ve been to make it harder for the peelers to identify them,’ Aiden explains.

  ‘It’s not fair. I should know something. Would your dad be able to help?’

  ‘Maybe. He doesn’t like talking about them. They were pretty close, I reckon; he was broken up over what happened.’

  I stare him down. Aiden relents.

  ‘I guess we can ask,’ he says. ‘Come on, I’m drenched. Let’s go.’

  Melting into the car’s upholstery, we pull away from the graveyard. A boxy building with a sodden Irish tricolour dripping from the flagpole, sits on the corner of the first side road to our right. The Celtic-lettered sign says ‘The Felons’. Aiden swings into a parking space.

  ‘What’s this?’

  ‘Republican club. Gerry A’s old man started i
t, for the lads who’ve been inside for the cause.’

  ‘Gerry A?’

  ‘Ya know, Gerry Adams. My da’s usually here about now.’

  Inside a stocky man in his fifties, grey hair cut short, sleeves rolled up showing a harp tattoo, sits squashed behind a plastic table.

  He smiles and stands. ‘How are ya, Aiden? Looking for your da?’

  ‘Aye, Patsy, is he here?’

  ‘In the bar. Don’t bother calling him out; I’ll sign yous in.’ He looks me over. ‘Friend?’

  ‘This is Caoilainn Finnighan. She’s up from Dublin. I’m showing her the sights. Caoilainn, Patsy Maguire, club secretary,’ Aiden says.

  At the mention of my new name I’m offered a hand. ‘You’ll be Pat Finnighan’s wee grandkiddie.’ He grins at me. ‘Pleased to meet you, love. You should tell your grandda to get himself up more; it’s been too long.’

  My hand is crushed in a heavy fist. I mumble about Daideo not being well.

  ‘Sorry to hear that. Give him my best.’

  He scribbles our names into a book on the table, Aiden drops coins into an old raspberry ripple ice-cream tub and we go into the bar.

  The light is dim yet harsh, the result of steel grills over the windows and low watt bulbs that don’t penetrate the corners. Apart from the grills, it’s any bar; tables and chairs, cushioned benches, a dart board, a snooker table, populated exclusively by men. I falter in the doorway. Men only? Aiden strides ahead. Several lads call his name, wave, one salutes; he waves back, turns to me and beckons. I follow him over to a cluster of three older blokes propped against the bar.

  One gets off his stool as we approach. He’s a shorter, older Aiden; eyes lined with age, dark hair salted with grey. I don’t know if I recognise Frank from memory or the likeness to Aiden.

  ‘How are ya, lad?’ He pulls Aiden into a fierce hug.

  ‘I’m alright, Da.’

  Frank turns to me. He hesitates a moment then grips my hand in both of his. I feel his fingers trembling.

  ‘Look at you.’ The last word is croaked. He swallows. His eyes are too bright. ‘Last I saw you, you were knee-high. What’ll yous have?’ Without waiting for an answer he turns, grinding his eyeballs with finger and thumb, and calls for three large whiskeys.