The Girl From the Killing Streets Page 4

  Not again!

  He lay still, knowing it wouldn’t last long. It never did. But it annoyed him because he should have done something about it before now. He should have signed himself off sick while the medics investigated the problem. He should have… but he didn’t. He dreaded what they might discover, so he did nothing, and the problem arose again and again. And the longer he put up with it, the more difficult it became to take some sort of positive action.

  He waited for the mist to subside before he finally spoke. He tried to adopt a jokey tone, but he couldn’t.

  The words came out as pure bile. “Good morning, Belfast. This is your friendly terrorist wake-up call.” His acid sarcasm reflected an in-built bitterness.

  “That’s not in the least bit funny.” Milly groaned and rolled onto her back.

  “Sorry.” He rubbed away the last of the pain from his forehead.

  “That bomb will have woken the girls,” Milly said. “Maybe I should check on them.”

  “Don’t bother. They’ll be all right. They should be used to it by now.”

  “Used to it? Our children should be used to it?”

  “Sorry.”

  Will regretted the blasé words as soon as they were uttered. How could he be so callous about the effect a bomb would have upon his twin daughters? He tried to recover his composure with some vague reassurances. “Patsy will jump into Jill’s bed and they’ll cuddle up and console each other. Give it half an hour and they’ll be fine again.”

  Milly didn’t seem to be persuaded. “They shouldn’t have to console one another, Will. And they shouldn’t have to put up with the noise of bombs at their age. Bloody Belfast!”

  She sat up and pushed aside the bedsheets. Her long, blonde hair streamed down her naked back. She shook her head and the hair shimmered like waves of silk.

  “It’s your home town, love. Not mine.” Another callous remark, instantly regretted.

  “And I hate it. Absolutely hate it. You know how it’s affecting the girls. Wetting the beds at their age. Ten-year old children shouldn’t wet their beds in fear!” She screwed up her round puppy-dog eyes and glared at him.

  “Sorry.” Will reached out a hand to her. “Let them be, love. They’ll be all right. It’ll be the only half hour in the day when they won’t be fighting and arguing.”

  “Maybe. Even so...” The sudden anger waned as quickly as it arose. She yawned, let out a long, loud sigh and lay back down in the bed.

  Will glanced at the window. His head was now back on an even keel, and the weather forecasters had promised a nice summer’s day. Perfect for the ferry crossing to Liverpool and the drive into Wales. He swept his gaze round to the alarm clock. There was plenty of time to load the car. The luggage was already packed and stacked on the lounge floor, so why not enjoy one of the few pleasures left in his life? Already the explosion was fading into the back of his mind.

  He held back from saying sorry yet again. Didn’t someone somewhere say love means not having to say you’re sorry? Not that he believed it, but he did love his wife. Maybe he didn’t always show it as well as he should, but he never regretted marrying her.

  “Relax, Milly, it’s going to be a long journey. Let’s have a moment to ourselves.” He turned on his side and slid his hand between her legs to gently massage her inner thighs. Lean, healthy thighs connected to a lean, healthy body: the physical beauty of a woman still at the tail end or her twenties. It had been a warm night and they both slept naked.

  She sighed with pleasure. All signs of her irritation were put aside for the time being.

  “How would you like your breakfast, My Lady?” he asked, injecting a note of desire into his voice.

  “Long and hot,” she replied, taking up the hint. Her smile told him her annoyance was temporarily on hold. It was a hesitant smile, but a smile nonetheless. “You may serve me now.”

  “Yes, My Lady.” He slid his hand into her bush.

  “Oh yes, Boyo… there’s a welcome in the hillside,” she said, putting on an exaggerated imitation of Will’s Welsh accent.

  And then a second bomb exploded, closer this time. The thunderous boom echoed through the early morning air. The flash backlit the curtains and, again, the windows rattled.

  “Hell!” Will sat up suddenly. “Not now! Can’t they even give us peace to…”

  “Calm down, Will.” Milly sat up beside him. “Tonight we’ll have all the peace and quiet we need.”

  “In the meantime, I suppose that puts an end to…?”

  “For the time being.”

  “I was all ready for it. Rising to the occasion, I was.”

  She wagged a finger at him as if she was scolding a small child. “You’ll just have to be patient, won’t you?”

  Not long after, they heard gunshots. IRA snipers shooting at soldiers on the prowl, Will guessed. They called them ‘duck squads’, those army patrols. Sometimes the soldiers died, sometimes it was the IRA attackers who were killed by the return fire. Violent death was a way of life in Belfast.

  Will let out a long-exasperated sigh. “I suppose I’d better check on the girls. That last one really was a bit too close for comfort. Dammit!” His frustration increased once more as he clambered out of bed, crossed the room and yanked open the bedroom door.

  “Will!”

  “What?”

  “Put your dressing gown on. The girls will be frightened enough anyway.”

  ***

  September 1980

  Will paused to add more whiskey to his coffee. He sipped at it before speaking with a sudden hoarseness in his voice. “The doctors told us the girls would forget all about it as they grew older, but that was a load of shit. They didn’t forget. It’s the same with other kids who’ve had to live with the bombs and bullets in Northern Ireland. It mentally scars them for life. Have you read about the amount of self-harm Belfast kids do to themselves? Have you?”

  I had, but I chose not to voice my opinion. I wanted Will’s side of things. “And you, Will? Has it scarred you for life? Or will it all fade in time?”

  “Don’t ask such a bloody stupid question.”

  “Okay. Let’s move on, shall we? You didn’t manage to get away on that holiday you needed. Tell me more about that.”

  He took a deep breath. “That was when the trouble really started between Milly and me.”

  ***

  Friday 21st July 1972

  0715 BST

  Will ambled down to the kitchen in his dressing gown. Dirty dishes were piled into the sink. They were forgotten in the previous evening’s efforts to get the cases packed. He ignored them, put the kettle on and switched on the radio while wiping aside all thoughts of police duty; a duty that wouldn’t bother him today.

  The BBC radio news caught his attention. Earlier that morning an express train in Spain had run head-on into a local train. Many people were dead and many more injured. He turned off the radio with a heavy jab of his hand. Much as he felt sympathy, he had no wish to hear about people dying. Not when he was looking forward to one whole week of peace.

  Milly came down a few minutes later, bursting into the kitchen in a swirl of silken gown and silken hair.

  “The girls?” he asked.

  “Playing with their dolls.”

  “Good.”

  “And arguing.”

  “Problem solved.” He laughed.

  Milly gave him a sour look.

  He was eating his breakfast at the kitchen table, and Milly was complaining about the noise the twins were making upstairs, when the phone rang. Will wiped a stray milky cornflake from his lips, sidled into the lounge and picked up the receiver. Despite the radio news, and despite the earlier bombs, he was beginning to relax.

  “Yes?” He never announced himself on the phone, not until he knew who was calling. It was a habit as ingrained as checking for a mercury tilt switch bomb under his car each morning. Like thousands of other RUC officers, it helped keep him alive.

  “Bad news, Will.�
�� It was his boss, Detective Chief Inspector Thomas McIlroy at the North Castle Street RUC barracks. His voice was unusually cold. “We need you over here. Now.”

  Will’s relaxed mood withered and died in an instant. “I’m on leave, boss.”

  “Tough. We need you.” The senior detective’s tone of voice defied argument. It was not like McIlroy at all. A warning sign.

  Will drew a deep breath. Resentment began to course through him, a sudden surge he had difficulty controlling. “But I’ve got a whole week off. I’m taking the family on holiday.”

  “Forget it. You’re on duty again. There’s something up. Something big, and we’re two men down. You’ll have to cover the rest of the ‘early’.”

  “Is that an order or a request, boss?”

  “’Tis a request which you turn down at your peril.”

  The early shift started at 0700 and continued to 1500, and the ferry to Liverpool left in a little over two hours. Outside, the Evans family car was waiting to be packed.

  Will struggled to contain his annoyance. “I don’t think you understood me, boss. We’re booked on this morning’s boat, all the family. We’re all geared up and ready to go.”

  “Sorry. I can’t help that.” Sorry? McIlroy didn’t sound in the least bit sorry. “The family will just have to go ahead without you.”

  “It’s that bad?”

  “That bad.”

  “But it’s not an order?”

  “I can make it one if you force me to.”

  “Seems like I have no choice.”

  “Spot on. I’ll come over and collect you in ten minutes or so. Get ready as quick as you can.”

  Will’s hand was shaking as he replaced the receiver and stared out through the lounge window. They had tickets for a crossing to Liverpool, followed by a short drive to his sister’s house on the north Welsh coast. And then… peace and quiet away from the bombs and the bullets. A week of relaxation in a land where the Evans family had their ancestral roots. A tremor ran through him. It wasn’t fair! It wasn’t just him who needed this holiday. Milly and the kids needed to get away at least as much as he did.

  “Who was that?” Milly wandered in from the kitchen, her loose gown open at the front. Shielding the girls from overt nudity didn’t extend to their mother. She brushed a stray wisp of hair from her face.

  Will mumbled his reply, still seething inside. “Inspector McIlroy. They want me back on duty. Something’s up.”

  She froze. The usual mellowness of her voice suddenly faded. “Not now?”

  Will dropped his gaze to the floor, unable to confront her. “Yes. Now.” He tried to sound firm, but inside he was seething. How could he feel otherwise?

  “But…” Milly stared at him dumbly for a few seconds, her lips trembling, as if she was having difficulty understanding what he was saying. Then she spoke in a low, hoarse tone. “Why? What’s up?”

  “Dunno. You’ll just have to go on ahead without me.”

  A sharp gasp escaped her mouth before she cried out, “No! You can’t do this! We’re all booked on the ferry. All of us. We can’t just go without you.”

  “You’ll have to.” He continued to avoid her gaze. “I’ll come and join you as soon as I can.”

  “No, Will. That’s not fair.” She stepped up close to him, dragging back his attention and further raising her voice. “Haven’t we had enough to put up with already? You’ve got to tell them! You can’t go on duty. Not now!”

  He forced himself to look her fully in the eye. “Milly, I have to. There’s something afoot and it sounds serious.”

  Her cheeks were damp now, glistening with tears. “Well, we’re not going to Wales without you. No way!”

  “But it’s best you go on ahead. I’m sorry, love.”

  “You’re sorry? For God’s sake! How do you think I feel? I’m sick of this place, sick of all the hatred and bombing. Sick to death of it. And just look at you, Will. You’re washed out with stress. Twenty-nine years old and already on the verge of a heart attack. You need this break!”

  “I’m stronger than that, Milly,” he said with little conviction.

  “Don’t talk rubbish, Will. It’s getting to all of you at North Castle Street. You know it is. Look at you; all pale-faced and washed out. You don’t sleep well. And you’re still not fully recovered from that knock on the head.”

  He gave a brief snort. “Don’t go on about that. There’s not a man in the RUC who hasn’t had a knock or a cut from the riot line. It goes with the job.”

  “You should have seen the doctor about it. You know you should.”

  “For heaven’s sake, Milly! How many times have I told you? Don’t go on about it!”

  She was partly right, of course, but it wasn’t a doctor he needed; it was a week of peace and quiet in a country that wasn’t at war with itself. Just one week, that was all, and he would be his old self again.

  She glared at him, and he saw that she was hurt by his anger. “If only we could all get away together, even for a week…” Tears now streamed freely down her cheeks. “Even for a week.”

  He relented, wrapped his arms about her and lowered his voice. “I’ll tell them we have to get away tomorrow.” He tried to make it sound reassuring, but it wasn’t easy.

  “Tomorrow might be too late.” She sniffled against his shirt. “If only we could get away for good. For good, Will! Get away from all this violence, and live in peace.”

  “But this is where my job is.”

  “It doesn’t have to be.” She suddenly pushed herself away from him. “We could move away. You could get a police job in England or Wales.”

  “Is that what you want?”

  “You know damn well it is! I swear to God, Will, I can’t take much more of it. Neither can the girls.” She drew back her shoulders and wiped at her face. A look of defiance suddenly flickered in her eyes. Her voice rose to a screech, a mental barrier suddenly breeched. “If I have to go on holiday without you, I’ll be going for good. I swear to God I will. I won’t be coming back. Ever!”

  Will was momentarily at a loss for words. What could he possibly say? He went silent hoping she would calm down, hoping this was just a momentary loss of control. Milly suddenly turned away from him, bent her shoulders forward and clasped her hands onto the sideboard. The silence hung in the air for several minutes while her whole body trembled, a sign of soundless weeping.

  “Mummy!” The child’s cry drew Will’s attention to the hall door.

  Patsy stood in the opening, clasping her teddy bear and sucking her thumb. She and her sister were too old to be constantly cuddling comfort toys, but they needed them.

  Milly straightened up, wiped at her eyes and then ran to the child and clasped her tight.

  “What’s happening, Mummy? Why were you shouting just now?”

  “It’s all right, my love.” She turned her head back to Will and her look told him it was far from all right. She glared at him. “I meant what I said, Will. I meant it! We’ll wait here until tomorrow. If you don’t come with us then, I’m leaving you. For good!”

  ***

  September 1980

  Milly arrived home that that point, along with the twins. They were now tall, slim young ladies in school uniforms. Images of their mother at that age, I guessed. I noted instantly how they eyed me warily as they walked into the kitchen, as if they had the same distrust of me as Milly. Their arrival instantly put paid to any hope of continuing the interview with Will.

  Milly greeted me with a single staccato grunt, and then she gave me a fierce look as if she suspected me of upsetting Will. Maybe she had a point.

  “You’ve finished your chat.” Her words came out more as a firm instruction than a question.

  “For the time being,” I said.

  “Good.” She made a point of unpacking her shopping in front of me. I took the hint and put away my notebook.

  “We’ll talk again another day,” Will said as he escorted me to the front door.

/>   “I’m glad she didn’t leave you,” I kept my voice low.

  He gave me a surreptitious smile. “It was touch and go for a while. Then, at the end of the day, she saw how I was in hospital. I think that was what put me back in the driving seat.”

  “She cares about you, Will.”

  “I know. I depend upon it.” He allowed himself a brief moment of thought. “You know, someone once told me there are four doors out of an RUC policeman’s life. They’re labelled ‘murder’, ‘suicide’, ‘nervous breakdown’ and ‘peaceful retirement’. Do you know what it’s like to walk through that last door?”

  “No.”

  “Neither does anyone else.”

  Chapter Four

  October 1980

  It was a difficult month in Northern Ireland. Seven Republican prisoners began a hunger-strike in protest at the ending of special category status. The following day Margaret Thatcher announced she would not give in to them because they had been convicted of criminal offences. Tensions in Northern Ireland began to rise even higher than they already were. Rioting in the streets became a daily ritual.

  Fully aware that things were getting ever more fraught over there, I nevertheless telephoned the Armagh prison governor to seek permission to interview Sorcha Mulveny again. We had spoken several times before and he seemed to be in tune with my aim in writing the book. This time we had a longer chat, in the course of which he described Sorcha as a model prisoner.

  “Not the sort of person you would expect to end up here as a lifer,” he said. “She seems to be taking her punishment with a lot of stoicism. Never once has she caused us any trouble.”

  Was that why he was willing to smooth the formalities of my access to her? Or was he trying to show some leniency in the face of the stand-off between the hunger-strikers and the British government? It was probably not in his remit to discuss her case with me in detail, but I got the impression he had similar reservations to my own about her guilt. I became yet more determined to discover the truth.

  The following Sunday I flew from Heathrow to Belfast Aldergrove Airport and checked in at the Europa Hotel in Great Victoria Street. It had earned itself a reputation for the number of times it was bombed. Not the best way to earn a good reputation, but what the hell? I told myself it would be safe enough if I stayed only a couple of nights. Despite the bombs, the hotel was a popular venue for so many journalists covering the so-called Troubles. There were more of them here than usual, a consequence of the hunger-strike. I knew a few of them from my time on Fleet Street. That was after Annie died, when the Belfast violence lived on and I left Ireland to work in London.