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I caught the shine of a car’s headlights and leaned atop the wall to watch them peek around the hillocks and shrubs as the vehicle approached. Then the lights were gone but I could still hear the car’s engine...and it was a car, not a truck -- or lorry, if you prefer. It stopped down the lane that led from the road to the fort and I heard a car door slam -- and then just barely heard another close.
Colm was not alone.
It made no difference. I expected he’d be careful about me and thought the better of him for it. I took my hands from my pockets and slipped them into my coat and under my arms, to warm them better. I’d not have him greet me and me having icy fingers, whether he wore gloves or not. Then I saw him stride up the path, and even in his parka he looked trim and casual.
I waved to show him I was here. He returned it and slipped out of sight under the fort. Moments later, he was climbing up to me.
“Bren,” he said, offering his hand, no glove.
I took it like old friends do and smiled. “Colm, thanks for coming.”
He put his glove back on his hand as he looked about. “Glad to. I haven’t been up here in years -- not since I found the pack of yous parlitic on pot and whiskey. God, the memories. Good times.”
I nodded, recalling me lying flat on the ground laughing at the stars and Danny having the last smile I ever saw on him.
Colm waited for me to speak, but it took me a moment to return to now, for suddenly I had nothing to say just then.
He finally took in a deep breath and said, “I’ve heard -- the story is, you were interrogated.”
Still I said nothing, just looked out over the silvery daggers of the distant lough.
“In a hidden place,” he continued.
Memories screamed into my mind’s eye. I shook them away and bolted around to walk the top tier. Around I went, hands back under my arms, my eyes solely on the uneven rocks packed into the wall. I strode fast and didn’t stop till I neared Colm, again. I did not look at him; didn’t need to.
“What did they want to know?”
My voice was a whisper. “Who was helping Danny -- that day.”
“What’d you tell them?”
“Don’t you already know?”
“The stories I hear are conflicting.”
I turned my eyes on the daggers of the lough and whispered, “I told them I was there -- but all I could see was -- was -- ”
The flames danced, danced up to Joanna and she struggled to escape them but they laughed at her and whispered closer and closer and her golden hair whipped about in the smoke and fire and someone was screaming and --
I must have spoken some of the memory because Colm’s voice shook a bit. “Christ, Bren, I didn’t realize you saw so much. We just thought the bomb had sent you off your head and -- ”
My voice had no emotion. “There was a child’s leg in front of me. Still had its shoe and sock on. I think it was a girl’s, but it might have been a boy. I really don’t remember noticing one way or the other.”
Colm was silent for a respectable moment. “So did you know who else was there?”
I finally looked straight at him, and you’d have thought I hit him, the breath he let out.
“I said nothing about you," I muttered. "I told them -- all I could see was -- was -- ”
The leg flew through the air and whipped blood against me as it landed on the pavement and then the smoke parted and --
Colm gripped my shoulder and I realized I was close to toppling over. I hadn’t been so raw since those first days at Aunt Mari’s.
His voice was back to strong. “I’m hearing the RUC knows who was there but they’re being cagey with it. But their actions suggest they’re lying. They aren’t seeking me. None of our grasses have heard question one about me. They just keep saying they know. Hoping to stampede our side into making a stupid move.”
“Colm -- they don’t know. Even Billy thought I was telling the truth.”
“Bill Corrie?” I nodded. “He helped them torture you!?”
“He never laid a finger on me. It was one named Max -- ”
“Harris. Yeah, he’s a right bastard.”
“Maeve should’ve let me end him.” My words snapped out like angry flashes of a whip.
“You’d never have got near him. Still...”
I looked at him, confused. “Still? What d’you mean?”
He pulled off his parka’s hood and looked straight at me, and his eyes were black as coal. “If you’d died, the autopsy would have revealed what happened to you. And we could have used that, now, against the bloody bastard. Add it to the lads dying in Long Kesh and Thatcher’s stupid commentaries and the one shot dead by a plastic bullet, the world would have joined us in condemning the Brits and the Prods and -- ”
I laughed at him, startling him into silence. “You think the world fuckin’ cares? You think anybody gives a tinker’s damn what happens to a group of Paddies in a place nobody knows? Fuckin’ shite, Colm, I give you more credit than that!”
“Haven’t you been listening to the world screaming -- ?”
“Words! Nothing but words! What have they DONE about it? Not one fuckin’ thing! The Brits under Thatcher think they’ll win, despite their history of losing over and over and over and making a muck of it every time. The Americans’re too busy rewriting their history to minimize their own stupidity in Viet Nam to really care. And the rest of the world, oh they say the right things but ask them to back it up with action and you get nothing but more words. Even the bloody Republic wants nothing to do with us.”
“Bren, as a friend I warn you -- don’t say things like that around here. Some’ll think you a traitor to the cause and -- ”
“Aw, Christ -- you sound like somebody from Madison Avenue who honestly thinks selling Cheerios’ to kids means he’s promoting a healthy breakfast and not merely adding to their sugar intake.”
The leg flew through the air and whipped blood against me as it landed on the pavement and then the smoke parted and --
Colm gripped my shoulder and I realized I was close to toppling over. I hadn’t been so raw since those first days at Aunt Mari’s.
His voice was back to strong. “I’m hearing the RUC knows who was there but they’re being cagey with it. But their actions suggest they’re lying. They aren’t seeking me. None of our grasses have heard question one about me. They just keep saying they know. Hoping to stampede our side into making a stupid move.”
“Colm -- they don’t know. Even Billy thought I was telling the truth.”
“Bill Corrie?” I nodded. “He helped them torture you!?”
“He never laid a finger on me. It was one named Max -- ”
“Harris. Yeah, he’s a right bastard.”
“Maeve should’ve let me end him.” My words snapped out like angry flashes of a whip.
“You’d never have got near him. Still...”
I looked at him, confused. “Still? What d’you mean?”
He pulled off his parka’s hood and looked straight at me, and his eyes were black as coal. “If you’d died, the autopsy would have revealed what happened to you. And we could have used that, now, against the bloody bastard. Add it to the lads dying in Long Kesh and Thatcher’s stupid commentaries and the one shot dead by a plastic bullet, the world would have joined us in condemning the Brits and the Prods and -- ”
I laughed at him, startling him into silence. “You think the world fuckin’ cares? You think anybody gives a tinker’s damn what happens to a group of Paddies in a place nobody knows? Fuckin’ shite, Colm, I give you more credit than that!”
“Haven’t you been listening to the world screaming -- ?”
“Words! Nothing but words! What have they DONE about it? Not one fuckin’ thing! The Brits under Thatcher think they’ll win, despite their history of losing over and over and over and making a muck of it every time. The Americans’re too busy rewriting their history to minimize their own stupidity in Viet Nam to really care. And the rest of the world, oh they say the right things but ask them to back it up with action and you get nothing but more words. Even the bloody Republic wants nothing to do with us.”
“Bren, as a friend I warn you -- don’t say things like that around here. Some’ll think you a traitor to the cause and -- ”
“Aw, Christ -- you sound like somebody from Madison Avenue who honestly thinks selling Cheerios’ to kids means he’s promoting a healthy breakfast and not merely adding to their sugar intake.”
“That doesn’t make any sense.”
I leaned on the wall and looked at Colm, cock-eyed, probably an idiot’s grin on my face.
“Colm, my Uncle Sean has a bar in Houston. A fine Irish pub with live music on Wednesday, Friday and Saturday nights with an open mike on Sundays, and I went there a few times. People come from all over to drink his fine selection of beer and listen and sing and dance, many of them Irish, but not all by any means. And they sit about on St. Patrick’s Day and get drunk and listen to the lads weave glorious tales of Mother Ireland’s history and ruin, and how grand it’d be were she whole, again, and make vicious smears against the Brits and repeat lies about the situation here and in Belfast and talk and talk and talk, and after all of it, finally toss a few dollars in the till, for the cause, barkeep. And others would listen and nod their heads and sip their beers and go about their lives without another thought of it...because they don’t really care. The blacks don’t care. The Latins don’t. The Asians don’t. And truth be told, neither do the Anglos.
“Oh, the words they use are glorious and meaningful, but that’s all they’ll ever be is words. If anyone else in the world truly wanted the Troubles to end, they’d do more than bleat about the horrible situation in that god-forsaken land. They’d take action. They’d show the Brits there’s too much of a price will be paid if this keeps on. They’d DO something. But what has anyone truly done? To Rome, the situation’s untenable, but their priests keep helping the likes of you. America says they hope civil rights will be had by all, then her arms dealers sell you the weapons you need, not give them, not like they’re doing in Afghanistan, while British arms dealers sell theirs to the Unionists. The Prods violate the laws of England and the Geneva Convention, but when have they ever been held accountable for it? Even the European Court of Human Rights gave into them! No one wants this to end, Colm. Not your side. Not their side. Not anyone.”
“And why would anyone want that, Bren?”
“I don’t know. I just look at the reality of it and that’s what I see.”
“Colm, my Uncle Sean has a bar in Houston. A fine Irish pub with live music on Wednesday, Friday and Saturday nights with an open mike on Sundays, and I went there a few times. People come from all over to drink his fine selection of beer and listen and sing and dance, many of them Irish, but not all by any means. And they sit about on St. Patrick’s Day and get drunk and listen to the lads weave glorious tales of Mother Ireland’s history and ruin, and how grand it’d be were she whole, again, and make vicious smears against the Brits and repeat lies about the situation here and in Belfast and talk and talk and talk, and after all of it, finally toss a few dollars in the till, for the cause, barkeep. And others would listen and nod their heads and sip their beers and go about their lives without another thought of it...because they don’t really care. The blacks don’t care. The Latins don’t. The Asians don’t. And truth be told, neither do the Anglos.
“Oh, the words they use are glorious and meaningful, but that’s all they’ll ever be is words. If anyone else in the world truly wanted the Troubles to end, they’d do more than bleat about the horrible situation in that god-forsaken land. They’d take action. They’d show the Brits there’s too much of a price will be paid if this keeps on. They’d DO something. But what has anyone truly done? To Rome, the situation’s untenable, but their priests keep helping the likes of you. America says they hope civil rights will be had by all, then her arms dealers sell you the weapons you need, not give them, not like they’re doing in Afghanistan, while British arms dealers sell theirs to the Unionists. The Prods violate the laws of England and the Geneva Convention, but when have they ever been held accountable for it? Even the European Court of Human Rights gave into them! No one wants this to end, Colm. Not your side. Not their side. Not anyone.”
“And why would anyone want that, Bren?”
“I don’t know. I just look at the reality of it and that’s what I see.”
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