1999 (26 page)

The “Marching Season” was a month-long nightmare for the Catholics of Northern Ireland.

The Orange Order was the best known of the so-called loyal orders that dominated most social and political life in the north, and were militant about remaining within the United Kingdom. In his archives Barry also planned to include members of the Apprentice Boys of Derry and the Royal Black Institution, but he had decided to begin with an Orangeman. From many sources he had identified Frederick Liggitt as a major financial contributor to loyalism and a potent force behind the scenes.

On Saturday morning Barry parked Apollo at the kerb and surveyed his surroundings. Houses in the Malone Road area were large, and almost without exception built in the Victorian style. Not so much as a scrap of blowing paper was allowed to disturb the beautifully manicured lawns, the precisely pruned shrubbery.

One exception to the Victorian dominance of the neighbourhood was the home of Frederick Liggitt. Although built of red brick like the others, it boasted crenellated battlements and an armorial scroll carved from marble mounted over the front door. The brass door knocker—an exact duplicate of the one at Ten Downing Street—gleamed from constant polishing.

A small, neat woman with tightly permed hair responded to Barry's knock. She identified herself as Mrs. Liggitt and, with no further conversation, showed him into a panelled library complete with roaring fire. Silent as a ghost, she then disappeared.

Liggitt rose from a leather armchair beside the fireplace and strode forward, hand outstretched. “Call me Fred,” he said in a booming voice. “You're with the
Philadelphia Inquirer,
I believe?” He was a big man with a handsome if somewhat fleshy face, and a receding hairline. Even in the comfort of his home he wore his shirt collar buttoned and his tie knotted.

“The
Inquirer
is one of the American papers that uses my work,” Barry replied smoothly. Philadelphia was safe enough; if he mentioned the
Boston Globe
Liggitt might have suspected a taint of Catholicism. “I'm based in Dublin, though, as I'm sure you can tell by my accent.”

“You hardly have any accent.”

Barry smiled. His lack of identifiable accent, like his ability to alter his appearance, was a painstakingly acquired asset. On this occasion he was wearing a business suit almost as good as the one Liggitt wore, and his bright hair was varnished to brown with Brylcreem. In one swift glance he had assessed the other man's height and developed a slouch that put their faces almost on a level.

When he reached into an inside pocket and took out a pen and notepad, Liggitt said warily, “I thought you were here to take my picture.”

Barry kept smiling. “I am, with your permission. My cameras are still in the car. I realise you are an extremely busy man, but it would be very helpful if I could chat with you for a few minutes before we begin the photography—just to get a feel for my subject, if you will.”

Liggitt agreed, though he sounded as if he had reservations. Before they could begin his wife reappeared with a heavily laden silver tray. Following his host's lead, Barry waited passively while she carried the tray to a convenient table and arranged the elaborate silver service. Steaming, fragrant tea was poured into thin porcelain cups. “One or two?” she asked with the tongs poised over the sugar bowl. “Cream or lemon?” When both men had been served she proffered a selection of daintily cut sandwiches, then left the room.

Fred, Barry observed, had not spoken to his wife throughout the entire ritual.

The tea was superb.

After asking a few inoffensive questions about Liggitt's background and schooling, Barry casually remarked, “I believe you may know a relative of mine: Mrs. Winifred Speer?”

“Winnie? Oh yes, everyone knows Winnie. She's a real character. Mrs. Liggitt went to boarding school with a daughter of hers—or maybe a granddaughter, I don't remember now—and when the children were younger we bought a couple of dogs from her. I'm sorry to say they weren't properly house-trained. The dogs, I mean, not my children.” He laughed, but his eyes were still watchful. “How did you say you're related to Winnie?”

“She's a cousin of my wife.”

“Your wife's a Belfast girl, is she?”

“She was born in America, though,” Barry said, simultaneously telling the truth while adding a single word that would allow Liggitt to make an erroneous assumption. “Her family was in the automobile business over there.”

“Oh yes.” Liggitt visibly relaxed. He had Barry labelled. A man married to a wealthy American girl, undoubtedly Protestant, and with impeccable Belfast connections. One of Our Own.

The atmosphere in the library changed from formal to friendly.

When Barry mentioned the Orange Order Liggitt loosened the knot of his tie. “The Order is the glue that holds civil society together in this province,” he asserted. “People in the south have a jaundiced view of us, but that's only because they don't know us. They believe everything the IRA tells them. I'm sure you don't do that, Barry,” he added with a glint in his eye. “I mean, as a journalist you have to seek the truth.”

Barry nodded. “I do indeed.”

Fred Liggitt spent the next hour lecturing his guest on the Order and its importance in the greater scheme of things. Barry could not help warming to a man so passionate about his subject. It was like listening to an old-time IRA man extolling the dream of a thirty-two-county Republic.

“Our culture is under attack, Barry,” Liggitt stressed, stabbing the air with his forefinger. “Protestantism is based on revealed Scripture and rational thinking, which is the very opposite of Romanism. The pope encourages the working classes to breed like mice while enslaving them through idolatry. In Northern Ireland you see the two forces pitted against each other in a struggle to the death. But make no mistake: right will triumph, thanks in no small part to the Orange Order. The Order is a powerful force for community stability; we will not give way. The people can trust us and they know it. For three hundred years we have been upholding their civil and religious liberties in this province, defending them from the most barbarous attacks. Without us Ulster would descend into anarchy.”

Barry listened, nodded, drank tea. Longed to pour a naggin of whiskey into his cup but did not ask. Eventually he went out to Apollo and brought in his cameras. Fred Liggitt posed in front of the fireplace in his library, with one arm stretched along the mantelpiece and a framed photograph of the queen of England next to his hand. A lovely young queen shortly after her coronation, as radiant as a fairy tale princess.

Barry made sure the photograph was plainly visible in the picture he took.

His next call, in late afternoon, was to a house off the Antrim Road in North Belfast; not as imposing as Liggitt's pseudo-baronial, but comfortable and well appointed. There Barry was told at length about the virtues of the Unionist Party, the necessity for one-party governance in Northern Ireland, and the dedication of the brave self-appointed vigilantes who were acting to defend beleaguered Protestants by burning out Catholic neighbourhoods.

His host's wife explained that Catholics proved they were evil every time they opened their mouths because they took the name of the Lord in vain, which God-fearing Protestants never did.

Then she invited Barry to stay for dinner.

The food was delicious, but Barry, whose table was often the platform for passionate debate over anything from politics to the arts, was surprised that there was no dinner-table conversation. The family, which included three teenaged youngsters, ate in near silence. At last Barry said, “You can talk in front of me, you know.”

His hostess glanced up. “We don't waste food or talk.” She smiled when she said it, to take the sting out of what might otherwise be construed as a rebuff.

During the following days Barry met and photographed other prominent members of the unionist community. Some invited him to their offices. Others preferred to meet him at their homes. No one was willing to see Barry on Sunday, however. The Sabbath belonged to the Lord.

The interviewees were unfailingly polite, eager to get their point across to a journalist with important foreign connections. He listened with mounting incredulity as one man after another earnestly explained to him that the oppressed Catholics of Northern Ireland were responsible for their oppression because they chose to resist. It was never stated in such bald terms but the implication was clear. The perception of Catholics that they were being discriminated against was not based upon fact, but upon myth perpetrated by the Church of Rome for its own evil purposes. The commemoration of 1916 that had been held in 1966 had forced northern Protestants to take up arms. The Civil Rights movement itself was responsible for unleashing a virulent sectarianism that had not been present in the Six Counties before.

At night in his hotel room Barry sorted through the copious notes he had taken.
Can they really believe what they're saying? Can otherwise intelligent people think this is the truth?

He stopped reading. Lay down with his fingers laced behind the nape of his neck and his long legs hanging off the end of the bed. Stared at the ceiling.

Why not? We believe our version of what happened is the truth.

The ceiling plaster was scored with a multitude of tiny cracks, like the striations running across the limestone surface of the Burren in County Clare. At first glance the Burren looked hopelessly barren, yet thousands of exquisite wildflowers bloomed there every year, and in the winter people from the valleys brought their cattle to graze the rich grass that persisted on the heights.

On St. Valentine's Day, 1977, Gerry Adams was released from prison.

Convinced that the vast resources and numerical superiority of the British military would make it impossible to drive them out of Ireland through military force alone, Adams had, through his “Brownie” articles, persuaded others that the campaign needed rethinking.

Immediately following his release he was asked by Séamus Twomey of the IRA to head up a commission that would report directly to general headquarters about the possibilities for restructuring the organisation in preparation for “the long war.” This presented an opportunity to reinvigorate the republican movement on two fronts: creating a tighter military structure, and introducing a programme of dynamic political action to develop support within the wider community.

 

Adams had left Long Kesh by the time Barry was allowed to visit Séamus McCoy.

“It's a damned shame you missed him,” McCoy said, “but he's going to be around, you'll meet him one of these days.”

“You're saying he'll be arrested again?”

“Wouldn't be surprised, Seventeen. There's a revolving door on this place, like I told you. You going to see any of the other lads?”

“I hoped to, but I'm not very popular with the prison officials right now because of my H-Block photos. They were even reluctant to let me visit you, so I'm not pushing it. I don't want to call more attention to myself because…”

“Aye,” said McCoy. “Sometimes I'm surprised you have the balls to come north at all after you were almost beat to death in Derry that time.”

“How many republicans in the Kesh have been almost beaten to death, Séamus? And how many let it change them?”

McCoy grinned. “Point taken. You have to be tough to survive in here. The day they brought me into the Cages I had my first lesson about life in Long Kesh. One of the screws blew up a little red balloon, a child's toy, and turned it loose. A soldier with a rifle stood off to one side waiting. When the balloon had floated so high it was almost out of sight the soldier raised the rifle and blew it to bits. The screw turned to me. ‘See that, you republican bastard? That's what we can do to you if you even think about making a run for it.' But I've thought about making a run for it every day since then, and—” McCoy interrupted himself with a hard cough.

“Are you all right?” Barry asked anxiously.

The older man sat with his head down for a few moments, then looked up smiling. “We're none of us as good as we were when we came in here, but I'm all right, Seventeen. Don't you worry about me.”

Barry did worry, though. Through an act of sheer will McCoy had appeared to regain his health while in prison, if only to spite the authorities. Yet the strongest will had its limits.

Driving back to Dublin Barry found himself murmuring a prayer for his friend.
How many other men and women are praying for Volunteers in prison?
he wondered.
How many of those prayers will be answered?

Damned few, probably. Seems like God's been turning a deaf ear to the republicans since the Civil War. Does that prove we're on the wrong side, or just that we're not individually good enough?

Come to think of it, how good a Catholic am I? About the only thought I give to Mass is to be certain I'm wearing a fresh collar.

My mother believes people need religion in their lives. Maybe they don't need churches, she says, but they do need God
.

My children have been christened in the Church and they'll have their first communions and their confirmations with Barbara and me right there in the front pew, looking proud.

Is that good enough, God?

He shook his head in anger at himself. “Don't be stupid, Halloran,” he said aloud, “you can't bargain with God. He runs the world to suit himself no matter how we feel about it.”

 

Life went on in Harold's Cross. Barry devoting himself to his work, Barbara busy with the children. Ursula, in her room, struggling.

She did not let anyone, even Breda, see her attempts to move her legs. It was like a secret vice to be hidden from all eyes. In the wheelchair she kept a blanket wrapped around her lower body throughout the day, so if there was even the slightest tremor no one would notice.

At night she walked. Ran. Rode her horses again!

Being awake was the nightmare.

Her only escape was in her dreams, when she was with Ned and Síle and the future was an adventure yet to unfold.

On May third another workers' strike was called in Northern Ireland. Although Ian Paisley gave the strike his full support and once again loyalist paramilitary intimidation was employed, this time the strike failed.

Seán Garland proposed a change of name for Official Sinn Féin. They were to be Sinn Féin—The Workers Party. A few years later this would become simply The Workers Party.

 

At eight
P.M.
on the twenty-sixth of June a seagoing craft of a type unseen on any shores for over a millennium made landfall on Peckford Island, northwest of St. Johns, Newfoundland.
¹
The voyage of the
Brendan
was over. Adventurer Tim Severin had proved it was possible that a sixth-century group of Irish monks led by a man called Brendan had travelled four thousand miles from the Kerry Coast to the New World, using medieval technology and a boat made of ox hides.

 

When the wire services reported the news of Severin's success, Barry Halloran kissed his family good-bye and headed for the southwestern corner of Ireland. In order to follow in Saint Brendan's footsteps, Severin had launched his boat from the mouth of Brandon Creek in County Kerry. Barry hoped to do a photographic study of the isolated site before it was discovered by the world press. He already had a title. “Nine centuries before Columbus the Irish may have discovered America.”

 

Gusty Spence was the commander of the Ulster Volunteer Force prisoners inside the Maze. Spence was another man who used his prison time to read, and think. That became apparent when he issued a statement to the loyalists under his command attacking violence as counterproductive and supporting the idea, at least, of reconciliation.

 

The thunder of the old iron door knocker invariably awoke Grace Mary just when she had—finally—fallen asleep, so Barbara had the knocker removed and a doorbell with a musical chime installed.

Philpott swooped upon the discarded door knocker and started to carry it away.

Barbara stopped him. “Where are you going with that?”

“I thought I'd keep it as a souvenir. It was here when I inherited the house; I believe my grandfather bought it.”

She shook her head. “You're worse than a magpie, Warren; you keep everything. I don't want an old-fashioned knocker on the door of your flat, it will spoil the contemporary design I established for the mews. Take that thing up to the attics if you like, a lot of your junk's there already.”

 

Grainy grey twilight had settled over the yellow brick house. Ursula's pain had been unusually bad that day; Breda Cunningham had left an hour earlier after administering a hypo. Ursula read for a little while, then fell asleep with the book still open on the bed. A sudden pounding at the front door startled her awake. She struggled to sit up. At first she did not know where she was. Or even when.

Someone's trying to break in,
she thought groggily.

Reaching under her pillow, she took out the Mauser. The pistol was too heavy for her shaking hands. She caught her lower lip between her teeth and tried to steady the weapon as she had been taught to do, holding her right wrist firmly with her left hand. She could not concentrate. Her head was swimming.

A shadowy form appeared at her window and began to raise the bottom pane.

She fired.

 

The boarders had lingered late at table. Forgotten cigarettes smouldered in overflowing ashtrays while they engaged in a loud argument about football. Just when tempers were getting out of control, they heard the crack of a pistol shot and the sound of glass shattering.

Philpott ran in from the kitchen. He was deathly pale. “Did you hear that? Is it burglars?”

Upstairs in the nursery Barbara quickly fastened the last safety pin in Grace Mary's nappy and put the baby back in her cot, then headed for the staircase. “What's happening down there?” she called over the balustrade. “Why the hell is Barry never home when something goes wrong?” she muttered as she hurried down the stairs.

A voice cried from somewhere below, “Help, please help!”

Hearing Ursula Halloran call for help alarmed Barbara more than anything. At the bottom of the stairs she jumped from the third step and hit the hall running. Philpott and the boarders had a head start, but with a skilful use of elbows Barbara broke through the traffic jam at Ursula's door.

Barry's mother was across the room from her bed, with the upper part of her body halfway through a shattered window. “Help!” she cried. “Help us!”

Barbara thought someone was trying to kidnap her. She rushed forward and grabbed Ursula around the waist, dragging her back inside.

Ursula screamed in pain.

One of the boarders helped carry her to her bed. The other men congregated at the window to stare down at a dark figure lying on the ground outside.

Ursula's arms and nightdress were smeared with blood. At first glance Barbara could not tell if the cause was the broken window glass or a gunshot wound. “We'll need a doctor for her, Philpott,” she called over her shoulder.

“And the police, we have to have the police,” he jabbered. He took no action other than waving his hands.

“Bloody damned useless,” Barbara said in disgust. “If there's a man in the room will he please go ring a doctor?”

Half a dozen boarders hurried to obey.

“I shot him,” Ursula mumbled.

Barbara bent closer. “Shot who?”

“Outside. I woke up and saw him and…”

“It's all right now, don't worry. Everything's going to be all right.”

Ursula struggled to untangle her knotted thoughts. “I was dreaming about Papa and Mama. Then someone was trying to break in. I thought the Free Staters had come to arrest Papa. Or maybe it was the Black and Tans.” She clutched Barbara's arm. “The Tans killed Mama, you know. Caught her and killed her when she was unarmed!” Her eyes rolled like those of a horse about to bolt.

Barbara placed a gentle hand on the other woman's forehead. “Ssshh, ssshh, it's all right, just rest. You were imagining things.”

Ursula's glassy eyes steadied; fixed on hers. “I didn't imagine firing my pistol.”

“No,” Barbara agreed, “you didn't imagine that.”

“Or his voice. Just as I shot him he cried out, but it was too late.” Ursula was fighting hard to overcome the effects of the narcotic. “Sweet Christ, I've killed Séamus!”

 

As the last light was fading Séamus McCoy had stood at the front door of the yellow brick house. He could have sworn the door had a knocker; had he not used it a hundred times?

The knocker's absence was disturbing. He wanted, needed, everything to be the same. He had lain on his prison bed night after night envisioning the house, seeing himself walk up to the door, seeing Ursula open it…

No, she couldn't do that. But she'll be there when I get home.

Now the knocker was gone.

McCoy had stared at the wooden panel where the knocker should have been, then raised a hand and touched the surface. His fingers detected screw holes badly filled with putty. When he put his face almost against the panel he could see that a small section of the wood had been repainted. The gloss of the paint did not match the rest of the door.

Barbara would never allow a half-assed job like that,
he told himself.

He gave the door a gentle shove. It was, like most doors in Ireland, unlocked during the day. Barbara locked it herself after all the boarders were home. Barry had his own key, of course.

McCoy used to have a key to the door but that was before he was arrested. The RUC had taken his personal belongings: his watch, his wallet, his spectacles, his keys, even his rosary and the miraculous medal his mother had given him. His wallet and spectacles had finally been returned to him, but God alone knew where the rest were.

The door was firmly locked.

He began hammering on it with his fist.

When there was no response he set off around the side of the house.
They're probably all in the back, that's why no one hears me.