Ahoy for Joy (10 page)

She read her words through again. She was satisfied. Yes, they were OK. They hit the mark. The invitation was there, not a hint nor just an idea, but a direct proposal requiring a response. She folded the pages, placed them in the envelope, licked the gum, placed the stamp and was ready to send as she had done every Monday for the past 18 months.

She left for school, a little early that morning and stopped by the post box on the end of her road, smiling as she dropped her letter into the box. Then off she cycled towards school, over the rough cobbled streets of the old town, leaving her own tracks behind. Her books and pencils and bits and pieces of school apparatus bounced joyfully in the basket in front like an eccentric dance of the emotion in her heart. She turned at last and headed northwards towards school along the smooth path through the wood on the edge of the town from which Pijpersbos took its name. The winter sun now shone low in the sky, flickering through the trees, casting dappled shadows with diamond sparkles on the frosty earth and glinting on the shiny spokes of her bicycle which flashed to a rhythm, the rhythm of a heart filled with love. The air smelled fresh and clean and the cool wind reddened her face and tousled her hair, like a lover running his fingers through her locks in ardent affection.

She was happy with her thoughts, her family and the choice of action she had taken. She thought of Michael as she rode along and her heart swelled with love for the young man, so far away, but who might soon come and see her once more face to face.

If Michael could have seen her then, riding along, the light flashing on the spokes of her bicycle like a cine film of years gone by, the embodiment of everything good in the world. If Michael could have seen her then, her heart full of love, pure, special and unique as love always is. If he could have seen that young girl, with the wind in her hair, the fresh cool air on her face and a heart the size of a pumpkin, he would have known there was nothing in this world that he would ever want that was not there that day.

And Michael may well have visited Pijpersbos that summer. And he might well have returned. He might even have stayed, learned the language and settled down in that little village, far from the darkness of Belfast's streets. Far from the tensions, the resentment, the tears and the madness, the grief and the revenge. He would surely have met once more with that young girl whose heart he had courted through his poems and discovered that her love for him was every bit as real, as serious, as lasting and as triumphant as his was for her. And he would have been welcome too in that small community for the young Anna was already warming a place for him there.

Michael Coglan would never see Pijpersbos.

While the development of the relationship between the two young people had given Anna her first taste of love, for Michael the change had been altogether more profound. Firstly, he had found something of an inner peace and had begun to experience more progressive emotions such as hope and expectation about life. Externally, although he remained for the most part, solitary and painfully introverted, he had at last come to acknowledge that there was a problem. Gradually he attempted to interact with others in a more meaningful way.

Susan had been the first to notice. Somehow, he seemed more animated in his mannerisms and would smile more freely, though still not often. At the dinner table, he would chuckle at his father's stories from work, intrigued by the close proximity of the hopelessness of incarceration with the ever present casual humour, a characteristic Irish people of every creed and fortune have always shared. Or he would sometimes compliment his mother's cooking, perhaps with a little flattery, in the way she remembered from his early childhood. She noticed that he would comment more and without prompting, on television programmes or other inconsequential issues, sometimes awkwardly like he was attempting to practise a new skill he was learning but had not yet developed. This was of course true but while the long silences that had been a characteristic of his personality for so long still existed, they were no longer the fearful empty solitudes of a dull mind. Instead, inside his head, his senses fluttered with activity as the life few noticed he observed, transformed into random words and phrases that would quickly associate with each other. In time these would develop to become the ever more profound lines of poetry that Anna would read with excitement a week or so later.

There had been change at school too. His marks were still maintained diligently at a level one teacher described as being equidistant between expulsion and exasperation, but there were subtle developments taking place. Now, he would maintain eye contact from time to time, where previously he had always really just gazed at the floor. This was of course a characteristic not exclusive to Michael and not unfamiliar to the teachers either, but rude and cold all the same. He would make the occasional contribution in class, sometimes a little out of context or as if a parallel thought process had taken place, but there was at least some interaction. Generally the teachers and the other pupils in the class were sympathetic and sought to develop his points rather than dismiss them outright. At the end of the previous year, the school report had pointed this out to his very relieved mother, describing the change in his demeanour rather frankly as the first chink of light in a darkness they had all imagined to be permanent.

Despite this, things hadn't really changed that much socially. Michael had been a loner for so long that he knew no different and few sought to change that. Others had found, developed and settled in their own little groups of teenage friends and didn't really require newcomers. It was only with Anna that he maintained any form of social relationship. She would write extensively about music, asking if he knew the lyrics to one song or another, or what he thought was meant by the expressions they contained. This had inspired and developed his interest and he had taken to visiting one of the few music venues in the city that still persevered in those troubled days. There, in the dim light of anonymity he would listen intently to the various bands and singers practicing their talents and even enjoy a beer or two.

He was not really old enough to drink, but both Branny and Susan made no objection figuring that alcohol may even act as an antidote to his solitary nature and bring him out of himself a little. This was also not in any sense a problem for the police as they had more pressing priorities and the pursuit of underage drinkers was not high on the agendas of either the force or the communities they sought to serve. He always arrived alone and left alone and would stand to one side, his back to the wall to avoid shielding anyone else's view and watch and listen intently and in silence as the musicians played, save for clapping politely between songs.

The little club, despite being in a rough part of the city centre where conventional wisdom might have considered it unwise to go, carried little of the sectarian prejudice apparent elsewhere at the time and Michael felt relatively safe there. While he sought conversation with no one, the regulars did come to recognise him. The doorman was a lanky guy in his forties with long grey hair and a beard who Michael pictured as a modern day
Gandalf
from the
Lord of the Rings
, imagining he might suddenly don a cloak and send fireworks streaming through the night sky outside. He was actually an aging hippy who had never really accepted that the summer of love was over and the music scene offered his only refuge from a world that had become altogether too harsh for his liking. He always wore jeans and a T shirt, merchandising from a past gig of some sort, and as he came to recognise Michael, would offer a warm smile when he arrived.

The barman too would see him coming and pour Michael a pint of Smithwicks, [pronounced with a silent w] a beer of the bitter type that was brewed locally, sometimes even before he requested it. Michael's round was rather the simplest to provide and he would smile and raise his glass a little catching the eye of the tender as he handed over his money. The place could of course become boisterous at times and Michael would occasionally be bumped into or splashed with beer, but usually these events ran through without much commotion and he would smile or nod accepting the casual apologies on offer.

The club specialised in original music and Friday nights were characterised by an open mic policy. This featured a series of short sets by a variety of artists, mostly amateur and largely unknown outside of Northern Ireland. What was unique however was that cover versions; that is popular, well known songs by established artists, weren't allowed. This meant that all musicians had to either play their own work or work specifically written for them. Belfast had produced a long list of singer songwriters, some who had achieved international recognition, but many more who had never gained nor even sought fame outside of the area. Folk like this had entertained local people for decades and it was this tradition, the club owners sought to maintain.

Some of the little bands, duos and a few single artists were of course awful, while others could play well though their material was poor. But there were also some whose melodies were really quite beautiful, only the lyrics sounded staid and dull, as if they had been added as an afterthought. In time, Michael got to know some of the tunes quite well, even putting his own words to the music in the quiet of his mind. He had flirted with the idea of offering his services, which unknown to him, several of the artists would have gratefully accepted, but shyness and the inner self doubt that pervaded his mind always got in the way. Still, his confidence was improving and who knows what might have happened if others in the city had not sought a different agenda for the events of this particular Friday evening.

Michael's past had been mired in fear and solitude, but what might his future have held? Little extrapolation would be required to see that his mental state was in a process of recovery. The illness that had plagued his life, brought on by the trauma he suffered from the beating of his young friend was now clearly in rapid retreat. It was already becoming apparent that those around him would soon see him develop into a fine and talented young man. He himself might not have been certain, but must surely have suspected that before long, he would have a very fine young woman by his side. His life may have been tough and painful, but at this point in time, the light of his future shone with a radiant brightness. Michael Coglan had everything to live for. Instead, he would be at the centre of a tragic story that would later make the evening news.

By 1980, much of the terror activity had become prescribed and methodical, targeted predominately, though not exclusively, against those seen as representing the state on the one hand and often simple sectarian retaliation on the other. The level of violence was not at the heights seen in the early nineteen seventies and journalists and commentators from time to time criticised the government and the security forces for having reached what they called an
acceptable level of violence
. However, it was, if anything, more organised and the fear of terror attacks loomed ever present over the city like kismetic clouds prophesying the people's fate. Every so often, that fear was entirely justified.

The terrorists developed hit lists of those to be targeted. In the bizarre public relations of a terror war, the proposed victims were of differing values and as security was stepped up, access to people like judges, politicians or senior police officers became more and more difficult. In time, the net was cast wider and softer targets, like junior prosecutors or the bobby on the beat joined the list as did the guardians of the convicted, prison officers.

The killings took different forms. Some would be caught in a hail of bullets perhaps as they left home or work. Individuals would often alter routines to disrupt any plans being made, but nothing was fool-proof. Others would have their cars booby trapped in the night with explosive devices set to activate when the car moved or when the brakes were applied. A popular method was for someone to simply call at the home of the target asking for him by name before shooting him down, sometimes in front of his wife and children. At the time, those who might consider themselves potential targets would have been reticent to open the door to strangers, especially after dark.

However, others in the household were considered to be relatively safe as the killing of someone's wife or child was akin to what the western military might call collateral damage and consequently had a profoundly negative impact in PR terms. So, it was usually the wives who would cautiously open the door to any unannounced callers. More often than not, these would of course be entirely innocent and genuine visitors. Where there was any doubt or cause for suspicion, she would simply state with regret that her husband was not home and would they like to leave a message.

In some instances, this worked well, but there were also occasions where the house was then stormed and the victim killed inside, in the kitchen or in front of the television. For all those who worked in these occupations, this fear was a part of everyday life and each dealt with it in their own way. All were entitled to be armed and most kept a gun at home. There was also usually an agreed process by which the door was opened. Some couples operated prearranged drills where the husband would take up position perhaps by an upstairs window while the wife opened the door. Code words were sometimes used. These were innocuous words that could easily be calmly included in the conversation, but would only be uttered under specific circumstances. It might be something like; he's gone over to see Malcolm, when in fact he knew no Malcolm. It was a dangerous game, for once uttered, such code words were the signal to fire. Some terrorists were killed this way.

However, Branny Coglan kept no gun. He had no interest in such things and could never imagine himself shooting another person. In any case, he feared too, the friendly fire shooting of an innocent and felt, perhaps naively, that being unarmed was some protection in the world of terrorist PR.

On this particular evening, Michael set out a little early for the walk to the main road where he would catch the bus into the city centre. The ground was wet from an earlier shower and the streets silent save for the occasional whining of an errant cat. Dim lights shone behind thick curtains inside those houses still occupied. It was a cold night and Michael was already well huddled into his dark grey duffle coat and engaged in his own thoughts when he passed two men, walking with some degree of purpose. One was much younger than the other, not much older than Michael but a little taller at around six feet. He wore a heavy black coat, fully buttoned up the front and despite it being dry, had the hood pulled right up over his head and his hands buried deep in the pockets. Their eyes contacted for a fleeting moment.

The other man was older, in his mid or late thirties and of a short, stocky build. He had long, black, lank hair that edged forward on his stooped head, obscuring his face from the sides. On his head was a small black woollen hat that clipped the tops of his ears. He wore a large sheepskin coat with the collar folded upwards such that only the edge of the cream fleece was in view. Michael didn't much like the look of the pair and hurried quickly by. He didn't recognise them, a point which was not in itself unusual, although since he had been going out more often, he would see the same faces of the older youths that still loitered in the area, some of which nodded and smiled at him in a confusing way, as if they knew him.

These men were not local though and the rough area was not one where strangers lurked uninvited. Furthermore, there was something else about the pair that troubled him. At first he couldn't put his finger on it, but as he walked it vexed his mind some more and he reluctantly turned and looked again. Just as they were about to turn the corner into his own street, it came to him. The sheepskin coat! It was too big. Not ill fitting, simply big. It was
far
too big. This man was not wearing his
own
coat. He was wearing someone else's coat, a much bigger coat and he was wearing it because he was concealing something inside it. A shiver ran down the young man's spine as his thoughts engaged, for suddenly he was quite sure he knew who they were and also suspected he knew what errand they were on.

With that he turned and hurried back towards home. There was no sign of the men and all seemed quiet. He went around to the back of the house, for he always entered and left that way and unlocked the door into the kitchen. Just as he entered, the bell rang at the front of the house. In the quiet intensity that had built in his mind, it sounded like the clang of a cathedral bell reverberating around the cloisters. At the end of the hallway, he saw his mother calmly reach for the latch of the front door. He ran forward silently, miming an almighty shout of alarm, a scream of terror, his arms waving and grabbing at his mother, but it was too late, the door was open.