The Troubles (19 page)

     “No offense, but are ya ignorant? I just told ya I am no longer employed by the Short Brothers.”

      “And Ena, are ya still in the Brother’s employment?’’ Both he and Lanary fix their strident and overpowering masculine energy on my raven-haired friend with her exotic olive skin dulled by fatigue. I stride to stand before her suddenly fiercely loyal and protective.

     “Na. Tis not the time for such a conversation.’’ With my arms folded, I sternly conclude the conversation in its tracks.

    I turn to the spider legged man that has draped his limbs comfortably over my floral printed couch and ask him to put on his overcoat as I throw on a thick wool scarf and pull rain boots over my small feet.  The arduous movement causes me to wince as the laceration on my thigh has yet to scab over and is still raw.

    “What about ye, Kiera?’’ He looks taken aback but in less than a second regains his stoic soldier’s poise and being a gentleman, he turns to Bobby and placidly, as though Ena is a child, states, “watch yer lass, aye son. We’ll be back in a minute.’’

      He looks at me to agree. “Aye, won’t be long.’’ I take a hovering glance over my shoulder to my slack mouthed dearest friend and sigh a prayer for her to heal. Yet having just gone through the aforementioned test of faith, I know her journey is a petrifyingly hard one and perhaps Ena’s constitution is protecting her with the dulling quiet of her mind.  

     “Where’s that wee cat, Coraline, Lanary?’’

    ‘‘Aye, she’s at me gaff.’’ I begin to walk briskly. The air cascading through my legs and humming with the premonition of a storm to come. The maturation of harsh enlightenment has created a more discerning spirit with myself as I know very little of the man that proceeds to walk a few feet in front of me. His limbs are working with less effort than mine but his above average height is beating my effort. He, in his past, had been a teacher at a Catholic school until he had been discovered dispensing pagan beliefs to all of his students; one of whom I had just recently met being Alastar Taggart. I had also been one his students as he had proceeded to a Protestant school to teach. Perhaps he had learned to be more covert with his beliefs as no authority had become privy to his clandestine anti-Christian tutorials. Strangely, he had brought us to private pagan sights that were strewn across the countryside that cocooned Belfast and beyond. I had been so keen at the time, on anything that was non-divisive; I had had very little critical questioning during these sessions. Perhaps now, I regret this.

     ‘’Who do ya live with Lanary? Do ya mind me askin’ where in Belfast ya lay yer shiny mug?’’ He turns and with the morning’s bright daylight, I read his harsh angular features, which he has wisely disguised under a poorly groomed white beard. His hand touches mine as though he seems to be mimicking affection opposed to this being a natural response to a probing question.

    “Why do ya wish to keep me company, Kiera?’’ The quip catches me off guard and I grit my teeth asserting my seriousness. “Na lass. Never married. Couldn’t find me a proper wife that wasn’t saved by Jesus.’’

     I do not believe him, as his remarks feel insincere because I know under the cloak of Christianity, there are many that still practice in the old pagan ways. “So then, where do ya live? Must be close as I’ve now seen ya a few times just out and about.’’

    His eyes are a beautiful robin-egg-blue, yet they are so cloaked by the paper thin skin of his age, his heavy eyelids appear worn and tarnished from the shadow like an aging painting. As he continues to focus on me, I observe the fine greenish veins that have scattered themselves throughout his high and regal forehead like the configuration of the Belfast railway line.  My eyes patiently trail over them methodically drinking in the daylight’s naked truth and I almost miss a distinct puckering of the skin which I surmise was caused once by the indicatory slicing of a knife wound. So precise in its ruler like straightness, though chasmal, and agitated that I presume there had been no stitching to enclose the gaping expanse of tissue. He follows my gaze and although I am embarrassed, my curiosity has a stronger persuasion.

    “Na, I live in Rathcoole, right across the way from Bobby.’’

    ‘’Oh that’s a distance away then in Newtownabbey,” I declare. When I had climbed Cavehill on warm spring days I had seen the estate housing forged in the 1950’s which rested in the mountains shadow and to Newtownabbey’s north was Carnmoney Hill which to my liking, featured a small country park that I had on more than one occasion daydreamed through. Nondescript and average in size the estate still held a somewhat assimilated culture and for this I breathed a sigh of relief.

      “So Lanary …’’ I measure my words wisely, knowing that he will not divulge the true whereabouts of his pupil who causes me to quake and tremor at the mere thought of his touch. I have never yearned for anyone in such a way; in some guilt ridden complex I do not pine for my parent’s company in the same visceral utopic way I frenzy for Alastar’s physical presence. Just the memory of his unique musk scent of sweat and rusted iron, ignites the innermost hidden desire my stomach retains.

     “Tell me more of the war, why don’t ya?’’

    Lanary’s deep, hypnotizing gaze shifts from me to a shrouded mother and her young, soot-faced, thin boy who are walking in the opposite direction to us. The woman strictly pulls the young child behind her, not in a disciplinary manner, but as though she is a cat moving it’s kitten from one foxhole to another with predators at every angle lest she drop her kin. We both softly smile regarding the twosome trudging out of eyesight.

    “Well, ya know back then, how was me Da to know the power of the Nazi?’’ He shamefully is telling me his story, acknowledging Ireland’s stance of neutrality throughout World War 11. ’’ Me old man was just listening like the rest of the island to that damn bloke Taoiseach Eamon de Valera. It was he who instigated the ill-fated policy through the parliament and that was enough for folks to just give in.’’

     ’So why then did ya join the British armed forces then?’’ I ask my teacher, trying to envision the reverent, articulate man before me with not a book but a gun in his grip.

CHAPTER 33: Marbh le tae agus marbh gan e (Murdered with the tea, murdered without it)

     Lanary Sloan… I am the leprechaun with my foot tapping away in the moonlit night. If they catch me, I’ll lead them to the gold but the moment they take their eyes off me I shall disappear. I was a mischievous child and not one particularly given to evil, except under provocation. I have been prodded with guns and the insult of my countrymen and now my face has been marred. Is this not provocation dear leprechaun?

     The best laid plans of mice and men go oft astray. My intention of slaying Quinn’s body and releasing his spirit to the Otherworld below was to coax Alastar into an emotional campaign of revenge in Belfast. One that would decimate both opposing legions leaving in the aftermath of the inferno, my phoenix that lives in the rusty brown earth of this land to arise and for all the triviality of this religious war of roses to have been spent. Yet my raven-haired familiar is travelling through the Queen’s countryside. The monarchy is invoking, ignorant and youthful patriotism awarded to me by this gash across my once fair cheek. Anger boils and rushes through my sinewy limbs and I seethe through gritted teeth. Maybe the boy can kill some Brits as well.  That’s not his purpose, Lanery! I hear my father’s growly tone in his answer. Yes, Father, perhaps if he was to lose yet another beloved, he would take his role in all I have spawned more gravely.

CHAPTER 33: Nil ach braon beag fola ort (There is only a little blood)

     Alastar Taggart…The carnage at the grounds of the headquarters of the 16
th
Parachute Brigade of Aldershot, in the English county of Hampshire is raw and bright in the midday hour of exactly 12:15 p.m. on this date of February 22
nd
. I had glanced feverously at my stopwatch as Noel Jenkinson excitedly counted down the seconds in front of me. We had targeted the mess hall but none of the intended soldiers were there and instead there had been five, innocent, female kitchen staff, an aging gardener, a Roman Catholic British Army chaplain as well as ten others who were the unfortunate souls closest to the Ford Cantina leaving the premises. The nondescript vehicle had contained a 280-pound car bomb that I and Noel Jenkinson had placed when all of those in the vicinity were killed.

     Perhaps it was their fortune to not survive as the bomb ripped limbs off and disfigured one so severely you would will death upon yourself instead. There were nineteen more civilians left wounded and marred by the Official IRA retribution, those that were most fortunate that day were left with terrifying nightmares and wariness as the aggressors as well myself, were not to be caught.

     Noel stands cursing behind me. “We was there in Derry when the bastards we tried to kill, shot and murdered twenty-six unarmed civilians during the Northern Ireland Civil Rights Association march and now I have to reckon for it!’’

      Gerry’s brown eyes glint with a mixture of embarrassment and disappointed anger. “If ya had just done yer homework, you would have seen they were not in uniform. Alastar, ya will be the one to issue a statement on the behalf of the Official IRA before this shite storm explodes in me face.’’

  ‘‘Aye Gerry. What is it ya’d like to state?’’

     Simply and with a detached look of derision, the man before me delivers his spiel. “Any civilian casualties would be very much regretted as our target was the officer responsible for the Derry outrages.’’ The vengeful gleam intensified as he adds, “tell em, this will be the first of many such attacks on the headquarter of British Army regiments serving in Northern Ireland.’’ A wave of nausea burns at my malnourished innards. This bloody battle I have quickly been drawn into is just intensifying like the infernos that blaze throughout the dark streets of Belfast with the forgotten rubbish and the unread books, as all remnants from the destruction are set on fire for us to watch as our city slowly burns.

     I am standing in the stilted, quiet space that breaks up the screams of anger and the whimpers of sorrow that the winds carry through the hallowed streets of my beloved city. For the life of me, as I rack through memories of my youth and the few moments I remember of my mother, I cannot fathom nor place any connection to Northern Ireland. As beautiful as the green grass, there is more gray, craggy rock to obscure it; as refreshing and invigorating a spring shower is the winter’s tedious storms to drown and give no respite; as much as I love my siblings, my Father and my missing Mother, they are products of their environment; a unit just on the cusp of collapse.

     The Protestant monopolized Shankill suburb is barely standing erect but I can see through the fogged glass of the Flanagan’s parlor room window, Kiera’s smooth and slight curves as she maneuvers unselfconsciously from one seated figure to another.

     Tears of substantial relief fall upon the clavicle of her delicate décolletage as we stare at each other with not one word spoken between us.  I had rapped quietly on her wooden door, not wishing to recreate the terror she had experienced the last time I had visited her. The house still has the noxious chemical scent of powerful cleaning agents but the warm familiar aroma of lemon and black tea beckons me. The beautiful, distraught woman before me flirts a faint scent of citrus although the clean aroma of hand soap obscures it. She looks beautiful as her eyes glow and ripple with tears, reflecting the pristine, large pools of gray that stare up at me. There are three other people in the claustrophobically enclosed sitting room with both Lanary and Bobby obviously overjoyed and relieved to see me. Ena, Kiera’s friend, looks through my cold flesh as though I am a spirit on the other side, desperate and haunting for a reaction.

    In the absence of my religion’s written moral tenant my own spiritual doctrine is unique to my experiences. I wish to bed this beautiful woman tonight; nonetheless I am reticent as her vulnerability is written throughout her delicate movements, though she is attempting to cover it up with overt gesticulations and a masculine lowering in her tonal quality.

      “Kiera come sit with me.’’ Her blackened fireplace beckons me to stoke it with the measly wood kindling strewn beside it. We fall into a heap of emotional weariness onto the cold, stone-laden hearth in front of the fire sputtering for life. The wind and rain tear into the chimney and the stormy weather outside hurls with great attempts to snuff out our warmth. We stare at the curls of weak flames blackening the small humble sticks of snow papered birch into luminous glowing embers. Tiredly, Kiera takes the iron poker and tussles the embers into a flurry of a blinding kaleidoscope of red, orange and white color. Finally, ushering life into the flames that dance upon our fatigued eyes, our slack mouthed jaws are too tense to form the sentences that need to be brought into existence. I pull this girl to my chest and I feel her soft perfectly proportionate breast relax upon my thinning breastbone. I breathe in deeply the scent of her sweet damp curls and I tip up her chin to have her gray eyes align with my prone mouth steadying for our kiss and languidly she follows the soft ready pucker of passionately contorted lips up to my rapturous hooded eyes. My love and lust are betraying me, yet I will it so and question if this will be the result of succumbing to infatuation? Our lips touch and as soft as the pillows of her tender kiss, I yearn ravenousness for more and push my hot tongue deeper into her wondrous depths as she moans receptively and allows me into her unsullied depths unbridled and unabashed.