Ahoy for Joy (11 page)

Susan knew immediately she had made a mistake and they both froze in the doorway. The two men now had their faces covered with black balaclavas of the sort favoured by the terror groups at the time. An ominous sign. There would be no negotiation here. There would be no,
Branny's not home at the moment
this time. Only their eyes were visible through the rough holes cut in the material that left frayed edges to the irregular circles from which terror peered. Michael found himself imagining them sitting at home, cutting the holes with blunt scissors as they made their plans for his father's execution. They were just two men but at that moment, the sight was one of unbridled horror, like an encounter with Satan himself. Michael had seen similar images on the television, but face to face, they were the mirror of death, looking at life. They were a sight most hoped never to see, but they were here and Susan and Michael would have to figure out how to deal with them.

The older of the two men was Patrick (Paddy) Flannigan, a hardened operative and veteran of a number of similar schemes. His commitment to the cause was stoic. He was a cold blooded individual, who had little difficulty dehumanising his victims into simple aberrations and justifying his actions with simple political dogma that he never questioned.

“Is Branny in?” asked Flannigan calmly.

Susan just stood there frozen in terror, speechless, her tongue glued to the roof of her mouth. She could feel her heart pump adrenalin throughout her veins. Her limbs shook and a sudden blast of cold air from the silent street hit her adding to the foreboding of the events which were now clearly unfolding before her like it was a play at the theatre.

Michael stood behind his mother and had raised his hand and placed it on the top of her arm. He squeezed gently providing her with a welcome sensation of comfort and support, but this was not long lived. Quickly it evaporated into a realisation that the son she thought to be in the comparative safety of the city centre streets, now stood behind her, another actor in this awful play, his life too in danger.

Michael's gaze shifted from the coldness of Flannigan's eyes to the younger man. His name was Sean Bradley. This particular endeavour was his first serious foray into organised political violence. He had lost a brother a few years back in a sectarian killing. This type of incident was manna to the terrorist groups. On both sides, they had become adept at harnessing the rage of friends and relatives of victims and providing sympathy and support before mixing it with a sort of romantic notion of a new, better Ireland. A better Ireland that would of course have to be fought for. They had quickly recruited the grieving, teenage Bradley and groomed him over several years for action as a foot soldier in the armed struggle. Earlier that evening, Bradley had heard the name of Branny Coglan for the very first time.

Michael could see the fear in the young man's eyes and as they each gazed at the other, the connection between the two was forever sealed. Bradley's eyes were not cold or empty, like Flannigan's, but brimming with trembling emotion as he looked upon Branny's son. Bradley didn't see a dehumanised victim before him, he saw his brother. In Susan he saw his own mother. He saw himself. His humanity was quickly compromising his effectiveness in the task for which he had volunteered.

Of the two, it was Michael who remained most calm. Perhaps he had lived with fear in his mind for so long that perceived danger and actual danger had simply fused into one. Now that a situation had arrived that truly warranted a nervous collapse, his senses had become so dulled that there was really little effect. Perhaps his subconscious still felt a guilt over the betrayal of his childhood friend and he sought this time to stand up to adversity. Perhaps it was just a natural, human instinct to protect his mother. For whatever reason, Michael felt his senses sharpen, his body straighten and his resolve stiffen.

But Bradley had not been affected in the same way. The courage he had felt earlier in the evening was quickly evaporating into the night sky. A nervous unpredictability invaded his senses and his hand sweated around the grip of the handgun in his pocket.

“He's not here, he's not here,” cried Susan, desperate to mollify the situation.

With that, the agitated Bradley pulled the gun from his pocket and pointed it at the terrified woman who uttered a subdued scream. Michael had never seen a gun used to threaten in earnest before and it was a chilling sight. Cautiously, he stepped forward, pushing his mother behind him and shielding her slight frame almost entirely with his own body.

“Go, tell Branny we're here,” said Flannigan. He leaned into the hallway, past the terrified woman “Branny,” he shouted, “we've got your wife here. We're going to kill her,” he shouted almost casually.

Michael stepped forward, pushing his mother further behind him. He wished she would take her chances and flee inside the hall.

“My father doesn't have a gun,” he said calmly and clearly, wanting to ensure the assassins knew that this would be no gun fight, no shoot out between confronting soldiers. This would be a cold blooded killing of an unarmed victim. “My father has no argument with you. He wishes you no harm.”

Bradley, now crazy with fear, was waving his gun erratically, wondering which of the words was the
code
. Was it
gun
? Was it
argument
? No it had to be something bland, innocent. Maybe it was just;
my father
. No, that would be no good, Mrs Coglan would also have to say it. His mind raced and he could feel the fear quickly engulfing him. His hands shook and his body flexed involuntarily. Already, he could feel the searing heat of a bullet, perhaps from an upstairs window or from the shadows nearby, enter his body as the hunter became the hunted. He could imagine it entering his head, blowing his brains out, an event perhaps only seconds away.

Bradley drew forward to protect himself from the bullets he was sure were about to rain on him. He was now face to face with Michael, so close that Michael could smell his breath. It was a familiar smell of something he must just have eaten. Mints of some sort! Perhaps polo mints. He had been eating polo mints! Michael dismissed the pointless incursion into his urgent mental state, tucked his mother further behind him, expanding his chest, as if to make his bodily defences bigger. He could see once more right into Bradley's eyes. Now they were flickering erratically, seemingly failing to focus on him. Michael could sense his fear and behind the darkness of the balaclava, the face of the young terrorist grimaced as if in pain. Michael stood his ground and for a brief moment, he wondered what road had led this young man to the doorway of his home that night, with gun in hand on such an evil errand, sent by those more powerful.

Meanwhile, Branny was in the back room wondering what to do. To run out, would be suicide, but for his wife to be slaughtered, maybe his son too, would end his life anyway. He had no gun. There was no plan. Now he wished he had both.

Flannigan stood fast, coldly watching and waiting, while Bradley became more and more agitated. Suddenly, there was a loud bang. The noise echoed throughout the empty neighbourhood, there being insufficient foliage in the area to absorb much of the sound. Bradley's eyes widened and he jumped at the blast, startled as he felt the recoil action punch at his palm quickly releasing the weapon from his shaky grip. It flew into the air before quickly disappearing behind the evergreen foliage of the hawthorn bush.

The sound of the gunshot, left Branny no choice and he ran screaming from the back room in a frenzied rage like a red Indian warrior, somehow hoping his yells would fend off the assault. Flannigan at last pushed his coat to one side revealing the sub-machine gun he had concealed throughout. He quickly lifted it horizontal and set off a swift hail of bullets ringing up the hallway towards the defenceless man. They caught him before he reached the door. The bullets punctured his body and the sudden collapse of blood pressure drained the strength from his legs leaving them collapsing beneath him. The kinetic momentum threw his body forward in a sharp jolt. Branny Coglan finally settled at the entrance of his own home, his knees bent, his bottom in the air and his face on the doormat, balanced like a Muslim in prayer. Beneath his face, an expanding pool of his blood was gradually covering the word
welcome
on the mat.

“What the fuck did you do that for?” screamed Flannigan. “If you'd just shot in the air, the bastard would have come out.” He quickly looked around. All was still. On the steps lay the bodies of Susan and Michael, their blood mingled into a common pool, the one bullet from Bradley's gun seeming to have assailed both mother and son.

“Where's the fucking gun,” yelled the angry Flannigan. Bradley just stood there frozen and shaking, his face ashen, his own blood also having deserted his needs.

“Jesus, fuck,” muttered Flannigan now to himself as much as to his accomplice. He looked again at Bradley, who beckoned at last towards the Hawthorn bush. Flannigan dropped his weapon on the little patch of grass and got down on his knees. It was dark and at first, he couldn't see the gun. He fished about in the branches, yelping and swearing as the thorns cut right through the glove on his hand and scratched at his outstretched forearm. Eventually, he found it but it was lodged firm between a fork in the branches, set deep inside the bush. He stretched his hand further and further inside but in the last year or two, the little bush had grown much stronger. Perhaps having failed to protect the little starling chicks, it defended the evidence it now held at its thorny heart with uncompromising valour. The thorns cut unreasonably at the terrorist's outstretched limbs and when Flannigan eventually gave up, there was a trail of his own blood left behind on the thorny branches.

Leaving the gun behind, he got to his feet again and lifted the machine gun, stowing it once more out of sight beneath the bulk of his coat. He shoved Bradley hard, the force bringing the quivering young man quickly to his senses and the pair lit off into the dark night.

The police were alerted by a neighbour who had seen nothing and within minutes of the departure of Bradley and Flannigan, several of the grey armoured Land Rovers, familiar in the city at the time, screeched to the scene. An ambulance quickly followed on their heels and the paramedics jumped from the vehicles, carrying green and red packs of drugs and other lifesaving equipment, each adorned with the white cross of medical emergency. These trained professionals went about their business seemingly unperturbed by the dangers they faced on a daily basis. As they worked, their eyes never left the job, their minds remained focused on their tasks and their senses closed to the hubbub of activity that surrounded them.

They tended to Branny first. His body was still warm, but there was no pulse. One tried desperately to revive him, while the other checked on Michael and Susan. Michael was unconscious and there was a severe wound to the side of his neck, quickly oozing blood onto the step, but there was a pulse and a sort of gurgling sound was coming from his mouth. He was still breathing. The assessment was swift and almost immediately, he was stretchered into the waiting ambulance, the doors closed, and the blue lights wailed
emergency
as the vehicle quickly accelerated from the scene.

Susan wasn't so lucky. The single bullet from Bradley's gun had driven right through Michael's soft neck, plunged through her eye, and settled in her brain. She had died instantly. Meanwhile, a second ambulance had arrived, and more paramedics quickly jumped from the vehicle. Efforts to revive Branny were looking less and less hopeful. One paramedic was desperately trying to stem the flow of blood which was draining from several places in his flaccid body. Large pads were placed and tightened on to the wounds in his limbs. Presently, two more medics arrived and also knelt by the body, quickly locating key points in his groin, vainly applying pressure to keep what blood remained, inside his torso to serve his organs. That too had little effect as there was also a wound above his pelvis from which more of the clotting liquid now emerged. They took it in turn to massage his heart in the hope of stimulating it to beat once more, but experience told them they were just following a procedure that would yield nothing. Before long, they looked at each other and nodded. Branny, like Susan was pronounced dead at the scene.

The police milled around, looking and checking the area, then built cordons at the end of the street. Soon after the army arrived and set about checking the vicinity beyond. Road blocks were set up and within minutes, the Coglan family home had become the scene of yet another terrorist incident. Before long, the CID would arrive. Then there would be the TV cameras and the newspaper reporters. The next morning, the politicians would comment and the neighbours would say what a lovely family they were. Days after that, the funerals would be held and the people would weep. And the lives of the Irish people would go on as they had done before and would do so again.

Who knows why Branny was chosen. Some of the terror groups claimed there was never any vendetta against any particular individual. Targets were chosen according to the potential for successful attack. Some speculated that it was because Branny was a Catholic working for the government services. Others said he was a soft target. They knew he had no gun. In the end, Branny and Susan Coglan would become statistics, recorded in the posterity of the province's relationship with its own people. However, at a hospital only a few miles away, Michael lay in intensive care, but he was still very much alive.

Michael's mind was awash with confused information and perceptions. Images, flashing lights, gabbled voices crying and moaning in the background that would become louder and louder, reaching crescendos before falling back were also vying for attention. He could hear mutterings and whispers;
just tell the truth, just tell the truth
, they hissed and everything will be OK. He knew it was a lie. Then a voice would laugh, a heinous, high pitched laugh like a frenzied jackal in the night. Clouds would roll into his mind, then the sun would break through once more, dazzling and hurting his eyes.

A face appeared. It was a small face, a young face. It was a boy. He had brown curly hair and rosy cheeks. A big brown eye gazed at him and flickered eagerly. Michael didn't recognise him, but he smiled back warmly, beckoning him forward. Then it turned grey and distress showed in his features and he drifted off backwards from view.

He saw his mother in a garden, but it was not their garden. It was another garden with a beautiful lawn that sloped downwards, away from the house. It had enormous beds of roses, all in bloom. The glorious flowers swayed in the wind and there were vast arrays of fallen petals on the soil beneath so much so that it was almost covered. Michael's mother seemed younger than he remembered and had her dark hair tied back from her face with a pale blue ribbon that fluttered softly in the breeze like a little flag hoisted on the halyard of a yacht. Her skin was soft, pure and radiant and her cheeks shone with life, reflecting the colours of the roses she tended.

She was beautiful and looked up at him, smiling lovingly, her red lips expanding, captivating him with her gaze. “Come here Michael,” she said softly. Michael felt himself start forward, but a small boy appeared, maybe six or seven years old. He wore short flannel trousers and a white shirt. On his feet were grey socks and brown leather sandals. As he approached she held out a large bloom for him to smell. The fragrance wafted willingly from the ripened blossom and invaded his nostrils with an intense scent. The boy smiled, his face radiant. His mother's love reflected in his eyes. She laughed playfully.
The smell of love
, thought Michael.

His mother looked up and Michael saw a man appear. He was in the drive, some way off and the evening sun was behind him silhouetting him with a halo all around. At first, Michael couldn't recognise him and squinted in the sharp light, but as he came closer he could see that it was his father, but he too looked different. He wore a smart tweed jacket with grey slacks and a tie. It was a bright blue tie with a large knot, but loosened slightly and the top button of his shirt was unfastened as if at the end of a hard day's work. In his jacket pocket, a pale blue handkerchief jauntily peaked out. It too fluttered in the wind like it was cut from the same cloth as Michael's mother's ribbon. On his head he wore a cloth cap that poorly matched the tweed of his jacket and the peak shadowed his eyes. Michael started to call out to him, but no sound came.

His father stopped by another rose bed and carefully broke away a stem, then carried it like a baby towards his wife and the boy. Susan giggled once more as she received it, holding it carefully to her nose, and inhaling the scent herself. She smiled and nodded approvingly, looking over the blossom with big cow eyes towards her husband. Michael could now clearly see the face of his father who smiled broadly as he engaged his wife's ardent gaze. They looked at each other with such warmth, intensity and sublime delight in a way only those who truly love each other can. Michael gasped at the sight.
The look of love
, he thought. Then his father got down before the boy, his eyes alight with life. “What did you do at school today, Michael?” Michael smiled bashfully, but it was the boy on the lawn who spoke. “I got a gold star in my report,” he answered.

Then Branny smiled, a confidant young smile, Michael had never seen before and put a hand to the young boy's ear and quickly snapped his fingers. A bright red apple suddenly appeared which he handed to his smiling son. The boy eagerly bit from the apple, the white flesh breaking away with a distinct crack.
The taste of love
thought Michael. Then he plucked the boy effortlessly from the lawn and lifted him high into the air, twirling him around, above his head. Michael took a sharp intake of breath as he prepared for flight, but the boy just smiled delightedly as he rose up and flew through the air, safe in his father's grip, his face surrounded by the blue sky behind. He didn't feel afraid, he felt safe, held firm.
The strength of love
, thought Michael, watching.

Then he could hear the gentle tones of the chimes as the door of the conservatory at the back of the house opened and a woman walked out onto the veranda. She was much older and wore a multi-coloured scarf on her head, with grey locks escaping at the front. Her blouse was prim, ironed and of a crisp, pink gingham check and she wore a pinny around her waist. Michael didn't recognise her, but the boy cried, “Granny, Granny.” He let go of his father's grip, and ran up towards the woman, the apple still in his hand. She hurriedly bent down and hugged him fondly.

Granny? That's my Granny!

Then the older woman turned once more to look at the door. “Look who's here”, she said. Another small boy appeared, his curly brown hair was ruffled and his sleeves rolled up. He wore a pair of brown canvas shorts and underneath his left arm lodged a football. It was a brown leather football, scuffed and scruffy, like the boy who smiled enthusiastically, his rosy cheeks shining as he called out. Michael couldn't hear what he said, but still drew in his breath to reply. No sound came. Then he saw the little Michael run towards his friend, smiling and laughing as the grown-ups watched the two disappear behind the house, dribbling the ball between them
. My friend? The boy must be my friend.

The dream came and went with interludes of more confusion, clouds and shrieking noises. Michael would long to see the garden again, mentally pushing the fear, torment and confusion from his mind to make way for the new images. It took effort to return, but once there he would feel peace for a time. The order of events changed and sometimes Michael would watch intently from close by, absorbing the smiles and the flickers from the actors' eyes that seemed so alive with life. He would walk between them, even right up close where he could smell his mother's scent or gaze closely at her white skin and the fine hairs on her neck and arms.

He walked freely around the garden feeling the soft bounce of the healthy lawn and breathing in the scent of the roses. The garden was awash with noise as the boys played and Granny hurried around bringing juice drinks with ice cubes loudly clinking in the glasses. Birds tweeted in the air and the flies and wasps buzzed around. Then his father took his mother by the arm, raising her to her feet and hugging her closely against him, his palm pressed firmly into the small of her back pressing her body close to his. Their eyes sat intent on each other, radiating love like there was an eternal supply. Then Susan and Branny turned and looked at him and their smiles faded slowly. Now they looked more like the parents he knew. It was Susan who spoke:

“We're sorry you missed it Michael.”

She leaned forward and raised her height on her toes before gently kissing him on the cheek. Then, the couple turned and his father's arm still around his mother's waist, they slowly walked off. Michael would have liked to have watched for longer, but another voice was calling him. He turned sharply.

“Michael, Michael! Can you hear me?”

The voice sounded distorted, but nearby and he felt his senses alter towards a more troubled state as he sought to find its owner.

“I think he's coming round. Check the drip.”

Then, he was aware of more people near him. The sounds from the garden had faded and he could no longer see his parents. The smell of the roses now seemed acrid and stale and new sharp scents emerged that he didn't recognise.

“Michael, if you can hear me, just nod. OK?”

A man in a white coat was staring at him intently. A white light hit his eyes making him blink, but it didn't last long and disappeared with a soft click.

“Pupils dilating OK. Good, good. Blood pressure, stabilising.”

Michael's eyes focused and met the doctor's gaze. He smiled reassuringly.

“I think we have you back in the land of the living young man,” he said.

Gradually the blurry group subsided as his eyes focused and only the doctor remained, with one other, a woman, still holding his hand. Michael turned his head a little to see her. His neck was tightly bandaged and his movement restricted, but he did make out the blue and white uniform of a nurse. She looked softly at him. She was in her late forties with warm dark eyes, practised in sympathy, looking out of a plain face. Her black hair was intermingled with occasional grey strands and cut unflatteringly, encircling her face on three sides, like a bowl had been used as a guide.

“I'm Bernie,” she said at last smiling, and leaned over the bed a little to aid his view. A tiny clock dangled from a button on her pinafore. It swayed back and forth like a hypnotist's watch on too short a chain. Michael tried to focus on it.

He struggled to speak, opening his mouth once or twice before engaging his vocal chords. There was a sharp pain, but he went on anyway.

“It's upside down,” he said at last.

“What's upside down?” asked Bernie slowly, leaning forward and looking intently at him. “Michael. What's upside down?”

“The clock.” He nodded towards her lapel.

Bernie smiled. “It's so I can see it easily. Look,” she demonstrated, lifting the dangling watch and tilting it up towards her face.

“It's 3.30,” she said. “3.30pm.”

The doctor chuckled.

“Oh, I think this young man is going to be just fine.”

He lifted the clip board and scribbled a few more notes, before dropping it with a clang in the steel holder at the end of the bed and walking off. Bernie sat beside him, watching him intently. She took his hand in hers and gripped it firmly.

“Pain?” she asked at last.

“A little,” he replied. “It's okay.”

“Pain is something we take very seriously. Let me give you something for that.”

Gently, she set his hand back on the bed and went off. Michael looked around. He was now alone in the room. Behind him he could hear the gentle whirr of the cooling fans of various pieces of electronic equipment and a soft beeping that he guessed might be in time with his heart. A strap held two tubes up his nostrils and a catheter had been inserted into a vein in the back of his hand. It hurt a little when he moved and he could see the vein stretch and strain as the tube that dangled from the drip moved as he shuffled to aid his comfort.

The window blind was down, but some light still penetrated and the room felt rather bright and airy despite the hospital smells he would become used to in the coming weeks. Bernie returned with a glass filled with a blue liquid bubbling with a pale aqua effervescent foam on top.

“Here, drink this,” she said.

Michael bent his head forward and took a sip. There was a sharp stinging as he swallowed.

“Drink it all. The pain will subside very quickly.”

It did too and shortly, as if by magic, he felt the twinges and pangs in his throat and neck become more manageable and finally disappear altogether.

“Can you remember anything?” asked Bernie. Her dark eyes focused intently on him.

Michael thought for a bit, trying to separate the hallucinogenic sounds and dreamy images that had been filling his mind from the hospital bed that he suspected might be reality. He saw the face of the small boy again. Now he recognised him. This was his friend, but he couldn't understand the associated fear he saw in him. Then he saw his mother and father, young and attractive as in his dreams, but a haunting chill invaded his thoughts. He was confused.

“It's not good, is it,” he replied at last.

Bernie sat for a few moments, gathering the words for her reply, but discarded them before she spoke again, “No, it's not good,” she said at last. “Someone is going to come and talk to you shortly. If you feel up to it that is?”

Michael didn't reply.
It's not good though
. He spoke again to himself.

“Take it easy. Rest. If you need anything, just pull this cord. Look, see.” She demonstrated, pulling a plastic handle that dangled from a red string connected to a box in the ceiling. A light went on above the bed. “See, look,” she gestured upwards with her hand. “The string also sounds a buzzer outside to alert us. Now, try to relax.”

Michael faded off into a snooze once more aided by the sedative nature of the drugs being applied intravenously through the catheter in his hand. His dreams came and went. Memories from an ancient mist, the imaginary, the spiritual, the fictional all crammed into the same chaotic space, each fighting for a position in his mind. He longed for the garden between the howling cries of despair that also seemed to invade his senses, not solely for its tranquillity, but also for its reality. The subconscious in his mind had already begun to re-construct his own history and make it once more accessible in his thoughts.

It was the next morning when he woke again and Michael took his first opportunity to look around the room. There were four beds, but his was the only one occupied. The walls were painted in a shiny cream colour and the floor was of polished concrete with tiny red and grey specks that fused to a single shade in the further reaches of the room. Without lifting his head, he could just see the end of the stark hospital bed with its construction of grey tubular steel that gave it a discomfiting, clinical feel. Bernie was standing by the door talking to a doctor and the pair looked over at him several times as they spoke, leading Michael to believe he may be the subject of their conversation.