This Irish House (15 page)

The man grinned. “Take it easy, lad,” he whispered. “I'm your cellmate.”

Kevin's stomach cramped. His breathing was hard and labored. He swallowed, tried to speak, and couldn't. Nothing was worse than this. He wouldn't stay here. Nothing would make him stay here. Slowly he drew his legs up under him. Barely, he managed the words. “What do you want?”

The man's harsh, flat-planed face split into another grin. A huge gap separated his front teeth. “Well, now. Let me think on it. A friendly welcome, maybe? Are you up to a friendly welcome, lad?”

“Go away.”

The man threw back his head and laughed. “Go away, the lad says,” he jeered.

Kevin looked around. Where was the guard? Surely a guard patrolled through the night. “Get away from me,” he said in a loud voice. “Get away or I'll call the guard.”

“Easy, now.” The man backed away. “I'll leave you alone. It's nearly mornin', now, isn't it?”

Kevin's breathing normalized. He waited until he heard the top bunk creak and the man's legs disappear over the edge. Then he climbed out of bed, grabbed hold of the bars and shook them, hard. “Guard,” he called out, disturbing the quiet of the cell blocks. “Help! Guard!”

Two guards, one armed with a billy club, the other with a gun in full firing position, ran down the hall to his cell. “What's happened here?” one yelled out.

“Please,” Kevin cried out. “I need to speak with Mr. Anderson.”

The guard with the gun lowered it to his side. “It's the middle of the night. You can't speak to anyone in the middle of the night.”

“He said to call him at any time, any time at all. Please, just take me to him.”

The next afternoon, his mind drained of emotion, Kevin followed Neil through the front door of a rundown but comfortable-looking establishment on the corner of a long row of houses in similar condition. This was where he would live, indefinitely, until Anderson decided otherwise. The sign over the lintel read Tranquility House but Kevin wasn't fooled. He knew a halfway house for drug offenders when he saw one.

He didn't hear the mumbled conversation between Neil and the young man seated beside the phone. Content to sit on the lumpy couch across from the blazing fire, Kevin closed his eyes and dozed.

“Kevin.” Neil shook his shoulder. “This is David Martin. He'll tell you how to go along. I'll be contacting you in a bit. Relax and settle in. All of this takes getting accustomed to. Don't worry about anything at the moment. You'll have plenty of time to adjust.”

“Will you call my mother?”

“I already have.”

Kevin wet his lips. “Is she—” He stopped and began again. “How is she doing?”

“She's relieved that you're out of prison. As soon as you're able to have visitors, she'll come.”

Kevin nodded.

“I'll be leaving now,” Neil said. “Call if you need anything.”

David Martin had longish brown-blond hair and round, rimless glasses. He was very thin but his smile was pleasant. He held out his hand. “I'll need to see your bag.”

“Excuse me?”

“Hand over your bag, please. I need to check it.”

“Why?”

“Drugs.”

Kevin gave David the bag and watched him search the pockets of his shirts and jeans, the linings of his jacket and the zippered compartments of the carryall. There had been no opportunity for Kevin to go home. The clothes were not his. They were new, of the basic variety, gratis of Neil Anderson and the Special Forces.

David Martin stood. “Welcome to
Tranquility
House,
Kevin. Most of the lads are in class right now. I'll show you to your bed.” He checked his watch. “It's nearly time for dinner.”

“I'm not hungry.”

“It doesn't matter. We all show for dinner and for classes. You'll get used to it. You may even come to like it. Most of us do.” He smiled again. “Come along.”

Kevin followed his new jailor down a narrow hallway to a small room with a slanted ceiling, two beds covered with cozy quilts and a window that looked out on a small garden.

David set Kevin's bag on the bed nearest the window. “We give all newcomers the bed with the view. It makes them feel better. Your roommate will join you in a bit. His name is Joe Sullivan. He's a good lad. You'll like him. Everyone does. I'll see you at dinner.”

Alone again, Kevin looked around the room at the peeling wallpaper, the buckled wood floors and stained lampshades. He thought of his bedroom at home, of the rich wood moldings and recessed lighting, the warm bookshelves filled with his CDs, magazines and favorite novels, the carved headboard and the scene lovingly painted on the ceiling by his mother, the solar system, planets circling the sun.

David Martin was a good sort. Kevin could see that. No doubt Joe Sullivan would be as well. Most likely he would grow accustomed to the newness of it all. But he was very sure he would never come to like it.

T
he small, grassy patch on the edge of the Crumlin Road bordering the Catholic Falls and the Protestant Shankill was empty that Saturday afternoon. Earlier that day there had been a street festival. It was understood by everyone living in the two working class communities that only Protestants were welcome. But now the field was deserted, food wraps, crumpled papers and bottles the only evidence left of the busy afternoon.

A boy somewhere around sixteen years old kicked his soccer ball against the side of an abandoned roadhouse and casually surveyed the empty field. It looked peaceful, but he knew from painful experience that appearances could be deceiving. Another lad, the same age, emerging from a house on the corner, gave him courage. He pitched his voice just loud enough for his friend to hear.

“Sean, will you kick the ball around with me for a while?”

The lad flashed him an impudent smile. “Haven't you had enough beatings, lad? Maybe your head hasn't healed yet.”

“Come along,” the boy urged him. “No one will notice. The prods are tired out from their day.”

“They'll notice.” His friend laughed and jogged toward the patch of green. “Let's give them something to notice.”

Fifteen uninterrupted minutes passed while the boys played and talked, tossing the ball back and forth between them, eyes watchful and alert, always focused on the dismal row of roadhouses on the east side of the green. The sky darkened and for a time they believed their illicit venture would come to nothing. The first boy relaxed and began to enjoy the game. Then, out of nowhere, a sharp crack jerked him back to attention.

He turned toward the sound. On the broken pavement leading to the Shankill, a group of young men had gathered. Something dripped down the boy's forehead and into his right eye. He wiped it away and looked at his hand. It was covered with blood. All at once he felt searing pain. A well-aimed stone had found its mark on his head. The crowd from the Shankill moved forward purposefully.

His friend threw an arm around his shoulder. “Are you all right, lad?”

“Aye.” He kept his eyes on the crowd.

“Let's go.”

Both boys backed away. The Shankill mob broke into a run. The boys ran, too, separating at the edge of the Crumlin Road, disappearing down the maze of twisted streets into the Falls.

Emily Quinn, eleven years old and filled with the importance of her responsibility, had just crossed the street with her new baby brother. He was asleep in his pram. She gave Sean Dempsey no more than a passing glance as he ran by. Turning the corner that led to the patch of grass where no Catholic child had the nerve to play, she meant only to give the baby his first glimpse of green. The mob was upon her before she could scream.

Kate received the phone call in her government office on Donegall Square. It was a Wednesday. Her day had been unproductive, her mind filled with Kevin and the odd circumstances surrounding his release, circumstances that involved a certain Neil Anderson. She wasn't quite sure how she felt about the Special Forces agent and his involvement with her son. A week had passed since Kevin's release and she had yet to see him. It was difficult to concentrate.

“Kate Nolan speaking,” she said into the mouthpiece.

“This is Maired Quinn,” the voice said. “I'm callin' about an incident that happened last Saturday past concernin' my daughter, Emily, and my baby son.”

Kate stifled a sigh. Another complaint. There were so many, most without evidence. “Go on.”

“Can you come to us, Mrs. Nolan? I want you to meet my daughter and hear her story.”

“Of course.” Kate picked up a pencil. “Give me your location.”

The neighborhood was a dreary one, treeless, with small houses set close to the road. The working class neighborhoods of Belfast, Ladybrook, Andersonstown, Turf Lodge, the Clonard, Ballymurphy were dismal in their similarity. Tiny, crowded Victorian houses made long rows down dozens of small lanes and streets leading off the main roads. Chimney smoke coated the sky with a dirty haze. Graffiti covered blocks of gray stucco flats. Broken pavement, convenience stores and pubs, off licenses, fruit stands and, occasionally, an empty Laundromat and boarded up storefronts lined the streets, landmarks of a working class neighborhood, a neighborhood much like the one where her husband had grown up.

Kate found the house immediately. She pushed open the low gate and climbed the steps. Mrs. Quinn, a pretty, tired-looking woman, opened the door before Kate could knock.

“Thank you for comin', Mrs. Nolan. I didn't know where else to turn. Patrick Nolan was a great friend to us.”

Kate was surprised. “I didn't realize you knew my husband.”

Mrs. Quinn nodded. “Without his help, Davie, my son, would be in Long Kesh.” She hurried on. “Davie isn't IRA, Mrs. Nolan. So many of the boys who are lifted aren't, you know.”

Kate nodded. “Yes, I know.”

The woman pressed a handkerchief to her nose. “It isn't Davie I called you about.”

“You said you wanted me to hear your daughter's story.”

Maired Quinn blinked back tears. “I never thought such a thing could happen, not to a young girl who never hurt anyone.”

Kate's expression remained serene but her hands curled into fists.
Please
don't
let
it
be
a
child
who
was
hurt.
She couldn't think clearly when the victim was a child. “May I sit down?” she asked.

The woman lifted her hands to her cheeks. “Oh for pity's sake, where are my manners? Please, come into the sittin' room. I've a fire goin' and a tray set out.”

Working-class women in Belfast were, out of necessity, unfailingly practical. They refused to sit around nursing old wounds. There simply wasn't time for it. Maired Quinn was no different. Kate followed her into a cozy room with a couch, two overstuffed chairs, a coffee table and the inevitable floral-patterned area rug.

“Sit here by the fire, Mrs. Nolan, and take the chill off while I pour your tea. Do you take anything in it?” She waited until Kate was settled before handing her the cup and saucer.

“No, this is grand.” Kate sipped the hot brew, mentally counted to ten, and plunged in. “Tell me about your daughter.”

“I want you to see her.”

“I shall,” Kate promised, “but first I'd like you to tell me about her.”

The woman's lips tightened.

Kate set down her cup. “This isn't my field, Mrs. Quinn,” she explained. “I have a dreadful feeling that your daughter has been brutalized in some way by the RUC. If it were anything else you wouldn't have called me. I don't have the sense of detachment necessary to see your daughter's injuries and then to hear what happened to her. Most likely I won't remember a thing. It would be in your best interests, and in hers, to do as I ask.”

The two women stared at each other in silence for several minutes. Then Maired began. “Emily was out walkin' her brother when she saw Sean Dempsey run past. Why the lad didn't call out a warnin' is a mystery, but he didn't. My Emily was about to turn the corner toward the green when the Shankill lads were on top of her. They threw the pram aside.”

Kate pressed her hand against her mouth. “Was the baby hurt?”

“A miracle saved him, Mrs. Nolan. He wasn't even scratched. The pram landed on its side but the baby was strapped in.”

Kate nodded.

“My Emily wasn't so lucky.” She pressed the handkerchief against her nose. “They were on her before she knew what happened. Maybe they didn't know she was a wee girl until they were finished with her.”

Kate swallowed. “What did they do?”

The woman's voice cracked. “They beat her and left her for dead. Even her own father wouldn't have recognized her.”

“I don't understand. Protestants have never followed anyone into the Falls.”

“They were drunk, Mrs. Nolan. There was a street fair that day, for Protestants only. Two of our boys waited until it was over and then tried to use the field. When they did, the Shankill mob came after them.”

“Did you go to the police?”

Maired's laugh was ragged and filled with the bitter rage of hopelessness. “We did. Sean Dempsey recognized several of them. But it did no good. They cover up for each other. My child is bleedin' and broken and no one is punished. They won't even investigate for lack of evidence.” She pointed toward the back of the house. “If that child lyin' in the other room isn't evidence, then nothin' ever will be.”

Kate stared down at her hands. They were shaking. “How old is your daughter?”

“My Emily is eleven years old. Can you help me?”

“Yes,” said Kate. “I can order an investigation and refer you to a lawyer. It may take time, but I promise you, something will be done.”

“We can't pay.”

“There will be no fee.”

Maired Quinn sighed and leaned back in her chair. Her face caved in and the tears began to flow, accompanied by loud uncontrollable sobs. “My husband said, no, you wouldn't be bothered, but I knew it would be all right once you knew.”

Kate's professional facade cracked. Maired was a mother, a mother just like herself but with little education, few expectations and even fewer resources. She walked around the coffee table, knelt down and drew the woman into her arms. She felt her stiffen. Kate was prepared for resistance. The Irish were not a demonstrative race. Outside of a handshake, displays of affection embarrassed them. She persisted. After several minutes, she felt Maired's body relax and her weeping subside.

Gently she sat back on her heels. “I'd like to have a look at Emily now, if I may.”

Maired scrubbed the last of the tears from her face and stood. “Follow me. I'll introduce you. Don't expect her to say much. Her jaw is wired shut and it's an effort for her to speak.”

Only Kate's innate poise acquired from years of marriage to a public figure saved her. The sight of the little girl, thin to the point of emaciation, bruises fading to a sickly yellow-brown, plaster casts covering most of her head, both arms and one leg, unnerved her.

“There's someone here to see you, Emily,” said her mother.

“Hello, love,” Kate said softly, covering the child's two exposed fingers with her hand. “My name is Kate Nolan. I came to help your mother.” She watched the little girl arrange her wired mouth to form the words. “Don't try to talk,” she warned. “I only came to say hello.”

The child settled back and tossed restlessly on her pillow.

Kate sat on the low stool beside the bed. In low soothing tones she spoke of small things, the end of Lent, the coming of long summer days, the baby who had miraculously survived.

Emily's eyes were clear blue slits behind the white plaster of the head cast. Kate watched them light with memory. She hoped there was a smile beneath the plaster. Finally the child's eyes fluttered and closed.

“She'll sleep now,” said Maired.

Carefully, so as not to wake the little girl, the two women left the room. Maired closed the door behind her.

“Thank you for taking so much time with us, Mrs. Nolan,” she said.

Kate smiled warmly. “I would love to come back and see Emily when she's well again.”

“Please, do that. If you care to have a look at the green, I'll show it to you.”

“Don't trouble yourself. I'll drive by on my way out.”

“Have a care. Those hooligans won't know you from anyone else.”

Kate parked her car on the south edge of the pathetic patch of weeds and dying grass that passed for a park in the Falls. She walked across and back twice, trying to imagine the conditions that would produce a mentality who thought nothing of nearly beating to death a little girl for no reason other than that she was Catholic. Who were these people, no more than children themselves, and who were their parents who'd fed their rage from infancy? Perhaps it wasn't fair to blame their parents. After all, she was Kevin's mother. How much had she known of her son's activities?

She climbed back into the car, looked at her watch and turned the wheel in the direction of the Ormeau Road Barracks. There was no reason to go home. Deirdre was at Queen's and Kevin was at Tranquility House with no access to visitors. She would stay in the city for the night and drive home in the morning.

It was late afternoon, but Kate didn't think Neil Anderson was the kind of man who clocked in. She needed answers and he hadn't returned her call. She picked up her mobile phone and punched in the number of the RUC Barracks.

“Neil Anderson, please.”

“He is away just now. May I give him your message?”

“This is Kate Nolan. Tell him to reach me at the Stranmillis Guest House. I'll be here in Belfast.” She gave him the number.

“I'll tell him, Mrs. Nolan.”

Another turn in the opposite direction took her down the Malone Road with its lovely brick homes and well-tended gardens, into University Road. Just past Queen's, she made a sharp U-turn up the shopping area of the Stranmillis Road where pedestrians hurried to make last-minute purchases before heading home for the evening. Stranmillis was an upscale middle class neighborhood, lined with trendy boutiques, butcher and vegetable shops, restaurants and a wine store. Kate had chosen a small bed-and-breakfast just behind Stranmillis facing the Botanic Garden. The serenity of the neighborhood appealed to her. Here she could forget the evening news, Orange marches and children in body casts.

She picked up her message from the silver tray in the hallway and read the name on the note. Neil Anderson. She climbed the stairs to the second floor, found her room, kicked off her shoes, picked up the phone and dialed his number. He answered on the first ring, just his name, no title. For some reason it pleased her to know that he required nothing more than that.