The Bogside Boys Read online

  The Vauxhall Viva pulled out onto the Ballykelly Road, back toward Derry. Darkness was absolute now and the hedges on each side of the road were horrific black green as if painted with shadows. The fields beyond stretched out into a terrifying unknown. Still the car ahead drove on. They stayed behind the Viva. Pat couldn’t believe that the soldiers in the car hadn’t noticed them. But then, they were drunk. This was going to be all too easy. They drove on past a farmhouse, all lights extinguished inside, and then another. The lights of the stars above were covered, the moon visible only in patches as the clouds shifted. Another car passed on the other side of the road - the first they’d seen. Mick watched through the back window as it disappeared, its lights fading into the night. The hedge broke and they came upon a long stretch of fields to the side of the road. No houses. Nothing else other than the night. The brake lights in front shone red as the car pulled over. McClean turned the headlights off and slowed to the side of the road about a hundred yards behind. The engine cut, they could hear the drunken laughter as they stumbled out of the car, could hear each individual voice. McClean got out, making almost no noise as he opened the trunk. Maggie was shouting that she had to pee, and tramped off across the field into the void of darkness. She left behind the clink of whisky bottles and the roars of drunken laughter. McClean tapped on the back window, motioning to the boys to get out. He reached into the bag and handed each of them a Webley revolver, no word spoken. Mick felt the weight, passed it from left hand to right. A British soldier had likely used it in World War II. He looked to his brother but Pat didn’t seem to want to make eye contact. McClean tucked the gun into his pants and strode toward the noise ahead, Pat followed. Mick hesitated, thought of his mother, his father, Melissa, before jogging after the disappearing figures of the other two men. This was his duty.

  They were up on them in seconds. McClean pulled his pistol first. “How are we all doing tonight?” Maggie, who had just arrived back from being out in the field motioned to the other girls to stand back and the three women stood back in line, watching.

  “What’s this?” Clive said, the whites of his eyes clearly visible through the black of the night.

  Norman was sitting on the ground, drinking out of a bottle, his brother Robert beside him. Norman barely seemed to register what was happening. “Who are these fellas?” he asked.

  “Be quiet, Norman,” his brother said, the fear evident in his voice.

  Pat drew his weapon and pointed it at Clive, and Mick took his out too. His hand was firm as he aimed it. Much more so than he’d expected it to be.

  “All right, let’s do this quickly, humanely. We’re not torturers,” McClean said.

  “Let’s just talk this through for a minute before we do anything rash,” Clive said, his voice infected with panic.

  McClean walked the ten feet over to where the two brothers were sitting. Norman looked up and without any hesitation McClean shot him in the face. Robert screamed, cradling the bloody mess where his brother’s head had been. Hair, skin, red gushing blood poured out over his hands as he began to wail.

  “You bastard,” he sobbed. “You killed my brother.”

  McClean motioned to Pat. “Do it quick,” he said. Pat looked back at him, didn’t move. “Come on. It needs to be done. You need to do it. Do it quick, humane.”

  “Just stop this now, there’s no need for more killing,” Clive spluttered.

  Pat looked at his brother. Mick shook his head, the breath thundering out of his lungs. Pat stepped forward and held up the pistol, aiming it at Robert who didn’t even look up as he held his brother’s bloody, broken face to his shoulder. Mick wanted to speak, the words like barbs inside him, but they wouldn’t come. Robert’s whole body convulsed with tears. Pat stared at him, the seconds drawing out like years. The barrel of the pistol was only two feet from Robert’s head. Pat let it drop, turned to McClean.

  “We got one of them. Can’t we…”

  “Do it now,” McClean ordered. “Making them wait like this is just cruelty, nothing more.” Maggie and the others watched in silence. Mick took a step toward Pat, reaching out without words.

  Pat raised the pistol again, aiming it at Robert’s head. Robert raised his face and Pat fired, jerking his hand away at the very last fraction of a second. The pistol thundered, and everyone stopped, shock flooding Robert’s eyes. It took Pat a second to realize he hadn’t missed. The bullet had grazed Robert’s neck, hitting the artery, and thick crimson-black blood began spurting out. Robert screamed in pain and brought his hand up in some vain attempt to stem his life’s blood as it flowed out through his fingers onto his clothes, his brother and into the soil below. He fell backward, kicking his legs as if to some demented rhythm. He gurgled a few times and then went still.

  Clive was white. He looked at McClean, who now motioned to Mick.

  “Good and quick, now,” McClean repeated.

  Clive turned as Mick hesitated, running into the black of the field.

  “Jesus Christ. Get him!” McClean ordered. “No wild shooting.”

  Mick turned and ran after him. Clive was about fifteen feet in front. Mick could just make out the color of his shirt through the inky black that had almost enveloped him. Mick slowed, and Clive got further out in front. He began to fade into the night as Pat came steaming up. Clive went down into the dirt as Pat tackled him. Mick ran to catch up, pointing the revolver at Clive’s head as he tried to hit out at Pat.

  “Bring him back here,” McClean roared.

  Mick reached down and grabbed Clive off of his brother and shoved the point of his pistol in his lower back, marching him back toward the car. Clive didn’t make a sound. Maggie and the other girls were in the car as they arrived back, the engine running.

  “Are we taking him back?” Mick asked.

  McClean ignored the question. “Do it. Do it now.”

  Clive glared at Mick, his would-be killer, the hatred complete in his eyes. Mick turned to Pat, who didn’t move, his pistol by his side. Mick raised the weapon to Clive’s head but dropped it back down immediately.

  “We don’t have to do this. Can’t we ransom him off? The British Army would pay a…”

  The loud report of the Webley shook the air as Pat shot Clive in the head. The body crumpled onto the field in a clumsy heap. The shot echoed and faded out. No one moved for several seconds, Mick staring at the grotesque pile of corpses they’d created. McClean said something, gave an order and the girls drove off, leaving only darkness behind. No one spoke as the three men walked back to the car. They replaced the pistols in the trunk and drove off, leaving the freshly killed bodies of the soldiers where they lay in the dirt.

  Chapter 13

  Sleep came, but only with the passing of the dawn, and Mick felt like he had sand in his eyes as he woke just before noon. The house was still, the only sound a faint wind outside. The image of first McClean, and then Pat, shooting down the British soldiers was like a gash in his consciousness. The blood from the soldier’s neck and the look of shock in the last soldier’s dark eyes seemed imprinted on him now. He could barely see anything else.The darkness of that field the previous night had seemingly taken over his entire body, poisoning his soul within him. He felt changed, used, ill. He turned over to reach for the pack of cigarettes on the bedside table. The box was empty. He almost cried, crushing it in his fist and flinging it across the room. A lonely ember of the love he had for Melissa still glowed inside him, but the time for that seemed past. He lay there frozen for half an hour, replaying the events of the night, over and over, over and over. McClean had been happy, if not quite delighted, on the way home. He’d said that Mick wasn’t a ‘trigger man’, but that was OK, that there were plenty of other ways to serve the cause. Pat had only glared, angry and distressed in equal measure when McClean had praised him. McClean dropped them off with an assertion that they should have been proud of themselves. Neither brother looked at the other as they went into the house and there wasn’t a word exchanged a
s they each went to their separate rooms.

  Pat heard the cigarette pack hit the wall in his brother’s room. He hadn’t slept at all, just wallowed in a pool of exhaustion all night. His blood-spattered shirt was in the corner where he’d flung it the night before. He knew he had to get rid of it and that his freedom depended on it, but he couldn’t bring himself to look at it. The previous ten hours had been a hellish debate between the rational part of him, in utter disgust at his actions and the part of him loyal to the cause. Killing was a part of the war. This was a dirty war, not like the one his father had fought in. Without the IRA, there was no one to stand in the way of the British and their blood lust. More innocent people would die, and more families would be destroyed. The soldiers were unlucky, but must have known the risks. They knew that being in Northern Ireland was dangerous. No one had forced them to fight for the imperialists in Westminster. He and his fellow volunteers didn’t want to kill. They had been forced. He told himself this over and over, and after a few hours he even began to believe it.

  He heard a knock on the door.

  “Come in.”

  Mick looked ill, the blood completely drained from his face. Huge black bags hung like bruises under his bloodshot eyes. He shuffled into the room and sat on the edge of the bed as Pat sat up.

  “You gonna open up the shop today?” Pat asked.

  “I hadn’t even thought about that.” Silence filled the vacuum between them for thirty seconds or more. “I suppose what happened last night will be in the newspapers tomorrow.”

  “Aye, I reckon it will.”

  Silence again, for another minute. Pat got out of bed and peeked through the curtains at the gray outside. He stayed standing by the window, Mick still on the bed.

  “I can’t get the picture of those soldiers out of my head,” Mick said, his eyes on the floor.

  “It’s a war, Mick. We didn’t start it. We didn’t even want it, but we’re in it now. Those soldiers who died last night are casualties of war. We’re no more responsible for their deaths than Dad was for the Germans he killed in World War II. The real responsibility is with the politicians and generals who sent them here and the corrupt government in Stormont, only serving the Protestants.”

  “You believe that?”

  Pat walked to the closet across the room and opened the door. He picked out a pair of jeans and began to pull them on. “Of course I do. Do you believe I would have done that last night if this weren't war?”

  “Of course not. But…”

  “But nothing, Mick. We struck a blow for the people of this community last night.”

  Mick thought of Melissa, thought of Paris, thought of the life they should have had there, the life that they deserved, that he’d passed up for this empty horror. “I want to thank you.”

  “For what?”

  “For shooting that last soldier. I don’t know if I could have….”

  “I don’t want to talk about that. Talking about what happened is useless and dangerous. You heard McClean last night – he’s proud of us.”

  “And that’s the most important thing is it? That’s meant to surpass the guilt I feel, the shame?”

  Pat threw his arms in the air. “I knew you weren’t right for the mission last night. I knew you didn’t have the stomach for it.”

  “Maybe you were right.”

  “I was right, and I’m glad I was right. Not everybody has to go on operations like we did last night. You heard McClean; there are lots of different ways to support our people and our cause. A smart guy like you could make a great intelligence man, a fundraiser, or a safe house operator.”

  “And what does that make you? You’re a killer now?”

  “I…. I just did what needed to be done.”

  Mick tried to reach for words that faded away as he opened his mouth to say them.

  “I did what I was asked and I’ll continue to do that.” Pat continued.

  “Do you think that was what the Paras said after they killed our dad and those twelve others in January?”

  “Don’t you dare compare me to them. I’m nothing like them. What we did last night was an act of defense. It was a defense of our people and our rights. What they did that day was murder.”

  “But the newspapers tomorrow will say that those boys last night were murdered and that our dad was a terrorist, shot down in the name of the government and the law.”

  “Exactly.”

  “I know that, so why do I feel like this? Why do I feel as bad as the day he died? I thought doing something like this would make me feel better, but I feel like I’m at the bottom of a deep black hole.”

  Pat walked over to the bed and sat down beside his brother. “I feel terrible too, but it will get better. This life we’ve been forced into will become easier, and we will win our freedom.”

  “What have they done to you, Pat? This isn’t you,” Mick said. Pat stood back, felt the jabbing pain in his heart as Mick continued. “We can’t do this anymore, not after last night. We’ve seen it now, and we did our part, but we can’t do this anymore. There’s no happy ending to this story from here, only death and misery, horror and jail. It’s the only way it can go.”

  “You knew what we were getting into.”

  “I thought I did, yes. But I was wrong. I was fooled into believing the republican bullshit just like you were. You know as well as I do that this isn’t a war between the nationalists and the British government. This isn’t a war against the imperialists. It’s a war against the Protestants. There’s no way we can win.”

  “There is an element of that old hatred driving some of the older members, I admit that, but that’s not our motivation, that’s not why we joined.”

  “We were fooled into believing that we were embarking on some heroic adventure, that we’d be greeted as conquering heroes. We’re nothing more than common criminals, stealing and killing for our own ends.”

  “That’s not it at all. How do you expect these people not to hate the loyalists when they’ve trodden on us for so long?”

  Mick looked at his brother, taking in his words before speaking again. “Hatred isn’t the answer. Our father never hated anyone.”

  “Leave him out of this.”

  “Why should I? He was the whole reason we joined in the first place.”

  “No, you're wrong. The reason we joined is because the Paras, who were working on behalf of the loyalist government in Stormont and the parliament in Westminster, murdered him, in front of us. We can’t rely on them for justice anymore.”

  “There’s got to be other ways. There’s got to be a better way than murdering three unarmed young boys in a field by the side of the road.”

  “I wish there were, truly I do, but what? The civil rights movement in Northern Ireland is dead, killed by the Paras on Bloody Sunday.”

  “I know what happened that day. I saw everything you did. I saw them shoot down unarmed, innocent people, but if we do the same, we’re no better than they are.”

  “You thought all this and still went on the operation last night? No one forced you to go.”

  “You’re right. I went out of duty, and it took last night to show me what all of this is and I can’t live with it. I can’t live with the guilt of killing those boys.”

  “You didn’t kill them.”

  “I didn’t pull the trigger, maybe. But I killed them all right.”

  The words stopped Pat, forcing him to rethink what he was to say.

  “So what are you going to do?”

  “I don’t know yet. I have no idea.” Melissa was gone. He knew that, especially after what had happened last night. She wouldn’t have any evidence that it was them, but she wasn’t stupid. She knew. “Don’t worry. I’m not going to turn anybody in. I’d rather kill myself than do that.”

  “Mick, please.”

  “I’m not about to do that either. If I died today, I’d go straight to hell, no doubt. I need some time to think, but I’m out.”

  ‘Tha
t’s fine. You don’t have to stay in. You’ve done plenty. Dad would have been…”

  “Don’t you dare mention his name now. Don’t you dare sully his name by connecting him to this.”

  Mick got off the bed and walked out of the room.

  He went to the shop that afternoon, opened it to get his mind off the horrors overwhelming him. The customers began to drift in as the evening progressed, and the whispers they brought with them were of the killings the night before. The story had been on the one o’clock news and had already been condemned by the British Home Secretary in the House of Commons, who said that the killings were deliberately carried out to encourage reprisals. A mighty surge of backlash was coming. Details of the soldiers’ backgrounds were released. Mick couldn’t watch the interviews with their families. The customers in the shop had different opinions. They greeted the news of the killings with grim satisfaction. It was a blow, a brutal, but significant blow toward winning their freedom against their Protestant oppressors in Stormont and Westminster. No one mentioned the soldiers themselves as if they didn’t see them as truly human. Mick kept quiet, nodding his head as the men spouted off their opinions about what he knew had happened. He felt ill. There was no escape.

  The funerals were in England three days later. Melissa sat at home watching the mourners carrying the coffins of the boys she’d met that night. Rallies were organized in Derry and Belfast, where The Reverend Ian Paisley led up to ten thousand people to the Cenotaph, many of them openly weeping. Dozens of wreaths were laid at City Hall in Derry, where a two-minute silence was observed. The mourners sang hymns before finally finishing with a rendition of “God Save the Queen.” In Belfast, Ian Paisley demanded the resignation of the government in Stormont. The leader of the Unionist Party, and Prime Minster of Northern Ireland, Brian Faulkner, called for more troops to be stationed in the province, and condemned the killers as evil. Melissa was sick. It was hard to believe that Mick could have been involved in this. Could he have done this? She knew him, had seen his heart. Evil of this magnitude seemed beyond him. She didn’t have any evidence. It was all circumstantial. But that would be enough. The unionist people of Northern Ireland were crying out for someone to pay. One word from her would undoubtedly be enough to have Mick interned, or worse. She needed to see him, to look him in the eye. He’d never lied to her.