The Bogside Boys Page 16

  “Not according to Pat. He says he’s going to get me out of here if it kills him.”

  “How is Pat?”

  “Better than ever. He left the IRA and joined a new political party, the Social Democratic and Labour Party. I’m sure you’ve heard of them.”

  “The SDLP? Of course. I voted for them last year.”

  “Does your dad know you voted for a Nationalist party like the SDLP?” Mick smiled, leaning forward.

  “No, he’d go through me. After everything I saw and what happened to you, their message of non-violence and civil rights for all resonated with me.”

  “I like what I hear from them, but they’ve got their work cut out.”

  “I suppose they do.”

  “How is your family? They didn’t disown you, did they?”

  “No, they didn’t get the chance. They never found out a thing.”

  “They don’t know about any of it?”

  “Not a thing.” She grinned.

  “Ignorance really is bliss then.”

  Mick so enjoyed the sight of her sitting in front of him that he was slow to ask the question that lingered on his tongue.

  “Melissa, I have to ask, what are you doing here? I haven’t seen you since that night in my parents’ house. The last conversation we had was about running together, about changing our lives. We….”

  She cut him off. “I remember what we said and what we planned together.”

  Neither of them spoke for a few seconds while her eyes wandered around the dingy interior of the massive metal hut. His were fixed on her.

  “I had some questions for you, questions that have been burning through my mind ever since you turned yourself in.”

  “I’m sorry I left without saying goodbye. I couldn’t do that to you. I couldn’t make you give up your whole life for some half-baked existence with me.”

  “Thank you for that. I’ve wanted to say that to you all this time.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  “So many things remind me of you. The river, the stupid bloody river reminds me of you now. Whenever I pass it, I think about you, stuck in here and how it might have been.”

  “If we’d run together?”

  “I know it’s crazy. And I know you did the right thing. I was just so confused.”

  “I was too, for a long time, but I found the clarity I needed. That clarity led me here to this wonderful place.” He held his arms out. “It’s pretty awful here, but I don’t regret my decision. Somehow I’ve found myself again, the real me, the person that I’d thought had died with my father. I’ve been able to resurrect myself.”

  “Do you think you’ll ever get out?”

  “Maybe one day when I’m old and gray, with a fake hip and none of my own teeth left.” He clasped his hands in front of him, leaning forward to her. “According to Pat, I’m going to get out in 1982,” he smiled. “He’s obsessed. He’s got all these plans to petition the Irish government, groups in the States, even the Queen herself. He’s like a dog with a bone.”

  “You always did say how determined he was.”

  “He needed a cause. Now I’m his cause. Me and everyone in this world he’s now determined to change.”

  “I’m glad.” She looked down at the table between them, and Mick watched as a tear broke out and rolled down her face. It was hard to see her cry, but it lifted him, to see that she still cared enough to cry.

  “I’m trying to make a difference in here. I can speak to the short-timers, the internees, to convince them to turn away from the violence that landed me in here. They listen to me.” He reached across, took her hands in his. The feeling of her flesh against his was wonder beyond description. “Seeing you is amazing, so wonderful. I can’t believe there’s anything so beautiful as you in this whole messed-up world, but you need to leave here. You need to put me out of your mind and move on.”

  He contemplated getting up, telling her never to come back but didn’t move. Telling her the truth - that she was with him every day - would have hurt them both.

  “I need to know that you’re not thinking about waiting for me,” he continued. “I need to know that you’re going to forget about me, that you’re going to get on with your life.”

  “I am,” she nodded. “I came here today to close this chapter in my life. I have to put what we had behind me. It’s ridiculous. We were only together for a few months. We were nineteen and twenty, just kids. I shouldn’t still be thinking about you. I shouldn’t still have you in my heart.”

  Mick didn’t answer, kept his feelings hidden. She needed this, and it needed to be her decision.

  “You left your mark on me. I feel like I’ll never love like that again, and that a part of me is locked up in here with you, that I’m paying for your crimes as you are. I need to feel whole again. That’s why I came here today – to say goodbye. You can’t move on unless you say goodbye.”

  A tear trickled down his face, but he didn’t move, didn’t speak.

  “So I wanted to thank you for not waking me that morning in your house, for taking responsibility for those crimes that you aren’t responsible for. I hope that you can forgive yourself for what happened that night and admit to yourself that it’s not your fault that they died.”

  “I played my part.”

  “But it wasn’t your idea. You wanted to stop it, but you couldn’t. You thought you were honoring your father’s memory, serving your community. You did play a part in that horrible crime. You did, but it’s not your fault, and you’re atoning for that now, in what you did for your brother and what you did for me.”

  “Pat had nothing….”

  “Don’t, Mick. Don’t even start that. That’s not why I’m here.” Her tears were gone, her voice stronger. She was more forthright than he’d ever seen her, and she had always been strong. “I needed to see you for both of our sakes. We both need to put that appalling chapter in our lives behind us and embrace what future we might have left.” She didn’t smoke, never had, but wished she could now. “The times we had together were the happiest of my life. But that’s over now. It’s time for us to focus on the rest of our lives. You will get out of here someday.”

  He wanted her to say that she’d wait for him, that they’d be together again no matter what, that their age wouldn’t matter. He wanted her to say that with every inch of his being, but never would have let her.

  “Maybe, but you’ll be married then, with a load of kids, or maybe even grandkids.” He closed his eyes for a brief second, thinking about the void of his future. “Thank you for coming here and seeing me. You’re the most wonderful person I’ve ever known. I only regret what being with me put you through.”

  She reached across and took his hand again. “Mick, I’m fine, really I am. You’ve nothing to regret. Being with you opened my eyes. I can see the situation in Northern Ireland for what it is now, and I know the way forward.”

  “At least someone does then.”

  “I know you think you caused me trouble and pain, but anything you indirectly led me into you got me out of. My life’s as normal now as anyone I know. That’s all behind me, thanks to you.”

  He sat back in her chair, letting her words wash over him.

  She stood up. “I should leave.”

  He stood up too, the table between them. He tried to say something, but the words died in his throat.

  “So, this is it,” she said, managing to smile.

  “I suppose so,” he whispered.

  She went around the table, and he took her in his arms. The smell of her and the press of her body against his was more wonderful than anything had felt in what seemed like a lifetime, and he held her there, wishing that the moment would never end. She drew away after a few seconds.

  “Goodbye, Michael Doherty. You’re a good person, loyal, honest and sweet. Don’t let this place or wherever they put you change that. Stay just as you were. Thank you for what you did for all of us.”

  “Goodbye, Melissa. Live
out the best life you can. You deserve that. Knowing that you’re happy will get me through this.”

  “I am happy and I will be. You’ve given me so much.” She thought to kiss him one last time, to feel his lips on her, but knew that would be too much, for both of them. “Goodbye,” she said and motioned to the guard. Mick watched her as she left, the guard by her side until they both disappeared.

  Chapter 17

  The Maze Prison, County Down, February 6th, 1988

  The suit was loose, and he felt a blister coming on his left foot already. The best part of sixteen years was nothing now, gone as if it had never existed. There were no memories to take; only the void where they should have been. A blank space left of time lost. The guards were smiling now, shaking his hand as they held the gate open for him. He was the last prisoner with Special Category Status to be released, the last of the old guard, and a 36-year-old relic of a time before political status for paramilitary prisoners had been revoked in 1976, before the blanket protests and the hunger strikes. The last of the first generation. He took one last look at the guards, and stepped through the gate. Pat was right there, one foot against the wall.

  “How’s the suit fitting ye?” The smirk on his face was wide as an ocean.

  “It’s a bit tight, and could you have sent me something a little smarter?”

  “I would have, but I was saving it for a special occasion.”

  Pat got off the wall and threw his arms around his brother. They held the embrace, laughing and slapping each other on the back. The shining light of joy within him superseded the mourning over the time lost.

  “Now, let’s get the hell out of here,” Pat said, as he led Mick over to his car.

  It was the first time Mick had been in a private car since the night the soldiers had died in that field by the side of the road.

  Pat was elated as he sat in the driver’s seat, his brother beside him. He reached across to hug Mick again. Pat had visited him at least once a month, often more than that, but it was never like this. The feeling of seeing his brother, the other half of him, without guards watching, was almost too wonderful to take. He was overflowing, the tears beginning to well in his eyes. Pat pulled back, a smile etched onto his face.

  “You’re not going to start crying now, are ye?” Mick asked.

  “You’re only out two minutes and you’re already annoying me?”

  They pulled away and the prison faded into the distance. In seconds it had disappeared, sixteen years gone. Mick turned to his brother.

  “You never stopped. You never stopped trying for me. You always were a pain in the arse, but I never thought anything good would come of it.”

  Their laughter filled the car.

  “You always said you’d get me out, didn’t you?” Mick continued.

  “Aye,” Pat beamed. “You know me, little brother, I’m like a dog with a bone. I never gave up on you, not for one day.”

  “Well, you said you’d have me out by 1982. I might be mistaken, but I believe that was six years ago. I could be wrong - prison time goes slowly. Maybe it really is 1982, and it feels like 1988.”

  “Ah, would you be quiet or I’ll have you thrown back in there for good this time. Jesus, I’m wondering if the parole board made a mistake now. It just goes to show that if you ask someone enough times, they’ll eventually say yes, just to shut you up if nothing else. And if you can get the right people to ask. The fact that you were the last official political prisoner left helped too. Your Special Category Status was awkward for them, what with all the other prisoners wanting it too.”

  The bitter memory of the hunger strikes stabbed at him; the ten dead men, all willing to give their lives for the political status he had. They died for something he gladly would have given them if he could. The courage they had in their own convictions had been startling and, just as Bloody Sunday before, their deaths had given the IRA more impetus at a time when public and political support had been waning.

  “The fact that you were a model prisoner studying for your degree and all that, helped too,” Pat said. “But who really cares? You’re out, and that’s all that matters. You wanna go for a pint? It’s almost two hours back to Derry.”

  “Nah, there’ll be plenty of time for that. I just want to get back and see everybody. How’s the family?”

  ‘They’re great. They’re looking forward to getting Uncle Mick home.”

  The lush green color of hedgerows and fields shot past them on either side. It had been so long since he’d seen anything like this, since he’d felt this sensation of movement. It was exhilarating, stupefying. It was amazing to know he could still feel like this. It was like emerging from a coma. They drove through the streets of Lisburn, a window into a new world. Clothes, hair, the people themselves, all looked so different. He felt like a relic from a bygone age, stuck in a time that no longer existed. Even the cars had changed. They were bigger and had multiplied. Pat asked him again if he wanted to stop, but he refused and they drove on. He didn’t feel like dipping his toe into the ocean of the new society he saw out there, not yet at least.

  Pat looked fit and handsome in his gray suit. Mick was thin and sallow, the cumulative effect of years inside.

  “How’s business?” Mick asked.

  “Great. We hired another guy last week, which makes seven full-time now. There’s plenty of work. It’s not like the old days. You don’t need to be Protestant to get work anymore. I have a shiny new job ready and waiting for you whenever you feel like taking it. Have you given much thought to what you’re going to do?”

  Mick paused and adjusted the seatbelt before he answered. The truth of what he’d planned lay heavy on him. He wished he could tell Pat. “Yeah, thanks for the offer. I may well take you up on that. I might keep up with the college stuff and get that Masters I always wanted.”

  “Are you gonna be one of those creepy older students, hanging out in the college bar, perving on the young girls?”

  “I hope so.”

  “I wouldn’t hold that against you, you've got a lot of lost time to make up for.”

  “Yes, I do. How’s your work with the party?”

  “We’re in talks with our old comrades in the IRA at the moment. John Hume met Gerry Adams last week.”

  ‘That’s progress. It would have been hard to imagine the leader of the SDLP meeting up with the head of Sinn Fein back in the 70’s.”

  “We’re trying to change things. It’s tough though. The talks are torturous, and they haven’t even mentioned the unionists yet. It’s just a case of trying to convince them how futile all this violence is. The boys in the IRA aren’t too keen on giving up the rifle in favor of the ballot box, but we’re trying to persuade them, and we’ll keep trying until they do.”

  “I campaigned for your lot in the last election, even though none of the people I spoke to about you were able to vote. They were all in jail.”

  “Unfortunately it’s only actual, real votes that count, but thanks for the thought. Thankfully we didn’t need your help in the end.”

  “No, you didn’t.” Memories filled his mind and he was back in the 70’s again. It was easier to wallow in the only time he really knew. “It seems like a million years ago that we went through IRA training ourselves. I wish I could go back and tell my younger self…”

  “I know. We were so young. I’ve tried to forgive myself for what we did. We thought we were doing the right thing, defending our community from the Imperial British Army.” Pat’s face tightened.

  “You’ve made up for it since, Pat. I’m proud of you. Mum is proud of you, and if Dad could see us now, he’d be proud too. I’m sure of it. It’s people like you that have given this province some kind of hope for the future.”

  “Thanks. It’s just so much. Everyone seems like they’d rather kill each other -the republicans, the loyalists, the RUC, the UDR, the British Army. It seems like no one wants to be right.”

  “Keep fighting the good fight for us. We need you.�
��

  “Have you ever thought about getting involved yourself? We could use a smart guy like you?”

  “A convicted IRA killer? Are you joking?”

  “Just think about it.”

  “I haven’t decided what I’m going to do yet. I’m just trying to get used to all these new cars and haircuts. I’m not sure I can live in a world without Led Zeppelin. You’ve had eight years to get used to that.”

  Pat smiled and paused a few seconds. “You heard about Paul McGowan?”

  Mick cast his mind back, remembering his friend who’d been there with him on Bloody Sunday, who’d joined the IRA a few weeks before he had. “No, I haven’t heard his name in five years. I know he did some time on a weapons charge down south. Is he out?”

  “He joined the INLA a few years back.”

  “Why would he leave the IRA to join a splinter organization?”

  “Who knows? Power maybe? To be a big fish in a small pond? Someone said it was out of sympathy with the INLA members from Derry who died in the hunger strikes, but I really don’t know.”

  “So where is he now?”

  “Dead. He was killed last year in a feud with the IPLO.”

  ‘The IPLO? Who the hell are they?”

  “The Irish People’s Liberation Organization – a splinter organization of the splinter organization. Rumor has it that they’re more into drugs than anything else. They had a few cross words with their former masters in the INLA and started a feud. Paul got caught up in it. He walked out to his car one morning, and a motorbike rolled up. You know the rest.”

  “Poor Paul. He was a lost soul after the march. What about John Gilmore?”

  “I don’t know. He went to jail after he was caught with a weapons stash. He did a few years and got out. The last I heard of him was he was living in Australia.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me about Paul when I was inside?”

  “I didn’t want to depress you. I can only imagine how hard it was for you in there.”

  “It’s all such a waste,” Mick breathed. “The IPLO? Who the hell are the IPLO?”