The Bogside Boys Page 4

  Chapter 4

  A hush descended, a blanket of mourning covering the Bogside. The next morning offered no escape. Gray faces came to the Doherty’s house melding into one. They all came, young boys with the sleeves loose in their father’s suits, old men with spit-shined shoes and jackets older than Peter had been when he died. Little girls wore their Sunday-best dresses, adorned with black ribbons. The ladies who’d seen times like this before wore black mourning dresses, although there’d never been any time quite like this. All tried to say something to douse the inferno of pain. But what was there to say? Mick longed to be away from the crying and handshakes, the well-meaning neighbors and friends, the vain attempts at some form of consolation and the cold talk of revenge. Pat was stoic, acting now as the man of the house, the man Mick wished he could have been, strong and resolute. Pat wore his father’s suit and tie. They fit perfectly. Mick had his own suit but wished he didn’t. He wished he could have worn his father’s suit. He wished he could have felt the touch of his father against him one last time.

  Mick saw Phillip at the bottom of the narrow staircase as he came down. Phillip made an attempt to smile at him but couldn’t. He couldn’t fake it. Neither spoke as Mick gestured for him to come out the front door. The two young men walked out into the cold gray outside. “Did John get out?” Mick began.

  “Aye, last night.”

  “We should head over to Jimmy’s house.”

  “What about Pat?” Philip’s words came as a whisper. “He’d want to come along wouldn’t he?”

  “He’s got too much to do here.” Mick closed his eyes and shook his head. “Let’s get out of here.”

  Some of the terraced houses had limp Irish flags hanging out the windows, even though flying the Irish tricolor was an illegal act in Northern Ireland. Others had pretty flowers in window boxes, splashing color out of the gray. Every house was familiar, a story, or a moment in time fixed to each one, some reference point to their community and their youth. They walked in the middle of the road, as there were few cars. Cars were a luxury few could afford.

  “Paul’s already gone and joined up.” Phillip said.

  The answer took a few seconds to come. “How d’you know?”

  “I saw him this morning. He did it last night. He said there was a line of local lads queued all the way around the corner. Tommy Malone, Peter Sutherland, James O’Leary, Kevin McCourt. They all joined.”

  Mick didn’t answer for a few seconds. The shock he had felt was giving way to the barbs of anger spreading inside him. “I can understand that.”

  Jimmy’s house was a three-bed in a terraced row, unremarkable even though a family of seven lived there. A smaller crowd was filing through the front door to stand around inside, not knowing what to say. Only a few dozen. The two boys hugged Jimmy’s mother, reserving handshakes for his father and four brothers. They sat in the tiny back garden, drinking warm bottles of beer, in the middle of a swarm of mourners. Melissa drifted through his mind. Why couldn’t she come to offer her condolences? Who made these rules? Why couldn’t he see the person he craved most? They stayed another hour before going to Noel’s house to see the parents of another dead son.

  Night came, and Mick was home, had been for hours. Pat stayed with their mother, held her as they sat on the couch together, but Mick was in his room, smoking, staring out into the darkness that had descended outside. Sleeping was out of the question. An impossibility. It was after midnight, and he needed to see her. He pulled his jeans on, his undershirt, a warm sweater and then his shoes. The door made no sound as he closed it behind him. Outside, the wounded Bogside was sleeping, only the ghosts and the drunks haunting the empty streets. Mick turned back to face the house and stood there for a few seconds. His mind filled with memories before the hurt inside drowned them out, and he lit a cigarette to distract himself as much as anything else.

  The narrow street they lived on was entirely empty. There were no cars parked, as hardly anyone owned a car. There was no life, barely any lights on in any of the houses. Mick jogged down and onto Rossville Street. The barriers were still in place, and rubble still strewn all over the street. A few drunks stumbled around. Mick went forward toward the rubble barricade where Noel and the others had died. Flowers lay interspersed among the rocks, and the bullet holes were visible in the rubble even in the half-light. Over to the left, the lights of the forecourt where his father had died illuminated where he and the other man had fallen. A large pile of flowers marked the spot. He stood there for a minute or more, waiting for something, a whisper, a sign, a comfort from somewhere, but none came. Nothing. Another man walked over and mumbled something, but Mick didn’t even acknowledge his words. He just turned and walked away.

  Soldiers stood on the street, not Paras, but regular soldiers. The Paras had disappeared as quickly as they’d arrived. They weren’t stationed in Derry and had been brought in especially all the way from Belfast. Why? To break up the march? To kill the civil rights movement? They’d done all that, but they hadn’t brought the people of the Bogside and Derry to heel. The actions of the day before had been a deliberate attempt by someone to reinstate the status quo, to subjugate the people of the Bogside once more. Mick knew they’d reap a whirlwind of fire for what they’d done. He didn’t spit at the soldiers or call them names, he didn’t tell them that they would each die on this island or threaten their families like he’d seen done so many times. The hatred inside him remained taciturn. He didn’t look at them as he squeezed out the one-word answers he had to give to prevent himself from being arrested. He thought of his father, not as the dead body on the ground outside the Rossville Flats, but as the vibrant, kind man he knew. The man who’d sheltered his family from the madness around them as best he could in life, but in death had brought them into the eye of the storm that was engulfing them. Mick wanted to talk to the soldiers. He knew contrition was beyond them but did they know who his father and the other marchers were? Did they know that the Paras had killed innocent men? Innocent boys? He moved past the barricade, his heart boiling, and as he turned the corner, he had to rest against a wall to contain the venom inside him.

  It was almost one o’clock in the morning by the time he arrived at Melissa’s pretty four-bedroom detached house. He immediately began searching for stones on the pavement outside. A well-aimed throw hit her window with a loud clack, and he ducked behind the bushes in front of the house. She was used to this, but rarely this late. The light appeared in her room. She opened the window and gave him the signal to stay where he was, and that she’d be down in a few minutes. Mick crouched down in front of the hedge, the memories of the previous day like hornets in his head. He didn’t notice the front door opening and barely heard her whisper to him over the sound of his breath and the beating of his heart. He stood up and held her close to his body. Her heart was tranquil and slow compared to his. He kissed her.

  “I love you,” he said, surprised at the words as they leaped out of his mouth.

  She was shocked, unsure if he meant what he was saying, but she felt it too. “I love you,” she replied, and a single tear fell down her cheek. “I’m so sorry I couldn’t be there today. My father would have disowned me. I’ve never seen them so angry as when I got home from the march yesterday.”

  “Who did you say you were there with?”

  “Some of the girls from college, but I’m not sure they believed me.” She breathed out hard. “They asked me for names. I’m not a good liar.”

  “What did they say about the march, about what happened?”

  Melissa looked at him, wondered if he was ready for the truth. He wasn’t. “They thought it was terrible, that the army was insane, that they should be brought up on charges, each one of them.”

  He took his hands away from her face, dropped them down to his side. An ugly sneer came over his face. “You’re right, Melissa,” he said stepping back. “You’re an awful liar.”

  “I’m sorry.” Her face seemed to turn red under the
light of the lamppost outside her house. “I didn’t think it was right to tell you what they said.”

  “What did they say?”

  “They believe what the army said, that the people killed were IRA bombers and gunmen, that the Paras were only returning fire.”

  Mick gasped. “My father? You were there, Melissa.”

  “Of course I know, Mick, of course. They just believe what they heard on the television. They weren’t there. I can’t tell them.”

  “So, I suppose that’s what everyone around here believes, what all the unionists believe.”

  “I don’t know. Not me,” she whispered. “I know the truth. It’s just not the right time to tell them.”

  “My father was innocent. He had nothing to do with any violence or politics.” Mick was trying not to cry, ashamed in front of her, but the tears were rolling down his cheeks. “Jimmy and Noel too, they were just kids, throwing a few stones, they’d no jobs, nothing else in their lives.”

  She hugged him again. “It’s OK, my darling, it’s OK. I love you.”

  Her words soothed him, and he stood there in her arms as she held him, running her fingers through his hair.

  Chapter 5

  The hearses were lined up outside the church, ready for the short drive through the rain to the City Cemetery. So many people choked the streets that it wasn’t possible to go more than five miles an hour. Mourners crowded everywhere, onto lampposts, on top of buildings, and in every window along the route, many draped in Irish flags. Each of the victim’s families was showered with the hugs and handshakes of strangers as they emerged from the hearses that carried them. Celine was quiet, draped in grief. Mick searched the crowd for Melissa. Even though she’d told him she couldn’t be there that it was too much, he’d still hoped that she was somewhere in the ocean of people standing out in the driving rain.

  Melissa watched at home that night, as the boy she’d told she loved, carried his father’s coffin through the black iron gates of the graveyard. Jenny, her younger sister by four years, asked if they could change channels. Melissa snapped back at her, and Jenny walked out of the room muttering something incomprehensible. Melissa was still watching as her mother sat down on the couch beside her. Her mother lit a cigarette and stared on for a few seconds before she began. She was as beautiful as her daughters, with chestnut brown hair past her shoulders and hazel green eyes.

  “I still can’t believe you were on that march the other day.” Her voice was colored by the anger Melissa could see in her eyes. “If your grandfather knew.”

  “What, Mam, what? What would he say?”

  “He’d be worried, pet, worried as I am.” She took a deep pull off her cigarette. “You could have been shot, caught in the crossfire between the army and those terrorists.” The sound of the front door closing interrupted her. “Here’s your father now, I’d turn that television off right now if I were you.”

  Melissa’s mother greeted her husband with a kiss in the hallway. Melissa didn’t move, even when she heard him come into the room.

  “I see you’re watching the funerals then?” he started. “Bloody traffic on the way home because of them was something awful. Have they started rioting yet? It’s all they seem to bloody well do.” Melissa turned around to face him but didn’t speak. The lines on his forehead seemed to be deepening by the minute. “Change over the channel. I’ve had quite enough of the civil rights march for one week, thank you.”

  “I wouldn’t have to watch it on the TV if you’d let me go as I’d asked.” And though she wasn’t looking at him she could sense the disgusted look forming on his face, could feel it.

  “Are you serious, are you bloody serious?” He raised his voice, not quite shouting, not yet. “Have you go up the Creggan, for the funerals of IRA terrorists? After what happened?”

  “They weren’t terrorists, Dad.” She stood up, her eyes slicing into his. “ I was there. You weren’t. I saw what happened. The soldiers cut them down…”

  “And you know, do you? You know who all these people were?” He was shouting now, and Melissa’s mother reappeared at the door. “Those soldiers are the best the Crown has to offer, the very best.”

  “They murdered them,” she said. Her voice was cold as the bodies in the ground. “None of the people I saw were armed. The Paras just shot them down.”

  “Nonsense, utter nonsense, I won’t hear this in my own house.” He hadn’t taken off his coat yet, and his umbrella was still in his hand. “Who were you at the march with? Who’s filling your head with this rubbish?”

  “I told you; I was there with some girls from college.” Her voice was cracking as she spoke now.

  “What girls, what are their names?”

  “You don’t know them, Da, you don’t know any of my friends.”

  “And you wonder why?” He brought a hand up to his forehead. “What is this cause you’re taking on, going to these marches?”

  “I’ve only been on one,” she screamed back, forgetting herself.

  “Yes, yes, and look how that turned out.” He stepped closer to her, only about a foot from where she was standing. The lines around his eyes were much deeper than she remembered. “This cause, this IRA mayhem that you’re subscribing to. What do you know about that?” He dropped the umbrella and turned to take off his coat. She could hear the raw breaths coursing in and out of his lungs. “You know my Uncle Charlie was killed by IRA thugs, not twelve years ago.”

  ‘This has nothing to do with that,” she replied, her voice weaker.

  “This has everything to do with that.” He pointed a finger at her and let it hang in the air. He took a breath, seemingly trying to calm himself. “These terrorists have been trying to destroy our community, questioning our very right to be here, ever since the inception of this state, and before. Your participation in these activities, which propagate the ideas and activities of these murderers, is a betrayal of all that we stand for as good, hard working British people.”

  “It wasn’t about that, Dad, it wasn’t.” She was crying as she spoke and as she looked across she saw her mother was too. “It was about giving the people the right to represent themselves.”

  “Do you hear yourself, Melissa?” He turned around and then back to face her. “Do you even hear what you’re saying? These people don’t want us here. Have you seen what it’s like down south? Have you seen that ‘paradise’ down there? It’s a third world country. They do nothing but proclaim their hatred for all things British but then go begging to Her Majesty’s government for their basic needs. If the Catholic people of this city want that life, then they’re welcome to it. The Republic is only three miles away.”

  “Why should they leave? This is their home.”

  “Well, then, they should learn to live in their community without rioting and killing. They should learn to use the ballot box like we do.” He turned to walk out of the room and had taken a couple of strides before he heard her answer.

  ‘They can’t,” she said. “That’s the whole point of the marches. The process of gerrymandering means that they’re not represented.”

  Reginald turned around again. “So they think that firing on Her Majesty’s soldiers is going to get them these rights that they’re looking for?” He clasped his hands together, his knuckles pink and white. ‘This is not your fight, Melissa. There are so many problems in our community, so much that I see in my job every day. Why are you taking their side?”

  She took a step towards him. “It’s not about sides. It’s about standing up for what’s right.”

  “Who are these people you’re hanging around with these days?”

  Every muscle in her body was oak, her pulse thundering in her ears. Melissa’s gaze drifted to the television. Mick and Pat carried their father’s coffin through the lashing rain. She had to leave, had to get away from this man, and she threw her hand in the air and rushed past him, outside into the deep chill of the night. Union Jacks hung out of several of the windows on the street
that hadn’t been there the previous day. Her breath was cold condensation, clouds of white forming and disappearing in front of her. The rage surging through her faded and died. Uncle Charlie’s funeral had been on a day like this, back when she was eight. She’d cried then though she barely knew him. It seemed like the right thing to do. She thought of Peter, the march, the shooting and the death and began to question her own mind, her own memory. Was there any way that the Paras might have thought they were armed? She ran the pictures of his death through her mind again like a home movie, each shot fading into the next. The man on the ground was crawling, and they’d shot him again. Perhaps he had been shooting at the Paras but where was his gun? Why had she only heard the shrill cracks of the Paras guns and not the dull sound of the IRA’s? How much did she really know about Mick and his family? No, that was ridiculous, she knew Mick. She felt her love for him like a precious essence inside her.