The Bogside Boys Page 8

  “You’re looking after your mother, is that not noble enough for you?”

  “It’s not a question of nobility.” He stopped himself, taking a mouthful of his beer. “It’s a question of duty. Ma doesn’t need me here. She has her parents, her sisters, her nieces, and nephews. I feel I need to be there more than she needs me here.”

  “Is it duty or is it guilt?” Mick asked.

  “Is that what you feel?”

  “Sometimes.”

  “Is it that wee girl? Is it her you want to see?”

  “Yeah, that’s always there. It’s ironic, but we’ve more of a chance with me living over here. With me over here the only thing we have in our way is the distance between us. That doesn’t seem like much compared to what we have against us back home.”

  “Yeah, that does seem kind of an irony all right.” Pat looked up and around him. “What’s wrong with me, Mick? Why do I miss the bloody Bogside so much when I’m here?”

  Mick knew that his brother was expecting a joke back but wasn’t going to give him one. “You’re loyal. That’s a rare thing. You love your community. You can’t let go of what happened to Da.”

  Pat looked across the table at him, took a drag on the cigarette and blew a plume of white smoke into the warm air above his head. “I just can’t get him out of my mind. I seem to dream about him every night.”

  “D’you ever have the one where you save him?”

  “Aye, that one’s the worst. Waking up is misery after that one, when you realize it was only a dream.”

  They were silent for a minute or more, just sitting there, the smoke from their cigarettes wafting around them.

  “Do you think that there’s anything we could have done to save him?” Mick asked.

  “Not really, he wanted to help that poor man on the ground, didn’t want him to die alone. Once he’d decided to help him, there wasn’t much we could do to stop him.”

  “Do you really believe that?” Mick asked.

  Pat just stared back. He stubbed out his cigarette and looked away.

  “No, me neither.” Mick murmured.

  “We can do something now though, make up for what we didn’t do then,” Pat answered.

  “You want to be one of those guys in the balaclavas standing on top of the barricades with a gun that doesn’t work? What good is that going to do?”

  “Things have changed. It’s a full-blown war now. Those days are gone, and anyway Free Derry’s days are numbered. You think the Brits are going to stand for Free Derry much longer? That revolt is going to be put down. I’m surprised it hasn’t been already.”

  “It’s only a matter of time.”

  “Aye.”

  Mick thought of Melissa and the impossibility of their being together. Pat was halfway home already, even further. Neither of them used the explicit terms, but they both knew why. The only chance of a future with Melissa, the future he wanted, was to stay here, to wait, to let Pat go back alone, to abandon his father’s memory and the plight of his community and his people. Could he let Pat go back alone? Could he live with abandoning his brother, his father’s memory?

  “Is your mind made up?” Mick asked.

  Pat took a drag on his cigarette as Mick stared at him, waiting for him to answer. “I don’t see any other way for me now. I can’t stay here. The pain is too much. I can’t take it,” he said, focusing his gaze on the ashtray as he stubbed out his cigarette. A beautiful young girl sauntered past in massive sunglasses and heels clacking on the concrete pavement, oblivious to their eyes.

  Mick waited until she’d gone to speak again. “There could be one last chance for us.”

  “What?”

  ‘The government inquiry. The Widgery Report. It’s due out any day.” The only real chance he and Melissa had was in the hands of the British government. An exoneration of the victims of the Paras and a full investigation was the only thing that could assuage his brother, and douse the fires of pain within them both.

  “You’re putting your faith in that?”

  “You did once too when they launched it.”

  “I was a different person then.”

  “No, you weren’t. And if they do admit responsibility, if they do admit that Da was innocent, that they murdered him, what then?”

  “I don’t know, I just don’t know.”

  The English speaking newspapers reached the newsstands at teatime. The Widgery Report, the official government inquiry into the Bloody Sunday killings, had been published. It was April 18th, a Tuesday. The soldiers were cleared of any wrongdoing. The blame for the deaths was placed on the shoulders of the organizers of the march. The anger burned inside Mick and he closed his eyes, crumpling the paper in his hands. It was the whitewash that Pat had said it would be and Mick knew that any hope for a life with Melissa, the life he wanted, was gone.

  Chapter 10

  Loneliness crept through her gradually until it consumed her. She had come to rely on the letters, two or three a week, as life rafts for the emotions within her. The last letter had arrived nine days before. There had been no sign to that point of any impending break, no indication that his love for her had faded. Her feelings for him were the same. They always would be. She lay alone in her bed, darkness all around her. She held a hand up to the curtain by her bed and brushed it back to let in a sliver of silver light from outside. She sat up and looked out onto the street. The range of possibilities raced in front of her. Maybe he was busy. Maybe he had met someone else, was trying to let her go, to set her free. Perhaps he had listened to those who’d said that they were impossible, that they could never be together, that the world around them was too strong to overcome. Maybe, but she didn’t believe it. If Derry couldn’t kill what they had, nothing he could have encountered in Paris would have dimmed his determination to be with her.

  The noise at the window jarred her from sleep. It was after two AM. Another stone hit and her heart began to gallop in her chest as she realized that it was him. She bounced up on the bed and threw back the curtain and saw him waving to her from behind the bush. He pointed down to the corner where they usually met and slipped away. Her first thought was that her hair was a mess and that she wouldn’t have time to brush it properly or put on any makeup. It had been two months. This was important. Leaving the light off, she drew back the curtains to illuminate the room just enough to make out her clothes. Her favorite pair of jeans and a tight sweater would have to do, and she slipped them on as quickly as she could before going to the mirror to make herself somewhat presentable. She was ready in three minutes. Pretty good. Repetition had made her journey down through the house silent as the night itself. No one had ever woken up. The front door closed behind her with a barely audible tap, and she was out in the cold of night. The stars were bright above the city, casting an ethereal beauty over a place where such a thing was rare as gold.

  She ran the last few steps to him, unable to contain her joy as she threw her arms around him. He swept her up, momentarily able to forget the heaviness in his heart and what he knew he had to say. He leaned in, felt the softness of her lips on his, ran rough fingers through her hair. They took a few seconds to kiss away their two months apart but even through the bliss of seeing him again she felt it. She brought her head back. Something had crept in between them. Something was wrong.

  “What are you doing here? Why haven’t you written to me for so long?”

  “I’m back, just me and Pat, my mother is still in Paris.”

  “Why didn’t you write to let me know?”

  “I was so busy trying to get things in order before I left. It wasn’t easy leaving Ma, and the travel itself took a while between ferries and trains.”

  “Why did you come back? What happened to our plan?” The bitter irony of seeing him was that she knew it wasn’t for the reasons she would have wanted. His smile had already melted, the stresses underneath bubbling through. She was still looking at him, waiting for an answer. He leaned his head back and reache
d into his pocket for the pack of cigarettes. He drew one out and lit it, taking a deep pull.

  “We got back in around two hours ago. I’m sorry to wake you like this. I'm sorry it’s so late, but you’re all I’ve thought about for the last few days. I had to see you.” Nerves swamped him, his practiced words fumbled and awkward. “I know I didn’t write to you, but you were with me all this time.” He stopped, unsure of how to proceed, unsure of how to say what had to be said. He knew that everything would be different in the matter of a few minutes. He longed to delay this, to be with her for as long as possible. What had to come next was already tearing at him. “You look so beautiful, even better than I remembered.” She smiled but didn’t take the bait. The expectant look on her face deepened and he knew that there was no avoiding it now. “It was Pat, mainly. He’s not been the same since the funeral. There’s been something gnawing away inside at him. But I’d be lying if I said it was just him. Paris was fantastic, but it’s not home.”

  “What’s gnawing away at you, Michael?”

  “You know. Nothing’s been the same since Da died. Everything’s changed. Everything’s worse. If it wasn’t for you, even the thought of you, I don’t know what I would have done. And I suppose that’s the difference between me and Pat - the reason he broke first.”

  “What are you getting at? What are you doing back in Derry?” She asked the question, though she knew the answer and she caught herself taking a step back, away from the man she loved, whom she’d pined for, begged to see all the weeks he was away.

  “Pat couldn’t…. we couldn’t stand being away any longer. Did you read the government report that came out? I haven’t written to you since then. That’s when things changed.”

  “I saw it and I see it for what it is.” Her voice was hollow now, her body tensing. She wanted to go on, to voice her support for his reaction to the report but was afraid of what she might end up voicing her support of. So she cut herself off, allowing him to continue. Neither of them knew what to say or how to react to what they both knew was to come.

  “When the report was released… we both realized that…” he took another drag on the cigarette, hiding behind it. She was staring at him and, even in the darkness of the night, he could see tears welling in her eyes. “There was nothing left for us to do but join up with the other boys who went on ahead of us. It was the only alternative we had left. Not one of those soldiers will ever face trial for what they did.”

  “So you’re looking for justice? Like when the IRA set off that bomb in England, when they tried to bomb the headquarters of the Paras? When they killed six tea ladies and a Catholic chaplain? Is that the kind of justice that you’re trying to serve out?”

  “That operation was a mistake, and at least the IRA admitted that. What did the Paras admit to when they killed thirteen innocent people in Derry on Bloody Sunday when they murdered my father?”

  Melissa placed her hands on his arms, calming him. “Don’t do this. This isn’t going to bring your dad back. This isn’t what he would have wanted. You told me so many times that he never wanted you involved in this.”

  “Maybe it’s what I want, maybe it’s what I need to do.”

  “I don’t believe that.” She took her hands away. “We had a plan. I was going to leave my home, for you. I was prepared to give up everything to give us a chance. I thought that it was worth it, that you were worth it. What happened to that?”

  “We can still have a future together.”

  “Are you joking?” She turned away. “You want to be with me, a Protestant girl, and be in the IRA? Are you serious?”

  “This isn’t forever. I can leave whenever I want. I just need to…”

  “Just need to what?”

  “I just need to see that Pat’s gonna be OK. I can’t let him do this alone.”

  “So that’s what this is about? Your brother?”

  “He’s my twin brother. There’s two of me. It’s hard to explain. I can’t let him do this alone; I can’t be the one who doesn’t go. I have to honor my father.”

  “I gave up my life for you because I thought you were worth it, that you were the happiness in my life, and God bless me, I still believe that. I was prepared to choose you over everything else. Why aren’t you prepared to choose me?”

  “It’s nothing to do with my feelings for you, Melissa. You’re the only thing holding me back. You’re the only reason for me not to do this.”

  “But not reason enough, is that it?” She was crying as she spoke now. “You’re going to choose your brother, your dead father over me?”

  “It’s not a case of choosing. You’re the one who’s turning this into a choice. I realize that this is hard for you, but I have to do this.” He stopped, searching for the words to rescue this, or her. “I was trying to fool myself, that somehow I could have you and the life I wanted, and serve my father and my community too. But I know I can’t. I agree with everything you say. But you have to see that I’ve no choice. I have to do this. If I ran away with you, and something happened to Pat, I’d never forgive myself.”

  “So you’d rather something happened to you too, that you were killed or sent to jail too, not just him. I see the twin ethic there, one for all and all for one. I understand you want to serve your community, but there are other ways.”

  “Like NICRA, the civil rights movement? That died along with my father, shot down by the Paras. There’s nothing else for me to do now. Most of my friends and most of my peers have joined. Some of my friends that you met on the day of the march are already volunteers, assigned to the Derry Brigade.”

  “So that’s it for us? All our plans ruined?”

  “I never wanted it this way. It’s killing me to do this. Don’t you see that I can’t win, no matter what I do? Go with you and I desert my brother and my people; desert the memory of my father. If I go with them, I desert you.”

  “I know that this is hard for you, but I think you’re making the wrong decision. Not just for my sake, for yours. The IRA is an illegal organization. You could end up in jail, or worse.” Her words were measured, precise.

  “I have to do this.”

  “I suppose that’s it then.” She stepped back, her voice cold as the night air swirling around them.

  He reached forward to hug her and though she didn’t want to, she wrapped her arms around him and cried as he held her. “I love you,” he whispered.

  “I can’t do this,” she said and stepped away from him, wiping the last tear from her face. “I have to say goodbye now.” She turned and ran, all the way back to the house.

  Mick sat alone on the pavement after she had gone, shaking. A waterfall of grief gushed over him. The walk home took him almost an hour, the city absolutely quiet as he moved through it. Each building, each street, seemed built exactly to the specification of his own memory as if they existed only to remind him of his past. It was after four in the morning when he reached the Bogside. There was no one around except a few of the regular drunks, babbling pathetic drivel. He didn’t even look at them. They were completely useless to anyone, a hazard even to themselves, yet they were alive and his father was dead. He avoided Rossville Street, walking around instead. Pat was asleep as he arrived home. The house was a shell of what it once had been. Once it had been full of laughter, full of life. Now it held only death and mourning, longing and regret. The tears came when he was alone in his bed when the pain became more than he could bear.

  Pat was awake in the other room, had heard him come in as well as the sound of his crying through the paper-thin walls of the old house. Pat didn’t get up to go to him. His own heart was steeled for what was to come. His crying was done.

  Chapter 11

  McClean came on a cloudy Tuesday morning at the beginning of May. They had been told to pack a light bag, and that they were going on a trip. Nothing more. McClean pulled over to the side of the road once they were outside the city, past the army checkpoints littering the roadways in and out. McClean
explained that they were being taken across the border where they’d be transferred to a training camp. Mick’s blood was ice as McClean spoke. The finality of leaving her was like a knife in his chest. This was right, though. No other alternative remained. Sacrifices would have to be made. He’d heard as much in several dingy, smoke-filled rooms with Irish flags strewn along the walls since he’d joined. There could be no freedom, no justice without sacrifice. Hadn’t all the great revolutions in history been born from people like him, wronged and thirsty for freedom and peace? What difference was there between him and Eamon de Valera, Padraig Pearse or James Connolly? Even the heroes of foreign wars like the French Revolution or the American struggle for freedom against the burden of British Imperialism? This was bigger than just him. This was life and death, freedom or oppression for the Catholic people of Northern Ireland. Only one problem always remained, to gnaw away at him. The IRA men, in all their nationalistic fervor, never mentioned what was to become of the Protestant people of Northern Ireland. They were never brought. Would half of the population just fade into oblivion once the socialist republic came about?

  “There can be no peace in Ireland until the foreign oppressors are ejected from Ireland, until the Irish people are allowed to govern their own affairs, separately and distinctly, culturally, physically and economically from the British Empire,” McClean said. He seemed excited. He never talked about anything else. Pat wondered how good he’d be with the Brits bearing down on them. Would he spout philosophies at them? Pat was proud of how far they’d come in so little time. Their physical similarities seemed to intrigue the local leadership, and, in a time where so many new recruits had joined, their training had been fast-tracked. Their father would have understood what they’d done, and would have been proud. He tried to convince himself of that. He thought of their mother, still in Paris, how she’d begged them not to go back. They hadn’t told her the full truth of why they’d left her, but she knew. The time to be with her would come again. But even with all the false bravado he exhibited in front of himself and others, the truth of it was that he was scared. He was scared of jail, scared of dying and scared of how he’d view himself if he did nothing. There was no escaping it. It was with him all the time. No one knew, not even Mick. He couldn’t show any weakness. Weakness had killed his father.