Return to Killybegs (15 page)

—Tyrone!

Danny Finley arrived at a run, a blanket under his arm, with six guys from C Company. He beckoned me over. He was out of breath. He knelt down.

—We’re taking the street, Tyrone! We’re securing it and taking it!

He wasn’t speaking, he was shouting. He was articulating each word loudly enough to be heard over the din, like a ship’s captain on a deck being pummelled by the wind. He unrolled the tartan blanket on the pavement, just behind the barricade.

A Thompson M1921 submachine gun, two Lee-Enfields, two Webley revolvers, a grenade, and ammunition in a paper bag.

—IRA! The IRA is back! a man shouted.

He was standing on a barrel, he jumped down and embraced me, laughing.

—The IRA! For fuck’s sake! Protect us! Show them who we are!

IRA! The cry travelled up the street. People were no longer pushing back, but turning around to attack with bare fists.

—Go back! Leave the street clear for the combatants! Danny ordered.

—IRA! IRA!

The neighbourhood paid no heed to our orders. Women were emerging from their houses, infants in their arms. Others were banging pots on the ground, frying pans, iron bin lids. A priest was running around between them, his Bible in his hand. The youths were gathering their discarded stones. A girl tossed a flaming bottle over the barricade. We were only six volunteers, but the ghetto was as enthused by our presence as if a liberation army had appeared. A few streets away, the sky was alight. Houses were burning on Bombay Street. When the gas canisters hit the ground, the crowd rushed forward to smother the smoke. Bowlfuls of water passed from hand to hand. Suddenly we found ourselves in broad daylight. The first armoured car had just turned the corner and its white headlight was pointed down our street. The chlorine of grenades and the smoke from the fires formed a thick fog. I was on my knees, my face protected by a tea towel. A young girl was cutting a shirt into strips and handing them out to the rebels to cover their mouths. Springing up behind me, a kid swooped down to grab our grenade. I snatched it away from him. He shrugged his shoulders and left at a run.

—Fianna! Evacuate the civilians! Danny roared.

The scouts formed a scrawny chain. There were a mere fifteen of them, moving back up the road step by step and begging the people to back away.

Then Danny let off two shots towards the sky.

—The IRA orders you to disperse!

The IRA orders you! We’re taking back the street! We’re finally going to fight.

On a grey wall opposite, an old slogan smeared in black mocked: IRA = I RAN AWAY!

For weeks, the Catholic population had been begging us to react. And we were unable to do so. We were more disorganized and isolated than ever. The police and the Loyalists were in control of our streets. Since the beginning of the campaign for civil rights, Catholics were being mistreated. What were we asking for? Decent accommodation, a job, to no longer be second-class citizens. One man, one vote! Equality with Protestants. We were empty-handed and our banners were made of torn-up sheets. For the British, this anger was insurrectional. For the Loyalists, each of our complaints was a war cry. They would never share power. They clamoured for the final confrontation, the great battle. They wanted to chase the papists out once and for all. Throw us over the border one by one. They had cleared out their own neighbourhoods. This time they were attacking our strongholds, our houses, our schools, our churches.

—A Protestant state for the Protestant people!

Their shouts in the night.

Startled by Danny’s shots, the crowd pushed back. The armoured car did the same, screeching into reverse and abruptly leaving us once more in darkness.

And then the first gunshot was fired from the other side. Followed by a second.

—Real bullets! The peelers are using real bullets!

I took up the Thompson and crouched behind the barricade. The bullets were shaking between my fingers, they slipped against the steel of the magazine. I loaded it till the spring nosed up. Twenty bullets. I counted what was left in the bag. Nine. Not even enough to reload up to the hilt.

They were still shooting. Danny sat down heavily beside me.

—It doesn’t add up. Something’s not right.

He was revolving his cylinder, replacing the two spent shells.

—What are they shooting with? Those aren’t their guns! Listen! It sounds like a hunting rifle.

The street was almost deserted, hundreds of residents having headed on foot for Ballymurphy and Andytown to find shelter. Others had hidden in their houses. An IRA
óglach
ran up to us, bent over double.

—It’s the Loyalists! The cops are chasing people and those bastards are coming along behind them. They’re shooting at us and setting the houses on fire!

Two streets away, a shot was fired. Danny lay down between a cart and a mattress. He fired twice, then turned around. With a flick of his finger he pointed to the corner of the street behind me, and with a few more quick movements he positioned the other fighters.

—Warning shots! Don’t waste them! Danny shouted.

We were crouched beneath a hail of rocks and steel bolts. They had catapults on the other side. Their petrol bombs were hitting the fronts of our houses. I got up. I held the Tommy gun against my hip and returned fire. Nothing. The shock of the steel. I lay down on my back. I had forgotten the safety. I raised the catch to ‘fire’. I was sweating, and shaking, too. I was a block of fear and hatred. They were facing us, I could see them. A small crowd with torches, shouting. The witch-hunters, the devils from the catechism. A shadow seemed to dance in the middle of the street, a rifle in his hand. They were breaking windows, doors. The police were letting them do it. I shot to kill. Four quick shots, almost a burst. Fired into that pile of living shadows. I was surprised by the violent jolt of the gun. It had slipped against my thigh. I moved it back up. From the other side of the street, our men were opening fire with rifles. Danny was on the barricade, aiming at the darkness above our heads.

Suddenly, gas canisters fell all around us. I drew back, surrounded by white smoke, eyes burning, stomach heaving, throat constricted. No more air. No more anything. The bottom of the water. I had my mouth wide open, thumping my chest. I was dying. This was it, I was dying. I should have kept some air in a corner of my cheek, in my nose, in my pocket. And then came the crash. A violent blow to my temple. Another in the shoulder. Bullets, stones, I couldn’t tell. I had lowered my Tommy gun. I raised it again. I wanted to steady it against my hip. I coughed. There was blood in my eyes. I pulled the trigger. I think. I don’t know any more. I heard my shots. I saw the spark from the gun. Danny fell. I was behind him. Twenty metres away. I shot three times and Danny fell forward. He picked himself up. He turned around, looked at me agape. He made a gesture. He didn’t understand. He was astounded. He dropped his gun. He brought his hands to his chest. He slid along the mattress on his belly, hitting the ground with his forehead. The white light of the armoured car splashed the street. I was standing. Danny was lying down. I fell to my knees.

—They got Danny!

The voice of one of our men, I no longer know who.

—And Tyrone’s been hit!

Arms lifted me. I’m fine. I’m alive. I’m fine. I was whispering to myself. A hand took the weapon from me. The armoured car was retreating behind the barricade with its engine roaring. No more shots. Not one single rock more. Just the breath cut short. The smell of fire. The grey ash floating in the sky. The cries of men and women.

—Murderers! Murderers!

Children’s rocks for nothing, pecking at the steel of the armoured car.

—Tyrone? Can you hear me, Tyrone?

I’m fine. It’s nothing at all. I had killed Danny Finley. I had closed my eyes. I let myself be taken away. I wasn’t wounded, not really. It was only rocks. I had caught my breath by now. I was dragged along the ground, carried by arms and legs, then hoisted up on someone’s back. A door. A living room. A couch. There was something under my waist, like a forgotten child’s toy. Somebody placed a cushion under my head. A hand behind the nape of my neck. A warm cloth on my face, water from a glass against my closed teeth. The icy liquid on my neck, running as far as my shoulder like a snake. I had killed Danny Finley. Fever. I started shaking again. In the street, a police loudspeaker was spitting out orders.

I saw Danny’s startled look once more. He fell forward. He’d been shot in the back. His brother had been killed by Loyalists, he’d been killed by a Republican. I had murdered Danny Finley, 14 August 1969.

It was the end of us. And also the end of me.

I stayed in bed for almost a week. Some Fianna and men from the Belfast Brigade took turns keeping a lookout on the street corner. Jim O’Leary, an explosives engineer from the 2nd Battalion, remained at my bedside night and day. When I opened my eyes, he welcomed me as though I was on his doorstep. Jim was a close friend. His wife Cathy loved Sheila like a mother.

On the third day, I drank a cup of tea and ate half a slice of toast. I wasn’t in my own home. Neither the room, nor Lise, the old lady looking after me, was familiar. On the fourth day, I found out that my mother, brother and sisters had taken the path of exile. Sheila had brought them to an aunt’s place in Drogheda, on the other side of the border. Róisín, Mary and Áine had been crying. They said they didn’t want to flee like that. Wee Kevin tried to hide in the workshop and Sara vomited on the journey. Mother told them that they wouldn’t go far. Swore. They had left Killybegs, they’d been driven from Sandy Street, from Dholpur Lane, and their Station of the Cross would end in Drogheda. When Sheila asked her if she’d go back to Belfast some day, once everything had calmed down, my mother crossed herself and said she’d only go back when Christ the King arrived in the city in all his glory.

So Sheila came back across the border alone.

There were riots across dozens of towns. For the first time since the war, London deployed the British army to Northern Ireland. Not the RUC, not the ‘B-Specials’, not the auxiliary Northern Irish armies, but the British, the real deal. The Royal Regiment of Wales had taken control of the Falls Road, my hostess explained to me. The residents there were offering tea and biscuits to the soldiers. I looked up at her.

—Tea and biscuits?

She smiled.

—They’ve got nothing to do with the killers.

While straightening my bedcovers, she said that they’d prevented the worst. That without them the Loyalists would have chased out or killed all of us.