A reason to kill, p.17
A Reason To Kill, page 17
Now his memory drifted back to the day before he left on this short trip. A plane brought down by a surface to air missile. Damn! He’d nearly canceled his flight. Why waste his time pleading the cause of his misunderstood countrymen when they resorted to such inhuman tactics. Bringing that plane down, murdering those men, was going to overshadow the deaths of the Hunger Strikers. How could the IRA be so stupid? No, there was something wrong with that picture—the IRA wouldn’t have done it.
Chapter 31
Northern Ireland, 1981
The spotlights of the army lorries swept about the farm buildings as if hunting a foreign Army. Ryan Martin didn’t rush to the house nor hunt for a hiding place. He had no fear of the British uniforms, no fear of the men who wore them. By the time he was thirty he’d buried several friends and grown disillusioned with the nonsense of men that brought on such early deaths. Nearing sixty, he was just plain tired of the whole mess.
He saw his wife in the light of the porch conversing with an officer and motioning towards the barn.
He returned to connecting the pumps to milk-swollen teats of grateful cows. At least he thought they were grateful, the cows never actually told him, but made enough noise if he was a minute late, to convince him. He grinned and patted the rump of one. “Sure lass, you give something of value for what you consume.”
The officers stepped cautiously through the doorway, their eyes shifting about as if expecting an attack. He nearly laughed out loud.
So it was not the uniforms; so similar to the one he’d once worn, nor was it fear, it was the words coming out of an officer’s mouth that drew the groan from Martin’s throat. As the man explained their purpose for arriving before the sun came up, Martin acutely felt the chill in his soul turning to flames that clouded the logic of creeping age. He was suffering heart-searing agony but with it came intense anger.
“The plane exploded in mid-air there wasn’t a chance of survivors. One, Aaron Martin was on the passenger list.”
“My brother.”
“Aye, a lot of men’s brothers were on that plane, Ryan. There’s some justice, no lasses or young ones on the flight. The attendants were a couple of lads. Couldn’t find a listing for a Mrs. Aaron Martin.”
“Aaron’s wife died years ago. But he has a boy. Davy’s at school—in London.”
“You’ll want to see to the lad yourself?”
“That we will. The wife and I will leave immediately.”
~~~
England, 1981
“Came down like a meteorite, red, yellow, and flaming; the steam billowed up where it entered the water. The ocean boiled for miles.” The sterile accent of the radio announcer’s tone was unaffected.
David Martin heard the news the morning it happened. It became the main talk of the cafeteria. They weren’t disclosing names as yet and the young man had no reason to believe his father was among the victims. Last time David talked to his pa, the man was all hyped up on some venture that would create business and act as a catalyst to draw young people together.
“Start with the youngsters and maybe by the time they’re fighting age, being friends will destroy that urge.” Although born into a staunch Protestant family, David’s father had counted many Catholics among his own friends. They were as welcome in his home as he was in theirs, so by the time his son realized there was difference; he’d learned there was not.
When David got the summons to report to administrations, he was curious but not unduly alarmed.
Then his uncle Ryan stood before him and the horror of it crushed down on him. Ryan was attempting to cushion the pain, but it was impossible. Each word his uncle spoke was a brutal blow into David’s heart. When he couldn’t take anymore he screamed and ran.
Slamming the door, he slid the bolt to prevent intrusion into the narrow cubicle that contained all the necessities of a young man away from home. David dropped to his knees and his fists pounded the surface of the wooden floor.
The sounds erupting from his throat were agonizing howls. “Pa! How I loved you!” The thin skin of his knuckles bruised and split. The sight of the blood only made him strike harder. Several frail bones cracked in the fingers of his right hand yet he remained numb to physical pain.
“Aye, it’s a surgeon’s hands you ‘ave lad,” his father would say the pride strong in him. “It’s not a fighter you’re to be, Davy.” He’d crack his butt then hold him close to wipe a drippy nose as he warned, “Sure, but our people have a damn sight too many warriors.” Aaron Martin could kiss his son’s cheeks never ashamed to show his feelings.
His pa. How he loved him. David Martin continued to pound his own flesh bloody.
~~~
Ryan Martin had eased his sobbing wife into a convenient chair in the administrator’s office. “Best you wait here,” he said with the added assurance, “I’ll tend to the lad.”
“Davy has no mama, I should go to him.”
“Davy’s a man now,” he reminded. “He’ll not want you to watch him cry. Best I see to him.”
The just turned twenty-one-year-old seemed determined that no one should see him cry. When repeated banging and pleadings failed it became necessary to remove the hinges from the door.
David was huddled on the floor. Blood from his brutalized hands streaked his face and hair as he raised head to stare at the intruders.
Ryan Martin gathered his young nephew into his work-strong arms. He slumped on the small cot holding the youth tight against his wide chest. A stern tone covered his concern as he said, “Davy, you’ve no right to do this to yourself. You’ve got a ways to go. You’re my brother’s son and you’ve more fight in you than this.”
“No bodies,” David Martin said in a voice grown hoarse. “No body to bury.”
“They didn’t say that. Only that it will be difficult to find all the remains.” A chill swept over the man with his memory of the fragments of water-washed human anatomy. What the divers were bringing up from the Irish Sea looked more like meat for a dinner table than parts of human beings. This he dared not share with the youth. He only promised, “We’ll see to burying’ your pa, lad.”
“A bomb! A fuckin’ bomb! Why?”
Lost for an answer, Ryan Martin could only continue hugging his nephew as he attempted to absorb some of the young man’s agony.
Chapter 32
Northern Ireland 1981
Spring of 1981 had come upon the land like a vengefully mistress, now it was only the beginning of July and already summer seemed bound to upstage her. With the May fifth death of Bobby Sands on hunger strike followed by three others before the end of the month, the problems that hounded Liam O’Neill’s country were escalating again.
It was likely more young men would forfeit their lives in this protest and it irritated the solicitor that he couldn’t prevent them. This ‘let’s get-tough’ ploy by Thatcher’s London conservatives, in an attempt to criminalize Irish political prisoners, had only accomplished more death. What did it matter if they wore prison garb? Why couldn’t they give in or the damn government give in? O’Neill rubbed at his neck and the back of his head, attempting to ease an ache that no drug had alleviated.
A plane had been blown from the sky. Who in hell provided these idiots with ground-to-air missiles and the expertise to deliver one? With the indiscriminate arrests taking place, he hadn’t put together five straight hours of sleep in months.
He joined the queue at the border checkpoint that divided the northern section of Ulster Providence from the Nation of Erie on the small island they shared. He listened to the latest news broadcast. Aaron Martin, Holy Mother Mary, they didn’t make finer men than Aaron.
When the plane had blown up he was angry. Now, with the death of a friend, Liam felt the personal pain of sadness. Recognized by the border guards, the attorney was waved by while others still waited in line.
As he moved along on the hour drive to Dublin, his brooding destroyed his usual pleasure in the beauty of the countryside. Sometime during that hour it occurred to him, his granddaughter could have been on that plane. And he thanked a god he’d long ago given up on, that she was not. It frustrated Liam O’Neill that he could not control Deirdre’s life. He desired to protect her and allow nothing to harm this special child. She loved him, trusted him, and this scared him.
When his youngest son, Emanon, brought the infant Deirdre home, he’d been angry. His wife, Delia was already ill, and the realization that he would soon be alone after thirty years of marriage was frightening. Then Liam watched Delia smile as she held their first grandchild. Watched the pain in her eyes ease a bit. How could he refuse to let her keep the babe?
They hadn’t heard from their eldest son, Michael, since he stopped requesting funds. Delia had kept Michael’s final letter to torment him with. “Over three years,” his wife would say, “Sure, my boy hasn’t needed your money in over three years.”
They thought Michael was still in America; never guessed he’d been living in England for almost a year. Certainly never expected what Emanon was telling them. Michael had married and his wife died during childbirth. Of course he knew now that had been one of Emamon’s half-truths.
Michael had never married any of the women he caroused with. But even illegitimate this child was Michael’s. Michael was returning to the States and wanted his parents to keep the infant until he could arrange to send for her. A few months had stretched into several years before he was forced to once again share the child with Michael.
Delia was gone; Emanon was gone. Early death hovered too close to the special people in Liam O’Neill’s life. As he stood outside the terminal this July morning, his eyes sought to pierce the cloud cover. He heard the plane’s engines. His girl was coming home. He held his breath as he watched the 727 jet level out for landing.
~~~
O’Neill studied his granddaughter’s approach. Into her thirteenth year, she moved with a jump in her walk. No, he decided, more like a march. Her long auburn hair bounced as if in tune with a military band. Growing too tall for lass, he thought, but was content she remained boyishly lean.
“Papa!” Deirdre yelled as she ran. Then she was in his arms and he hugged her possessively as he bent for her kiss. Holding her a bit back, he said, “Lass, your outfit’s outrageous.”
The lavender eyes sparkled in the sunlight. “Papa.” she giggled. “All the kids are into jeans. We wear dumb uniforms to class so when we’re free.”
“Not right, that a lass should dress like a lad. If I didn’t know better I’d think you were a boy.”
Her eyes glinted with mischief and her giggle swelled as she reminded him. “Papa, we went through that a few years back. You convinced me I couldn’t change my sex.”
“Dede.” He attempted to keep a stern tone. “That will be an end to that.” But the laughter came—abrupt and short. Many things Liam O’Neill had forgotten in his sixty years but never the day when his eight-year-old granddaughter wanted to grow a penis. She had shocked him when she plainly said it. She nearly drove him insane trying to explain why she could not. Now, as he always did, he asked, “You hungry?”
“They fed and watered us regularly on the flight. I just wanna get out of Dublin and home. Did Centura drop her foal?”
“She’s been waiting on you, girl.” He waved over the young man toting her baggage. “See you put her toys in the rear seat.”
“Papa.” She blushed at the porter’s sly grin. “I brought no toys. I’m a big girl now.”
The idea distressed him and caused his tone to sharpen a bit. “Amy is here.”
“For the whole summer?”
“Just a few weeks. Your cousin will be company for you.”
“Great.” She lied and he knew she did. Even Liam O’Neill had a problem tolerating his American granddaughter so unlike this one. For that delicate blonde girl was prone to whining and sniveling to get her way.
Less than an hour later Deirdre complained, “That’s sick,” as their car was detained at the border. A minibus held up the queue. It was being dissected while the driver and two young male passengers faced army rifles and argued.
“The British Army has no choice. So long as they remain in Ulster they must protect themselves.”
“Why don’t they just get out!”
“Dede, you’re to pay no heed to what happens in this country. You’re well shed of it.”
“I’ll be good.” She promised but he saw, though she ducked her head, she glared at the British soldiers.
The young Irishmen were being shoved towards an armored car; the business ends of rifles were hurrying their steps. And the officer approaching the familiar auto was met with O’Neill’s unpleasant demand. “What did you find?”
Not the sergeant’s virgin encounter with the barrister, his tone was held coolly steady as he answered. “Mr. O’Neill that truck’s a moving bomb. You’d like to be checking it over?”
“I’ll trust your opinion. I have the lass with me.”
And Deirdre screamed, “He hit him! He hit him!” As a prisoner, attempting to wrench an offending rifle from its owner was smashed in the temple by the butt end of another soldier’s weapon.
While the prisoner crumbled to the pavement, O’Neill grabbed and held tightly to his granddaughter who appeared bent on exiting the car.
“Stop it!” He shook her as the sergeant looked on in surprise. “The soldier had no choice.” O’Neill tried to explain. Only Deirdre was hopping mad. The expletives pouring from her immature mouth were embarrassing. “Dede!” he hollered while her voice hung on a “Fuckin’ bastard!” and O’Neill’s palm clamped across her mouth. He glared at the sergeant, who wisely chose to step away from the vehicle.
“Lass, where do you get such language?” He held her face against his chest to cut off the sight as the soldiers roughly loaded their prisoners into the army lorry. He patted her head trying again to explain. “Dede, he attacked the soldier. If someone attacked you, you’d fight back.”
“Sorry, Papa,” she said but as she lifted her head he could still see the smoldering anger in her eyes.
She’s a girl, he consoled himself, a Yank and the disease won’t affect her. Nothing could happen to her.
~~~
Coming into the second week of July, the moon illuminated the two figures as they trudged across the field of grass. In that subdued light the shades of green became shades of black and gray so it appeared the girls were walking on an open sea. Their grandfather often said, “When you hear an Irish name, especially O’Neill, you never know what’s going to be wearing it.” The differences in these two cousins, only a half a year separating their births, confirmed that fact. Deirdre, a good head taller than Amy, moved with the quick sure step of familiarity for she was no stranger in this land. Fragile blonde Amy picked her way cautiously behind Deirdre. She watched her feet as if dreading what she might step into. Her tiny pink mouth spilled forth a constant stream of gripes.
“Dee, I’m cold. I can’t see. Where are we going?”
Forced into good behavior in front of adults, Deirdre was not so generous when the girls were alone. Without witnesses her moods were unpredictable. Spinning around she administered a shove to Amy’s chest that caused her to do a quick backward shuffle. “Shut up! Why didn’t you stay home?” Deirdre conveniently forgot she had teased Amy into coming.
Amy ‘s arms crisscrossed her chest to hide that target by gripping opposite shoulders. “I only asked where we were going. You didn’t tell me.”
“To see Davy Martin. He’s just come home from England.” Amy, Deirdre was certain, didn’t know who Davy Martin was. Instead of enlightening her, Deirdre only frightened her more as she added, “Papa won’t let me see him. He says Davy’s gone mean.”
“Then maybe we shouldn’t. Maybe he’ll hurt us.”
“Davy—hurt me?” Deirdre hauled off and this blow caused a smarting on Amy’s arm. “Oh, go on back.” Her next smack landed on Amy’s shoulder causing her to tip sideward, attempt to right herself, she then crash to her knees. Deirdre broke into a run.
“Dede! Please! Dede! It’s dark! I don’t know my way back!”
Deirdre spun around. “Good! Fall in a hole and break your neck.” She stomped back and stood over Amy. Her hands on her hips she said, “So, either come with me or go back alone.” She started off again. Amy sucked in her breath, got quickly to her feet and scurried after her.
Moving more rapidly now, they covered the two miles in no time.
~~~
Light filtered into the darkness from the Martin’s front room window as the girls crept onto the porch. Deirdre, though she would never admit it, was unsure of what their grandfather meant when he said David Martin had gone mean. Peeking over the windowsill, she half expected to discover the young man rolling on the floor drooling and yelping like a sick dog. So she was relieved to see him parked in a chair.
Martin was not alone. The lanky, bespectacled, Mr. Monaghan was with him. The girls knew him well; his wife had been tending their grandfather’s home since before they were born.
When she was eight, Deirdre, saw a picture of the Irish hero, Padraic Pearse with his bottle-thick glasses and pinched features. His resemblance to Mr. Monaghan so impressed her that she began a continuing hunt for other look-a-likes. The child, who had started out peopling her world with faces of dead heroes, was now an emerging teen soul who created heroes more handsome and appealing. So Deirdre recognized, Jack Walsh, her Sean Connery type, from his visits to Monaghan’s. She considered for a moment but she couldn’t tag a name on the tall copper-haired man who rather resembled, Robert Redford. As they watched, several times this man was forced to shove young Martin back into his chair.
