Celtic Remnants
By Deborah O'Toole
Copyright ©2011 Deborah O’Toole. All rights reserved.
SMASHWORDS EDITION
ISBN: 978-1-4524-8919-3
“Celtic Remnants” is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of the author.
No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission from the author, except in the case of brief quotations embedded in critical articles and reviews.
CHAPTER ONE
Northern Ireland
January 30, 1972
AVA EGAN WATCHED the meager sunlight play across her bedspread, tiny dust motes rising slowly in the air and then vanishing. Looking out the window, she saw dark clouds gathering, which cast shadows against the Egan cottage and created a checkerboard pattern on the wall. She picked up her clothes from the floor, where she dropped them the night before.
Peering at herself in the small mirror over her dresser, she tried to smooth her dark hair but gave up. She had dawdled long enough. If she did not hurry, her father would come in and roust her. Eamon Egan was a martinet for early rising.
Leaving the bedroom, Ava made her way down the narrow corridor that led to the kitchen. The faded and worn carpet muffled her footsteps. She could smell coffee brewing, and the sounds of Eamon clearing his throat. Stopping at the end of the hallway, she listened carefully to gauge her father’s mood by his tone of voice. Her eyes wandered to the framed photograph on the wall beside her. The picture depicted her grandfather, Seamus Egan. He was posing in front of the cottage, dressed in his military uniform with a rifle beside his leg, his black beret accentuating his narrow face. He was her hero, for all his talk about Republicanism and justice, and his death a year ago had been a blow to the entire family.
Rubbing the tip of her index finger across her forehead in a habitual nervous gesture, she decided her father was too quiet and stepped forward to stand in the kitchen doorway.
He looked at her over the top of his newspaper. “You’re late.” His noncommittal tone gave her pause. She wasn’t afraid of him, but he was an intimidating presence with his firm yet sometimes gruff manner and expressive blue eyes.
“Sorry, Da. I overslept.”
Eamon sighed, creating a gust that fluttered the newspaper in front of him. “You always oversleep. You can’t expect Carey and Sophie to do your chores every morning. There won’t always be someone there to cover your tracks. You just turned eleven, lass. It’s time you became a bit more responsible.”
Ava cringed. It was true. Her brother and sister had taken over many of her chores lately. Her eyes darted to her mother at the stove. Franny Egan was cooking Eamon’s breakfast of sausages, rashers, black pudding and potato cakes with her usual stoicism. Ava felt a flash of annoyance.
“I’ll try harder, Da,” Ava said.
Eamon graced his daughter with another brief glance. “See that you do. Now run along and help Sophie with the chickens. She’s gathering eggs for me breakfast.”
Irritated with herself and with her mother’s habitual deference, Ava ran out the back door and let the screen door slam behind her. She ran down the short path from the house to a clearing that held four neatly maintained buildings: a chicken coop, tool shed, pig sty and a small barn painted with dark green trim. Just beyond the clearing lay a vast vegetable garden, dormant for the winter, with skeletal branches of remnant plants crooked and gray.
“And where are ya runnin’ to, Ava-lass?”
She halted at the familiar voice and turned to see her best friend, Timothy O’Casey. He was walking toward her from the fence beside the chicken coop. Tim and his family had lived next door as long as she could remember. She and Tim had grown up together and their mothers were close friends. Tim was a tall one, nearing five-foot-ten at the age of twelve. The height gave him a slightly gangly appearance, something Ava frequently teased him about. He had a mop of blond hair and blue eyes.
“I can’t stop, Timmy,” Ava said. “I overslept again and I have to help Sophie gather eggs, and I’m sure Carey has already mucked out the pig sty.”
Tim snorted. “Carey will be thanking you for that one again. Come on, I’ll help you gather the eggs.” He followed her into the coop, stooping through the door. Immediately, the chickens raised a ruckus.
Sophie looked up and frowned. “Are you in trouble, then? I tried waking you earlier, but you wouldn’t budge.”
Ava blushed, joining nine-year-old Sophie at the front row of chicken nests, helping her put eggs in the big wicker basket on the floor. Tim went to the other side, stretching out the bottom of his tee-shirt in order to accommodate more eggs. Ava glanced at her sister’s delicate features and long, tumbling wheat-colored hair and wondered how Sophie and Carey had been born so blond, like Franny, yet she was born with her father’s midnight-black hair. They almost looked to be from different families.
“I’m sorry you had to do my chores again,” Ava murmured as she plucked another egg from under a squawking hen. “Da was cheesed off at me, and he’s waiting for his eggs.”
Sophie pushed the basket toward Ava. “Take these to Mum then. Tim and I will finish. Carey should be done with the pig sty by now.”
Ava took the egg basket with both hands and stood. “I’ll help Mum cook the eggs. Hurry along so’s we can all have breakfast together.”
Sophie saw Tim watching Ava leave, looking uneasy. She laughed. “Looking forward to having some of Ava’s eggs, are you?”
Tim shook his head. “God help me, but Ava can’t cook. I think the world of the lass, but I pity the poor blighter she marries someday. All he’ll get is burnt toast and rubber eggs.”
They laughed at the long-standing joke in the Egan family. Ava wasn’t adept in the kitchen, or with farm animals. Sophie often heard her father wonder where Ava was going to find her talent. At age eleven, all she seemed interested in was sleeping, daydreaming and reading.
* * *
THE EGAN AND O’Casey cottages had stood side by side for more than a century. Eamon and Patrick O’Casey, Tim’s father, had grown up close friends and had joined the Derry RUC just out of their teens. Both were now senior members of the Royal Ulster Constabulary, and often partnered on investigations. Their lifelong friendship had weathered the deaths of their parents, their marriages, and the births of their children. Eamon and Franny were the parents of three, Carey, Ava, and Sophie; while Patrick and his wife, Maude, had Tim and his older sister, Megan.
Upon the death of his father, Eamon inherited the family cottage and the property surrounding it. Patrick helped Eamon expand the land with potato crops and livestock. However, their police work precluded laboring full time on the property and they both made-do with minimal herd and a large vegetable garden.
Soon after Ava carried the eggs to the cottage, the Egan family sat down to breakfast. Tim joined them, and as Eamon picked out bits of white shell from his fried eggs and put them on the side of his plate, Ava nibbled on toast and sipped tea.
The kitchen table was round and made of highly polished birch. Eamon’s place was near the back door, which he considered the head of the table, with Franny on his right and Carey on his left. Sophie, Ava and Tim sat across from them. There was homemade marmalade in jars set out on white plastic doilies, with dainty butter knives set on top. The platter of sausages and bacon was almost bare, as was the pudding, but the plate of blackened, curled fried eggs was nearly full.
Eamon was more jovial than he had been earlier. He looked at Carey as he bit into one of the sausages held aloft on his fork. “Not in the mood for eggs today, are you son?”
Embarrassed for Ava’s sake, he said: “Ah, no, I’m not very hungry. I sort of lose me appetite when I clean out the pigsty.”
Noticing Ava’s blush, Eamon chuckled. A few minutes later, Eamon put down his fork and cleared his throat. “I need all of you to stay away from Derry today. The NICRA is marching to protest the confinement without bail issue. Their route begins at the Creggan Estates and then right into Derry.”
Eyes alight, Carey asked: “Have you been called to help out, Da?”
Eamon nodded. “Patsy and I are working the march. We know how touchy demonstrations are, no matter how peaceful they start. I want all of you to stay away.” He pushed back from the table. “In fact, I need to be leaving. I’m driving in with Patsy, and I’m sure he’s raring to go.”
Franny looked up. “Surely Maud will be staying at home, then?” Maud was Patrick O’Casey’s wife, Tim’s mother, and her best friend. “She’s been volunteering in the nursery at Altnagelvin Hospital most weekdays.”
“Not today, I’m thinking,” Eamon said, going to the kitchen sink to wash his hands. “I don’t think Patsy will be letting her go.”
Franny shrugged, getting up to clear the table. “Good. We can do our laundry together and maybe a bit of baking.” As she went to the sink with the dishes, Eamon leaned over and pecked her cheek as she went by.
Ava smiled, knowing her mother and Maud did their chores, but then sat down in front of the Egan television with tea and toast to watch their daily serial drama, East Enders. The show originated from England and was quite popular among the Irish women of Derry and the surrounding areas. Eamon didn’t know of his obedient wife’s soap-opera habit, since one of his dictates was that television was only for nighttime viewing, after the day’s work was done. Franny always made sure the telly was off and cool to the touch long before Eamon came home from work.
As Eamon went out the door, Tim nudged Ava. “Let’s get going, then. Megan wants to visit the sweet shop in Eglinton.”
“Where is Megan?”
“Like you, she sleeps in every day. She’s drivin’ Ma crazy. She gets up late, has her breakfast, and then whiles away the morning in the bath.”
“But not today, aye?”
“No. Today she wants to go to the sweet shop for some wine gums, and a Curly Wurly bar. She’s saved up enough to buy both.”
“Remember to tell her that Da said not to go into Derry,” Ava warned as they stood.
“Huh! I’ll tell her, but it will be like telling the moon to skitter and hide. Meggie has never been known to listen to the likes of her little brother.”
* * *
EGLINTON VILLAGE WAS a farming community of several thousand souls, mostly hard-working Catholics. It bordered Derry, where Eamon Egan and Patrick O’Casey worked for the RUC. The village’s quaint, appealing quality had not diminished since its founding in 1619 by the Grocer’s Company of London. Trees surrounded a village green graced by two great oaks that began as seedlings in Windsor Great Park. Just off the main street was a row of tradesmen’s houses, and nearby was Cottage Row with a line of homes built for widows by the Grocer’s Company. During World War II, Eglinton was home to British air force and navy divisions, and the remnants of their barracks remained.
Eglinton’s main street had markets, Kreskin’s department store, half a dozen restaurants and take-aways, a pharmacy and the sweet shop. Hennessy’s Sweets, with its genuine soda fountain and a selection of comic books, magazines and board games, had been in business for almost one hundred years. Successive generations of children made the shop one of their haunts.
* * *
SHORTLY AFTER ELEVEN, Ava and Tim left the Egan property with Tim’s older sister, Megan. The walk into Eglinton from the Egan cottage to Hennessy’s Sweet Shop was short. The narrow road leading to the village was sided by more cottages, whose residents the three children knew well, and a small petrol station that also sold soft drinks and snacks.
Megan was tall and slender with long blonde hair. She had just turned seventeen, and was effortlessly beautiful. She walked in long self-assured strides, with her small denim purse swinging from her shoulder. Ava adored Megan and counted her as one of her best friends, despite the six years that separated them. Even though she had babysat the Egan children through the years, Megan never treated Ava as anything but an equal.
As they neared Hennessy’s, Megan said: “Daddy told me to stay away from Derry today. Did Eamon tell you that?”
Ava nodded. “The NICRA is supposed to have a peaceful march today, but you know how the marches go. They start out fine, but then some shaggin’ gobstopper makes trouble.”
Megan pursed her lips. “Dad said there shouldn’t be any ruckus. Just to be safe, stay away. But I want to shop for some hair bands at Milligan’s today. I saw one last week, and I’ve saved money to buy it.”
Tim felt a stab of panic at the stubborn set of Megan’s jaw. “Wait until tomorrow, or shop at Kreskin’s,” he said.
“The department store doesn’t carry it and I want to wear the band tonight. It will go perfectly with my lavender jump suit. I have a date with Michael Nitty. We’re going to the cinema.” She stopped in front of Hennessy’s.
“Meggie, we’re supposed to stay away from Derry. Why don’t you wear something else so’s you don’t need the silly hair band,” Ava insisted.
“I have me mind made up,” Megan said firmly, opening the shop door. “You two can shuffle around Eglinton. I’m going to Derry. Besides, I want to see the march firsthand. If it’s going to be peaceful, what’s the harm?”
As they followed her into the sweet shop, Tim and Ava exchanged glances. They knew how determined Megan was. As Megan grabbed her wine gums and a few Curly Wurly bars, Tim said quietly; “I can’t let her to go to Derry by herself. I’ll have to follow her.”
“Timmy! What about what Da said? They’ll see us. They’re watching the march.”
“There’ll be lots of people there.” Tim offered uncertainly. “They’ll be busy, so maybe they won’t see us. I have to look after me sister, Ava. Once she gets her silly hair band, we’ll go right back home.”
“I don’t know, Timmy.”
“You don’t have to come with us.”
“I can’t let you go off by yourselves…. If you promise to stay only long enough for Meggie to get her hair band, I’ll go.”
“I promise,” Tim said solemnly.
Ava walked over to the counter to stand by Megan, and then decided to get a jaw breaker and a small bag of jelly beans for herself. Megan looked down at Ava and smiled as she put her purchases into her denim purse. “Isn’t your Aunt Siobhan working today?”
Siobhan Egan, Eamon’s younger sister and well-known in Eglinton, worked part-time at Hennessy’s and attended Derry University where she studied home economics and business. She lived in a small cottage on the edge of the village with her boyfriend, Martin Sheeny, a lorry driver. Siobhan was strong, outspoken, often embroiled in local politics, and argued frequently with her brother. Eamon disapproved of Siobhan’s domestic arrangement, although Siobhan had been known to tell her brother to “mind his own bloody business” on occasion. She had rallied for longer pub hours in Eglinton, which also put her at odds with Eamon and his job.
“Auntie Siobhan is in Dublin for the weekend with her boyfriend Martin,” Ava said as they walked to the door. “They’re attending some sort of classical concert, and then they’re going to look at some property near Monasterboice.”
“Monasterboice? What’s in Monasterboice?”
“She wants to open her own restaurant. She found an old building for sale in Monasterboice that she thinks would be perfect for a bed-and-breakfast inn.”
“Everything Siobhan touches turns to gold,” Megan said pensively. “She’s so beautiful and smart. I want to be like her someday.”
“Maybe auntie will ask you to work in the big restaurant she has planned,” Ava said, surprised that the girl she admired for being so sophisticated envied someone else whom she took for granted.
Megan was no longer paying attention to the conversation. Out on the sidewalk, she pulled the other two closer and said, “All right, then. I’m off to Derry. Make sure you don’t tell a soul, and I’ll be back before you know it.”
“We’re going with you. I’m not letting you run off to Derry alone. Not today.”
Megan rolled her eyes. “I’m not a helpless female, Timmy. I can take care of myself. Besides, nothing is going to happen.”
“All the same, we’re going,” Tim said firmly.
Megan shrugged. “Suit yourself.”
* * *
FRANNY AND MAUD settled in worn, overstuffed chairs facing the television in the Egan living room, each holding a large cup of tea. A plate of biscuits lay on the table between them. It was time for East Enders. Maud put on her eyeglasses and sat back with a contented sigh. She loved the daily ritual with Franny, watching their favorite show, made all the more delicious by the fact they hid their indulgence from their husbands.
Maud was a tall, sturdy woman, while Franny was diminutive and slender, almost too thin. They had been friends since childhood, when Franny’s family had moved to Eglinton from Belfast when she was five. They had dated their respective husbands, Eamon and Patrick, while still in high school. It wasn’t until her marriage to Eamon that Franny converted to Catholicism, leaving behind her ties to the Protestant Church and her family, who ostracized her for marrying outside of their faith.
During a program commercial break, Maud took a biscuit off the plate and bit into it. “You make a fine biscuit, Franny Egan, finer than those from a tin.”
Franny flashed a smile at her friend. “I make a batch every morning for Eamon’s breakfast, and it’s just as easy to make two as one.”
For one so small Franny’s voice was deep, surprising those who didn’t know her. Maud was used to the rich voice, although she often teased Franny about it: “We all know who wears the pants in the Egan family - not the big Sergeant Eamon, but little Franny. When she barks, people listen.”
Maud dunked her half-eaten biscuit into her tea. “I’m about fit-to-be-tied with Megan. She has her head in the clouds, she does. I’ve never known the lass to sleep so much. It’s not natural. Either she’s sleeping, fussing in front of the mirror, or running off to the village.” She shook her head.
“Ava sleeps a lot, too,” Franny admitted. “Eamon is always getting after her. Carey and Sophie end up doing all of her chores, but Ava seems to be content with daydreaming.”
“Not a fit life, is it?” Maud asked. “Neither seems the least interested in school, either. I fear for Megan’s future, unless she finds herself a good husband. But where for the love of God will she find one? Derry is not exactly full of men in the money, and I don’t know what lad would put up with her daydreaming and the like.”
“Ava has time to change,” Franny said. “She’s still young, not even a teen. I’m hoping she’ll grow out of her drifting.”
“Were we like that at their age? I don’t recall ever sitting about and thinking of things I couldn’t have, of a life different from my own,” Maud said.
“Times have changed since then. We worked harder, I’m thinking, with no time for silly dreams. But we fared all right. Look at us, Maud. Married with kids, with homes to call our own. What more could we possibly want?”
“I suppose you’re right,” Maud said wistfully. “There isn’t much in Eglinton for our kids, is there?”
Franny nodded, and then pointed at the telly. “Our show’s back on.”
* * *
EVERY THIRTY SECONDS Eamon glanced at his wristwatch, bored and edgy while he waited in the briefing room at the Derry RUC Station on Strand Road. He looked around at the indifferent beige walls and shifted uncomfortably in the uncompromising chair. The lone window in the room was high, casting murky shadows onto the floor and the hushed occupants of the room. The sound of a creaking chair seemed to reverberate within the walls as the officers waited for their commander, Chief Constable McMurty. Several of them looked nervously at the wall clock, others stared woodenly into space. Yet all waited expectantly.
Patrick nudged Eamon from the chair next to him. “What the hell is taking so bloody long?”
“How should I know? Do I look like I have a crystal ball?” Eamon replied abruptly.
Patrick glared at his friend and partner. “No need to get tetchy, Eamon. I was just making conversation.”
“Well, make it somewhere else,” Eamon snapped.
Patrick gazed at Eamon for a long moment, and then turned away. There were days he’d like to swat Eamon’s head; he had moods that would confound a saint. Patrick wondered if Eamon’s belligerence stemmed from a problem at home. But no, if that were the case Maud would have told him everything she knew by now. Franny kept nothing from Maud, so whether Eamon knew was aware or not, Patrick knew quite a lot about his friend and his private moments. Patrick had to stem a chuckle from the thought. Eamon would be furious if he knew Franny and Maud talked so openly. Patrick stifled the threat of a laugh with a forced, quick cough into his hand.
Eamon was a complex man, Patrick knew, but he was also a good and honest man. Coming from the father to end all fathers, Seamus Egan, Eamon was bound to have anger issues and built-up resentments that had nowhere to go. Patrick remembered when they were children, Seamus Egan had been a commander in the Irish Militant Council. His oldest son Rory had been hot on his heels. But Eamon was different. He had been appalled by his father’s lifestyle, and swore he’d never join what he called the “family business.” As it was, when Eamon and Patrick joined the Derry RUC and began training some fifteen years ago, Eamon was regarded with suspicion because of his father’s well-known but rarely uttered openly place in the IMC. It had taken much time, and some excellent police work, to convince those in control within the Royal Ulster Constabulary that Eamon was not an IMC spy nor inclined to be one.
That wasn’t to say Eamon was unaffected by the turbulence in Derry. Eamon was affected, and angered by the injustice, the continued interference and subjugation by the British government in Ireland over centuries of repression. When taking the North of Ireland for one of his sons in the 12th century, King Henry II had oppressed and brutalized the people of Ireland, taking what little pride they had and making them second-class citizens in their own country by virtue of religion. Little had changed in the ensuing centuries.
But Eamon had sworn to uphold the law, and he had kept his word. Despite Seamus and Rory Egan’s past involvement on the other side of the law, Eamon had remained true to his ethos. On the other hand, he had never followed, persecuted or spied on his own father or brother, either. This is where the blood ties remained strong, and Patrick was sure it had torn Eamon apart over the years. There were times when Eamon had simply looked the other way despite his vows to live by the law.
Without warning the door to the briefing room opened and Chief Constable John McMurty walked in, glancing at the men assembled. He did not break his stride until he reached the wooden podium at the head of the room. He laid a sheaf of papers on the podium, cleared his throat, and then he looked out into the waiting faces.
Most of the officers respected and admired McMurty. He was tough man, large and blustering, and he brooked no shenanigans from any of them. A few of the men resented him and did not bother to hide their dislike. Some wore their feelings on their faces subtly, while others masked their bitterness more effectively.
Eamon and Patrick sat together in the first row, as they always did, neither appearing concerned. They watched McMurty with mild interest, being of the majority who liked the man. McMurty lived near Eamon’s cottage with his wife and two daughters, and Eamon and Patrick often met McMurty socially at the Briar Pub in Eglinton.
“As you are aware, the NICRA demonstration is taking place today in Derry,” McMurty began, his eyes sweeping the room. “I’ve been assured by the chairman of the NICRA, Mike Ryan, that the march will be peaceful. The group has no intentions of raising a riot or throwing stones, so to speak. For those who don’t know the specific reasons for the march, I will give you a run-down.
“The NICRA, the Northern Irish Civil Rights Association, is marching to protest the continuation of internment without trial in Northern Ireland. Today’s march is expected to include roughly 20,000 people, which has prompted the British Infantry Brigade to send for reinforcements. These reinforcements include a Parachute Regiment based out of Holywood Barracks near Belfast. Not only will the NICRA march be monitored by Derry’s force, but by the British brigade and Para troops as well.”
Eamon raised his hand. “If the march is supposed to be peaceful, why are they sending so many reinforcements?”
“As I said, the infantry is worried the march will get out of hand mainly because of the sheer number of people expected to attend,” McMurty replied, regarding Eamon steadily. “It’s just a precaution, nothing more.”
Eamon looked skeptical but said nothing.
Another officer from the rear of the room said, “What’s the word on the IMC? Are we going to have trouble from them today as well?”
McMurty shook his head. “I’ve been assured by one of our sources that the IMC has agreed their members will withdraw from Derry during the march.”
“There’s one good bit of news,” the man said, and there was a murmur of agreement from around the room. Some officers glanced at Eamon, knowing he was touchy about the subject. His father, Seamus, had been a dominant figure in the IMC for many years, heading up the attack faction of the militant group. Despite his years with the RUC, a majority of the men knew of Seamus Egan and his reputation and often wondered about his son. Eamon was well aware of the rumors and whispers, but never acknowledged them. He assumed his record spoke for itself, and rather than explain it by giving an oratory of his family history every time an officer looked his way with questioning eyes, he chose to remain silent.
Eamon ignored the obvious stares, looking straight ahead at McMurty.
McMurty returned his attention to the papers on the podium, turning the page. “All of you were given coordinates when you checked in for work, and those are to be followed strictly: four men to a block, working in pairs. You know the routine. While this might be pegged as a peaceful march, we always have to keep our eyes open for Irish Militant or royalist activity. Watch rooftops, alleys, and multistoried buildings with windows. I advise you to keep an eye peeled for snipers at all times.” McMurty glanced up briefly, then continued, “Equip yourselves with rubber and plastic bullets in case crowd control is necessary.”
Eamon was known for despising use of the rubber and plastic bullets. He raised his hand to protest. “Ah, for hell’s sake, McMurty, those are worse than the real thing and bigger than live ammo.”
“The purpose is to disable people, not injure them seriously. Would you rather fire on someone with the live ammo?”
“Truth be known, neither.”
McMurty smiled stiffly. “I feel the same way, but we must be prepared. As you know, rubber bullets can be fired at the ground so they ricochet into the legs of a crowd. Plastic bullets are worse, I grant you, as we fire them directly at targets. Still, both are better than live ammo. Real bullets have to be a last option.”
“Understood,” Eamon nodded, turning his eyes away from McMurty.
Near the back of the room, another officer raised his hand. “Are we expected to work our usual schedules today?”
McMurty tried but failed to hide his irritation. “You’ll be expected to work as long as you’re needed. Overtime applies, of course, if that’s what you’re asking.”
The man’s face reddened and he slid lower in his seat.
Gathering his papers, McMurty glanced around the room. “No more questions?” He nodded. “Be careful, and mind yer Ps and Qs. That’s all.”
The men stood and began to leave. As Eamon and Patrick walked down the corridor toward the locker rooms, Patrick leaned close to Eamon and murmured: “I’d like to see what McMurty had on those papers he was holding. It’s not like him to haul notes to a briefing.”
“This wasn’t a typical briefing,” Eamon said quietly, pushing open the swinging locker room door. “Bad enough we have to deal with the brigade, now we have to contend with the damned Para. What a shaggin’ waste.”
“Makes you wonder, doesn’t it?” Patrick said wryly.
“Wonder what?”
“If there’s more to this march than we’re being told.”
“Why would McMurty hide anything from us, for fuck’s sake? We’re on the same side.”
“McMurty has to take orders from higher-ups, too,” Patrick said, as he and Eamon dug in their lockers for flack-jackets. “The buck doesn’t stop at McMurty, it flutters down to him.”
Irritated, Eamon slammed his locker door. “Quit beating around the bush, Patsy. What are you getting at?”
“Since when has the British military ever dealt fairly with the citizens of Derry?” Patrick demanded quietly. “They always have an angle. It gives them an excuse to rile up and arrest the Catholics in our community. Why would they let a chance like the NICRA march slip by? There’ll be thousands of people there, ripe for the picking.”
“Yer blowing smoke,” Eamon scoffed. “McMurty wouldn’t be a party to that, much less hold knowledge of it.”
Patrick shrugged into his flack-jacket. “We’ll see. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
“And I’ll be telling you about the smoke coming out yer arse tonight as we sip our ale,” Eamon snapped. He glared at Patrick, and turned to walk away.
“Don’t forget yer rubber bullets, Eamon me boy,” Patrick chided, and then laughed at Eamon’s muffled curse.
* * *
FROM HIS JEEP behind a British Army barricade, near the corner of William Street in Derry, Lt. Colonel Edward Lancaster watched the moving crowd. He drummed his fingers on the hard armrest of the jeep door, occasionally glancing over at the sergeant fidgeting behind the wheel. Any time now, the NICRA march would pass one block over on Rossville Street, and Lancaster was impatient to start crowd control personally. It wasn’t his nature to sit and wait patiently. He wanted to do his job for the crown.
“Sir, do we just keep waiting?” Sergeant Charles Millworth asked Lancaster.
Lancaster reached up and scratched the side of his clean-shaven jaw. “Yes Sergeant, but not much longer. The croppies are starting to stir.”
Millworth dipped his head in a brisk nod and put his hands back on the steering wheel. He’d been in the British Army for only one year, and this was his first big assignment. But worse, he sat next to the imposing Lt. Colonel Edward Lancaster, one of the hardest-driving officers in the British Army, a belted Earl, and a member of the House of Lords. Lancaster was tall, lean, and fit, with dark hair graying at the temples, green eyes had a finely sculpted face, with full lips and a long, thin nose.
Millworth had heard about Lancaster long before he met him. According to the stories, Lancaster had been in the thick of one of the first civil rights movements in Derry in 1969, when Catholics had marched to protest discrimination of their religion and class. There had been shootings then, and deaths, and afterward Lancaster had received a commendation from his peers for controlling the “violent” crowd and acting in a calm, decisive manner.
While Millworth was intimidated personally by Lancaster, he was also leery of the man’s reputation. There was talk of Lancaster torturing prisoners taken during the 1969 protest, ripping off nails and eyelashes, but Millworth had never been able to substantiate the claims when talking with other soldiers. It caused wonder, however, and an uncertainty he found unsettling. He’d been surprised to discover he’d been assigned to accompany Lancaster to Derry from the 8th Brigade Regiment. At first he was flattered and proud to be the “right hand” of his commander, but then he learned the real reason for his assignment.
“I like to take on the new soldiers,” Lancaster had told him soon after meeting him at the 8th brigade barracks in Belfast. “It gives them a sense of importance, and it gives me a chance to point them in the right direction. We need more fearless soldiers, men whose first duty is to the Crown and not to God or their families. I call it unconditional conditioning. I’ve churned out many a soldier, and sent them down the right path. The loyalist path.” Millworth had found the depiction disturbing, even galling. He’d joined the military because he was loyal to England; he didn’t need to be taught that.
A knot of people were coming up William Street, and Lancaster reached down to touch his gun belt. “Right. Are you ready?”
“Yes, sir.”
* * *
DERRY CITY HAD a place in history significant to Catholics and Protestants alike. Although the city was named Londonderry, the Catholic population referred to it as Derry. Because of Derry’s location close to and between the Atlantic Ocean and the North Channel, the town had been subjected to attack and siege for more than one thousand years. Part of Derry’s rich history included the story of St. Columb fleeing Donegal to escape the plague in the sixth century and founding his first monastery in an oak grove by the River Foyle, which he dubbed Derry from the Gaelic word Doire (oak grove).
The walls of Derry were constructed in 1618 to defend the city from Gaelic chieftains in Donegal, and had never been breached. The walls rose to a height of twenty-six feet and were thirty feet wide. Just outside the walls beyond Bishop’s Gate was Bogside. It was a predominantly Catholic area, and the citizens had constructed a mural for prominent display that read: “You Are Now Entering Free Derry.”
The Northern Ireland Civil Rights Association, numbering 20,000, began their demonstration at two-fifty, almost an hour late, on the afternoon of January 30, 1972. The British troops took up their posts to watch. More and more people joined the march as it moved past the Bogside Inn and through Westland Street. Near four o’clock the marchers turned right on Rossville Street to hold a meeting at the “Free Derry Corner,” but a section of the crowd continued on to William Street, and toward a British Army barricade.
* * *
MEGAN O’CASEY ADORED pretty, feminine clothes. Milligan’s in Derry was her favorite department store, and most of the saleswomen knew her on sight. If she could not afford to buy something, she would put it on lay-away and pay it off bit by bit until it was hers. She liked the store’s hair accessories, perfumes, and jewelry, too, but she could never quite save enough money for those.
By the time Megan, Ava and Tim walked the three miles to Milligan’s on Rossville Street, crowds were gathering to watch the march. British soldiers had taken positions along the road, and there several dozen civilians were milling about.
Megan pointed to them. “These people are serious, but no one seems particularly angry. Maybe this will be a peaceful demonstration after all.”
Tim snorted. “Don’t bet on it. I heard Da telling Mum last night that he expects trouble. He tells us kids the march will be peaceful, but to stay away from Derry. What’s on with that?”
“Da and Eamon are trying to protect us,” Megan said. “But we know that it’s a bit silly. Look at these people. Nothing is going to erupt, they’re all too calm. As soon as I get me hair band, we’ll go back to Eglinton. It would be just our luck to have Da and Eamon spot us in a huge crowd.”
Megan hurried into Mulligan’s while Ava and Tim waited outside, watching the people gathering and trying to stay out of the way.
“When I’m older, I wonder if I’ll ever feel strong enough about something to join a protest march,” Ava mused.
“Being Eamon’s daughter, I hope not. He’d skin you alive,” Tim said.
“Da may be a part of the RUC, but I’ve heard him talk about things.”
“Like what things?” Tim prodded.
“The history of Ireland, and how we’ve been treated by the Brits for so many years. He can get pretty mad about it sometimes, especially when the Brit soldiers pull their shenanigans in Derry. Da isn’t supposed to talk about how he feels because he’s in the RUC, but my grandfather, God bless him, was a staunch Republican. My uncle Rory, Da’s older brother, was shot to death during an army raid at a house in Belfast years ago. It’s a miracle my Da didn’t join up as well.”
“Well, he didn’t,” Tim said. “Neither did me Dad. They joined the RUC instead.”
Ava shrugged. “Sometimes I wonder if Da thinks about it. You know, if he should have joined the IMC rather than the RUC. Grandfather told Cary that he’d been mad about Da becoming an officer. ‘Put yer loyalty to yer own first, rather than the masses,’ he said. ”
Tim shook his head. “It’s true. Our first loyalty is to our own. But our Da’s are sergeants, so they can’t think that way.”
Silently, Ava watched the crowd gather on Rossville Street, growing restless. “Meggie better hurry. When people start moving into the city, we’re not going to be able to go anywhere.”
Tim glanced over his shoulder toward the street, and his eyes widened. “I think the people are already here. Look how they’re pulling to the buildings on the sidewalk.”
“For God’s sake,” Ava exclaimed. “You wait here. I’ll go and get Meggie. We may have to hide out in the store until the people move through.”
“No way, we need to get out of here. If we wait until it’s over, our Da’s will find out for sure.”
Ava hurried inside Mulligan’s and Tim waited close to the door, watching the spectators and the approaching march as it swelled up Rossville Street.
Within minutes Ava was back with Megan. “What’s the fuss about, then?” she asked, clutching her package. She glanced at Tim. “Has the march started?”
Tim nodded, grabbing her elbow. “We need to get out of here. Let’s take the alley up the block and cross over to Magazine Street. Then we can get to the Guildhall and out of Derry.”
Ava nodded agreement, but Megan objected: “I say we just blend into the crowd going the opposite way, and walk back the way we came. There are so many people, no one will notice us.”
Tim was getting anxious, looking over his shoulder. The crowd pressed against them. There was hardly room to move, but the people seemed reasonably calm. A few marchers even flashed him a smile and Tim began to relax a bit.
“All right then,” he conceded. “But hang onto me, both of you. Ava, take my hand. Meggie, take my other hand. Let’s go.”
They stepped off the sidewalk into the crowd of marchers, bumping into some. “Watch yer bloody self!” An older man growled at Tim.
“Sorry,” he said, but they had been swept along, deeper into the throng. He noticed he’d lost Megan. She must have let go of his hand and was carried away. “Jaysus, I’ve lost me sister,” Tim exclaimed.
“What?” Ava couldn’t hear him over the noise.
Tim shook his head and gripped Ava’s hand tighter. “Let’s keep walking,” he shouted. “Meggie knows her way home. I just hope to God she has the sense to keep moving in the right direction.”
“Timmy! Timmy! Over here!” Megan yelled from behind them. He turned and peered into the crowd. Then he saw her. “She’s going the wrong way. She’s letting the march push her onto William Street,” he panicked. Dragging Ava with him, Tim began to struggle through the sea of faces to get to his sister.
* * *
EAMON, PATRICK AND two other RUC officers broke away from the others at Shipquay Street and went toward Rossville Street as the NICRA marchers flooded the city. Eamon and Patrick were assigned Rossville Street, where the march was supposed to end. They walked with the crowd, keeping an eye on the civilians. Eamon was surprised at how peaceful and organized the marchers were, lacking any sense of urgency. Catching the eye of several marchers, Eamon noticed none of them seemed hostile or affected by the mass of people.
The RUC all wore flack-jackets over their uniforms, and visors with tinted dark yellow plastic. Despite the coolness of the January day, Eamon felt himself beginning to sweat. Patrick jostled his elbow, and he turned to him. “What is it?”
“I just saw a group turn onto William Street,” Patrick shouted. “Maybe we should check that out.”
Eamon nodded. “The march was supposed to conclude around the Free Derry Corner. We should see to it.”
Turning to the two other officers, Patrick said: “You keep an eye on Rossville. We’ll join up with you after we check out William Street.”
“Are you sure that’s safe, O’Casey? We were told by McMurty to stay in our assigned units,” Officer Pierce said.
“We’ll only be a few minutes. Do as I say and keep moving along Rossville. We’ll join you shortly.”
Pierce nodded, and he and his fellow officer moved along the sidewalk and disappeared onto the crowd. Eamon and Patrick went the other way, worming through the throng. As Eamon and Patrick neared William Street, they heard shots. They exchanged horrified glances and ran for William Street, pushing through people and knocking a few over in the process.
* * *
EDWARD LANCASTER AND Sergeant Millworth were out on William Street behind a barricade. To the right was a three story abandoned building, where Lancaster had put several gunmen to watch the march. They kept in contact by hand-radio. Lancaster watched a large group of people turn off Rossville Street and approach the barricade. “God damned morons,” he muttered. “What a waste of time. They think they’re marching to protest a point, but their actions don’t make a bloody bit of difference.”
“Sir?” Millworth said, surprised.
“I said keep your eye on the peelers,” Lancaster barked. “Watch their hands for movement, for weapons. Keep alert.”
Millworth turned and looked at the crowd. They seemed peaceful as they approached the barricade. None of them brandished weapons or blustered epithets. He saw a pretty blonde girl at the front of the group who seemed to be wedged between two large men carrying signs. She was clutching a package and looked confused.
“Look at the blonde croppie in front,” Lancaster spat, fingering the hand-radio on his ammunition belt. “What do you think she has in the parcel?”
Millworth felt a nerve twitch in his jaw. “It’s a sack from Milligan’s Department Store. See the stenciling on the front?”
“No. All I see is the package.” Lancaster watched her carefully. “What’s the stupid bitch doing now?”
Millworth looked at her as the two men on either side of her walked forward, jostling her so her package fell to the ground. Before the girl could reach down and retrieve her parcel, a marcher stepped on the sack and split it open at one end. In a flash, Millworth saw a hair barrette with a shiny silver clip pop out of the bag.
Lancaster saw something different. He snatched his radio to his mouth and said, “See the blonde in the front of the crowd? She has a weapon. Take her down. Take her down now!”
Before Millworth could utter a sound, a shot fired from the second floor of the abandoned building and hit the blonde girl. She fell to the ground, blood spurting from her forehead. In that instant, the crowd changed from a mellow assembly into a bewildered multitude, then into an enraged mob. People ran in all directions. Some stepped on the girl, others bent to help her.
Millworth looked at the Colonel in horror. “She never had a weapon. You shot an innocent civilian.”
Lancaster shoved him aside. “You’re seeing things. She had a weapon, I saw it. If we had waited two seconds longer, we would have been fired upon. Now engage yourself. We have a mob to control.”
Millworth stared at the Colonel as dozens of soldiers followed after him. Horrified, Millworth could not move as he realized that Lancaster was sick of the mind; the earlier unease he had felt about the Colonel had been justified. Lancaster had deliberately ignited a riot to control the situation, no matter that human life - worthless Irish life, in his eyes - was taken.
A passing soldier slapped Millworth’s arm. “Get a move on, Sergeant,” he shouted. “What the hell’s the matter with you? Do what you’re trained to do.”
Millworth moved, but he couldn’t erase the image of the barrette spilling onto the ground and the girl falling right after it.
* * *
WHEN TIM AND Ava rounded the corner of William Street they saw the crowd had grown smaller with the detour, but there were still a lot of people between them and Megan. Tim saw his sister wedged between two men. Determined, he pushed through a cluster of people, pulling Ava with him, to get closer to his sister. Then he heard a gunshot, and saw Megan fall. Stretching out his arm toward her, he screamed: “No! Meggie! Meggie!”
At first Ava thought Megan had just fallen to the ground, the noise she heard nothing more than a car backfiring and not a gunshot. Then she saw the blood spreading on the concrete under Megan’s head. It was only glimpses she saw between people rushing by, so it did not seem real.
“Ava, for the love of God, what are you doing here?” Eamon shouted, grabbing his white-faced daughter by the arm and pulling her to him.
Ava went numb with fear at his grip, until he turned her to face him. Behind the yellow visor, she saw both terror and anger.
“Answer me, dammit,” he bellowed. “Didn’t I tell you not to come to Derry? Who are you here with?” In his concern for Ava, Eamon had blocked out the sounds of the crowd and the growing melee.
“Tim and Meggie,” Ava stammered. She turned and pointed at Tim’s retreating back. “Tim’s trying to get Meggie, she fell.”
Patrick walked up behind Eamon, said, “Meggie fell?” he asked, looking frantically into the crowd.
“Ava said Meggie fell,” Eamon said. “Tim is trying to get to her. Go after them. I’ll keep Ava safe.”
Patrick saw his son in the crowd, nodded to Eamon, and forced his way through the throng to Tim. Eamon gripped Ava’s hand tightly, pulling her to him. “You stay by me side. Once we get out of here, you’re in deep trouble. You need a good whipping, I’m thinking, and confined to the house for six months. I warned you not to come to Derry.”
Before she could respond, there were more shots. Instinctively, Eamon flung himself to the ground, taking Ava with him. People screamed and the ensuing stampede caused the ground to vibrate beneath them. Ava was crying, her eyes shut and her cheek pressed against Eamon’s shoulder as they lay on the ground.
Over the din came a voice, a wheezing squall of agony that drew the hair on Eamon’s neck. He knew it was Patsy. Forcing himself up and taking Ava with him, Eamon looked over the people and saw Patrick bending over Megan. Tim was standing next to him, alternately reaching down and pulling away.
“Don’t let go of me hand, Ava,” Eamon said, pulling her through the fleeing crowd. “Don’t let go.”
* * *
WHEN PATRICK SAW Tim bending over Megan and noticed blood seeping from her head onto the road, time stopped. “Timmy, what happened?” Patrick shouted as he fell to his knees.
“Da, there was a gunshot and Meggie fell. We were walking together, and she got pulled away by the crowd. The next thing I knew, I heard the shot and saw Meggie fall. Oh Da, she’s not dead, is she? There’s so much blood. Tell me she’s okay, that she’s just bumped her head.”
Patrick ran his hands over Megan’s shoulder and along her neck. She was so still. Her pulse was as still as her form. Nothing, not even the screaming people or the thundering sounds of their retreat, could make Patrick’s accept that she was dead. She couldn’t be. Taking great gulps of air, he begged: “Oh God, please no. Not me daughter. Please, not me daughter.”
Tim knelt beside Patrick and tugged on his sleeve. Patrick tried to steady himself to look at his daughter, but he could not bring himself to gaze at her. Not at his beloved Meggie lying so motionless, not at her blood running free on the pavement, and not at the disbelief still etched on her face.
Tim turned his head and shut his eyes. He did not need to be told. Only then did it occur to Tim to wonder who had shot his sister, but it took little deducing to arrive at a conclusion. It had to be one of the British soldiers. No one else would have fired on someone in the crowd, he was sure of it.
He opened his eyes and found himself staring at two soldiers. Most of the crowd had withdrawn to the sidewalk, or into buildings, or back to Rossville Street. Tim still heard running feet pounding the pavement behind him, but he was fixated on the soldiers, who were returning his stare.
But were they mere soldiers? He noticed one in particular, an older man who seemed to be in charge. Tim saw his green eyes, his long thin nose, and the cold expression on his face. Tim failed to notice the decorations on the man’s uniform, or the name stitched on the breast pocket. He only watched as the soldier turned his eyes to Patrick O’Casey, who was knelt over his daughter’s body. The man raised a pistol from his side. The other soldier behind him did the same.
Then, Patrick raised his head and followed Tim’s horrified gaze. Patrick was stunned to see two men dressed as British soldiers, pointing weapons at him. One of them was wearing a white scarf around his neck. Patrick’s eyes traveled down to the name stitched onto the jacket: COL. LANCASTER. A Colonel in the British Army was pointing a gun at a sergeant in the RUC? Patrick’s mind stopped working.
Tim’s mouth was frozen. He did not have time to think, or to warn. The soldiers felled Patrick O’Casey in less than three seconds. Patrick slumped over Megan’s body and lay still. Tim stared, back and forth between his father, his sister, and the British soldiers who remained standing, pistols still drawn. Then the older soldier jammed his weapon in its holster, ripped off his jacket and white scarf, sopping the perspiration from his face, and flung the apparel to the second soldier.
Eamon came with long strides, let go of Ava’s hand and roared up to the first soldier. “Are you fucking crazy?” he screamed. “You fired at a RUC officer, you stupid bastard!”
The soldier looked at Eamon and lowered his gun. “The man aimed his weapon at me.” His voice seemed to echo in the sudden quiet of the stunned crowd. More soldiers were gathering behind Lancaster and Millworth to defend him, as though they expected Eamon to pull his own weapon.
“Patrick never touched his gun, and you know it. I saw you with me own eyes. You deliberately shot him.” Eamon’s eyes called him a liar.
“I told you, the man drew his weapon,” Lancaster said, his voice deadly. “And I suggest you shut your mouth.”
“Whaaat?”
“You heard me. Tend to your croppie friend there, and keep your mouth shut.” Lancaster gave an order with a flick of his wrist, turned and led the soldiers toward Rossville Street.
Numbly, Eamon turned back to Patrick and Megan. Stricken, Tim and Ava stood next to the bodies, watching Eamon for answers. Ava searched Eamon’s face. Tim was stationary, his face pinched with shock as he looked down at his father and sister.
Eamon moved Patrick’s body off Megan and crossed himself as he stared at the remains of Patrick’s skull. Half his face was blown away, his remaining eye hung by a thread, and his brains were oozing from one temple. Eamon felt his gorge rise. He laid Patrick on the ground.
He turned to bend over Megan and took in her white face, fixed into disbelief, her eyes immobile and staring. The blood no longer ran from bullet hole in her forehead, but had congealed like dark glue. Eamon crossed himself again and bowed his head. “May the saints preserve them,” he whispered. For the first time in his long career with the RUC, Eamon felt the sick rise of panic and desperation wash over him. He’d seen brutality as a police officer, but nothing prepared him for this. Nothing.
“Daddy,” Ava whimpered timidly. “Daddy, what’s going on? Why is this happening?”
Eamon looked up at his daughter, seeming to remember her presence. “Patsy and Meggie are dead,” Eamon said softly as he stood. “I don’t know what...I don’t know why it happened.” Forcing himself to look away from the bodies, he seemed to regain his senses. “I have to get the two of you away from here. You shouldn’t have been in Derry in the first place.”
“I’m not leaving me Da and Meggie,” Tim said flatly. “I have to tell me Ma. I can’t leave them here.”
Eamon saw the naked pain on Tim’s face and his heart nearly broke. It was bad enough that the horror of the day had killed Patrick and Megan, but Tim’s desperate plea for a denial from Eamon was too much to bear. He saw Tim flinch at the sound of more gunfire from over on Rossville Street, and then the screaming began again.
* * *
RESTING HIS HEAD against the back of the rocking chair in the Egan living room with his eyes closed, Eamon swayed the chair in a slow, steady rhythm. His face was blank, his shattered feelings protected behind a wall of numbness. It had been two days since the event now called Bloody Sunday, two days since he lost his partner and friend. It seemed like years ago, but then again felt like seconds. He had been debriefed immediately after the riot, but because of his personal relationship with Patrick, Chief Constable McMurty had released Eamon quickly. Since that day he had been off-duty, secluded at home with his family and with what remained of Patrick’s family.
Sitting across the room from Eamon, keeping his voice quiet for the sake of the women weeping in the next room, McMurty said: “Tell me what you saw, Eamon. What can you tell me that will shed light on this matter?”
“’Twas Brit soldiers,” Eamon said softly, stopping the motion of the rocking chair and opening his eyes. “There were two of them at first, and then more.”
Frowning, McMurty leaned forward. “That’s impossible, Eamon.”
Eamon’s eyes flashed as he looked at his commander. “Are you accusing me of lying?”
“Perhaps you were mistaken, confused because of the melee?” McMurty asked carefully.
Eamon began rocking again, turning his head away to hide his disgust. “I know what I saw, John. I was not confused. I saw them, heard them. There was no just cause for the shooting, and no rationale for Patsy’s killing.” He gestured toward the kitchen. “Listen to them. I’ve lived with that for days, trying to understand what happened. I’ve been over and over it in my head, and I know what I saw.”
“I’m trying to understand, too,” McMurty said impatiently. “Yesterday was a terrible tragedy. Besides Patrick and his daughter, fourteen other people were killed on Rossville Street.”
“Yes, I heard,” Eamon said bitterly. “Of course, the British are claiming civilians fired on the soldiers first. It’s a load of bullshyte, and you know it.”
“The investigation into the incident has started already,” McMurty replied. “That’s why I need to hear your detailed version of events. Please, Eamon.”
“I told you what I saw,” Eamon said curtly. “Believe it or not, it’s up to you.”
McMurty furrowed his brow in distress. This sort of talk was not like Eamon, but the man was understandably in shock. He had just lost his best friend and partner. McMurty knew Eamon was a loyal member of the Royal Ulster Constabulary; he had been from the day he signed on. Eamon had proven his worth over the years, despite Seamus Egan’s vocal protests, and had become known for his honesty and diligence on the force. McMurty understood Eamon had silently raged an inner war about the conflicts in Northern Ireland from the start, but he never imagined Eamon could be turned the other way. Until now. The bloodshed had been too close to home this time.