A Starless Night on the Border

  A Starless Night on The Border

                            

By John Rogan

               

"I am standing on the threshold of another trembling world. May God have mercy on my soul." – Bobby Sands

                                     

July 17, 1981

It was still dark like it was night. The sun was just about to come up over the Horizon. The low, gray clouds drowned out the light. Patrick Kelly had just finished the eggs and bacon Bernadette cooked for him every morning. He was going over at 5 am. to relieve the night shift. He walked out his front door and the grey clouds mutely glowed against the darkened, night-like, pre-dawn. As he looked up, and returned his gaze to the road, he heard the roar of car’s North to South. A1 ran right in front of him. He could see the yellow headlights going North towards Newry and Belfast, and the red tail lights heading South towards Dublin and the Free State. The ramp to the A1 was a ½ kilometer down the narrow, paved service road.

The petrol station was one of the few twenty-four-hour establishments that existed. Patrick got special permission to stay open because of all the trucks coming off the highway. Over the years, dealing with cars, people and vehicles every day, he had found many people were looking to get rid of an old car, as they replaced, and moved forward. As people replaced, he would pay low, but fair prices to take away the old car. Every time a car was driven onto the lot in between the Kelly’s house and the petrol station Patrick felt as if he had just gained something, something wonderful, but overlooked, and only able to be seen if he gained a perspective. No one else understood. He would spend hours underneath the hood, seeing what was still good. He hung the trouble light against the dark and drained oil and took out parts he could resell, until Bernadette started calling for Dinner. He usually ignored her and kept working, until there was that ominous growl underscoring the request. He turned off the light and headed for the kitchen. Meara and Jen bounced in their chairs, chatted, poked and prodded and asked where Dad was. When he came into the room there was this maternal scolding  that would rise as the girls grew elated at the sight of their father, “Dad’s finally here.” Jen would say “Mum’s been calling you!”, Meara reminded him. “Our food’s getting cold” Meara said. Patrick tried not to laugh, as he remembered his mother saying the same thing, the same way, before he sat down and conceded they were right. “It’s important to be on time. You are absolutely right girls. When you get to be my age there is a lot of things that need showing up for, and I thank you for holding me to task over it.” He said seriously to Jen and Meara, so the issue was resolved. Meara felt satisfied, with her chin resting just above the table-top, she dug into their macaroni and cheese. Meara had grown three inches in the past year. She had the awkward stoop of a thirteen-year-old. Patrick could not help looking over at this new Meara, as she blew on her Macaroni, only to realize it was room temperature. “It’s not hot. It’s not even warm.” Meara said incredulously. Patrick smirked and looked up at Bernadette for her reaction. “I could try putting it back in the oven for you, honey.” Jen quietly ate her Macaroni and cheese. Meara sighed loudly when Bernadette took her plate back to the kitchen to re-heat it.

                                             ***

This morning, he looked over from the highway, and saw his junked cars emerging like icebergs in the faint light. He studied the deep, long shadows, set by the shifting cast of the sun, rising behind the clouds in the rust, axles, flat tires, engines half-ripped out, bumpers, and cracked windshields. His collection of junked cars made him very proud. He looked at the motionless, shadowy serenity, until he saw something move. Something had shifted in the low light and moved backwards and away from him. He left the side of the service road. The roar of A1 became muffled, as he made his way between the first of the totaled cars. He had been putting off getting a fence. Probably Tinkers. He loved letting the world disappear as he hid between the cars on his afternoons after work. He was growing incredibly anxious. The tingling anxiety was immediately followed by immense anger towards this trespasser for making him feel anxious in the place which was so often his sanctuary.

“Come out here, you Motherfucker! I’m calling the cops as soon as I get to a phone. You’re better lighting off now, before I get a gun.” Patrick quickly turned “And if I ever catch you round here again.” Patrick threatened into the shadows. “I will fucking kill you.” Turning his head, he passed over a shadow off-color from the rest, and then back, seeing the blurry outline of a face, and looking at the darkened blur, he finally made out two blue eyes, fixed on him cool and steady. Above the eyes he started to be able to differentiate between the dark cast by cars against the sunlight creeping through the clouds and the camouflage on the helmet. Patrick could make out that the figure was crouched, and as Patrick moved forward, he saw an SLR rifle move. Patrick stopped immediately. The blue eyes slipped backwards, where there were more cars. Patrick tried to comprehend what just happened. He decided not to go forward any further. He went from being indignantly angry to very scared. His collection of cars all of a sudden looked very frightening and he made his way back to the service road. SAS. RUC. Someone with an arsenal. No tinkers carrying around SLRs. He got to the petrol station, but did not go in. Outside the petrol station he sat having a cigarette, thinking. Before telling the night-shift kid he was here, he wanted to investigate. Patrick walked to the back of the property of the petrol station. He was able to come out into his collection of busted cars from the back without having to go through the maze of rusting metal. The sunlight was just unable to break through the clouds, an illuminating gray made shadows grow smaller, and more surface area was discernable on the warped exteriors of the ruined cars. The ground in-between the cars was no longer a deep well of darkness. Patrick’s eyes were adjusting, as he noticed the foot prints. Two fellows, with combat boots wading around in his lot. A third fellow from the back. The three, as he followed the footsteps, must have taken off for the hedge. He looked at the footprints disappear into the hedge, the thick green, and birds starting to come alive and sing. His eyes adjusted to the pale sunlight diminishing the darkened shades, as he wondered if whoever it was were looking right back at him.

                                                ***

Patrick said goodbye to whoever was on the night shift, without even thinking about him. He stood behind the counter smoking. Patrick had lived in Killeen his whole life. Killeen sat just inside the Northern Ireland border in South Armagh. The Kelly’s were a huge Catholic family that had Aunt’s, Uncles, and Cousins all-over Ireland. There was a cousin living in Sligo, and people had lived in Belfast for jobs, or gone over to England, but most of his family was in the Republic. He started working at the petrol station as a teenager, pumping gas. Once he was done with school they brought him on full-time, right about when he started going with Bernadette. It was not long after having Jen and Meara - Jen in 66 and Meara in 68 - that Henry Thornton was killed in 71.

The van Henry and a friend were in backfired in West Belfast. A jumpy British soldier at a police station thought they were under attack. The soldier went out into the street and fired two shots into the van. The bullet hit Henry in the back of the head. His friend said how half his head had been blown off, as the vehicle slipped forward and crashed into another car.  Henry had six kids in Crossmalgen and nothing to do with paramilitaries.

Patrick remembered that hot August night in 1971. The daytime heat had filled the house. The humidity lingered along the walls, and against the reading light Patrick read his paper by. The t.v. blared in front of him. The temperature outside was decreasing into a dark green coolness. They had the doors and the windows open, as Bernadette was trying to get Meara to sleep. Meara was flailing around and kept running away from her. Bernadette would place Meara in her bed, and then see her scurrying down the hallway seconds later. Bernadette, exhausted, gave up and put Meara into her father’s arms. He sat and watched, as the reports of rioting in Crossmalgen came on. An RUC Sergeant’s car was set on fire, and the army was being called in, because people were trying to forcibly take over the RUC barracks. Several nail or pipe bombs had exploded. “How’d you do it?” Bernadette had just come back into the room after checking and seeing that Jen was sound asleep. Patrick had been staring transfixed at the television set. Before Patrick could ask, ‘do what?’, He looked down and saw Meara softly breathing as she slept.

                                           ***

Only five or so customers had pulled their trucks or cars up to use the pumps. He catatonically said what was necessary, gave back change, said, “have a nice day.” As soon as the store was empty, the fear began to creep back in. What did he see this morning? Special Forces? What would happen if he told someone? What would happen if he told no one? He reached for another cigarette at the same time he thought of someone coming thought the door, pointing a gun and demanding all the money.

The high-jackings on the highway got more common. Things grew worse after Henry Thornton was killed in 71. Any place that had a concentration of cash was getting robbed by one paramilitary group, if not the other. Patrick felt more and more after Henry Thornton died that he was trying to not look at other people. Maybe, if he could pretend not to see them, he did not have to be a part. The whole thing was a bunch of egos and aggression he felt, and if he just kept his head down he would not have to participate in the whole foolishness. But people were blowing up pubs in London, shooting soldiers in Belfast, and the cops were picking people up at random, just for being seen somewhere or with someone. Loyalist Gangs in Belfast were going into Catholic areas and killing anyone they saw. The Garda found a man with a hood over his head, hands tied behind his back, shot twice in the back of the head, just over the border. Someone thought he was informing for British intelligence, as an Official IRA member. The wrong person had heard the wrong rumor. He had been shot in Northern Ireland then his body dragged into the Republic, so the two National Police departments, the Garda and the RUC, would have to coordinate a joint investigation, along with solving the murder which had crime scenes in two different countries.

Patrick saw the image flashed on the news of the grainy photo of the body, the legs crossed over one another unnaturally, the head lolling off to one side with the black hood, as he recognized the bleak road. Patrick thought of how flat and empty that area was, how it must have been so cold out there for that poor fellow. The utter cruelty of things stayed with him. The horror of the grainy body, dragged over the border, flashed through his thoughts. He was trying to stay focused on the petrol station and getting as much money together for Meara, Jen and Bernadette as he could.

                                            ***

The Bell dinged, a truck driver said good morning. Patrick was able to see out the window next to him that it was going to be a clear, hot day. As the truck driver reached into his pocket, Patrick remembered when the robberies started.

The first robbery happened at 3 a.m in 1972. Patrick remembers seeing all the police lights and swearing as he had to put his pants on. There were two robberies in 73 and by the second one in 74 Patrick was trying to make contact with someone from Killeen, who could help. Maybe someone he had gone to school with. He hated the IRA, he suspected they were the one’s robbing him, but he could not tell. It could just as easily be the RUC officer who took down his report, robbing him in the name of Ulster and the UVF. The uncertainty of not being able to trust anyone made him smoke more cigarettes, as he watched people lie about the things they did right to his face. He was unsure if that was a face that had at another time spoken to him, but only with a ski mask on. They were all the same to him, vicious crooks looking for an excuse to have fun playing cowboys and Indians with the till box at his Petrol station. The loud little kids at school who humiliated all the others, as they went about their school work. This was the adult version, Patrick felt. Him waking up at 5 am to hand over a cash register full of money he earned to a guy he probably went to church with holding a gun and wearing a ski mask. ‘Stupid’ he thought bitterly. He was behind the counter for two of the robberies. It was routine and business-like, real quick. How normal it seemed numbed him, as the man with the ski mask left out the door. Only weeks after the robberies did the nightmares start to creep in, so vivid they stayed with him throughout the day. The hooded figure dragged over the border. Patrick dreamt he was screaming for his family as he was dragged along a cold, remote border road. He woke up and remembered hearing gunshots, but could not remember the dream, then later in the day he would remember him blubbering underneath a canvas bag over his head, and some fellow saying to another fellow, “do it” before two shots rang out, car doors slammed and the taillights drove away, as his body lay twisted in the dark, cold.

 The more he smoked the thirstier he got, so he drank. He never missed work or Dinner with Bernadette and the girls. But he had more trouble having fun, letting go of things, he would begin to tease around with Jen and Meara, and he’d think of something that had happened, a bombing, a random shooting, and he would grow somber and keep in mind he had to be weary to protect his family. Meara screeched with anticipatory elation, as Jen put a pastel colored hair clip into Meara’s hair. Meara chatted her teeth and held still as Jen fixed the clip, so Meara’s shoulder length hair flowed into a high pony-tail. Patrick, watching, thinking, smiled when Meara found a mirror and seriously smiled, posed, pursed her lips, and put a hand on her hip, and then said an excited string of words that made no sense. The girls were growing up. He had to have an iron resolve, no frivolities, each decision had to be the absolute right one. Focusing on play or fun was not being aware, so he stopped, because if he did not watch every step he could be running to his burning house with his family inside, or getting dragged across the border with a canvas bag over his head.

By the end of Summer of 1975 the wear of work and the constant barrage of violence in the news was wearing on Patrick. The Miami showband had been shot -up on A1 in Derry. Patrick never liked their music, but they seemed like nice fellows. They were asked to get out of their Traveling mini-bus by what they thought were British soldiers at a checkpoint. The men manning the checkpoint were anonymous, off-duty members of the RUC, who had set up an illegal UVF paramilitary checkpoint. An RUC watch came through the illegal checkpoint forty-five minutes earlier, but let it be. The UVF men held the band members by the side of the road. Another UVF man was putting a bomb on their van when it exploded by accident. After the explosion killed one of the UVF men, the UVF panicked and they unloadedd their machine guns into the bandmates standing there and took off. The UVF had been trying to plant the bomb on them to make it look like they were IRA-affiliated terrorists transporting explosives between the Republic and Northern Ireland. They were nice fellows, and that’s probably why they got attacked so bad, Patrick thought. He kept thinking of their burnt-out, twisted car. The dark lonely border. The unidentifiable men ordering the band to get out of the van and stand in a line at the side of the road. The fear. There was talk that everyone in the RUC was in some way in the UVF. Double-timing as police officers, and handing off information to violent Loyalist terrorist groups like the UVF. They passed around pictures of individuals they thought were in the IRA. The way he saw it on the television news there were no suspects in the deaths of the bandmembers.

                                             ***

That July in 1975, An IRA bomb in a milk churn killed four British soldiers in Forkhill. In August 1975, UVF men walked into McGleenan's on English Street in Armagh, put a bomb on the bar, said “This it fellow, there’s a bomb.” and shot the owner. They sprayed the rest of the bar with automatic fire, before running outside. People could not get out fast enough when the bomb went off. The building collapsed on the people inside. One fellow was killed instantly by the blast, and another looked like he was not going to make it. Patrick saw the collapsed building on the news, and remembered having pints there a couple years ago. He learned later that night that one of the fellows killed was named Haugherty, Ed. Ed Haugherty. He had contacted Patrick about selling an old refrigeration truck, could not have been more than eight months or so ago. He must of found another buyer, Patrick thought. One with a tow. He drained his beer and thought of the man’s voice over the phone, Patrick looked around to make sure he was still in his living room. It gave him the chills, interacting with someone in life, who so suddenly has passed onto death. It was like he saw over to the other side for just a little while, and was not so sure if he belonged here with the living. For a moment, his thoughts seemed to panic as he processed how he was currently alive. He got sweaty, agitated and confused. Ed was currently dead. Ed was alive when they spoke on the phone eight or so months ago, but now he was Dead. Patrick could not speak to Ed now or ever in the future. Patrick felt dazed and without thinking he opened another beer and began drinking. “No, the refrigeration unit has not worked in years, all the workable parts are still there though. I’d have to get it towed, but it’s got plenty of usable parts. Do you tow for your lot? It’d be from… ”

“I’m sorry, but we do not have a tow truck on hand. The hydraulic lift on or Tow truck has been getting serviced since this morning. If you give me a call… let’s say tomorrow afternoon. I can help you out with a Tow. If you are going to bring it by give me a call. I’m the owner over here my name is Patrick. I’ll take it if you can get it over here. Again I apologize for the inconvenience.”

“I hear ya,. My name is Ed, Ed Haugherty. I’ll talk to you in a day or two. Thank you for your help. What was your name again?”

“Patrick. No problem Ed, you have yourself a nice day.”

“Same to you Patrick.”

                                     

     ***

Patrick looked up at the phone on the wall he had spoken to Ed Haugherty with. A man came in and paid for a bottle of Ale. “Wouldn’t mind downing one of those myself, right about now.” Patrick joked. The customer looked as if he had something wearing on his mind. “You know, another one of those days.” The customer said bringing his hand over his forehead, as he rubbed his temples. “I hear what you’re saying brother.” The customer shifted silently out of the store. Patrick felt a little more at ease, as he wondered how all the violence was wearing on others, beside himself.

The night of the bomb attack on McGleelans, after they read Ed Haugherty’s name on the News, Patrick had woken up in the living room with the television still on, but off-air. Like he was dreaming he smelt smoke. A smoky haze hung over the yellow light of the living room. Bernadette was screaming about something hysterical in his face. His stomach seized in anxiety. He figured it was a petrol bomb and ran for the girls in the bedroom. He frantically picked Meara and Jen up off their beds, waking them, and slung each one roughly over his shoulder, before grabbing Bernadette’s hand and sprinting out the door. It was not until they were completely outside and Bernadette was screaming, “You are hurting me” that Patrick realized the street and the entirety of the house was completely dark. “Patrick, you let the armchair on fire, sleeping on a fag!” Bernadette had to scream into Patrick’s face, before his eyes widened into comprehension. Patrick put Jen and Meara down, as they sleepily asked, “What’s going on.” He left his family outside and raced inside. When he put the fire out on the armchair he started to cry. Wiping his face, he went outside and said “Sorry”. His back-hunched in shame. Bernadette was still mad, but she understood how everything had been getting on top of him lately.

 The next day he told Bernadette how he had spoken to Ed Haugherty over the phone, and even if it was over the phone it still bothered him, more than all the other things happening every day. Bernadette could see he was exhausted from the pressure of constant conflict and the anxiety of threatened violence. She suggested, that before the end of the summer, him and a friend, Tom Kilroy, take a trip down to Dublin to see a Gaelic football match.

                                             ***

Tom and him went down, emptied some pints, hooted at the goals and booed at the referees. Tom had grown up in Killen with Patrick and the day was just like old times. Patrick told Tom to check out some young girls in mini-skirts then felt quietly ashamed when he remembered Bernadette at home. They walked around Temple Bar in the evening, taking in the sights, the well-dressed girls, the city lights. They fed off the energy of the people in the streets. Having another Pint or two to calm themselves down from all the commotion they were unaccustomed to: The crowds, the fashion, the statues, the buildings. Tom mentioned how this was the first day in a long time he had not smelled animal manure. They ended up by Trinity College taking a rest under a tree in College park.

When Patrick woke up it was dark. He woke Tom up and they realized they needed to head home. “Maureen is going to kill me.” Tom said wiping exhaustion from his eyes. It was just before midnight, and it would be an hour drive to get home. When they got up to the border the A1 was all stopped up for some reason. Patrick thought of cutting over to Warrenpoint, or going South and over through Drumintree, but he figured they could clear whatever the problem was on the road it was 1 a.m. after all.

“Please, step out of the car.”

“What’s this all about?”

“Terrorist activity. We are searching all vehicles.”

Tom and Patrick were asked if there was anything in their pockets. The soldiers ripped their pockets inside-out roughly. Patrick thought of the burnt -out show band car on the News. “Seen anything unusual on the roads tonight?”

“No, why what happened?”

“You’re free to go. Two motorists killed by terrorists.” The soldier flatly stated.

Patrick dropped Tom off and drove past the petrol station, saw the light on and then saw his house with the kitchen light on. He was upset Bernadette was still up, and he was worried she might be mad. He was still shaken by having to talk to the soldiers at the checkpoint, so he smoked a cigarette before he went into the house. When Patrick walked in the door there was no sound, only a slight, soft whimpering in the bedroom. Bernadette came and flung herself into Patrick. She began crying so violently Patrick was stunned speechless. She explained how Maureen had called, there had been a bogus checkpoint In Newtownamilton, the UVF had been posing as the British Army. Two Catholic men, who had been to the same Gaelic football match in Dublin as Patrick and Tom, had been shot and killed. When they were late getting back, Bernadette grew hysterical and called everyone but the police looking for him.

“I’m sorry. For getting upset.” Bernadette said, as she clung to him, calming down. Trying not to wake Meara and Jen.

“No. No. I’m sorry. We should have found a phone before we left Dublin.” His thoughtlessness angered him, he thought of the girls with the mini-skirts and the two dead men, and how the day with Tom was just like the levity of their school days. Patrick even liked to take the road through Newtownhamilton to get home sometimes. If they had been a little earlier, made this random choice over that one. He patted Bernadette’s back.  Her back kept heaving to suck in air, and then jumping and choking on the air to quietly cry into his shoulders. Bernadette heard a sleepy “Mum?” from Meara. Like Bernadette had remembered something, she began to grow calm and composed very quickly, dragging her arms off of Patrick she went to go check on the girls. Patrick watched her walk away to the girls’ room and pictured two men, like him and Tom, out of their car by the hedges, producing their identifications dutifully, and then realizing this was not a normal checkpoint. One fellow was shot and killed instantly, but the other got away somehow and they shot him as he ran away. Someone who lived close by said they saw the car, someone yelling “Stop, Stop,”, another running down the road, then what’s being described as “wild screaming” before hearing a final series of gun shots.

.

                                                ***

Patrick was filling the cigarettes behind the counter, thinking about how warped everything had become over the last ten years. A small line formed just before lunch that made him stop thinking about the past for a little while. Once the rush was over, he looked over the aisles and the shelves, and the glass case with drinks in the back. The dust glowed like sunlight, as it reflected midday Summer coming through the big windows in the front of the store. The door dinged and a customer walked in and he imagined the customer pulling out a gun, asking him if he was Patrick Kelly, and as soon as Patrick said yes there was a gunshot. Really the fellow just wanted some chewing tobacco for the road. The customer thanked Patrick and left out the door. The door dinged as it closed, and in the silence Patrick was left with a constant running, tense anxiety. This directionless sense of urgency seemed to rip open unexpectedly, until he had a smoke or a drink to calm down. Tapping the last cigarette out of his pack he had opened this morning, Patrick quietly felt like he was losing his mind, but he could not let anyone, especially Bernadette, Meara and Jen, ever know there was anything wrong. He put the cigarette in his mouth, lit it, and watched the smoke he had exhaled slowly float upward.

The camouflage helmet and the SLR rifle in the murky morning came back to him, and he wished it was just a dream. He thought about what had happened last May when Bobby Sands died. The more he thought, the more he saw a connection between what he saw this morning and what happened in May.

                                                ***

Patrick woke up at 2 am and heard shouting and a car horn, coming over from the petrol station. He figured it must be another robbery. There was a long whining beep, from a car horn, like a siren. Throwing on a pair of pants and putting on a jacket, he walked out the side door towards the noise. It was a misty-cool Spring night. The lot of busted cars sat in complete black, as he approached the petrol station. There was a young man sitting in a small white Cortina leaning on the horn. The sound blared from the small car, as the driver seemed to be hunched over the horn, asleep or something. Puzzled, Patrick walked over to the Cortina and tapped on the driver side window. The young man in the driver seat, shot up like he had been woken up. He rolled down the window, and Patrick realized the kid was a teenager, a couple years older than Meara and Jen. Patrick sighed and looked up into the sky before he spoke to the kid who was saying something about Bobby Sands.

“What! Take your hand off the horn!” The kid waved his head sideways in a ‘no’ and looked scared. Patrick looked behind him and saw another teenager inside yelling at James, the kid who was doing nightshift for him now. Patrick left the blaring Cortina and went inside. The kid at the cash register kept threatening James. When Patrick opened the door, the kid was listing off names of people he would talk to James about. The kid was threatening to tell people they mutually knew that James was an informer for the RUC, if he didn’t shut the station down. Patrick sized him up from the back, he looked to be the same age as the boy in the blaring car outside. The kid in the store seemed like he was looking for a fight, the way he was provoking James. James had a look of stunned terror, and was trying to avoid saying anything that would anger the boy.

“Close it down, James.”  

The kid said, as Patrick had slipped into the store quietly. He made eye contact with James and mouthed, “Stay calm”, while making a slow downward motion with his open hands, James seemed to acknowledge the message, and his face turned stony and resolute. Patrick knew how to get through the door without the bell ringing. He coughed to announce his presence. The kid turned around, and the first thing Patrick thought was how big he was for his age. The kid definitely looked like a teenager, but was the size of a sixty-year old man, who had spent his life draining pints. The kid and Patrick were eye-level, and Patrick broke the tension with  

“What’s this all about?” The kid did not even seem surprised or caught off guard. He stated matter-of-factly

“Bobby Sands died in the Maze prison. There is to be a three-day mourning period, where there is no work, and all stores are to be closed. Anyone driving on the A1 can see your bright store, open for business, as I was saying to James. I don’t want to go mentioning this to people. Honor the death of a martyr or you will have to face up to it.” The big kid squared up to Patrick as he said this. Patrick could smell the Whiskey on the big kid’s breath.

“Now I bet, if I called the cops. They might find out your shiny white Cortina out there, that woke me up out of my bed, may not belong to you, and may be missing from another area, where people have a little bit more sense.”

Patrick could sense the anger emanating off the kid, he was surprised himself to hear the news about Bobby Sands, and wanted to know more. Whisky wafted off the kid, as Patrick began to smell the acidic scent of sweat and alcohol mixing. The kid looked less confident and in-control than when Patrick had seen him torturing James. Patrick knew it was important to not escalate things when everything was so tender. He knew anyone really associated with the IRA would never do a sloppy job like this. The kid was talking out of his ass, if the IRA did find out the kid was falsely using their name he would probably get a warning or kneecapped. But Patrick could not assume, if the kid was saying he knew people, he might be liquored up, but he could tell someone, how Patrick had called the RUC on him. Patrick thought of the informer with the canvas bag over his head on the border, the corpse stiffening into rigor mortis, as the dew on the grass began to freeze.

“I’ll tell you what, son. If you apologize to my employee James here, I think we can forget about the whole thing. I was unaware of the passing of Bobby Sands, and it may be best for everyone if we shut our doors in respect.”

The kid seemed to look around the store not really sure what to do next. Patrick insisted the Kid and James shake hands. They stiffly shook hands, avoiding eye contact. “There we go. Off you go now.” The kid seemed to confusedly bumble for the door. Patrick was patient. Before he left the kid shouted “Brits out of Ireland!” Patrick heard the door ding shut, as the kid walked outside and got into the White Cortina, its horn still blaring, less constant, off and on now. He watched the blaring white car head for the A1, and tried to remember the license number for when he heard of high-jackings tomorrow. James was all shaken up, Patrick patted him on the back, as he looked like he was going to throw up.

“Go on home and take care of yourself. It will be hard, but pay no mind to fellas like that. You’re doing fine. Fellas like that find their own problems.”

“Thank You for your help Mr. Kelly.” James rushed out the door and rode quickly away on his bicycle. Patrick figured he would have to start looking for a new night shift person. He could only get kids out of school to hang on for a couple weeks before they got spooked. Patrick locked all the doors and shut down the lights. Bernadette was standing by the door when he came back into the house.

“Another robbery?” she asked. Wincing her face in a sad expression, as she noticed how tired Patrick looked.

“No, No, not this time. Bobby Sands has passed on.” Bernadette held her hand up to her mouth.

“The fellow hunger-striking on the news. The one they got elected MP from The Maze?”

“That’s him. Some young kid screaming about the IRA and a period of mourning, wanted me to close the shop, so I did. I think he knew James, the kid I have doing night shift now, scared the poor kid to death. It’s the smartest thing to just close down, until people aren’t as upset.”

“Oh, they’re going to go wild over this.”

 Patrick and Bernadette kept Meara and Jen home from school for the next two days. Meara started to cry whenever a picture of the clean-cut, handsome young man would appear on the television, contrasted with the skeleton-like dirtiness of his last days. They watched as women banged trash can lids in unison in the early-morning hours after his death in Belfast. Jen stayed in her room more by herself, while Meara kept switching all the channels on the television to find any coverage or information. Jen and Meara were both in their teens, where they often felt overwhelmed, and unsure of what to do.

Bernadette asked Meara, “Sweetie, why don’t you go outside. You’ll feel much better than sulking in front of the television set.” Meara ignored her and kept watching the different news stations. Around midday there was no more news and just soaps and daytime television. Meara did not feel like moving or going outside. She did not feel like doing anything. The emotional pall the death of Bobby Sands  cast over her community seemed to reflect an inner-struggle within herself, with the struggle coming to realization externally in the landscape and personalities she interacted with. She looked at her mother and her sister, and she despised becoming like them. She imagined the years of adulthood when all she cared about were things she had been conditioned to see or not see. The future felt suffocating. Meara’s brain kept working in stressful circles, as she imagined her future in a world completely controlled by fake people. It was not so much the appearances being fake, it was just, she could tell in the tired expression of her Dad, or the aggression that came into Bernadette’s voice some time, or the weariness her teachers at school displayed as they shuffled to the front of the class. There was something wrong. This handsome young man starved himself into a skeleton, until he fell into a comma and died. Bernadette and Patrick and all the teachers were just fake. Something was terribly wrong and everyone was trying to distract themselves from what was really happening.

 A man had whistled at Meara, as she had walked home from school in Killeen the other day. Her chest was tight, soar and sensitive. There was an afternoon update on ceremonies occurring in Belfast and the silent march in Derry. They were putting up black flags in Belfast, while stores remained closed. Meara had been lounging in the living room, and had slowly shed all her clothes down to her underwear, as the house held the noon-time heat. She ate crackers with Peanut butter. Meara lay in front of the television on the floor on a bunch of blankets and some pillows. She asked Patrick if they could go up to one of the vigils in Derry or Belfast, or Crossmalgen. “No, sweetie. It’s best not to get involved in this stuff.”

“That doesn’t mean it’s not happening!” Meara shot back

“Why don’t you put some clothes on, cover yourself up, and go outside. Don’t go picking squabbles with me young lady.” Patrick went back out to the junkyard and the car he was working on. Meara looked down at herself, “cover yourself up”, He had said, and Meara felt uncomfortable, upset and weird when she realized he had never told her to do that before.

Bernadette had spent the whole hot day in the kitchen, checking on the roast she had going. By dinner time Bernadette had set the table and she wanted them to eat as a family, peaceful, together, with all this strife going on outside. Jen slipped into her seat. Bernadette asked Jen to stop reading the book she had been buried in all day. Jen dutifully put the copy of Lord of the Rings aside and looked over the fine meal Bernadette had prepared. Meara was waiting for the six o’clock news to come on when Patrick finally came in from The Junkyard.

“Meara!” Bernadette yelled from the table “You’re father’s here.”

“Just a second.” Meara yelled back.

“Meara!” Patrick yelled. Come on we’re hungry. Bernadette got up from the table and went into the living room where the television was. Patrick and Jen heard Meara start to scream high-pitched, and then Bernadette started yelling. “We’re eating now Meara!”

“I want to see that. I’ve been waiting all day!”

Bernadette slapped Meara’s hand away from the on switch, and then stood like a barrier between the extinguished milky gray screen and Meara. Defeated, Meara sighed, rolled her eyes, and headed for the dinner table. She sat down and sighed again, her head lowered, beneath her shoulders, her pale face angry, as she blew her long brown hair out of her face. Patrick looked at Meara, and could see she was all attitude.

“Meara I think it may be best if we take a break from the News for the night.” Meara’s turned to her Dad. Her mouth hung open in shock, and her vison started to blur with tears.

“It’s like I’m the only one who even cares!” Meara screamed loudly through her tears. Bernadette, Jen and Patrick were shocked at the volume of her scream. Jen quickly covered her ears.

“Meara, please, compose yourself, we’re upset too about the whole thing. He was a young lad, and you hate to see him go, but things are crazy right now and it’s not even sure what’s going to happen tomorrow. All we know is we’re a family here, right now, and that’s the best we could do, alright.” Bernadette said softly, slowly. Meara seemed to calm, even spooning some potatoes onto her plate, until she started to cry uncontrollably, as they sat and quietly ate listening to Meara’s whimpering. Finally, Bernadette put down her fork and knife and told Meara to go to her room. Bernadette was upset the dinner she had worked all day on was ruined by Meara’s dramatics. Jen seemed to sink into her seat, as she stayed completely silent. Meara sulked and cried, as she dragged herself out of the seat and away for the dinner table.

“I have trouble pretending that everything is just fine!” Meara screamed before slamming her door. Patrick shook his head and kept eating. Bernadette turned red, but continued eating her meal. Jen finished the food on her plate, and asked if she could be excused to her book and her room.

When Patrick left to go out He heard Bernadette trying to talk to Meara behind her closed bedroom door. He heard Meara’s muffled crying, and Bernadette calmly imploring. Patrick went out the door when he heard something slam and Meara yell, “It’s not fair!”

Patrick usually did not go out on weeknights, but the petrol station would be closed, and even though he could tell Bernadette did not want him to, he thought it would be best to go down to Mcveigh’s, make an appearance, and hear what the local word was with the passing of Mr. Sands.

He said hi to Matt, the owner, who was always behind the bar either tending or chatting people up. Aside from the scary atmosphere of uncertainty that seemed to oppressively weigh on people Patrick was relived to be out of the house and not have to be at work tomorrow. He knew the stores would be closed, but Mcveigh’s and Matt would certainly be open. As Patrick took a sip of the first beautiful Pint put before him, he heard, “Did you hear it?” Patrick looked over and saw his old-school mate Dominic Laverty.

“Hear what?” Patrick said back. Dominic seemed to list off to the side, as he stood, like he was about to fall, but he did not. Patrick remembered that Dominic liked his drink a little too often and too much. Matt butted-in and explained.

“Not far from your scrapyard and the station. It happened just at sunset. The Donegan brothers were trying to set up a checkpoint, and I’ve been saying it has to be British Intelligence, someone with the Green jackets, maybe even SAS, but someone high-up in the British Military. When a covert team, a bunch of Brits hiding out, saw them walking to the road with long rifles. They asked them to halt and Kevin, from what I hear started firing back. Real Wild West kinda shoot-out. I’ve talked with people who heard it, and they said something like must have been 500 to 800 shots fired. The other fellow with them was wounded, but he’s safe away somewhere, probably hiding out down in Dundalk. They got Kevin pinned down, and they arrested him. James ran over the border. We wondered if he blundered over your land since he got to the Republic.”

“The first I’m seeing or hearing anything about it.” Patrick said, returning to silence so Matt would go on.

“They got the Irish Army involved and they pinned down James in the Republic. Brits on one side shooting and the Irish army on the other, so he gave up and the Garda got him.”

“Wow” Patrick sat back and tried to soak all the information in. “When did all this happen?”

“Just this evening. Not 2- 3 hours ago. I’ve had people all upset coming for drinks who heard the firing. People already all upset over Bobby.”

“Ya, I know. It’s a shame, young lad. I did not hear any of this. I was out in the junkyard. Maybe all the shooting went off, just as I went in for Dinner.”

“it’s not far from where you are. You might have had to listen, but I bet you could have heard it.”

“I was having a nice dinner with my family.” Patrick said throwing back the Pint glass. His face softening, Matt asked.

“And how are the misses, the girls? Poor fella, You’re outnumbered in your own house.” Matt roared with laughter.

                            

                                              ***

After he could not eat his lunch, Patrick thought of making the call. He could tell Matt down at Mcveigh’s and word would get around. Patrick dreaded the idea of something like last May happening. The whole event on top of Bobby’s death had really put people down. He thought of people thinking he was colluding with the enemy if he let the Brits hide out in his junkyard, that he did not care, just wanted to make money at the station. All he really wanted was to make sure Bernadette, Meara, and Jen were provided for and safe. All this stuff happening down at the station, and the girls are sleeping some 200 yards away. Wouldn’t take much for that kid, who was terrorizing James last May, to throw a Petrol bomb at his house, because someone said something about him colluding with the enemy. That’s all it took, something happening, someone growing an idea, about who and why it happened, making an assumption, growing a reputation, right or wrong, and a family was getting burnt-out of their house, or a fellow was getting shot on his way to work. It was that easy to wind up on the wrong side of things, either interned at a jail in England or looking over your shoulder for the IRA. He thought of how Jen and Meara were 15 and 13, and how many boys their age would start getting caught up in it. He imagined Meara and Jen pouring over his actions as adults, how their father had reacted in all this struggle, and what would stand through time to reflect on his character.

He thought of the news programming from last May, how Bobby Sands’ body had been sitting at his parents’ house in Belfast. Old folks looking at their young dead son. There were the old women saying the rosary in their nighties at 1 a.m. Then the direct hits on the RUC vans, as boys threw petrol bombs and they exploded against the night and the tire ruts. The rubber wheels spinning into flame, as the RUC vans tried to get away from the gangs with black masks on. British soldiers fired rubber bullets back. The gangs of boys stole buses, put them at the beginning of Catholic neighborhoods, and set them on fire, so no Army vehicles could get in. The Army had to bulldoze all the burnt-out buses, once daylight came.

Patrick realized he was mad at whoever was in his junkyard. That was his junkyard. And the British occupation of his homeland took on a truly personal dimension. The tingling self-doubt of ‘will I make it through this’, the dark thoughts of your loved ones arranging your own funeral, mixed with the anger against the cold brutal British Authorities, that wickedly cold Margaret Thatcher, and those air-tight prisons contrasted with the freedom-loving young man in a coffin at his parent’s house.

The fear, of being isolated in an unnatural grey prison cell in England, or being shot and robbed for colluding with the enemy. It grew until he was almost hysterical. He paced, and rang up people as they came in as the afternoon rolled on. By 3 he decided to call down to McVeigh’s. He smoked two cigarettes, as people began to come in for rush hour. He called and asked Tim, the kid doing night shift now, if he could come in early. Just as Tim showed up the phone rang, and a voice which did not introduce itself asked Patrick to tell him any and all details of what he saw this morning. The voice was asked if it was okay, if someone came out to take a look. Patrick said that would be fine. The caller thanked him, and told him to go about his normal routine, as if nothing had happened. Patrick said ok and grimly hung up. Tim was at the register, and Patrick was getting a pump started that had stalled out on someone. Patrick looked over from the busy, rush-hour petrol pumps, and he saw a car stopped in front of the junkyard on the service road with a jack and a tire out, but he saw no one around the car, or anyone moving in the junkyard. The car sat there until just before dinner. Patrick looked up from telling Tim about anything needed to be done tonight and the car was gone.

The walk home from the Petrol station was quick. Patrick tried to not look into his beloved lot of totaled cars. His nails were yellow, he felt like he had a headache all day, and his eyes felt dry and stingy. The Summer night came down coolly over the surfaces of the junked cars, as they sank in the mud and the overgrown grass. Patrick was relieved to slip inside his door. He exhaled and tried to believe it was all out there, and it was safe and warm in here. “Dad’s home!” Jen squeaked. At dinner Meara asked Patrick how his day was in a tone that was sincere, mature, and attractively adult. Patrick stared at her lady-like elegance in bewilderment, as she awaited his answer before he said “Another day. This Tim fellow I have helping out is a real go-getter. Came in early when I asked him to help out with rush hour. Meara laughed at her father, “Maybe he just came in because you asked him, and you’re his boss, and he needs money.” Patrick could not disagree, although he figured Meara would love to argue if he did.

“Maybe.” Patrick said digging into his food. Bernadette could sense his tension, after dinner, as the house quieted down for bed. The girls fell asleep after a long, hot day. He hated not telling Bernadette things, but he worried about her having knowledge of who he spoke to and what it could mean for her. “It’s just all this stuff at the station.” He dismissed Bernadette, who did not look satisfied, as she rolled over in bed to sleep. The running anxiety of the whole day, made the tension in his forehead feel like it was slipping down over his eyes, and he began to let go of things, forget where he was, the people he knew, the role he had to play, and into a deep dreamless black.

When he woke up Meara was at the bedroom door way screaming, “Daddy!” Patrick rose out of bed and saw Meara in a night shirt with white underwear on, sweeping her dark brown hair behind her ears, as she cried. Bernadette was out of the bed. The hard, echoing cackle of automatic fire rose like a rain swell. Not sure what was happening, but hearing the gunshots, Patrick felt himself become vitally awake with concern. He tried to get Meara to get down on the floor, but she was fighting him for some reason. Bernadette turned on a light, the brilliance of the light turned on against the pitch black seemed to stun them all, Bernadette looked at Patrick struggling to get though the doorway, and get Meara onto the floor. Meara kept trying to stand, she kept crying and asking what was happening. “You’ll be safe on the floor. He yelled.” Patrick woke up more when Bernadette said his name, “Patrick”, so he let go of Meara, and left her in the bedroom doorway with Bernadette. He went into the living room where Jen quietly milled. He got Jen onto the floor, and lay with her, as Bernadette lay with Meara. Meara started to scream and cry as the shots became more numerous, less spread apart, like when hail comes in a rain storm.  Jen put her hands over her ears and closed her eyes. “Go into the basement.” He screamed towards Bernadette. Patrick went out the side door. He could figure out no one was firing into his house or into the petrol station or on the service road or on A1. It seemed to be coming from behind the house, with a flurry of automatic rifle shots, and the heavy chug of a larger caliber machine gun. He listened as the shots died down, and slowly petered out. Over the border. He could just make out the difference between the sky-line and the ground. He guessed maybe 300-400 yards away Southwest. That would put the firing in the Republic. He went back into the house, once the firing had stopped. Patrick did not want to get mistaken for anybody, being in the wrong place at the wrong time. The girls were still upset in the cellar, Bernadette was keeping them calm. Patrick told them in a calm, confident voice that the shooting was off in the distance, but they should stay put just the same for the time being. The clock on the kitchen stove read 1:30 am. He went outside again when he heard the three RUC vans pull up in front of his house.

Patrick walked out to talk to the officers. Their lights flashed, lighting the dark dense countryside for brief moments. Patrick saw landscapes he could only see in the day flash before him, and then they quickly faded.  He was overwhelmed by the reality of it all. A dream-like sense of being lost overtook him. Patrick stumbled out to the RUC vans flashing. The intimidating officers eyed his approach.

“What happened?”

“We’ve had some terrorist activity, and we are still obtaining information.” Patrick was horrified, actually speaking to the RUC, but he was relieved they had come. He wanted to know what was going on.

“Could I have your name and some identification please.”

“Patrick Kelly. I live in this house right here. That’s my business over there.” He gave them his driver’s license from his wallet. The officers wrote down the information and looked from the ID to Patrick’s face.

“Did you see anyone on your property, passing through, anything suspicious, or unusual.”

“No.” Patrick said. The RUC vans were idling in front of his house. He was glad his house faced the highway, and his closest neighbor was behind acres of farmland. Anyone at the petrol station could still see, and he nervously looked over at the light on in the station and Tim doing night shift. “No, just been working all day, woke up sounded like World War 2.” Patrick said, lighting a cigarette, and exhaling smoke. “Seemed like the firing was coming from that direction” he pointed Southwest towards the border. “My kids are all upset. My wife is still sitting in the basement with them.”

“We won’t be able to fully figure everything out until morning, but it does look like the terrorists walked across your land or were on it for some time. Have you ever been a member or affiliated with the IRA.?”

“No. In no way.” Patrick stated quickly and flatly, realizing how serious the question was.

“Are you the owner of a disabled ice cream van that sits along the border on your property.”

“The Chevy P30? Big dirty white thing?”

“Yes sir, I believe you are describing the vehicle.”

“Yes, why.”

“The terrorists were targeting a special operations unit. We will have to impound this vehicle, because it was riddled with an, as of yet, unaccounted for number of bullets, and a 21 year- old British Army corporal was killed and another British Army rifleman was severely wounded within it.”

“What were they doing in my P30?”

“It’s currently under investigation by us, The Garda, The Irish Army, The British Army and British Intelligence why the soldiers were out here in the first place, but over the next couple of days we ask for your cooperation as we will have to comb your property for evidence. Unfortunately, we cannot give you any more information at this time.”

“Sure, anything I can do to help.” Patrick stammered quickly, as the officers seemed to be getting ready to leave. Relieved they weren’t taking him anywhere for questioning, he broke away from the officers and walked back towards his house.

“Everything’s fine, now! Come on up” He shouted down into the cellar. A 21 year-old corporal, just a kid. Jen and Meara would be his age in 6-8 years.

“What happened!” Bernadette’s eyes bulged, as the two girls leaned, tired into the warmth of her side. She held a hand over each one of their shoulders. “Let’s get you back into bed girls.”

“I can’t sleep now.” Meara said quietly. Bernadette brought the girls into their bedrooms and told them she would be back in just a minute. A 21 year-old corporal. Patrick listened to Bernadette whispering to Meara and Jen in their respective bedrooms. He started to feel dizzy. Maybe the phones were tapped, and someone heard him make the call this afternoon. Why would anyone tap his phone? There was British Intelligence all over the country-side. What would people think about the RUC walking all over his property for how many days they needed to be there. Would it get around? What he did? Did what he do lead to…. It could have happened if he never saw the camouflage helmet and the SLR rifle, if he never made the call.

Bernadette knocked on the bathroom door. “Patrick, are you okay?” As his eyes teared, his stomach painfully convulsed forward, and he vomited until he had to sit down on the floor with his legs folded in the small bathroom, his face right next to the toilet bowl.

“I’m fine. Everything’s Okay. They killed a soldier, shooting from the Republic. I had to talk to the RUC. They’ve gone now. Poor fellow died in that Ice Cream van I’ve had long as I can remember.”

“Your van?”

“Another one badly wounded too.” Patrick shouted through the locked door. He came out of the bathroom and steadied himself on Bernadette’s shoulder.

“Are you sure you’re alright. You’re shaking.” Bernadette sat him down on the couch. She went into the kitchen and got him a beer. She opened the tab and handed it to him. He took a sip, put it on the table, and said:

“When people don’t get treated fairly, things get warped. People. Situations. Choices.” Before Patrick could think of anything else to say, he thought of him and Tom as young boys after school, watching a Gaelic football match. He was a little kid, and he saw something in his peripheral vison, just a quick glimpse, and when he turned he saw the cold, remote, dark border, as it spread endlessly, Patrick saw himself across the cold hedges, through the black star-less night sitting speechless, in the soft yellow light of the living room, as he tried to explain to Bernadette how he had done the right thing.