Twisted Agendas (4 page)

“Aye, he’s a bit of a slippery customer is the old Reverend.”

“I’m planning to catch him at Westminster after my exams are over.”

Currently studying for her final exams, the first of which was scheduled to commence in three weeks, it had been inconvenient for Piper to come to Northern Ireland for five days to travel around
the province interviewing various political parties. She’d planned to do it after the exams finished because that would have given her over two months to complete the research and write the
ten thousand word thesis. However, getting the IRA viewpoint was important and, when they agreed to meet her on a certain date, she could not tell them it was inconvenient. The IRA didn’t
care about the LSE or her exam deadlines.

Maura laughed. “Would you take him a wee parcel from me?”

“A parcel?” The penny dropped. Piper giggled. “I take it you’d like the armed struggle to continue?”

“Some Provos who won’t accept decommission are joining the Real IRA.”

“What about you?”

“Ops have to continue. Both here and in England.”

Piper watched the dog amble toward the door. “I’d like to ask you something that maybe you won’t answer.”

“Try anyway.”

“How do you join the IRA?”

Maura peered at her hard. “You want to sign up?”

“Signing up. Is that how it’s done?”

Running her hands through her hair, Maura said, “Sometimes you’re invited, and sometimes you ask somebody you know. Either way, you’re interviewed first about why you want to
join. If you’re cleared, you take an oath of allegiance to the IRA and then you’re told to familiarise yourself intimately with some army orders from our Green Book.”

“They’re called ‘army orders’?”

“The IRA’s an army, isn’t it?”

“What kind of orders?”

“To obey everything without question that comes down, how to execute ops, not to become a rat and the consequences if you do commit treason.” A smile formed on Maura’s lips.
“You still want to join?”

Piper decided to get her interview back on track. “Can you describe how operations are carried out?”

“Boy, with shifts like this, you’d make a good volunteer.” Maura nodded at Piper’s notebook. “If I were to tell you, would it make its way into this dissertation of
yours?”

She considered the question. “It’s not really academic enough.” Piper set the pen down on top of the book. “Purely out of interest.”

“It depends on the situational needs. Shotguns. Revolvers if within range. I’ve also staged bombs using mix or Semtex.”

“Mix?”

“Ground fertiliser mixed with stuff. Semtex is cleaner though. Makes a very nice bang.”

A montage rushed through Piper’s mind: images of shadowy figures setting backpacks under tables in pubs; ticking packages underneath cars parked in driveways; figures in balaclavas
pointing guns at the heads of begging soldiers; the flash and bark of guns; blood spurting from holes in foreheads like a fountain. The montage flashed suddenly to her parent’s blazing house.
Huge orange flames danced and licked the black sky. Windowpanes in the upstairs bedroom cracked and shattered. Helpless, she watched the house burning, her cat Frisk wriggling in her arms because
she was pressing him too tightly to her chest.

“You’ve gone a bit pale.” Maura was leaning over the table toward her. “Are you okay?”

“I’d like a glass of water.” Piper took a long drink before continuing. “Can you tell me about your actual involvement in an operation?” She wiped excess water off
her lips.

“Is that a roundabout way of asking whether I’ve ever killed anybody?”

“That wasn’t… yes.”

“I figured you’d get round to asking and thought I wouldn’t answer when you did.” She paused. Piper’s ears rang with silence. “In war you have to go after the
enemy and kill them.” Maura picked up her mug, held it before her lips, and then set it down again. “It’s that simple.”

A strange put-put sound extinguished the momentary silence. Maura cocked her head toward the door. “Shit.”

A car drove hastily into the yard and screeched to a stop. Maura ran to the window and looked up toward the sky as Piper’s driver burst into the house and slammed the door shut.

“Is it one of ours?” Maura asked, her voice urgent.

“Too high to tell,” he said

Piper went to the window. “What’s going on?”

“Helicopter,” Maura said. “It could be the Brits.”

“But we’re in Donegal,” said Piper.

Maura regarded her as if she were a moron. “Since when has another country’s border ever stopped the maraudin’ English?”

The sound grew louder and louder until it seemed to Piper it was hovering overhead.

“Maybe it’s the Free State boys on a training exercise.” Maura peered out the window toward the sky again. “I can’t see a bloody thing.”

The three stood inert and silent. Piper envisioned the thatch tearing off the roof in clumps and flying through the air. Maura’s dog whined and she picked him up.

A few minutes later, the thump of whipped air began to fade. Soon it sounded like nothing more than a bumblebee around a flower.

“Must have been our boys,” said Maura, and she set her dog down. “Remind me what we were talking about before?”

The sea churned in the ferry’s wake. The thickly painted banister pocked with rust from exposure to the salty air felt cool to the touch. Danny surveyed the moored ships
and tugboats in the harbour. Beyond them, the haze was swallowing the tapering factory chimneys and row houses on the hill. Over the intercom, the captain began apologising for the delay. Danny
checked his watch. They were three hours behind schedule. He leaned over the banister and inhaled deeply, breathing in the salty air’s invigorating pungency. Two children played nearby on the
weathered deck, their shrill excitement causing another wave of joy to surge within him. Something light yet solid splattered on his head. He looked up to see a gull turn like a military jet and
head back towards land.

“Shit happens,” someone said.

Startled, Danny looked to his left and saw a tanned young woman with spiky hair and a wide smile watching him.

“I got dumped on by a crow once,” she added.

Danny noticed a small tattoo of a teddy bear on her upper right arm. He searched his pockets for a tissue but didn’t have one. As the woman hunkered and unzipped her rucksack, the narrow
strap of her top kept slipping off her freckled right shoulder, obliging her to constantly sweep it back.

She handed him a foil sachet. “I never travel without ’em.”

He wiped his hair with the lemon-scented wipe and tossed it overboard when he was done.

“You guys still do that here?”

“Do what?”

She nodded toward the water. “Ain’t good for the environment.”

“A towelette?”

Her expression looked grave. “Seeing as it eventually biodegrades, I won’t file a complaint with Greenpeace this time.

He laughed. “Gee, thanks, I’m Danny by the way.”

“I’m Piper.”

“Can I offer to buy you a beer for letting me off the hook?”

They made their way to the bar, a cavernous room furnished with pitted black metal tables permanently attached to the scuffed floor, matching chairs and ashtrays with brewery logos. Dust mottled
windows afforded patrons a view of the shrinking harbour and passengers strolling on the deck.

“Better make them pints.”

He followed Piper’s gaze to see a throng of men and women gathered around the serving hatches. “I’ve got to drive.”

“You’re a big guy. It’ll be out of your system before we reach the other side. You can always eat some fries if you really want to play it safe.”

A heavily pregnant woman approached shepherding two youngsters licking ice pops. She glared at Piper, though waited until she’d passed by before shaking her head.

After he bought the drinks, they went outside again. The water was transforming now to burnished copper at the horizon.

“The sea’s on fire,” he said.

“Yeah, it looks horrible.” She turned her back on the horizon.

They fell silent.

“Were you on holiday in Northern Ireland?” he asked finally.

“Nah. I interviewed a bunch of people.”

They shared potted histories as strangers sometimes do when they chat and find they like each other. Notwithstanding the drinks were pints and she did most of the talking, Piper drank rapidly.
She excused herself and went to the bar after her beer was finished, returning ten minutes later with a second beer for Danny as well.

The alcohol quickly made him mellow. Scarcely listening to her, gauzy thoughts billowed like summer clouds across his mind as he glanced about the deck at the passengers. He imagined they were
all like him and bound for new exciting destinations. He peered at the horizon to where he imagined London to be, no longer seeing the burning water but the blazing lights of Piccadilly Circus,
beckoning to him.

“So what do you say?” she said.

His eyes darted back to her lips, attractive and parted in anticipation.

“I won’t take offence if you can’t.”

Narrow wrinkles appeared on her forehead as she awaited a response.

“Sorry, what did you ask?”

“You said earlier you’re going to London and I was kinda hoping I could tag along. The train’s hot and takes forever. We can split the gas and driving.”

“You don’t have to pay. I’m going there anyway.”

“I always pay my way.” She looked at her watch. “It’ll be at least two in the morning when we get into London. You can crash at my place if you like.” She tapped
the bottom of her glass on the banister to re-froth her beer. “Where are you planning to stay anyways?”

“At my mother’s friend in Guildford until I find a place.”

“That’s a helluva commute. You want to find a place in Zone One or Two.”

“Thanks for the tip.”

“You’re welcome. My grandfather always told me when I was a kid that Irish people… and I’m including myself in the category… have to stick together. He helped
anybody from Ireland who was illegal in the States. Got them jobs on building sites.”

“He sounds a nice man.”

“Was. Gramps was a nationalist. Big time. Didn’t like the English.”

Danny let her remark pass without comment.

“He’s the reason I got interested in my roots.”

“Lots of Americans come over to research their roots.”

She paused and looked intently at him. “If you’re interested, I’ve got a room with a sofabed you’re welcome to use until you find a permanent place.”

Danny took a long swig of beer. She seemed respectable, was certainly friendly and open in that manner so many Americans visiting Ireland always were.

“I’ll pay you rent,” he said.

“It’s really a box room. It’s gets very warm. I’ve got a tenant in my other bedroom.”

“Oh.”

“He’s also Irish. But he stays at his girlfriend’s place in Battersea most of the time. I hardly ever see him.”

“He won’t mind me staying?”

“Nah, Pat’s cool. I think he rents the room as a kind of safety net. You know, in case they have an argument and she throws him out.” Piper tossed back her head and finished
her beer in a single gulp. “Anyway, I’m the boss.”

Fifteen minutes after docking, Danny exited the ferry and followed the serpentine line of trucks, caravans and cars heading toward the exit. The night air was heavy with the
stench of oil and decaying seaweed. Two minutes later, the queue slowed to a crawl. He looked out his side window and saw two policemen dressed in fluorescent weatherproof jackets ahead.

“What’s up, do you think?” said Piper.

He shrugged.

The queue came to a stop for ten minutes and then began to advance in fits and starts.

“It’s a checkpoint,” he said. “They’re probably checking the MOT.”

“What’s that?” Piper reached into the backseat and retrieved her backpack.

“It’s a car roadworthiness test.”

As they drew up to the officer, Danny wound down his window. The policeman stooped and peered inside. “Where have you come from, Sir?” he asked, in a Scottish burr.

“The ferry.”

Three police cars were parked along the side of the road, one with its blue lights flashing.

“I know that,” said the officer. “Where did you come from?”

“Northern Ireland.”

“Where you headed?”

“London.”

“Can I see your driving license?”

Danny handed it to him. The officer stood erect as he inspected it, then stooped again and looked at Piper.

“You from Northern Ireland as well, Miss?”

“I’m a visitor.”

“American?”

“Yeah.”

“Can I see identification?”

“Sure.” Piper rooted in her backpack energetically for a moment and then stopped. “I’m not the driver. I don’t have to show you my ID, Officer.”

Danny’s body froze and his grip tightened on the steering wheel. Few in the Catholic minority trusted the British police and military, and many young men including Danny feared being
stopped at checkpoints late at night.

He remembered the time he’d been stopped by the police and soldiers, most of whom had Northern Irish accents, when he was seventeen. He’d been with two school friends. They were
travelling along a lonely mountain road when he saw someone wave a red light thirty yards ahead. “Where are you coming from?” the sergeant asked.

“A school dance.”

“What’s the name of the school?”

“Saint Dominic’s.”

“Let’s see your driving license.”

As he retrieved it from his pocket, another soldier shone his flashlight into the car and held it on the faces of his friends. After he had given over his license, the soldiers walked over to
one of the Land Rovers and stood talking to the others. Movement in the nearby ditch caught Danny’s eye. A soldier was watching him, his face painted black, twigs and leaves set within a
narrow band of netting encircling his helmet, and pointing a machine gun at his head. The soldiers returned to the car accompanied by a policeman.

“Out of the fucking car, now,” one soldier said.

After the boys climbed out, they were spun round, slammed against the car, spread-eagled and frisked. Other soldiers searched his car, pulling out the backseat, opening the trunk and spilling
its contents onto the road. Danny was sure they were going to be arrested and interrogated. Or shot. The harassment lasted five minutes and, after they’d tired of it, the soldiers told them
to leave quickly and walked away laughing among themselves.