The Other Side of Nowhere — by Canbus
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A Cold Day in Belfast “The old place looks the same,” thirty four year old Gannon McCabe stuffed his eyes with the homey goodness of Murphy’s Pub and Grill. He breathed deep. The odour of boiled corned beef and cabbage mingling with that of frying fish and chips overwhelmed his olfactory senses.
McCabe swallowed hard to prevent a pool of saliva from dribbling out of his mouth. “It’s like time has stood still all these long years. Even the people are the same.” Old Declan O’Quinn and his partner in crime, an even older Flannan Swinburn decorated the corner bar stools with their large frames. It was if they had never moved from their perch.
O’Quinn held an ancient harmonica in his ham fisted right hand and Swinburn was singing one of his homemade songs. “Harry O’Bryne’s daughter Was a sweet pretty colleen She left her dear mother At the tender age of seventeen. She sailed with her sweetheart Jack Donnach from Cork From the green hills of Ireland To the shores of New York Jack loved a fancy woman In the streets of the town Sweet pretty Maggie’s heart Was broken in two The pretty colleen Didn’t know what to do With the cold wind a blowing And the rain falling down Maggie O’Bryne jumped In to the Hudson and drowned.”
“I see your still caterwauling like a banshee, you old reprobate,” Gannon’s warm, broad smile removed the sting out of the words. “Declan you can’t play that thing any better than you did seven years ago.”
“Declan, look at the bedraggled scallywag that the cat has gone and dragged in.” Flannan lifted his mug and drained the half pint of Guinness in two noisy swallows. “Come, sit ye down boyo and buy us a pint or three.”
O’Quinn removed the harmonica from his mouth, tapped it on the bar top and wrapped it into a none too clean red bandanna. “How’s your dear mither doing these days?”
“Poorly, that’s why I’m giving up the sea for a bit.” The ancient bar stool creaked as Gannon eased his tall, brawny frame onto the cracked brown leather top.
“It’s a darn shame me boy but the years get to the best of us in time. She was a beauty in her day. Many a good lad ended up with black eyes and bloody noses over her. Fancied your mither me self, I did.” Flannan wiped imaginary tears from the corner of his deep blue eyes. “You’re faather won her heart and all the rest that went with it. I never held no grudge over that, for he was the better man.”
Declan roared at the top of his lungs, “Hey Nevin, come out from your hidey hole and see what just crawled out of the wood work and into your fine establishment.”
“Well if it isn’t Gannon McCabe. Come set you down boyo and have a pint on the house.” A big grin split Nevin Rowntree’s pudgy, sallow face in two. “What bad wind blew you into Belfast?”
A smile lit up McCabe’s weather tanned face. “It’s nice to see you too Nevin but I thought you’d be in America by now. What happened to all your grandiose plans about becoming a screen writer in Hollywood?”
A wife and two babes, twin girls, now stand up, turn around and let me have a good look at you. By the way, have you seen Caitlin Kirtland since you’ve been back?”
“She’s joining me for lunch. I want nothing but your best for her.”
“So that’s the way the south wind blows,” Nevin chuckled. “You could do far worse. Next to my two darlings, Caitlin is the prettiest girl born in our land of shamrocks and leprechauns. Having the usual are you?” Rowntree didn’t bother to wait for an answer.
The Guinness sounded like soft rain as it dripped into the tall pewter tankard. “Now lad, tell me where you’ve been and why you’re back in Belfast.”
“I’m here to see me mither,” McCabe slipped back into the thick brogue as easy as pulling on a pair of woollen socks. “Word came to me aboard the Prydwen that she’s been doing poorly.”
“You’re Gannon McCabe.”
Gannon spun around on the old bar stool, “Who wants to know?” He fixed the ice cold blue eyes with his steel grey ones.
“I’m Lieutenant Chester Richards of the Ulster Defense Regiment, 10th battalion.”
“You bloody bastards don’t waste much time do you. What do you want?” The last words were as sharp as a new razor.
“I have some questions about a friend of yours. One Kevin Delvin, of the Óglaigh na hÉireannh,” the words hung in the air heavier than a thick London fog.
“Kevin Delvin and The Irish Volunteers, those are names I haven’t heard for many a year. Sorry Richards but I haven’t seen my school boy chum for over seven years.” Gannon turned back to the bar, picked up his pint and took a big swallow.
The British soldier grabbed McCabe by the shoulder with his large, meaty right hand and spun him around. “I’m not done with you boyo.”
“Take your hand off of me.” If looks could kill Richards would have died on the spot.
“And if I don’t?”
Gannon sensed the challenge in the officer’s words. He knew that it should be ignored but his Irish was up. Besides he loved a good old fashioned, knock anything down brawl. “If you don’t.”
A rolling thunder clap ripped through the pub and drowned out McCabe’s last words. Shards of glass, bits of bone and skin rolled over him, cutting little slices into his face. Faint screams from the wounded and dying poured through the shattered window and pushed their way into his battered ear drums. McCabe looked through a thick fog at the shambles that just a minute ago was a neat Irish pub. He rubbed his eyes to clear his vision. Drops of life’s redness stained his tanned right hand.
A shaking O’Quinnn and Swinburn struggled back to their torn and tilting barstools.
Flannan shouted, “The bloody bastards have gone and spilled me pint. When ye be having the time Nevin, draw me another one.”
Blood streamed down the milk white, frightened face of the pub owner, “As soon as I get a bit of my nerve back. Damn it all to hell that was a close one. Too close for comfort if you ask me.”
For the moment at least it seemed that no one was in any mood to ask anything.
A stunned, still wrapped in a mist of fear and anger Lieutenant Chester Richards clutched the edge of the splintered oak bar with two shaking hands. “Give me a hand.” He stretched a twitching right out towards Gannon.
McCabe ignored the plaintive request for assistance. “Get up by yourself. If it wasn’t for you f-ing Brits wanting to keep us Irish under your fat thumbs, things like this wouldn’t happen.” The thick mist that had clogged his mind thinned and was replaced by the image of a red haired, peaches and cream faced girl.
He screamed, “Caitlin,” and shuffled across the littered floor on wobbling legs as fast as he could. He stopped when he stepped through the gaping hole that once was the door. A scene right out of hell greeted his blurry vision. “Bloody hell,” was the only thing he could think of saying.
“Caitlin, Caitlin.” The only answer to his desperate cry was heart wrenching screams and the wailing of sirens. With the words, “I hope she was late,” roaring through every inch of his mind, Gannon McCabe stepped out into the street littered with dead and dying. Bloody fragments of arms, legs, skin and bone crunched under his size twelve, scuffed boots. On legs that were a bit steadier he raced towards a little girl that lay in a pool of blood. A smoldering teddy bear was clutched in her small right hand.
“Mummy, mummy, where are you mummy. Why can’t I see?”
The frail, plaintive cry tore through McCabe’s ears and into the depths of his soul. “As long as I live,” he knelt down in the red pool to help but it was too late.” A bit of a green dress poking out from underneath a telephone pole caught his eye. He ran towards it, somehow knowing in his heart what he would find.
“You have to let go of her sir, she’s gone.”
Tears streamed out of McCabe’s grey eyes and fell onto the death cold, white face of Caitlin Kirtland. He wiped his eyes with a corner of the blood stained hanky in his shaking right hand. A tall, trim frame, wrapped in the uniform of Belfast’s finest seeped into his blurred vision. “You have to help her,” squeaked out through white, trembling lips.
“Only God can help her now sir. Now come away and let the corners do their job.” The gruff voice was mixed with sadness and a tinge of pity, “So much waste and all for nothing. Peace it seems, is as far away as it ever was.” Sergeant Brin O’Donnell, fresh from an intensive two week bomb disposal course shook his big head. “Now give me your hand sir and I’ll be helping you up.”
As Gannon struggled to his feet pins and needles coursed through his legs. He mumbled “Thanks.”
The two six foot four inch men, stood eye to eye and a foot away from each other. Sergeant O’Donnell broke the silence. “You best see one of the medical team sir and let them look after your cuts.”
“There are others that need their help more than I do. Most of the blood belongs to these poor unlucky sods. I was in the pub when it happened.” McCabe pointed to the large hole in the brick wall.
“Well,” some of the pity faded from his voice and was replaced by a ring of authority. “If you’re up to it, I’d like to ask you a few questions. We best start by introducing our selves. I’m Sergeant Brin O’Donnell of the Belfast bomb squad.”
Gannon took the officers hand into his right one. “I’m Gannon McCabe, first mate of the good ship Prydwen.”
O’Donnell dropped McCabes hand like it was a poker heated in the eternal fires of damnation. “No doubt it was your friends from Óglaigh na hÉireann that had a hand in this carnage.” The policeman’s voice was filled with North Pole icicles. “We had word that you were back. Well me bucko you best be coming down to the station house. There’s a nice comfortable cell for terrorists like you.”
Gannon spat out, “Yesterday was the first time I’ve set foot on Ireland’s green shores in seven years. I only stopped in Belfast to see a few of my friends and spend a bit of time with me high school sweetheart, Caitlin Kirtland. I was heading home tomorrow to be with me poor ailing mither. If you be doubting me words about when I got back you can get a hold of Captain Dyllan Carew. He’ll vouch for my whereabouts for the last seven years. ”
“One of the friends you came to see wouldn’t be Kevin Delvin by any chance?”
“I haven’t seen Kevin for eight long years. When he joined The Irish Volunteers our friendship went the way of the lemmings. Now if you’re finished with your grilling I’m going back into the pub and have a dram of Ireland’s best whisky.”
“A grudging, “We’re done for now,” escaped from Brin’s pursed lips. “Don’t be leaving the country. Now you best be telling me were you’ll be staying, since there’ll be more questions for you.”
“I’ll be at me mither’s farm. It’s a couple of miles outside of Gawleys Gate, not far from Lough Neigh.”
“Lough Neigh, know the place well, I do. I fished there many a time with me sons for salmon and brown trout.”
Mc’Cabe turned away, took two steps and then turned back to face Brin O’Donnell. “Whoever did this better pray that you coppers get their hands on them before I do.”
“You best leave these matters to the police McCabe or it’ll be you wearin a pair of iron bracelets.”
“Have some more stew Gannon me boy, it’ll put some meat back on your bones.” Moria McCabe reached for the old wooden ladle.
A warm smile. full of love crossed McCabes face. “It’s been a long time since I’ve had food like this but I don’t have room for another bite mother darling. Mind the cook onboard the Prydwen wasn’t bad but there’s nothing in this world as good as stew cooked by an Irish woman’s hands.”
A thudding on the old wooden door was so hard that the little glass pane in the center rattled.
Moria eased the chair back from the table, “Now who do you suppose would be calling at this time of night.”
Before Gannon had a chance to reply she answered her own question. “No doubt it’ll be Caitlin’s faather. He did say he wanted to come over and have a talk with you. Well there’s only one way to be knowing for sure.” The worn, cracked floor boards protested under the weight of the old woman as she shuffled towards the door.
Three more times a heavy hand hammered on the thin wood of the old door. Mrs. McCabe shouted, “Hold tight to the reins of your horses.”
Eerie shadows cast by the single porch bulb danced across the frightened face of Kevin Delvin.
Moria blurted out, “Kevin, you look like you’re being chased by a thousand English ghosts. You better come along inside before anyone has a chance to see you.”
“It’s far worse than ghosts Mother Moria. It’s the Queens soldiers.”
Gannon roared, “You bloody murderin bastard,” and raced across the kitchen floor.
“Gannon I’ll not be having trouble in me own house.”
McCabe came to a dead halt, “You killed Caitlin Kirtland with your blast and a lot of other innocents.”
“I’m right sorry for that. It was only meant to kill a lorry full of Brits but homemade nitro is unstable at the best of times. Now can I come in please? Me leg is starting to bleed again and me stomach thinks me throats been cut.”
Gannon ignored Delvin’s offered right hand but he did step out of the small man’s way and let him pass. “You can’t stay here for long or you’ll bring the damn English down around me mither’s head.”
“Nonsense,” Moria McCabe squeaked across the floor boards. A chipped, blue bowl was held tight in her right hand and a big spoon in her left. “Sit ye down Kevin lad and have some lamb stew. I’ll get my kit and attend to your leg while you’re eating. Ye can stay as long as ye be needing to, me boy.” She gave Gannon a dirty look. “His mither was me best friend in the whole world. She would be doing the same for you if the socks were on the other foot.”
“No mother Moria, Gannon’s right, the Brits are close at my heels. The last thing I want to do is get you mixed up in my troubles.”
Mrs. McCabe ladled fragrant, steaming stew into the bowl until it spilled over the top. “Nonsense son, your troubles are the troubles of Ireland and so their mine as well.”
The old wooden chair creaked and groaned when Kevin Delvin leaned back. “You haven’t lost the touch Mother Moria.” He stood up, stretched and yawned. “I best be on my way. If I can find a boat I’ll make me way across Lough Neigh. I know a few good hidey holes on the other side. Come with me Gannon, It’ll be like the old times.”
McCabe sneered, “It’ll be a cold day on the streets of Belfast before I join the likes of you, you murdering bastard. Now be away with you before I go against me mither’s wishes and kill you myself.”
Delvin turned his head and called over his scrawny shoulders, “You best clear up my dishes, mother Moria before the soldiers get here.” He creaked his way across the porch and was swallowed by the dark.
There was no warning, no call for surrender, no call to raise hands and come outside. One minute Gannon and his mother were enjoying a cup of tea in silence. The next minute their peaceful world was ripped apart. Beams from half a dozen flood lights poured through windows, filling the room with a dazzling brightness.
The front windows shattered into a thousand small pieces and shards of glass tinkled as they scattered over the floor. Two thuds were followed by a loud hissing noise. A thick, white, fog spread out from two shiny canisters and slowly filled up the homey kitchen. McCabe shouted, “No, mother,” but his words were too late. She stood in the doorway silhouetted by the kitchen lights.
Shots rang out in the stillness of the night. Gannon flung himself to the floor as bits of lead sailed over him. Warm stew soaked into his hair as he yanked the white damask table cloth from the table. He ripped off a large piece. A chocking, wheezing, gagging McCabe crawled his way through the cloying tear gas. It took only a minute to tie the bit of rag to a straw broom handle and make his way to the open door.
A cold voice, as hard as steel rang out in the darkness, “Hold your fire men. You in the house come out with your hands up. No trick now.”
Gannon blinked as the bright beams bored into his eyes. He yelled, “Get those damn lights off of me.”
“Keep your hands where we can see them.” It was the same harsh voice as before, only closer.
McCabe’s vision cleared enough so he was able to make out the man in the uniform. It was Lieutenant Chester Richards. “I should have guessed you would be behind this outrageous attack. Now let me go to my mither, you f-ing bastard.”
Two pairs of rough hands ran up and down Gannon’s still shaking body, “This man’s clean lieutenant.”
“Thank you corporal.” Richard’s turned his dead looking eyes back to McCabe. “Where’s your chum Delvin hiding?”
For the first time in a long time the urge to kill filled every pour of Gannon’s frame. “He’s not here, he never was here. Now let me see to me mither.”
“Corporal, send some men to search the grounds. Take two men with you and give the house a good going over.”
The corporal’s salute was as crisp as a December morning.
Chester barked, “Let the man see to his mother.”
“Delvin’s not in the house sir. There’s no sign of him being there either.”
“Thank you corporal, get the men back onboard the lorries. We’ll be pulling out soon.” Richards turned back to Gannon and held out his right hand. “I’m sorry about your mother, McCabe but innocents get killed in every war. There’ll be no peace in Northern Ireland as long as men like Delvin try to overthrow their lawful government.”
Gannon ignored the outstretched hand, “Me mither would be alive and well if you’d given us a chance to surrender. I hold you responsible for her lying dead and cold like she is.” Lieutenant Chester Richards turned smartly on his heels and marched towards the waiting trucks.
A loud, “Richards,” rang out in the night air.
The lieutenant turned his head, “What.”
“There’ll be a day of reckoning between us.”
Chester sneered, “Seeing as how your mother has just died I’ll let the threat go. You best keep your tongue in your head though, because the next time you’ll be behind bars.”
“That was no threat Richards, it was a promise.”
A storm that had been born on the edge of the North Pole hammered against the brick and stone walls of Belfast. An old red truck that had seen better days rocked as the gale force wind swirled around it.
Kevin Delvin turned on the wipers but the cracked rubber did little to improve his vision through the torrent of rain. “Are you certain sure you want to go through with this Gannon? Once you pull the trigger there’ll be no going back.”
McCabe caressed the slender barrel and silencer of the twenty two automatic in his right hand. The scent of fresh gun oil filed his nostrils and the need for justice surged through him. “I’m more certain of this, than I’ve ever been of anything .
Deviln turned away and peered once more across the rain drenched street. “That’ll be your man then.”
Gannon rolled down the window. A bulky frame blocked out most of the light streaming out of The Lions Pub. The door protested a little as he eased it open and stepped into a large puddle.
Gannon squished his way through the down pour towards the man holding a lit cigarette in his right hand.
Is that you McCabe? Hell of a night isn’t it.”
“You can say that again Richards.” Beams from the street light danced off of the small barrel.” “Have you gone?” T he silenced gun coughed three times and Lieutenant Richard’s big body slide down the wall onto the rain drenched sidewalk. When Gannon reached the crumpled form he leaned over and pressed the barrel against the head. He pulled the trigger for a fourth time.
The old truck engine grumbled twice before it roared into life. Delvin turned on the cab light and gave Gannon a grim smile. There was no sign of remorse in the cold grey eyes staring back at him. “It looks like it’s going to be a cold day on the streets of Belfast today, Gannon me boy.”
The end