Two: Soul Searching
February 1992: Short Strand, Belfast.
"The fuck was that?" O'Rourke hissed as he dragged him out of the church by the arm and down the nearest deserted alleyway, his face red with anger. But it still wasn't as red as the bright arterial blood spattered down one side of his face.
Filip ripped out of his grasp and braced his hands against the wall, his head down as he took deep shaky breaths and tried to stop the uneasy rolling of his stomach. "I ... I don't know, all right? I don't fuckin' know!"
It was a lie. He knew exactly what it was. Not the violence. Not the killing. A step too far. Not that it had mattered in the end. The kid's body was slumped inside the blood-soaked confessional, with a bullet in his throat and another in his forehead. And all his failure to pull the trigger himself had done, besides ensure the target a messier-than-planned death, was put a target on his own head.
It was supposed to be quick, painless, with minimal clean-up required. Instead, the boy had ended up on his knees pleading for his life while O'Rourke screamed at him to just fuckin' shoot the traitorous bastard ... His hands had been shaking so badly, there was a fair chance he'd have missed even if he had fired at close range.
As it was, they'd left a hell of a mess for Father Kellan to deal with and he didn't need to see the look on his supposed accomplice's face to know he'd really fucked up this time. He'd already had a vicious crack round the head with the butt of the very gun that had been wrestled from his fingers to prove it.
"I'll ... I'll get me head straight," he tried, resting his aching forehead against the rough brick and closing his eyes in something dangerously close to despair. "I will, man. This ... This ain't ever gonna happen again."
"That much ya got right, me boyo," O'Rourke nodded, trying to dash the blood away with his sleeve. "Damn right."
Touching a hand to his temple at the memory, Chibs paused to light another cigarette, taking a deep drag and tilting his head back to exhale a long stream of smoke.
When he'd recounted the exact moment the terrified young officer had met his maker, more than one of his audience had actually flinched, so caught up were they in the tension he had woven with his chilling tale.
The Sons had little love for law enforcement, but a young man believing in his chance to make a difference ... That had resonance. Having that stolen from him in an instant had even more. They may have all wrapped themselves in swaggering invincibility, but mortality weighed heavy on all their shoulders behind closed doors. And running guns for the IRA didn't mean they understood their cause. That was business, pure and simple.
Well, none of them really believed it was pure, but then none of them were exactly angels themselves.
"So that's why they excommunicated you? 'Cause you messed up?" Juice chipped in, leaning forward eagerly with his elbows on his knees. Only to get a none-too gentle clip round the ear from Piney. "Ow! What did I say?"
"Shut up and just let the man tell his damn story."
"Ach, let the boy alone," Chibs sighed, getting up from his stool and stretching out his tired muscles before making his way to drop down beside the young man he'd once vouched for, slinging a companionable arm around his shoulders. "Nah, Juicy, that weren't it. Not all o' it anyway. Ya see, like all the best stories, this one's got a bonnie lass in it."
The cat-calls and whistles made him smile despite himself and he made himself comfortable on the well-worn couch, knowing he wasn't going to get away without telling some more of the yarn now. Although he definitely wasn't prepared to subject them to the complete life and times of one Filip Telford, unfortunate bastard that he was. They didn't have the time for that. Or the whiskey, come to think of it.
"So ... Fiona?" Juice asked, undeterred by the reaction to his previous interruption and wiggling his eyebrows suggestively to warm laughter around the room.
But catching them all off-guard, Chibs shook his head, then seemed to reconsider. "Well, aye, but that ain't who I meant. Before Fi ... Before Fi, there was Aoife*. My darlin' Aoife ..."
When he looked up, he could see where Gemma's knowing gaze had already drifted - to the anarchy 'A' on his arm. And, not for the first time, he realised just how rare it was for anything to escape that woman.
"Tell us about her, baby," the matriarch gently prompted. "Tell us about Aoife."
February 1992: Falls Road, Belfast.
He didn't know what was worse – the prospect of a night alone, staring at the walls of his tiny flat, or having to face the clubhouse. But one thing he did know was that he needed a drink and the cupboards were bare. So he'd tolerated the shower, even when it went from barely luke-warm to freezing cold, and changed the clothes he'd only realised were every bit as blood-stained as O'Rourke's when he'd made it home. Then, leaving his Sambel cut behind, but tucking a small flick-knife in a pocket of his jeans, he headed back out into the growing dusk.
Wandering west Belfast alone after dark wasn't exactly smart. They didn't call it the wild west for nothing. But he knew these streets and knew he could, despite his fuck-up, handle himself. Cold-blooded assassination might be one thing, self-defence against whatever threat might present itself was definitely another.
While carrying a gun was too risky with the soldiers patrolling, he had his knife and he had his fists. Unless shit went seriously south, that was enough. And if things did go bad ... Well, at least he wouldn't have to keep looking over his shoulder any more.
Recognising that as the hopelessly maudlin thought that it was, for a second, he almost considered going to the clubhouse after all. He could force himself to shoot the breeze with his brothers, find a girl willing to let him burn off a little pent-up nervous energy, and see if he couldn't pull his head out of his arse. Even just for an hour or so.
"Jesus, Filip, get it together," he muttered, pulling his flat cap down low over his eyes. Thoughts of the club dismissed once again, he'd decided he didn't want to be recognised. Didn't want the whispers, the stares. His cards were marked, he knew that – he didn't need anyone reminding him.
The wind had picked up, whipping the tattered tricolours that flew from the lampposts to mark the area as republican dominated, and the rain – light though it was, for now – only added to the chill. But still he walked, with no real idea where he was headed.
Past the mural commemorating the hunger strikers who'd lost their lives a decade ago. Nearly a dozen men jailed for attacks by bomb and bullet had died in filth and squalor behind the high walls of Long Kesh prison, in protest over being treated like common criminals instead of the victims of the political turmoil they so ardently felt they were. And for what? The niggling doubts in the back of his mind had been growing much more persistent of late.
Past an army checkpoint, where soldiers in khaki camouflage were searching the boot of a clapped-out old Ford Escort. Two others had their machine guns trained on the scowling driver with his hands braced on the hood, but Filip kept walking with no more than a cursory glance. Sometimes it was best not to draw attention.
Past the Felons' Club, where loud music and louder drinkers spilled out onto the street. The strains of one of the more boisterous versions of The Fields of Athenry drifted through the doors as they opened and closed, the traditional lyrics punctuated with the modern, strident refrain. Oh, baby, let the free birds fly ... Sinn Féin!** IRA!
Still he walked, with the darkness deepening though the clouds had shifted and tiny stars peeped out overhead. The rain had eased too, thank Christ. Footsteps behind him momentarily set his nerves on edge, but he turned down a side street and they simply faded into the nig ht. That left him busy side-stepping a puddle lit by the fluorescent light of an 'open' sign when the request came out of the shadows.
"Here, mister – got a light?"
He'd looked up, suspecting he knew that voice despite the slight teasing attempt to disguise it, and found himself outside the secluded backdoor of a tiny traditional pub he'd frequented before. Maguire's Bar. Ambling closer, he pulled a lighter from his jeans and held it up, sparking the tiny flame for a second and then letting it go out.
"Got a smoke?" came the follow-up question, the voice definitely recognisable this time and making him laugh.
"Always did know how to push yer luck, lass," he said wryly, producing a pack of cigarettes from an inside pocket of his jacket and sticking one between his lips to light it. Taking a long drag, he handed it over as he blew out the smoke. "How'd ya know it was me anyway?"
"Only suspected. Saw no harm in tryin'," she shrugged. "Needed a smoke off somebody and if it weren't yersel', woulda been someone else."
"Long night?"
"Dull night," she clarified. "Bar's dead and the punters' ain't far behind. Average age in there's gotta be the wrong side o' seventy. Come you in and take the bad look off the place."
"I ain't good company right now, love," he said, shaking his head as he took back his cigarette for another drag.
"Who said ya were good company any time?" came the quick retort. But she shifted closer and reached out to brush her fingers lightly over the frayed end of his scarf. "Please, Filip. Looks like ya could do wi' a drink anyway."
That much was true and the second he wavered, her hand slipped into his. He let her lead the way.
"Chibs, you dog," Jax grinned wolfishly, from where he was sprawled. "Let me guess - blonde, great rack ..."
"No way, man - Irish, remember?" Bobby tried. "Redhead, feisty in the sack ..."
Chibs shook his head, a small, wistful smile crossing his face. "Brunette," he said quietly. "Gorgeous green eyes a man could drown in. And yeah, feisty as hell at times. But sweet too, that was Aoife."
"So why the hell are we only hearing about her now?" Gemma demanded. "'Cause Lord knows you could hardly call that Fiona sweet ..."
He toyed with his glass as he considered the answer and then sighed as he tried to bite the bullet, in a manner of speaking. "I ... I should never have let it get as far as it did. From the minute I realised who she was, I shoulda left well enough alone. 'Cause none o' ya knew her, but ya do know her family."
Confusion was written on more than one face again and he could see them trying to work it out, before he simply filled in the blanks. "O'Phelan," he said, suddenly finding it hard to keep the emotion out of his voice.
"Aoife O'Phelan. Jimmy's wee sister."
to be continued ...
*Aoife - common name in Ireland, meaning 'radiant, beautiful or joyful' and most often pronounced Ee-fah.
**Sinn Féin - pronounced Shin Fain, like vain. It's the name of an actual republican political party in Northern Ireland, which was historically linked to the IRA. In the modern day, the party holds a major position in government and has no ties to any armed groups still using variants of the IRA name. Translated, the name means "We Ourselves". The song The Fields of Athenry is an Irish ballad, but the modern habit of shouting IRA slogans has given it negative connotations in some circles - it has also been adopted as a football (soccer) chant.