Ten New Martyrs

Ten New Martyrs
      On the Ninth of August Nineteen Seventy One internment was introduced into the  the occupied six county state of Northern Ireland. This meant that persons suspected of terrorist activities could be arrested and held without trial. These internees were held in ‘The Cages’ a prisoner of war camp outside of Belfast. ‘The Cages’, or The Long Kesh was its proper name, consisted of Nissan huts in which the prisoners slept.
      Riots raged throughout the seventies through to the nineties all over the province. A riot could start at any time and generally consisted of people throwing whatever they could get their hands on at the Brits and peelers, slang for Soldiers and Police officers.
      On the Fifth of March Nineteen Seventy Six political status was revoked. Prisoners arrested after that date was put in a prison called The Maze, the woman went to Armagh. The prisoners refused to wear prison uniform. They went naked or fashioned clothes out of their blankets. This became known as the blanket protest, and they the blanket men.
        Prisoners stopped slopping out, smearing the walls with their shit to get rid of it. This became known as the dirty protest. The woman joined the protest.
      Then in the summer of nineteen eighty seven inmates started a hunger strike. It ended when the British Government appeared to concede the demands. It was only an illusion, they were given civilian type clothes to wear, still a uniform.
      The second hunger strike began on the First of March Nineteen Eighty One and ended when ten men had starved to death. Many more men were left physically weakened due to their time on hunger strike.

Bobby Sands died on the Fifth of May Nineteen Eighty One, he lasted Sixty Six days on hunger strike.

      The street that Sinead lived on was one long row of terraced houses set in off the top of the Donegal road in West Belfast. It was a noisy street, full of the chatter of family and community life. Her house was typical of the street; upstairs two bedrooms and a box room, downstairs a small living room and a gallery kitchen, out the back a toilet.
      She stood in the kitchen peeling potatoes. She was making mash and mince for dinner. She had some onions to throw into the mash to make it a sort of champ, no milk or butter.
      The news had broken that day. Bobby Sands, councilor for Fermanagh South Tyrone, had died. When she had first heard she had felt shock, then anger. That auld bitch Maggie Thatcher had actually let him die. Even as the news came in of him getting weaker and weaker she, along with many others, had harbored a secret hope that she would relent and give into the five demands. No such luck however, he had died that day, the Fifth of May.
      Her children, Ciaran, Thomas and Marie were out on the street playing Hurley with some other of the streets children. Marie was a small girl, pretty around the face with long dark hair. Her looks belied her nature, she was vicious and forthright like her mother. She played Comogie in the street but  wanted to play Hurley, wishing to do anything the same as any boy. Reluctantly and on their mothers orders Thomas and Ciaran allowed her to join in their games.
      There was a knock at the door. Leaving the fully peeled and chopped potatoes she answered it. It was her younger sister Louise. Heavily pregnant and carrying two shopping bags. She walked into the kitchen and set the bags down on the counter beside the potatoes.
    “I got you these.”
      “You shouldn’t have.” Sinead replied.
      “Ach don’t worry. I can afford it now.” Louise’s husband worked full time as a taxi driver whilst Sinead’s man only worked part time in a local pub. It was difficult to make ends meet and as much as she disliked taking food from her little sister it was appreciated.
      “Thanks.” She said. “What’s in there?”
      “Spuds, butter, cheese, mince and cabbage.” Butter and cheese, little luxuries.
      “Well what’s the craic?” Sinead put the potatoes onto boil and switched the kettle on.
      “Ach, just getting dinner ready.” She stood silently for a moment. “Did you hear about Bobby Sands?”
      “Aye it’s terrible.”
      “Aye.” Sinead didn’t know what to say. She had met him once. She had been visiting her friend one day in Twinbrook when the two of them bumped into him in the street. He was a nice young man, ferverant and friendly. He had chatted to the two of them, being a friend of her friends family. The thought of him dead made her stomached turn. Her heart went out to his family.
      “I never thought he’d actually die.” Louise said after a moment’s thought.
      “I know, I really thought they’d give in.”
      “It’s just terrible.”
      “The auld bitch.”
      “Aye too right.”
      “Fuck sake, I’m freezing!” Sinead shivered as she threw a jumper over her head. The kettle boiled, she poured out two cups of tea and left them to brew.
      “Where’s Peter?”
        “Up at the pub.”
      “Working?”
      “Aye well he was. Finished at five. Stayed for a few staff drinks I dare say.” She poured milk into the cups and brought them through.
      “Here you go.”
      “Thanks.”
      Taking out two cigarettes she gave one to her sister and lit it before lighting her own. They sat and smoked in silence awhile sipping their tea.
      “When’ll he be back?”  Louise said.
      “God knows?”
        “You not talking again?”
      “We haven’t talked in months.”

      Sinead allowed her children to watch the television while they ate their mince and mash. She had put some butter into the mash, it tasted good. A dinner sat in the oven awaiting Peter’s arrival.
        When ten o’clock came she sent her children to bed. Half an hour later Peter came in. He staggered to the kitchen and ate his dinner propped against the counter. When he came into the living room he stopped a few feet away from Sinead.
        “That was lovely miss.” It was the first civil words he had spoken to her in over a month.
        She stayed up until one o’clock. When he finally went to bed she perched on the end of the bed careful not to touch Peter.

Francis Hughes died on the Twelth of May Nineteen Eighty One. He lasted Fifty nine days on hunger strike.

      Louise sat on the sofa, her legs apart moaning softly to herself. Her stomach was huge, her ankles were huge, and she was huge. The only part of her that hadn’t gained any weight was her face and arms. This gave her a slightly odd appearance, as if her body had been inflated and her head shrunk. She had longed to be pregnant since the moment she had first met Paul, Sinead had told her how she had loved being pregnant, every moment of it. Louise had fully expected to love it also, it therefore came as a great shock to find out how tiresome it was. She couldn’t wait for the moment when she held her child for the first time.
      Her feet were numb, she moved them from side to side to get the circulation going.
      Sinead was fifteen years older than Louise. When their mother had died giving birth to young Moira fourteen years previous Sinead had been there. She had helped their grieving father to rear the kids. Moira, Louise, Thomas, Stephen and Maread were all left at home. Until she was five Moira had thought that Sinead was her mummy. Stephen, their father, had never recovered from their mother’s death, he blamed himself for missing the birth. He doted on Moira, more the image of their mother than any of the girls.
      Slowly and carefully Louise pulled herself up. She had to go to the shop. Paul was at work, he had promised to make dinner for them that night but she had to get the food in. There were no big shops near to them, the closest thing to a supermarket was Curleys, a half hour walk away. In the condition she was in now it would take her an hour. She would go to the butchers, the green grocers and then on the way back down she would get bread from the corner shop. It was unseasonable cold out, threatening to snow. She put on her big coat, scarf and gloves and picked up her handbag.
      Leaving the house she pulled her coat tightly around her, shivering. It was a three minute walk uphill to the Falls road. It took Louise ten. At the top of St.James road she could see two peelers and a group of four soldiers. She knew what was coming next as she seen the hungry look on the soldiers faces. As she approached them one, a young soldier not much older than Louise herself said
      “Excuse me miss. Let’s have a look in your bag.” He had a Scottish accent, Glasgow she guessed. She wondered how a Scot, with their proud history could stomach wearing a British army uniform. Without saying a word she held out her bag. One of the peelers took it and began looking through it. Pulling out bits and pieces and showing them then to each other.
      “Have you heard the new?” the peeler with the bag said. She shook her head.
      “Another one of your hunger strikers snuffed it today.” Her stomach hit the ground, she knew who it would be.  “Francis Hughes, dead.” A smile circled his lips. She had learnt from a young age not to rise to the bait. She said nothing as she took her bag and walked away. She heard someone say behind her.
      “Better get home quick love the riots will be starting soon.

      Back at her house she was sitting in the living room waiting for dinner. She had told Paul about Francis Hughes when he had got in, he had said he already knew. She felt a mixture of anger and pity. Pity for the dead young man and his family. Anger that Thatcher had let a second man die for political status. Why didn’t she relent, give them their five demands. She recounted the five demands to herself, eager not to forget them. All of which together amounted to political status. She wondered what it was like up in the Maze prison. Her cousin Jim was on the dirty protest. She wondered what it was like to live in a cell naked with the walls smeared with your own shit. The woman up in Armagh had joined the protest the previous year; period blood added to the piss and shit. If they ever got their demands she would go and visit Jim.
      Paul came into the living room with two plates of pork chops and mash. Louise looked at her plate, feeling queasy, however she ate gratefully thanking Paul for a lovely dinner.

Raymnd McCreesh and Patsy O’Hara died on the Twenty First of May Nineteen Eighty One.They lasted Sixty One days on hunger strike.

      Sinead pushed thepush Hoover over the living room floor. The noise from the street filtered through into the living room, shouting and smashes, the occasional gunshot.  Thomas and Marie were upstairs sleeping, sent up there four hours previous. It was five to twelve and neither man in the house was back. A sick feeling threatened to overwhelm Sinead. She looked at the clock and carried on pushing the Hoover over the same patch of carpet.
      That day Raymond McCreesh and Patsy O’Hara had died. Third and fourth hunger strikers to die. It had taken the whole nationalist community by shock, two in one day. The riots had raged all evening, young men and women venting their frustrations out against the peelers and Brits. She didn’t have to wonder as to where Peter was. Most likely he had stayed on at the pub once his shift had finished, desperate to avoid her, and then stopped off for a bit of recreational rioting. Acting the big man, telling people he was in the ‘ra. She knew he wasn’t, if he really was in the ‘ra then he wouldn’t go about telling people he was.
        Ciaran was a different matter; it wasn’t like him to stay out this late. He was a good boy, he loved his mum, would never let her worry like this. No, something must have happened to him.
        The first lot of hunger strikes had begun the summer before, Nineteen Eighty. Ciaran had been fascinated by them, he had been fascinated by the blanket men. He had started saying that he wanted to join the ‘ra. Sinead had told him not too, she had said that there were too many grieving mothers in the north for her to become the next. Ciaran had said she didn’t understand, he loved Ireland. Sinead had said that she loved Ireland too, but she loved Ciaran more.
      Patsy O’Hara was the first INLA member to die, the first member of the Irish Nationalist Liberation Army. The INLA had split from the ‘ra shortly after its inception in Nineteen Seventy Two. Now the INLA and the ‘ra were out fighting together. The riots continued and Ciaran wasn’t home.
      She sat down and lit a cigarette, as she shakily smoked it down to the butt the door knocked hard and loud. Her stomach jolted. Who could it be? A hundred different scenarios rushed through her head as she slowly and steadily walked to the door. On the doorstep she recognized Daniel McKeon, a boy from Ciarans year at school.
      “Mrs.Mullholland, its Ciaran,” he stuttered, “he’s been taken in by the peelers, I’m sorry I only just heard.”
      “When?”
      “About three hours ago, rumor is they took him to Castlereagh.”  He stopped to gulp some breath into his young lungs. Castlereagh was a holding centre out of Belfast whose reputation preceded it. Rumors circulated of the torture teqniques used on suspects there. She imagined Ciaran blindfolded and tied to a chair, rocked backed and forth, wet face clothes held tightly over face, beat with a flat object. The torturers were well trained. Grown men shuddered at the thought of Castlereagh, Sinead wondered how her Ciaran would handle it. Sixteen and innocent. “I ran all the way down the white rock when I heard. I’m sorry but all the boys were out rioting, we thought it was our duty to join them.” His voice trailed off as his guilty eyes strayed over Sinead’s face.
      “Come in love, I’ll make you a brew.”
      As she boiled the kettle and set up the cups she contemplated what she would do. With the riots there was no chance of getting out of West Belfast whether or not she got hold of a car. The only thing for it was to stay up all night waiting for Ciaran to be released.
      “The last place I seen him was at the corner of the top of the whiterock, on the corner near the shops. Matty McRae had given us a couple of petrol bombs and we were throwing them at a big line of peeler jeeps. I’m sorry Mrs.Mullholland but everyone was there.” He was talking at breakneck speed, trying to explain himself.
      She offered the boy a cigarette, he was sixteen after all. He took it gladly, holding it between index finger and thumb.
        The front door opened and in came Peter, black hands and the start of a bruise appearing over his left eye. Sinead looked at it.
        “Got the butt of a gun in my face.” He said as way of explanation. She felt no pity, only anger at the trace of pride on his face. His war wound.
        “I’d better go.” Daniel said. ”Thanks for the smoke Mrs.Mullholland. My ma’ll go spare when I get in.”
      “Take care love.” She said as she held the door open for the child. As she shut the door she turned  on her husband.
      “And where the bloody hell have you been?”
      “Out doing my bit for the lads.”
      “And what about doing your bit for your family?”
      “Don’t start your slabbering Mrs, my face is busting,”
      “I haven’t started yet! Have you any any idea where Ciaran is?”
        “Sleeping?”
      “Ha! I wish he was!” She stood back to get the full effect of her words. “He’s up in Castle-fucking-reagh!”
      “What?”  Peter stood there gaping at Sinead.

      Louise moved slowly around the kitchen, pulling out pots and pans sorting out the elements for a fry,  looking for a distraction. Before long her distraction came in the form of a phone call. Picking up the receiver she heard her sister’s voice, shrill and high.
      “Poor wee soul didn’t get in till six this morning. They had him there all night.”
      “What?”
        “Up at Castlereagh. They had him there all night.”
      “Who? Who was there all night?”  Louise was confused.
        “Ciaran! The Peelers took him in last night. He was up the top of the whiterock rioting last night and they took him in.”
        “Jesus Christ.” Louise said. “Well is he all right?”
      “He was shaking like a leaf when he came in. Lord only knows what they did to him there. He’s unharmed though, upstairs sleeping just.” Sinead stopped to draw breath. “I’m sorry if I’m not making sense, I haven’t slept all night.”
      “No wonder. Are you alright?”
      “Aye, just knackered. Peter was out too. Came in with a big black eye expecting sympathy.”
      “Hows things going with you two?”
      “Same as usual. Not talking. He spends most of the time up at the Rock spending his wages, telling all the locals all about the ‘ra no doubt. He’s a chancer.”
      “Hmmm, well isn’t he a typical man.”
        “Your Paul’s not like that though. I wish Peter’d take a leaf out of his book.”
      “You need to sit down and have a proper talk with him love.”
      “There’s no point.”

      Once off the phone Louise went to make herself a cup of tea. In the kitchen she clutched her stomach, sharp pains shot up from her abdomen. She was six months pregnant, not ready to go yet. Sweat matted the edges of her thick dark hair as she switched the kettle on and propped herself up against the counter. Breathing deeply she waited for the kettle to boil. She would put sugar in her tea and have a cigarette, which would help ease the pains.
      She went to the toilet, sitting on the seat she wondered if she should go to the hospital. The pains were worse than usual, she felt her abdomen tighten. Wasn’t that a contraction? She wasn’t sure having nothing to compare it to. It was painful to urinate; she had had about a hundred urinary tract infections during her pregnancy. Another reason why she hated being pregnant, pain shot up and down her thighs as she urinated.
        Standing up she stood in front of the mirror and pushed her hair out of her face. She had never been slim, her Paul said she looked like a pre-Raphaelite beauty. She had a curvy figure, well endowed with a shock of black hair and rosy cheeks. She sometimes wished she was a perfect size eight, like Sinead, but Paul told her that he wouldn’t fancy her if she was like that, he loved her curves.
      Back in the living room she drank her tea and smoked two cigarettes, one after the other, trying to ignore the maybe contractions.  After half an hour sitting, sipping her now cold cup of tea she got up and set about making the fry. Paul would be back for his break soon and she wanted to repay him for the lovely dinners he had made her.

Joe McDonnell died on the Eighth of July Nineteen Eighty One. He lasted Sixty One days on hunger strike.

      It was dreich and dreary outside on the Eighth of July. Typical Belfast summer. It was nearly two months since Raymond McCreesh and Patsy O’Hara had died and everyone in the north had been lulled into a sense of security. Thatcher was still an uptight bitch according to the nationalist residents but no hunger striker had died recently so she had no more deaths under her belt. Sinead was bored, her children were out in the street playing Hurley as usual, she could hear Maries defiant shouts as the boys tried to tell her girls couldn’t play. She thought briefly about going out and telling them to leave her alone but decided against it. The young feminist that she was, she wouldn’t appreciate her mother’s backing in such affairs. She smiled as she thought of Marie’s reading material, ‘Woman in Collective Action’, Sinead had read it herself and Marie was desperate to copy her so she lapped up every page. It was a book about women’s groups across the UK and Northern Ireland. It mentioned a group in West Belfast which focused on cross community work between the Nationalist West and the Shankill, the loyalist area of West Belfast. Sinead thought that the woman who set this up were very brave. What with the UDA and UVF ruling the roost in the Shankill, she didn’t imagine that they would be overly happy about their good protestant women cavorting with bad catholic women.
      She thought back to the night of Ciarans arrest, he hadn’t mentioned it since but she knew it bothered him. She had heard him whimper in his sleep. She supposed with sad recognition that he had merely passed through a rite of passage in this fucked up statelet. Whereas in other places sixteen year old boys were discovering the joys of girls and pornography here they were discovering the horrors of war. She would have to have a wee word with him, she had put it off too long.
        Fifteen minutes later she got her opportunity, Ciaran came through  to use the toilet.
      “When you’re done I want a wee word with you love.”
      “OK ma.” He looked worried, like he thought he was in trouble.
      A few minutes late he came into the living room and sat down beside her.
      “What do you want to talk about?”
      “I want to ask you a few questions about your night at Castlereagh.” He bristled at the mention of the place.
      “Why?”
      “I just want to know what they asked you.”
      “They asked me loads of stuff ma, they asked me where I got the petrol bomb. They listed off loads of name and asked me if they were in the ‘ra. They asked me if my ma and da had any guns in the house. They asked me all about your feminist activities.”
      “And what did you say?”
        “Nothing I swear!” he looked affronted that she had asked the question.
      “I don’t think you’re a tout love, but it’s easy to blurt things out when you’re under pressure.”
      “I spoke only to give my name and address.”
      “I’m proud of you love. Now I need to say something else. I love Ireland as much as the next person and I know that someone has to fight the Brits and Peelers. But it’s not for you love.” She felt tears prick at her eyes, she couldn’t bear the thought of Ciaran holed up in a cell, she had already ran the risk of losing Marie,  she wanted to keep her sons.
      “But ma, if not me who else will.”
      “There’s plenty of others ready to do their duty, you’re a smart boy, you could even go to Queens.”
      “You don’t understand ma. Ireland needs people like me!”
      “Love!”
        “It’s too late ma, I’m sorry.” He stood up and walked out onto the street, suddenly looking much the man.

      Later that day she found out that Joe McDonnell had died after Sixty one days on hunger strike. She cried bitter tears, not sure if she were crying for Joe or for Ciaran. Apparently his brain had turned to cabbage and he was incoherent for hours before he died. Poor soul. She would take the family to his wake and funeral, pay their respects.

      Even the air in Milltown cemetery was sad the day they buried Joe McDonnell. A few lonely birds circled overhead cooing and cawing. Sinead and Louise stood side by side, the children around them listening to the speaches. Paul and Peter stood slightly apart, not talking, staring at the coffin draped in green, white and gold.
      A man stept forward from the mourners, he said.
      “He may seem the fool who has given his all, by the wise men of the world; but it was the aparent fools who changed the course of Irish history.”
      A series of gunshots by masked men followed shortly afterwards and the coffin was lowered into the ground. Sinead was crying, imaging Ciarans body in a coffin green, white and gold clad being lowered into the ground. She imagined Marie shouting about womans rights and cried even harder, wondering what influence she had had on her children. Thomas alone was sweet and innocent, caring more for Hurley and football than the ‘ra.
        The seven of them paid their respects to Joe McDonnells family and left the graveyaurd, walking round the bend and down the Falls road.
      “Good send off he got.” Peter said.
      “Aye.” Sinead was too tired to be in anything other than agreement with Peter. “Bloody shame, only thirty years old.”
      “Died a martyr so he did.”
      “Aye, that’s five martyrs so far.”
      “How many more will there be?”  Louise said.
      “What’s a martyr ma?” Marie asked, innocence in her eyes.
      “It’s someone who dies for a cause they believe strongly in. Like the hunger strikers believe in political status. So the ones who died are martyrs.”
      The walk back to Sinead’s house took about twenty minutes, the sun had come out by the time they reached St.James road, and the walk down was pleasant, the riots had abated a while.
        At the house Sinead went to make some tea. Peter followed her into the kitchen putting his arm around her shoulders.
        “I do love you, you know.” He said, she said nothing. “There’s no point arguing today. Jesus Christ, it could be anyone of our sons in that coffin.”
        “Aye, anyone of our daughters too.”
        “Aye.” He removed his arm and watched her pour the tea out. “Doesn’t bear thinking about.”
      “Have a word with your son Peter.”
      “Which one?”
      “Ciaran for gods sake!” she exclaimed. “I was talking to him the other day and he said it was too late to tell him not to join the ‘ra.”
      “I don’t know.”
      “Talk to him, tell him he doesn’t need to prove himself.”
        “But I’m proud of him.” He admitted.
      “I’m proud of him too. Lord knows I am. But I want him alive and out of prison. My hearts torn in two over this. He’s a smart boy. He could get into Queens or Trinity.”
      “Aye, I know.” Peter stood hands in pocket, head down, unsure of what to say.
     

Martin Hurson died on the Thirtienth of July Nineteen Eighty One. He lasted Forty Six days on hunger strike.

      Louise stood in the queue at the butchers feeling sick. She was meeting her friend Maread in the Rock for a coffee; well Louise was having a coffee, Maread was no doubt having a drink. The Rock was not the type of bar that two woman went into alone, let alone one heavily pregnant woman, but that made them all the more intent on going there.  The thing about Belfast girls was that you rarely got a bad looking one. You got three types of girl, average looking ones, pretty ones and absolute stunners. They all did themselves up well, so the average looking ones turned out pretty, the pretty ones stunning and the stunners radiant. Maread was a stunner to begin with.
      She reached the counter.
      “One meat parcel please.”
      The man behind the counter rumaged around, preparing her meat parcel.
      “Lovely day outside.”
      “Aye it is, shame I’ve got this extra weight to carry round.”
      “Ach, you’ll be pleased when the wee babby comes along.”
      “Aye, I can’t wait.”
      “When are you due?”
      “Next month just.”
      “Ach that’s lovely, something good to come out of this summer.”
      He handed her the parcel.
      “Here you go love.”
      “Thanks.” She said handing over her money. She had one pound left, enough for her coffee and more. She had everything she needed in the house. She would buy Sinead some butter on the way back. She knew that Sinead disliked taking things off her but she couldn’t help it. Paul was on a good wage and they only had one on the way. When she had five children like Sinead she might not be in a position to buy her butter but for now every little extra helped Sinead.

      At the Rock Louise found Maread in a booth across from the bar, she squeezed in to sit and handed Maread her pound note.
      “Get us a coffee and yourself one.” Louise was late and Maread had nearly finished her vodka lemonade.
      “I’ll get the next one in.” As Maread went to the bar Louise took out a cigarette and placed it to her lips, pushing the packet open towards the empty chair. When Maread came back with the drinks Louise said.
      “Take one.”
        “Thanks.” She took a cigarette and lit it. “You hear about Martin Hurson?”
        “Aye, died yesterday.”
        “Bloody awful.”
        “Aye I know.”
        They sat in silence. Maread finally broke it.
      “So what’s happening for wee Moira’s birthday?”
        “We’re throwing her a party. She doesn’t know a thing about it yet.”
      “Ach, that’ll be lovely for the wee girl.”
      “Aye she’s gonna love it. I got her a gorgeous wee dress. Red so it is. She’ll look a wee gem in it.” Louise liked to dress Moira up in pretty clothes, preserve her innocence. In a few years she would be a young woman.  It scared her to think that.
      Her stomach hurt; she involuntarily clutched it and whimpered.
        “Are you alright?” Maread looked worried.
        “Aye, don’t worry.” She sat back and tried to relax her muscles.
      “I can’t help but worry. Tell me if you feel anything else.”
        They drank their drinks and talked about all manner of things. Their husbands. Louise’s halted social life. Clothes they wanted but couldn’t afford. Louise may have been rich compared to her sister but she was still most definitely working class, no doubt about it. There were possessions she longed for as much as the next person living in The West. It was a strange experience to live in The West. It was easy to forget that other places existed. Even easier to forget that there were other working class areas in Belfast and The North. You were in your own bubble in The West, you didn’t have to leave, and you didn’t have to see anyone different to you, apart from Brits and Peelers. That was all different in the north of the city. Louise had visited a friend in Ligoniel a few times and was always surprised to see the amount of Union Jacks lining the bottom of the Ligoniel road. Protestant houses right beside Catholic houses. It must be rough up there when the riots hit.
      Her stomach hurt again, she clutched it again.
        “That’s it, we’re going to The Royal.” The Royal was the hospital on the Falls Road.
        “No I’m fine, there’s no need to bother doctors.”
        “You’re not fine though, you’re eight month pregnant!”
        “I’ll have a cigarette. If that doesn’t help then we’ll go.”
        “You promise?”
        “Aye.” Maread held a cigarette up to Louise’s mouth and lit it for her. Louise puffed deeply on it, very quickly it was smoked down to the butt. Shooting pains shot through her abdomen.
      “C’mon! We’re going.”
        Louise was in too much pain to protest. She let Maread put her coat on for her and lead her out the heavy door. All the pub doors were heavy in Belfast. They were designed that way to give people a warning if gunmen burst through the door. They couldn’t burst through without being noticed. They were on on a side street, Rockmount or Rockmore, something like that. Maread lead her onto the front of the road and flagged down the first black taxi to come down: The black taxis in West Belfast were not like the ones in other cities. At the start of the troubles the ‘ra had set up a black taxi service to replace the bus service, the buses kept getting hi jacked. These taxis serviced all of West Belfast and charged the same as buses
        They climbed into the taxi and sat down, Louise panted the whole way down the Falls Road to The Royal.
        It took an hour and a half to be seen. By the time the friendly doctor examined her, the pains had subsided. The doctor prodded at her stomach saying, and rolled a clicking machine over it.
        “No it’s not time for the wee ones to come out yet.”  He put his stethoscope away and stood back.
        “What do you mean ‘wee ones’.”
      “I can hear two heartbeats. Didn’t you know?” the doctor seemed incredulous.
      “Jesus Christ.”
        “Just go home and take a good long bath, you’ll feel much better after that.”
        Louise thanked the doctor and let Maread help her out to the front of the building. There she found Paul waiting on her.
        “Are you ok love?”
      “Aye I’m fine now, I just need a bath.” They dropped Maread off in Pauls taxi and drove  home.
      “I’ll run you a hot bath love. Then I’ll put the dinner on.”
      “Thanks honey. You’re a wee star so you are.” She drew in her breath and said.
      “By the way, we’re having twins.”

Kevin Lynch died on the First of August Nineteen Eighty One. He lasted Seventy One days on hunger strike.

        The shopping bags were heavy:  Peter walked a few feet behind Sinead with two bags while she carried another two. He was dragging his heels and generally annoying Sinead. Peter had just received a bonus from his work for putting in so much overtime over the past few weeks. They were out now getting a proper shop in, plenty of tea bags sugar and meat, all of life’s luxuries. Sinead had even bought a bar of chocolate each for everyone. The kids could eat theirs after dinner, she would eat hers once the kids had gone to bed.
      “Are you going to hurry the fuck up?” she snapped at Peter.
        “Jesus Christ love, I’m going as fast as I can.”
      “Well go a bit faster will ye?” He speed up to walk beside her. This was even worse; the plastic bag in his right hand kept knocking against her knees.
        “Look, just go home will ye?” she said to him. “Take these and let me get on with things.” He didn’t need much persuasion. Taking the bags off her he turned and walked in the other direction. She was free to go to the green grocers. Inside she filled a basket with all manner of vegetables, she bought some garlic as a treat. At the counter she handed over a crisp note and awaited her change. She felt pleased with herself. The house was stocked up for a fortnight; for once she didn’t have to worry for two whole weeks.

      As she entered the house she smelt food. Surprised she went into the kitchen. Peter was standing over the oven cooking.
      “What are you doing?”
      “Making your tea for you love.”
        She was touched, and felt guilty for snapping at him. He was still spending a lot of time at the pub but he was trying to be civil to her. He wasn’t spending  quite as much time at the pub.
      “Thanks. What’s for tea then?”
      “Stew.”
        The stew was bland, but he had tried his best so Sinead thanked him wholeheartedly. After dinner he washed the dishes and let Sinead take the credit for the bars of chocolate. She was in such a good mood that she said to him.
        “Go on up to The Rock love.”
      “Ach I was going to give it a miss tonight.” He didn’t sound convincing.
      “Go on, we can afford it.” They still had enough money left over from his bonus.
      “Aye well, I’ll go up for a couple.” He kissed her awkwardly on the cheek, grabbed his coat and left the house. Once he was gone Sinead picked up the phone and dialed Louise’s number.
      “Hi, what’s the craic?”
      “Not much, just had dinner, you know how the nights usually go in.”
      “Aye, well Peter just made me a stew for dinner.”
      “Peter made you dinner.”
      “Aye, he’s been lovely all evening.”
      “Well that can only be good.”
        “Listen, I was going to go into Castle Street tomorrow and get some stuff for wee Moira’s birthday. Might as well seeing as we’re in the money.”
      “Well all we really need is a cake and a present obviously.”
        “Aye well, I’ll get her something nice. What have you got her?”
        “A lovely red dress just.”
          “I might get her a wee necklace, green maybe to go with the dress you know.”
        “Aye that’d be nice.”
      She heard the front door shut and turned around to see Ciaran no longer in the room.
      “Listen, I’d better go I’ll speak to you later.”
        “Ok then.”
        She hung up the phone and left the house, she found Ciaran on the front of the Donegal road.
      “Where are you off to?”
      “Off to meet a few muckers just.”
      “At this time? What are you doing?”
      “Sitting in Matty MacRaes house just.”
      “That’s the one as gave you the petrol bomb. What are you up to?”
      “Nothing ma, we’re having a laugh just.”
      “Well you be careful and don’t be too late.”
      At half past ten Peter came in asking where Ciaran was. She told him he was at Matty MacRaes. He went to bed. At half past two Sinead fell asleep on the couch, there being no sign of Ciaran
      When she woke up the next day she found out two things. Kevin Lynch had died the day before, and Ciaran was in bed fully clothed sleeping like a lamb. His hands were black.

Kieran Doherty died on the Second of August Nineteen Eighty One. He lasted Seventy Three days on hunger strike.

        “Sinead did you get wee Moira a necklace?” louise said over the phone.
        “Aye. I got her a lovely wee thing. A single emerald on a silver chain. Real emerald too.”
        “Ach, she’ll look lovely, the image of my ma, do you remember her red dress?”
      “Aye.”
        “That’s why I picked it. She looks so much like her!”
        “Hmm.” Sinead remembered her mother, her thick black hair, her beautiful blue eyes, and her enchanting Dublin accent. She was a Celtic queen in red and green.  All Moira had to do was talk in a Dublin accent and she would be the exact double of her.
      “Well what are you up to now?” Sinead said pulling herself away from her memories.
        “Waiting on Paul. He was meant to be in an hour ago.”
        “You there by yourself?”
      “Aye don’t worry about me.”
        “You’re ready to drop and you’re telling me not to worry? Jesus Christ”
      “I’m fine.”
      “I’m coming over.”
      “Ok”
      She left Ciaran in charge of Thomas and Marie and left the house. Louise lived only across the street from her. She reached the house quickly and entered the house.
      “Let me get you a brew.” Louise said as she began to stand up.
        “No you don’t I’ll get it.”
      She pottered around in the kitchen making tea, she could hear Louise moaning gently in the living room.
        “Are you ok love.”
        “Aye, a bit sore just.”
        She took in the teas and handed one to Louise.
        “ Here you go. Take a cigarette.” She gladly took one and puffed deeply on it.
        “Are you sure you’re alright?”
      “Aye, I’m worried about Paul just. It’ not like him to be late home and this is the second time this week.” She stopped to finish her smoke and stubbed it out aggressively. “To be honest I think he’s into something.”
      “The ‘ra?”
      “Well I’m hardly one to judge.” Sinead lit another cigarette and handed one to Louise.
      “I know it’s needed, but I don’t want my Paul to be the one to do it.”
      “I know. It’s the same with me and Ciaran. Part of me’s proud, the other half is heartbroken. Not him just.”
      “What’ll we do?”
      “I don’t know.”
      Louise clutched her stomach and yelped.
      “What’s happening?”
        “It’s coming.”
      Sinead flew into action. She phoned an ambulance and grabbed Louise’s overnight bag before leading her out onto the street. Out on the street they waited ten minutes for the ambulance. The paramedics were caring and calmed Louise down, telling her not to worry. Everything would be ok. Sinead held her hand tightly as she wailed and begged for a smoke.
      At the hospital the babies came quickly; three hours. However quickly they came it was in no way easy, she felt as if her stomach was rupturing. Sharp crippling pains shooting up and down her stomach. Louise moaned and groaned and screamed and pushed until finally she had two baby girls. When they were half an hour old she lay on the bed talking to Sinead. Sinead held one and Louise the other.
      “Well seeing as Paul’s not here I’m going to go ahead and name them them.”
      “What are they called?”
      “The one you have is called Lily Maread, and this wee one is Sarah Elspeth.”  Elspeth was their Scottish grannies name, their father’s mother.
      “Lovely names.”

Thomas McEllwee died on the Eighth of August Nineteen Eighty One. He lasted Sixty Two days on hunger strike.

      Sinead and Peter sat united. They had had a screaming match the night before when Peter came in late from The Rock. The neighbours had banged on the walls and Sineads throat had hurt. But now they were united in worry. Ciaran hadn’t come home yet again. It was starting to become a common theme in the house. Either parent sitting up all night, usually Sinead. He would come in at five or six in the morning with black hands and a tired look on his young face.
      “I should have had a wee word with him.” Peter said.
        “It’s too late now.”
        “Aye I know but still. If I’d had a word with him just.”
        “What’d we do if he went and got himself arrested or worse; Shot.”
      “If he got himself arrested he’d go straight on the blanket.”
      “Then on the dirty protest.”
      “Aye too right he wouldn’t take the easy way with all his comrades suffering.”
      “Thomas MacEllwee’s dead.”
      “Aye. Nine now. I wonder how long this’ll go on for.”
      “I don’t think Thatcher’ll ever relent.”
      “No chance. She’d let a hundred men die before she lost face. Auld bitch.”
      “Jesus where is he?”  It was twelve o’clock and Peter was knackered.
      “Go on to bed Peter.” Peter didn’t protest. “You’s too!” Sinead motioned towards Thomas and Marie.
      “Ach ma.” Marie protested. “I want to see Ciaran!”
      “You’ll see him tomorrow.” With much noise Marie and Thomas went to bed. From upstairs Sinead heard Thomas say.
      “Sure she’ll stay up all night!”
      Half an hour later the door knocked urgent and loud. Someone stirred upstairs. She answered it to feel her heart sink. It was Daniel, the wee boy who had informed her of Ciaran being taken to Castlereagh.
      “What’s happened?” She stuttered motioning for him to come in.
      He came in and sat down on the sofa opening and closing his mouth. Eyes darting about, left to right.
      “I’ll put out a brew.” Sinead said.
        With a tea in hand the boy started talking.
      “They’ve took them for good this time. I know it just.”
      “Took who? Where?” there was pleading in Sinead’s voice and the boy knew it.
      “Ciaran and Paul.”
      “Ciaran and Paul?”
      “Aye, your Ciaran and Paul MacDonald.” That was Louise’s Paul.
        “Where? What happened?”
      “We had guns we were going to attack the barracks. But the police approached us so we ran for it. I’m sorry but I ran faster just.” The poor boy was shaking, he pulled a hand gun from the inside of his jacket. “What’ll I do with this?” Sinead got a towel and picked up the gun. Pulling aside a loose floorboard she dropped the gun down, replaced the floorboard and the carpet.
      “Here have a smoke.” Sinead gave the by a cigarette and lit it for him. “You can have Ciarans bed tonight. Lord knows he won’t be needing it.”

        Michael Devine died on the Twentieth of August Nineteen Eighty One. He lasted Sixty days on hunger strike.

      Sinead, Louise and Peter all sat round the living room. It was twelve days since Ciaran and Paul had been arrested and there was no sign of them being released. Possession of a gun could get you fourteen years in the clink. That is what they would probably get, no remission.
      “What a fucked up town we live in.” Peter said.
      “Aye.” Sinead and Louise said.
      “Now that Michael Devine’s gone that’s ten hunger strikers dead.”
      “That’s ten new martyrs.” Louise said as she cradled Lily Maread and Sarah Elspeth.
      No one was mentioning Paul and Ciarans absence, it was too painful. Peter started humming a familiar song. An eerie sad song.

“Armored cars and tanks and guns,
Came to take away our sons,
But every man must stand behind,
The men behind the wire.

Through the little streets of Belfast,
In the dark of early morn,
British soldiers came marauding,
Wrecking little homes with scorn.”