Adrian McKinty - I Hear the Sirens in the Street

I finished my spliff and called my parents anyway, but they weren’t home.

I looked at the phone and the rain leaking in the hall window.

I made myself a vodka gimlet in a pint glass and called Laura.

Her mother answered.

“Oh, hello, Sean,” she said cheerfully.

“Hi, Irene, is Laura there at all?” I asked.

“No. No, I’m afraid not. Her father drove her to the airport.”

This took several seconds to sink in.

“She’s leaving tonight ?”

“Yes. Didn’t she tell you?”

“She said it was next week.”

“We had to change the plans. She’s been trying to call you all day. We’re going to take the ferry over with her car on Tuesday and she’s going by plane tonight to get everything sorted.”

“She tried to call me?”

“Yes – where were you this afternoon?”

“Working.”

“On a Saturday?”

“Aye, on a Saturday. The crooks don’t take the weekends off.”

“I’m sure she’ll try you again at the airport. The plane doesn’t leave until seven.”

“Okay, I better get off the line then,” I said.

I hung up and childishly punched the wall.

“Fucking lying bitch!” I yelled, which wouldn’t be the last time such edifying dialogue would be heard in Victoria Estate on a wet Saturday night.

I made myself another pint of vodka and lime juice, walked out the back to the garden shed, opened an old can marked “Screws” and found the stash of high-grade Turkish hashish I’d liberated from the evidence locker before they’d torched it and a couple of bags of brown tar heroin in a ceremony for the Carrickfergus Advertiser .

I got a Rizla King Size, made myself a joint and smoked it as I walked back to the house.

The phone was ringing and I almost slipped and broke my neck as I sprinted for the bastard.

“Sean! At last!” she said.

Laura. She was calling from Aldergrove Airport. Her plane left in five minutes.

I don’t remember any of the rest of it.

It was a story. A fairy story.

And promises neither of us would keep.

Five minutes?

It didn’t last two.

Her words were frozen birds fallen from the telegraph wires.

I responded with a vacuum of lies and banality, sick of my own material.

She finally took mercy on us and said goodbye and hung up the phone.

I sat in the living room and relit my joint. The Turkish was the shit and it wasn’t ten minutes before I was as high as a fucking weather balloon floating over Roswell, New Mexico.

I expectorated in the back yard and watched The Great Bear’s snout bend down and touch the lough. Spacing, I was. “Bear mother, watch over us,” I said. “Like you watched the old ones …”

There was a good quarter inch left but I tossed the joint, went back inside, put on Hunky Dory. Hunky Dory became Joan Armatrading became Dusty in Memphis .

At eleven o’clock there was a knock at the door.

I got my revolver from the hall table and said “Who is it?”

“Deirdre,” I think she said.

“Deirdre who?”

“From next door.”

I opened the door. It was Mrs Bridewell. She was holding a pie. It had got wet in the rain. She was wet. Mrs Bridewell with her cheekbones and bobbed black hair and husband over the water looking for work …

“Oh, hello,” I said. “Come in.”

“No. I wont stop over. I’ve left Thomas with the weans and a bigger eejit never stuck his arm through a coat.”

“Come in out of the rain, woman.”

She took a cautious step into the house. She looked at my picture of Our Lady of Knock and suppressed a skewer of polemic against the Papists.

“I only wanted to leave this off. I made it for the church bake sale tomorrow but it’s been cancelled because of the war.”

“What war?”

“Argentina’s invaded the Falkland Islands!”

“Oh, that war.”

“None of my lot can eat a rhubarb tart. But I know you like it.”

I turned on the hall light. She’d put on lipstick for this little sally next door and she was beautiful standing there with her wet fringe and puzzled green eyes, tubercular pallor, dark eyelids and thin, anxious red lips.

“Mr Duffy?” she said.

There was no one in the street. Her kids would be abed. The air was electric. Dangerous. It was fifty-fifty whether we’d roo like rabbits right here on the welcome mat. She could feel it too.

“Sean?” she whispered.

Christ almighty. I took a literal step back and breathed out.

“Yes … Yes, a rhubarb tart. Love them.”

She swallowed hard.

“M-make sure you eat it with cream,” she said, left it on the hall table and scurried back to her house.

I left the pie where it was and broke out the bottle of Jura instead. At midnight I put on the news to see if there had been any plane crashes but all the telly wanted to talk about was Argentina and I had to sit through several angles on that story before it became obvious that there hadn’t been any airline disasters and that Laura was completely safe.

8: VETERANS OF FOREIGN WARS

On Sunday an Atlantic storm parked itself over Ireland and it was raining so hard it could have been the Twelfth of July or one of those other holidays when God poured out his wrath on the Orangemen marching through the streets in bowler hats and sashes. I didn’t leave the house the whole day. I was so bored I almost went to the Gospel Hall on Victoria Road where, allegedly, they spoke in tongues, danced with snakes and afterwards you got a free slice of Dundee cake. Instead I listened to music and read One Hundred Years of Solitude which had come from the book club. It was a good novel but, as the man said, maybe seventy-five years of solitude would have been enough.

Dozens of different birds had stopped in my back garden to take shelter from the weather. I was no expert but I was my father’s son and with half a brain noted starlings, sparrows, blackbirds, thrushes, swifts, magpies, rock doves, robins, gulls of every kind.

On Monday the birds were still there and Mrs Campbell from the other side of the terrace was in her back garden in a plastic mac throwing bread to them. You could see her jabbers through the mac, which me and Mr Connor in the house opposite were both appreciating through our kitchen windows. The Campbells were a mysterious people and although I shared an entire wall with them I never really knew what was going over there, if her husband was working or at home, or how many kids and relatives’ kids she was looking after. She was an attractive woman, no doubt, but the stress and the smokes would get to her like they got to everyone else.

And speaking of ciggies, I lit myself a Marlboro, put The Undertones on the record player, showered, ate a bowl of cornflakes and hot milk, dressed in a shirt and jeans and headed out for the day. I checked under the BMW for mercury tilt bombs and drove to the station.

When the list of American citizens who had entered Northern Ireland in the previous year finally came in at eleven on Monday morning it was longer than we’d been expecting. Six hundred names. Five hundred of whom were men. Northern Ireland during the Troubles was not a popular tourist destination but the hunger strikes had sucked in scores of American journos, protesters, politicians and rubberneckers.

“How are we going to tackle this?” McCrabban asked dourly. His default method of asking anything.

“We’ll break the list into three and we’ll start making phone calls. We’ll begin with the over-forties first,” I said.

Fortunately each visitor to Northern Ireland had to fill out a full information card giving his or her home address, phone number, emergency contact, etc.