Chapter One
We had received word only the day before that my brother Hugh had been moved from his H-Block cell to the Maze’s hospital ward. My brother, an unacknowledged political prisoner in the notorious Long Kesh prison, had begun his journey toward death by starvation twenty-three days prior. As was standard practice, two days earlier, when he had reached the twenty-first day of his hunger strike, he was moved and could then receive visitors for half an hour each day.
I didn’t know what to expect, having not seen Hugh in over a year. I knew I didn’t understand why my brother was willing to die in protest of the unrelenting British government’s refusal to grant the IRA prisoners political status. In my fourteen year old mind I thought, to live is better than to die, no matter what the circumstances.
My mother said what Hugh was doing was noble and worthy of great respect. We should support him. Indeed, where I lived my brother had attained a hero’s status among the neighbors. Since we got the news that Hugh was among the latest volunteers to die for the cause, there had been much activity around our modest Belfast home . . . Much support for my mother. She cried once, and has since expressed only pride for her son. I couldn’t help but wonder what my father would have thought were he there. He wasn’t, but that’s another story, and it suffices to say he was no longer with us.
I was moments away from seeing my brother and my stomach was in a tight knot. There was a prison guard watching me and although my mother told me to ignore him, he made me no less nervous. As I wondered which of the many locked doors my brother was behind, I could hear the hourly news on the radio from behind the door closest to me. My mother told me that the men listened in hopes of hearing the news that the Brits had relented . . . The news that they would live.
A guard approached from down the long corridor and wagged a boney finger at my mother and me. The knot in my stomach doubled and I wondered how I would keep from begging my brother to stop . . . To live. I was glad my wee sister was not with us. Even my mother could not keep the tears from her eyes. We stopped, and the heavy wooden door looming before me took on more significance than any inanimate object ever should. Suddenly, I wanted to turn and run, but was no more able to do so than I was to face what was behind that door. It opened and I braced myself wondering, simultaneously, what had become of my brother and why I was so afraid to face him.
He stared at us from where he lie, thin and pale, and we stared back, and nobody spoke. I thought then I would turn and run. He smiled.
“Have you nothing to say?” he asked quietly. With five words the spell was broken. My mother ran to her eldest son. I watched as they embraced and kissed. Still, I could not move or even speak.
“How do I look?” he asked and my mother ignored the question, telling him instead how much she loved him and how proud everybody was of him. Then he turned his gaze on me, and his eyes met mine, and I knew they had betrayed me. I couldn’t look him in the eye. “It’s good to see you John” he said.
“I’ve missed you Hugh.” The silence that followed was terribly awkward, but my mother mercifully broke it.
“How are they treating you love?” she asked.
“Good now. You know it’s amazing what you have to do to get a decent room in this place.” My mother laughed. I couldn’t believe he could joke about what was happening to him. “Cheer up John,” he said. “You look as though you’ve seen a bloody ghost.”
“Does it hurt?” I asked . . . My voice cracking. Incredibly, he responded.
“Does what hurt?”
“Starving to death,” My voice steadied with anger and even as my mother scolded me, I knew I would speak my mind. “I love you Hugh. I don’t want you to die, not here, not like this.” I was crying and he asked me to come to him. I did, and held him, and sobbed. Finally he spoke, almost directly into my ear.
“I love you John. I don’t want to die . . . To leave you and Mommy and Sarah. Every day I pray for the news that will put an end to all of this, and I wish that not I or any other man will have to die. But I’m not afraid to die John . . . Not for what I believe is right. Please support me John.” Suddenly, I was angry at him, passionately, uncontrollably angry. I pulled away.
“You don’t care about us. You don’t care that you’re hurting us. Mommy won’t tell you but I will. They don’t care about you. Whether you live or die the Brits will still be here and you’ll not make a bit of difference . . . Waiting for the news to save your life . . . Well it’s not coming Hugh. You’re going to die, and when you do, I’ll never forgive you!” I had hurt him. There were tears in his eyes and I didn’t care. My anger consumed me.
“How I wish you could understand John. How I love you, and wish you could understand.” He looked so fragile at that moment.
“I never will,” I said angrily. I glared at him, and he stared back, tears glistening in his eyes. Finally, he spoke softly.
“John, I would like you to leave now.” They were the last words ever spoken to me by my brother.
How I wish I had understood.
It took my Mother some time to forgive what I said to my brother . . . Or perhaps she never did. Eventually, she seemed to have forgiven me. Every day she went to see Hugh. Every day she asked me to go. Every day I declined. Hugh had held out for fifty two days and there was no doubt he would soon die. There was no part of me that was capable of being proud of that. He sent something home with my Mother, which he asked me to read, and said he hoped it would help me to understand. It was a quote by a man named Terence MacSwiney, who had taken seventy-four days to die. It said, “It is not those who can inflict the most, but those who suffer the most who will conquer.” I understood his words, but not his actions.
My younger sister Sarah was far less forgiving of me and still would not speak to me. She saw how so many people respected what Hugh was doing and heard the songs, played on the radio, dedicated to the hunger strikers. She felt proud, but also, I think it was more than that. She understood this thing that they all wished I could. What I did understand was that ours was a life of death and violence and religious persecution, and the end was nowhere in sight.
When my mother went off each day, Sarah and I were left alone to care for the family business, a wee shop built off the front of our house. Whenever I would try to speak to my younger sister, she would ask me to go away. My heart broke when I looked at her pretty young face and saw how she despised me . . . Such strong will for one so wee. I respected her enormously, so I left her alone.
On this particular day, as I left, I had no idea how drastically my life was about to change.
Chapter Two
Terry McCollum, a mate from up the block, was sitting on his door step.
“Hey John,” he said, looking up from tying his shoes, “Do you want to come with me to Sean’s?”
“What for?” I asked, not really caring to be pleasant.
“His older brother is going to teach a bunch of us to make a pipe bomb,” he replied excitedly.
“I know how.” This was all quite boring, and as I walked away I was thinking that my sister could teach them to make a bomb, and Belfast children younger than her would know what to do with the finished product.
“Do you want to show me then?” he called after me but I ignored him, preferring to be alone. At the end of the block, two policemen on a tank were talking to a British soldier. I recognized the soldier, but from where I was not sure.
“Hey,” he called to me, “Your Hugh O’Neil’s brother aren’t you?” I feared these men and their plastic bullets enough to answer. “And doesn’t yer ma own the shop at the end of the block?” he continued.
“Aye.” My voice was unsteady and I stood on weak legs looking at him.
“Well, alright then, get outta here!” he yelled. As I walked away, I could hear him saying to the two policemen, “You know he’s one of those fucks starving themselves in The Maze.”
Having nowhere to go, I simply walked about thinking. I thought of a man my brother knew who’d been shot in the back with a plastic bullet. Hugh said it looked as if somebody had stuffed a football under his shirt where the bullet struck. I had never seen anybody shot by the RUC, but I knew it happened often. I remembered the beating my father took one night when I was younger. I asked him why the police had beaten him. He said he didn’t know, but that he was lucky to have survived. I was very afraid of the Royal Ulster Constablitory.
I stopped to light a cigarette out of the pack I had lifted from my mother’s shop, and for lack of a better idea, I decided to go down and sit at the wash. On my way there, I passed some kids playing football in the street. A jeep load of soldiers passed by, and behind me I heard their horn blare. One of them yelled, “Get outta the road you wee bastards!”
“Fuck you ya fuckin queers!” was the response from a boy about my sister’s age. I laughed to myself, but the felt ashamed at how I’d kissed the soldiers arse just moments before. I walked on feeling very much a coward.
Later I was headed home, perhaps three blocks from our house, when my mother pulled alongside me and told me to get in the car. I could see that her eyes were red and swollen. She always cried after a visit with Hugh. She never cried in his presence.
“I wish you would see your brother John,” she said. I started to speak, but she cut me off. “I know he wants to see you.”
“I can’t Mammy. You know . . . “
“You’re more like him than you know,” once again I was cut off, “You’re both so . . .“ She stopped, her face suddenly changing. “Jesus, Mary and Saint Joseph!” she exclaimed. I followed her gaze and saw that the big store front window of our shop was shattered. We uttered my sister’s name in unison as she stopped the car and leapt from it without bothering to park. I was on her heals as we came through the unlocked front door.
“Sarah!” she called, “Sarah, where are you Love?” As she rounded the large counter she cried, “No! No! Please God no!” She dropped to her knees behind the counter as I crept forward, afraid of what I would see on the other side. Unable to swallow past the lump in my throat, I peered behind the counter to find my mother sobbing over my baby sister’s lifeless form. I was, at first, unable to comprehend what I saw. This was not possible. This was not my wee sister! Even now, writing from my cell, it is difficult for me to put into words what I felt as I watched my mother cradle my dead sister in her arms.
I don’t wish to remember the details, but I have told you the story of my brother’s friend and the plastic bullet. The RUC had fired, apparently from the street, to shatter the window. Sarah had been struck, far from accidently, square in the forehead. The result was devastating. My baby sister was dead.
I shut down emotionally after Sarah’s death. A state I was to remain in until after Hugh died several weeks later. My mother spent long hours contemplating how, or indeed if she would tell Hugh. In the end it didn’t matter. A particularly callous prison guard took great pleasure in using the information as a tool in his attempt to break Hugh’s will. My brother was shattered, but not deterred. He was so much stronger than I’ll ever be. I wish I could say that I went to see him, but I did not.
The community’s support for my family was nothing less than phenomenal, and was apparent by the attendance of Sarah’s wake. Many of Hugh’s friends were there, so of course the RUC made a considerable appearance. Fortunately, there were no arrests, and friends and neighbors gave my mother the support I wish I’d been able to.
It was at the graveside that I was first approached by a man named Daniel Connoly. I knew him as a friend of my brother. I was sitting alone, watching the soldiers as they watched us, when he spoke from behind me.
“Bastards!” he spat, “They’ve no business here.” I said nothing, and after a moment he came forward and sat beside me. “It was a lovely service John.” I looked at him then, but did not speak. I had nothing to say. After a moment of strained silence, he cleared his throat and extended me a large hand. “My name is Daniel Connoly. I’m a friend of your brother,”
“I know,” I said, shaking his hand half-heartedly.
“I know this is difficult for you lad,” he half whispered. “I know what you’re feeling.” I looked away from him, finding it hard to believe that this man had any idea how I felt. I didn’t.
“You’re confused, sad, and above all angry,” he paused and got no reaction. “You will get through this John. You’ve no choice. Your ma needs you to be strong now lad.” He waved an arm in the direction of the soldiers. “Don’t let these bastards bring you down. You’re better than they are.”
I turned on him with tears in my eyes, “You don’t know me. Don’t tell me what I feel, or what I’ve got to do. Who the fuck are you anyhow. You’re nothing to me.” I was starting to sob.
“I’m here to help lad.”
“I don’t need your help, or your philosophy. Leave me the hell alone.” I put my head in my hands and cried. After a moment he spoke.
“I told you John. I do know what you’re feeling. I know what you need. When you’re done feeling sorry for yourself, and you’re ready to do something, you’ll not have trouble finding me. I‘m talking about vengeance lad . . . I’m talking about taking back what’s been taken from you. A British court, prosecuting a British policeman for killing an Irish lass . . . That’s not justice. I’m talking about Justice John.”
When I looked up, he was walking away. I watched him go, and then looked back at the soldiers. They were laughing, and smiling
. . . And gloating.
Chapter Three
My mother’s strength during all of this amazed me. Although I was not there for her, emotionally, she was for me. She never missed a single visit with her eldest son, who was now blind and partially deaf. This was a common side effect of starvation. My sister’s death had made me suddenly aware of events, taking place around me, to which I had somehow always managed to remain oblivious.
Retaliation was anticipated for what I have since come to think of as my sister’s murder. The Protestant policemen responsible for her death did indeed receive thirty day suspensions, with pay.
First, IRA Provisionals claimed responsibility for a car bombing that claimed the lives of two RUC officers. During the 6am sweep of Divis Flats that followed, six of my brother’s close friends were arrested. None were released. None were charged with any crime.
Nobody claimed responsibility for the retaliatory killing of a young Catholic boy just two days later. His body was found in the Shankill, his hands and feet tied with wire. He was covered with cuts and bruises, and shot in the head. The police said they had no proof, but everybody knew it was either the UDA or the UDF, Protestant organizations. There were no sweeps in the other Belfast . . . Surprise.
The slack left by one sided justice was quickly taken up by the “Provos” with the killings of two known Protestant assassins in the east. The specifics of these killings eluded me, but I felt they were appropriate.
Add to all of this the anticipation of more deaths among the hunger strikers, and it’s not surprising that tensions were high throughout Ulster on the day my mother returned from “The Maze” with the inevitable news of Hugh’s death.
“He said he was off to care for his wee sister, luv,” my mother told me with tears in her eyes and a weak smile on her lips.
The force with which the news of my brother’s death hit me was so overwhelming it was almost tangible. I was very nearly physically knocked down. I don’t think I had ever really let myself believe that Hugh was going to die. The emotionally numb state I had enjoyed since Sarah’s murder was gone. I then had to contend with a flood of emotions, not the least of which was anger, that I had conveniently tucked away, afraid to face them. If there is one thing my brother gave me that I treasure above all others, it is that moment. In that moment, I became a man.
Although I was now a man, my mother did not share my revelation, and the man was not allowed out that evening. There were riots throughout Ulster in my brother’s name, and I fell asleep to the sound of distant gun shots. For the first time in my life, the sound inspired rather than frightened me. I longed to part of the protest in my family’s name.
Finally, I understood.
The riots went on for some time, with violence from all sides fueled by more deaths from within the walls of “The Maze”. Soon all eight of the hunger strikers were dead . . . For them the question answered. Everyone knew that within the walls of the prison more men were volunteering to carry on the protest. Ulster mother’s waited anxiously for the news that their sons were not among the volunteers.
Soon, as always, the rioting stopped, the killings became less frequent, and except for a few more tanks on the streets, Ulster returned to normal. My mother wanted me to return to school, and I did. There, I found that I had become somewhat of a celebrity with my mates. They all wanted details about my brother.
“I’ll bet he was fucken thin as hell,” commented one boy.
“Aye, he was very thin . . . And pale,” I answered. I understood their curiosity. They meant no harm.
“Was the Brits knockin’ him around?”
“No, nothing like that”
“Yah, but can you be sure?” The interrogation continued.
“Well, I was only there once,” I explained.
“What do you mean you was only friggin’ there once?” he asked incredulously.
“I had to watch me ma’s store days,” I countered.
“And they shot his wee sister too,” interjected another boy.
“Fucken bastards!” spat another.
“Let’s cut class and go fuck with em,” suggested third, and they all agreed.
“Are you comin’ then John?”
I did not. I went to class because that’s what my mother wanted. She deserved that much.
My days passed relatively uneventfully, and between school and helping my mother in the shop, I was kept busy. For this I was grateful because in my free time my mind was occupied with thoughts of my siblings, and how much I missed them. When working in the shop, I would watch the RUC pass by in their armored trucks, forever vigilant of the explosion of sound and glass that might, at any moment, bring tragedy to our lives once again. But there were no gun shots, no shattering of glass, and before long, my life had become tedious and predictable.
To break the monotony, I followed events in Ulster through radio reports and information passed on by those who came into the shop. Within me, I cultivated a growing hatred for my oppressors. Looking back now, I know that my cause is just, but I have to wonder, as a Catholic, if I will be judged, by God, by the righteousness of my cause, or the degree of my ability to hate. But that is between myself and my Creator, and best to remain that way.
My life, however, was not to be one of such simple regularity, and before long, the monotony was broken. I was in class studying history, Irish history, and wishing very much to be anywhere else, when my history lesson took an abrupt turn. It was a classmate who first pointed out to me that there was a man in a black baklava in the hallway outside our class. Sister Mary Anne, our history teacher, saw him whispering to me and turned her stony gaze upon us.
“Patrick Hunter,” she scolded, “is what you have to say so important that you must be rude?”
“Yes mam, I think it is,” he said softly. Her expression hardened, if that was possible, and she spoke through tight lips.
”Well then perhaps you’ll share with the rest of us.”
The door to her left imploded and two men wearing baklavas and carrying automatic weapons saved Patrick the trouble.
“Apologies Sister,” said one, “But you’ll have to come with me.” He was quite polite. I think that was the only time I ever saw Sister Mary Anne with nothing to say. She simply gaped. “We won’t hurt the children . . . Come along now.” She did as she was told, and we were left alone with the other man. You have to understand that Belfast children would tend to react differently to this sort of thing. I don’t think most of us were scared, really. Speaking for myself, I was fascinated.
The man proceeded to give a lecture on Ulster, and five hundred years of Irish Catholic oppression under England’s rule. He spoke of the need for rebellion and reform. He spoke of an Ireland united, and the importance of accepting nothing less. Finally, he thanked us for listening and left. It was a history lesson I would never forget.
The teachers had been held in an office in the back of the small school house, and in the other five classrooms, similar lectures had been given. Eventually, the sisters were released, and we all went home early. It was all very exciting, and I rushed home to tell my mother about it.
Chapter Four
Mother was in the shop doing business with two women. Business, at the moment, appeared to be gossip, and I did not interrupt.
“She dint!” said one of the women . . . The one with the extremely large bum.
“She did I tell ya,” answered her companion, “And in front of everybody.”
“And what did he do?” asked my mother.
“He kept his bloody mouth shut, he did,” was the answer. This must have been terribly funny because they all laughed. Despite my attempt to remain inconspicuous, my mother spotted me by the door.
“Do you ladies know my son John?” This I was trying to avoid. “Say hello John.”
“Hello,” I said politely.
“Oh, and he’s a handsome wee man, isn’t he?” said the bum . . . And her companion agreed. My face turned red, and my mother had mercy on me.
“There’s somethin’ to eat in the kitchen Luv , go on now cause I’ll be needin your help here.”
I could tell my mother about school later, for now, I was grateful to escape. From the kitchen, I could hear them drone on.
“How have you been Molly?” the bum asked my mother.
“I get by, but I’ve developed nerves. Thank God for John, he helps,” she answered. “The tranquilizers make me so tired.”
“Don’t they though?” countered the bum, “I can hardly get a thing done when I’m taken em. I don’t know how you do it.”
My mother had started taking tranquilizers after Hugh died. She had always been a strong woman, but the loss of two of her babies had taken its toll. I knew that when these two left, she would leave me to watch the shop and have a nap before tea. Finally, the women finally left, and I considered it safe to come out.
“Oh John,” said my mother, “I’m so glad yer home. I’m so tired.”
“Was it busy to “Not really,” she sighed, “I’m worried Luv, we’re not taken in what we used to; and then those two lookin for credit.”
“Did you give it,” I asked. She ignored my question.
“The woman hasn’t paid off the last credit . . . And she’s got the money. She’s so tight she can hardly pull the cork out of her arse to use the toilet.” I laughed, and she laughed with me. It made me happy to see her smile. I watched as she counted out the days take from our old cash register. It wasn’t much.
“’The Rah’ was at my school today,” I volunteered. She stopped counting.
“What do you mean ‘The Rah’ was at your school?” Her eyes narrowed, and she waited for an answer.
“They came in wearin masks and carryin guns. They locked all the teachers in an office.”
“And yer just now tellin me this?” she said harshly.
“Well, no one was hurt,” I explained.
“Well what did they want with the teachers?”
“They didn’t care about the teachers, really,” I explained. “They wanted to speak to us.”
“About what?”
“About history really, and the Brits . . . And the cause. It was interesting.”
“Not to you it wasn’t,” she hollered, with tears in her eyes. “I lost two of my babies to ‘The Cause’. I’m not losing you as well.” Her voice softened a bit. “I believe in what they’re doin Luv, I really do. But I want you to stay out of it.” I said nothing. “Do you hear me?” she yelled. “I want you to say that you understand!”
“I understand Mammy.” She stared at me for what seemed like forever. Finally, she spoke.
“I’m goin to have a rest. Wake me for tea Luv.” She took two tablets from the bottle that was always with her, and left me alone and confused.
Over the next year, I watched a proud woman fight a losing battle with herself. Her only ally, the pills, turned coat. Before long, she hardly left her bed. I helped when I could, and although I quit school to mind the shop and take care of her, I didn’t know how to stop what was happening to her. I was afraid that my mother was dying.
The shop made enough to support us, but we scraped by from day to day. I got her permission to sell her car, and stashed the money from it so we had a bit of savings. For a long time my days consisted of cooking, cleaning, and running the shop . . . Nothing else. At night I would fall into bed, exhausted. Early the next morning, I would begin another long day.
One day, a man named Micky Sweeny hobbled into the shop on crutches. He had been a regular customer for as long as I could remember, and somebody we considered a friend. He had a long list of unpaid credit, but was never refused something he needed. He wouldn’t ask if he didn’t need it.
On this particular day, however, he had come to pay his long delinquent line of credit. This was noteworthy because Micky was a poor man. The money he owed us probably amounted to more than he had ever had in his pockets at one time.
“John me lad, how the hell are ya!” he called enthusiastically as he hobbled through the door.
“Good morning Micky,” I called back. “Jesus,” I said, noticing the crutches, “What happened to you?”
“Ah twas just a wee misunderstandin lad. I’ve got other news for ya. I’ve come to pay me tab.”
“All of it?” I asked. I was shocked.
“Aye,” he said, with obvious pride, “I come into some money. How much do I owe?” I quickly looked up his tab.
“Here we are,” I showed him the book, “It’s £47.50”
“Oh, that much is it?” he said coyly.
“You don’t have to pay it all now Micky.”
“No . . . No, I can pay Lad, but tell me . . . Would you accept £70.00?” He eyed me with a playful smile on his face.
“Micky, its £47.50,” I thought he had heard me wrong.
“I know Lad,” he said softly. “I want you and yer ma to take the rest . . . For all the help you’ve given me.” I hesitated. “Go on Lad, I know you’ll put it to use.”
“Are you sure Mick?” His generosity didn’t amaze me as much as him having the money to give.
“Kindness should be rewarded Lad.” He beamed. “Yer ma has always been too kind. Tell her I was glad of it.”
“Aye Mick . . . And ta,” I took the money. “Can I get ya somthin . . . No charge.”
“Have you got a Guinness back there Lad?”
“Aye, I’ll get you a seat as well.” I ran to the kitchen and brought back the ale and a chair. “Hey Mick,” I had to ask, “Where’d you get the money?”
He sat back, took a long drink, and looked at me sort of strange for a moment before saying, “I would usually say that’s none of your business John, but I’m gonna tell you a story because I think you should hear it.” I hopped up on the counter and waited. “See, about a month ago I got arrested in a sweep at Divis Flats. I dint do nothing, mind ya, but these soldiers, they figure I know somethin, right . . . And maybe I do see, but I dint tell them. So they hold me for a few days and beat me, but still I dint tell em nothin. They was mad see, but they let me go.”
“Well, a few days later, I’m drinkin with me mates in a pub. Now these soldiers been watchin me see, and they come in and they says to me, right loud with everybody watchin, they says, ‘Micky, are these the mates you was tellin us about?’ So I says, ‘Fuck you, I dint tell you nothin,’ and the Brit says, ‘Don’t worry Micky, I told you we’d protect you,’ and they grab me mates, see . . . And the whole crowd is lookin at me funny now, so I got outta there quick,” he paused to take another drink.
“Now pay attention to this next part Lad, cause it’s important. The next night I’m walkin near me house, and some guys grab me and pull me into the ally there. They says, ‘You shoulda kept quiet Micky. You coulda lived’. Well I pissed me pants right then and I says, ‘I dint say nothin, I swear! They’re fuckin me cause I dint talk’. So the guy puts a gun to me knee and says, “Don’t shit us Micky, they got the right people,’ and he fires. Jesus, Mary, and St Joseph it hurt John, and then he puts it to me other knee and says, ‘You’re a lucky man Micky cause I believe you,’ and he fires again. Well then they took off and left me there, screamin bloody murder.
“Anyway, the hospital got me right again, and the government give me a check fer gettin kneecapped.”
“Jesus!” I said, astonished by his tale. Of course, I knew about IRA kneecappings as punishment for a variety of crimes, not the least of which was snitching to the police. It was a way of dealing with their own, since Ulster Catholics in general don’t trust police. But I had never personally known anybody who had been shot in the knees. Micky’s story amazed me.
“”Ah, twasn’t so bad,” he said casually, taking a drink of the Guinness, “And now I’ve got me debts straight . . . And a bit in me pocket to boot. I come out right fine really.”
“But you dint do anything,” I said incredulously.
“Aye Lad,” he answered, “But the Brits did. Twas them that done me John, not ‘The Rah’”
His drink finished, Micky left me to ponder his last statement. I decided he was right.
