Belfast Girls Read online

  By the same author:

  Danger Danger

  Angel in Flight: an Angel Murphy thriller

  The Seanachie: Tales of Old Seamus

  Other books from Precious Oil Publications

  Cover photo & design: Raymond McCullough

  Belfast Girls

  Gerry McCullough

  “Gerry McCullough combines a fierce and tight narrative drive with humour, imagination and lust. What more do you want?”

  Malachi O’Doherty

  (bestselling writer, journalist, TV personality, Writer-in-residence at Seamus Heaney Centre, Queen’s University Belfast)

  “Gerry McCullough’s story-telling ability to keep all the plates spinning is impressive. Effortlessly, she takes your conscious mind out of your own world … smoothly and expertly, with page-turning ease.”

  Sam Millar

  (bestselling author of On the Brinks and The Dark Place)

  “This is a brilliant story, and could only be written by someone of Joyce's blood ... The description...is stunning. Brilliant, Gerry. Utterly brilliant.”

  Charles Bane Jr. (poet, USA)

  “This is truly a book about Ireland itself, not just friendship, love and suspense ... it is true literary fiction, not just fiction. It has a VERY wide range of appeal.␣Seamless intro of major characters, the fleshing out/explanation/background just the right balance, touch. You cover so much ground in that first chapter, effortlessly. The swift, brutal injection of action so soon into the story works so well. HAD to turn the page . . . no going back. Your writing, your pace, just about flawless.”

  T. MacKenzie (author)

  “You have a manner with words that moves the eye around each description. I can feel your characters. I can hear them speak. Your atmosphere is tangible. I think that is so difficult. I congratulate you on it … when a writer takes the care to add the emotional, societal, and physical atmosphere the reader can engage on an emotional, physical, and spiritual level. And then you have art. You provide that atmosphere. It’s difficult. It’s an achievement.”

  Mark R. Trost (author of Post Marked)

  “If you only have time to read one book properly it’s this one. An award winning read.”

  Amelia O. (author of A Certain Date in the Diary)

  “You have an (seemingly) effortless pace which carries the reader onwards at a right rate of knots. You are also good at distinguishing between your several characters, making the storytelling clearer. And you are never at a loss for a sudden plot switch. I like the way you let Belfast emerge as a character in its own right, never making a big deal about it.”

  John Burns (author)

  “A great opening set piece, aglitter with high fashion ... and intrigue most foul! "Belfast Girls" reveals insight nuanced characters struggling with contemporary challenges as the gritty plot unfolds.”

  S.C. Thompson (author)

  “I think this book is a great one. The story is moved along a nice clip: depictions of the characters set against an Irish cultural background, blend well with the tone of the narrations. Quiet on the surface, something uneasy is lurking underneath and compelling readers to move on.”

  C.J. Cronin (author)

  “Belfast Girls was all glamour and beauty at the start – mixed suddenly with Ulster Fry and Soda Bread, and the boys with the guns – a great story, with everything that’s beautiful and ugly about the Province, running through it. The opening was not quite what I was expecting, but tense and then explosive at the end. Then back in time to pre Good Friday, and the innocence of youth, against the backdrop of sectarian hatred, showed the reader expertly, the transition”

  James MacPherson (author)

  “There is always something instantly appealing about a story that promises several strands of story lines that weave together into a complete and compelling narrative cord. What immediately strikes me about your writing, Gerry, is the love of words and the understanding that good writing must have a rhythm to it in order to maintain interest – which yours does abundantly well. These chapters read with the effortlessness that suggests that a great deal of effort has gone into writing them.”

  Graham Barrow (author)

  Thanks to my husband, Raymond, for cover design, editing,

  proof-reading and general encouragement.

  Belfast Girls

  Gerry McCullough

  Published by

  Copyright © Gerry McCullough, 2010

  The right of Gerry McCullough to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Design and Patents Act, 1988

  ISBN 13: 978-0952578529

  ISBN 10: 0952578522

  First published by Night Publishing, UK, 2010

  This 2nd edition published 2012 by Precious Oil Publications

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  All characters are fictional, and any resemblance to anyone

  living or dead is accidental.

  10a Listooder Road, Crossgar,

  Downpatrick, Northern Ireland BT30 9JE

  Chapter One

  Jan 21, 2007

  The street lights of Belfast glistened on the dark pavements where, even now, with the troubles officially over, few people cared to walk alone at night. John Branagh drove slowly, carefully, through the icy streets.

  In the distance, he could see the lights of the Magnifico Hotel, a bright contrasting centre of noise, warmth and colour.

  He felt again the excitement of the news he’d heard today.

  Hey, he’d actually made the grade at last – full-time reporter for BBC TV, right there on the local news programme, not just a trainee, any longer. Unbelievable.

  The back end shifted a little as he turned a corner. He gripped the wheel tighter and slowed down even more. There was black ice on the roads tonight. Gotta be careful.

  So, he needed to work hard, show them he was keen. This interview, now, in this hotel? This guy Speers? If it turned out good enough, maybe he could go back to Fat Barney and twist his arm, get him to commission it for local TV, the Hearts and Minds programme maybe? Or even – he let his ambition soar – go national? Or how’s about one of those specials everybody seemed to be into right now?

  There were other thoughts in his mind but as usual he pushed them down out of sight. Sheila Doherty would be somewhere in the hotel tonight, but he had plenty of other stuff to think about to steer his attention away from past unhappiness. No need to focus on anything right now but his career and its hopeful prospects.

  Montgomery Speers, better get the name right, new Member of the Legislative Assembly, wanted to give his personal views on the peace process and how it was working out. Yeah. Wanted some publicity, more like. Anti, of course, or who’d care? But that was just how people were.

  John curled his lip. He had to follow it up. It could give his career the kick start it needed.

  But he didn’t have to like it.

  * * *

  Inside the Magnifico Hotel, in the centre of newly regenerated Belfast, all was bustle and chatter, especially in the crowded space behind the catwalk. The familiar fashion show smell, a mixture of cosmetics and hair dryers, was overwhelming.

  Sheila Doherty sat before her mirror, and felt a cold wave of unhappiness surge over her. How ironic it was, that title the papers gave her, today’s most super supermodel. She closed her eyes and put her hands to her ears, trying to shut everything out for just one snatched moment of peace and silence.

  Every now and then it came again. The pain.
The despair. A face hovered before her mind’s eye, the white, angry face of John Branagh, dark hair falling forward over his furious grey eyes. She deliberately blocked the thought, opening her eyes again. She needed to slip on the mask, get ready to continue on the surface of things where her life was perfect.

  “Comb that curl over more to the side, will you, Chrissie?” she asked, “so it shows in front of my ear.Yeah, that’s right – if you just spray it there – thanks, pet.”

  The hairdresser obediently fixed the curl in place. Sheila’s long red-gold hair gleamed in the reflection of three mirrors positioned to show every angle. Everything had to be perfect – as perfect as her life was supposed to be. The occasion was too important to allow for mistakes.

  Her fine-boned face with its clear translucent skin, like ivory, and crowned with the startling contrast of her hair, looked back at her from the mirror, green eyes shining between thick black lashes – black only because of the mascara.

  She examined herself critically, considering her appearance as if it were an artefact which had to be without flaw to pass a test.

  She stood up.

  “Brilliant, pet,” she said. “Now the dress.”

  The woman held out the dress for Sheila to step into, then carefully pulled the ivory satin shape up around the slim body and zipped it at the back. The dress flowed round her, taking and emphasising her long fluid lines, her body slight and fragile as a daydream. She walked over to the door, ready to emerge onto the catwalk. She was very aware that this was the most important moment of one of the major fashion shows of her year.

  The lights in the body of the hall were dimmed, those focussed on the catwalk went up, and music cut loudly through the sudden silence. Francis Delmara stepped forward and began to introduce his new spring line.

  For Sheila, ready now for some minutes and waiting just out of sight, the tension revealed itself as a creeping feeling along her spine. She felt suddenly cold and her stomach fluttered.

  It was time and, dead on cue, she stepped lightly out onto the catwalk and stood holding the pose for a long five seconds, as instructed, before swirling forward to allow possible buyers a fuller view.

  She was greeted by gasps of admiration, then a burst of applause. Ignoring the reaction, she kept her head held high, her face calm and remote, as far above human passion as some elusive, intangible figure of Celtic myth, a Sidhe, a dweller in the hollow hills, distant beyond man’s possessing – just as Delmara had taught her.

  This was her own individual style, the style which had earned her the nickname ‘Ice Maiden’ from the American journalist Harrington Smith. She moved forward along the catwalk, turned this way and that, and finally swept a low curtsey to the audience before standing there, poised and motionless.

  Delmara was silent at first to allow the sight of Sheila in one of his most beautiful creations its maximum impact. Then he began to draw attention to the various details of the dress.

  It was time for Sheila to withdraw. Once out of sight, she began a swift, organised change to her next outfit, while Delmara’s other models were in front.

  No time yet for her to relax, but the show seemed set for success.

  * * *

  MLA, Montgomery Speers, sitting in the first row of seats, the celebrity seats, with his latest blonde girlfriend by his side, allowed himself to feel relieved.

  Francis Delmara had persuaded him to put money into Delmara Fashions and particularly into financing Delmara’s supermodel, Sheila Doherty, and he was present tonight in order to see for himself if his investment was safe. He thought, even so early in the show, that it was.

  He was a broad shouldered man in his early forties, medium height, medium build, red-cheeked, and running slightly to fat. There was nothing particularly striking about his appearance except for the piercing dark eyes set beneath heavy, jutting eyebrows. His impressive presence stemmed from his personality, from the aura of power and aggression which surrounded him.

  A businessman first and foremost, he had flirted with political involvement for several years. He had stood successfully for election to the local council, feeling the water cautiously with one toe while he made up his mind. Would he take the plunge and throw himself whole- heartedly into politics?

  The new Assembly gave him his opportunity, if he wanted to take it. More than one of the constituencies offered him the chance to stand for a seat. He was a financial power in several different towns where his computer hardware companies provided much needed jobs. He was elected to the seat of his choice with no trouble. The next move was to build up his profile, grab an important post once things got going, and progress up the hierarchy.

  In an hour or so, when the Fashion Show was over, he would meet this young TV reporter for some preliminary discussion of a possible interview or of an appearance on a discussion panel. He was slightly annoyed that someone so junior had been lined up to talk to him. John Branagh, that was the name, wasn’t it? Never heard of him. Should have been someone better known, at least. Still, this was only the preliminary. They would roll out the big guns for him soon enough when he was more firmly established. Meanwhile his thoughts lingered on the beautiful Sheila Doherty.

  If he wanted her, he could buy her, he was sure. And more and more as he watched her, he knew that, yes, he wanted her.

  * * *

  A fifteen minute break, while the audience drank the free wine and ate the free canapés. Behind the scenes again, Sheila checked hair and makeup. A small mascara smear needed to be removed, a touch more blusher applied. In a few minutes she was ready but something held her back.

  She stared at herself in the mirror and saw a cool, beautiful woman, the epitome of poise and grace. She knew that famous, rich, important men over two continents would give all their wealth and status to possess her, or so they said. She was an icon according to the papers. That meant, surely, something unreal, something artificial, painted or made of stone.

  And what was the good? There was only one man she wanted. John Branagh. And he’d pushed her away. He believed she was a whore – a tart – someone not worth touching. What did she do to deserve that?

  It wasn’t fair! she told herself passionately. He went by rules that were medieval. No-one nowadays thought the odd kiss mattered that much. Oh, she was wrong. She’d hurt him, she knew she had. But if he’d given her half a chance, she’d have apologised – told him how sorry she was. Instead of that, he’d called her such names – how could she still love him after that? But she knew she did.

  How did she get to this place, she wondered, the dream of romantic fiction, the dream of so many girls, a place she hated now, where men thought of her more and more as a thing, an object to be desired, not a person? When did her life go so badly wrong? She thought back to her childhood, to the skinny, ginger-haired girl she once was. Okay, she hated how she looked but otherwise, surely, she was happy. Or was that only a false memory?

  “Sheila – where are you?"

  The hairdresser poked her head round the door and saw Sheila with every sign of relief.

  “Thank goodness! Come on, love, only got a couple of minutes! Delmara says I’ve to check your hair. Wants it tied back for this one.”

  * * *

  The evening was almost at its climax. The show began with evening dress, and now it was to end with evening dress – but this time with Delmara’s most beautiful and exotic lines. Sheila stood up and shook out her frock, a cloud of short ice-blue chiffon, sewn with glittering silver beads and feathers. She and Chrissie between them swept up her hair, allowing a few loose curls to hang down her back and one side of her face, fixed it swiftly into place with two combs, and clipped on more silver feathers. She fastened on long white earrings with a pearly sheen and slipped her feet into the stiletto heeled silver shoes left ready and waiting. She moved over to the doorway for her cue. There was no time to think or to feel the usual butterflies. Chloe came off and she counted to three and went on.

  There was an immedia
te burst of applause.

  To the loud music of Snow Patrol, Sheila half floated, half danced along the catwalk, her arms raised ballerina fashion. When she had given sufficient time to allow the audience their fill of gasps and appreciation, she moved back and April and Chloe appeared in frocks with a similar effect of chiffon and feathers, but with differences in style and colour. It was Delmara’s spring look for evening wear and she could tell at once that the audience loved it.

  The three girls danced and circled each other, striking dramatic poses as the music died down sufficiently to allow Delmara to comment on the different features of the frocks.

  With one part of her mind Sheila was aware of the audience, warm and relaxed now, full of good food and drink, their minds absorbed in beauty and fashion, ready to spend a lot of money. Dimly in the background she heard the sounds of voices shouting and feet running.

  The door to the ballroom burst open.

  People began to scream.

  It was something Sheila had heard about for years now, the subject of local black humour, but had never before seen.

  Three figures, black tights pulled over flattened faces as masks, uniformly terrifying in black leather jackets and jeans, surged into the room.

  The three sub-machine guns cradled in their arms sent deafening bursts of gunfire upwards. Falling plaster dust and stifling clouds of gun smoke filled the air.

  For one long second they stood just inside the entrance way, crouched over their weapons, looking round. One of them stepped forward and grabbed Montgomery Speers by the arm.