Belfast Girls Page 7

  It was a dismal setting. The small attic bedroom on the third storey of the old house held only a single bed, a chest of drawers, a table covered in books and papers, and a single bar electric fire. Through the sash window the roofs of Belfast could be seen, grey slated and wet, stretching into the distance. The late moonlight, slanting in, picked out the frayed patches of the ancient carpet.

  But Phil noticed none of this.

  Gently disengaging herself from Davy's grasp, she stood up and went over to the electric fire. Bending down, she switched it on. Then she went over to the door, checked that its Yale lock had caught and put on the snib. She turned back to the narrow single bed where Davy sat watching her and, shrugging out of her jacket, began to unbutton the blouse she wore beneath it as she moved back towards him.

  She sat down beside him on the bed, put her arms round him again and drew him towards her.

  For a moment her lips brushed his cheek tentatively. Her hand stroked his hair. Then her mouth fastened on his and they kissed hungrily, ferociously.

  It was Davy who broke free.

  “No, Phil!” he said, speaking with an effort. “I know this isn't how you want it.” He buried his face in her shoulder as he spoke.

  But Phil said nothing. Instead, she lifted his right hand and placed it gently against her breast. Then, lying back against the pillow, she pulled him close against her, beginning to kiss him again with greater and greater passion until Davy forgot all his resolves.

  “Hide me, Phil,” he said. “Hide me and keep me safe.”

  “Yes, Davy,” Phil whispered back softly, her mouth pressed against his chest as he bore down upon her. “Yes, yes, yes.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  On a soft afternoon in the very early summer, with a hint of roses in the air, Sheila and John drove out to Shaw’s Bridge and parked John’s mother's car, intending to walk on the towpath. They had not been back there since the first time they had met.

  They had been engaged privately for nearly two months now. Sheila was very happy. Her only complaint, one which she did not make out loud, was that John seldom kissed her, except for a brief goodnight, and clearly intended to keep it that way.

  They left the car and strolled along the towpath by the edge of the river. They had been walking for about twenty minutes or so when John suddenly slapped his forehead with the heel of his left hand.

  “What a fool! I forgot! I have to meet Dennis Logan in ten minutes and hand over the keys of the Department library – he lent them to me yesterday. I might just get there before he gives up and goes, if I sprint like the hammers back to the car and fly round there.”

  “Okay, no problem,” Sheila agreed. “You go on – I would only slow you down in these shoes. I’ll wait here. It’s a lovely day for a rest on the river bank.”

  “Thanks, darling,” John said, smiling gratefully. “I don’t want to get in his bad books just before finals.”

  John was expected to do well in his exams and had a job lined up with the BBC ready to walk into, if all went well.

  “I’ll be right back,” he added, and was away almost before he had finished speaking.

  Sheila sat down on the edge of the bank and leaned over, trailing her fingers in the water. Time passed. Presently, a shadow behind her made her turn her head.

  “Aphrodite!” said Francis Delmara, approaching along the towpath and stopping beside Sheila. “Springing, not quite from the waves, but something like that. How nice to see you, beautiful.”

  “Francis,” Sheila said. She hadn’t seen him since the Christmas party and her memories of what had happened then were embarrassing, though vague.

  “That’s right,” said Francis, “I’m glad to see you remember me, beautiful. But I never learnt your name?”

  “Sheila Doherty,” said Sheila.

  “Hullo, Sheila Doherty,” said Francis softly. He sat down on the bank beside her.

  “You disappeared rather quickly, that night, darling.”

  “I thought it was you who disappeared,” Sheila responded. “And just as well, too.”

  “Was it?” asked Francis. He smiled. “I don’t agree, beautiful. It was the major tragedy of my life.”

  Sheila laughed. “You seem to have survived.”

  “One always survives. That’s what makes it a tragedy,” said Francis. He leaned over and took Sheila’s hand, still wet from the river. For some reason, inexplicable to herself, she allowed him to take it.

  “Tut, tut. This needs dried,” Francis said and, producing a large clean handkerchief, began to dry her hand carefully, one finger at a time. Sheila, to her horror, found it incredibly sexy.

  Then Francis looked deep into her eyes. “I wonder if you realise how beautiful you are, Sheila Doherty?” he said.

  * * *

  John arrived at the English Department Library just as Professor Logan appeared round the corner.

  “Ah, Mr. Branagh,” said the Professor amiably. “Good, good. You have the key?”

  John, as a potential TV journalist, was a favourite with Dennis Logan who lost no opportunity of extending his contacts with the media. Any and all publicity was meat and drink to him.

  John handed over the key and they chatted in a friendly manner for a few minutes about the reference he had been looking up in the more specialised books in the Department library. Then the Professor nodded and went in, and John went back to the car.

  As he drove back to Shaw’s Bridge in a rather more leisurely manner, John allowed his thoughts to drift back to Sheila. He had been so mistaken about her when they first met. He had written her off as promiscuous and untrustworthy, living only for sex. How different she had turned out to be in the months since they had met again at the Christmas party!

  He thought of her as chaste, virginal, above all faithful. He was sure now that she would never hurt him by flirting, or worse, going with someone else. He felt secure and happy in their relationship. He was prepared to wait to fulfill their love until after their wedding. It was hard, almost unbearably hard, at times. John didn’t care. He was ready, willing to be hard on himself when necessary. He had never considered that it might perhaps be hard for Sheila too.

  He left the car in the park at Shaw’s Bridge and began to stroll gently back along the river path, enjoying the spring air.

  Francis sat beside Sheila on the river bank and played with her hand.

  “I hoped we might meet again,” he said. “But I’ve been out of the country for the past few months. I only know Dennis Logan through his wife – she buys some of her clothes from me.”

  “You sell clothes?” Sheila asked.

  “Design and sell them,” Francis corrected. “I’m just starting but before long you won’t need to ask that question. Everyone will have heard of Delmara Fashions.”

  Sheila smiled.

  “But let’s talk about something more interesting,” said Francis. He dropped his voice to a murmur. “Now that we’ve met again, beautiful, why not go back to where we left off? It seems the ideal opportunity.”

  Sheila began to say something, but Francis paid no attention. Instead, he leaned over, put his other arm around her shoulders, and began to kiss her. It was like the night of the Christmas party. Sheila was as sober as a judge this time, but she felt as if there was no resistance in her. Something about this man attracted her at a purely physical level. She found herself lying back against the grassy slope, all among the primroses, and everything seemed to be floating.

  Including, a moment later, Francis.

  A bellow of rage sounded in Sheila’s ear. John’s angry face flashed before her as she opened her eyes. There was a splash that seemed to soak the surrounding countryside and, as Sheila scrambled dizzily to her feet, she saw that Francis was struggling frantically in the middle of the river.

  It seemed funny to Sheila at the time. At first she laughed helplessly. Then she saw John’s white, bitter face.

  “John! It’s all right, it was nothing –”
<
br />   “Nothing!” John could hardly speak.

  Francis climbed out of the river and stood there, wet and dripping.

  “Every time I touch you, pet, I end up soaking,” he said to Sheila. “It must mean something.”

  Ignoring John, he strode off in the opposite direction.

  Sheila stood looking at John.

  “I don’t want to speak to you,” John said. “I can’t trust myself – I want to kill you.”

  He stood with his back turned, not looking at Sheila, his hands tightly twisted together.

  “John – don’t –!” Sheila stammered incoherently.

  Then he began to speak, or rather to shout. When he had called Sheila all the evil names she had ever heard, and some more besides, she managed at last to interrupt him.

  “John – you don’t understand. It didn’t mean anything.”

  “That makes it worse – much worse,” John said. He had gained control of his voice and spoke quietly again. “You and I are streets apart, Sheila. I don’t ever want to see you again.”

  Then he turned and walked away.

  Sheila stood quietly beside the river. The sun poured down, lighting up her hair, and she could still smell the primroses in the air.

  It was a long time before she could begin to walk back along the path to catch a bus home.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Phil was running across the grass. She was late, which wasn’t too unusual. But this time, she was late for Davy, not just for some lecture. Even at university, Phil had still not brought herself to take work, with its lectures and tutorials, too seriously. As she ran, she could smell the roses from Botanic Garden’s famous rose garden coming nearer.

  Just past the rose garden was a secluded little rockery with a bench seat where she and Davy often met. Davy hoped to graduate this year and move on to Ph.D. work at the Ashby Institute, where he already spent many of his working hours. The gardens made a convenient halfway house for their more casual meetings. But often Davy could only stay for a short while before going back to his work. Phil didn’t want to miss him.

  She stopped running as she came nearer to the meeting place and stood for a moment to get her breath back. It would never do to let Davy see her running to meet him. One still has one’s standards, thought Phil, grinning. After a moment, she walked on, still hurrying, but ready to look casual as she came round the final corner of the path. There were voices coming from the direction of the rockery. It sounded like Davy, and a stranger.

  “Knickers!” thought Phil to herself. “It sounds as if someone Davy knows has come along. What a pest.”

  She walked on past the last bush and saw Davy talking to a middle-aged man whom she had never seen before. They broke off abruptly when they saw her.

  “This is Phil,” said Davy quickly to his companion. “My girlfriend.”

  “Nice to meet you, Phil,” said the man. He was medium height, thin and with sandy hair beginning to show some grey. His eyes, which Phil particularly noticed, looked hard. She felt as if he had taken in everything there was to know about her at one swift glance. For some reason, which she could not have explained, she felt an instinctive dislike of him.

  “Sorry I can’t stay,” the man went on. “Nice to run into you again, Davy. See you around. Cheerio.” He smiled at Davy, then at Phil, and moved off with a casual half wave. Phil stared after him. When he had gone out of hearing, she turned to Davy.

  “Who was that?”

  “Oh, just a guy I’ve met a few times.”

  Davy was embarrassed. He wasn’t used to lying to Phil.

  “I don’t believe you,” Phil said.

  There was a lump in her throat. She felt as if she might burst into tears any moment.

  “Well, what do you think he is, then?” Davy asked coolly.

  “He’s one of the boys, isn't he? He’s part of the Belfast Mafia. Mixed up in drugs,” Phil said fiercely.

  “Shut up, can’t you? If he is, all the more reason not to shout about it.”

  “Are you getting involved, Davy? You are, aren’t you? How can you, after what they did to you!”

  Davy looked at her.

  “This is a different lot. O’Brien’s people. Not like Murphy’s boys. O’Brien’s civilised.”

  “Maybe!”

  “I got involved in this long ago. You know that, Phil, even if we don’t talk about it. You knew what I was doing.”

  Phil shuddered.

  “Yes,” she said slowly. “Yes, I suppose I did know it.” She thought back. “Yes, you talked about it. I thought you had met some of the people but I didn’t think it had gone any further.”

  “And why should you think that it has, now?” demanded Davy. “Why are you jumping to conclusions just because you see me with someone you haven’t seen before?”

  “I don't know,” confessed Phil miserably. “It’s just – you seemed so familiar with him.” She tried to explain. “As if it was nothing new, as if he knew all about you and you often met and talked.”

  Davy turned away. Fumbling in his jacket pocket, he produced a packet of cigarettes and lit one.

  “Here.” He tossed one back to Phil.

  “Thanks.”

  “Okay,” he said presently. “Yes, you’re right. I haven’t said anything to you, Phil, because it’s better for you not to know. I’ve been working with O’Brien for a while now. Since the night Murphy had me beaten up. It was that or quit altogether. It’s too dangerous out on your own. I first met Sean – the guy who was here – a bit before that, but I didn’t make up my mind until after what Murphy did. After that, I didn’t think there was much choice.”

  Phil was silent, remembering. She had thought, in common with many of the ordinary people of Northern Ireland, that the ceasefires and then the Good Friday Agreement, would put an end to the terrorism and bring in a time of peace and contentment for her country.

  Disillusionment had been gradual but in the end it had been clear that the vacuum left by the disbandment of the terrorist forces had been filled by crime and by a renewed, different violence. Drugs, prostitution, all the crime so infrequent in Northern Ireland before the Troubles, had come in like a tidal wave to fill the empty house.

  Phil remembered, too, Davy’s white, bitter face that night after the beating up. He had escaped relatively uninjured but all around him he had heard of others shot in the knees, beaten or killed. He could not forget it. For some nights afterwards even the comfort of Phil’s arms could not help. She would hold him while he wept and then he would make love to her in a hard, fierce way which was new in their relationship.

  She had been frightened, not so much by his rough, painful approach to her, as by what lay behind it. He had been scarred in a way which she was afraid might never heal. But a few days later, when they met again, he had lost all his harshness and was gentle with her, with a tenderness in his love-making which moved her deeply.

  It must have been, she now thought, during those few days that he had made his decision to join O’Brien and in that decision had found the safety which she had been unable to give him.

  “Davy,” she said at last, “I understand that you feel that you must do something important with your life. That you want to make money, be successful. But not this. You are hurting too many innocent people. I wish you would pull out before it's too late.”

  But he only smiled at her, and repeated her words. “Too late.”

  Then he took her hand, and held it tightly saying, almost casually, “It’s too late already, Phil.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  Mary Branagh, John’s sister, had come up to Queen’s too.

  Sheila had never known Mary all that well but she liked what she had seen of her.

  One day, drinking coffee in the union with Sheila and Phil at the start of their second year, Mary invited them to a party.

  “Not for anything special,” she explained. “Just a get-together, for a laugh. Charlie Flanagan took me to the first one and then I ke
ep getting invited on.”

  Phil frowned.

  “Davy told me Charlie Flanagan’s well into drugs,” she said.

  “So what?” said Mary lightly.

  “Well – maybe not a good idea?” said Phil slowly. She had always been the leader of the pack. She didn’t specially want to seem dumb but it really wasn’t right for Mary to try to drag Sheila, who was so innocent, into that sort of stuff. Sheila had no idea how to look after herself.

  “No way!” said Mary happily. “A very good idea, I think!”

  “Well, I won’t be there,” said Phil firmly.

  “How about you, Sheila?” asked Mary, turning persuasively to her other friend.

  Sheila thought about it. There was no way she wanted to get into drugs, but ... Mary was John’s sister. She really, really wanted to keep up the relationship. Maybe there was a chance that if she saw a lot of Mary, she would bump into John one of these days.

  She turned to Mary and smiled enthusiastically. “I’d love to come!” she said.

  Every Saturday night after that, Mary and Sheila went to parties. Once into the circle, there was never any problem getting invited on the next occasion, and there seemed to be something on every weekend.

  Sheila, at first invited on Mary’s say so, found to her surprise that there was a crowd of fifty or sixty regular party-goers whom she had never met before. They were mostly a few years older, maybe that was why. Most of them were students. On any one evening, at least twenty of them would gather, usually in someone’s flat, for parties which seemed to Sheila to be in a whole new world from her school days’ socialising.

  On the first evening, sitting on the floor beside Mary in a large, scantily furnished room with a low table, a number of cushions on the floor, and a few large armchairs where people sprawled with legs thrown carelessly over the chair arms, she said as much.

  “This is good, Mary. I feel good about this.”

  Mary grinned. The dim lighting sparkled on her sleek blonde hair and on her white teeth. The Beatles’ Sergeant Pepper album was playing in the background. Retro music.