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Ambush

A. McIntyre

    My round lads. I rise and walk towards the bar, your perfect friendly Irishman, the one they sing about in the songs. I’m the enemy no-one knows, a skinny fellow working a construction site, an illiterate Paddy waiting for the next call. London, where you disappear, and I’ve disappeared all right. Four pints when you’re ready, I shout across the smoke. Saturday night, the usual crowd, tourists, yuppies from the City, associated tarts. I’ve been refused before for being Irish. It was exactly a year ago today, like a birthday.
    It all went wrong when me older brother bricked a constable. Mick’s his name, doing life. Can’t get more Irish than that, eh? Lack of imagination on me parents part. Me own name’s Patrick, believe it or not. RUC the man was, and he died of a brain hemorrhage within the week. So they came for Mick, as I knew they would. The twat already had a record so it was donkey’s work to find him. Down comes the door at 5.00 a.m., me Pa trying to stop them till they crack him with a truncheon, Ma screaming like she was going to die. Then Mick squirming out of the window until he got stuck and they battered him. All well and good, I thought, Now we can all go back to bed and get some sleep, the cunt got what he deserved. But they hadn’t finished. They started to go through the house destroying it room by room. An official search, said the officer with a Public School accent, Nothing to be afraid of, if we had nothing to hide, just routine.
    They found me sister, Oonagh. She was in bed. She’s done nothing you bastards, I yelled, but they bust into her room all the same. A squadee punched me back against the wall while another pulled off the bedclothes. Come on then, he said, Show us what you’ve got. The accent East London. He manipulated the muzzle of his rifle under her knickers and put it into her. There you go, you little slut, how’s that then? She made no noise, not even a whimper. He pushed it in further, Come on then, come on, you little slut. The officer came up the stairs, All in order Cummings? He stopped in the doorway when he saw what was going on. Just making a search of some cubby holes here, sir, replied Cummings saluting. The officer began to laugh, Yes, rather, I see what you mean. Come on, we’re off, let’s get this slab of meat into the wagon. They were hauling Mick down the stairs. Ma was on the sofa drinking a cup of tea, should I say clutching a cup of tea, because if she’d tried to drink she would have drowned. I never told her what happened to Oonagh. They’d taken Pa to the hospital for concussion.
    We could have complained. We could have written to the newspapers. We could have contacted our MP. We could have called the police. We could have done a lot of things, but would it have done any good? If you ask around, you’ll find what happened to us is normal, everyday, nothing special. Stuff like that is never reported because the people who write the rules write the news. I left school the same day. That was it for me, from now on I was going to write me own fucking rules.
    I knew who was in, so I hung about the Falls. Everyone knows who the boys are. Some of them lads me own age. One day, I approached a group in a corner of the pub, the shadows so dark you couldn’t see the faces. Sit down, young fella, I heard. A kindly voice. An old man, from the Republic by his accent. What can we do for ye? I told them what happened, I wanted to join. Yer a bit young aren’t you m’lad? I mean to say, shouldn’t you be in school? No younger than some of them, I said pointing. True m’boy, true, but you’ll have to be proving yourself now, dy’hear? Give me a chance, is all, I said, You can check me out, I’m all right, just give me the chance. We will in time, said the old man, You know we will, but we knows you’re local, that at least. O’Donohugh’s your father is that not correct? That is he, I agreed. The old man drank some beer and sighed, And ye had some trouble with Her Majesty’s boys. Well, ye’ll hear back from us either way, within the month. Don’t you be coming here to see us again now, y’hear.
    Six months on a farm in Armagh, living in a cellar, farm work in the day, training at night. Long runs, further every week, tactics, watching from woods, getting to know the land like me own street. Handle a Bren better than me prick. Others arrived. They said the piker organizing us had been in the Foreign Legion, I never knew his name. But he knew his trade. One day, over breakfast, the piker said, Today. We staked out a road, ten miles away. Farm vehicle ready to break down, tall hedges on a corner, one way out, the killing zone. Explosives either side, below a wooded slope for refuge when the deed was done. We waited a day and a night.
    The morning of the following day they came, two armored Landrovers crawling along like beetles. Eight squadees and an officer. Very early, just light, the dew thick on the grass. First insects stirring, far off the cooing of a dove. On they came, and the first explosion, then another. Black smoke rising into the mist. Briefly, ever so briefly, I thought, I shouldn’t be doing this because I saw a lad me own age running down the lane. Red cropped hair, face white with terror. Then someone shot him down, so I opened up with the Bren cutting open a squadee’s chest. I emptied the magazine into the Landrover while the other burned. C’moan we’re out of here, shouted the piker, and we were running to the woods. After burying the guns, we went our separate ways. I rode a bicycle to Belfast, and that was that. I never saw them again, and the incident was never reported.
    There you are lads. I place the pints on the soaking table. What took you, you silly Irish cunt? says Busby, my Brummie mate. You’ll not be using language like that in my presence, I reply, You watch your tongue now ye fucking slag. A pretty girl smiles. I stare at her and she looks again. If you’ll excuse me gents, I say, I’m going to seek fairer company, no insult meant Busby m’boy. I flick his ears, stand up, and I walk towards her muttering, Irish bastards for the Kingdom.



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