Writings Online

Kilmainham Dawn

(Fish Publishing Very Short History Winner 2008)

I hurried through the darkened streets, alone. I was excited, terrified, full of grief. Our wedding should have been so different.The stark grey prison rose before me. I hesitated. So many of our people had died there, but I knew I must go in.The priest led me to the small grey chapel. It was dim and quiet. Then I heard footsteps and they brought him in.

“Do you, Joseph…?”

“Do you, Grace…?”

A shuffling of soldiers’ feet.

“…man and wife.”

I looked up into his stark white face.

“I love you,” he said and took my hand.

“Ten minutes!” Said his gaoler and we were left alone.

Ten shining moments to live our married life. We kissed and held each other. No time for passion. Time enough for love and grief and might-have-beens. He started to cough and there was blood on his lips. I held him and he clung to me.

“How are you?” I asked, as his breathing eased.

“I’ll be better in the morning,” he smiled, “will you pray for me?”

“As long as I live.” I promised, “will you pray for me?”

“Until the end.” He looked up at the cross hanging over the tiny altar. “So many have died, Grace. I’m sorry…”

I put my finger to his lips.

“What you did was right.” I whispered, “one day our country will be free.”

I kissed his bloody lips as the door sprang open.

“Time’s up!”

Joseph kissed my hand, “Remember!”

“I will never forget!”

I was outside again, walking towards the dawn, walking swiftly so that I should not hear the bullets. The ring was cold and unfamiliar on my finger. I was alone as soft rain began to fall, no wetter than my tears.

Everyday Terror

It was a routine Friday morning when terror came into my life. Alice and I were alone in the Careers Office, paying Social Security Benefit. On the old oak desk before us, a tin box held almost £1,000 in cash. We had over 250 young people signing on. Nothing separated us from our clients. Screens were years in the future. In 1971, no one considered that we were at risk and neither did we. We were wrong.

            Most of our clients were harmless, although they would not thank me for saying it. But there were one or two who were evil. Certain families were notorious in the area, with very good reason. One family were the offspring of an American sailor and a Liverpool prostitute. Their eldest son was already in Walton Prison, serving time for Grievous Bodily Harm. Alvin and Peter, the two youngest, were unemployed and our clients.

Everyone had lined up, chatting and laughing as they waited for their turn.  We had paid about a dozen when the line went silent. I looked up from the claim unit I was working on, to see Alvin strutting to the head of the queue, carrying a shotgun. Oh my God. Suddenly, with no warning, I wondered if I would survive. I was twenty-five, newly married and very happy. Did I have time to dive into the foot well beneath my desk before he opened fire? I started to shake but I could not move. Terror held me rigid.

Alice, who is so much braver than I, raised her hands and said, “Don’t shoot, Al. I’ll give you your £3.45.”

Alvin swung the gun towards her. Then he suddenly grinned.

“I’m selling the bloody thing, aren’t I?” he said and suddenly my life was given back to me.