Sunday, Bloody Sunday

Silence permeates the darkened streets of nighttime Belfast. Crisp night air sends a shiver up my spine as I walk quickly past a row of flats, each much the same as its neighbors. Not another soul graces the winding way; those who would normally having been chased back to their homes by the events of yestereve: August the ninth, nineteen hundred seventy-one.

So lost in thoughts of the troubles am I that I nearly miss my destination, a small flat on Windsor Avenue, well south of the city center. Ascending the front stairs, I rap on the door. It opens just enough for a green eye to peer at me, then wider so that I can slip inside.

"Good evening, Liam," says a tall man in a rich baritone.

"That's a matter of opinion," I mutter in response. "All here, Dermod?"

Dermod nods his dark head in a silent affirmative, leading me into the cramped living room where several other men await us. "Liam," several whisper in greeting. I dip my head by way of acknowledgement, then take a seat in the single remaining empty chair.

"Let's get started," Dermod says. "We all know why we're here, yes?" He peers about the room and seeing only nodding heads, continues. "Any idea how many were taken last night?"

"More'n a hundred," one gravelly voice says from the shadows of the corner.

"Any of ours?"

"A few. Most of 'em ain't guilty of nothin' but bein' Catholic." The speaker pauses for a moment, then asks the question on most everyone's mind. "What's this fuckin' internment stuff, anyway?" His question is recieved by mutters of "aye".

Feeling the rage growing in the room, I raise my voice over the grumblings. "The Brits are tryin' to turn the others against us. Takin' 'em away without so much as a trial to try and get 'em to talk."

"We've gotta do sumpthin' then," one of the younger men declares hotly.

"No." I shoot down the thought without giving the man a chance to finish.

"The hell we don't, Sinn Fein," he says, rising from his seat on the couch. Before I have a chance to respond, the man on his left pulls the speaker back to his seat. "'e knows what's best, Seamus," the man whispers. "Ya dunna wanna cross 'im."

"We wait. If we do somethin' now, they'll be right on top o' us. I dun think even the Prods'll put up with this shit for long."

For a moment, no one speaks. The sound of booted feet on the street outside shatters the silence. As Dermod peeks out the window, I scan the room, looking for an empty chair. My gaze falls upon the doorway to the kitchen where I would have sworn a man stood only a moment before.

Dermod glides from the window to my side, fear in his eyes. "They're coming," he whispers in a quivering voice.

"Fuck," I curse at the timing, then raise my voice. "Out the back, quickly." Realizing the danger, the others quickly file out through the back door and disappear into the night. I grab Dermod by the arm before he can go. "Killian left," I murmur into his ear.

"Ya think he ratted us out?"

"We're gonna find out," I mutter. "Bring Brian and meet me at the usual spot tomorrow."

Dermod nods, then he, too, disappears into the night.

The city is much the same in the early morning hours as it was when I fell asleep, late last night. Light mists float through the streets, ghosts of those long dead in this eight hundred year war. Masked by a low sky of grey clouds, not even the burning sun can drive these spirits back to the barrows.