Families Part 7- Copyright Robert Fullarton 2007

 Families Part 7- Copyright Robert Fullarton 2007

Chapter 7

Reflections

The human mind has a labyrinth of pathways and unsolved trails deriving from each momentous occasion, through a dark morass and a series of troubled streets rarely examined or understood by a waking human being..

All these moments are enveloped in the vast reservoir of the human unconsciousness and finally unearthed in our dreams at night, but still there while we live each waking hour drawing power at the back of our psyche. They are little nickel bullets lodged in our brain, bullets of emotional upheaval that bleed not blood but the stirring of deep regret to the incomprehensible dilemma of what mistakes one has made and how to rectify such mistakes.

                                             In Belfast city that evening at about half seven where the Campbell family resided on their cosy and well respected neighbourhood, the streets were overflowing with the rain poured incessantly through the drains until they overflowed and vomited up the excess water from the constant rain that hammered on the grey and brown pavement and after this little lakes were forming on the side of the road. It was quite and everyone took sanctuary inside their well furnished comfy and cosy homes while the hiss of the rain gently tapped on the roofs of each house incessantly for over half an hour.

                                                    Inside of the Campbell residence the blinds were drawn and there wasn’t much light emanating from inside at all. However in the main living room lying half dark completely, slouched in an armchair lay Andrew Campbell by his lonesome. His face penetrated the opposite side of the room to the tall black grandfather clock that poised on the wall, gathering dust and he seemed to be affixed to staring forward. In truth Andrew’s mind was split in twain right down the central divide of his consciousness. He was paralysed to decide what to do next all he could think about was what had happened earlier that day in Cookstown and the bloody turmoil with its debacle of affairs with the gunmen that left him this unworthy or more tragic conclusion. Andrew felt partly satisfied with himself and yet slightly morbid over the loss of life that he saw as unnecessary. Was he possibly being assertive and brave but also heartlessly too gun ho to even negotiate with these fellow human beings. Andrew’s ego on the one hand was always obsessed with an appetite for action, success, almost a self gratification of what ever he wanted and of course he had his own arrogant political analysis of the Northern Ireland critique and the age old questions of how sow the seeds of lasting peace. Andrew could half convince himself that everything done was done in the duty demanded and implored on the security and protection of the policemen under his supervision, and of course he longed to save those men taken into captivity by the gunmen and maybe immediate force with a brave and brass effort was needed effectively to do so.

So Andrew contemplated on the events of yesterday, sitting idle amongst the shifting shadows that shuffled silently outside. It sounded like the tabby cats were tussling in contest outside screeching and moaning now that the rain had stopped finally.

                                                                                                  Down the stairs came Cecelia clothed so finely in her apparel wearing a fancy wine coloured dress, with white silk gloves, a fine pearl necklace and crowned on top with a feathered hat to show her suave and sophisticated fashion tastes. She stood in the doorway lingering and silently watching Andrew going unnoticed for his attention.

“I’m ready to go out, I’m all groomed and cleaned and ready to out.

You’ve just been sitting there since you came home rather sternly in a huff.

I hardly ever get to go out to the theatre anymore, only once a week do we go out for a couple of brandy’s or a couple of gin and tonics. All you do these days is work, locked into you’re assignments as though it’s a matter of life and death and then sometimes lounge about drinking in gentlemen’s clubs with those colleagues of yours.

You should never neglect your own children, what I mean to say is, you should spend more time with them even if they are all grown up now as adults.

Please I’m asking you nicely and fairly, can we go for a drink, anywhere you want to”

, she spoke rather rampantly espousing a fit of words, putting emphasis on the drink aspect of the conversation in particular.

Andrew turned his head around to look at her.

He gave an excuse for his behaviour and his lack of enthusiasm for alcohol on this particular evening. He never called it stress or anxiety but “the deep regret of a horrible day working as a detective.”

“I have a huge responsibility bearing down on me on the protection of the men that serve under me and today while I was over in Cookstown following up my investigation on the ransom demands made on several policemen by dissident irregular IRA gunmen. I shot several of them dead in anticipation of withdrawing evidence from one of the gunmen on the whereabouts of the three kidnapped constables in Co. Tyrone”, he began to give out a curt snap of anger in response to constant winning.

“Cecelia I’ve gotten so entangled in this case after all the murders carrier out by those damn idealists. Some times I want to exact a bloody revenge beyond my wildest dreams on these dogs, so I can root them out and finish them off once and for all and then I would have all the time there is to facilitate the needs of you and the children.”

“You’ve had you’re revenge, you saved the lives of many a good policeman today, you should be extremely proud of you’re self as I am of you right now on this instance”, said Cecelia showing a warm and loving introspection of her motives.

“Well in hindsight maybe you’re right, for after all these reactionary opponents of the state have been taught a mighty lesson to which they won’t forget.”

                                                                                                         Andrew ceased his wallowing of self-pity and stood up, glancing at his pocket watch hastily.

“Alright give me five minutes to go and have a quick wash and then we’ll hit the town.”

Cecelia smiled in response. “Oh by the way where’s Emma and David today, I haven’t seen either of them”, shouted Andrew from upstairs.

“David’s gone to the pub and Emma’s next door with Lisa Stanley; I think their debating on some assignment due for Queen’s.”

Both of them had felt a bit under the weather about their marital problems but that evening they both decide to call a truce and go out for the night to relax.

Meanwhile the surviving men that had perpetrated the day’s crimes in Cookstown had been identified by common informers at the police station later that day. The bodies of those killed in the fire fight lay wrapped in linen like mummies in their coffins ready to be sent to a local undertaker and be dealt with on the funeral arrangements.

Letters were written to the parents of these men, condemning them all for their convictions. The three surviving men were all interrogated and locked up into three separate cells. Sometimes the police would come out with pecuniary words under false pretence saying words like, “I wish I could help but…,

I wish I could reduce the sentence but I don’t know now.”

Prisoners were to sing like budgies and reveal the vital information on the secret location of where the captured policemen were being held.

The last to be interrogated was also the youngest, a witless kid covered in black ugly bruises on his thin legs. The lean, burly officer that interrogated him managed to make the boy weep. The boy seemed to be shaking, rocking back and forth as if in a world of his own, going delirious.

                                           Soon the secret location of the kidnapped men was found and the sentry was taken by surprise to find himself surrounded and tied up in a flurry of activity by a group of furious policemen who grabbed him tightly.

(2)

Saturday morning in Cookstown began with incessant humidity that swallowed upon the light and cool western breeze gradually. However by midday the clouds were once again in position in the sky.

                                           The townspeople knew of the police’s activities on the previous day and many an ordinary person with or without a strong republican identity felt themselves that the RUC came to oppose nearly everything they stood for and with these inflammatory feelings inside they believed that the RUC was a hindrance to peace in general and some people felt that all the violence and bloodshed that occurred was completely unnecessary and done in malice. The local papers censored the news stories to suit the authorities.

                                                                           Patrick sat in the kitchen at the great wooden table that occupies most of the space in the Donnelly family kitchen. Patrick sat opposite his older brother Declan and to his right his father Albert sat quietly and his mother Mary sat to his left. The old wooden table was covered with cups, saucers, plates and bowls all in fine expensive china. The men gulped down quickly on their hot cups of tea in haste, while also making noises as they slobbered on their food. Then Patrick unfolded today’s paper glancing without a word at today’s news.

Then he handed the paper to Albert.

“It’s a secret operation by the RUC, it’s rumoured that the gunmen were those connected to the Pomeroy murders. Three or four of them were killed all in police duty and another three of them have been imprisoned for interrogation.

Dad what’s you’re opinion on this?”

“I don’t have much of an opinion on it son”, said Albert weakly under his breath.

“But dad we must stand up and be counted someday”, protested Patrick harshly.

“Pat, are you upset, what is it, you seem so wound up today what is it?”

Inquired Declan reaching out his hand to Patrick who seemed to have no interest whatsoever in what he said.

Albert’s face had turned a scarlet red colour suddenly after he coughed several times in pain.

“Listen Pat, I struggled as a youth and I had to work for every penny and every shilling while trying to support you’re mother and this entire family. Now from the way I see it life’s hard bloody enough without someone going out causing damn chaos to others who just want to live. I’ve been alive a lot longer than you and I don’t care what them bastards think, they don’t speak for me and my kind. I care about this family.”

Albert’s hands were warm when they touched Patrick’s cold and sweaty palms as he reached across the wooden table to hold his hand. Patrick withdrew his hand instantaneously as if he had been insulted somehow by his father.

Patrick’s irrational behaviour made the family look at one another with eyes of concern.