Derek Kelly is a student at the Creative Writing course run by Carlow College where he is tutored by Dr Eoghan Smith. Derek previously studied music at university only writing in his spare time. Work and family commitments meant he was unable to devote as much time to writing as he would have wanted. Prior to the recent pandemic, and some lifestyle changes, Derek undertook a Creative Fiction course with Kevin Curran at the Irish Writers Centre. Derek is originally from the Liberties in Dublin.

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Taig

I.

Two men sat of a grey afternoon in a blue Ford Mondeo parked in a side street. Between the shoppers on the main street lit by Christmas lights the two men watched intently the entrance to the Flower shop. The two men did not speak. Under a coat he had lain across his lap, the passenger had a 9mm Browning. His own was holstered beneath a light jacket, as was the driver’s. The two men showed no signs of nervousness but would now and then allow their eyes to dart at the side mirrors and rear-view mirror. When a man came out of the flower shop holding a small bouquet the passenger and driver grinned. They watched the man navigate the traffic across the road. The man passed them by smirking then, when he was assured no one had followed him, the man turned back and climbed into the back seat of the Ford Mondeo.

“Nice flowers. They for us, Wayne?” The passenger said.

Both men started to laugh.

“Fuck off,” Wayne said, “I had to buy something.” He put the flowers down on the floor of the vehicle taking care not to let them fall over the holster for his gun which he had laid there. “I’ll give these to the missus?”

“Property of Her Majesty’s Government now,” The passenger said.

“Keep the receipt so you can get reimbursed,” The driver said.

“Serious,” Wayne said.

“Serious,” The driver said.

“What about our subject?” The passenger said.

“He’s still in the back alright but I think they’re coming out in a wee bit.”

“There?” The driver said.

The man in the passenger seat and Wayne stared at the group of four men who had come out of the flower shop and were now standing at the front of the shop.

“The wee one. That’s Jock.” Wayne said.

“The other three?” The driver said.

“The old boy he’s talking with is Ty Poulter. He owns the shop. A known player in the area. The other two could be foot soldiers. I’ve not seen them before.”

The three men watched as Jock and Ty shook hands. Ty then went back inside the shop. Jock talked briefly with the other two men who looked much younger than he was. All three then shook hands and the two young men walked away from the shop together. Jock watched them walk away then, looking up and down the street, he walked in the opposite direction. The driver leaned his head to the rolled-up window and, seeing Jock climb into a vehicle, the driver turned the ignition and, indicating, slowly began to pull out.

“He’s in a different vehicle,” the driver said.

The driver waited until he saw Jock come out into the traffic and, allowing only a single vehicle to get between him and Jock, he followed the car up the main street.

“Can you get a make on the car?” Wayne said.

“He’s taking a left Scooter,” the passenger said.

“Can you see the plates Goggo?” Scooter said.

“Yeah. I see them now.” Goggo reached over and took up the two-way radio and said, “Subject is driving a red Cortina licence plate Romeo, India, Bravo, Seven, Zero, Zero, Zero. I repeat, subject is in a red Cortina licence plate Romeo, India, Bravo, Seven, Zero, Zero, Zero.”

He put the two-way radio set down. “Always wanted to do that.”

Jock drove out of the town and keeping a good distance from him, Scooter followed. With the absence of street lighting, and the drumlins on either side, the roads became darker and narrower and there were many bends. The glare of headlights made Scooter worried he might lose Jock.

“How does someone from the south end up in the British Army?” Wayne said.

Scooter did not answer.

“He’s in longer than I am,” Goggo said, “how long you in Scooter?”

“Fourteen years. He’s slowing down,” Scooter said, looking at his speedometer.

“I know where he’s going. Drive passed him and then take the next left.” Wayne said, lowering himself down on the back seat. After they passed the turn Wayne sat up again.

“Take this left.”

Scooter indicated and, slowing down, turned up a narrow lane. The lane took them up to high ground.

“Pull over here.” Wayne said.

Scooter switched the headlights off. The three men climbed out of the vehicle, which Scooter had parked up against a steel gate leading onto a field containing many cows. Dots of light shone from far away houses. In the distance, the dying western sky appeared lacerated with a blood red orange glow. Above them the sky was the colour of grey steel. They leaned over a hedge. Down below they could see a farm.

“That’s the Molyneux place,” Wayne said, “and there’s Jock’s car.”

They watched as Jock’s car pulled up outside some sheds. A man walked out of a shed and leaned down to talk with Jock. Then the man walked back inside the shed followed by Jock. Taking out a small black covered notebook Scooter scribbled some notes. Closing the notebook, he placed it in his pocket.

“Right. That’s us. Let’s go before we’re seen.”

The three men climbed back into their vehicle. Scooter reversed around and drove down the lane onto the narrow country road. He continued out of the town checking every so often what was behind him in the rear-view mirror. When he saw signs for the next nearest village to the town they had been in, he pulled over to the side of the road and waited for traffic to pass by. Then indicating, he turned the car around and drove back first to the RUC barracks where Wayne was dropped off, and then the army barracks.

II.

Having typed up his report Scooter printed it out. He re-read what he had typed and signed his name as Cpl Jason Foley. Putting the report into a brown envelope he placed it in a pigeonhole which lay outside a room with a sign on the door saying Intelligence Room.

Having crossed the barrack square, Jason climbed the stairs and could hear laughter and banter coming from down the corridor. Seeing people gathered around Charlie’s room, Jason poked his head inside and saw a group of squaddies watching four others playing Trivial Pursuit. The room contained a bunk bed on which some of the squaddies were sitting. Others were standing near the television set which was turned off. Facing the bunk beds was a single bed. Behind those sitting on the bed, pinned to the wall, was a large Ulster flag, the red hand of the O’Neill’s on a white field. Goggo had his back to him.

“Okay, okay,” Goggo said, “pipe down will yeez. Okay Charlie. This one should be easy for you.”

“You trying to jinx him Goggo,” someone called out. There was laughter. Goggo waved his arms around to quieten people down and, turning around saw Jason. “You going to the NAAFI later mate?”

“Yeah, I’ll go for a few.”

“Okay,” Goggo said, turning back to the players, “here’s the question.” The audience fell quiet. “On what river was the Battle of the Boyne fought?”

“Too fucking easy,” someone shouted.

Charlie looked around at the gathered squaddies.

“He doesn’t fucking know it,” someone said. Again, there was laughter.

“If you don’t get this Charlie, you’re a fucking idiot.”

“Give us the question again?”

Goggo repeated the question. Charlie looked about the faces in the room for the answer. No one gave it to him. Looking perplexed, Charlie said, “Give us a hint, Goggo?”

“No fucking way,” one of the players said.

“You march every year to celebrate it,” someone shouted.

People hushed the interlocutor.

A grin came across Charlie’s face. “The Lagan,” he said.

The room broke into a mixture of laughter and curses. When someone shouted the answer Charlie shrugged.

“How the fuck am I meant to know that.  I’m not a history teacher.”

Laughing, Jason left the guys to their game and walked down to his own room. He took a holdall from the wardrobe and threw some clothes into it. He undressed and, wearing flip-flops and carrying a towel and shower gel, he made his way to the showers. When he returned the corridor was quiet. Inside his room he dressed and put more items into the holdall. Combing his hair, he made his way down the stairs and across the square to the NAAFI.

III.

The NAAFI was a large hall. Squaddies, some dressed in fatigues, others in plain clothes, sat at tables drinking. A radio blared in the background. The song playing was Stop the cavalry. Having entered the NAAFI Jason looked about and seeing Goggo sitting with two others he did not know, he motioned with his hand if they were alright for drinks.

“Just a pint of lager,” Jason said, turning to the barmaid.

Taking his pint Jason made his way down to the table Goggo was sitting at.

“Scooter, this is John, and this is Mark. Two mates of mine from home.”

Jason nodded and saw that Mark had his legs resting on the only available chair.

“May I?” Jason said, pointing to the chair.

Mark slowly took his legs off the chair and Jason sat down. The table was already littered with empty pint glasses.

“I grew up with these two. Went to the same school.”

“We played in the same band together,” John said.

“A rock band,” Jason said, a look of surprise on his face as he looked at Goggo.

“Marching band,” John said, “Harry and me played fife. Mark the Lambeg.”

“Didn’t know you marched Goggo,” Jason said.

“Once or twice,” Goggo said, “then I joined up.”

“He didn’t have the taste for it,” Mark said.

“Mark and John are part of the home regiment. Both were UDR before the amalgamation. We’re all part of the same team now.” Goggo placed his arm over Jason’s shoulder, “a good guy. Even if he is from the south.” Goggo started laughing.

“Where abouts?” John said.

“Dublin.”

“Can’t tell from your accent.”

“Don’t they have an army down south?” Mark said.

“They do. But they weren’t recruiting. So, I came up here and joined up. What about you two?”

“Mark and I joined up five years ago. With the amalgamation we’re hoping to get overseas sometime.”

“Scooter and I been stationed in Osnabruck, Cyprus, and Catterick. And we’ve been to Kenya and,” there was a long pause as Goggo struggled to remember, “Canada. Canada on manoeuvres,” Goggo said. He held his pint up to the fluorescent lights, swirled the remaining contents and, having drank them, placed the pint glass down on the table hard. “Who wants another? My round.”

Scooter and John agreed to another pint, but Mark said no. Goggo tried cajoling him, but Mark was resolute. He didn’t want another pint. Goggo tottered up to the bar.

After Goggo left, John and Mark talked about Glentoran having defeated Portadown in a recent match. Being a Man United supporter Jason kept quiet.

“Harry said you stayed with his family.” Mark said, when his and John’s conversation stalled.

“Last year when I was back home on leave, he invited me up north for a weekend.”

“They’re a nice family.” John said

Goggo came back with the three pints.

“You sure Mark?” Goggo said, placing the pints down on the table and resuming his seat.

“I’m fine Harry. I’ll head off when I finish this,” Mark said, lifting his pint glass to show he was nearly finished.

After about twenty minutes more and hearing Goggo and his two friends talk about old times, Jason could feel himself hanging around the edges of the conversation. When he finished the pint Goggo had bought him Jason stood and asked if anyone wanted a pint. It was his round. Mark again declined the offer of a fresh pint. John now said no. Goggo said he would take a pint and called his two friends sissies for not drinking more. Jason walked up to the bar and ordered a pint. Pointing out the table Goggo was sitting at, he asked the barmaid to take it down to him.

“Tell him I’m off to bed. I’ll see him tomorrow before I go.”

Having paid for the pint Jason then left the NAAFI and went across the square to the dorms.

IV.

After breakfast, Jason went for a five-kilometre run around the inside permitter of the fortified barracks. It was said the barracks had been built on the site of The O’Neill’s tower house, long since pulled down. The barracks commanded views across the countryside. It was easy to see why the O’Neill’s had built here. The morning was cold, and Jason could see rain clouds gathering over the hills which lay in the distance. Walking back to the dorms he felt flecks of rain strike against his face.

Sitting on the edge of his bed putting socks into his holdall Jason heard a rap on the doorframe, he looked up and saw Goggo leaning against the doorframe.

“Lucky bastard getting home for Christmas.” Goggo said, entering, “are you driving down?”

“No. Charlie said he’d give me a lift to Belfast. I’ll take the train down. How’s the head.”

“It’s been better,” Goggo said, sitting on the bed opposite. Jason watched as Goggo rubed his temples.

“There’s aspirin in the locker if you want some.”

“You’re fine. Thanks all the same. Listen,” Goggo said, “I’m sorry about last night.”

Jason gave Goggo a baffled look, “how so?”

“You didn’t pick up on the hostility from those two last night?”

Shrugging, and shaking his head, Jason said no, “should I have?”

“I thought I knew them. Same school and all that. Played football as kids. Thought they would have matured by now. After you left, Mark leaned over the table and told me if I ever brought a taig to a table he was sitting at again he’d break my legs.”

Jason said nothing. He resumed packing clothes into the holdall. “Don’t worry about it.”

“It’s not that Scooter. We’re meant to be on the same side. I joined up to escape all that nonsense.”

Goggo stood and walked over to the desk. Beside the television he flicked through the pages of a book called Ireland, A History.

“Any good,” he said, showing the book to Jason. Jason nods.

“It’s good. Borrow it if you want.”

Putting the book under his arm, Goggo walked over to the door.

“Look after yourself mate. You’re a good sort. I’ll see you when you get back.”

Goggo closed the door over. Jason heard him shouting at someone telling them they owe him money. Sitting idly for a moment, Jason then resumed putting clothes into his holdall.