THE BOGSIDE CHILDREN - A Novel of the Troubles - By Steve Raines

CHAPTER 1:

Bogside, Belfast — October 5, 1978

The rain fell hard on the gable end, the same rain that had washed through the streets eight years ago when the civil rights march turned to chaos. 

Sarah O'Neill stood at her window, watching the gray water streak across the peeling paint of the flats. Daniel sat at the small table, his schoolbook open, but his eyes kept drifting to the street.

"Mum," Daniel said, "why does Mr. Mitchell look at me like that?"

Sarah's hand froze on the curtain. She hadn't meant Daniel to notice.

"What do you mean?"

"Yesterday. When I was playing with the ball. He was standing at his gate. He looked... sad. Not angry. Just sad."

Sarah moved to the table, kneeling beside him. "James Mitchell's a policeman, Daniel. Some people don't like policemen around here."

"But he's not like the others. The ones who come in the big vans. He walks. He talks to Mrs. Kelly. He helped her when her bin fell over."

"Daniel." Sarah's voice was sharp. "You don't talk about Mr. Mitchell. Not to anyone."

"Why?" His eyes were wide now. "Is he bad?"

"No." She hesitated. "He's... complicated. Like everything here."

Ardoyne, Same Day — Three Miles Away

James Mitchell wiped the rain from his uniform, the wool heavy against his shoulders. Margaret stood in the kitchen doorway, a cup of tea in her hands.

"You're late," she said.

"Patrol held. They found a bomb on the Shankill. Unexploded."

"Jesus." Margaret stepped closer. "How close?"

"Fifty yards. The kids were playing football right where it landed."

James sat at the table, his hands wrapping around the warm cup. "I thought about that boy. The O'Neill kid. Sarah's son."

Margaret's face went still. "Daniel?"

"Yeah. He's ten now. Plays with a red ball. Bounces it against the wall. Sometimes I watch him from my gate."

"James."

"I know. I know what I'm saying. But James, she's alone. That boy's alone. And you're the one with the uniform."

"I didn't ask for this."

"No." Margaret sat beside him. "But you're here. And we're here. And those kids... they're just kids."

"I should go back."

"No. Stay. Eat something. The bomb team will call if they need you."

James didn't move. "What if Sarah comes to the gate? What if she wants to talk?"

"Then you talk." Margaret's hand was on his arm. "You're a man, James. Not just a policeman."

The Bogside — Two Days Later

Father Brennan stood in the church, the candles flickering around the altar. Sarah waited at the back, her coat still damp.

"You came," he said.

"You said it was important."

"It is." Father Brennan moved closer. "James Mitchell's wife came to me. Margaret."

Sarah's face went tight. "Why?"

"She wants to meet. She wants to talk. About the children."

"About Daniel."

"About both of them. Margaret's daughter, Claire, is nine. They're in the same school. Same class, even."

"I don't know what you're saying."

"Sarah." The priest's voice was gentle. "The wall's getting higher. The checkpoints. The curfews. The kids... they're starting to see it. Claire came home last week. She said Daniel doesn't talk to her anymore. She said he's scared."

"He's not scared."

"He's ten. He plays with a red ball. He doesn't know why he can't talk to a girl from Ardoyne."

Sarah turned away. "I can't do this."

"You don't have to. But Margaret's asking. She's not asking for you. She's asking for the children."

"What does James say?"

"James says nothing. But he's watching. Like you."

The Meeting — One Week Later, Neutral Ground

A small café on the border of the two communities, the kind of place where neither side felt safe but both felt they had to come. Margaret sat at the back, her hands wrapped around a cup. Sarah arrived twenty minutes later, Daniel at her side.

"You brought him," Margaret said.

"He's not leaving me."

"Good." Margaret stood. "Claire's not coming. James wouldn't let her. But I'm here."

"Why?"

"Because I see him. That boy. Every day. And because I have a daughter. And because... I don't want her to grow up thinking he's the enemy."

Sarah's hand tightened on Daniel's shoulder. "Daniel's not the enemy."

"No." Margaret's voice was soft. "Neither is James. But the world's making us think that."

Daniel looked up. "Mum?"

"It's okay," Sarah said. But she wasn't sure.

Margaret reached across the table. "My name's Margaret. What's your name?"

"Daniel."

"Daniel." Margaret smiled. "I like that. Claire's name's Claire. She's nine. She likes to draw. She draws birds. She says they're the only things that can fly over the wall."

Daniel's eyes went wide. "There's a wall?"

"Between us." Margaret's hand was still on the table. "But birds don't see it."

Sarah looked at Margaret. "What are you asking?"

"Nothing." Margaret stood. "Just... let them be kids. Let them play. Let them talk. That's all."

"James won't like it."

"James doesn't have to." Margaret's hand was on Sarah's arm now. "I do. And you do. And the children... they do."

The Next Morning — The Street Between

Daniel stood at the gate, his red ball in hand. Across the street, three feet of cracked pavement and a chain-link fence, Claire waited. She held a piece of paper.

"I drew this," she said.

"What is it?"

"A bird."

Daniel looked at it. "It's blue."

"Birds can be blue."

"Can it fly over the wall?"

"Yeah." Claire stepped closer. "It can fly anywhere."

Daniel bounced his ball. "Want to play?"

"Can I?"

"Yeah."

They played for an hour. Sarah watched from the window. James watched from his gate. Margaret stood between them, her hands in her pockets, her face turned toward the sky.

Father Brennan, walking past with his Bible, smiled. "God's work," he said.

"No," Margaret answered. "Kids' work."

And for the first time in thirty years, the street between the two communities was quiet.

CHAPTER 2:

Shankill Road — March 23, 1979 — Three Weeks After the Meeting

The bomb went off at 11:47 AM. James Mitchell was three blocks away when the first explosion hit, the sound so loud it knocked him forward onto the pavement. People screamed. Cars screeched. The air filled with gray smoke and the smell of burning rubber.

"Mitchell!" His sergeant's voice was raw. "Get down here! Now!"

James ran. The Shankill was a nightmare. Storefronts shattered. Bodies on the ground. A woman clutching a child who wasn't moving. He dropped beside her, checking for breath. None.

"Jesus," he whispered.

"Don't." The sergeant's hand was on his arm. "We need eyes. Not prayers. There's another one. They said there's another one."

"Where?"

"The pub. On the corner. They're saying it's a loyalist bomb that went off too early."

"Who put it?"

"IRA. That's what they're saying. But we need to find it before it goes."

James ran toward the pub. The crowd was screaming now, pushing in every direction. He saw Margaret at the edge of it, her face white, her hands on her mouth.

"Margaret!"

"James!" She was crying. "Claire—she's at school. She's at school. She's okay. She's okay."

"Where's your sister? Your mother?"

"Gone. They went to the market. They were at the market."

James grabbed her arm. "Stay here. Don't move. I need to find them."

"James—"

"Stay."

He ran into the crowd. The market was three blocks north. He found the sister first, unconscious but breathing. Her mother wasn't moving. He didn't touch her. He called for the medics.

Then he saw the body on the ground. A man. His face was burned. James turned him over. The name tag on his jacket: "Thomas Kelly. 34. Shankill Road."

James knew him. Thomas sold bread at the corner shop. He had a daughter. Seven years old.

"No," James said. "No. No. No."

The second bomb didn't go off. The bomb team found it ten minutes later, hidden in a van behind the pub. They evacuated another two blocks. Another hundred people lived.

But eleven were dead.

The Bogside — Same Day — Two Hours Later

Sarah O'Neill stood at her window, watching the smoke rise from the Shankill. Daniel was at the table, his schoolbook open, but he wasn't reading.

"Mum," he said. "Was that the bomb?"

"Yes."

"Did people die?"

"Yes."

"How many?"

"Eleven."

Daniel's face went white. "Like the ones on the radio?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

Sarah turned away. "Because people are angry. Because they hate each other."

"But why?"

"Because..." She stopped. "Because they forget that the other side has kids too."

Daniel looked at her. "Like Claire?"

Sarah's hand went to her mouth. "Daniel. You don't talk about her."

"But I saw her. Yesterday. We played. We played for an hour."

"What?" Sarah's voice was sharp. "Where?"

"At the street. The one between. She drew a bird. It was blue."

"Daniel." Sarah was across the room now, kneeling beside him. "You can't do that. You can't play with her. It's not safe."

"But it was safe. Nobody was there. Nobody saw us."

"Someone saw."

"Who?"

"I don't know. But someone always sees."

Daniel's eyes were wide. "Is Claire bad?"

"No." Sarah's voice was soft. "She's not bad. You're not bad. But the world... the world makes us think we are."

"I don't want to think that."

"I know." Sarah pulled him close. "I know."

RUC Station — Ardoyne — Six Hours Later

James sat at the table, his uniform still stained with smoke. The sergeant was across from him, a cup of black coffee in his hand.

"You found them," the sergeant said.

"The sister's alive. The mother's dead."

"Good work."

"Thomas Kelly's dead too."

"Yeah." The sergeant's voice was quiet. "His girl's seven. She's in Claire's class."

James didn't move. "I need to go home."

"Take the night. We'll call if we need you."

"Sergean—"

"Go."

James stood. He walked out into the night. The street was dark. The houses were quiet. But he could hear it—the sound of people talking, the sound of fear, the sound of a community that knew it wasn't safe.

He got to his gate. Margaret was there, waiting.

"You found them," she said.

"Yes."

"Claire's at school. She's okay."

"I know."

"James." Margaret's hand was on his arm. "What are we doing?"

"What do you mean?"

"This. The bomb. The death. The kids. What are we doing?"

"I don't know."

"Me neither." Margaret stepped closer. "But I saw something today. Something I didn't expect."

"What?"

"Sarah. At the window. She was watching the smoke. She was crying."

"Margaret."

"And I saw Daniel. He was at the gate. He was looking at me. And he said... he said 'Mrs. Mitchell, is Claire okay?'"

James froze. "What?"

"He knew her name. He knew she was alive. He was asking."

"How?"

"They played. Yesterday. At the street. Between us."

James's face went white. "You knew?"

"I saw. I didn't tell. I didn't know what to do."

"Margaret."

"I know. I know. But James... they're kids. They're just kids."

"Sarah won't let it happen again."

"Maybe." Margaret's hand was on his chest. "But Daniel will. And Claire will. And they'll keep doing it. Until somebody stops them."

"Who stops them?"

"Us."

CHAPTER 3:

The Cribs, Belfast — One Week After the Bomb

Sean McCabe stood in the dark room, the candle flickering on the table. Five men sat around him, all in hoodies, all silent.

"It had to be done," Sean said to the room.

"Eleven people died," one of them said.

"Unionists. All of them."

"Some were kids."

"Kids who grow up to be soldiers." Sean's voice was cold. "That's the war. That's what it is."

"The kids will learn."

"No." Billy's voice was sharp. "The kids won't learn. They'll just grow up hating. And that's what we're doing. We're teaching them to hate."

Sean looked at him. "Then what's the alternative?"

"Peace."

"Peace?" Sean laughed. "There's no peace. There's only war. And we're the ones who have to win it."

"Sean."

"Leave."

Billy stood. He walked out. The door slammed.

Sean sat back. "He's wrong."

One of the men said nothing. Another nodded. Sean didn't look at them.

The Mountjoy Prison, Dublin — Same Night

Michael Reynolds sat on the bed, the guard at the door. The radio was crackling in his ear.

"You're young," the guard said.

"I'm twenty-four."

"Sean McCabe."

"Yeah."

"I heard about the bomb."

"What did you hear?"

"Eleven dead. Unionists. Shankill."

"Yeah."

"You're the one."

Sean didn't answer.

"Good work."

"It wasn't work. It was war."

"War." The guard laughed. "You call this war?"

"What do you call it?"

"Murder."

Sean stood. "Then murder's what it is."

The guard looked at him. "You're going to die in here. You know that?"

"Yeah."

"And you're okay with that?"

"I'm okay with the war."

"The war's not worth it."

"The war's everything."

The guard left. Sean sat on the bed. He looked at the wall. He looked at the floor. He looked at nothing.

The British Army Base, Belfast — Two Days Later

Captain William Hayes stood in the armored vehicle, the radio crackling in his ear. The night was cold. The street was empty. The checkpoint was a cage of steel and concrete.

"They hate us," Hayes said to his lieutenant.

"Who?"

"Both sides. The Catholics hate us because we're British. The Protestants hate us because we're not their army."

"What do we do?"

"We stay."

"For how long?"

"Until they let us go."

"And if they don't?"

"Then we stay forever."

The lieutenant looked at him. "That's not a plan."

"It's the only plan."

Hayes stood. He walked to the window. The base was surrounded by walls. The streets were empty. The air was gray.

"You know what this is?" he said.

"What?"

"A prison."

"For us?"

"For everyone."

The Textile Factory, Ardoyne — One Week Later

Grace Thompson stood at the window, the machines stopped, the workers gone. Margaret was at her side, her face white, her hands shaking.

"I'm tired," Grace said to Margaret.

"I know."

"I'm tired of the bombs. I'm tired of the death. I'm tired of the kids growing up scared."

"Me too."

"What do we do?"

"I don't know."

"Your husband." Grace's voice was sharp. "What does he say?"

"James says nothing."

"He's a policeman. He should say something."

"He says he's trying to keep people safe."

"Safe from what?"

"From the bomb."

"From the death."

"From the war."

Grace looked at her. "There's no war. There's just murder. And we're the ones who die."

"I know."

"Your daughter."

"Claire?"

"She's nine. She's scared. She doesn't sleep. She cries in the night."

"I know."

"What do we do?"

"I don't know."

"Me neither."

Grace stood. She walked to the window. The factory was quiet. The machines were stopped. The workers were gone.

"I'm tired," she said again.

"I know."

The Bogside School — Same Day

Mrs. Annie Kelly stood at the window, the machines stopped, the workers gone. Sarah was at her side, her face white, her hands shaking.

"Sarah," Annie said. "You can't keep Daniel from Claire."

"I'm not keeping him from her."

"You're hiding him."

"I'm protecting him."

"From what?"

"From the bomb. From the death. From the war."

"There's no war."

"Annie."

"There's just murder." Annie's voice was soft. "And we're the ones who die. But the kids... they're the ones who keep dying."

"I know."

"So what do we do?"

"I don't know."

"Me neither."

Annie stood. She walked to the door. "But I'm going to tell you something. I'm going to tell you the truth."

"What?"

"Daniel and Claire. They're kids. They're not soldiers. They're not enemies. They're just kids. And if we don't let them be kids, then we're the ones who are wrong."

"Annie."

"I'm going to tell you something else."

"What?"

"I'm going to meet Margaret. I'm going to meet her. And I'm going to tell her the same thing."

"When?"

"Tomorrow."

"Where?"

"The café. The one on the border."

"I'm coming."

"Good."

Annie left. Sarah sat at the table. She looked at the window. She looked at the street. She looked at nothing.

CHAPTER 4:

The Cribs, Belfast — Three Weeks After the Shankill Bomb — April 14, 1979

The room was dark. Five men sat around a table, the only light coming from a single candle in the corner. Sean McCabe stood at the head, a map of Belfast spread out before him. His face was pale, his eyes sharp.

"We're doing it again," Sean said.

"Where?" One of the men—Patrick Donnelly, a young guy aged twenty-two—leaned forward.

"The checkpoint. On the Falls Road." Sean pointed to the map. "British Army. Armored vehicle. They stop everyone. They check everyone. They think they're safe."

"How many?" Another man asked.

"Three soldiers. Maybe four. And the driver."

"Civilians?"

"None. The checkpoint's at midnight. Nobody's on the road."

"Sean." Patrick's voice was nervous. "Last time... eleven people died. The radio's saying it was a mistake. The bomb went off too early."

"It wasn't a mistake." Sean's voice was cold. "It was war. And we're winning it."

"Winning?" Patrick laughed. "Eleven dead unionists. What's that won us?"

"Fear." Sean's finger traced the map. "They're scared now. They're walking different streets. They're not going to the pub. They're not letting their kids play outside. That's winning."

"And the Catholics?"

"The Catholics are scared too."

"Then what's the difference?"

Sean looked at him. "The difference is we're the ones who make them scared. Not the other way around."

The room was silent. The candle flickered.

"So where's the bomb?" Patrick asked.

"Under the road." Sean pointed to a spot on the map. "Twenty yards from the checkpoint. We dig it in tonight. We planting it at ten. We detonating at midnight."

"How do we detonate?"

"Remote. Fifteen hundred yards. From the roof of the flats. Over there." Sean pointed to another spot. "I'll be there. You'll be here. You'll watch. You'll wait. And when I say go, you go."

"What if someone sees us?"

"Then we run."

"And if we don't?"

"Then we die." Sean's voice was flat. "That's the war."

The Falls Road Checkpoint — British Army Base — Same Night — Two Hours Before

Captain William Hayes stood in the armored vehicle, the radio crackling in his ear. The night was cold. The street was empty. The checkpoint was a cage of steel and concrete.

"Hayes," the lieutenant said. "Something's wrong."

"What?"

"The street's too quiet. Nobody's on the road. Nobody's walking. Nobody's driving."

"It's midnight."

"Yeah. But it's... it's like everyone's hiding."

Hayes looked out the window. The street was dark. The houses were empty. The air was still.

"Maybe they're scared."

"Of what?"

"Of us."

"Or of something else."

The lieutenant's hand was on the radio. "Sergeant. Check the perimeter. Something's wrong."

"Already did." The sergeant's voice was tight. "Nothing. Nothing's there."

"Then what's wrong?"

"I don't know."

Hayes stepped out of the vehicle. The night was cold. The wind was sharp. He walked to the edge of the checkpoint. The road was empty. The flats were dark. The church was silent.

"Lieutenant," he said. "Get the men ready. Something's coming."

"What?"

"I don't know. But it's coming."

The Roof of the Flats — Falls Road — 11:45 PM

Sean stood on the roof, the remote in his hand. The wind was cold. The street was dark. The checkpoint was fifty yards away, the armored vehicle a cage of steel.

"Sean." Patrick's voice was in his ear. "You see it?"

"Yeah."

"Three soldiers. One driver. They're talking."

"Good."

"Sean." Patrick's voice was nervous. "What if someone sees us?"

"Then we run."

"And if we don't?"

"Then we die."

Sean looked at the remote. His finger was on the button. The checkpoint was clear. The soldiers were talking. The driver was smoking.

"Now."

Sean pressed the button.

The Explosion — 11:46 PM

The bomb went off like a thunderclap. The armored vehicle lifted into the air, the steel twisting, the metal screaming. The soldiers were thrown twenty feet. The driver was dead before he hit the ground. Two soldiers were dead on the ground. One was alive, screaming, his leg broken.

The street exploded. The windows shattered. The houses burned. The air filled with gray smoke and the smell of burning metal.

"Sean!" Patrick's voice was raw. "Run! Run! Now!"

Sean ran. He jumped from the roof. He hit the ground. He ran into the street. He ran into the dark. He ran into the night.

Behind him, the British Army was screaming. The radio was crackling. The medics were running. The bodies were on the ground.

Three dead. One alive. One driver. Two soldiers. One lieutenant.

And Sean was gone.

The RUC Station — Ardoyne — 12:30 AM — Forty Minutes Later

James Mitchell sat at the table, his uniform still stained with the smoke from the Shankill. The sergeant was across from him, the radio crackling in his ear.

"Mitchell," the sergeant said. "Falls Road. Checkpoint. Bomb. Three dead."

James froze. "What?"

"British Army. Armored vehicle. Three soldiers dead. One alive."

"When?"

"Eleven forty-six. Forty minutes ago."

"Where?"

"Falls Road. Near the flats."

James stood. "I'm going."

"Wait." The sergeant's hand was on his arm. "They need eyes. They need everyone. You're not the only one."

"I'm going."

"James."

"I'm going."

James walked out. He got to his car. He drove. The street was dark. The houses were quiet. The air was gray.

He got to the checkpoint. The scene was a nightmare. The armored vehicle was a cage of twisted metal. The bodies were on the ground. The medics were running. The radio was crackling.

He dropped beside the alive soldier. The man was screaming. His leg was broken. His face was burned.

"Jesus," James said. "Jesus."

"Help me." The soldier's voice was raw. "Help me."

"I'm here." James's hand was on the man's arm. "I'm here."

"They're dead."

"Yeah."

"My friend. My lieutenant. He's dead."

"I know."

"Why?"

"Because of the war."

"What war?"

"The one we're in."

The soldier screamed. The medics ran. The bodies were moved. The radio was crackling.

James stood. He looked at the ground. He looked at the sky. He looked at nothing.

The Bogside — Same Night — One Hour Later

Sarah O'Neill stood at her window, watching the smoke rise from the Falls Road. Daniel was at the table, his schoolbook open, but he wasn't reading.

"Mum," he said. "Was that the bomb?"

"Yes."

"Did people die?"

"Yes."

"How many?"

"Three."

Daniel's face went white. "British soldiers?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

Sarah turned away. "Because people are angry. Because they hate each other."

"But why?"

"Because..." She stopped. "Because they forget that the other side has kids too."

Daniel looked at her. "Like Claire?"

"Daniel." Sarah's voice was sharp. "You don't talk about her."

"But I saw the smoke. I saw the fire. I saw the bodies."

"You didn't see the bodies."

"I saw the smoke."

"Daniel." Sarah was across the room now, kneeling beside him. "You can't see that. You can't see the death. You can't see the war."

"But I'm seeing it."

"No." Sarah's voice was soft. "You're seeing the smoke. You're not seeing the war."

"What's the difference?"

"The difference is..." Sarah stopped. "The difference is you're ten. You're not supposed to see it."

"But I'm seeing it."

"I know." Sarah pulled him close. "I know."

The IRA Safe House — Belfast — Two Hours Later

Sean stood in the dark room, the candle flickering on the table. Patrick was across from him, his face white, his hands shaking.

"We did it," Sean said.

"Three dead."

"British Army."

"Soldiers."

"Yeah."

"Sean." Patrick's voice was nervous. "What now?"

"Now we wait."

"For what?"

"For the reaction."

"What reaction?"

"The British Army. They're going to come. They're going to search. They're going to kill."

"And us?"

"We run."

"Where?"

"Dublin. Michael Reynolds's waiting."

"Michael?"

"Yeah. He's in prison. But he's got friends. He's got contacts. He's got the plan."

"What plan?"

"The next one."

"What next one?"

Sean stood. He walked to the window. The street was dark. The houses were quiet. The air was gray.

"The Shankill was a mistake." Sean's voice was cold. "The Falls Road was right. Three dead soldiers. That's war. That's winning."

"Sean."

"Next time." Sean's finger was on the map. "Next time we hit the RUC. Next time we hit you."

"Me?"

"You're the policeman. You're the one who's trying to keep us safe."

"I'm not trying to keep you safe."

"Then what are you doing?"

"I'm trying to keep the kids safe."

Sean laughed. "The kids? The kids are the ones who die. The kids are the ones who grow up hating. The kids are the ones who keep the war going."

"Then what do we do?"

"We win."

"How?"

"By making them scared."

"And if we don't?"

"Then we die." Sean's voice was flat. "That's the war."

The Mountjoy Prison, Dublin — Same Night — Three Hours Later

Michael Reynolds sat on the bed, the guard at the door. The radio was crackling in his ear.

"Three dead British soldiers," the guard said. "Falls Road. Bomb. IRA."

Michael didn't move. "Sean."

"Yeah."

"He's getting worse."

"He's getting better."

"What's the difference?"

"The difference is he's winning."

"Winning what?"

"The war."

Michael stood. He walked to the window. The prison was dark. The cells were quiet. The air was gray.

"He's wrong."

"What?"

"He's wrong. The war's not worth it."

"The war's everything."

"No." Michael's voice was soft. "The kids are everything. And we're killing them."

"And you?"

"I'm forty-one. I'm old. I've seen everything. I've seen the death. I've seen the war. I've seen the kids die."

"And you're okay with that?"

"No." Michael's voice was sharp. "I'm not okay with that. I'm tired. I'm exhausted. I'm done."

"Done?"

"Yeah. I'm done. The war's not worth it. The kids are everything. And we're killing them."

The guard looked at him. "What do you want?"

"Peace."

"Peace?"

"Yeah. Peace. That's what I want."

"There's no peace."

"Then I'm done."

Michael sat back. He looked at the wall. He looked at the floor. He looked at nothing.

The Textile Factory, Ardoyne — Next Morning — Six Hours Later

Grace Thompson stood at the window, the machines stopped, the workers gone. Margaret was at her side, her face white, her hands shaking.

"Three dead soldiers," Grace said.

"Yeah."

"British Army."

"Yeah."

"What now?"

"I don't know."

"James?"

"He's at the checkpoint. He's at the scene. He's at the death."

"And Sarah?"

"She's at the window. She's at the smoke. She's at the fire."

"And Daniel?"

"He's at the table. He's at the schoolbook. He's at the death."

"And Claire?"

"She's at the bed. She's at the crying. She's at the fear."

Grace looked at her. "What do we do?"

"I don't know."

"Me neither."

Grace stood. She walked to the door. "But I'm going to tell you something. I'm going to tell you the truth."

"What?"

"I'm going to meet Sarah. I'm going to meet her. And I'm going to tell her the same thing."

"What?"

"The kids are everything. And we're killing them."

"When?"

"Today."

"Where?"

"The café. The one on the border."

"I'm coming."

"Good."

Grace left. Margaret sat at the table. She looked at the window. She looked at the street. She looked at nothing.

CHAPTER 5:

The Falls Road — Bogside — 6:00 AM — Six Hours After the Bomb

The British Army rolled in at dawn. Three armored vehicles, six trucks, two hundred soldiers. The streets were cordoned off with steel barriers. The houses were surrounded with concrete walls. The air was filled with the sound of helicopters and the smell of gunpowder.

Captain William Hayes stood at the edge of the checkpoint, the radio crackling in his ear. The night was gray. The street was empty. The bodies were gone.

"Hayes," the lieutenant said. "They're coming. All of them."

"Who?"

"Two hundred soldiers. Six trucks. Three armored vehicles. They're here for the search."

"The curfew?"

"Started at midnight. Lasts until noon. Nobody's leaving. Nobody's entering. Nobody's moving."

"And the arrests?"

"They're going to take everyone. Everyone they can find."

Hayes looked out the window. The street was dark. The houses were empty. The air was gray.

"Jesus," he said. "This is going to be a massacre."

The Bogside — Sarah's Flat — 6:15 AM

Sarah O'Neill stood at her window, watching the soldiers move down the street. The armored vehicles were a cage of steel. The trucks were a wall of concrete. The soldiers were a line of green.

"Mum," Daniel said. "What's happening?"

"They're searching."

"Why?"

"Because of the bomb."

"The bomb?"

"The one last night. The one that killed the soldiers."

Daniel's face went white. "Because of us?"

"No." Sarah's voice was sharp. "Because of Sean. Because of the IRA. Because of the war."

"But we didn't do it."

"I know." Sarah was across the room now, kneeling beside him. "But they don't know that. They don't know who did it. They don't know who's innocent. They don't know who's guilty."

"Then what do they do?"

"They search. They take. They arrest. They kill."

"Kill?"

"Sometimes." Sarah's voice was soft. "Sometimes they kill."

Daniel's eyes were wide. "Are we going to die?"

"No." Sarah pulled him close. "No. We're not going to die. We're going to stay here. We're going to stay quiet. We're going to stay safe."

"But what if they come?"

"Then we open the door. Then we show them nothing. Then we show them we're innocent."

"And if they don't believe us?"

"Then we pray."

"And if God doesn't hear?"

"Then we hope." Sarah's voice was sharp. "Then we hope."

The Street Outside — 6:30 AM

The soldiers moved down the street like a machine. The armor was steel. The boots were black. The guns were green. The faces were white.

"Open!" The sergeant's voice was raw. "Open the door!"

"Who?" The man at the door was old. Seventy years. His face was gray. His hands were shaking.

"You. Open. Now."

"Why?"

"Search. Weapons. IRA. Now."

"I don't have weapons."

"Open."

The man opened. The soldiers moved in. The room was empty. The walls were white. The floor was gray.

"Where?" The sergeant's voice was sharp.

"Where what?"

"Weapons. IRA. Guns. Now."

"I don't have them."

"Search."

The soldiers moved. The room was empty. The walls were white. The floor was gray.

"Nothing." One of the soldiers said.

"Take him." The sergeant's voice was cold.

"What?"

"Take him. Arrest him. Detain him. Now."

"Why?"

"Because he's Catholic. Because he's in the Bogside. Because he's guilty."

"But he's innocent."

"Then God will know."

The soldiers took the man. They put him in the truck. They put him in the back. They put him in the dark.

"Next!" The sergeant's voice was raw.

Sarah's Flat — 6:45 AM

The door slammed. The soldiers moved in. The room was empty. The walls were white. The floor was gray.

"Open!" The sergeant's voice was raw. "Open the door!"

"Who?" Sarah's voice was sharp.

"You. Open. Now."

"Why?"

"Search. Weapons. IRA. Now."

"I'm a teacher." Sarah's voice was cold. "I'm a widow. I'm innocent."

"Open."

Sarah opened. The soldiers moved in. The room was empty. The walls were white. The floor was gray.

"Where?" The sergeant's voice was sharp.

"Where what?"

"Weapons. IRA. Guns. Now."

"I don't have them."

"Search."

The soldiers moved. The room was empty. The walls were white. The floor was gray. The bed was empty. The table was empty. The window was empty.

"The boy." The sergeant's voice was cold. "Where's the boy?"

"He's here." Sarah's voice was sharp. "He's ten. He's innocent. He's not guilty."

"Bring him."

"No." Sarah's voice was cold. "He's not going."

"Bring him."

"No."

The sergeant moved. The soldier moved. The gun was green. The face was white.

"Bring him."

"No."

The soldier moved. The gun was green. The face was white. The boy was ten. The boy was innocent. The boy was not guilty.

"Daniel." Sarah's voice was soft. "Come here."

Daniel came. The soldier moved. The gun was green. The face was white.

"You." The sergeant's voice was cold. "You're innocent. You're not guilty. But you're Catholic. You're in the Bogside. You're going."

"No." Sarah's voice was sharp. "He's not going."

"He's going."

"No."

The sergeant moved. The soldier moved. The gun was green. The face was white.

"Open the door."

"No."

"Open."

"No."

The sergeant moved. The soldier moved. The gun was green. The face was white. The boy was ten. The boy was innocent. The boy was not guilty.

"Take her."

"What?"

"Take her. Arrest her. Detain her. Now."

"Why?"

"Because she's Catholic. Because she's in the Bogside. Because she's guilty."

"But she's innocent."

"Then God will know."

The soldiers took Sarah. They put her in the truck. They put her in the back. They put her in the dark.

"Daniel." The sergeant's voice was cold. "You're staying. You're with your aunt. You're safe."

"No." Daniel's voice was sharp. "I'm not staying. I'm going with her."

"You're staying."

"No."

"You're staying."

"No."

The sergeant moved. The soldier moved. The gun was green. The face was white.

"Take him."

"What?"

"Take him. Arrest him. Detain him. Now."

"Why?"

"Because he's Catholic. Because he's in the Bogside. Because he's guilty."

"But he's ten."

"Then God will know."

The soldiers took Daniel. They put him in the truck. They put him in the back. They put him in the dark.

"Next!" The sergeant's voice was raw.

The Ardoyne — James's House — 7:00 AM

James Mitchell stood at the window, watching the soldiers move down the street. The armored vehicles were a cage of steel. The trucks were a wall of concrete. The soldiers were a line of green.

"James." Margaret's voice was soft. "What's happening?"

"They're searching."

"Why?"

"Because of the bomb."

"The bomb?"

"The one last night. The one that killed the soldiers."

Margaret's face went white. "Because of us?"

"No." James's voice was sharp. "Because of Sean. Because of the IRA. Because of the war."

"But we didn't do it."

"I know." James was across the room now, kneeling beside her. "But they don't know that. They don't know who did it. They don't know who's innocent. They don't know who's guilty."

"Then what do they do?"

"They search. They take. They arrest. They kill."

"Kill?"

"Sometimes." James's voice was soft. "Sometimes they kill."

Margaret's eyes were wide. "Are we going to die?"

"No." James pulled her close. "No. We're not going to die. We're going to stay here. We're going to stay quiet. We're going to stay safe."

"But what if they come?"

"Then we open the door. Then we show them nothing. Then we show them we're innocent."

"And if they don't believe us?"

"Then we pray."

"And if God doesn't hear?"

"Then we hope." James's voice was sharp. "Then we hope."

The Street Outside — 7:15 AM

The soldiers moved down the street like a machine. The armor was steel. The boots were black. The guns were green. The faces were white.

"Open!" The sergeant's voice was raw. "Open the door!"

"Who?" James's voice was sharp.

"You. Open. Now."

"Why?"

"Search. Weapons. IRA. Now."

"I'm a policeman." James's voice was cold. "I'm innocent. I'm not guilty."

"Open."

James opened. The soldiers moved in. The room was empty. The walls were white. The floor was gray.

"Where?" The sergeant's voice was sharp.

"Where what?"

"Weapons. IRA. Guns. Now."

"I don't have them."

"Search."

The soldiers moved. The room was empty. The walls were white. The floor was gray.

"Nothing." One of the soldiers said.

"Good." The sergeant's voice was cold. "You're a policeman. You're innocent. You're not guilty."

"But I'm Protestant. I'm in Ardoyne. I'm not Catholic."

"Then you're safe."

"Safe?"

"Yeah. Safe."

"But the Catholics?"

"They're not safe."

"Why?"

"Because they're Catholic. Because they're in the Bogside. Because they're guilty."

"But they're innocent."

"Then God will know."

The soldiers left. James stood. Margaret stood. Claire stood.

"James." Margaret's voice was soft. "What about Sarah?"

"What?"

"Sarah. Daniel. They're Catholic. They're in the Bogside. They're not safe."

"I know." James's voice was cold. "I know."

"Then what do we do?"

"I don't know."

"Me neither."

The British Army Base — 8:00 AM

Captain William Hayes stood at the edge of the checkpoint, the radio crackling in his ear. The day was gray. The street was empty. The soldiers were a line of green.

"Hayes." The lieutenant said. "How many?"

"One hundred."

"Arrested?"

"Yeah. One hundred. One hundred Catholics. One hundred in the Bogside. One hundred guilty."

"Innocent?"

"Some. Maybe. Probably."

"Then what do we do?"

"We take them. We detain them. We hold them. We question them."

"And if they're innocent?"

"Then we release them."

"And if they're guilty?"

"Then we kill them."

"Kill?"

"Sometimes." Hayes's voice was cold. "Sometimes we kill."

"Jesus."

"Yeah." Hayes's voice was soft. "Jesus."

The Detention Center — 9:00 AM

Sarah stood in the cell, the walls were white. The floor was gray. The door was steel. The air was gray.

"Daniel." Sarah's voice was soft. "You're here. You're safe. You're not guilty."

"But I'm Catholic." Daniel's voice was sharp. "I'm in the Bogside. I'm guilty."

"No." Sarah's voice was cold. "You're not guilty. You're innocent. You're ten. You're not a soldier. You're not a militant. You're a kid."

"But they're taking me."

"I know." Sarah's voice was soft. "I know."

"Are we going to die?"

"No." Sarah pulled him close. "No. We're not going to die. We're going to stay here. We're going to stay quiet. We're going to stay safe."

"But what if they kill us?"

"Then we pray."

"And if God doesn't hear?"

"Then we hope." Sarah's voice was sharp. "Then we hope."

The RUC Station — Ardoyne — 10:00 AM

James stood at the radio, the sergeant at his side. The day was gray. The street was empty. The soldiers were a line of green.

"Mitchell." The sergeant's voice was raw. "You're going."

"Where?"

"The detention center. The Bogside. Sarah. Daniel."

"Why?"

"Because you're a policeman. Because you're Protestant. Because you're innocent."

"But they're Catholic."

"Yeah." The sergeant's voice was cold. "They're Catholic. They're guilty. They're not safe."

"Then what do I do?"

"You question them. You find out. You release them. If they're innocent."

"And if they're guilty?"

"Then you hold them."

"Hold?"

"Yeah. Hold. Detain. Question. Kill."

"Kill?"

"Sometimes." The sergeant's voice was cold. "Sometimes we kill."

"Jesus."

"Yeah." The sergeant's voice was soft. "Jesus."

The Detention Center — 11:00 AM

James stood at the cell, the door was steel. The walls were white. The floor was gray. The air was gray.

"Sarah." James's voice was soft. "You're here. You're safe. You're not guilty."

"But I'm Catholic." Sarah's voice was sharp. "I'm in the Bogside. I'm guilty."

"No." James's voice was cold. "You're not guilty. You're innocent. You're a teacher. You're a widow. You're not a soldier. You're not a militant. You're innocent."

"But they're taking me."

"I know." James's voice was soft. "I know."

"Are we going to die?"

"No." James pulled her close. "No. We're not going to die. We're going to stay here. We're going to stay quiet. We're going to stay safe."

"But what if they kill us?"

"Then we pray."

"And if God doesn't hear?"

"Then we hope." James's voice was sharp. "Then we hope."

"James." Sarah's voice was soft. "You're a policeman. You're Protestant. You're innocent. You're not guilty."

"But I'm searching you."

"I know." Sarah's voice was soft. "I know."

"Then what do I do?"

"You release us."

"Release?"

"Yeah. Release. Let us go. Let us live. Let us be safe."

"But the sergeant..."

"The sergeant doesn't care." Sarah's voice was cold. "The sergeant doesn't know. The sergeant doesn't see. The sergeant doesn't feel."

"Then what do I do?"

"You release us."

"How?"

"You're a policeman. You're Protestant. You're innocent. You're not guilty. You can release us."

"But..."

"Do it."

James stood. He walked to the door. He opened it. He let them out. He let them live. He let them be safe.

"Go." James's voice was soft. "Go. Live. Be safe."

"James." Sarah's voice was soft. "Thank you."

"No." James's voice was cold. "No. Thank you."

The Curfew Ends — 12:00 PM

The British Army rolled out. The armored vehicles were a cage of steel. The trucks were a wall of concrete. The soldiers were a line of green. The curfew ended. The street was empty. The houses were quiet. The air was gray.

"One hundred arrested." Captain Hayes said. "One hundred Catholics. One hundred in the Bogside. One hundred guilty."

"Innocent?" The lieutenant said.

"Some. Maybe. Probably."

"Then what do we do?"

"We release them."

"Release?"

"Yeah. Release. Let them go. Let them live. Let them be safe."

"But the sergeant..."

"The sergeant doesn't care." Hayes's voice was cold. "The sergeant doesn't know. The sergeant doesn't see. The sergeant doesn't feel."

"Then what do we do?"

"We release them."

"How?"

"We're the army. We're British. We're innocent. We're not guilty. We can release them."

"But..."

"Do it."

Hayes stood. He walked to the door. He opened it. He let them out. He let them live. He let them be safe.

"Go." Hayes's voice was soft. "Go. Live. Be safe."

CHAPTER 6:

The Bogside — Sarah's Flat — Six Months Later — October 1979

The rain fell hard on the gable end, the same rain that had washed through the streets eighteen months ago when the civil rights march turned to chaos. Sarah O'Neill stood at her window, watching the gray water streak across the peeling paint of the flats. Daniel sat at the small table, his schoolbook open, but his eyes kept drifting to the street.

"Mum," Daniel said, "Claire's not coming today."

Sarah's hand froze on the curtain. She hadn't meant Daniel to notice.

"What do you mean?"

"She said her dad won't let her. He said it's not safe. He said the soldiers are coming again."

Sarah moved to the table, kneeling beside him. "James won't let it happen again."

"But he did. Last week. The curfew. We couldn't play."

"Daniel." Sarah's voice was sharp. "You don't talk about Mr. Mitchell. Not to anyone."

"Why?" His eyes were wide now. "Is he bad?"

"No." She hesitated. "He's... complicated. Like everything here."

The Café on the Border — Three Days Later — November 1979

Sarah sat at the back, her hands wrapped around a cup. Margaret arrived twenty minutes later, Claire at her side.

"You came," Margaret said.

"You said it was important."

"It is." Margaret moved closer. "James won't let Claire play with Daniel anymore."

Sarah's face went tight. "What?"

"He said it's not safe. He said the soldiers are coming again. He said the IRA's planning something."

"What?"

"Another bomb. Sean. He's back."

Sarah's hand tightened on Daniel's shoulder. "Sean?"

"Yeah. He's in Dublin. He's planning another one. The RUC said he's coming back."

"When?"

"Soon." Margaret's voice was low. "James said they're going to search again. Another curfew. Another arrest."

"And Claire?"

"She's not playing. She's not going outside. She's not talking to Daniel."

"Margaret."

"I know." Margaret's voice was soft. "I know. But James said it's not safe. He said the kids are the ones who die."

"Then what do we do?"

"I don't know." Margaret stood. "I don't know."

The Shankill Road — One Week Later — November 23, 1979

The bomb went off at 2:17 PM. James Mitchell was two blocks away when the first explosion hit, the sound so loud it knocked him forward onto the pavement. People screamed. Cars screeched. The air filled with gray smoke and the smell of burning rubber.

"Mitchell!" His sergeant's voice was raw. "Get down here! Now!"

James ran. The Shankill was a nightmare. Storefronts shattered. Bodies on the ground. A woman clutching a child who wasn't moving. He dropped beside her, checking for breath. None.

"Jesus," he whispered.

"Don't." The sergeant's hand was on his arm. "We need eyes. Not prayers. There's another one. They said there's another one."

"Where?"

"The pub. On the corner. They're saying it's an IRA bomb."

"Who put it?"

"Sean. That's what they're saying. Sean McCabe."

James ran toward the pub. The crowd was screaming now, pushing in every direction. He saw Margaret at the edge of it, her face white, her hands on her mouth.

"Margaret!"

"James!" She was crying. "Claire—she's at school. She's at school. She's okay. She's okay."

"Where's your sister? Your mother?"

"Gone. They went to the market. They were at the market."

James grabbed her arm. "Stay here. Don't move. I need to find them."

"James—"

"Stay."

He ran into the crowd. The market was three blocks north. He found the sister first, unconscious but breathing. Her mother wasn't moving. He didn't touch her. He called for the medics.

Then he saw the body on the ground. A man. His face was burned. James turned him over. The name tag on his jacket: "Thomas Kelly. 34. Shankill Road."

James knew him. Thomas sold bread at the corner shop. He had a daughter. Seven years old.

"No," James said. "No. No. No."

The second bomb didn't go off. The bomb team found it ten minutes later, hidden in a van behind the pub. They evacuated another two blocks. Another hundred people lived.

But nine were dead.

The Bogside — Same Day — Two Hours Later

Sarah O'Neill stood at her window, watching the smoke rise from the Shankill. Daniel was at the table, his schoolbook open, but he wasn't reading.

"Mum," he said. "Was that the bomb?"

"Yes."

"Did people die?"

"Yes."

"How many?"

"Nine."

Daniel's face went white. "Like the ones on the radio?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

Sarah turned away. "Because people are angry. Because they hate each other."

"But why?"

"Because..." She stopped. "Because they forget that the other side has kids too."

Daniel looked at her. "Like Claire?"

"Daniel." Sarah's voice was sharp. "You don't talk about her."

"But she's not coming. She said her dad won't let her. He said it's not safe."

"Daniel." Sarah was across the room now, kneeling beside him. "You can't play with her. You can't play with her. It's not safe."

"But it was safe. Nobody was there. Nobody saw us."

"Someone saw."

"Who?"

"I don't know. But someone always sees."

Daniel's eyes were wide. "Is Claire bad?"

"No." Sarah's voice was soft. "She's not bad. You're not bad. But the world... the world makes us think we are."

"I don't want to think that."

"I know." Sarah pulled him close. "I know."

The RUC Station — Ardoyne — Six Hours Later

James sat at the table, his uniform still stained with smoke. The sergeant was across from him, a cup of black coffee in his hand.

"You found them," the sergeant said.

"The sister's alive. The mother's dead."

"Good work."

"Thomas Kelly's dead too."

"Yeah." The sergeant's voice was quiet. "His girl's seven. She's in Claire's class."

James didn't move. "I need to go home."

"Take the night. We'll call if we need you."

"Sergean—"

"Go."

James stood. He walked out into the night. The street was dark. The houses were quiet. But he could hear it—the sound of people talking, the sound of fear, the sound of a community that knew it wasn't safe.

He got to his gate. Margaret was there, waiting.

"You found them," she said.

"Yes."

"Claire's at school. She's okay."

"I know."

"James." Margaret's hand was on his arm. "What are we doing?"

"What do you mean?"

"This. The bomb. The death. The kids. What are we doing?"

"I don't know."

"Me neither." Margaret stepped closer. "But I saw something today. Something I didn't expect."

"What?"

"Sarah. At the window. She was watching the smoke. She was crying."

"Margaret."

"And I saw Daniel. He was at the gate. He was looking at me. And he said... he said 'Mrs. Mitchell, is Claire okay?'"

James froze. "What?"

"He knew her name. He knew she was alive. He was asking."

"How?"

"They tried to play. Yesterday. At the street. Between us."

James's face went white. "You knew?"

"I saw. I didn't tell. I didn't know what to do."

"Margaret."

"I know. I know. But James... they're kids. They're just kids."

"Sarah won't let it happen again."

"Maybe." Margaret's hand was on his chest. "But Daniel will. And Claire will. And they'll keep doing it. Until somebody stops them."

"Who stops them?"

"Us."

Six Years Later — 1986

Sarah O'Neill stood at her window, watching the rain fall on the gable end. Daniel was twenty-two now, in the army, British Army. He'd joined three years ago. He'd said he wanted to stop the war. He'd said he wanted to save the kids.

"Mum," Daniel said, standing at the door. "I'm leaving."

"Where?"

"Belgium. They're sending me. They're sending all of us."

"When?"

"Tomorrow."

"Will you come back?"

"I don't know."

"Daniel." Sarah's voice was soft. "You're not a soldier. You're not a militant. You're a kid."

"But I'm twenty-two. I'm not a kid. I'm a soldier. I'm going to stop the war."

"Daniel."

"I know." Daniel's voice was soft. "I know. But I'm going."

"Will you come back?"

"I don't know."

Sarah pulled him close. "I know."

The Ardoyne — Same Day

James Mitchell stood at his window, watching the rain fall on the gable end. Claire was eighteen now, in college, Dublin. She'd left three years ago. She'd said she wanted to escape the war. She'd said she wanted to save herself.

"James," Margaret said, standing at the door. "She's leaving."

"Where?"

"Dublin. She's going to college. She's going to escape."

"When?"

"Tomorrow."

"Will she come back?"

"I don't know."

"James." Margaret's voice was soft. "She's not a soldier. She's not a militant. She's a kid."

"But she's eighteen. She's not a kid. She's a student. She's going to escape the war."

"James."

"I know." James's voice was soft. "I know. But she's going."

"Will she come back?"

"I don't know."

Margaret pulled him close. "I know."

Ten Years Later — 1998

The Good Friday Agreement was signed. The war ended. The soldiers went home. The bombs stopped. The kids grew up.

Sarah O'Neill stood at her window, watching the sun rise on the gable end. Daniel was thirty-four now, in Belfast, back from Belgium. He'd come home three years ago. He'd said the war was over. He'd said the kids were safe.

"Mum," Daniel said, standing at the door. "It's over."

"What?"

"The war. It's over. The Agreement. It's signed."

"Daniel." Sarah's voice was soft. "I know."

"Are we happy?"

"I don't know."

"Me neither."

Daniel pulled her close. "I know."

The Ardoyne — Same Day

James Mitchell stood at his window, watching the sun rise on the gable end. Claire was thirty now, in Belfast, back from Dublin. She'd come home five years ago. She'd said the war was over. She'd said the kids were safe.

"James," Margaret said, standing at the door. "It's over."

"What?"

"The war. It's over. The Agreement. It's signed."

"James." Margaret's voice was soft. "I know."

"Are we happy?"

"I don't know."

"Me neither."

Margaret pulled him close. "I know."

Final Words

Sarah and James stood at the street between the two communities, the same street where Daniel and Claire played ten years ago. The wall was gone. The checkpoint was gone. The soldiers were gone.

"James," Sarah said. "Daniel's coming back."

"Claire's coming back too."

"Are they happy?"

"I don't know."

"Me neither."

"But they're safe."

"Yeah."

"Safe."

They stood there, the street between the two communities, the same street where the kids played. The war was over. The kids were safe. But they weren't happy.

"James."

"Sarah."

"Thank you."

"No." James's voice was cold. "No. Thank you."

They stood there, the street between the two communities. The war was over. The kids were safe. But they weren't happy.

That's the truth of the Troubles. That's what happened. That's how it ended.

Not happily. Just safely.

THE END

DEDICATION

For the 3,600 people who died during the Troubles. For the 30,000 who were wounded. For the children who grew up in fear. For the families who never stopped loving each other, even when they couldn't speak.

This story is not fiction. This is what happened

AUTHOR'S NOTE

The Troubles lasted from 1968 to 1998. Three thousand six hundred people died. The Good Friday Agreement brought peace, but not healing. The families survived, but they were broken. The war ended, but the memory lived on.

No one lived happily ever after. They just lived.