“So why are you telling me this and not the Police? This man may be responsible for the death of over a hundred people for Christ’s sake. He’s a bloody murdering terrorist.”
“I don’t know that for sure. I need to talk to John, but he won’t talk to me anymore, doesn’t want to get me involved. He’s still grieving his wife.”
“I can understand that, but what about his kids? He should at least tell the Police what he knows and let them take over. They’ve already lost their mother. They need their father now.” Lindsay picked up her glass of whiskey and emptied it in one gulp. She needed warming up on the inside. Michael did the same.
“Another?” he asked.
“Yes, and make it a double.”
Michael went to the bar and Lindsay pulled her chair closer to the fire to ward off the chill she felt in her bones. There was movement outside the big bay window that looked out onto the street. When she turned her head to look, two faces looked back at her. A man she didn’t recognize and the face that had become familiar to her as Colleen, the face of a ghost. I thought ghosts only appeared at night. This isn’t fair. Lindsay ran outside as quickly as she could, knowing full well Colleen wouldn’t be there, but she needed to talk to the stranger. Was this Michael’s brother? Or was it Patrick, Colleen’s brother. Someone had to be the voice of reason and she felt that was her role, but she was too late. The street was deserted. She walked back inside just Michael put two more glasses of whiskey on the table.
“What was that all about?” he asked
Lindsay downed her second whiskey in one gulp.
“Your brother John, is he kind of heavy-set with dark curly hair?”
“No, he shaves his head, and he’s skinny like me. Why?”
“I just saw two faces at the window, Colleen and a heavy-set man, probably mid thirties, curly dark hair.”
“Colleen’s brother, dammit. I have to find John.”
“You’re concerned about the living, but not the least perturbed about the dead Irish woman?”
“She can’t hurt us, she can scare us to be sure, but that’s all. Patrick can hurt us, and there’s a good chance he will.”
“Do you really think he could have started the fire?”
“In his mind Colleen was killed because of the British Army being in Belfast. He’s over here to make trouble for them in their own country. He wants revenge.”
“His sister was caught in the crossfire though, no one was to blame.”
“In his mind the British Army are to blame.”
“Where are the boys, John’s boys? Who is looking after them?”
“Colleen’s ma, she moved to Dublin to be away from danger. The boys are safe. John lives there too, but when the Queens Regiment moved back from Ireland Patrick disappeared and John knew it meant trouble. He followed the regiment hoping to catch Patrick before anything happened. Neither of us expected anything like the fire that killed your friends. Patrick’s a good man, but his sister’s death tipped him over the edge. He drinks too much and…”
Michael never finished his sentence. A brick hurtled through the window and bounced off the table, landing in the middle of the room. Everyone in the bar ran. In the seventies, near an army camp, if something was thrown through a window it was usually exploded.
When I start writing I don’t really know where my story is taking me. It’s an adventure, an escape, and I enjoy every minute. Try my novel Dead of July. It’s set in Dortmund in the early eighties and follows the adventures of a young Army wife and the trouble she managed to get into. It almost killed her.