- Home
- Brian Godfrey
UMTATA Page 3
UMTATA Read online
Page 3
Falcon quickly recovered, mainly due to his new coat that cushioned the Irishman’s blow. As Red surged forward towards Barney, Falcon dropped onto one knee and grasped Barney by the ankle. Now off balance, the Irishman fell to the ground.
It was useless; the feeling in his legs had gone and Big Red took advantage. He hit Barney on the side of his face, and he groaned, although, despite being in a semi-conscious state, remained in a sitting position. Big Red stood tall, and started to remove his belt. But as he did so, a scream made both predators freeze.
They looked to see where the sound came from and saw a woman standing only twenty yards away at the corner of the street.
“Get off that man; stop it! I have phoned the police; they will be here in less than two minutes.” She waved her hands in the air demonstrating her alleged call.
“Fuck the slag,” said Red, “let’s go,” and Falcon followed as he disappeared down a side road.
The woman ran to Barney, who was trying unsuccessfully to stand.
“Don’t move.” She held him down.
He gritted his teeth. “Have you called the police?” he gasped, still in pain.
“Don’t be silly, dear boy; if I did that I would have nobody to help, would I?”
From her bag she brought out various medical supplies that she used to clean up Barney.
“I can do nothing for the bruises, they need a cold compress, but I don’t think that anything is broken, so if you can walk we can get out of here before they return. Those two look like a mean couple of individuals.”
It was still early in the morning and, apart from a few homeless individuals hanging about, little was going on. It seemed that nobody else in the vicinity cared about the skirmish, or for that matter who had been involved.
“My name is Sarah,” the woman said.
“And mine is Barney – sorry, no, it is Brightling,” Barney stammered.
“Now, now, I need to call you something and the truth would be the best place to start.” She was firm.
“At home it is Barney, but here on the streets, I call myself Brightling.” He paused for a moment, thinking about what he had said to this lady. She was a total stranger.
“We need to get you to a safe place away from this rumpus; it will be better for you to stay in my flat until you feel better, then you must go elsewhere.” She was excited from the confrontation with Red and Falcon and she was breathing hard as she spoke.
“Why are you doing this?” Barney asked.
“Doing what?”
“Saving me from another beating, and now taking me home.” He was surprised.
“Because I am a Samaritan helping the poor and needy.” She started to help him to his feet. “I live in a small mews flat-cum-house behind Parade Street, close to Paddington Station. You may stay there until you are well; then you must move on.” Her tone was serious and to the point.
Once he was standing, and after he had retrieved his bedding, she hailed a taxi.
Twenty-five minutes later Barney found himself in a very comfortable mews home, a small building built originally as an annex for the main house. Since the nineteenth century the rich owners had been hit by two world wars, their fortunes had dwindled and the main part of the houses had been split into affordable dwellings and sold to the highest bidders. Before this hardship had hit the financially better-off people in London they lived on different floors to their staff. The large houses in London also included a small house built in the garden to accommodate the gardeners and their peacocks, the latter used to scare away intruders; thus the name ‘mews’. With accommodation at a premium early in the twentieth century, these small dwellings were converted into individual households, one of which was now Sarah’s home.
She helped Barney climb the stairs to her front door, guiding him through the flat into the spare bedroom. On reaching the side of the bed he immediately collapsed onto it and closed his eyes.
“Stay there until you feel better and I will make you a cup of tea and help you into some different clothes.”
“Thank you, ma’am. I will be up and about tomorrow.”
“I doubt it, but we will see.” She left the room and headed towards the kitchen.
It was about ten minutes later when she returned with a pot of tea, a shirt and some joggers.
“Get yourself into these, my good man, and we will see how you are tomorrow. If you stay longer, the neighbours will talk. So what is your name?”
“ Brightling.”
“Your real name please, mister – didn’t you say it was Barney?”
“OK, ma’am, it is Barney.” He felt bad about lying to Sarah; she had rescued him from a severe beating after all.
“OK, Barney, you will tell me the whole truth, not the lies, please.”
He held back his reply as she had left the room to get her own cup of coffee.
She returned to his room stirring the coffee, and sat down on a chair at the end of his bed.
“Now, you cannot stay here another day until you tell me your story – no lies, please, only the truth.”
She stared at him; her head bent at thirty degrees, her eyes glaring. He turned his head away, not knowing what to say.
“I am waiting.” It was an instruction.
He was sworn to secrecy, and he was biding his time. Without a reply she arose from the chair and left the room, cup still in hand. He fell into a deep sleep on top of the bed.
Sarah was very athletic and looked younger then her fifty-three years, she seemed pleased with herself as she looked at herself in the mirror before donning a light coat and slipping out onto the iron exit stairway and headed for Paddington Tube Station; she had a lunch date with her lady friends.
She was late arriving, and offered profuse apologies upon seeing them, but did not respond to their jokes, which all seemed to harp on the ‘man in your flat’ theme. They were teasing her in the event she was never late for their gatherings. After some further bantering they all settled down to lunch and the piffle that elderly women base their discussions on. Anyone outside the group would have thought they had not seen each other for years, not that it had been just a week since they had met previously.
Cynthia, who seemed to be the leader of the group, latched on to Sarah’s predicament and turned to the late arrival. “So, Sarah, today you are so quiet, very unnatural for you, and you seem to be in a dream. Are you missing Charles, or is there something else you need to share?”
“Sorry to disappoint you, dear Cynthia, but life is still very boring without my dear Charles, nevertheless I must go early today, I have a parcel to collect at the post office.”
After apologies Sarah left lunch feeling somewhat agitated regarding the conversation that she thought intruding.
She decided to walk back to Paddington along the Marylebone Road; she aimlessly perused every shop that she passed, not seeing anything but thinking about her situation.
Her husband Charles had died some nine months previously. She was still in mourning and lonely, and until Barney had come along she’d had nobody to share her life with.
Her intention after her loss had been to keep mind and body busy. She joined a charity to aid the homeless and her life began to brighten; she met other people, kept herself busy – the intent was that she would be tired at the end of the day and ready for nothing but sleep.
The situation with Barney did change things; she had not expected to get caught up in a street fight, take in the vanquished and shoulder his troubles as well as her own. She secretly hoped that his story would be interesting but innocent once she got it out of him, and that those dreadful men had taken liberties with a gentleman.
Since Charles had passed she had become nervous of men, keeping them at a distance, but then out of the blue came this handsome young bull of a man to complicate her life. At fifty-three years old she w
as no young woman, yet his very presence made her ache with longing. She did not know if it was desire or her mothering instinct to hold the young man as the child she never had. She longed to be touched, to be wanted, to act without conscience in bed.
Her own thoughts excited her; she stumbled whilst crossing the road under the Marylebone Flyover and stopped upon reaching a path; a precautionary effort to stop herself falling. She was now close to home, she needed to pull herself together, but she felt powerless against him. What if he made advances? She would be defenceless, no resistance; it would be a disaster, a mistake.
She turned into Paddington Station and stopped for a coffee. She faltered as she checked the menu, decided on a caffè latte but changed it to a cappuccino, then sat down and intended to make it last as long as possible.
“Hello?” she called on entering the flat.
His reply came from the kitchen. “Apologies, but I slept and missed you.” He seemed concerned by her absence.
“Oh, I had a lunch date with some female friends,” she said, looking out of the window.
“How was it?”
“It was OK; we meet once a week.” She turned away towards the lounge. “If you are to stay for a few days I need my questions answered.”
“Of course, I must apologise again, it seems to be becoming a habit, but my name is…” He fell silent for a few seconds before shaking his head.
“Your name is…?” Her eyes narrowed as she glanced in his direction, and she continued talking. “Please do not insult me by falsifying everything; the last thing I want is a trail of lies.”
“I cannot tell you everything but what I do tell you will be the truth, and if that is not good enough I understand and will make alternative arrangements. My humble thanks, ma’am, for all you have done.” He picked up his coat and turned to leave.
She held herself back, wanting to rush and stop him, then spoke to him gently. “If you are interested, I can hold a secret and will do so if you so wish; nevertheless, it would be good manners on your part if you told me your real name.”
She did not want to be in the house alone; she wanted him to stay. She sensed he was of a gentle nature and was intent on finding out his story. “Come, sit down. I will make a cup of tea and you can tell me your story – that is, the bits you’re allowed to tell me!”
He so wanted to tell someone, to clear his mind; if not a priest in confession, then it would have to be with Sarah.
5
Confessions Within
Sarah sat expectant; she needed to know who this man in her house was, this person who was emotionally tormenting her. Silently, she waited. The minutes ticked by, they could have been hours, but, remaining patient, she just gazed at the floor.
Barney cleared his throat. “I was born in a village in Northern Ireland, a beautiful place called Rostrevor, close to Carlingford Lough. The banks are lined with redwood trees that grow tall and elegant and sway with the breeze from the lough. Its location is close to the border between the north of Ireland and the south; the scent of danger from terrorists is ever present.
He went on. “I have a close friend; his name is Declan. We shared a strong nationalistic political view but the British – and the prevailing situation – stirred instincts within so we decided to do our duty and join the Irish Republican Army. It was not the nationalistic side of it so much as the excitement that we craved; you must understand that Declan and I were the only two left of our childhood friends as all had moved away to pastures new.”
He paused between breaths, but Sarah interrupted, “Why did you—”
He ignored her as though in a trance. “I was trained as a bomb technician and Declan and I were assigned to Sullom Voe in Shetland, a huge oil and gas terminal that was in the process of construction. Our task was to set an IED at the opening ceremony. I hate to mention the important people that would be affected.” He looked up at her to see her response.
“My God,” exclaimed Sarah. “What happened? Who were these people?”
“Those intending to be on the platform were no less than the British Queen, her husband Philip, and King Olav of Norway.”
“My goodness, this gets worse.” Sarah was aghast.
“I lived on the camp at Sullom Voe for many months working for a building contractor, and during my spare time assembled and tested many IEDs, but my mind played games with me. It was only after the assassination of Lord Mountbatten and his entourage at Sligo in August ’79, and on the same day seventeen young British soldiers were assassinated near Warrenpoint, that I realised that the life was not for me.”
“What happened? Has the terminal been opened?” gasped Sarah.
“It should have been opened by now, but I have not kept up with the news at all during the last few months.” He did not know the current situation nor any of the activities that had gone on since his departure, and he lied to her now, because if the operation went ahead and was thwarted he would be worse than a liar.
She stared at him with disbelief. “What will you do? Are the police hunting you? There are so many questions…” She was beside herself.
“It seems that the IRA, MI5, MI6, the Ulster Constabulary and the British police all want to question me,” he felt deflated as he guessed at the situation.
“But why are they after you? Do they know that you were not involved when you left, or did you tell them?” Sarah felt the need to know more.
“It appears there was a tip-off resulting in some arrests but I do not know much about that as I wasn’t there.”
Sarah continued her aggressive questioning. “Who were you responsible to?”
He looked at her directly, his face serious. “I stop at this, ma’am. I think for your own good that enough has been said.”
Sarah could not believe the story and sat on the sofa, her eyes wild. It suddenly dawned on her that she was harbouring an IRA fugitive. Her mind was in turmoil; she could take no more.
“Goodnight, Barney. You’ve left me with much to think about, but we will talk again soon.” And with that she slowly walked to her bedroom, closing the door quietly as she did so.
Sarah Siddons was born in Yorkshire and came from a wealthy farming family. After five years at university, first studying medicine, then dropping out to study politics, she joined the British Army where she became a trained nurse and rose up to matron and held the rank of first lieutenant. There she met her husband Charles, whilst he was recovering from a bomb blast in Belfast; so after he was medically discharged they lived in Hereford, where she worked in the local hospital and had in recent years acted as matron.
The explosion had left Charles with post-traumatic stress disorder and it was necessary for her to retire and nurse him until he mysteriously disappeared just under a year ago.
Since his apparent death she had become desperately lonely, and decided to join a charity organisation for the homeless and help with their problems. Little did she think that her life would change so much in just a few days.
Now she had befriended a man over twenty years younger than her, a member of the IRA: she had become reckless, blinded by circumstances. Realisation dawned: was she now culpable by association?
It was absurd and she tried to dismiss it from her mind – it would only bring embarrassment and heartache; it was no means to an end.
Perhaps it was the physical aspect: the femininity within her needed him around. It gave her more vitality – she no longer had the looks and skin of a twenty-year-old, but he made her feel younger, gave her a reason to live. At night she was restless, sleepless, trying to justify her amicability towards him. He was a wanted man, sought by the police, and she was guilty by association.
Feeling particularly restless one night, she rose, unhooked her gown from the wardrobe door, and scurried off to the kitchen for a glass of milk. Clearing the small corridor from the bedroom, she brushed throug
h the lounge, it was without light, and, on entering the kitchen, poured herself a large glass of milk. After drinking it slowly, she felt better; the cool, smooth liquid seemed to settle her stomach and she turned back towards her bedroom.
As she backtracked through the lounge, she was astounded to see Barney slumped on the armchair in the corner of the room reading by torchlight. He was totally unaware of her.
“Barney, you must rest and build up as much strength as possible; you can only stay a short while longer.” She stood above him, holding her glass; she was dictating to him, an instruction that she was convinced was not what she really wanted.
Barney smiled and shot a glance at Sarah. “Thank you, Sarah; I know that. You have been good to me, and don’t worry – I am OK and will move on shortly!”
She felt guilty for her harsh comments, and moved around to face him and apologise rather than talk to him over his shoulder. As she moved stealthily around the armchair her robe caught on the arm; it became loose and, anticipating a disaster, she quickly sat down on the arm to keep her gown from opening fully. But this made things worse: the arm was narrower than she thought and she lost her balance, falling onto the unprepared Barney. The weight of both of them tipped the armchair and turned it over on its side, spilling them onto the floor. The robe, still snagged on the arm, was pulled from her body, and she was left naked, perilously close to the unsuspecting Irishman.
Just for a moment in the turmoil he remained inert, stunned first by the accident, then the embarrassment of being so close to her naked body.