Belfast Sunset

By Robert Snow

Belfast Sunset continues the story of Judith Fenley, a pretty young woman living in Belfast, Northern Ireland, during the Troubles. As the book begins, Judith is trying to recover from the tragic death of her boyfriend, Sean Dunnigan, a soldier in the fight to free Northern Ireland from English rule and to return it to the Republic of Ireland.

When Geoffrey Cook, a lieutenant in the British army who was present when Sean was killed, tries to help her, Judith at first rejects him. Crushed as she is from her recent loss, she has no interest in romance, but over time a strong friendship forms between the two. Although Judith maintains rigid boundaries, Cook is soon hopelessly in love.

The Independence movement has not finished with Judith Fenley, however. There is concern about how much Sean may have told her and whether she poses any threat to the freedom fighters. Should she be silenced? Will she survive? If so, is there any chance for Geoffrey? Its love, politics, and danger during what for Great Britain must surely be the most tragic chapter of the late twentieth century.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Dec 26, 2014
• ISBN: 9781496929174

Robert Snow

Robert Snow has spent a lifetime in aviation and is the author of numerous magazine articles on the subject. His interest in Irish current events stems from a visit to the republic in 1988. The Troubles, as the conflict in Northern Ireland is known there, appeared fairly frequently in the news throughout the eighties and became the inspiration for Belfast Morning. Robert is retired but still flies small airplanes. He lives in Houston, Texas, with his wife, Maria.

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© 2014 Robert Snow. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse   10/13/2015

ISBN: 978-1-4969-2916-7 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4969-2917-4 (e)

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Table of Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter One

Judith awoke gently. It felt good, if only for a few seconds. That’s all the time it took for her to remember. The same as it had been for almost two weeks.

Sean was dead. It wasn’t a nightmare. It was real. He had died in her arms, two holes in his chest where the terrorist had shot him. And with him had died all her hopes, all her plans for a future with him, all her happiness. Just when the fairy tales about finding one’s prince and living happily ever after had seemed to be about to come true. It wasn’t fair.

As she came fully awake she realized that the emptiness she felt inside couldn’t last forever. Time heals all pain, someone had said. It had to be true. If it weren’t, people who had suffered horrors like hers would never regain a reason to live. They would simply wither and die, not even caring. That’s how she felt now. There seemed no point in going on.

She glanced at the clock. 6:45. She was going to be late for work. Again. How long was her boss going to stand for this? It didn’t matter. He’d forgive her…or fire her. Either way the pain inside her would still be there.

With reluctance she raised herself out of bed. She had to make an effort. As easy as it would be to just turn over and stare at the wall of her bedroom, she knew that was not an answer. She had to try. She had to get out from under the crushing weight she was carrying. The only way to do it was stone by stone; one step in front of the other, day in and day out. Her boss could wait. Right now she concentrated on the tasks immediately before her: Brushing her teeth. Finding her clothes. Combing her hair. Every second she spent doing each little chore was a second that she wasn’t thinking about Sean.

In twenty-five minutes she was walking out the door. Faster than she usually took to get ready. Not as fast as it could have been had she not been dragging a thousand nightmares behind her. She usually had a bowl of cereal before leaving for work and she felt hungry now. But that didn’t matter. Nothing did.

The weather was clear and brisk. A pretty day for Belfast, Northern Ireland, this time of year. A day when it should have been easy to forget the hatred, violence, and uncertainty of the Troubles. She could remember a time when she was able to pretend that none of it existed. A time when Belfast was just another city, no more dangerous than London or Paris. A time when she could, like most of the people here, ignore the politics and by simply skipping over the next newspaper account of the latest bombing pretend that they were rare occurrences; nothing to be unduly worried about.

But she had experienced two traumas in the past few months. She’d been shot during the first one. It had been accidental; she was not the target. She’d merely been in the wrong place at the wrong time. But the bullet had come within a fraction of an inch of ending her life.

She had been close to death the second time too; the time when Sean and that other horrible man had both been killed. She’d been saved only because there was still decency among the players of this awful drama. But though her life had been spared, her soul had not.

Today, despite all her efforts to think of her walk to the bus station as just another Belfast morning, she could not lose the fear. She examined every alley as she came to it, as if hooded gunmen might jump out at any time. She cringed at every unexpected noise. She involuntarily looked over her shoulder. Time heals, she said again to herself. It’d better, because in this way lies madness.

She arrived at work about forty-five minutes later. She pretended not to notice the glance that passed between the two other secretaries she worked with. Oh, they were polite enough. They knew what she had gone through and were not unsympathetic. They had always been her friends. But she could just imagine what they thought of her behavior now, and of what they must be saying between themselves.

It didn’t matter.

She took off her coat and settled into her workstation. Right on top of her in-basket was a letter written by a disgruntled customer. There was a yellow post-it attached. Judith, please answer this, it said in her boss’s handwriting. She scanned through the letter. Judith’s company sold small household appliances through a chain of department stores and through mail order. A woman was complaining about an item she had bought directly from the company. It was not functioning as had been advertised, she said, and she wanted her eight pound fifty back. She went on to pontificate on the quality of goods one bought today and the fact that no one took pride in their own workmanship. As Judith read she felt herself becoming furious. Who the hell cared that the widget she’d bought wasn’t perfect! How would you like watching two men die right in your living room! How would you take trying in vain to scrub the blood stains out of the throw rug! How would you like to have to try to put your life back together after all that! Can you dare compare your little disappointment with what I’ve had to live through? Am living through? Do you think your problems matter? Do you have any idea…

Judith? Her boss’s voice broke through her anger and brought her back to the present. Will you come into my office please?

With an effort she rid herself of the annoyance the letter had caused. She glanced up at him and nodded, lifting herself out of her chair and following him. Once inside his office he motioned for her to close the door and take a seat. After sitting she just stared at him, waiting for him to make the first move. Wondering if she still had a job.

It didn’t matter.

I guess I don’t have to tell you what time it is, he began. After a short pause she shook her head, the motion almost imperceptible. This is the third time since you’ve come back to work, he continued. It has to stop. And that’s not all of it. When you’re here, you’re not really here. That audit of the Lugan store account I asked you to do. Where is it? I gave you a deadline. I needed it done. In the past…

Am I fired?

He looked at her a second before answering. If you were anyone other than you, you would be. But I know you. I know what you are capable of. You’re not getting 80 pence per hour more than the other girls because of your good looks. On bad days you are as good as the others. On good days you do as much work as two. You’re the best I’ve ever hired. A valued asset to this company. I wouldn’t put up with this if that were not true. But there are limits. He paused for a few seconds.

Judith, I know you’ve been through a lot. Believe me, in as much as anyone who wasn’t actually there can, I understand how hard it must have been. But you have got to move on, or eventually you will force me to reconsider your employment here. I certainly don’t want that to…

Do you think I enjoy being this way?

Damn it, Judith! Help me out here, all right? Let’s solve this. I thought at first that getting back to work was exactly what you needed. You know…to keep your mind off what happened. Now I think I was wrong. So here is what I want you to do…just a minute, he held up his hand. She had started to speak. Let me finish. Today is Friday. I want you to go home. Take the weekend and half of next week. Let’s say be at work next Thursday. You don’t have to take vacation time. You’ll be on half pay until you get back. Go see your family. Go out to the country and ride horses. Go see a psychiatrist. I don’t know. Do whatever is best. But come back here ready to work. I need the old Judith back. If things don’t change, you’re going to force my hand.

When he’d finished she just continued to stare. Philosophically she knew he was right. He was being more than fair and in fact doing more than most bosses would. He deserved some gratitude. A promise to make things better perhaps. At least a smile and a thank you. She just couldn’t motivate her face to change expression.

It just…didn’t…matter.

May I leave now? was the best she could do.

He stared back at her for a couple of seconds and then let out a sigh. Yes, I’m done. I’ll see you next week. Call me if you feel you need more time. It’d have to be without pay, but we could maybe let you have next Thursday and Friday too. That would be the absolute limit though.

Good day. She rose.

I hope it works out, Judith.

She walked back to the front of the building, picking up her handbag as she went. Her two co-workers looked up from their work and watched her go. Did he fire you? whispered one of them, half expectantly. She did not bother to answer.

The Irish Liberation Front, or ILF, was one of several organizations that operated in Northern Ireland, using violence to resist English rule. It had split from its more well-known parent, the Irish Republican Army (IRA), some years before. Under the guidance of its gifted leader, Alfred McArdle, it had developed the reputation of being the most professional of all the liberation organizations in Northern Ireland. It was focused; military and police targets only. Its governing philosophy was to avoid civilian casualties whenever possible. Of course all of the other organizations claimed that same thing; at least to the public. The difference was that in the case of the ILF they weren’t just words. It was careful. Their bombs were never set in places where civilians were likely to be. Their targets were always very specific and addressed with surgical focus. They considered themselves to be the best and in as much as it is possible to quantify a terrorist group, they really were.

But nothing was forever. Change was inevitable. The ILF had suffered recent, very traumatic change. McArdle had been identified to the police and although there was not enough evidence to hold him, it had to be assumed that he was under surveillance. It was now immensely difficult for him to contact any of the organization’s members, let alone plan any of its operations. Sean Dunnigan, considered by most within the organization to be their most effective soldier, had been killed. Killed, ironically, just as he was leaving the organization to pursue a new life. Killed right in front of Judith’s eyes, trying to protect her from Kevin MacNeil, another ILF operative.

Kevin had been a sadistic monster, tolerated within the ILF for his exceptional skill with explosives. Had been because he too died in Judith’s flat, killed by yet another member of the group.

Left without its leader and its two most important operatives, the ILF was reduced to virtual impotency. But though they were down, they were not defeated. A meeting had been called tonight to plan for the future. If nothing else a new leader, hopefully only a temporary one, needed to be elected.

There were only five present. The organization was bigger than that, but it was highly compartmentalized; lesser members relegated to specific tasks, never knowing more than was necessary to carry out their functions. This made the system ponderous. Communications, for example, were always difficult since the newer members seldom knew the full names of anyone above them. But it worked. Things got done in spite of the difficulties. More importantly none but the most senior members knew enough to bring down the whole organization if they were ever forced to talk.

James Flynn was forty-nine years old. He had been one of the founders of the ILF along with McArdle and another who had since left. James had served in the organization since its inception. His specialty was intelligence; he was the brains of the outfit. His research was often the reason the group was so effective. He was considered the quiet, restraining voice among the group, always ready to bring the others down to earth when their enthusiasm for a given task exceeded what he considered they could safely accomplish. He had an uncanny knack of foreseeing risk and mapping out the solutions needed to eliminate it. For his conservatism he was known as the old man behind his back. But the truth was that he was usually right.

James was not the leader that McArdle was, but he was the second most senior member. With McArdle incommunicado he was the most logical choice to run the organization; at least until a new leader could be decided upon. James had been the one to call this meeting, first arranging for the use of a safe house, then contacting each of the others personally to schedule a time.

One of the other members was George Sills who ran the ILF’s finances. He was in charge of raising funds from a short list of trusted donors, borrowing from larger resistance groups when necessary, spreading resources into a labyrinth of bank accounts, safety deposit boxes and investments; none so large as to attract attention. And finally, it was his responsibility to tap into those funds when the ILF needed them.

The remaining three, Arthur, Michael, and Patrick, were soldiers. Arthur and Michael were veterans. Patrick was still new. He would not normally have been allowed into this, the most secret and trusted circle of the ILF. But Patrick had been the third man at Judith’s flat. He was the only one who could tell the others exactly what had happened.

Well, gentlemen, let’s get down to business, shall we?

Within Ulster, for every separatist willing to fight there were at least ten who, while unwilling to be direct party to violence, helped the cause in other, supportive ways. The house the group was using was one of about two dozen around Belfast owned by sympathizers. The men avoided using the same place more than once or twice in a row, giving each safe house a long cooling off period in case a nosy neighbor or patrolling policeman ever noticed too many strangers appearing at one time. The system worked well.

You all know the rules. But let’s go over them anyway. There’s beer in the fridge. I left some crackers and dip on the dining room table. You take a beer, you leave a pound note on the counter. You don’t touch anything else in the house, clear? It is well known among those who need places to meet secretly that the quickest way to lose the use of a safe house is to steal or even disturb something of the owner’s possessions. There were indeed rules.

The men nodded or grunted their understanding. The four veterans had been to meetings at safe houses before and were familiar with how things were done. They knew that James was really speaking to Patrick.

If we are interrupted the back door is through that hallway. He indicated the way. I’ve unlatched all the windows too, just in case. Someone remind me to lock them again before we leave. If we need to escape, my car is in the alley behind the house. The key is under the visor. Michael has his car one block to the west. That’s… he waved in the appropriate direction. …that way. Key’s in the same place. Red Toyota, right Michael?" Michael nodded.

If we get trapped, we don’t fight. This isn’t Hollywood. If the police or the army surrounds us, the game’s up. Understood? We can’t fight our way out. No one brought a gun? Again the men nodded.

Good. If the worst happens, we’re gathered here to watch the Glasgow/Dublin game on the television. Michael, turn on the telly, find the right channel and turn the volume down so we can talk. You’ll be in charge of remembering to turn it up again if anyone shows up at the door. If it’s the police they’ll know it’s a sham, of course. But they’ll have no proof. Worst case; a couple of nights in the slammer, a hearing, Sinn Fein’s counselors get us off. We walk. Any questions?

How long do we have?

James nodded. The owner of this house said he’d keep the missus out until nine. That gives us not quite two hours.

The men took seats in the living room on the couch, lounge chair, and a couple of chairs brought in from the dining room. All right, said James. Patrick, you have the floor. What in bloody hell happened?

Patrick looked at each of the other men. Outside he seemed calm. Inside, his gut was tied in a knot. He had no idea how these men were going to take his explanation for killing one of their own. He also knew that the most plausible story was the truth.

It was a couple of weeks ago, he began. Kevin showed up at my flat and told me to get my gun and go with him.

Where was your gun? asked Arthur.

I had it with me at the flat.

Why not at one of the safe houses?

Patrick shrugged. Hadn’t gotten around to it I guess.

Arthur shook his head. That’ll get you in trouble some day. If you are ever suspected and they come with a warrant…

Let’s not get distracted from what we’re here for, said James. Arthur is right, Paddy boy, but let’s not go off in tangents. Back to the story. Why did Kevin want you instead of someone else?

Patrick shook his head. I have no idea. Maybe he just couldn’t find anybody. When I asked where we were going he muttered something about ‘Sean being up to no good’ and said we had to check it out. I remember thinking that was bullshit. I know…I knew Sean. He was about as dependable as they come. He noticed Arthur nodding his head in agreement. In any case, he continued, "we drove Kevin’s van to a residential area on the southeast side. Kevin parked and was giving me some instructions. He gave me a facemask to wear. That was the