Irish Lady Read Free

British.
    They were dead now, her father, her mother, her brothers, all victims of plastic bullets, those six-inch-long, three-inch-wide missiles condemned by Parliament and the Human Rights Commission for use in the London riots but accepted as commonplace against the Irish Catholic population of Ulster. Lance Cavendish, liberal reporter for the London Times , reported that the lethal missiles were projected with deadly force from the guns of Ulster’s finest, the Royal Constabulary, the same pro-union force who shot men in the backs if they crossed into the Shankill at night and who bashed the heads of children carrying rosary beads in the Falls.
    They had died, all together on one shattering night, and Annie had taken her in. Gentle, warmhearted Annie, her godmother, the mother of her heart, the woman in whose ample lap she had rocked, at whose table she had worked on her lessons, drunk her tea, consumed a thousand salty, grease-soaked fries, the table where slowly, painfully, over years of unconditional love, the empty hole in her heart had filled and she had smiled and teased and laughed and loved as if the ugly, hate-filled, rampaging crowd had never broken through the Cupar Street barrier and destroyed everything and everyone that was hers.
    She had nearly come to terms with the random ugliness of her past when Michael, Annie’s son and the light of Meghann’s life, didn’t come home for three days. And when finally he did, he came with four broad-shouldered, tight-jawed young men dressed in black ski jackets, with telltale bulges in the hip pockets of their denim trousers.
    When nineteen-year-old Michael Devlin joined the IRA, Meghann made her decision to leave Belfast. Blessed with a sharp intelligence, she knew, even at fifteen, that there was no future for a Catholic in the Six Counties. Even the name of her school, St. Mary’s Hall, condemned her. She resolved to go on to university, first to Queen’s and then to England, where no one cared whether one was Catholic or Protestant.
    Applying herself, Meghann earned a full scholarship to the Catholic preparatory school and from there, another to Queen’s University in Belfast. Her American brother-in-law had provided the supplement that financed her living expenses at Oxford. After Queen’s there had been little communication with the Devlins, and after Meghann’s marriage, by tacit agreement, the two women lost touch. Not once, during all the years she had lived in Annie’s house, had the older woman reminded Meghann of her obligation. Now, it appeared that she was calling in the debt.
    Because it was Annie who said, “Please come,” she did not hesitate. No matter what had occurred between Michael and Meghann in those long-ago days in the Falls, no matter that she would pull out her pepper spray and run to the other side of the street if he came her way, no matter that the words terrorist and murderer were badges he proudly wore in the name of a united Ireland, no matter that his words were deleted on national television and that he had spent nearly half his life in jail as a political prisoner, she would come. The idea of living in a world of which Michael was no longer a part brought the swift, driving pain of a loss she could no more dwell on than she could come to terms with.
    Two hours later, after personally making all the necessary arrangements, Meghann packed her last pair of socks and zipped up her suitcase. She would take a taxi to Heathrow, fly into Shannon, rent a car under her married name and drive to Belfast, where she would meet with Annie and find out the details of her puzzling summons. Even if she was discovered by British authorities, it wouldn’t be difficult to enter the city as Lady Sutton.
    Lodging was another matter. Her first inclination had been to stay in the inexpensive Ash-Rowan Town House on Lisburn Road near the university. Upon closer reflection, she decided against it, choosing