Free The Troubles by Unknown Page A

conversation, which seemed to be going nowhere. “But I like him. He’s dead on.”
         The tall, squarely built, teenager turned and glared causing the rest of the group to imitate. “Ya are a bloody eejit, Quinn Taggart.’’ Disgust dripped sardonically from his twisted frown.
         ‘’What! Why would ya say such a thing?’’ Quinn was offended and embarrassed to his core by being called out in such a manner. Weren’t all of his peers as respectful of Bobby as he was? 
         The bevy of boys walked in formation of a troop as they weaved conspicuously onto Brussels Street, the neighboring enemy territory. Pitching rocks at windows and fleeing gleefully when a Protestant was home to respond in frustration.
         “Ya wee lads are dirty blurts. I’ll kick your arse!’’ Debris and rubbish littered the sidewalk, which the boys quickly transformed to footballs for a prolonged, overly competitive game of the nation’s pastime. Quinn, distracted by getting in a corner pass in the midst of the more athletic boys random free kicks, neglected to recall Bobby Sands had relegated him to go to the printing press and distribute his latest work.
         ‘’Be a good lad and bring it to our Republican paper, An Phoblacht,’’ he had directed. “I’m trusting ya because I’ve got to go to me shift. I can’t afford to can out.’’ He had smiled with a bright white grin, instantaneously winning Quinn’ devoted reverence to him. 
         At the immature age of eleven the desire for Quinn to follow his own convictions and do as he was directed, had been obliterated by the intense peer pressure his fellow travel mates bestowed with barbs of insults so cutting they could leave him crying himself to sleep or worse yet with actual beatings which would as well render him to wallow in self pity.
         “C’mere ya maggot!’’ The command was issued this time not by the grandiose chieftain Alroy who had earned the Celtic moniker name for his fire red shock of hair but by his side kick, the aptly named Coilin, which means little chieftain in Celtic.
         Quinn trotted over eager to please. “What is it, Coilin?”
         “See those damn loyalist peelers behind the wall? Fire this.’’ Coilin handed Quinn a heavy red brick and gestured in the general direction behind a tall similarly red-bricked facade. Quinn was too small to preview a glimpse of the British police unit until he crept close enough to the edge and stood his back facing the exposed side. He breathed in the heavy dust that blanketed the terra cotta brickwork and choked on the loose earthy grit, which now covered everything from the buildings to the streets like the dueling army’s arbitrary sediment. 
         He again mobilized his stature to his tallest height and peaked one sharp fatigue green eye through to the other side. As he hesitated in his hands lay the brick gathering weight. Was it his imagination or was the brick heavier than any boulder he had ever carried? His fear was playing tricks because if he didn’t follow his marching order his friends would morph into his tormenters before his very eyes.
          The khaki green uniformed men toting eschewed black berets were there to maintain the peace or so had been unceremoniously decreed. A few months prior following an Orange Order march, acutely violent protests had broken out on Springfield Road with mayhem raging forward for three impossibly long days only to be snuffed out on April 3rd by the British Army. This was Belfast’s first taste of the now dreaded chlorobenzalmalonoitrile gas for exposure to it would immediately cause a burning caustic reaction to its victim’s eyes and mouth. The images of grown men gasping, vomiting and crying tears of agony were now burned onto the minds of all the bystanders and civilians who were unaccustomed to such a level of brutality. Thirty-eight Irish Republican Soldiers had been grotesquely annihilated