Epilogue: SeisiunTwo days later, an unusually bright fall afternoon found Pete Thornton and Kathleen Walsh walking companionably along the embankment in Ormeau Park overlooking the River Lagan. The air was chilly but the sunlight felt warm, and Belfast seemed mesmerised into tranquility by the sunlight gleaming off the water.
“Would you look at her now?” Kathleen waved a desultory hand, and Pete wondered if she meant the river, the city, or the land itself. “Smiling so sweetly as if she hadn’t a care in the world or any notion of conflict. And underneath, she’ll be nursing her grievances and brooding on her next move.”
Pete squinted into the sharply angled sunlight. “Any idea what the next move will be?”
“Maggie Thatcher’s hutch of pet rabbits will begin debating the Anglo-Irish Agreement tomorrow in the House of Commons.” Kathleen sighed. “And this, too shall pass . . . probably by an overwhelming majority, who will then fail to carry out any effective steps towards actual peace. Another critical Irish decision taken in London. Another historical footnote . . . without you and MacGyver, the footnote would have been another list of casualties.”
Pete nodded. “That’s the nature of the business. When we do our work right, nobody knows we’ve done anything at all.”
“It’s a daft enough job, this business of staying
out of the history books.” Kathleen began to recite in a broad parody of a BBC announcer; the mimicked British accent sounding strange in Pete’s ears. “‘25 November 1985. On this day in Belfast, no-one was murdered. No-one was gunned down in the street in front of their children, disappeared to be found lying dead in an empty lot, or shot by the police under questionable circumstances. No hunger strikers died in prison. The army found no caches of illegal weapons. No bombs were detonated against any civilian, governmental or military targets.’” She sighed again and dug her hands into her pockets. “No birds were flying on the sea . . . there were no birds to fly.” Her voice returned to its usual tone and accent. “Mind you, that was the afternoon news bulletin. It’s early yet.”
Pete retrieved her hand from its pocket and clasped it warmly. “A slow news day, we’d call it – the kind of day when the papers start reporting any kind of nutty nonsense just to fill their pages.”
“Let me guess – ‘Elvis found drinking in Falls Road pub, admits to Provo sympathies’. Or even more unlikely: ‘Demented Yankee tourist battles IRA snipers with pennywhistles’.”
“Yeah, something like that.” Pete tucked her hand under his arm and they began to stroll again. “Can you hope for more dull days like this one?”
“We have to live in that hope, or go mad.” Kathleen scuffed her feet through the fallen leaves. “How is Mac doing now? They said he was a perfect mule about not staying in hospital.”
Pete laughed ruefully. “I could have told them he’s like that. Don’t worry; he wasn’t badly hurt, and he’s young. He bounces back fast. I remember when I used to do that myself . . . it doesn’t seem so long ago.”
“And were
you a perfect mule yourself?”
“Whaddya mean, ‘were’?”
Kathleen laughed and squeezed his hand.
“How about Máire?” Pete asked. “I saw you have her under round-the-clock guard. She can’t be happy about that.”
Kathleen gave an exasperated sigh. “Why must all our thoroughbreds be mules underneath? She’s livid. But her cover’s blown wide open. Once she’s testified, she’s on the next plane out of here, if I have to knock her out and strap her down.”
“More of your best talent shipped overseas.”
Kathleen shrugged in resignation. “Word is that Padraig’s book is taking off in the States. She’s going to be doing a lecture tour . . . Peter, they may still go after her even that far away . . . ”
“I’ll have a talk with some contacts of mine,” Pete said quietly.
Kathleen gave him an unhappy look. “I’ve already made some inquiries myself – your government can’t be bothered to help. Not without something more solid to go on.”
Pete smiled reassuringly. “These are private contacts I have with a civilian group – I think I can interest them in the project, even if it’s only as a favour to me. I’m confident we can make certain her security is up to scratch.”
Kathleen frowned. “And what kind of price will they put on that kind of favour?”
“Well, they’re trying to hire me away from my current bosses, so they’ve got a pretty strong motivation to make me happy.”
“Are the headhunters after you then?” Pete’s only reply was a noncommittal shrug. “Will they succeed?”
“I don’t know. I’m still thinking about it.”
They had reached the point where Ormeau Bridge crossed the Lagan. Pete wondered what point along the bridge’s span marked the invisible boundary between the Protestant enclave behind them and the Catholic neighbourhood across the river. People had died disputing this border, but all he saw was a bridge across an urban river, tranquil under a slanting autumn sun.
Kathleen stopped before they had gone halfway across, and stood looking downstream, back towards the heart of the city. “So where’s MacGyver passing his time today?”
“Would you believe he’s down at Conway’s pub again?” Pete shook his head. “I never thought I’d see
him hanging out at a bar. I thought he was just going to say his good-byes, but he said there was a session this afternoon. He didn’t say what kind of session.”
Kathleen laughed. “Not ‘session’,
seisiun – they’ll be making music. Caper Conway would rather play fiddle than argue politics, and that’s saying something. He’s that mad for it. Your MacGyver’s made quite an impression on him.”
“The funny thing is,” Pete mused, “I didn’t even know Mac played guitar. I’ve known him for over five years, and he’s never mentioned it.”
“Did you not? ‘Tis a good day when you learn something new about an old friend. But that’s Ireland for you – if you’ve any music in you at all, it’ll find roots here and grow. Even Liam Doherty was a musician once.”
“
Liam? That thug?”
“Oh, yes, Peter. He played the uilleann pipes – wrestled the octopus, they call it. But he was interned in 1971. They broke both his hands and he never played again.”
“Didn’t he get any medical attention?”
Kathleen gave him a searching look with eyes that were dark with the bitter dregs of history. “This was
internment, Peter. No warrants, no charges, and no end to the foul tricks men will play when there’s no check to them . . . Liam was a doctor. They were keeping him from treating his fellow internees.”
Pete grimaced, recalling some unpalatable episodes in Vietnam. “Was he a terrorist before he was interned?”
“Who can say? He certainly was when they released him.” Kathleen sighed. “Another ball’s-up by the Crown I’m now serving. For over 400 years they’ve been calling it the ‘Irish question’, and they’ve a rare talent for getting the answer wrong.”
“Why did you join the military, Kathleen?” Pete asked softly.
“I thought I could make a difference.” She leaned over the bridge rails and gazed downstream towards the sea. “And I can. But not here . . . today’s your last day in Belfast, isn’t it?”
“Yeah.” Pete looked out over the water. “I can’t say I’ll miss the place . . . and I don’t think the DXS will be sending me back here any time soon; if I know our Director, there’s a mountain of work piling up on my desk in LA, waiting for me to get back.”
“Doesn’t matter. You won’t be finding me here if you do come back.”
“Kathleen.” Pete caught both her hands in his and turned her to face him, a broad smile spreading over his face. “You’re kicking over the traces at last?”
She met his smile with one of her own. “One hint from me and my old CO in Geneva renewed his pleas for me to return. I’ve already put in for the transfer. Can I hope to be seeing you there one day?”
“Count on it.” Pete squeezed her hands. “You know, I’m way overdue for some leave. And the DXS must have a few loose ends in Switzerland that need to be checked.” Pete narrowed his eyes at a sudden thought. “What about Grant? You’re not taking him with you, are you? Or will he transfer back to England?”
“Neither.” A quite different smile sidled slowly across Kathleen’s face. “I’m going to write my successor just the right kind of glowing recommendation as to guarantee that he’ll be stuck here until . . . let’s say, until lasting peace is achieved.”
“Or until Hell freezes over?”
“Hard enough for elephants to go figure skating.”
They turned their backs on the far side of the river and walked back to the Ormeau side. Kathleen was humming abstractedly under her breath.
“You haven’t been back to the Falls since that first visit, have you, Peter? We should go have a listen at Conway’s; they’ll be at it for hours if I know Brian Conway. Oh, let’s go – the craic will be grand.”
Pete looked at her sharply. “You know, I keep hearing that word and I still don’t even know what it means. I’m pretty sure you’re not talking about a drug, though.”
“What? Oh – you mean ‘
crack’? But that’s not the same thing at all!”
“If
you say so. The words sound exactly alike to me.”
“It’s just as addictive,” Kathleen laughed. “It’s, well, you know – when you’re having a good time with your friends – talking, laughing, passing the time . . . drinking, maybe making music . . . you’d think there wasn’t much of that around here, wouldn’t you? I guess we hold it so dear that we have to have a special word for it.”
They could hear the music while they were still half a block away from Conway’s pub: the fresh breeze carried the wild strains of battling fiddles towards them, a fast and furious melody tearing along with flute and whistle and other instruments in hot pursuit, and a rattling syncopated drum rhythm hurrying the sound along to an even more frantic pace. The music abruptly grew louder as the door of the pub was flung open and a slim blonde girl of perhaps eighteen staggered out, pale and panting, and nearly collided with Pete and Kathleen. She started when she saw them.
“What about ye, then? You’ll surely be Mac’s friend Pete? Ye’d best be after rescuing him from that maniac Conway – not but what they’re all after wantin’ a piece of him!”
Alarmed, Pete pushed past the girl and dived inside, cursing the bright day and the sense of complacency that had persuaded him to come out without a gun. The pub was dim after the sunlight outside, and his eyes were slow to adjust; but at last he could make out the rough circle of musicians gathered at one end of the room.
MacGyver was perched on a tall stool near the centre, dark eyes sparkling with excitement and delight, sweat dripping down his face as his fingers scrambled over the strings of the guitar he was playing. From the whoops and catcalls, Pete gathered that the rapid tempo was putting him on his mettle.
He recognised some of the other musicians: Brian Conway and Séan O’Boyle were the dueling fiddle players at the heart of the group, alternately circling each other and breaking off to lean over Mac as if challenging him to keep up. Noreen Gallagher was standing behind Mac in the circle, playing a bodhran – Pete recalled that her own drum had been one of the casualties of the battle and guessed that she, too, must be using a borrowed instrument. The burly man beside her was Kevin O’Hare, back from the Armagh border, playing a borrowed concertina.
Matt Gallagher was off to one side grappling with a complicated set of pipes, and from the family resemblance Pete realised that the blonde girl who’d met them outside must be another of Noreen’s younger siblings. Matt saw Kathleen as she came up beside Pete and he flushed scarlet, losing his place in the tune and earning a round of cheerful abuse.
Máire Ui Súilleabháin and her plainclothes bodyguard were by the bar, doing their best to clap along in time in spite of being nearly overcome with laughter. Máire spotted Pete and Kathleen and waved them over.
“‘Twon’t be long now – Caper Conway’s idea of a nice finale is to play everything over again three times as fast as before. They’ll have to take a break then or they’ll f---in’ collapse.” She gestured at MacGyver. “Your man’s not doin’ too badly, for all it’s a borrowed guitar.”
The set spun itself into a giddy finish and the music ended in a frenetic spill of notes and more whoops; Kevin O’Hare cuffed Mac on the shoulder and Conway clapped him on the back before turning to scold Matt into further embarrassment.
MacGyver was gasping so hard from exertion and laughter that he could hardly speak. “Pete, you gotta save me from these maniacs. They all know all the same songs and they keep changing time signatures on me. They’re brutal.”
From her vantage point behind him, Noreen cuffed him with the bodhran. “And why are ye asking
him to help, darlin’? ‘Tis the local forces you’re after needing. Would a distraction help?” She turned towards Conway and called out, “Caper, give us a f---in’ break, by Christ! We’re all perishin’. It’s past time you were servin’ us a round!”
Mac set the guitar aside carefully as Noreen turned back. “Ah, ye’re unarmed now!” She playfully batted at him again with the drum, and he put up a hand to fend her off.
“Hey, be careful with that. You can do some real damage with those things, trust me.”
“Trust you? I’m f---ed if I know why we’re trustin’ you in the same room with any musical instruments at all!” Noreen ostentatiously set the bodhran down well out of Mac’s reach, and with a flourish formally presented him with the double-ended stick she used as a beater. “Here, darlin’ – ye’d better keep hold of this just in case the UVF mount an attack. If I don’t help Caper with the drinks he might pull some daft stunt like givin’ you something stronger than water.” She kissed Mac enthusiastically and hurried off.
MacGyver and Pete exchanged a long look; the words
don’t ask and
don’t worry, I won’t hung in the air between them. They found seats in a quieter area some distance away from where the musicians clustered by the bar. A nod from Kathleen had sent the bodyguard off to wait near the door while she and Máire found another corner for conversation.
Mac twirled the beater idly in his fingers. “Pete, you still on good terms with Rachel in accounting?”
“Are you kidding? Ever since you fixed up that electric wheelchair for her son, she thinks you walk on water. You could cannibalise the Concorde and she’d find a way to handle it. How come?”
“Well, you know those ‘unofficial bonuses’ you’ve been setting up after some of my missions?” Mac drummed the beater against his left palm. “I’m gonna have some, well, unusual items on my expense sheet.”
Pete grinned. “Rachel’s put herself firmly in charge of all the expense account requests for our department . . . especially the ‘unusual’ ones. I think she likes the challenge. What’s up?”
“The flute player offered to rearrange my features if I didn’t make good on the damage to the instruments.”
Pete studied the flute player, a thin blonde man half a head shorter than Mac who was sitting near the bar, showing Matt a fingering technique. “He doesn’t look so tough.”
“He’s a bare-knuckles boxing champion.”
“How much can a few whistles and things cost?”
“Pete, have you ever priced accordions? You’d think they’d pay you to take the things off their hands, but nooo. I’m lucky it turned out to be Kevin O’Hare’s concertina I carved up – at least he owed me one already.”
Noreen had returned, carrying a glass in each hand, in time to hear Mac’s last comment. She laughed as she handed Pete a Guinness.
“No fear – in a week’s time he’ll be tellin’ folks how MacGyver rescued Máire Ui Súilleabháin from her IRA kidnappers by makin’ a bomb out of his own concertina and a bottle of potcheen.” Mac winced, and Noreen kissed him again and handed him a glass of something that looked suspiciously like ginger ale. “Don’t be too long, darlin’. Give Caper Conway twenty minutes and he’ll have written a new tune entirely, and then we’ll all have to learn it or he’ll give us no peace at all.”
“Yeah? Then at least we’d all be learning something new instead of me always trying to catch up.” MacGyver set down the beater and flexed his right hand, stretching the fingers.
Both men watched her hurry back to the group of musicians, exchanging rude comments punctuated by untrammeled laughter.
“‘No peace at all’,” Pete murmured. “She can say something like that and she doesn’t even hear what she’s saying. How do they do it?” He shook his head and turned back to MacGyver. “So the DXS will need to finance a shopping trip to a music store. I figure the budget can handle that. Anything else?”
“Yeah. Noreen’s got a sister who’s finishing up a medical internship in the US. They haven’t seen each other in years – Noreen’s never been to the States at all.”
“I think I see where you’re going with this,” Pete said with a smile. He mimed flipping open a pad and making a checklist. “So, one round-trip plane ticket for Ms. Gallagher, and make sure there aren’t any hitches with her visa. I don’t suppose you’ll be taking any vacation time while she’s on this visit? You’ve earned it.”
Mac glanced away, and Pete thought he could see a flush on the younger man’s neck. “Well, yeah . . . I told Noreen that while she was stateside, I’d take her camping and show her what real mountains look like.”
Pete pantomimed finishing his checklist with a flourish. “Consider it done.”
“Okay. Great.” Mac looked over to where the musicians were beginning to pick up their instruments again. “I have to get the motorbike back to Shannon before I fly out. See you in LA?”
“Not right away,” Pete replied a shade too casually. “I’m spending a few days in Geneva first.”
Mac looked at him and frowned with concern. “I hadn’t heard there was anything brewing there.”
“Oh, no, no, nothing’s fallen apart – it isn’t on business. I’m just taking a few days’ leave myself while I’m in Europe.” Pete knew he was talking too quickly. “I thought I’d get in some hiking.”
MacGyver looked him in the eye with a knowing grin. “Pete . . . you hate hiking.”
Pete shrugged, hoping he wasn’t blushing in turn, and changed the subject hurriedly. “Aren’t you going to ask for anything for yourself?”
Mac thoughtfully studied his left hand. In a short session of hard playing, the guitar strings had already left deep dents in the fingertips, shadowed dark grey from rubbing against the metal wires. The fingers would be sore tomorrow – they were sore now. It would take a lot more playing before the callouses thickened up again, the fingers loosened fully and the thumb muscles hardened. Meanwhile, his hands tingled and throbbed, and he thought there was a blister starting to form on his right thumb. It felt great.
“Yeah,” he said. “Soon’s I get home again, I’m buying myself a new set of guitar strings.”
“What have I now?” said the fine old woman.
“What have I now?” this proud old woman did say –
“I have four green fields;
One of them’s in bondage,
In strangers’ hands who tried to take it from me –
But my sons have sons, as brave as were their fathers;
My fourth green field
Will bloom once again,” said she.an deireadh (The End)----------------------------------------------------------Author’s afterword:The story is set in November 1985, a decade before the beginnings of the economic renaissance of the ‘Celtic Tiger’. In the MacGyver timeline, it takes place in the first season, not long before
Deathlock (which aired 1/22/86).
This story is a work of fiction; the only historical figure in this story is Margaret Thatcher. The Anglo-Irish Agreement of 1985 (not to be confused with the Good Friday Agreement of 1998) is an historical fact, as is the mass protest against it held at Belfast City Hall on 23 November 1985, including the complete absence of any deaths ascribed to the Troubles on that day or for five days afterwards.
Musical credits: “The Black and Tan” aka “Come Out You Black and Tans” was written by Dominic Behan.
“Four Green Fields” was written in 1967 by Tommy Makem.
The rhyme from which the title was taken is much older than either song. I first learned it in 1981, from the same musician who taught me most of my repertoire of radical Irish songs (including “The Black and Tan”). He liked to start his sets with the rhyme, and boasted that he would pay the funeral expenses of anyone who would attempt to recite it at any pub in certain Belfast neighbourhoods.
Some of the words and expressions used in the story are as follows:
Glipe – idiot. Also eejit.
Supergrass – from ‘grass’, British slang for an informer. In the 1980s, the British forces in Belfast made extensive use of IRA informers, some planted, others recruited, known as ‘supergrasses’. Many of the hundreds of convictions thus obtained were subsequently overturned, but the use of supergrasses raised the level of omnipresent paranoia even higher than it already was.
Black and Tans – originally the name for a branch of the Royal Irish Constabulary active in the 1920s; it has much the same connotations that ‘Gestapo’ does for the Jews. Irish-Americans later started using the name for a drink of half-and-half Guinness and lager, an example of the remarkable Irish capacity for extremely black humour.
The Falls – the Falls Road neighbourhood, still a hard-core Catholic enclave.
Shankill Road – a hard-core Protestant enclave adjacent to the Falls Road area.
Belfast’s “Peace Walls” or “Peace Lines” – are real, and still exist; in fact, there are more of them now than there were in 1985, and Belfast is more rigidly segregated today than it was twenty years ago.
Craic – a good time spent with friends. Often involves music, alcohol, or both. Pronounced ‘crack’.
Culchie – derogatory term: country bumpkin, rube, hick.
Looter – a punch in the face.
Faffin’ about – screwing around, wasting time.
Taig and Prod, or Proddy – the equivalent of ‘nigger’ for Catholic and Protestant respectively, although ‘Taig’ is said to carry a heavier weight of abnegating hatred.
What about ye? – basically means “Hi, how are you?”
Potcheen – home-made liquor, spelled poitín in Gaelic.
UVF – the Ulster Volunteer Force, a Protestant paramilitary organisation.
Long Kesh – the principal site of internment of suspected IRA associates and later, of imprisonment for paramilitary convicts. Renamed the Maze Prison in 1976. It was the site of the ‘blanket protests’, the ‘dirty protest’ and the hunger strikes of the 70s and 80s.
Provos – another name for the Provisional IRA. For a detailed explanation of the history of the IRA, the Provisional IRA, Sinn Féin, Provisional Sinn Féin, Republican Sinn Féin, etc., see the bibliography below, but don’t blame me if your head explodes.
. . . And if you want a simple explanation . . . dream on.
Feckin’ – a mild version of The Other Word.
The Other Word – really is used as freely as represented, if not more so. I toned it down. Really.
For anyone interested in learning more about the Troubles, I’ve listed some of my source materials below. However, along with the books I particularly recommend the following songs:
“The House of Orange” by Stan Rogers, on the album
From Fresh Waters.
“The Town I Loved So Well” by Phil Coulter (numerous recordings).
“Children Born of Hate” (traditional, numerous recordings).
And, of course, “Four Green Fields” by Tommy Makem: I especially recommend the version on
The Makem and Clancy Collection. Another fine rendition, sung by Paul Harrington, can be found on the DVD of the dance show
Celtic Tiger.
Selected Bibliography:Making Sense of the Troubles: The Story of the Conflict in Northern Ireland – David McKittrick (an exceptional book, although I found the title somewhat ironic).
Northern Ireland: A Chronology of the Troubles – Paul Bew & Gordon Gillespie.
Lost Lives: The Stories of the Men, Women and Children who Died as a Result of the Northern Ireland Troubles – David McKittrick, Seamus Kelters, Brian Feeney, Chris Thornton, David McVea.
Falls Road Memories – Gerry Adams.
Resurrection Man,
Blue Tango and
The Last of Deeds – Eoin MacNamee.
I also highly recommend Edward Rutherfurd’s “Dublin Saga”,
The Princes of Ireland and
The Rebels of Ireland (although the first half of
Princes should be skipped by anyone interested in actual history). He ends his story half a century before the beginning of the Troubles, but the books are a good way to get a sense of the long and bitter background of the conflict, as well as being just plain good storytelling.
Web-based resources:Wikipedia has numerous articles, which have been chewed over enough by both sides to be a reasonable source of factual information, although inevitably dry.
A terrific article on the Ulster dialect of English (badly formatted, but wonderful reading)
Growing Up on Shankill RoadPhoto essay of the West Belfast “peace line"
Well done from start to finish. You set the bar and now we will be expecting more. Can't wait to read your next one. 
