Chapter Six
Cormac, Meg, Paul, Ellen and I pile into a Belfast black taxi.
They’re like London black cabs but they run up and down the main roads in West Belfast and you share them with strangers, like little buses.
We fill the back of one, while an older woman fires us a dirty look as she clambers into the front beside the driver.
I’m in a window seat with Ellen beside me and Paul on the other side of her. Meg sits opposite me on a pull-down seat beside Cormac, who is recapping the party.
‘Nah, I swear. Jimmy was so drunk. He definitely got back with Saoirse.’
‘No way!’ says Ellen. ‘I have to text her. Jimmy is such a melt.’
I don’t know what a melt is exactly, but I agree with Ellen. Jimmy is a melt. Good luck, Saoirse, whoever you are.
I gaze out at Belfast City Cemetery as we drive past. Sunlight bounces off the gravestones and I see a cluster of people in black. Meg’s watching too and she runs her hand from her forehead to her chest and grips her acorn necklace. Is she blessing herself?
She catches my eye and shrugs. ‘Force of habit.’
I feel strangely shocked for a moment. Surprised that Meg is religious.
Mum and Dad are what you’d probably call lapsed Catholics.
I don’t know what that makes me. I have no faith or anything and I’ve only been to mass for a few funerals (Granny and Granda McCutcheon) and one wedding (one of Mum’s cousins).
But being religious here is pretty standard.
It’s part of the everyday culture in a way that I’m not used to.
Still, Meg did not seem like the type. Does that make her any less cool, or does it make me incredibly judgemental? Probably the latter.
Meg is wearing a denim jacket with a load of pins on it, including a Progress flag. She catches me staring and cocks her head to the side. ‘What do you want to do today?’
‘No plans. Would be great to get out to see stuff. Apart from last night, I’ve done nothing but pack or travel for the last two weeks.’
And black out.
‘Where should we show him?’ she asks the others.
‘Victoria Square, please,’ says Ellen. ‘I need to get a dress for my sister’s wedding,’ Paul groans and I can feel the jolt as she elbows him. ‘Shut up! And you need to get a shirt for it.’
‘Am I going?’
‘Uh, yes! What’re you talking about? You said you were going. I’ve already told—’
‘Oh my God, chill out! I’m only sleggin.’
Ellen tuts and takes out her phone.
Meg raises her eyebrows at me.
‘OK,’ says Cormac. ‘So, we need to get a top hat for Paul.’ I try not to laugh but Meg lets out a ‘Ha!’ and the tension is broken. ‘What do you want to do first, cuz?’
I yawn. ‘I need caffeine.’
Meg takes us to her favourite spot. Ellen moans about wanting a Starbucks as we crowd into a cafe that might affectionately be described as kitsch, but more likely hasn’t been decorated for thirty years.
The Formica tables are white and red, and there are tears in the padding of some of the seats. It smells of sausage rolls and cake.
‘This place is iconic,’ says Meg. ‘Mum used to bring me here for pavlova and I did most of my GCSE revision at that table. They even get oat milk in just for me. Their favourite vegan customer. Hey, Nuala.’
The woman behind the counter greets Meg with a wary familiarity. I ignore the looks we get from the rest of the customers, who have an average age of ‘in my day’.
We get our order and head out.
Belfast city centre has changed so much, even in the times I’ve visited.
Or maybe I’m reliving the stories Mum and Dad used to tell me.
When they were growing up, the ‘town’, as they called it, was gated.
There used to be police searches to check for bombs and guns before you could get in to go to work or even go shopping.
Even when the barriers all came down, it was still pretty dead at night as people stayed in their own areas.
Mum always says that since the ceasefire it’s become much more touristy.
I recognise the usual big-brand shops, but there are loads of independent places too.
We pass the huge Primark that has been rebuilt following a massive fire that genuinely upset Mum and Dad.
We see bus tours and references to Game of Thrones, which was filmed here and still draws people to visit.
It feels like a normal city. It’s hard to picture the place that my parents describe growing up in.
We go to City Hall and sit for a while on the lawn. There are a group of (mostly) men gathered outside the gates. One stands on a small platform, his words muffled through a tinny megaphone.
‘What are they doing?’ I ask.
Meg tuts. ‘Blaming immigrants for everything.’
‘Racist bastards,’ mutters Paul.
‘Or they could also be discussing the important topic of flags,’ says Cormac.
Everyone laughs at this and I join in without understanding. Flags – Union Jacks and tricolours – are another thing I’ll have to learn the full significance of.
Ellen plays some music on her phone to drown out the crowd and we enjoy the afternoon sun. Other groups of teenagers are sitting around too, and as I sink into the soundscape of Belfast accents I’m again hit with the reminder that I’m not on holiday. I live here now.
‘What A levels are you doing?’ asks Ellen, stroking Paul’s arm.
‘Art, sociology and English lit,’ I say.
Paul rolls on his side to face me. ‘I’m doing English too. We might be in the same class.’
I allow myself a brief daydream of us passing notes while studying tortured love poetry. ‘Cool.’
Cormac groans. ‘I’m so bored of my A levels already. Why won’t my da let me carry on doing drama? It was my best subject.’
‘That’s shitty,’ I say.
He lets out a long sigh. ‘Maybe I can still do it on the sly. Be discovered on the bus.’
‘Do you act on the bus?’ says Ellen.
He stands up and puts one hand on his hip, raising the other high. ‘I’m never off, darling! I’m the Meryl Streep of West Belfast!’
A couple of girls walking past giggle at him and he bows. ‘Thank you, ladies.’ He sits down. ‘You see? Fans everywhere.’
I give him a small clap. ‘Nice work. Sorry you can’t do it for A level.’
He shrugs. ‘I’ll just have to be a tortured artist.’ He lies back.
‘I’m doing art too,’ says Meg, adding green nail varnish to her thumb. ‘What’s your practice?’
This feels like an interview. ‘Well, I used to do photography.’ My stomach is heavy at the thought of my broken camera. ‘But now I sketch mostly. Charcoals. You?’
‘Bit of everything.’ She shakes her nails dry. ‘I need to buy some charcoals today. Wanna come with me?’
I glance at Ellen and Paul’s intertwined hands. ‘Definitely, yeah.’
‘We’ll maybe meet you after,’ Meg says as she stands. ‘Enjoy the shopping, Paul.’
Paul lies back on the grass with a groan and Ellen playfully kicks him.
Cormac grins at me. ‘Have fun, you two.’
We’re walking down what I think is an empty alley when Meg grabs my arm and pulls me towards a dark door.
She pushes it open and a wave of incense pulls us into a low-lit shop.
The walls are lined with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves crammed with books, bottles, jars, tarot cards, candles, stone statues and driftwood figures.
Dried herbs hang at intervals between tinkling wind chimes.
Tables offer trays of stones and crystals, more candles and incense.
‘This is the art shop?’ I ask.
Meg shrugs. ‘I get art stuff here. Hey, Lily.’ Behind the counter, a woman with wavy brown hair and a pierced lip smiles.
‘They love me here as well,’ says Meg. She heads towards a display of crystals and stones and runs her fingers over them. ‘So, you’re into Paul?’
I swallow. ‘What? No.’
She gives me a look. ‘Oh, please. You were like an actual kitten.’
The temperature in the shop is skyrocketing. ‘No. I mean, he’s attractive, obviously. But no.’
Meg sighs. ‘I’m not judging. He’s hot.’
I mumble an agreement.
‘But I can probably introduce you to someone who you could actually go out with, someone single with a penchant for men, for example.’
This is mortifying. ‘That’s OK. I’m not really looking. Things with Ben are still… So I’m not looking… You know?’
‘Sure. Well, if you change your mind.’
We move to a bookshelf and she picks up some charcoal from an earthenware pot. ‘You working on anything at the moment?’
I hate questions like this. ‘Not really. My head’s not been in it. I’ve kind of got out of photography. Reminds me of my dad.’
‘That’s fair. We could work on something together, if you like?’
I play with the collar of my T-shirt. ‘Maybe. My stuff’s all in storage.’
Meg turns. ‘I’m being too direct, aren’t I?’
I smile and shake my head. ‘No, no. It’s fine.’
She sighs dramatically and walks to the back of the shop. ‘You’re too nice, Michael Kenny. I can be incredibly direct, to the point of belligerent. It’s OK to call me out on it. I have the skin of a rhino.’
The woman at the till is pretending not to listen.
‘OK, OK. You were a bit direct.’
She raises an eyebrow. ‘Go on.’
‘Very direct.’
‘Better.’
‘You were verging on belligerent.’
She laughs. ‘Excellent progress. And here…’ She picks up a notebook. It’s dark green with a leaf embossed on the cover. ‘An apology gift from me.’
‘Oh, I couldn’t. I…’
‘Michael.’
I smile. ‘Thank you.’
She links arms with me and we walk to the till.
As we head back into the alley, the question that’s been playing on my mind all afternoon bubbles to the surface. ‘If I can be direct for a moment?’
She nods. ‘Hit me.’
‘Why are you being so nice to me?’
She stops and looks at me. ‘Honestly? I kind of feel like we’re meant to be friends. I was talking to Cormac about your dad, and then when he talked about you I had this weird feeling like we were supposed to meet. Does that make sense?’
I flush. ‘Kinda. I mean, I’m really comfortable with you, when I’m usually quite awkward with people.’
‘Fuck off! Really?’
I snort. ‘Shocker, I know. But, like, I feel really at ease with you. It’s weird, but yeah, I feel like we’re meant to be friends too.’
She grins. ‘An unholy union then.’
‘Definitely.’ A long bus snakes past as we turn back onto the busy shopping street. ‘So, are you working on anything at the minute?’ I ask.
‘A flower mural at a care home.’
I blink. ‘What?’
‘My nan’s been there for a year now. She was an artist and loved nature. She got me into art and used to paint up until…’ She swallows. ‘Up until she couldn’t any more. Dementia’s a bitch. Anyway, the place is super drab and I asked if I could brighten it up.’
My chest flutters. ‘That’s…that’s really beautiful.’
The slightest hint of colour gathers on her cheeks. ‘Yeah, well, I’m a very nice and talented person, Michael.’
‘Oh, no doubt.’
I squint as I notice a flash of sunlight on the street along from the one we’re on.
‘Wow, what’s that?’
‘What?’
‘That light.’
‘What light?’
I point at the shard of light jutting into the sky. ‘Are you serious? Look.’
Meg raises an eyebrow. ‘I have no idea what you’re talking about.’
I laugh and point again. ‘There’s literally a ray of light as wide as…a block of flats shooting into the sky.’
Meg frowns. ‘Are you OK? There’s honestly nothing there.’
These lights. I’ve seen them before…
‘Come on!’ I run to the end of the street, dodging round shoppers and a man on a mobility scooter. ‘Sorry, excuse me!’
‘Michael!’ Meg sprints after me. ‘Wait.’
I turn the corner and across the road up ahead I see a tall building bathed in light. There’s a forecourt in front of it. Brass words above the door and on the facade bear the name ‘Europa’. The windows are twinkling and smoke rises in the air.
I stop. ‘What’s that?’
Meg pulls up beside me, out of breath. ‘Um, OK. So, it’s a thing called a hotel. People rent rooms in exchange for money. Have you—’
‘The smoke! Come on.’
My head throbs as I set off again. As I get closer, I can see the windows flickering between reflected light and darkness.
‘Michael, stop.’
I’m directly opposite now, but the road is too busy to cross. I see the windows aren’t flickering with light. They’re destroyed or left with jagged shards like broken teeth. The panes are warped and twisted, and the forecourt is scattered with broken glass.
I take a step forward as the entire front of the hotel changes. The cream exterior is replaced with grey concrete, its brutalist design coated with soot. The revolving door vanishes, a gaping hole in its place.
My legs are weak and my breath comes out in panicked puffs. The smell of smoke and twisted iron fills my lungs.
‘Oh God. Oh no!’
Meg is beside me. ‘Michael, what’s wrong.’
I point a shaky finger. ‘The hotel.’
She looks at it then back at me, eyes wide. ‘What? What can you see?’
There are soldiers stepping over the glass, signalling to people to stay back. Some stare in horror, but others are just strolling along the streets taking no notice. What’s wrong with them? Are they so used to violence here that they just ignore it?
‘It’s been bombed.’ My voice is unsteady and a cold sweat chills my neck. ‘We have to do something.’
Meg steps in front of me. ‘Look at me, Michael.’ She places her hand on my shoulder. ‘There’s nothing there. Everything is OK. I’m going to call Cormac, all right?’
I shake her off. ‘What are you talking about. Look!’
One of the soldiers is leaning on a yellow car. It’s old, retro. So is the one beside it, a pale blue Beetle.
What am I seeing?
Meg has taken her phone out.
The light is dying away now. I can see the glass in the hotel windows starting to reappear, while the cars are fading.
Take a photo.
I fumble with my phone and snap.