Chapter Twelve
‘Sounds like a banshee to me,’ says Meg.
I check to make sure nobody on the bus is listening. ‘What?’
‘In your dream, the screaming woman. It’s obviously a banshee. And in the photo too.’
She looks at me as though this is a straightforward statement and I’m the weird one for questioning it.
‘You’re saying my dad has a photo of a banshee?’
‘A woman surrounded by death, screaming? That’s a banshee, Michael.’
I shudder. I had a sleepless night the first time Nanny Bet told me stories about the wailing spirit you hear when a family member is going to die. ‘I don’t really want to think about it being a banshee.’
‘Well, I’m not sure what else it can be.’
Meg takes out her phone and starts googling banshees. We scroll through photos of make-up tutorials and illustrations of large-breasted women with big eyelashes, combing their hair beneath a full moon. She stops at a sketch of a woman in a long dark dress, her head thrown back and her mouth open.
‘Familiar?’
‘Well, yes, but I think we have to consider the possibility of it being something less…terrifying.’
She opens the website and starts reading.
I think back to my dream. Her pale skin, the darkness of her mouth.
‘What about the girl outside Cormac’s?’ I ask, eager to change the subject.
Meg sets down her phone. ‘Yeah, that’s strange. You didn’t recognise her?’
‘No, but it looked like she was from the seventies, so I guess it could be anyone.’ I chew my lip. ‘Could we ask around? Find out if any houses on the street were raided by the army?’
‘Right, sure.’ Meg creases with laughter. My face burns and she stops. ‘Wait… Oh shit, you’re serious?’
I pull at my T-shirt collar. ‘Yeah, why?’
‘Well, there would’ve been lots of houses raided during the Troubles.’
‘Why?’
She checks to see no one is listening and whispers. ‘Looking for the IRA.’
I flinch at the words. ‘So, my grandparents’ neighbours were in the…
’ I can’t say it. Any talk of the IRA, the Irish Republican Army – freedom fighters to some and terrorists in the eyes of the British government – was totally off limits in my house.
I’d learned what I could from the internet and references in a few TV programmes set here, but Mum and Dad both said they’d moved to London to get away from all that.
It feels like a bad word and I can’t quite believe Meg is talking about it.
She frowns. ‘Well, yeah. I mean they could’ve been. Lots of people were. But also, the army raided Catholic houses back then if they had the faintest suspicion someone might’ve been involved. Like, that was kind of the point of internment, you know?’
‘What’s internment?’
‘Are you serious?’ Meg’s eyes widen. ‘Wow. OK, so you really don’t know a lot about this place, do you?
Internment allowed people to be imprisoned without trial if it was even suspected they were in the IRA.
So, yeah, lots of houses were raided and so many people were arrested.
It was a completely oppressive regime established by the British government.
’ She shakes her head. ‘How do you know not know this?’
The heat spreads to my cheeks. ‘Sorry. I didn’t grow up here. Do you know much about British political history?’
She tuts. ‘Um, yeah, because this –’ she gestures to a mural of the hunger strikers outside the window – ‘is British history.’
‘I—’
‘What?’
‘Doesn’t matter.’
I cross my arms and Meg stares out of the window.
How dare she! It’s not my fault I don’t know any of this.
I grew up in a different country and we weren’t taught about Northern Ireland.
How am I meant to know something if nobody told me?
I think of Uncle Tommy’s patronising ‘mee-haul’ and him impersonating my accent, and suddenly I have a deep and painful longing for home. For London.
Oh great, now I’m going to cry.
Hot, angry little tears are gathering like a spiky army in the corners of my eyes. I clench my teeth and stare out the window to stall them. I contemplate getting off the bus, but I don’t know where I am.
Because I’m not from here.
Because I don’t belong here.
Because—
‘Sorry,’ says Meg.
Don’t cry.
‘I shouldn’t have had a go at you. I can get a bit worked up about history.’
I nod. ‘I get it. I should know more.’
‘Well, yeah. I mean, not just you. Everyone should know their history. Even if they weren’t born here.’
‘I was actually.’
‘Huh?’
My shoulders drop. ‘I was born here.’
‘I thought your parents moved away years ago.’
‘They did, but they were visiting when Mum was, like, seven months pregnant and she went into labour early.’
‘No way!’
‘Yeah, it was really scary apparently. She was in town buying some Irish linen for my nursery.’
‘Cute.’
‘Yes, adorable. Anyway, she was walking down an empty street and had this sort of dizzy spell and her waters broke. She passed out and someone found her and called an ambulance. I was born, like, three hours later. The doctors said we both could’ve died.’
Meg’s mouth is hanging open. ‘No way! That’s an incredible origin story for a dark and twisted superhero. Born dramatically, then whisked away to a strange new land. Raised without knowledge of who he truly is. Then boom, the great return. I’m calling Marvel.’
I laugh. ‘Sorry I got a bit defensive. I do want to know more about here.’
‘I’m sorry too,’ she says. ‘It’s not your fault nobody told you this stuff. I mean, it’s a bit weird that your parents didn’t.’
My ears burn. ‘Well…’
‘I’m sure they had their reasons. They grew up before the ceasefire. Lots of people moved away. Everyone their age is, like, deeply traumatised, and thanks to intergenerational trauma we are too. But hey, it’s why we’re so funny. So, you know, every cloud.’
I laugh. ‘Not a bad payoff to be fair.’
She pats my hand. ‘You can ask me anything about this place and I promise I won’t embarrass you again.’
I ask Meg about the hunger strikers in the mural and she tells me everything as we crawl through the morning traffic.
They died in 1981, around the time my parents were born.
I think of the world they were born into that they never talked about.
What did they see? They never bad-mouthed Belfast exactly, but they insisted it wasn’t for them.
Especially Dad. He was always so tense on visits home.
Desperate to get back to London and would never say why. I see it now.
‘I wish I knew more about this place.’
Meg nudges me. ‘Well, it’s a good thing you have a magical power that allows you to see the past, right? And a genius friend to help you interpret what you see.’
‘Yeah, handy that.’
The Titanic museum towers above us, its angular shape evoking the bow of a huge ship. Despite the drizzle, the area is packed with tourists. Cormac and Paul won’t be here for a bit, so we decide to look about outside while we wait, see if I get a vision.
‘What was it like before?’ I ask Meg as we skirt round a group of French teenagers.
‘No idea. Just some docks, I think.’
There’s a queue forming outside the entrance and guilt pokes at my side as I remember my promise to come here with Nanny Bet.
‘Is the museum good?’
Meg shrugs. ‘Yeah, it’s pretty decent. We’ve been with school a few times.’
‘And you’re happy to go again?’ I say.
‘I told you, I love history.’
‘Ah, so you’re an expert on the Titanic?’
She sniggers. ‘Yes, I’m quite the shipwright.’
‘Huh?’
‘Person who builds ships.’
‘Ah!’ I smirk. ‘Riveting.’
She rolls her eyes. ‘You should save that kind of material for your stand-up career.’ She looks around. ‘Right, where’s this ghost ship?’
I search for any difference in the light, but there’s nothing. ‘I mean, technically it’s not a ghost ship.’
‘Fine. Where’s this unexplainable temporal-phenomenon ship then?’
‘No idea.’
Meg grips my wrist. ‘Let’s check the dry dock.
’ She pulls me towards a railing lined with tourists taking photos.
The dry dock is about six metres deep and twice as wide, but I can’t even guess how long it is.
It stretches far away from the museum. People drift along the bottom of it, like discarded toys in a bathtub.
‘Wow.’
Meg smiles. ‘I know.’
‘So, this is where it was built?’
She nods. ‘Pretty much. Well, it was finished here. They call it “the Titanic’s footprint”.’
I try to picture the space filled by the boat. Piecing it together from the film that I made my parents watch one movie night a few years ago. Dad rolled his eyes, but Mum and I shared a tear at the end. I’m a sucker for a sad ending.
‘It was huge,’ I whisper as a seagull screeches above.
The seagull cries again and my vision flashes white. Waves and wind rush in my ears and I see a scattering of images in my head.
A seagull caught mid-flight.
A black feather.
A towering ship.
I gasp and Meg whirls round. ‘What is it?’
I whip my head up, checking the sky for the bird.
‘Michael?’ Meg’s hand is on my wrist. ‘What is it?’
The ground beneath me shifts and I clutch the rail. A chill creeps up my arms and settles in my chest.
I sink to my knees as rain starts to fall.
‘Michael? Michael, are you OK?’ Meg is kneeling beside me. ‘What did you see?’
My tongue feels heavy. ‘Nothing,’ I force out.
I sit back. A woman Mum’s age is looking in my direction.
Meg takes out her phone, but I stop her. ‘I’m fine.’ Nausea has my head swimming. ‘Just give me a second.’
She sits beside me.
Rain tickles my nose. ‘You’ll get wet.’
‘Doesn’t matter. Take your time.’
I take a deep breath. As I push the air in and out, gradually my head clears. I wipe the rain from my mouth. ‘I think I had a flashback.’
‘What did you see?’
I close my eyes and picture the ship, the seagull and the feather.
‘I don’t know. It was like a dream or…’
Meg’s eyes widen. ‘Or something you’ve forgotten?’
I blacked out on the ferry. I didn’t remember what I had seen until now. ‘A vision.’
‘What was it?’
I shake my head. Not here. She helps me to my feet and we walk away from the railing.
‘I think I saw the Titanic when I was on the ferry. But then I must’ve forgotten it.’
‘No way! That’s class. Mad that you would you forget that.’
‘I didn’t take a photo.’
She looks up. ‘Unless you did, but it got lost when you—’
‘When the memory card broke.’
Meg nods. ‘Did you see anything else?’
‘A seagull and a feather.’
She frowns. ‘Oh, well, that’s slightly less exciting. You saw the feckin’ Titanic, Michael. That’s insane! What was it like? Tell me everything.’
‘It was…big.’
‘OK, and…?’
I close my eyes so I can focus. ‘Really big, like huge.’
When I open my eyes, Meg is glaring at me. ‘Thanks, you’re painting such a vivid picture.’
‘Well, I’m sorry, but it was actually massive.’
‘Yeah, that’s why they didn’t call it “the Tiny”.’ She laughs. ‘Give me more than that.’
I close my eyes again and breathe. I picture a monstrous ship, the funnels towering above it like skyscrapers. Smoke billowing.
I keep my eyes shut as I describe what I can see.
‘The sides of the ship are red: bright red. Smoke fills the sky as it moves through the water. People line the deck. Not loads, but some people. Men mostly, crew. Women in large hats. The ship, it looks… It looks too big for this world. It’s dark. It’s…’
‘Sad.’ Meg lets out a breath and I open my eyes.
‘What?’
She rubs her temples. ‘That was weird. I got the strangest feeling, almost like I was there, like it was déjà vu. It…’ Her cheeks go red. ‘Doesn’t matter.’
My arms prickle. ‘What is it?’
She leans in. ‘When you started describing it…it was like suddenly I could see it. No, not see it. I could feel it.’
I can’t with this.
‘What do you mean?’ I say.
‘I could feel the air on my cheeks. I smelled the smoke. And there was this…sadness. How did you do that?’
Tingles on my neck. I felt that too. ‘I don’t think I did anything. I just told you what I saw.’
‘And when you did, I felt it. I truly felt like I was there. That was like actual time travel.’
What have I done to her? I step back. ‘No, it was just your imagination.’
‘That’s not true. I—’
‘Meg, you pictured it and felt a breeze.’
She frowns. ‘Are you calling me a liar?’
‘No, of course not. Sorry, I’m saying you were imagining—’
‘Oh, I was just imagining it, was I? I didn’t realise you could read minds.’ She walks off towards the museum.
I hurry after her. ‘Look, you’re an artist, so you were able to picture what I was seeing.’
She turns back. ‘I’m not lying, Michael. I felt something. I really felt something.’
No.
‘Why won’t you believe me?’
I grip my fists. ‘Because it’s too weird. It’s too much, OK? I want—’
‘What, Michael? What do you want?’
‘I just want to be normal!’
Meg looks like she’s swallowed something disgusting. ‘Normal?’
I throw my hands up in the air. ‘Yeah, is that so bad? Isn’t it enough that I can fucking see the past without some weird bloody telepath shit going on too?’
Meg snorts. ‘Michael, you’re not normal!’
Excuse me!
‘It’s why I like you.’ She leans in. ‘Even without the magic. You’re a queer fella with an English accent living in West Belfast. And, yes, admittedly that is spiced up by your new magical abilities, but you’re not normal.
You’re awesome.’ She takes my hand. ‘I know it’s a lot, but you’re OK as you are. You hear me?’
I swallow. ‘Yeah, I just…’
‘I know it’s hard. I get that and I’m here for you, but don’t tell me what I experienced. Mansplaining is a bad colour on you. I felt what I felt. It was real, Michael. Something happened to me this time and I need you to believe me.’ She looks down. ‘Please.’
Guilt hits me in the stomach. ‘Sorry, I believe you.’
‘Thanks.’ A breeze catches her hair and I take in the salt of the sea air.
‘Were you scared?’
Meg lights up. ‘No, I loved it. Can we try it again? What else do you remember?’
I close my eyes. ‘Just what I told you – the ship plus the seagull and that feather. I don’t know what they’re about.’
Meg bites her lip. ‘Do it like before. Close your eyes and picture the seagull.’
She’s not going to take no for an answer. I take a deep breath and hold her hands.
‘Hey, hey.’ Cormac and Paul are standing a few feet away. Paul’s eyes flick down and I let go of Meg’s hands.
‘Hi, boys,’ she says.
‘All right,’ says Paul with a frown.
‘Hey,’ I say, swallowing the awkwardness. ‘How was the interview?’
‘Smashed it, of course. They’ll let me know,’ says Cormac, smiling. ‘What’ve you two been up to?’
I turn to Meg for an answer.
‘Oh, you know, just making memories. Shall we?’ She heads towards the museum and Paul follows.
‘Were you holding hands?’ says Cormac as we trail behind them.
‘Yes, but just as friends,’ I say.
‘You’re a dark horse, cuz.’
I whisper. ‘Oh, you have no idea.’
I’m not sure where that surge of confidence came from, but the shock on Cormac’s face was totally worth it.