1999 Read Online Free Page A

giant spring uncoiling. He was very tall and the leg space beneath the dashboard was insufficient. The long drive had caused his damaged leg to stiffen. When he stood upright a spear of pain shot through the muscles.
    A swift intake of breath. A momentary closing of eyes. Then it was over.
    Two long strides carried him to the house.
    A light was burning in the parlour to the left of the hall. As he ran past, Barry glimpsed the huddled figure of his mother in her favourite armchair, where she sometimes fell asleep listening to the late news on the radio. He took the stairs three at a time. Raced to his room, flung open the door. Threw himself on his knees beside the bed and fumbled beneath the mattress. Inhaled the dusty scent of feathers and ticking, and linen bleached in the sun.
    Grasped the polished stock of Ned Halloran’s old rifle.
    A woman said from the doorway, “Thank God you’re all right! When I rang your house in Dublin Barbara told me where you’d gone. What just happened in Derry is all over the news, RTE even interrupted its regular programming. I’ve been terrified.”
    The haggard man stood up with a rifle in his hands. “You’ve never been terrified in your life, Ursula.” His deep baritone voice was hoarse with weariness.
    â€œThat’s all you know. What happened?”
    â€œI don’t think I can talk about it, not yet.”
    â€œPlease, Barry.”
    Reluctantly, he dragged out the words that made it all real again. “When the civil rights march formed up in the Creggan I was there with my cameras. A great opportunity for photojournalism, I thought. Images of hope in Northern Ireland after all these years. People came in the thousands, even from the Republic. Men and women, boys and girls; it was more like a huge picnic than a protest rally. They brought food, their children, even their dogs. There was a lot of laughter and optimism. By the time they moved out the marchers were singing.”
    His voice dropped to a harsh whisper. “When they reached the Rossville Flats area the British soldiers trapped them in those narrow streets and shot them down like dogs. At least thirteen were killed then and there. Scores of others were wounded. I saw it; I saw it all.” Barry closed his eyes for a moment; swayed where he stood.
    Ursula put out a hand to steady him. He brushed it away. “I’m all right,” he insisted.
    His mother sat down on the bed. Running up the stairs after him had left her short of breath. “They’re already calling it Bloody Sunday,” she panted. “Like the original Bloody Sunday in 1920, when British forces machine-gunned Irish civilians at a football match. That incident was pretty well hushed up, but what happened yesterday is a different story. Television around the world is carrying scenes from Derry.”
    â€œBless the telly,” rasped Barry. “For once the Brits can’t pretend one of their atrocities never happened.”
    He leaned the rifle against the wall and slumped onto the bed beside his mother. Ursula waited. Slowly, inch by inch, his spine straightened. When he spoke again his tone was that of a professional observer. “When I went to Derry I didn’t expect a massacre, Ursula, though maybe I should have. Maybe we all should have. Surely by now we know the imperial mentality.
    â€œRemember when Martin Luther King gathered a quarter of a million people at the U.S. Capitol in support of civil rights for his people? What a splendid day that was. The whole world seemed new, as if chains were finally being broken and anything was possible. The Catholics in Northern Ireland took King’s message to heart. They believed the same nonviolent protest could work for them.
    â€œThey were wrong.
    â€œYesterday they staged a peaceful march for their civil rights, and were shot in cold blood by the very army that was supposed to protect them. That’s justice in the United