sparky lightbourne
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we scratched our namesWe Scratched Our Names.
As the heavens opened up above, and dumped what seemed like an ocean on Ryan’s Field, we ran for cover into the old wooden shelter. It looked like a bus stop, but no busses could come this way along the narrow foot paths of the park. Breathless laughter, hair soaked, pressed down on our heads, hers was hanging over her face and I parted it carefully. The shed was empty and I peered out through the open doorway and up at the lead balloon skies, the water was falling in sheets at a slight angle, the breeze came from behind us, so no rain came through the door.
Droplets down my neck and more laughter I spin round, she’s wringing out the impractical velvet jacket I told her not to wear, I grab it and threaten to hurl it onto the roof, I don’t though and she knows I wouldn’t. Somebody has left a day old paper on the dirty graffiti covered bench and I pick it up before sitting down, she turns away from the watching the rain and comes and sits next to me, her warm damp body pressing into mine as I put an arm around her shoulder. We read the paper together waiting for the rain to finish, it’s depressing – peace talks fail, more sell outs by the men and women who claim to lead us, represent the voices of the oppressed, while the others demand more and more and refuse to give an inch even while taking a mile. They expect us to recognise the police and the laws that make us second class citizens in our own land. I throw the paper down in disgust. We kiss, as I reach into my pocket for my penknife. I scratch my name in the wood of the bench, and she scratches hers, then I draw a heart around them.
The rain lifts and a few blue patches appear, we step out into the light, letting the gentle cool breeze dry our clothes slowly as we walk through the park. Other couples appear from under trees and other shelters, and we share knowing glances.
A week later and they come, walking through drizzle on rain slicked cobbles, more join them from the tiny terraces on either side, mothers and daughters, sons, and fathers some holding homemade placards or carefully stitched banners. Dignified and quiet though there is some muted chanting from the student contingent. Police line up ahead in a single row, I can see soldiers behind them, armoured cars parked down side streets, I can see it all from my vantage point in this abandoned terrace house, I’m watching events from the bedroom window, peering through smoke damaged net curtains. I see her in the crowd, she’s with her younger brother, and they both have placards daubed with slogans.
I look back at the row of police, their green grey uniforms wet from standing in the misty rain for hours, moustaches bristle, expressions bland with studied patience, but I know they hate us, we’re barely people to them, they never set foot in our communities without weapons and steel landrovers.
Three minutes to go.
I look over at her again, she’s smiling as she joins in a folk song that has broken out among the crowd, I’d rather have her in my arms than the cold metal of this armalite, nested against my shoulder. Three minutes to go. Then our brigade leader comes in soundlessly from the landing.
“It’s off lads, we’re being pulled out.”
I look up at him in dismay, his expression is sympathetic.
“Today is not the day, orders from above.”
We follow him out, leaving over the back wall, rifles left behind for later collection. Two minutes later we’re halfway down the alley when we hear the machine gun fire.
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due to it being so well written