Love My Enemy (2 page)

'What?'

'The night before the Twelfth.'

'I can count up to twelve,' said Tasha with false
solemnity. 'Whatever are you talking about?'

'The Twelfth of July. The anniversary of the Battle of
the Boyne? When the Protestants thrashed the Catholics.'

'I must have missed that,' said Tasha. 'Was it on the
telly?'

Zee's jaw sagged. How could anyone not know about
the Battle of the Boyne? 'Doesn't 1690 ring any bells?
King Billy and his Orangemen?'

'1690 . . . gosh . . . and this is 2004.' Tasha did a quick
calculation. 'That battle was . . . three hundred and . . . er
. . . fourteen years ago.'

'So? It's what Ulster's all about! Doesn't your school
do history?'

'Lord, not Irish history.'

'Now listen,' said Zee earnestly, 'on the twelfth of
July there are marches all over Northern Ireland to
celebrate the Battle of the Boyne. The night before – the
eleventh night – the Orangemen kick it off with huge
bonfires. It's surprising the whole of Belfast doesn't go
up in smoke. There's singing and dancing and—'

'It sounds brilliant!' Tasha gripped her arm so hard it
hurt. 'We
must
go.'

'Well – I'm not sure. Mum's not keen on that sort of
thing – there can be trouble. I don't know if she'll let
me go.'

'What about your brother, Gary? Will he be going?'

'Try keeping him away.'

'Then what's the problem? We can all go together,
can't we?'

Zee bit awkwardly at her lip. 'Gary's not exactly. . .
reliable. He's a bit – um – a bit of a loner.'

Tasha's eyes rolled theatrically. 'Is he now. . . that
sounds like a challenge.'

'I'll try and talk Mum round,' Zee promised. 'Come
over about seven-thirty – we'll do something.'

'It's got to be the bonfires!'

Zee ran down the steps, then she paused and turned
back. 'Seriously, Tasha, forget Gary.'

'Whatever for?'

'Because he's not just a loner.' Zee took a deep breath.
'Gary's dangerous.'

When Tasha woke up, the first thing she saw was white
plaster angels carved into the cornice high above her
bed, and the first sounds she heard were Mozart's
Eine
Kleine Nachtmusik
tinkling gently up through the hall.

Tasha scowled. Her mother had gone off to work in
the city today, leaving her alone with Miguel. 10.07 said
the digital read-out on her clock radio; it would be hours
before her mother came back home again.

Tasha turned her TV and CD player up high enough
to drown out the piano. Through the window she saw a
blue and white electricity van pull up outside. She went
to the bannister and yelled at Miguel to let the man in.
By the time she went downstairs the meter man had
gone, and Miguel was in the kitchen brewing coffee as
thick as grit.

'You wants some?' he asked.

'No thanks,' she said, 'coffee's addictive.'

'Ah, for sure. You wants breakfast? I make it for you
no problem.'

'That's okay, I'll just heat up some croissants.'

'Careful, I thinks croissants are addictive too.'

Tasha would have laughed if her mum had said that,
but instead she just said, 'Yeah.'

Miguel cleared his throat. 'You wants to come to the
shop later? I has to put an ad up for music pupils.'

'You're going to teach them here?' she asked him.
She imagined the house overrun with screeching violinists
and six-year-olds playing chopsticks interminably.

Miguel grunted. 'In Sarajevo I was Head of Music at
the biggest high school in the city. In Belfast I suppose
I has to start somewhere.'

'Suppose.'

'So, you comes for a walk?'

'Er. . . no, I've got to sort out stuff upstairs.'

'Okay, no problem.' He took his coffee back to the
living room and a moment later he was at the piano
again, bashing away hard this time.

The meter man turned out to be the first in a string of
visitors. A plumber arrived to connect up the washing
machine, then an electrician to mend the shower and
another man to connect the telephone. Tasha found
herself glad of the company; it made being with Miguel
easier. At lunch-time she made herself a salad roll and
ate it in her bedroom watching TV. When she went back
downstairs she saw that Miguel had made himself
something to eat too and he had washed up her mess as
well as his own.

She explored the new house thoroughly, then went out
into the garden. Grassy banks rolled down to an
overgrown lawn edged with empty flowerbeds. When
she took a stroll up Hazel Grove she realised that her
house was bigger than the others, but somehow she liked
Zee's house better. Number 5 was a pebble-dashed
cottage, snuggled up in ivy, with bulging bay windows.
The garden was full of pansies, nasturtiums and sweet
peas. It looked as colourful as a sweet shop, and beneath
a tree, a little fountain gurgled. Someone had built a
dinosaur-land around it, and in another shady corner
hung a tree-swing. The place looked lived in and homely
and Tasha felt a pang of envy.

Hazel Grove itself was just one single row of
detached houses built on a hill. Each house was
separated by a privet hedge and set well back from the
red stone pavement in front. Opposite them, on the other
side of the road, sprawled a wood with dirt tracks
winding between trees and shrubs. Alight breeze rustled
the hazel leaves which twinkled like tiny flags in the
sun. The only noise came from two little boys playing
cars beneath a tree. Belfast seemed so peaceful.

It was five-thirty when Magda came back, the car
boot filled with shopping.

'I could have done the shopping,' Tasha told her. 'You
could have picked me up at Tesco's after work.'

'Great idea,' said her mum. 'Now I know where
Tesco's is we can do that in future.'

'It's been dead boring here.'

Magda exchanged glances with Miguel who had
staggered in the back door laden with shopping bags.

'I think you needs a glass of wine,' he announced.

'You're right, that's exactly what I need.'

'You puts up your feet. Tasha and I will puts these
things away.'

Tasha winced. She would have put the shopping away
without Miguel suggesting it, and she used to be the one
who sometimes poured her mum a glass of wine after
work. She pushed the groceries into the cupboards
silently while Magda chattered about her new office,
computer problems and colleagues she had made friends
with already. When the groceries were packed tidily
away, Miguel gulped a glass of wine and left the kitchen.

'What do you think of the house?' asked her mum.

'Great,' she admitted. 'Much nicer than that poky flat
in Ealing.'

'Prices are lower here. The flat was all we could
afford in London.'

'I like my room,' said Tasha. 'The telly, having my
own space – it's good.'

'We thought you'd appreciate it.'

Tasha murmured, 'I suppose it keeps me out from
under your feet too?'

'Hey! We want you under our feet – the more the
better.'

'I should have thought you'd want time on your own.'
Tasha sighed. 'I don't know why you didn't let me go on
holiday with the Montgomery-Smiths. It would have
been easier all round.'

Her mum got up and gave her a big hug. 'We want
you with us, darling. We all need to spend time together,
and you and Miguel need to get to know each other.'

'Yeah.'

Her mum chuckled and kissed the top of her head.
'Don't worry, it's early days – only six months since we
married – and you've been at school most of that time.'

Thank God, thought Tasha, but she didn't say a word.

'So. Did you and Miguel do anything nice today?'

'I was busy unpacking,' she mumbled.

'Of course.' Her mother took a deep glug of wine.

'Well, we can do something together tonight. We've all
been invited to dinner by one of my new colleagues.
Isn't that kind?'

Tasha was horrified. It was bad enough skirting
around Miguel at home all day; she could not possibly
play Happy Families in public. 'I've got something on,'
she cried.

'Oh?'

'With Zee. I'm spending the evening with her.'

'I haven't met her mother yet.'

'You've met Zee though. You liked her, didn't you?'

'Very much.' Magda was looking at her carefully.
'Oh, I suppose it will be all right. You'd better take the
spare key, Tasha, I'm not sure how late we'll be.'

'Don't worry. I'm a big girl now, I can take care of
myself.'

'You're fifteen,' said her mum. 'Make sure you're
back by midnight. Now, I'm going for a bath – I've been
fantasising about one all the way round Tesco's.'

Tasha listened to her exchange a few words with
Miguel before thudding softly upstairs. She eyed up the
wine bottle and, realising her mum would assume
Miguel had finished it, and vice versa, she poured the
remains into a mug and knocked it back. She spluttered
as it kicked the back of her throat, but as the alcohol
worked through her system, it eased her irritation and
she relaxed.

Let Miguel and her mother get on with their lives. The
sooner they realised she had her own life, the better.
Tasha turned her thoughts to the evening and felt a warm
glow of anticipation. She had escaped Redbales for
eight whole weeks. She already had a friend in this city
and, what was more, that friend had an older brother.

Victims of violence
proclaimed the banner on the city
hall and beneath it, thousands of people had gathered for
the peace demo. Heads bent, they listened to a Minister
reading a verse, his voice floating down from the
podium high above.

Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of
death I will fear no evil
. . .

Zee groaned softly. Praying for peace seemed pretty
ineffective to her, but her mum and all these people
were heavily into it, eyes closed, as if the words were
some magical incantation. It seemed forever before the
Minister finished, then the tiniest children were
marshalled into rows of four and began moving
forward. Some of them were really tiny, helped towards
the front by relatives and friends. Then it was the turn
of the pre-school children. Next, the six-year-olds.

The twins took off as if it was sports day,
practically racing across the grass to the long trestle
table draped in red and tiered with white candles.
Adults handed them tapers glowing at one end.
Immediately, all the six-year-olds fell quiet, amazed at
being allowed to handle fire and eager to do their bit
properly. Josh and Gemma pressed their tapers
solemnly against the wicks of two thick church
candles. Zee held her breath until their wicks caught
and the two tiny flames flickered. Her eyes burned
unexpectedly and she had to blink.

'Next, children of seven,' called the voice and the
twins came speeding back.

'That was cool!' cried Josh.

'Did we do it right, Mum?'

'Perfectly, Gemma.'

Zee heard a tremor in her mother's voice. She glanced
nervously at her but she seemed to be holding things
together pretty well.

'It'll be your turn soon, Zee,' said Josh, nudging her.

'I'm not doing it,' she muttered.

'You have to!' said Gemma.

'No, I don't.'

Sue bent down to them. 'Zee doesn't have to light a
candle if she doesn't want to.'

'But it's for Daddy,' protested Josh. He turned and
kicked a big divot out of the grass.

Zee glared at him. 'Don't you dare throw a temper on
me, Josh Proctor. I'm not making a show of myself for
anyone, right?'

Especially not for someone who's dead and can't
even see, she thought. When they called her age group,
she didn't move. She couldn't have moved, even if she
had wanted to. The soles of her shoes felt super-glued to
the ground. A moment later the woman next to her
started crying. Soon, her mum and this total stranger
were hugging each other and swopping horror stories.
Zee wished that she was somewhere else – anywhere
else. These peace demos always brought back bad
memories and upset folk. She couldn't see the point
herself, they only made things worse.

When they called the adults forward, Zee held a twin
firmly in each hand while Sue lit a candle. Her mother's
head bent in prayer and it stayed bent for ages. Watching
her, Zee felt a rock lodge in her own throat.

'Let's go now,' she said impatiently as soon as her
mum returned.

'Steady, love. Someone's going to make a speech first.'

'And then we're going to sing a song,' said Josh.

'Not a song, silly, a hymn.' Zee listened irritably to
the man at the podium. Did he have to be quite so
negative about the bonfires?

' . . .
when sectarian fires burn tonight in every town
across the province, your candles of peace will burn
also, tonight when sectarian songs are chanted once
again, your prayers of peace will be heard too. You, the
victims of violence, the very people who have suffered
most, demand that the politicians continue to seek
peace
. . . '

On and on and on . . . Suddenly everyone was turning
to the person next to them and shaking hands. Her mum
hugged the stranger who had been upset. Zee had no
intention of hugging a stranger so she hugged the twins
instead. All around them people were laughing and
crying at the same time. Then a piano struck up 'Rock
of Ages' and after that, at last, they were on their way.
There was a bit of a jam at the exit and in the hold-up
people started talking about the latest violence, two
punishment beatings in North Belfast.

'They're only isolated incidents,' said someone,
'nothing to threaten the peace.'

'Let's hope it stays that way for the next twenty-four
hours,' came another voice.

Zee groaned. The last thing she wanted her mum
reminded of was the possibility of trouble tonight. She
still hadn't got a straight answer from her. Could she go
to the bonfires with Tasha, or couldn't she? By the time
they reached the car park, she was no wiser.

'For heaven's sake, Mum, I did what
you
wanted. I
came to the peace protest, didn't I?'

'And now you want to go to the bonfires? Isn't that a
bit hypocritical, Zee?'

'They're
only
bonfires.'

'They're a celebration of Protestant over Catholic.'

'It's just a bit of fun. Gary will be there, you know.'

'I wish he'd come to the peace demo with us.'

'Fat chance.'

As her mum tried to join the dual carriageway, Zee
sank down into her seat, hoping that nobody in the other
cars would notice her. They were moving far too slowly,
forcing every car in sight to overtake them.

'Tomorrow, Zee . . . '

'Yeah, what about it?'

Her mother peered in the rear-view mirror at the twins.
They were engrossed with their Action Man figures.
'Tomorrow I'm going to ask Gary not to march,' she said
quietly.

Zee stared at her. Had she gone mad? Gary always
marched. It was his big day. He and nearly a hundred
other members of his Loyal Orange Lodge marched
right through Belfast to the Field at Finaghy where all
the different lodges met up and held a rally. 'Not
march . . . when did you decide this, Mum?'

She didn't answer. That didn't surprise Zee really.
Sometimes it took her mum the whole day to make the
simplest decision, like what they would eat for tea that
night, or how much coal she should order. It was one of the
things that drove Zee mad. How had she ever made a
decision this big?

'You won't be able to stop Gary,' she warned.

'I will. I won't give him Daddy's sash.'

Zee's breath was snatched away. 'Gary'll go mad –
he'll explode!'

'I wish I'd stopped him marching two years ago,' said
her mum. 'When I first thought of it. But he was hurting so
much then, I thought marching might help him somehow.'

'Instead of which,' muttered Zee, 'he took up with
Des Gordon and the rest of the brain-dead.'

They had lost speed again and Zee glanced at her
mother. She was just hanging onto the steering wheel,
not really driving at all. Tears began dribbling down her
face. 'Oh, Mum, you've done so well today.'

'I'm sorry. . . '

'Don't say sorry, I hate that. Look, there's a lay-by
coming up. You'd better pull over.'

They slowed to a halt just as a bicycle overtook them.
Zee wrapped her arms around her mother and pulled her
close. This was the worst bit. Far, far worse than anything
else. Seeing her own mum totally destroyed, and
knowing that she could do nothing to help. She could
not change a thing.

'I know a song that'll cheer you up,' shouted Josh and
he started on 'Rock of Ages' again. Gemma joined in.
Sue blew her nose on the kitchen roll she kept in the
glove compartment in case one of them was sick.

'You okay, Mum?' Zee practically had to shout to
make herself heard.

'Rock of Ages, cleft for me . . . ' they sang as if they
were on a Sunday school outing. They were used to their
mum bursting into tears like this. It happened all over
the place: in the supermarket, at school sports day, even
at a filling station once.

'No,' Sue sobbed. 'I'm not okay at all. Sometimes I
think it's getting easier, I think I've cracked it . . . then it
comes at me all over again, suddenly, like a wild animal,
like a tiger. . . it feels like being ambushed.'

'Can't you just avoid it?' asked Zee, but her mother
shook her head.

Zee closed her eyes miserably and sat back while
'Rock of Ages' rang out from a lay-by on the A631.

It was 10.00 pm and starting to get dark but hordes of
people were tramping down the Newtownards Road.
Whole families were there, toddlers perched on their
fathers' shoulders and children running alongside their
parents. Crowds of teenagers shouted and joked as they
headed for the fire.

In daylight, thought Zee, they would look like
football fans. Only the songs were different. The odd
snippet from a Loyalist ballad spiced the air, fading into
laughter. Tasha linked arms excitedly.

'It's totally magic, Zee, I knew it would be.'

'We're not even there yet – you wait!'

Zee could hardly believe their luck. Her mum had
kept her on tenterhooks until the last moment, and when
Tasha arrived wearing a leather mini-skirt, and plastered
in make-up, Zee thought their chances were zilch. But
no, miraculously she had been allowed to go, after all,
on condition that they stuck together. Now, spotting
various school friends, Zee introduced them enthusiastically
to Tasha.

'Hi, Tracey, Melanie, Pip! This is Tasha.' She just
couldn't help adding, 'Her mum works with refugees –
and her stepdad
is
one – they've only just arrived.'

'Most people are trying to get outa this country – not
into it!' They fell around laughing. Zee smiled encouragingly
at Tasha who was obviously finding the rapid
Belfast dialect a little hard to follow.

'Have you heard from Jane lately?' Tracey asked.

'Jane was my best friend,' Zee explained. 'Her family
emigrated to New Zealand at the beginning of the year.'

'You've got another best friend now,' said Tasha,
grinning.

'You betcha!'

Suddenly they were there. Hundreds of people had
gathered round a piece of puddled wasteland. For the
rest of the year they would hurry past it without looking
twice but tonight it drew them like a circus.

In the middle, the bonfire was built as high as a house.
For weeks anyone turfing out furniture had thrown it
onto the bonfire instead of taking it to the city dump.
Sofas, wardrobes and beds all protruded at crazy angles
from a haphazard pyramid of planks and wooden pallets.

'Save the rainforests!' shouted someone.

'Enough wood there to feed a sawmill,' said another
man.

'Jackie, is that not your new three-piece suite I'm
seeing?'

Zee enjoyed the crack right enough, but Tasha was
like a tiny kid, twisting and turning, wide-eyed,
determined to miss nothing.

'Who builds the fire?' she asked.

'Everyone who lives round here,' said Zee. 'Every
house contributes.'

'Every Prod that is,' put in a man standing behind
them.

'Protestant,' translated Zee.

'Won't there be any Catholics here, then?'

'Not if they've any sense,' said the same man.

Tasha lowered her voice and nodded. 'Over there, Zee!
Are those real slums? Those little red-brick houses?'

Zee followed Tasha's gaze to the rows of terraced
houses radiating out from the wasteland. 'They're not
that wee! Two up, two down, Victorian back-to-backs
you know. Built for the shipyard workers.'

'But they're identical . . . and so crammed together –
like biscuits in a packet.'

'Doesn't mean they're slums.'

'I'll take your word for it,' said Tasha but she didn't
sound convinced. 'Look! The fire! Is that safe?'

'Of course not!'

Three men were circling the bonfire, throwing petrol
round the bottom of it, and chasing off small boys who
were yelling and whooping with excitement. The men lit
rags and hurled them in among the wood which began to
crackle. Flames fanned out around the bottom and
climbed towards the middle. Soon the belly of the fire
was white, heat forcing the crowd backwards with a
gasp. Higher and higher the flames crept, reaching for
the wood at the very top until the whole crazy pyramid
was alight. Three feet above it all, scarlet cinders caught
in the draught, danced and glittered against the black
night sky.

'Hello, Zee,' came a deep voice.

'Hello!' Zee glanced self-consciously around the
crowd then back at the grinning face above her. 'What
are
you
doing here?'

'It's a free country,' he said. 'I thought it was you I
heard laughing. Who's your friend?'

Zee introduced them as quietly as she could. Tasha
looked confused.

'I thought you said,' she began in her clear English
voice, 'that any name beginning with O is a Cathol—'

'Ssh!' hissed Zee and whispered in her ear. 'Of course
Con O'Keefe's a Catholic name. Heaven only knows
what he's doing here but keep quiet – and don't use his
first name either. Even that's a giveaway.'

Tasha looked flustered. Zee, remembering the peace
protest earlier that day, stood on her tiptoes and said
politely to him, 'You're very welcome here, you know.'

'Dunno if I'd go as far as to say that . . . but it's good
to see you, Zee.'

There was something in his voice that reached right
inside her and squeezed her stomach. His eyes held hers
just a moment too long to be casual. They had lived in
the same street for five years but she had never stood this
close to him before. He had the most amazing melt-you-in-a-minute,
drop-dead-dreamy-deep, coffee-coloured
eyes. Zee almost fell over backwards looking up at them
and her voice disappeared altogether. Fortunately she
didn't have to speak because Conor started chatting to
Tasha. Then the crowd crushed forwards, pressing her
against him so hard that she could smell his soap.

'You okay?' he asked.

Before she could answer they saw the cause of the
crush. A line of thugs, some with shaved heads, were
trawling the crowd like a net. '
You
won't be OK,' Zee
said nervously. 'Better lose yourself – quick!'