Love My Enemy (11 page)

Conor's front door edged open just a few inches and his
father yanked him inside.

'Just what the hell's been going on, Conor? What
have you been up to?'

'Me? Nothing!'

Kevin O'Keefe was a small man but his rages were
huge. Right now his eyes were bulging and his top lip was
filmed with sweat. Behind him the entire family was
massed on the stairs, like spectators at a football match.

'It's that wee English girl, isn't it? You've been
messing around with her! Don't deny it – she was here
the other week and I've just seen the pair of you outside
with me own eyes.'

Conor didn't deny it. His glance swept over the
entire family. He could only pray that Tasha's red jacket
had duped them all. 'So? What if I have been seeing
her?' he asked.

His father looked fit to burst. 'It's caused that mess
outside, that's what!'

Conor jabbed his finger towards the graffiti. '
I
am
not responsible for that!' he said and strode off down
the hall.

'Come you back here! I'm talking to you! Don't you
dare turn your back on me, boy!'

Conor filled a glass with cold water and gulped it
down. Sometimes he hated being the oldest son and he
needed a moment to get his head straight. His father
stormed into the kitchen behind him and snapped off
the light.

'Don't make a target of yourself, y'eejit!'

'Aye, that's right, let's live like rabbits down a hole –
scared to pop up our heads in case we get shot!'

'And who's to blame for that?'

Conor heard his mother shooing the rest of the family
back to their beds. She closed the kitchen door quietly
and pulled the tweedy curtains tight, then she switched
on the spotlights above the worktop.

'Come on, now,' she said softly, 'you do owe us an
explanation, Conor. We've never had any trouble here
before. This isn't really about religion, is it? Is it that
wee English girl, right enough? Is Gary jealous?'

Conor sipped thoughtfully at his water. 'Are you
absolutely sure it was Gary?' he asked them.

'Him and some others,' said his father angrily. 'They
were all wearing balaclavas but we heard Gary's voice
all right. It was him giving the orders.'

'I'm surprised you and me brothers didn't go out to
them.'

'I wanted to!' Kevin O'Keefe smacked his fist against
the palm of his other hand. 'Your mam here wouldn't let
me out the front door.'

'Do you blame me? Paint's one thing, Kevin, blood's
another.' She turned back to Conor. 'We'll help you, son,
whatever kind of trouble you're in – but you've got to be
straight with us. You don't seem too surprised by all
this.' Suddenly she was suspicious. 'Is there more?
What's been going on?'

Conor took a deep breath and walked uncertainly to
the back door. He dug into the pocket of his old wax
jacket hanging on the peg and pulled out a crumpled
envelope. It was a jacket he only wore for fetching coal
in the rain. The note, tucked in an inside pocket might
have stayed hidden there for years.

'It's only brief,' he mumbled, smoothing out the page
inside.

They didn't say a word, they just stared at him, but he
could feel how frightened they were. To his annoyance,
his own hand trembled a little as he showed them the
threat, an ugly red inked scrawl.

HANDS OFF

YOU ARE BEING WATCHED

WE LIVE BY THE GUN

'Holy God!' exclaimed his mother and her hands flew
to her throat. His father's face blanched like an almond.

'When did that come?' he demanded.

'A couple of days ago.'

'And you went out tonight? Are you mad? Why didn't
you tell us, Conor?'

'Because I knew how you'd react! I didn't want to
worry everyone. It's only Gary Proctor.'

'Worry!' His mother laughed hysterically.

'It's not serious, Mam. He's only just stirring things up.'

'Is that really all there is to this . . . jealousy?'

Conor couldn't look her in the eyes. 'Tasha doesn't
feel the same way about him,' he mumbled, by way of
explanation. 'She doesn't want to go out with him.
Don't worry, he'll get over it.'

'All this over some silly wee girl?' exclaimed his
father. 'Graffiti in Hazel Grove . . . the shame of it . . .
what will the neighbours think?'

Conor slammed a cupboard door shut with his foot.
'Is that all you're worried about, Dad? The neighbours?
God, parents can really let you down sometimes!'

'Don't you cheek me, Conor. Can't you see how
embarrassing this is for us?'

'Ssh, Kevin,' urged his mother. 'Don't worry about
the neighbours. They'll be as upset as us. We've friends
in Hazel Grove, not just neighbours.'

'Friends?' Conor's father laughed bitterly. 'Where
were these friends tonight, Maree, tell me that?'

Tears hung like polished beads in his mother's eyes
and that got to Conor more than anything his dad might
say. 'It'll be all right,' he muttered, putting an arm
around her.

'Will it?' She shook her head. 'Poor Sue will be
mortified. To think her wee Gary would grow up like
this . . . '

'Don't you start feeling sorry for Gary,' spluttered his
father. 'That boy needs locking up.'

'But he's been through so much, Kevin. He saw his
father killed, remember. His own father shot to bits all
over the living room walls. Can you imagine? How can
any child grow up normal after that?'

'Never mind him. God help
us
if he's got a bone to
pick with our Con. First a letter, then graffiti. What will
he do next, Maree? A beating? A knee-capping, what?'

For a fleeting moment Conor had a vision of the
house in flames, kids screaming, knotted sheets
hanging from the windows. After all, no one, not the
politicians, not even the police could stop loonies with
grudges. 'I'll get rid of the graffiti tomorrow,' he
promised them.

'And I'll speak to Sue,' said his mother. 'We can't let
this go any further.'

'No, Mam, you'll only make things worse.'

'Then you give that wee girl up,' said his father
fiercely. 'Leave her to Gary. There's plenty nice
Catholic girls around.'

Conor blushed with fury. Stick to your own kind . . .
his own father was as sectarian as any of them. He
couldn't trust himself to answer. What would he say
anyway? How could he admit that it wasn't Gary's girl
he was seeing, but Gary's sister? He wasn't sure who
would go craziest, Gary or his own parents. Besides, he
had absolutely no intention of giving up Zee.

'There is one other way,' said his mother quietly. 'You
could take a holiday, son. Go to your Auntie Mary in
Donegal. You'd be safe there. You might even find a job.'

'Doing what? Digging peat? Cleaning toilets for the
tourists? You must be joking, Mam.'

'But you'd be safe!'

'I'm
not
running away.'

'Then you'd better come up with some other ideas,'
said his father, 'pretty damned fast.'

Conor scowled at the pair of them. 'Give me a bit of
peace,' he said, 'and maybe I will.'

Long after the house had settled down, Conor was still
tossing ideas around in his head. What was the point in
trying to convince Gary that he wasn't seeing Tasha?
Gary wouldn't believe him. And if he did, it would
probably only lead to something worse.

He remembered the marks Gary had left on Zee's
shoulders on the twelfth of July. What would he do to
her now if he found out the truth? Just how bitter and
screwed up was Gary? Just how violent?

Conor thumped his pillow in frustration and little
Diarmaid, in the nearest bed, groaned and turned over.
Was Gary asleep, Conor wondered, or was he still trying
to get red paint off his hands?

Would Gary really leave it at this? A letter and a bit of
graffiti? What would happen next? What could he do to
stop him?

Suddenly the answer hit Conor.

If Gary Proctor wanted satisfaction, let him have it.
The two of them could sort things out right now. A few
thumps and it would all be over. Even if Gary won, the
idea of punching him was totally irresistible. Quietly,
almost noiselessly, Conor swung his legs over the edge
of the bed and felt for his clothes.

The Proctors' house was in darkness when he got
there but he knew exactly which was Gary's bedroom.
They had played there together when they were kids,
before they drifted apart, before he went to St Joseph's
School and Gary to the nearest Protestant Primary.

Conor scooped up a handful of gravel and tossed it at
the open window. There was no response so he picked
up more stones and threw them up, one by one, until the
curtain moved.

'Get down here,' he called softly.

'O'Keefe?' Gary sounded surprised, but almost
pleased. 'What do you want?'

'Guess. Don't tell me I have to come up there and
get you?'

The curtain dropped back. Moments later, Gary
appeared on the steps at the back door, wearing only
jeans and trainers. He flicked on an outside light, illuminating
the lush summer garden. A black cat in the
elephant grass watched them for a moment then leapt up
a tree out of the way.

'Have you any idea how much trouble you've caused
tonight?' Conor asked tersely.

'So your folks have taken the hint then?' said Gary,
pleased. 'You're leaving?'

'In your dreams.'

'We don't want your kind round here, O'Keefe.'

'We? Who's that then? You and Desperate Des? Wake
up, Gary, this isn't about religion.'

'Isn't it?'

'This is between you and me, right?'

Gary's face hardened. 'Tasha's
my
girlfriend.'

'Yours? What did you ever give her – besides one
behind the Co-op?'

'You bast—'

'Cowboy without a condom,' interrupted Conor,
'that's what she calls you. As for your performance that
night . . . one out of ten, she said.'

Gary flew off the top step and Conor felt as if he'd
been hit by a juggernaut. Even though he'd expected it,
provoked it, Gary's sheer power winded him. Somehow
he managed to roll out of his grasp and pick himself up.

Gary lunged again and Conor gasped. He felt his cheek
swell as fast as bubble gum, then he let fly himself,
swinging his fists hard and fast until they connected with
something. He had the satisfaction of seeing Gary Proctor
double over. It was only for a moment though, then he
found himself flying through the air and he hit the
fountain. He felt a cold jet of water in his eyes and his
head bounced down the stone figure. He couldn't get
back up because Gary had climbed into the pond and his
fists were firing into his back like bullets. Conor hedge-hogged
and waited for Gary to exhaust himself.

'Stop this!' yelled a voice. 'Stop it! Stop it!'

'I'll kill him!' shouted Gary and Conor grunted as a
kick sank into his kidney.

'No! Stop it!' shouted someone else.

It was a few moments before the blows stopped.
When Conor looked up he saw three females holding
Gary back and his own mother was one of them.

'Look at your fountain, Mum!' cried Zee. 'Your new
fountain all broken and ruined.'

'Never mind the fountain,' cried Sue. 'What's going
on here?'

'Are you all right, Conor?' His mother touched his
cheek anxiously.

'Of course I am! What are
you
doing here? Why did
you interfere, Mam?'

'You wee fool! Gary could have
killed
you.'

'We were sorting things out – finishing it.'

'What things?' demanded Sue, swinging from one
boy to the other. 'Finishing what? Gary – answer me!'

But there was dead silence. It was Conor's mother
who broke it eventually and she sounded almost
apologetic. 'I'm afraid your Gary and his friends wrote
graffiti on our garden wall tonight, Sue.'

'
What
?' Sue stared at her big son in disbelief.
'No . . . how could you, Gary? How could you do that?'

'He pinched my girl,' said Gary sullenly.

'Come again?' Sue started pummelling her fists against
his chest. 'Your
girl
? What sort of a reason's that?'

'Stop it, Mum!' There was no chance she could hurt
him but she kept going until he caught her hands in his
own and held them still.

'What did you write?' she demanded. 'What did it say?'

There was another silence.

'Get out or be burned out,' supplied Conor, 'wasn't
that it? Yeah, and that old gem – Ulster is Ours.'

Zee made a noise that seemed to catch in her throat.
'You still shouldn't have come down here!' she shouted.
Conor shot her a burning look, willing her not to say too
much.

'Your father,' Sue croaked angrily, 'will be turning in
his grave with shame.'

Emotion raced across Gary's face, they all saw it;
anger, guilt, hate. 'My dad would understand,' he yelled
back. 'If it hadn't been for the likes of them, my dad
would still be here!'

'Your father's death was nothing to do with us,' said
Maree O'Keefe quickly. 'You
know
that.'

'He was killed by Catholics, wasn't he?'

'But not by
us
. Are you going to hate all Catholics for
ever?' she asked.

'Why shouldn't I?'

Sue broke away, sobbing, and Conor's mother put her
arms around her. 'We'll go on home now,' she said, 'and
leave you in peace. I'm sorry my boy came down here
tonight, Sue. Thank God he woke Diarmaid up, getting
dressed, otherwise I'd never have known.'

Anger flared up in Conor again. Why could his
mother not keep her nose out? 'This could have finished
it,' he mumbled.

'Finished you more like,' mocked Gary. 'Take a look
in the mirror, O'Keefe. Your ma just saved your pathetic
little life!'

Sue Proctor drew herself up to her full height which
was about six inches shorter than her son. 'I am so sorry,
Maree,' she said. 'So very sorry, and tomorrow, first
thing, Gary will paint out all that graffiti.'