COLETTE LYNCH

The First Time 

All the rain in Northern Ireland cannot wash away the hate. There it was, two words sealing my fate in huge misspelt letters on the white wall of my family home. SOLdER LOVER. A bucket and an abandoned brush told me everything I needed to know.  

He had taken up residence outside our door in the summer of 1971 when I was 15. Every morning I would ignore him, as was the given protocol of Catholic West Belfast, and he would smirk. At first I was affronted, but then I sort of began to look forward to it. I would link arms with my girlfriends on our way to school as we stepped over debris from the nightly riots and deftly manoeuvred around burnt out buses instead of waiting for them like regular people. Soldiers cat calling, not much older than us, bored and afraid in the relentless rain, momentarily forgetting that they were the enemy. 

 “Fuck off British bastards,” we would cheerfully respond. 

“Ah fuck,” said Bridie as all our eyes followed her gaze. There she was, a girl we knew, one year older than us, head lolling, tied to a lamppost covered in tar and feathers with a sign around her neck.  

‘BRIT WHORE’ 

“Let’s cross the road,” I said. “I know she deserved it like but I can’t stand it.” 

We changed the conversation and acted as if we were living in a normal place until Bridie said. 

“Some of them aren’t bad looking, like that fella outside yours.” 

“Shut up,” said Eimear. “You’ll get us shot.” 

I hadn’t set out to consort with the oppressor and wouldn’t have if he had just let me go about my business. It began with him touching my fingers when I went past him in the morning. It was very covert, just a slight touch. No-one would even notice, but that made it all the more thrilling. I made the mistake of looking into his eyes, really seeing him, and after that, he became human. He was 17, and this was his first tour of duty. He didn’t want to be in Belfast, he didn’t even want to be in the army, but at least it was a job. I learnt all this when we met in the park. It was like we were spies. We would sit on the bench pretending to be strangers and then, when we were sure there was no-one around, we would move closer, hold hands and even risk a couple of kisses. We knew it was dangerous, but who was watching? The mistake we made was forgetting where we were and that illicit love Belfast- style meant keeping one eye out for the terrorist, the harbinger of bloody secrets.  

My daddy had his head in his hands when I walked into the house. Mammy was cooking. My younger brothers had been sent upstairs. 

“Sit down,” said Mammy without looking at me. “You’ve brought trouble to our door. I’m ashamed of you” 

“They’ll be here soon,” said Daddy. 

“Who?” I said. 

“Never you mind. You have no say. You opened your legs for a British soldier and now we all have to pay the price.” 

I was shocked. I’d never heard my daddy speak so crudely.  

“I didn’t do anything wrong,” I said. 

“You might as well have,” said my mother. “Having sex with some wee Catholic lad and getting pregnant is nothing to what you’ve done here.” 

They were all big men. They took the tea and fried sausages my mammy made them.  

“Now Gerard this is a bad situation but we know where your loyalties lie so instead of having your wee girl put on display and everlastin’ shame attached to your name, there’s a way all this can be forgotten about.” 

Turning to me, he said.  

“You’ve a beautiful head of hair there Niamh so if you want to keep it, here’s what you’re goin’ to do.  Next Wednesday evening at six you bring your boyfriend to a house in North Belfast. You’ll tell him that your friend has a free house and you can spend some time together. I suppose even Brits have dicks so there’ll be no problem. A wee girl your age will open the door and you’ll give her a hug like you’re mates. You go upstairs, shut the door and keep him occupied. After a while we’ll arrive and you can leave. Simple.  Nothin’ to it. That shit will be washed off your daddy’s wall and no-one around here will ever mention it again. Guaranteed.” 

“What will you do to him?”I said. 

“An IRA virgin,”said the biggest one. 

They started laughing, including my daddy, slapping each other on the back. 

My mammy looked away. 

I prayed he would be sick or that he thought it would be too risky, but it all worked as planned. The men burst into the room, no masks, no need, no witnesses. He begged me to stay, clinging onto my arm, and the real party began.  

I stumbled down the stairs, his voice filling the house, contorted, crying, pleading, screaming, calling for a God that couldn’t help him, calling for his mother, calling for me. 

The girl came out of the room. 

“Fuck sake. You can’t leave in this state. If the peelers see you they’ll pick you up. Come in here and have a smoke.” 

The noise of his howls was even worse right above our heads. She turned the stereo up full blast so all we could hear was the thumping on the floor. 

“You’ve never done this before have you?”she said. 

“No.” 

“The first time is always the worst.” 

Colette has been writing for two years but nothing published. She has found a way of letting free the voices and people in her head. Reared in Northern Ireland during The Troubles, a lot of her fiction deals with conflict.