Exit Unicorns (Exit Unicorns Series) by Brandner Cindy

Author:Brandner, Cindy [Brandner, Cindy]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Starry Night Press
Published: 2000-12-01T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter Seventeen

The Water Under the Bridge

When approached with the notion that his brother was about to embark on yet another civil rights march, with the bruises and contusions of the previous one still in recent memory, Casey ventured the thought that Pat might very well have gone stark raving mad.

“If yer completely intent on killin’ yerself in this manner, there isn’t much I can do to stop ye. Ye’ve no need for anyone’s permission but if ye want my approval an’ support I’m not inclined to give it. It’ll be a bloodbath, the police won’t protect ye an’ the Paisleyites are gonna see to it that ye pay for yer cheek. It’s sheer madness.”

Three days into it Pat was inclined to agree with his brother’s less than charitable summation of the event. Things had started out mildly enough, some twenty-five of them gathered at City Hall on New Year’s morning, under the blankly haughty gaze of Queen Victoria, stamping chilled hands and feet, full of youthful fire and an uncompromising zeal to remember their goals and stick to a program of non-violence. To break beyond the boundaries of religious hatreds and show that they marched for the rights of all oppressed be they Catholic or Protestant. Their objectives were clear, simple and to the point—one man—one job, one family—one house, one man—one vote and a repeal of medieval repressive laws. In the three days it had taken to get from Belfast to Claudy, however, it had lost some of its straight edges and clear-eyed values. The lot of them had been kicked, punched, cursed, called a variety of inventive invectives plus all the old standbys: teague, taig, Fenian bastard and so forth. They’d been detoured off the original route three times, ‘for their own safety’ the police had sternly said, only to be led like lambs to the slaughter straight into an ambush. Everyone was exhausted and jittery from the tension. And today was likely to be the worst day of all. Today they were headed for the gates of Derry but first they had to cross Burntollet Bridge, where trouble, on a larger scale than what they’d thus far experienced, was expected. To further complicate matters, Pamela had decided to come with him and he’d felt a compulsion to keep an eye out for her. He’d also, since the Derry march, become, rather unwillingly, a sort of unofficial spokesperson for the civil rights movement.

On this last morning he stood, clutching a mug of lukewarm tea, wishing for something stronger to clear his head and tried to gather his thoughts into a stream of coherency. Pamela, yawning, sat cross-legged on the ground, rolling her own cup of tea between her hands trying to get the last of its warmth. In front of them the morning’s initial speaker was just wrapping up his pep talk for the day and Michael Farrell, generally acknowledged as one of the organizers and leaders, was giving Pat the nod to get on deck. Pat sighed, felt Pamela give his leg a nudge of reassurance and stepped forward.

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