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Derrys daughter

The Ledger and the Lipstick

The following morning, the Quinn household was a cacophony of missing socks and burnt toast. Joe sat at the head of the table, nursing a mug of tea and looking at Gerry with a level of disdain usually reserved for people who kicked puppies.

"I’m telling you, Joe, the radiator is making a whistling sound," Gerry said, his voice weary. "It’s not a ghost. It’s air in the pipes."

"It’s a British whistling sound, that’s what it is," Joe snapped. "A Protestant whistle. They’ve bugged the plumbing, Gerry. They’re listening to us brush our teeth."

Mave sat quietly between them, systematically buttering a piece of toast. Her hands were steady today, though the skin on her knuckles was raw from where she’d scraped them against the brickwork on Chamberlain Street. Across from her, Erin was having a meltdown of epic proportions involving a rogue pimple on her chin.

"It’s the end, Mave. It’s the literal end of my social standing," Erin wailed, poking at her face in a handheld mirror. "I look like a cyclops. A teenage, Irish, Catholic cyclops. How am I supposed to walk into Our Lady Immaculate with this? Sister Michael will smell the weakness on me."

"It’s a spot, Erin," Mave said, taking a bite of toast. "The British Army is currently occupying the Bogside, and you’re worried about a blocked pore."

"It’s not just a pore! It’s a statement!" Erin cried. "It says 'I have no self-control when it comes to greasy chips.' It’s a betrayal of my own face!"

Orla wandered in, wearing her school blazer over her pajamas and holding a sub-machine gun made entirely of lollipop sticks. "I think it looks like a little star, Erin. Like you’ve been chosen by the heavens."

"See? Orla gets the celestial weight of it," Erin huffed.

The front door slammed, and Michelle and James burst in. Michelle looked particularly energized, her hair a chaotic halo of curls. James, as usual, looked like he was expecting to be hit by a stray brick at any moment.

"Right, losers, listen up," Michelle announced, leaning over the table to steal a piece of Mave’s toast. "Big news. Huge. Massive. The protest Mave mentioned? The one for the hunger strikers? It’s turning into a proper march. And I’ve heard from a very reliable source—my cousin Eoin, who’s a total ride—that there’s going to be a press crew there. From Sky News."

Erin’s eyes widened, the pimple momentarily forgotten. "Sky News? Like... international television?"

"Exactly," Michelle said, grinning. "We get ourselves to the front, we look sufficiently oppressed but also incredibly stylish, and boom. We’re the faces of the struggle. I’m thinking of wearing my leather jacket. Nothing says 'political unrest' like a bit of cowhide."

"We can’t go to a march!" James squeaked. "It’s dangerous! There’ll be rubber bullets! And tear gas! My skin is very sensitive to chemical agents, Michelle, I’ve told you this!"

"Oh, shut up, you English prick," Joe shouted from the head of the table. "A bit of gas would do you good. Clear out your sinuses. Might make you sound less like you’ve got a peg on your nose."

Mave felt a cold weight settle in her stomach. She knew about the march. She knew more than Michelle’s "source." She knew that the Derry Brigade was planning to use the cover of the crowd to move several units into position near the city walls. It wasn't just a photo op; it was a tactical diversion.

"I don't think you lot should go," Mave said, her voice carefully neutral.

Erin turned to her, offended. "And why not? Because you’ve got a monopoly on being 'grim and political' now? I have just as much right to be outraged by the British government as you do, Mave. More, actually, because I have a much more expressive face for the cameras."

"It’s not about your face, Erin," Mave sighed. "It’s going to be heavy. The paratroopers are on edge."

"We’re going," Erin declared, standing up with a flourish. "It’s my duty as a writer. I need to witness the suffering of my people. I’ll bring my notebook. I’ll call the piece 'The Heaving Bosom of Liberty.'"

"That sounds like a knocker-shop, Erin," Michelle pointed out.

"It’s a metaphor!"

As the group descended into their usual bickering, Mary walked in, pointing a wooden spoon at them. "I don’t want any of you near that march. Do you hear me? It’ll turn into a riot before the first hymn is finished. I’ll not have my children coming home in the back of a police van."

"But Mam!" Erin protested. "The cameras!"

"I don't care if the Pope himself is there with a Polaroid! You’re going to school, and you’re coming straight home. Except for you, Mave. You’ve got that extra history tutoring, haven't you?"

Mave nodded. "Yes, Mam. Mr. Henderson is very strict about the timeline of the Home Rule movement."

It was a lie that tasted like copper in her mouth. Mr. Henderson didn't exist. "History tutoring" was the code for her meeting at the safe house on Waterloo Street.

***

The afternoon was grey and heavy, the sky the color of a wet sidewalk. Mave walked away from the school gates, her schoolbag heavy with a hidden short-wave radio she’d been instructed to deliver. She could hear the distant sound of chanting and the rhythmic drumming of plastic bin lids against the pavement—the heartbeat of Derry in revolt.

She turned into a narrow alleyway, checking behind her. She wasn't being followed by soldiers, but she felt a strange prickle on the back of her neck.

"Mave!"

She jumped, her hand instinctively flying to the strap of her bag. James was standing at the mouth of the alley, looking deeply uncomfortable.

"What are you doing here, James?" she hissed. "You’re supposed to be with the girls."

"I... I followed you," James said, his voice trembling. "I saw you turn the wrong way for the library. And you’ve been acting... weird, Mave. Even for a Quinn."

Mave stepped toward him, her eyes narrowing. She had to be careful. James was a soft target, but he wasn't stupid. "Go back to the others, James. I’m just taking a shortcut."

"A shortcut to the Bogside? During a riot?" James shook his head, his face pale. "I saw you last night, Mave. I was looking out the window when you came in the back door. You weren't at a committee meeting. You looked like... like you’d seen a ghost."

Mave felt a surge of panic, followed by a cold, hard clarity. She reached out and grabbed James by the collar of his blazer, pulling him deeper into the shadows of the alley.

"Listen to me, you English idiot," she whispered, her voice like a knife. "You haven't seen anything. You don't know anything. If you breathe a word of this to Erin, or my Mam, or anyone, you’re not just putting me in danger. You’re putting this whole house in the firing line. Do you understand?"

James stared at her, his eyes wide. He looked at the girl he’d known for months—the quiet twin, the sensible one—and saw someone else entirely. "Mave... what are you doing?"

"I’m doing what has to be done," she said, releasing him. "Now go. Find Michelle and the others. Keep them away from the front of the march. If things go south, get them into the chemist on the corner. It’s got a reinforced door."

"Mave—"

"Go!"

James scrambled away, looking back once with an expression of pure terror. Mave took a deep breath, smoothing her hair. She couldn't afford a weakness like James, but she couldn't silence him either. She just had to hope his fear of her was greater than his urge to gossip.

She reached the safe house five minutes late. Seamus was there, along with a woman named Roisin whose husband was currently in Long Kesh. The room smelled of stale cigarettes and damp wallpaper.

"The radio?" Seamus asked.

Mave pulled it from her bag and set it on the scarred wooden table. "The checkpoints are tighter today. They’re searching bags near the Diamond."

"Good work," Seamus said, checking the dials. "The march starts in twenty minutes. We need you on the perimeter. If you see the RUC moving in with the water cannons, you signal the boys in the flats. Use the mirror trick."

"Understood," Mave said.

"Mave," Roisin said, her voice soft. "Your sister is out there. I saw her with that loud girl and the wee English fella. They’re right at the barricade."

Mave’s heart skipped a beat. "I told them to stay back."

"You know Erin," Roisin said with a grim smile. "She wants to be where the noise is."

Mave felt a flash of white-hot anger. Erin was going to get herself killed for a poem and a spot on the evening news.

"I’ll handle it," Mave said, turning for the door.

***

The atmosphere at Free Derry Corner was electric. Thousands of people had gathered, a sea of wool coats, flat caps, and homemade placards. The air was thick with the scent of coal smoke and anticipation.

Mave moved through the crowd like a shark through water. She saw the soldiers on the walls, their silhouettes sharp against the grey sky. They looked like statues, but Mave knew they were watching through telescopic sights.

She spotted them near the front, just as Roisin had said. Erin was standing on a plastic crate, holding a sign that read 'FREEDOM IS A HUMAN RIGHT' in very elaborate, curly calligraphy. Michelle was shouting insults at a line of police officers, and Clare looked like she was on the verge of a cardiac arrest, clutching her inhaler like a holy relic.

"Erin! Get down from there!" Mave shouted, shoving her way through the press of bodies.

Erin looked down, her face lighting up. "Mave! You made it! Look, the man with the camera—he’s from the BBC! I think he got a shot of my good side!"

"Erin, listen to me," Mave said, grabbing her sister’s arm and pulling her off the crate. "You need to move back. Now. It’s not safe."

"Don't be such a buzzkill, Mave!" Michelle yelled over the noise of the chanting. "We’re making history! The atmosphere is crackling! It’s better than a disco!"

"It’s not a disco, Michelle, it’s a powder keg!" Mave roared.

At that moment, the first stone was thrown. It sailed through the air in a long, graceful arc, smashing against a police shield with a loud *clack*.

The peace, such as it was, shattered instantly.

A roar went up from the crowd. From behind the police lines, a canister of tear gas hissed into life, spinning across the pavement and spewing thick, acrid white smoke.

"Oh my god! We’re being gassed! I’m too young to be gassed!" Clare screamed, her voice lost in the sudden chaos.

"Get to the chemist!" Mave shouted, shoving James toward the girls. "Go! Now!"

The crowd surged. People were screaming, coughing, and tripping over one another. Mave felt the familiar rush of adrenaline—the cold, sharp focus that came when the world turned to fire. She saw a group of young men in balaclavas appearing from an alleyway, bricks in hand.

She caught Erin’s eye. Her sister looked terrified, the bravado stripped away in an instant. Erin wasn't a revolutionary; she was a girl who liked headbands and David Donnelly, and she was currently staring down the barrel of a riot.

"James, take them!" Mave commanded.

James, to his credit, grabbed Erin and Clare by the elbows and started hauling them through the smoke. Michelle followed, still shouting defiance but looking significantly paler.

Mave didn't follow them. She turned back toward the wall. She saw the signal—a flash of light from a window in the Rossville Flats. It was time.

She reached into her jacket and pulled out a small, silver hand-mirror. She caught the dull afternoon light and angled it toward the flats. Three short flashes. One long.

*The path is clear. Move.*

As she tucked the mirror away, she felt a hand on her shoulder. She spun around, ready to strike, but stopped.

It was a soldier. Not one of the young ones from the night before, but an older man with a face like granite. He looked at her, then at the mirror in her hand.

"What are you doing, girl?" he growled, his hand tightening on her arm.

Mave didn't hesitate. She went into the routine. "I was just... I was looking for my sister! I lost her in the smoke! I was trying to use the mirror to see over the crowd!"

The soldier looked at the mirror, then back at her. He didn't look convinced. "The mirror was pointed at the flats, love. Not the crowd."

"I don't know what you’re talking about!" Mave cried, her voice rising in a perfect imitation of Erin’s dramatic pitch. "I’m just a student! I have a history exam on Monday! Please, I just want to go home to my Mam!"

The soldier opened his mouth to speak, but a sudden explosion of sound—a nail bomb going off three streets over—distracted him. He flinched, his grip loosening for a fraction of a second.

Mave didn't wait. She twisted out of his grasp and dived into the thickest part of the tear gas cloud. She knew these streets better than any map-maker in London. She navigated by the feel of the walls and the slope of the ground.

She emerged two blocks away, coughing and wiping her streaming eyes. Her lungs burned, and her heart was hammering a frantic rhythm against her ribs.

She made it to the chemist just as the owner was pulling down the shutters.

"Wait!" she gasped.

The door opened a crack, and she slipped inside. The air was thick with the smell of antiseptic and cheap perfume. In the back of the shop, she saw them.

Erin was sitting on a stool, her face streaked with soot and tears. Clare was breathing into a paper bag, and Michelle was trying to fix her hair in a display of lipstick testers. James was standing guard by the door, looking like he’d aged ten years in ten minutes.

Erin looked up as Mave approached. "Mave... you’re okay."

Mave sat down on the floor next to her sister, her legs finally giving out. "I’m fine, Erin. I told you it would be heavy."

Erin leaned her head on Mave’s shoulder. She smelled of smoke and fear. "It wasn't like the poems, Mave. It wasn't poetic at all. It was just... loud. And everyone was so angry."

Mave wrapped an arm around her twin. She felt the weight of the secrets she was carrying, a burden that felt heavier than the rucksack of detonators or the radio.

"I know," Mave whispered. "I know it was."

"I don't want to be a woman of mystery anymore," Erin sobbed quietly. "I just want to go home and have a cup of tea and watch *Top of the Pops*."

"We’ll go home," Mave promised. "As soon as the streets are quiet."

Mave looked over at James. He was watching her, his expression unreadable. He knew. He didn't know the details, but he knew the truth of what she was.

She met his gaze and gave a tiny, almost imperceptible nod.

James looked away, staring out the window at the chaos outside. He didn't say a word.

An hour later, they walked back to the Quinn house. The streets were a graveyard of spent canisters and broken glass. The British Army Saracens were still prowling, their engines a low, constant growl in the twilight.

When they walked through the front door, Mary was waiting for them, her face white with fury and relief.

"Where have you been?" she screamed, throwing her arms around Erin and Mave simultaneously. "I’ve been out of my mind! The news said there were bombs! I thought you were dead! I thought I’d lost the lot of you!"

"We’re fine, Mary, honestly," Michelle said, though her voice lacked its usual bravado. "Just a bit of a dusty afternoon."

"Dusty? You look like you’ve been down a coal mine!" Joe shouted, coming out of the living room. "Gerry, get the kettle on! They’re freezing!"

As the house erupted into its usual chaos—Mary lecturing them on safety, Sarah complaining that the riot had probably canceled her hair appointment, and Orla trying to see if she could melt a plastic soldier on the radiator—Mave slipped away to the kitchen.

She stood by the sink, washing the soot from her hands. The water ran grey, then clear.

She looked out the window at the Derry skyline. The fires were still burning in the Bogside, orange flickers against the dark. Somewhere out there, Seamus and the others were moving the gear she had helped coordinate.

She felt a presence behind her. It was Erin.

"Mave?"

"Yeah?"

Erin stood beside her, looking at their reflection in the darkened window. For a moment, they looked exactly the same. Two sisters, two halves of a whole.

"You’re not really going to the library, are you?" Erin asked softly.

Mave froze, the soap suds drying on her skin. She looked at her sister’s reflection. Erin wasn't being dramatic. She wasn't being a "literary enigma." She was just a girl looking for her twin.

"I’m doing what I have to do to keep us safe, Erin," Mave said, her voice barely a whisper.

Erin was silent for a long time. She reached out and took Mave’s hand, her grip tight.

"Just... don't leave me behind," Erin said. "I don't care about the poems or the fame. Just don't let the war take you away."

Mave squeezed her hand back. "I’m not going anywhere."

But as she looked out at the burning city, Mave Quinn knew that she was already gone. She was a ghost in her own home, a soldier in a dress, waiting for the next password, the next drop, the next night when the dawn would finally come.

"Mave! Erin!" Mary shouted from the hallway. "The tea is out! And if either of you mentions that march again, I’ll personally hand you over to the RUC!"

"Coming, Mam!" Mave called back.

She dried her hands, put on her best 'sensible twin' smile, and walked back into the light.