Lifted

Belfast, Aug 9, 1971–4 am

It was the crash of the tumbling front door that woke her. Mairé sat up, two silhouettes are in the bedroom doorway. The hall light beams around them, her breathing shallow and panicky. Patrick, Patrick, PATRICK! Waking, eyes rubbed, Patrick looks at Mairé. “What is it?” The two silhouettes moved quickly towards the bed revealing large automatic rifles. At top voice, a British Soldier is yelling “Put your hands on your heads, put your hands on your heads!” A third soldier — the leader — is now in the room. “Are you Patrick Ó Dowd? Are you Patrick Ó Dowd? “Yes, yes! what is this about, tá cearta agam, ba mhaith liom mo dhlíodóir, I have rights, I want my lawyer!” Patrick says shakily. He reaches out and pushes aside the gun barrel pointed at his wife. The soldier hovering over him laughs. “You have no rights you Fenian scum,” striking him across the head with the butt of the rifle. Blood pours out of Patrick’s nose; his eyes swelling. “Get up, get dressed.” shouts a soldier. Mairé hears the screams and cries of her five children. She rises to help as a mother must. A soldier grabs her by the hair and pulls her to the floor kicking her on the way down. Patrick is up managing a pair of trousers and a white undershirt: now quickly blood-covered. Barefooted, the soldiers leapfrog Patrick down the stairs and out to a waiting Saracen. The extraction took 5 minutes.

Mairé runs to her children. Huddling them, “It’s going to be OK; it’s going to be OK.” She lifts the two-year-old calming her, coddling her. Stroking her head providing an oasis of caring, “I have you Siobhan I have you.” With Siobhan under her arm, Mairé runs to the second-story window looking to the street below. Patrick is surrounded by Royal Ulster Constables while soldiers look on. The RUC push him and kick him from one to the other while laughing at their cruelty. They yell at Patrick: “You fucking taig, you fucking taig! Your Pope cannot help you now can he, you Fenian bastard! Forced to his knees with a series of body blows, Patrick is kicked and punched and then handcuffed to his back. Patrick looks up to see his wife. Their eyes meet. Just then a soldier puts a burlap hood over Patrick’s head. Mairé winces and screams out. “Patrick, Patrick!” Unable to help, hopeless, defenseless, Mairé watches them throw Patrick into the bed of the Saracen onto other bodies. The Saracen drives off at speed.

Father Raymond Murray sits at his table in his study engrossed in his spiritual work. A man of the cloth, Father Murray wears a black cassock and exudes the aura of a man in touch with God. Contemplatively he looks down, a rosary in one hand, he prays in Irish.

Sé do bheath’ a Mhuire, atá lán de ghrásta, tá an Tiarna leat.

Is beannaithe thú idir mná agus is beannaithe toradh do bhruinne losa.

A Naomh Mhuire, a mháthair Dé, guí orainn na peacaithe, anois is ar uair ar mbás……

The 5 am morning sun in Belfast has not yet arrived. It is dark, windy, and the rain is pelting sideways. Mairé carries Siobhan and the other four children closely follow. The wet cobblestone pathway is difficult. Stumbling from time to time, Mairé saves Siobhan over and over from certain danger. The rain buckets to the ground with such effect that it muffles the cries of the children. The wall of the church rises to her left and Mairé stops. Exhausted, breathing heavy, she leans against the church wall looking down then up at the falling rain. “In the name of the Father, in ainm an athar.” With all her might, Mairé hugs the wall walking and stumbling forward to an opening where there is a large oak door.

Bang, bang, bang, she hits the door with her fist and waits, again, bang, bang, bang: nothing. Mairé looks to her children and then up at the sky letting out a scream asking for God’s help. Back to the door, she lowers Siobhan to the ground then with both fists: Bang, Bang, BANG, still nothing. Turning, Mairé leans on the door and slides to the ground. As tears roll down her cheeks, she looks up to her children. Their faces scare her, their faces are those of a child who senses the end of life is near.

Suddenly, the church door opens and it's Father Murray. Looking up over her left shoulder, Mairé is speechless. “Father,” she says, “Father…” Inconsolable, unable to speak, Mairé puts her head in both hands: she cries uncontrollably.

“Child, what’s wrong, child? Here, let me help you, come inside. Looking to the children, Father Murray consoles, “It's Ok children, come out of the cold and rain, come inside.”

Father Murray helps Mairé up.

In the church kitchen, another priest sensing the situation is making tea and looking for biscuits.

“Come, come, sit down.” Father Murray motions and now recognizes Mairé and her children.

“Mairé, what has occurred, where is Patrick?” In tears, shaking, Maire says, “They have taken him Father, they have taken him.” “Who has taken him, what do you mean they took him?” asks Father Murray. “The soldiers, the British soldiers, the RUC, they came in the house, they took him!” Mairé offered. “There must be some kind of a mistake Mairé, Patrick has done nothing wrong.” Shaking her head, Mairé replied, “I told him Father, I told him not to go to those civil rights marches, I knew they would lead to problems.” “I cannot disagree more Mairé, many good Irish Catholics went to those marches, this is a mistake, they were peaceful, Patrick is a man of peace.”

The other priest gives the children biscuits and towels so they can dry themselves from the rain of their journey to the church. BANG, BANG, BANG! There is another loud knock on the Church door. Father Murray looks to the priest worried, “I will go, it could be the British or the RUC special branch. Stay here and keep Marié and the children safe. If you hear me telling them not to enter, take Mairé and the children out the other side door to my residence. They will be safer there. Father Murray makes his way to the door and opens it. There, in the rain, several women stand, their children are huddled around them. “Oh, my Lord, please come in, come in quickly.” Father Murray exclaims.

In the next hours, the Church is filled with women and children all with the same stories, all needing help, and comfort. Father Murray and the priest are overwhelmed.

Looking to the priest Father Murray says, “I must call the authorities, this is not right. Something has happened, something is wrong.”

Father Murray sits at his desk in his office. It is quiet. The sound of the ticking clock on the wall is the only sound he hears. He looks through his rolodex. “Ah, here it is,” “he mutters to himself. Dialing, the quick rings are answered. Father Murray jumps in. “Hello? Is this the Chief Constable?” “Who is this? Who is this?” asks the voice. “It’s Father Murray, I wish to speak to the Chief Constable.” There is silence on the phone. “Hello? Hello? are you there, is there someone still there…HELLO?” Then, “This is Special Branch Detective Thompson, how can I help you Father.” “I am calling because something is wrong, have men been arrested, a lot of men……what is going on?” Detective Thompson hesitates, “Father this is no concern of yours, these arrests are clearing the streets of terrorists and murders.” Incredulous, Father Murray replies, “Murderers? Terrorists? I cannot disagree more, these are Irish men, citizens of this country who have done nothing wrong. It is illegal to break into houses and take them in the middle of the night. Who can I talk to, where is the Chief Constable?” “He is busy Father,” Detective Thompson offered. “I will let him know you called.” Leaving Father Murray to his own voice Detective Thompson hangs up the phone. “Hello, hello…are you there, hello, please put on the Chief Constable, HELLO?”

The North of Ireland County Armagh Cathedral is the seat of the Catholic Church in Ireland. A television is on in the office of Cardinal Conway, the Primate of Ireland. Cardinal Conway is sitting with his priests, one of which is Father Murray: it is 9 am. They are relating stories and then, they all lean in. The BBC news starts with footage of Irish Catholic neighborhoods burning because of loyalist pogroms. The Potemkin backdrop provides cover for the Prime Minister of Northern Ireland — Brian Faulkner. After four minutes of burning Catholic neighborhoods, he speaks: “Every means has been tried to make terrorists amenable to the law, nor have such methods been without success, because a substantial number of the most prominent leaders of the IRA are now serving prison sentences but the terrorist campaign continues at an unacceptable level, and I have to conclude that ordinary law cannot comprehensively deal with the issue. I have decided, along with Her Majesty’s Government to arrest and detain citizens under internment.” Father Murray speaks over the Prime Minister, “Cardinal, this is not true, they have innocent men, these are civil rights marchers, civil rights leaders, we estimate they have lifted 300 men — innocent men.” “Sectarian bigotry drives a hard bargain Father Murray.” Cardinal Conway offered. He went on, “The darkness of this state is now laid bare for all to see. We must, in a robust and firm way, assist our Irish men and women the best way we can. We need to find these men — these innocent men need to be reunited with their families.” “Is it true they only arrested Irish Catholic men Cardinal?” said another Priest. Cardinal Conway looks at the group. “It is so, it is true, that despite the sectarian killings of Catholic men and women, the burning of our neighborhoods by agents of this government, numerous loyalist bombings, the arrests are indeed those of a sectarian motivated government. They target specifically those who dare to challenge this state for the right to basic dignity and God-given human rights. Let us gather information, make a case book, I will contact Dublin and later today I shall speak to the media.”

“We need to have some time to pay rent, they took Patrick,” said Mairé. The Protestant landlord on the phone is sympathetic yet, “I understand your situation Mairé, but the rent is due when it is due: perhaps going on those marches was foolhardy. You people have been given enough. Better to have two birds in one hand as they say. I am going to also have to levy you for the damaged door.” Mairé angrily hangs up the phone. She walks to the front door to inspect the damage: the door hangs on one hinge. Then, a voice in the distance calls out. “Mairé! Mairé.” It is Father Murray. “Dia Duit Father, comas tá tú, have you news?” Mairé asks. Father Murray walks to the front door, he looks at it and then at Mairé. “I found him Mairé, it took many phone calls, but I finally found Patrick. He is in Crumlin Road jail; we can see him in two weeks”

The security is tight. Rolls of barbed wire are interconnected to a series of wooden crosses up and down the street. As Mairé and Father Murray drive up the street, they zig zag to and fro. Soldiers with heavy weapons look at them, pointing rifles, yelling sectarian slurs. Inside, the RUC greets Father Murray and Mairé. The black-uniformed RUC are harsh and relenting. “Father, here to see another piece of scum from your Fenian flock?” says the RUC jailer. Mairé starts in, “He is…” Interrupting, Father Murray says, “Its’ Ok Mairé.” Turning to the jailer Father Murray goes on, “We are here by appointment, we are here today to see Mr. Patrick Ó Dowd.” The jailer opens his book. “Let us see…no, no, hmm…no, I am afraid not Father, no Patrick Ó Dowd here. You have the wrong jail. Try the ship Maidstone, it's full of your terrorist friends, or try the army.” “Are you sure, I made the appointment two weeks ago, I was told he was here,” said Father Murray. “Let me look again,” said the jailer. “No Father, no, he is not here, maybe has been moved.” “Where is he, can you tell us?” asked Father Murray. “No, and we are done here.” said the jailer. Closing his book with a loud thump, the jailer stands up, “Guards, guards, escort them out.” Devastated Mairé turns to the jailer. “You have an innocent man, you have taken away a father of five, you…you have my husband…you…” Interrupting, aggressive, the jailer looks at Mairé, “Perhaps you should stop breeding like rabbits.” Father Murray takes Mairé by the arm quickly ushering her away from the danger.

“Father Murray is that you. Father Murray?” a familiar voice is heard in the corridor. Smiling for the first time, Father Murray turns, “Reverend Wilson, how are you?” “I am fine Raymond, what brings you to this jail today?” Looking at the jailer, Father Murray — quietly, “Jim, I am helping this poor woman find her husband. The rent is due, and there is no food for the table, there are five children. It’s a matter of urgency, a matter of the highest order that we find him and get him released.” Reverend Wilson looks at Father Murray confused, “Then, why are you leaving empty-handed?” “A problem with the jailer Jim, they say he is not hear.” The watching jailer stands up threatening to walk over to the three of them. Sensing trouble, Reverend Wilson quickly asks, “What’s his name?” Father Murray quickly, and looking at the jailer says, “Patrick Ó Dowd.” “I will call you later Jim, leave your problem with me and I will see what can be done.” Reverend Wilson says goodbye to his friend.

Father Murray pulls the car to the front of Mairé’s house. “We will find him Mairé, I will work on it tonight. With God’s help we will find him.” Mairé waves goodbye as he drives off. Just then, another car pulls in front of the house. An RUC Special Branch man emerges. “Are you Mairé O’Dowd?” “Why?” Mairé asks. “What do you want?” “I want to talk to your son, your son Stephen, is he in?” Panicking, Mairé looks past the Special Branch man to see Father Murray disappear down the street. She is alone. “Well?” said the Special Branch Man, “Where is he?” “I don’t know, he could be at practice he plays hurling, yes, I think he might be there,” Mairé said. In a menacing manner, the Special branch man says, “You do know that Gaelic sport is a front for the IRA, don’t you? These are not sports clubs; they are terrorist training camps!” I want to look in your house, “Let's go!” The Special Branch man grabs Mairé by the arm. She tries to pull away. Just then, a car pulls up to the house: it is Father Murray. “Well, well, what is going on here?” says Father Murray to the Special Branch man. “Nothing to concern you Father.” reply’s the special Branch Man. “I’ll be the judge of that,” said Father Murray. He went on, “What is your name, I will report this illegal activity to the proper authorities, to the media, and all who will listen. Tell me your name so I can make you famous!” The Special Branch man jumps into his car. Rolling down the window he yells, “I’ll be back for the boy, I’ll be back.”

Mairé crumbles to the ground. Her voice quivering, “Father, I can’t go on, I can’t go on. The intimidation, we’ve no money, soon no house…what can I do, what can I do?”

Crouched and holding Mairé in his arms, Father Murray says, “Let us pray for a miracle Mairé, let us pray to your namesake together.” Holding his rosary, Mairé and Father Murray pray.

“Sé do bheath’ a Mhuire, atá lán de ghrásta, tá an Tiarna leat.

Is beannaithe thú idir mná agus is beannaithe toradh do bhruinne losa, A Naomh Mhuire, a mháthair Dé, guí orainn na peacaithe, anois is ar uair ar mbás……”

Hearing a sound, Father Murray looks up over Mairé’s head.

He walks towards them limping, unrecognizable. His beard is full, but not long enough to hide the brutality on his face. He holds his badly bruised arm close to his body. It hurts too much when it moves.

“Mairé, Mairé?” says the battered man. Mairé turns around from her prayer. Looking for what seemed like an eternity, Marié slowly stands up. Finally, she recognizes who the man is.

“Patrick, Patrick, PATRICK!” Whimpering, tearful, Mairé runs to her husband. Putting her arms around him, Patrick winces. “Mairé, Mairé, I love you so much, I love you so much.” Maire looking into Patrick’s eyes, tears streaming, “Is breá liom tú, Patrick, Is breá liom tú.

Father Murray beams. Looking up to the heavens and then to Patrick and Mairé, he opens the car door, closes it, and drives off.