Be warned! Stones Corner Turmoil is a gruelling read! It's harsh but importantly truthful and objective. If you love a terrific thriller with individual stories that form a cataclysmic ending then this book is for you! Derry, Northern Ireland in the 1970s is not a peaceful place, but young, Catholic, Caitlin McLaughlin, like most people her age the world over, just want to have an ordinary, normal, maybe even fun life. This is easier said when bombs go off regularly, where you least expect them, maiming or killing friends, and soldiers keep ransacking homes in search of Irish terrorists. This probably isnât a time to be dating anyone who isnât from the exact same background, class, religion, culture, and side of town. But what if you or someone you know happens to fall for the wrong guy? In a reality where individuals â even British soldiers â are getting abducted and gleefully tortured to death for fraternizing outside strictly defined lines, forming new relationships is a dangerous businessâwhether the person youâre interested in happens to be a new Protestant boss who is decidedly from the other, richer side of the tracks, or a young, hip, local, impassioned, invincible-seeming Republican activist.
Be warned! Stones Corner Turmoil is a gruelling read! It's harsh but importantly truthful and objective. If you love a terrific thriller with individual stories that form a cataclysmic ending then this book is for you! Derry, Northern Ireland in the 1970s is not a peaceful place, but young, Catholic, Caitlin McLaughlin, like most people her age the world over, just want to have an ordinary, normal, maybe even fun life. This is easier said when bombs go off regularly, where you least expect them, maiming or killing friends, and soldiers keep ransacking homes in search of Irish terrorists. This probably isnât a time to be dating anyone who isnât from the exact same background, class, religion, culture, and side of town. But what if you or someone you know happens to fall for the wrong guy? In a reality where individuals â even British soldiers â are getting abducted and gleefully tortured to death for fraternizing outside strictly defined lines, forming new relationships is a dangerous businessâwhether the person youâre interested in happens to be a new Protestant boss who is decidedly from the other, richer side of the tracks, or a young, hip, local, impassioned, invincible-seeming Republican activist.
They were hyper.. almost manic. All day theyâd sat through briefing after briefing. Finally, it was time. They agreed, enough was enough. A few secret vodka shots added to their exhilaration as they prepared to leave the barracks. All with their faces disguised by camouflage paint, some of the men climbed into Saracens or Centurions, others went on foot, fighting to hold onto their berets as they filtered past three lit-up stationary RAF Wessex helicopters. The ear-splitting din of their whirling blades sounding as impatient for action as the men themselves. The promise of air cover was reassuring. Tonight was likely to get messy and the soldiers welcomed any backup they were offered. After Bloody Sunday and Operation Carcan â the largest British military initiative since Suez in 1956 â theyâd taken shit from every direction. Well, theyâd had enough. Tonight was payback. They were ready. Fuck were they ever. For Queen and Country!
Warning shouts were heard as the illuminated giants â resembling monstrous dragonflies â eagerly took off, one after the other, powering through squalls of rain towards the west of the city. The remaining men and vehicles followed in haste.
Within minutes, the line of flying predators reached their destination and hovered menacingly for a moment before descending, lower and lower, upon the streets of back-to-back terrace houses. The downdraught from the whirling blades rattled doors and windows in their frames. The few working streetlights struggled to stay intact against the battering they received. Steel rubbish bins clattered and scraped over tarmac as they and their contents were blown about the pathways. Almost immediately as the din started, the streetâs occupants began to wake in terror, struggling from sleep one after the other to lurch out of bed and switch on the lights.
Nineteen-year-old Caitlin McLaughlin was luckier than most, not snatched from sleep but already lying restless and awake in her single bed. Against the bitter chill in the barely heated house, she lay with her legs bent up against her chest and her arms clasped around them, shivering beneath the doubled over blanket. She couldnât sleep for worrying about her brother Martin, wondering where he was and, more importantly, if he was safe. Heâd been arrested recently and the family had heard nothing.
At first, she wasnât quite sure what was causing the din overhead, but quickly recognised the sound â a helicopter and it was right above the house. The noise and the buffeting sensation became overwhelming as the roof tiles and windows shook and rattled in protest. Caitlin clapped her hands over her ears against the relentless assault. Feeling dazed and disoriented, she sat up and pulled back the thin floral-print curtains to look down upon the chaotic scene in the street.
A predatory searchlight shone menacingly through her window. Its beam quickly scanned up and down her bedroom walls, over her bed, and stopped when it reached her. She defiantly tightened the cardigan she wore over her nightdress as she glared and challenged it. The light remained fixed on her for a few short moments until â as if disappointed in its find â it mercifully moved on. The room fell still, but Caitlin could hear the frantic voices of terrified women and children screaming from the houses that backed on to their street and the sickening squeal of tyres along with male voices raised intimidatingly. Her heart hammered with fear as she watched the dimly lit road swarm with soldiers and police. Army Saracens and jeeps, lit up with powerful spotlights, sped erratically along the narrow road, stopping at random to park halfway across the pavements. More and more armed men clambered out of the vehicles â some running to take cover and observe, whilst others filed purposefully towards the pebble-dashed houses. A number of policemen struggled to hang on to their over excited German Shepherd dogs, frustrated at being held back and salivating at the end of their leashes. Urgent hand signals passed back and forth between the raiders as they cautiously assessed their surroundings.
In pairs, soldiers strode up garden paths towards front doors. The street dogs barked angrily and snapped ferociously at the heels of the darkly dressed shadows, who violently kicked them away, cursing. Fists hammered against unanswered doors, no sooner followed by the sounds of splintering wood and smashing glass. Loud, confident English voices cried out names from lists brandished in gauntleted hands.
Protective mothers frantically tried to bundle small children under the stairs, for fear of them being trampled underfoot or callously brushed aside by the soldiers forcefully entering their homes. They searched living rooms, kitchens and bedrooms for the men on their lists, leaving a trail of destruction in their wake. Furniture was needlessly toppled over, drawers shaken out and cupboards emptied with the sweep of an arm or the kick of a foot. In their own hallways, shocked and shaking, the women stood in nightclothes and bare feet watching the brutal violation of their homes. Some tried to soothe crying, half-asleep children or wordlessly clutched their babies to them, only to be pushed aside as the gun-wielding troopers continued their onslaught.
In house after house along the street every light began to blaze as more and more front doors were rammed open and dazed men and women hauled pitilessly and roughly from their beds. Many of the screaming wives attempted to snatch their men back from the aggressors but were struck aside mercilessly by batons.
By now Caitlin was shaking with terror. This was the worse sheâd ever seen. She jumped as her younger sister Tina erupted into the room, her fiery red hair bristling and freckled face tight with indignation.
âJesus, Caitlin, youâve got to come,â she said indistinctly, struggling to remove the braces she wore on her teeth. âThe Brits are at it again. Itâs another raid⊠thereâs going to be murder!â
She yanked her braces free and shoved them in the pocket of an old school blazer sheâd pulled on over her pyjamas.
âThe bastards are lifting loads of boys. Iâve just seen them grab wee Joe by the hair. They hammered him and threw him in the back of a Pig. Caitlin, Mammyâs going crazy. Youâd better come, sheâs off on one. Daddyâs in bedâ sure he canât get up.â
âAw, Tina, not again!â Caitlin cried â remembering the night of her brother Martinâs arrest. She rubbed her eyes, still dazzled by its brilliant light, and looked around the room for something warmer to wear against the bitter cold. Seeing her fatherâs heavy Aran jumper lying on the floor â sheâd been wearing it earlier that evening â she quickly pulled her cardigan off and yanked the thick woollen jumper over her head. It reached down to her knees. Without pausing to find any shoes, she pushed Tina out of the door ahead of her.
On the landing they were met by the sight of their wide-eyed, defiant mother, who stood at the top of the staircase, supporting herself against the wall with one hand and the banister with the other. It was clear Majella McLaughlin had been drinking again as she let go of the banister to fumble nervously with the silver crucifix that hung around her neck. She swayed dizzily.
The women simultaneously jumped in fright at the furious knocking below, followed by a rending, smashing sound as their front door was broken down. Within seconds two soldiers in battledress appeared at the bottom of the stairs, looking up at them from features smeared and semi-obliterated with dark paint. They started to climb the staircase as Majella screamed abuse. In the background Caitlin could hear her fatherâs voice raised in panic, demanding to be told what was going on. She froze.
With his leering blackened face and huge clumping boots, the lead soldier was a figure from a nightmare. The sleeves of his camouflaged combat jacket were rolled up slightly and Caitlin glimpsed a flash of red on his forearm â some sort of tattoo. He was clutching the wooden stock of his rifle close to his chest, she could see its white hand-written issue number, and below a baton slung ready for use on a tight green webbed belt.
Unlike his partner behind, who was tall and gangling, he was short and compact, his neck bull-like and bulging with muscle beneath a thin mesh scarf. His naturally protuberant eyes swelled with excitement. Instinctively she sensed danger and a hatred that emanated from his whole being.
Her mother stopped her abusive rant and leaned closer as he approached. With her face just inches from his, she hissed almost triumphantly: âYou stupid bastard, our Martinâs not here. Youâve already got him!â
She lashed out with the full force of her ringed hand and struck him hard on the cheek: âGet the fuck out of my house, you English bastard. Leave us alone. Fuck away off back to wherever you crawled from!â
The soldier didnât bother replying. Using his free arm, he thrust her aside, sending her spinning against the wall where she knocked her head hard. Blood gushed from the wound and streamed down the side of her face. Caitlin rushed to her and examined the injury. It was small but deep; Majellaâs eyes fluttered shut for a moment and when they reopened, she had trouble focusing them as she slid down onto the floor. Caitlin knelt down and looked up to see the soldier touch his face to assess any damage. The rings had cut his cheek and it was bleeding. He stared at the frightened women with his cruel eyes as a malicious smile crossed his face. He said nothing but shook his head in silent reproof. Immediately Caitlin knew things were going to get worse, much worse.
Her father continued to cry out as the soldiers quickly nodded to each other and removed their batons for the ready. The bleeding soldier began to search the upstairs bedrooms while the other stood waiting and watching the women carefully.
âClear!â came a call from Caitlinâs room.
Downstairs the women heard other soldiers joking and laughing. The noise was overwhelming as they worked their way through the McLaughlinâsâ home â intentionally causing as much damage as possible. Caitlin held her motherâs hand and watched the soldier continue to search and walk towards a closed door. Cautiously, he opened it and found a walk-in linen cupboard. With his back to them he roughly searched the shelves, violently throwing the beautifully ironed linen and towels onto the floor. He then deliberately stepped on the pristine laundry, grinding his wet, muddy boots on to it. He looked at Majella and growled.
âBy the way, you mad bitch, weâre not here for your fucking Martin. Weâre here for that husband of yours, Patrick.â
Caitlin stood still in amazement. He was Irish not English! He saw her confusion and nodded his head smirking. Next he strode into Martinâs open bedroom and found its walls adorned with IRA and 1916 Irish Rising posters.
He sniggered. âNice dĂ©cor.â Furiously he tore a number of the posters off the wall, spat on them and left the room.
Finally, he reached her parentsâ room, with Patrick McLaughlin inside. Heâd been there since his sonâs arrest and could barely get out of bed without help. According to the family doctor his heart was very weak, and his sonâs detention had without doubt worsened his condition.
The pair of soldiers made eye contact again and this time they both entered the room. Caitlin frantically looked at her mother, who had pulled herself up to slump back against the landing wall. She was shoeless and wearing a short, well-worn nightdress that had become a little rucked up around her hips. Oblivious to her lack of underwear, she rubbed her throbbing head then stared in surprise at the blood coating her hand.
Caitlin put her hand on her motherâs arm as she stared through the open bedroom door and told her reassuringly, âItâs okay Mammy. Iâm here. Letâs get you up.â
The older woman hung her head dejectedly and began to weep. Her frail body rocked back and forth. Caitlin delicately adjusted her motherâs nightdress to cover her nakedness.
Loud cries and thuds began to emanate from the bedroom as Caitlinâs heart beat wildly. What were they doing! She had to help daddy, but she couldnât leave her mother alone. She looked pleadingly at her sister.
âTina! Help me quick. Help me get Mammy up!â
No chance. Tina was useless and in shock. Her head shook manically from side to side as she grasped the doorframe of Martinâs room as if holding on for dear life.
The loud thuds and screams continued from the bedroom until Majella grabbed Caitlinâs arm, squeezed it and wailed.
âDo something, Caitlin, please! They canât hurt him, love. They canât take him too!â
Caitlin stepped into the bedroom nervously, horrified by the sight that met her eyes. Her father stood, naked and spread-eagled, against the far wall. His hands were raised high above his head, each finger separated and stretched out. He could barely stand as his fragile body shook and spasmed uncontrollably. Under normal circumstances sheâd have been mortified to see his nakedness, but not now. To see him so vulnerable and degraded was truly heart-breaking. With pity and terror overwhelming her, she ran to him, but instead was violently thrown aside by the Irish solider and who, with a face like thunder cried out angrily.
âStand back, you stupid cunt. Donât you fucking go near him!â
He screamed at her again, holding his snarling face only inches from hers. Hatred and disgust coloured his every word.
âWeâll take you too! So back off. NOW!â
Her father wailed at his captors, âJesus Christ, get her out of here, will you! Get her out! I donât want her to see her own father like this!â She could see tears of shame on his drawn face.
Suddenly the soldier raised his baton at Patrick and struck out at his lower back, producing a sickening crunch. He struck again but this time on his legs. Patrick McLaughlin cried out and fell to his knees. Caitlin ran to him but was cruelly stopped as a huge hand wound itself around a hank of her hair. The pain from her torn roots was excruciating until he released her. She screeched in agony and fell down alongside her father. Patrick reached out weakly to comfort her but couldnât.
Speaking for the first time, the tall gangly soldier, pulled his partner back by one arm and cried out: âFuck that, man! That ainât on, leave her be! Weâve got what we need!â
His restraining hand was pushed away as the Irishman stooped down low next to Caitlin and, holding his baton in readiness, commanded: âTell me, you fucking Fenian bitch â before I give you something to cry about! Who else is in the house?â
Caitlin only glowered back and said nothing.
About to strike again his arm was stopped and held mid-way by his furious companion.
âI said enough, Morris! Weâre out of here. NOW!â
For a moment it could have gone either way. Morris finally grunted before lowering his baton grudgingly.
âOkay, okay. I hear you. Fucking wimp!â He got to his feet to leave but before he did, he stood over Caitlin and told her pointedly, âIâll find you again, sweetheart. You can count on it.â
With that he stuck his bloodied fingers in his mouth and sucked them provocatively.
Caitlin shuddered and shrank away but never took her eyes off him as she saw him removing something from a pouch and shake it open. It became a black sack-like hood that he began to roughly place over her fatherâs head. Once more, his furious partner screeched and fought to take the hood away.
âYouâre going too far with this, mate. This is just too fucking far!â
Morris wasnât going to be stopped. Heâd wanted to use this for ages and loved the idea of scaring the shit out of the old man.
âLike hell it is. He fucking deserves it! Get the fuck out of my way and move. It stays on!â
Grabbing his naked prisoner, he forcefully pushed Caitlin aside and prepared to leave. Hooded and naked Patrick could barely walk and within seconds hit his face sickeningly hard against the edge of the door. She gasped and screamed in horror.
âDear God, he canât see where heâs going. At least let him get dressed, give him some dignity! Heâs sick. Please!â She was attempting to free her father when suddenly she felt a searing pain in her head and fell into darkness.
Â
After Bloody Sunday, things are still volatile in Northern Ireland. The British forces in Derry, exhausted from lack of success, are zealous for payback. Private Robert Sallis is in his barracks, trying to understand the hatred with which he and his mates are daily bombarded.
19 year old Caitlin McLaughlin is terrified by the sounds of invading helicopters. The Brits already have her brother Martin, whoâs friendly with the Provos. Now theyâve come, causing as much destruction as possible, for her father Patrick.
A girl is wooed by the fervent Republican Kieran. Kieran convinces her to set up a honeytrap for soldiers.
Caitlin and her sister Tina try to carry on. Caitlin, her face black and blue from the soldiersâ blows, goes to work at the only remaining shirt factory. The bossâs nephew, James Henderson, catches her eye.
Her father has a heart attack in custody, and a neighbour rushes them to the A&E, through aggravating checkpoints and impossible traffic. Thereâs been a bombing, and the A&E is swamped. Her father is badly beaten, unresponsive, and not expected to last the night.
James, in his uncleâs opulent dining room, finishes his partridge dinner, surrounded by Protestant businessmen, politicians and policemen. The factories are threatening a strike against internment. At work, James needs a secretary, and her supervisor suggests Caitlin, warning him that sheâs âa Papistâ.
As he and Caitlin pursue a clandestine love affair, James plans a conference with both sides of the sectarian divide, hoping for a rescue strategy for the factory and peace for Derry.
All these characters interconnect in complex and heart-wrenching ways, finally climaxing at the fateful conference at the City Hotel. Stones Corner-Darkness, Part II of the series, deals with the fallout from this event.
The characters are rich, and the plot moves along at a good pace. The dramatisation is great and the dialogue believable.
My only niggle was that I found Robertâs naĂŻvetĂ© a bit surprising. Surely British troops in Northern Ireland knew precisely what their historic role was. James seems a bit clueless, too. The characters at the extreme ends of the Republican/Orange spectrumâKieran and Charles Jonesâare a bit one-dimensional, but thatâs alright, as all the other characters are well developed.
This novel is gorgeously written, with careful editing. We feel the terror of the raid on Derryâthe down-draught of helicopter blades, the rattling of rooftiles, the salivating German Shepherdsâthe agonising grief at her fatherâs death.
I rate this 5 stars Plus.