‘I need the 32 Counties Bar on the Falls Road. You going near?’
The broad accent Michael used surprised Sarah for just a moment. Then she remembered the importance of appearing local, to avoid attracting attention. While justified, it did not make the change from soft brogue to ‘street’ Belfast any easier on the ear.
‘No problem, big man. Jump in.’
The driver’s real voice was as heavy as Michael’s false one. It made the charade even clearer.
Sarah and Michael climbed into the rear of the taxi. A passenger was already inside. Sarah was shocked for a moment, before remembering Michael’s explanation of how black cabs operated in Belfast.
Unlike taxis in London and pretty much everywhere else, Ulster cabs did not just go where the passenger asked. Instead the drivers would place a placard on their dashboard, stating the direction in which they were travelling. Any passenger going that way could jump in but they would rarely enjoy an empty cab. The system only worked if the driver picked up as many passengers as possible.
‘You’ve been in the wars, son.’
The third passenger was a woman, elderly, with more bags at her feet than someone of her size could carry. Her attention was focused on Michael’s facial injuries. Sarah had purchased a cheap black polo shirt to replace the ripped and bloodstained t-shirt from the night before. But there was little she could do to disguise the damage on his face.
‘Oh, that’s nothing,’ Michael replied, sounding light-hearted. ‘Just an accident playing hurling.’
‘Ah, that’s a rough game. What’s a handsome boy like you doing playing that?’
‘Glutton for punishment I guess! So are you heading home?’
Michael’s feigned interest in the passenger’s life and family – and the skilful way in which he deflected questions about his own – made sure that when their fellow passenger later remembered her cab companion, her mind would give no thought to his cuts and bruises.
They reached her home first. Michael helped her inside with her bags. After their conversation it would have seemed strange not to offer. He then returned to the cab, climbed in and forced a smile at Sarah.
Sarah had not spoken at all since taking the cab. This made sense. Just as Michael was speaking with a long-lost accent to blend in, so Sarah had avoided the attention her American tones could draw. But now they were alone and still Sarah did not speak.
‘Are you OK?’
Michael had waited a further two minutes before breaking the silence.
Sarah looked at him, meeting his gaze. It was as if she had not registered the question, just the sound. It did not surprise her; she was still caught up in her mixed emotions towards the man beside her.
‘I’m fine.’
Sarah did not want Michael to know her thoughts. She looked around, searching for a change of subject.
‘I was just, just distracted by the painting on the streets. On the sidewalks.’
It wouldn’t take Michael’s forensic mind to see through the diversion. But if he knew what was concerning her he did not show it. Instead he played along.
‘Have you never seen pictures of the Falls Road?’
He followed Sarah’s eyes to the colourful kerbstones they were passing.
‘No,’ Sarah replied. ‘And I don’t get it. Why are they painted those colours?’
‘Because this is a Catholic area. Very Catholic. Which makes it Republican. The kerbstones are painted the colours of Ireland’s flag, alternating green, white and gold. It’s the locals’ way of saying that they don’t regard themselves as British. That Northern Ireland and the Republic of Ireland are one country.’
‘That’s a pretty powerful statement,’ Sarah replied, now genuinely interested. ‘What about the other side? Don’t they complain?’
Michael laughed at the question. It was a genuine reaction. It lightened the mood.
‘Complaining isn’t really their style, Sarah. The pen might be mightier than the sword, but a car bomb trumps them both. Besides, they can’t complain when they do exactly the same thing. The kerbstones on the next street are all painted red, white and blue!’
‘Are you serious? You mean this street is Republican and the next one’s Unionist? But they’re so close!’
‘Belfast isn’t a big place. The two sides live on top of one another. That’s why things got so bloody.’
Sarah fell back into silence. A more comfortable one this time.
The street passed by as they drove the last mile of the Falls Road, which stretched away from the centre of Belfast. Sarah had heard of the place, of course, but only now did she realise that it was a literal stone’s throw from its Protestant/Loyalist opposite, the Shankill Road.
‘How far to go?’
‘Five minutes in this traffic,’ Michael replied.
‘Are you ready to see him?’
‘No. But I probably never will be, so we might as well get it over with.’