for the milk and only one bottle was left, near the back of the cooler at the bottom. She sighed and, taking hold of the handle, got down on one knee. How to bend over far enough to retrieve the bottle was the next question.
She felt someone behind her and turned slightly. It was a woman, young to judge by the fray-cuffed denims she wore. The woman kneeled down behind her, apparently searching the lower shelves for some item.
Pamela had just grasped the cool smooth glass of the milk bottle when she felt it, an inrush of people and a strange silence accompanying them. Her backbone understood before she did and she drew back, glancing up quickly at the mirror in the corner. It was old and had a soft green haze to it but she didn’t need to see any clearer to understand what three men in balaclavas with guns held at waist height meant. She drew back sharply, knocking the milk bottle over in her haste. The noise was covered by the sudden explosion of glass and the spray of an automatic weapon.
She glanced up into the mirror, saw blood, and looked no longer. Mr. Linehan was most assuredly dead and so would she be if she didn’t do something quickly. The storage area was directly to the right hand of the coolers. She grabbed the woman roughly by the arm and pulled her through the door, hoping to God the men were too focused on the till and the man they had just killed to realize the shop hadn’t been entirely empty.
The storeroom was cool and dark and filled with boxes and crates. She pulled the woman in behind the tall stack of crates with Kerry Gold stamped in plain letters on the side. They found themselves in a corner with only one side of their hidey-hole open. Pamela motioned to the woman to stay put, and though she did not acknowledge the flick of fingers, she did move deeper into the shadows.
There were a few spare crates and Pamela thought if she could bring them over and stack them silently, it would made their hiding place far more secure. She held her breath, praying that the crates were empty because there was no way she would be able to move them if they weren’t. They were and she stacked them swiftly, not taking the ones at the bottom for fear it would leave traces if the floor hadn’t been swept in a bit. She slipped back into the space and re-stacked the crates to close off the entryway.
“What—” the woman began, her whisper soft but seeming to carry with the boom of a death knell.
Pamela hissed at her as low as she could. “Sshh.”
She could still hear the men at the front, their boots crunching over the broken glass, but one set of footsteps was coming toward the back of the shop. She had no doubt that if they were found the men would shoot them, for the sin of being a witness and for being Catholic and thus, in South Armagh, considered an IRA sympathizer by default.
She thought about the open cooler door and felt her stomach drop a little more. The baby was kicking frantically, set adrift on a sea of adrenaline and all too aware of her own panic. She rubbed her belly as firmly as the tight space would allow. The woman laid a hand to her belly and kept it there. It was oddly calming to be touched so in the midst of such a fraught moment. Apparently the baby thought so too, for it ceased to kick with such vehemence and settled for a series of pokes instead.
The door opened and a waft of warmer air and light accompanied the man who walked into the storeroom. The sense of menace was tangible, with a taste to it like something bitter and hot on the tongue. He turned over crates, unworried apparently by the noise he was making. Then he turned the light on. Pamela fought the urge to close her eyes so that if he found them and killed them she wouldn’t know the exact instant it was about to happen. Her mind was racing in a jumbled panic. The words, ‘ please let the baby survive somehow, some way, please let Casey find happiness again ’ the only ones that bobbed out of the stew of sheer terror
She felt someone behind her and turned slightly. It was a woman, young to judge by the fray-cuffed denims she wore. The woman kneeled down behind her, apparently searching the lower shelves for some item.
Pamela had just grasped the cool smooth glass of the milk bottle when she felt it, an inrush of people and a strange silence accompanying them. Her backbone understood before she did and she drew back, glancing up quickly at the mirror in the corner. It was old and had a soft green haze to it but she didn’t need to see any clearer to understand what three men in balaclavas with guns held at waist height meant. She drew back sharply, knocking the milk bottle over in her haste. The noise was covered by the sudden explosion of glass and the spray of an automatic weapon.
She glanced up into the mirror, saw blood, and looked no longer. Mr. Linehan was most assuredly dead and so would she be if she didn’t do something quickly. The storage area was directly to the right hand of the coolers. She grabbed the woman roughly by the arm and pulled her through the door, hoping to God the men were too focused on the till and the man they had just killed to realize the shop hadn’t been entirely empty.
The storeroom was cool and dark and filled with boxes and crates. She pulled the woman in behind the tall stack of crates with Kerry Gold stamped in plain letters on the side. They found themselves in a corner with only one side of their hidey-hole open. Pamela motioned to the woman to stay put, and though she did not acknowledge the flick of fingers, she did move deeper into the shadows.
There were a few spare crates and Pamela thought if she could bring them over and stack them silently, it would made their hiding place far more secure. She held her breath, praying that the crates were empty because there was no way she would be able to move them if they weren’t. They were and she stacked them swiftly, not taking the ones at the bottom for fear it would leave traces if the floor hadn’t been swept in a bit. She slipped back into the space and re-stacked the crates to close off the entryway.
“What—” the woman began, her whisper soft but seeming to carry with the boom of a death knell.
Pamela hissed at her as low as she could. “Sshh.”
She could still hear the men at the front, their boots crunching over the broken glass, but one set of footsteps was coming toward the back of the shop. She had no doubt that if they were found the men would shoot them, for the sin of being a witness and for being Catholic and thus, in South Armagh, considered an IRA sympathizer by default.
She thought about the open cooler door and felt her stomach drop a little more. The baby was kicking frantically, set adrift on a sea of adrenaline and all too aware of her own panic. She rubbed her belly as firmly as the tight space would allow. The woman laid a hand to her belly and kept it there. It was oddly calming to be touched so in the midst of such a fraught moment. Apparently the baby thought so too, for it ceased to kick with such vehemence and settled for a series of pokes instead.
The door opened and a waft of warmer air and light accompanied the man who walked into the storeroom. The sense of menace was tangible, with a taste to it like something bitter and hot on the tongue. He turned over crates, unworried apparently by the noise he was making. Then he turned the light on. Pamela fought the urge to close her eyes so that if he found them and killed them she wouldn’t know the exact instant it was about to happen. Her mind was racing in a jumbled panic. The words, ‘ please let the baby survive somehow, some way, please let Casey find happiness again ’ the only ones that bobbed out of the stew of sheer terror
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