Derrys daughter

The air in the Quinn household always smelled of fried bread, floor wax, and the faint, lingering scent of Mary’s lavender perfume. It was a domestic smell, a safe smell, one that suggested the most dangerous thing in the world was a lukewarm cup of tea or a sharp word from Aunt Sarah about someone's eyebrow shape.

Mave Quinn sat at the kitchen table, staring intently at her history textbook, though her mind was miles away from the Battle of Hastings. Beside her, Erin was having what could only be described as a spiritual crisis over the placement of a headband.

"I just feel like it says 'I’m intellectual, yet approachable,'" Erin declared, leaning into the hallway mirror so far she was practically kissing the glass. "But does it say 'I’m too approachable'? Because I want to be a woman of mystery, Mave. A literary enigma."

Mave didn't look up. "It says you’ve got a piece of plastic holding your hair back, Erin. It’s not that deep."

"You have no soul," Erin huffed, turning to her twin. "Honestly, Mave, you’ve become so... dour lately. You’re always 'studying' or 'going for walks.' You’re becoming a recluse. It’s very Brontë of you, but not in the cool, moody way. In the 'I might die of consumption in a moor' way."

Mave finally looked up, her blue eyes sharp—sharper than Erin’s, though they shared the same face. "Some of us have things to worry about other than our aesthetic, Erin. There’s a war on, in case you haven't noticed the soldiers at the end of the street."

Erin rolled her eyes, a gesture she had perfected into an art form. "I know there’s a war on! I’m writing a very poignant poem about the Troubles. It’s called 'The Concrete Tears of Derry.' It’s very gritty."

Mave felt a familiar twitch in her jaw. She loved her sister, she truly did, but the gulf between them had become an ocean over the last six months. While Erin was dreaming of being the next great Irish novelist and worrying about whether David Donnelly liked her fringe, Mave was moving crates of "agricultural supplies" into a damp cellar in the Bogside.

The door burst open, and Orla wandered in, eating a slice of raw onion like it was an apple. Michelle and James trailed in behind her, the latter looking particularly harassed.

"Right," Michelle announced, slamming her bag onto the table. "I’ve decided. We’re going to that disco at the Protestant youth club. I hear the boys there are massive, and they don’t have the Catholic guilt to stop them from a proper shift."

"Michelle, we can’t go to a Protestant disco!" James hissed, his English accent sounding even more strained than usual. "I’ll be lynched! I’m a walking target!"

"Oh, shut up, you massive girl," Michelle snapped. "Mave, tell him he’s being a dick."

Mave stood up, gathering her books. "He’s being a dick, but I can’t go. I’ve got... plans."

"Plans?" Michelle narrowed her eyes. "What plans? Is it a fella? Is he a ride? If he’s a ride, you have to share."

"It’s not a fella," Mave said, her voice cool. "I’m meeting a friend from the committee. We’re organizing a protest for the hunger strikers."

Erin sighed loudly. "See? Dour. Absolute misery. You’re going to end up like Sister Michael, Mave. Just a veil and a grudge."

Mave didn't answer. She walked out of the kitchen, past her mother who was shouting at Da about the price of ham, and headed upstairs. In the room she shared with Erin, she reached under her mattress and pulled out a small, folded piece of paper.

*19:00. The Old Mill. Dress light.*

The "Committee" was the name she gave her family to keep them from asking questions. The reality was the Provisional IRA Derry Brigade. Mave wasn't a gunman—not yet—but she was a courier, a lookout, and a vital link in the chain. She was 'The Ghost,' a nickname given to her because she could move through the checkpoints with a schoolbag and a smile that looked just enough like Erin’s vapid innocence to fool any British paratrooper.

She changed out of her school uniform, pulling on a dark sweater and jeans. She caught her reflection in the mirror. She looked like any other seventeen-year-old girl in Derry. That was her greatest weapon.

"Mave! Where are you going?" her mother, Mary, shouted from the bottom of the stairs.

"Just to the library, Mam!" Mave called back, her voice steady.

"Don't be late! The news says there’s a riot starting up near Free Derry Corner!"

"I’ll be careful!"

Mave slipped out the back door, cutting through the narrow alleys she knew like the back of her hand. The evening air was crisp, tinged with the metallic scent of burning rubber from a distant barricade.

As she walked, the sounds of the 'normal' Derry—the shouting, the laughter, the music from the pubs—faded, replaced by the heavy, rhythmic thud of a British Army Saracen patrolling the main road. Mave ducked into a doorway, pressing her back against the cold stone, her heart hammering against her ribs.

She waited until the rumble of the engine faded before moving again. She reached the Old Mill, a skeletal ruin on the edge of the Bogside. Inside, the air was thick with dust and the smell of damp earth.

"Password," a low voice whispered from the shadows.

"The dawn is coming," Mave replied.

A man stepped out. It was Seamus, a veteran of the movement who looked like he hadn't slept since 1969. He handed her a heavy rucksack.

"Take this to the house on Chamberlain Street. Green door, red curtains. Don't stop for anyone. The Brits are out in force tonight because of the anniversary."

Mave took the bag, the weight of it pulling at her shoulders. She knew what was inside. It wasn't leaflets.

"I understand," she said.

"You’re a good girl, Mave," Seamus said, his eyes softening for a brief second. "Your Da would be proud."

"My Da doesn't know," Mave said sharply. "And he’s not to know. He thinks I’m the 'sensible twin.'"

Seamus chuckled darkly. "In this town, being sensible is the most dangerous thing you can be."

Mave stepped back out into the night. The walk to Chamberlain Street felt miles longer than it actually was. Every shadow was a soldier, every rustle of wind was a radio crackle. She kept her head down, her pace steady.

Suddenly, a searchlight cut through the darkness, sweeping across the street. Mave froze. A voice boomed over a megaphone.

"Halt! Stay where you are!"

Mave’s instinct was to run, but she knew that was a death sentence. She turned slowly, squinting against the blinding light. A patrol of four soldiers approached, their rifles leveled at her chest.

"What’s in the bag, love?" the lead soldier asked. He sounded young, maybe not much older than James.

Mave forced her breathing to slow. She let her shoulders slump, her face twisting into a look of frustrated annoyance—the exact look Erin gave when she was told she couldn't have a new pair of boots.

"Books," Mave snapped, her voice high and indignant. "I’m studying for my A-levels, aren't I? My Ma will have my head if I’m late. Do you lot have nothing better to do than harass schoolgirls?"

The soldier stepped closer, the light from his torch hitting her face. "A bit late for the library, isn't it?"

"I was at my friend’s house! We were doing a project on the French Revolution. Which was a lot more organized than this shambles, let me tell you."

She saw the soldier hesitate. Behind him, another one laughed. "Let her go, Miller. She sounds just like that mouthy one from the shop this morning. These Derry women are all the same. Pure grief."

The lead soldier sighed, lowering his rifle. "Go on then. Get home. And stay off the streets, there’s trouble brewing."

"I’ll tell my Ma you said hello, shall I?" Mave shot back, her heart screaming at her to shut up even as her mouth stayed in character.

She walked away, not looking back, her legs feeling like jelly. She reached Chamberlain Street, delivered the rucksack, and received a silent nod from the woman at the door.

By the time she got back to the Quinn house, the sun had fully set. She slipped in through the back door, her hands still shaking. She walked into the kitchen, where the chaos was still in full swing.

"And then," Michelle was saying, gesturing wildly with a chip, "the Protestant fella says to me, 'I like your style,' and I said, 'I like your lack of a Pope,' and I think we really had a connection!"

"You’re a disgrace, Michelle," Clare wailed, clutching her inhaler. "We’re going to be excommunicated! I’m too high-strung for the fires of hell!"

Erin looked up as Mave entered. "Oh, look, the revolutionary returns. Did you have a thrilling time at your committee meeting? Did you vote on a very sternly worded letter?"

Mave sat down at the table, reaching for a cold chip from Michelle’s plate. She looked at her sister—at her ridiculous headband, her dramatic pout, her complete and utter ignorance of the fact that Mave had just stood three feet away from a loaded L1A1 rifle with a bag full of detonators.

"It was fine, Erin," Mave said quietly. "We talked about the future."

"The future is boring," Erin declared, leaning back in her chair. "I’m more interested in the now. And right now, I think I’ve decided that I’m going to be a blonde. I feel like it reflects my inner light."

"You’d look like a lemon on legs," James muttered.

"Shut up, James!" the girls shouted in unison.

Mary walked into the kitchen, wiping her hands on her apron. "Mave, there you are. Your Da was worried. There’s been a shooting down by the quay."

Mave felt a cold shiver run down her spine, but she kept her face neutral. "I’m fine, Mam. I was nowhere near it."

"Good," Mary said, kissing the top of Mave’s head. "I don’t know what I’d do if anything happened to you. You’re the only one in this house with a lick of sense."

Mave looked down at her hands. They were stained with the dust of the Old Mill. She tucked them under the table.

"I’m just Mave, Mam," she said.

That night, as the sound of distant sirens wailed through the streets of Derry, Mave lay in bed listening to Erin’s rhythmic breathing. Her sister was dreaming of fame and boys and poetry.

Mave stared at the ceiling, her mind tracing the map of the city, the safe houses, the checkpoints, the hidden caches. She was a Quinn, a student, a twin. But she was also a soldier in a shadow war that her family couldn't even imagine.

She reached out and touched the sleeve of Erin’s school blazer, which was draped over the chair between their beds.

"I’m doing it for you," Mave whispered into the dark. "So you can keep being ridiculous. So you can keep worrying about headbands instead of bullets."

Erin stirred in her sleep. "David Donnelly..." she murmured. "I’m a literary... enigma..."

Mave smiled sadly. She closed her eyes, but she didn't sleep. In Derry, the night was never for sleeping; it was for waiting. And Mave Quinn was very good at waiting.