INT. DISTILLERY - BELFAST, NORTHERN IRELAND - 1970 - NIGHT
Copper barrels, corroded with age, line the main floor of the warehouse, standing guard like great green giants. Faint sirens and heavy tires on gravel echo from outside. A yellow glow reflects off shards of glass and empty jugs impressed with "BRITTANIA WHISKEY, CO. 1955." Around a corner, a gas lamp sits next to EOIN, a long-legged, shaggy-haired twenty-three-year-old with a bastardly disposition. A dog-eared copy of a James Joyce's
The Dubliners and an open can of Beamish stout rest by his feet.
EOIN
... I'd take it right out on 'em. Lamp the fuckers right up the arse.
SIOBHAN and SEAN, both twenty-one and yearning for different things, dangle their feet off a stack of pallets, exchanging glances and drinking from individual flasks. Siobhan appears like an edgier, Black Irish version of Farrah Fawcett. Sean's hands move closer to Siobhan when he sets down his flask.
SIOBHAN
Too many guns. They showed up to Nan's Friday. Cocks out, guns drawn. Oul-doll. Imagine.
SEAN
I can stand by her house, Von. A real Tom Barry, so I am.
Eoin moves the gas lamp closer to Siobhan, casting an unearthly glow on her face and swelling her shadow.
EOIN
That's not even remotely useful, Sean. Von, yer a nurse. You should know how to take care of man's regions.
SIOBHAN
Fuck off. I give dialysis.
Sean offers his flask to Siobhan, who holds up her own. Eoin fingers the pages of the book, open on "The Dead."
EOIN
(amused)
Dead-on. Sean, yer hearing what I'm saying? Von, stick some tubes up those unionist pricks.
SEAN
Especially that Tommy UDR fella. Didn't he used to call you 'Sibian' in school, Siobhan?
Siobhan hops off the pallet, which makes an unsettling noise as it bumps into a tin crate on the ground.
SIOBHAN
Right. I'm off. If you want to talk cocks so bad, go tug on Sean's.
In the haste of her exit, Siobhan swiftly knocks over Eion's can, spilling it over his foot.
EOIN
Fucking Baltic!
INT. HALLWAY - DISTILLERY - MOMENTS LATER
Siobhan stomps across broken glass and potholes made by fallen pipes. Eoin and Sean's muffled voices echo behind the copper equipment.
A sound like the sputtering of an engine or the whoosh of a shooting star. Out of the darkness, a red-headed woman (ERICA) unfurls from behind a once decorative, now overgrown, bush in the yard. Siobhan trips over a small pile of metal tubing.
SIOBHAN
Oh, for the life of me.
ERICA
I didn't mean to startle ya. I heard voices. Didn't want to walk alone. Erica.
Erica is slight in stature, unassuming, and her voice is almost gratingly soft. She steps in stride with Siobhan before she can protest.
SIOBHAN
Aye. Siobhan. Where'd you live then?
ERICA
By Falls.
SIOBHAN
I'm on Norfolk.
ERICA
Dead-on.
Siobhan studies the woman. There are no doors at the main entrance, opening the trodden-down distillery to the intimate touch of the night air.
EXT. DISTILLERY - BELFAST - NIGHT
Surrounding the building, skeletons of low-roofed houses lie side-by-side with piles of rubble made by throwaway bombs. The women pass a rusted swing set on a small patch of grass. Guns crack faintly in the distance.
ERICA
(making conversation)
A dragonfly landed on me breast this morning. A black and green one. Sat right here eating a wee larva.
Siobhan takes a swig from her flask.
ERICA
I've got a Polaroid of it.
Erica stops at an empty intersection, a few paces from the streetlamp, and pulls a photograph from her back pocket. Siobhan ponders the familiar old rows of brick houses, also searching for an escape route from her companion. Erica hands the photograph to Siobhan, who takes it as an invitation to keep walking.
SIOBHAN
(not looking)
Oh, so it is
. A dragonfly. Grand. Used to catch them when I was a girl.
Erica places her hand on Siobhan's wrist.
INSERT - THE POLAROID
The flash illuminates the pale bare chest of the woman in the photo. A large dragonfly sits jewel-like atop her breast. The woman in the photo is Siobhan, smiling down at the creature.
EXT. FALLS ROAD INTERSECTION - BELFAST - NIGHT
Erica is gone, and a man (TOMMY) dressed in an Ulster Defence Regiment uniform approaches. He holds a rifle in his arms.
TOMMY
Siobhan.
SIOBHAN
That your jam jar, Tommy?
She motions to a beat-down Ford sedan, far from the royal car a volunteer soldier like Tommy would expect himself to own.
TOMMY
(sucking his teeth)
Aye. Let's see your ID. Hanging at the old Brittania after dark? Not very safe.
SIOBHAN
I was with Eoin Kerson. And feeling safe 'til I seen your gun strapped on like so.
Tommy steps forward, too close for someone with no harmful intentions. The barrel of the gun sticks into her ribs.
TOMMY
Eoin? I thought Sean Paige was up your skirt. Hey, I won't report any loose Catholic girls walking down Falls (beat) for a swig and a tug.
Siobhan keeps eye contact with him: she once admired his submissive respect in school; now, she admonishes him with her glare. He reaches for the flask in her hand, but grasps the photograph instead.
TOMMY
You wanted me to see this? Fuck if Father Maroney finds it, or your Nan. Yer tits are nice.
He stands several paces from her, studying the nude picture. He looks up to compare the image to the woman, but a sharp clang distracts him. His mouth falls open and lets out a low groan.
Behind Tommy, Erica stands with a metal pipe. A stream of blood trickles down his face as his knees follow suit to the ground. Siobhan runs and crouches on a sewer grate.
SIOBHAN
(dry heaving)
He- I-
Erica shuts her eyes and places a hand on Siobhan's chest where the dragonfly sat in the polaroid.
SIOBHAN
We went to school together! How could you- How could I-
Tommy's moans blend with the crickets and ship horns and faraway children playing. Siobhan closes her eyes, a novel softness overcoming her, and hugs Erica.
Siobhan removes the rifle from around Tommy's neck.
SIOBHAN
"You know nothing of your own people." Joyce. We read it in Fifth Year.
She shoots. Tommy groans just once. Blood pools around Tommy's thighs, originating in a clean hole in his abdomen. She wraps his arms around his rifle and continues home.
INT. LIVING ROOM - SIOBHAN'S HOME - MINUTES LATER
Siobhan closes the door behind her, pressing her body into it for just a moment. Blue light flickers from the den TV. She places a blanket on her sleeping father.
NEWSCASTER (O.S.)
(from TV)
. . . a curfew is rumored to be put in place in the next 48 hours in the Falls district. IRA members-
INT. SIOBHAN'S BEDROOM
A collection of American glamor magazines, a pair of white tennis shoes, and a bottle of Jameson sit on the nightstand.
Siobhan enters. An ornate lampshade in the corner of her bedroom lends her face a green tint. She falls onto the bed, placing the photograph atop her pillow. The pillowcase is patterned with dragonflies and goldenrods: leftover adornments of childhood innocence. Without the tint, we would see on Siobhan's cheek the smallest drop of blood, that of her old classmate who now occupies only a small patch of concrete down Divis Street.
the END.
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