Respects

Rachel had always been a strong girl, full of zest, never one to falter under pressure and succumb to lachrymal outpourings. Now though, I looked with some concern at her dark rimmed eyes and her lethargic expression. This was our only child, our portent of hope for the future and I knew that she was dying before our very eyes as cancer ravaged her young body. The doctors had surgically removed her thyroid after the accident. She'd been one of the unlucky ones caught out in the open when the invisible, radioactive cloud had passed overhead.

We were part of a fast moving UN convoy which carried us up O'Connell street on the way to Glasnevin. Distant memories of the hustle and bustle of this once busy street came flooding back. I looked through the narrow gun slit and glanced at the desolate GPO building as it sped past. In 1916, this had been the place where we'd fought for our nation's liberty and now I looked at it nostalgically, realising a battle of greater proportions had been lost to overwhelming odds. I glanced at my radiation badge and it was still virgin white, so too was Rachel's. It was a small comfort in this time of great personal pain. Padraig, my husband, gave me a nervous smile and kept a firm grip of Rachel's small hand. Our daughter wore a beautiful dress which had been donated to us by the Red Cross. In these troubled times, we lived on charity from various foreign relief agencies. All of our personal belongings had been either cremated or buried in concrete coffins. For the present, our home was a small room in a prefabricated building, near the Northern border.

"Mam, where are we?" asked Rachel. Her voice had grown perceptibly weaker since the operation.

I hugged her tight. "We're in Dublin," I answered, tipping her lovely hat forward on her head. She grinned slightly.

"Didn't we used to live here?" she asked, looking at her father.

Padraig smiled and replied. "Yes. It used to be the capital city of Ireland."

"Can we go back soon?' she asked innocently.

The other people in the transport seemed to be moved by my daughter's simple plea. Even the American UN soldiers glanced at my little girl with a sense of pity.

"No," I answered distractedly.

"Why not?" she asked. "Is it because of the radiation?"

There were tears beginning to well up in my eyes. Not only had my child's body been damaged by this poison but for an innocent to know such a vile word continued to disturb me. "Sssh now," I replied, blinking away my gathering tears. "We'll soon have a nice new house, somewhere clean and safe." This was partly true. BNFL had promised to pay compensation but it was a long time coming. The EC had immediately offered help. In fact, the whole world was pitching in to help us but with that said, nothing could make up for what had happened to Rachel. It was our own personal tragedy for which their could be no outside relief.

Several boulders bounced off the side of our armour plated vehicle and I jumped with fright. Instinctively, I grabbed hold of Rachel, clasping my arms about her protectively. The UN soldier on our side of the transport reacted fast, placing the nozzle of his gun out of a small gun-slit and let off a volley of warning shots in quick succession which warded off the hostile, stone throwing, inhabitants. The tinny spang of gunfire was a sound which we had grown used to since the accident. Looters and thieves still continued to dwell in the poisoned city in small numbers. They had refused to leave and some had been shot dead by the UN soldiers for robbing warehouses and arson, adding more hatred to an already tense and confused situation.

"Everything's going to be fine," I said, reassuring Rachel, rubbing her hair gently back into place.

"Where are we going?" she asked, nervously chewing her fingernails.

"We going to pay our respects to your grandparents," I answered gently. It was the only reason that the UN permitted us to visit Dublin; one day a year to tend to the graves of our deceased relatives. Truly, this was a dead city.

The convoy travelled through Phibsborough on its way to Glasnevin. This was the place where my parents had once lived. Our vehicle slowed and I realised that we had come to one of the old barricades that had been placed across the street. It had been put there by angry protesters when news regarding the consequence of the widespread radiation had emerged. Riots had plagued Dublin that year when we had been ordered to leave it. I felt the vehicle travel bumpily over some rubble and I glanced out of the gun slit, seeing the shopping centre where I had once bought groceries with my parents. Now, it was a burnt out shell of a building with graffiti emblazoned across its charred walls. The evacuation had torn the heart out of our country; the place where over a third of our people had once lived. This street had been ravaged by the passing events and it seemed as if my very childhood had been destroyed along with it too.

I thought of our current home and its muddy squalor; a small room in a ramshackle shantytown with feeding stations to prevent us from starving. We were a displaced people, numbering over one million. The disaster had happened with such blinding speed that the authorities were overwhelmed by what to do with us all. I remembered our first night away from home, how we had been promised somewhere safe and clean to stay, instead ending up in a large school hall, crammed alongside other people, each vying with the other for an extra fraction of space. That night Padraig and I had lain side by side with Rachel nestled between the two of us. We had been surrounded by people from all walks of life in the same predicament as ourselves. I could see the same despair in their own eyes, the questioning expression which asked, Is this really happening?

In a strange way, I felt glad that Mam and Dad had not seen what had happened to Dublin. They had lived through the height of the Cold War. But that nuclear threat had faded, only to be replaced by a far more sinister one on our neighbouring shoreline. This was a legacy which I knew would never fade so easily.

The convoy drew to a halt and the doors to our vehicle slid open.

"Okay, you've thirty minutes," said the soldier in charge.

We climbed out, stretching our legs after the long drive. I looked at my radiation badge again and checked Rachel's. Thankfully, they were still within safe limits.

I remembered the first terrible legacy of the radiation; our fear of trying for a new child. We had no desire to bring up another infant under these conditions. We had also heard the reports of the horribly deformed children already born in the camp. Rachel, I knew, would be our first and only child. Initially, I had rebelled against this realisation but my anger had been quickly replaced by resignation, something which I did not want to admit as defeat.

I glanced around the graveyard, holding Rachel's hand. I inhaled the cold air, blowing beneath the grey sky. The landscape was littered with crosses, occasionally masked by clumps of tall cedar trees, swaying gently in the wind. I realised it would be easy to be fooled by the setting, imagining that everything was as it had been when I had last visited my parents' grave.

Padraig walked ahead of us and quickly located the gravestone which was choked with tall weeds. Rachel remained quiet, sensing our sombre mood, not quite knowing what to make of the situation. She glanced about her curiously, impressed by the amount of free space when compared to the cramped conditions within the camp.

We reached the grave and I leaned down to her. "We're going to say a prayer to your grandparents now," I said, taking out a set of rosary beads from my pocket. She nodded and kneeled with us by the grave, holding her two hands together, reciting the Our Father and Hail Mary with us before a moment of quiet contemplation.

After we had finished our prayers, Padraig hugged me consolingly and we began to weed the plot. Then, for some reason, I began to feel myself wanting to cry but I held back my sadness and concentrated on the task as hand.

"You all right?" he asked and I nodded.

Nearby, Rachel was hopping and skipping between the gravestones, singing a song to herself. Occasionally, she would stop and pluck a daisy from the ground, then add it to a daisy chain she was making. By the time we had finished the weeding, she was wearing the necklace she had made.

My reaction was one of fear when I saw it. I thought about the contaminated plants about her neck, and wondered whether they were sending more deadly particles into her young body. Quickly, I pulled the chain from her neck and threw it on the ground. "Never do that again!" I snapped and took the remaining daisies from her hand which she was intending to put in her hair.

I could see the shock and hurt in my daughter's eyes, wondering what she had done wrong.

"Easy," said Padraig, placing his hand on my shoulder. Quickly, he took Rachel up in his arms and consoled her. I rubbed her hair gently, apologising for my rash outburst but she placed her head against Padraig's chest, as if seeking comfort. My eyes met with Padraig's.

"My God, what have we become?" he asked and I had no response.