The Great Divide
by
Shannon Tighe

TO THE CITIZENS of Great Britain and the United Kingdom, some 50,000,000 people, the politically destabilizing incidences of the Thursday past, incidentally the first of the month of October 1978, came as not only a terrifying surprise, but with the systematic execution and choreography of the latest Hollywood gangster film. 
The day would be forever remembered as ‘Black Thursday’; a day of fierce, demonic violence; the attack mounted on one of the nation’s most distinguished, respected politicians, and a day of national mourning.
To those in the know however, and to others informed by every British newspaper and televised news program of the following day, ‘Black Thursday’ would be known as the last conventional attempt made by an Irish paramilitary faction to assassinate an influential member of the British parliament on the home front.
It was not a common occurrence in Great Britain for the Prime Minister to be placed in a position other than absolute safety and security, nor is it to stumble unknowingly into a barrage of weapons fire at Westminster in broad daylight.
Prime Minister Edward Robbins, a six year veteran to the title, had left the British Houses of Parliament a smiling, confident, and above all determined individual, having finally voiced his ambition to bring peace to a war-ravaged Northern Ireland, plagued by centuries of fierce hatred, religious segregation and bloody violence, through treaty and eventual troop withdrawal and paramilitary disarmament. 
Robbins had spent the best part of the morning with two men of Irish nationality; the Minister for Northern Ireland and head of the Ulster Unionist Council, and the President of Sinn Fein, the Official IRA, and the world’s press who had waited patiently outside the parliamentary chambers rushed to the opening chamber door at 10:16 A.M.; their microphone arms outstretched, as well as the tape recorders, and the cameramen stood back, readying their shoulder-cameras and the fluffy shotgun microphones. It was to be a momentous day for British politics, as well as international politics, and the world’s press, but for as yet unknown reasons to any of the individuals involved. The reasons would become clear soon enough, but at a terrible cost. 
What Robbins didn’t know however, was that his intentions, whilst Prime Minister, to further impede the efforts of the Republican terrorists was not a popular decision amongst a vast majority of his faceless enemies, most of which were dedicated to the prospect of an Ulster liberated from the shackles of Commonwealth status and British, foreign domination. 
Robbins was also unaware of the plans of his enemies to demonstrate their anger and dissatisfaction with his ambitions, and, of those few responsible, they would ensure that this move to silence the Republican Catholic radicals would be his last in a long line of political errors.
Edward Robbins was the first to vacate the Prince’s Chamber, followed by Minister Thomas Hopkins and Mr. Shamus Finnegan, and each of the three men bore wide camera smiles as they were bombarded with microphones and questions and the disorientating glare of flash photography. The three men, walking closely together through a space between the group of reporters made by the Prime Ministerial security, to a sort of lectern in the Central Lobby, kept their smiles big and their overall demeanours congenial, and as the cameramen set up on the opposite end of the Lobby Edward Robbins said something to his fellow political representatives, laughed, and approached the lectern.
After delivering his brief, yet powerful speech on behalf of himself, Hopkins and Finnegan Robbins shook hands with both men and the three proceeded outside to the New Palace Yard where they were to be collected. Robbins, with a wide grin on his conceited face, and a quick check of his pocket-watch – he preferred the apparatuses of the old world – informed him that it was nineteen minutes past ten this Thursday morning.
The plan was that after the prior agreements were reached the three men would, after Robbins’ brief speech, travel to 10 Downing Street in Robbins’ car, and finalize all negotiations officially, and the three politicians would go their separate ways; to Belfast and to Dublin, whilst Robbins remains at his London residence, drafting a more accurate and detailed report for the world’s press. 
As the three men crossed the Yard the Prime Ministerial convoy caught their eyes; Robbins’ black limousine surrounded by two white police cruisers and four police motorcycle outriders. The rear door of the limousine was wide open, the chauffeur waiting for the three politicians to enter, and nearby bystanders stood and watched as the Prime Minister and two Irishmen walked by, escorted by Robbins’ entourage of armed policemen, smiling for the photographers. Only one of such photographs would make the morning paper that Friday, accompanied by several others of a more sinister nature.
Prime Minister Robbins was the first to reach the limousine as Hopkins and Finnegan conversed politely, but their words were soon interrupted, their, and Robbins’ attention and gazes diverted to the general direction of the loud screeching of tyres, the booming whine of 2-stroke engines like giant mosquitoes, followed by the deafening chatter of automatic weapons firing. Robbins’ head flicked up to meet that of a man dressed in black, wearing a woolen balaclava, carrying a shiny, black object. As the bystanders scurried away in all directions and passing motorists swerved to avoid collision the two Irishmen stared at one another; Finnegan noted the look of sheer vilification directed at him from Minister Hopkins, and then the two men were heaved forward by police.
Robbins, having been frozen to the spot, managed to charge forwards, toward the limousine, to cover those last few yards until safety, when all hell broke loose, and many men lost their lives.






Patriotism is a virtue of the vicious.

            — Oscar Wilde