Bold Fenian Men
Chapter Two
Padraig and Cillian staggered out of the pub late that night, laughing loudly and generally causing a lot of noise. It was a contrast against the heavy silence of Belfast city at half one in the morning.
"Padraig!" Padraig groaned as he heard the business like voice of someone who was all too familiar.
"What do you want, Cearnaigh?" he groaned. Cearnaigh looked hurt for a minute.
"Crying out loud, Padraig, you ask me to watch your back and then you snap at me for coming to tell you something you really need to know." Padraig frowned and looked at Cillian, who raised his eyebrows.
"Padraig." he said warningly. Padraig shook the fuzz that was caused by the drink from his brain and snapped back to reality.
"Oh! OH!" he started to chuckle. Cearnaigh and Cillian glanced at each other. Padraig was laughing hysterically by now. "How the Hell did I manage to forget that?"
"Come on back to my house the night, the pair of you." earnaigh grabbed Padraig's arm and pulled him along, Cillian keeping in step beside them.
"You're going to be dead before this year's out, do you know that, Caraher?" Cillian hissed. Padraig was shaking his head free from the drink haze and becoming more serious minded.
"Cearnaigh, get off," he muttered, pulling his arm. Cearnaigh looked at him, watching him closely and suspiciously. 'CEARNAIGH!' Cearnaigh let go, knowing his place.
"You finally realise?" he asked, in his I'm-really-pissed-off voice.
"Sure can you not let me have a wee drink?"
"If I hadn’t have come along you'd have had your head shot off by now."
"What?"
"Padraig." Cillian sounded tired. It was not the first time he had given his lifelong best friend a lecture. "You're not eighteen anymore. You're not as innocent as you like to make out to be." Padraig shook his head, and his bright green eyes twinkled with mischief.
"I know. But come off it, Cillian. I'm only twenty-one."
"Twenty-one and on the top of the hit list, Caraher!" Cearnaigh grabbed the young man by the front of his coat. "I can't let you out of my sight for five minutes, can I? If it wasn't for me and Cillian you'd have had your head shot off long ago!" Padraig looked affronted.
"I don’t think so!" he burst out. "In fact, the last time they were shooting at us I believe it was I who bailed you out, not the other bloody way around!"
"Well I'm bailing you out tonight. There was a fucking ambush, Padraig. An ambush. And you've no security measures at all, have you? You just dander round at all hours, drunk off your head …"
"Here, he has me." Cillian looked slightly hurt. "I'd die to save him, you know that."
"I don’t want any of you to die to save me. I can look after myself."
"Padraig, you can hardly look after yourself! What would you have done if I hadn’t come along tonight?" Padraig looked at them, and now his eyes were glinting dangerously. They were cold, and both of the other men felt a shiver go up their spine. Padraig slowly opened his coat, and then he suddenly pulled out a small handgun and held it in front of him, letting it glint in the cold glow of the full moon.
"You think I come unprepared?" Padraig hissed dangerously. "Do you think I'm a complete moron? I expect more than that from my fucking men, you know that."
Cearnaigh and Cillian watched their friend in half wonder, half horror. Neither man liked Padraig's evil side, the side that separated their friend from the most feared IRA man in the whole country at the moment. And they watched him with wide eyes, praying that he didn’t loose his temper.
Padraig Caraher, the man that every Protestant and every policeman or soldier wanted dead but could never seem to find, watched them with cold green eyes. He slowly replaced his gun into the inside pocket of his coat, and then his eyes grew warm again. Cearnaigh and Cillian breathed a silent sigh of relief.
"Youse need to trust me more. I'm Padraig Caraher. If I haven't been killed yet I think I've got a few more years ahead of me." Without another word, Padraig walked on. With a glance at each other, Cillian and Cearnaigh hurried after him, wondering how their friend did it.
"Padraig!" Padraig groaned as he heard the business like voice of someone who was all too familiar.
"What do you want, Cearnaigh?" he groaned. Cearnaigh looked hurt for a minute.
"Crying out loud, Padraig, you ask me to watch your back and then you snap at me for coming to tell you something you really need to know." Padraig frowned and looked at Cillian, who raised his eyebrows.
"Padraig." he said warningly. Padraig shook the fuzz that was caused by the drink from his brain and snapped back to reality.
"Oh! OH!" he started to chuckle. Cearnaigh and Cillian glanced at each other. Padraig was laughing hysterically by now. "How the Hell did I manage to forget that?"
"Come on back to my house the night, the pair of you." earnaigh grabbed Padraig's arm and pulled him along, Cillian keeping in step beside them.
"You're going to be dead before this year's out, do you know that, Caraher?" Cillian hissed. Padraig was shaking his head free from the drink haze and becoming more serious minded.
"Cearnaigh, get off," he muttered, pulling his arm. Cearnaigh looked at him, watching him closely and suspiciously. 'CEARNAIGH!' Cearnaigh let go, knowing his place.
"You finally realise?" he asked, in his I'm-really-pissed-off voice.
"Sure can you not let me have a wee drink?"
"If I hadn’t have come along you'd have had your head shot off by now."
"What?"
"Padraig." Cillian sounded tired. It was not the first time he had given his lifelong best friend a lecture. "You're not eighteen anymore. You're not as innocent as you like to make out to be." Padraig shook his head, and his bright green eyes twinkled with mischief.
"I know. But come off it, Cillian. I'm only twenty-one."
"Twenty-one and on the top of the hit list, Caraher!" Cearnaigh grabbed the young man by the front of his coat. "I can't let you out of my sight for five minutes, can I? If it wasn't for me and Cillian you'd have had your head shot off long ago!" Padraig looked affronted.
"I don’t think so!" he burst out. "In fact, the last time they were shooting at us I believe it was I who bailed you out, not the other bloody way around!"
"Well I'm bailing you out tonight. There was a fucking ambush, Padraig. An ambush. And you've no security measures at all, have you? You just dander round at all hours, drunk off your head …"
"Here, he has me." Cillian looked slightly hurt. "I'd die to save him, you know that."
"I don’t want any of you to die to save me. I can look after myself."
"Padraig, you can hardly look after yourself! What would you have done if I hadn’t come along tonight?" Padraig looked at them, and now his eyes were glinting dangerously. They were cold, and both of the other men felt a shiver go up their spine. Padraig slowly opened his coat, and then he suddenly pulled out a small handgun and held it in front of him, letting it glint in the cold glow of the full moon.
"You think I come unprepared?" Padraig hissed dangerously. "Do you think I'm a complete moron? I expect more than that from my fucking men, you know that."
Cearnaigh and Cillian watched their friend in half wonder, half horror. Neither man liked Padraig's evil side, the side that separated their friend from the most feared IRA man in the whole country at the moment. And they watched him with wide eyes, praying that he didn’t loose his temper.
Padraig Caraher, the man that every Protestant and every policeman or soldier wanted dead but could never seem to find, watched them with cold green eyes. He slowly replaced his gun into the inside pocket of his coat, and then his eyes grew warm again. Cearnaigh and Cillian breathed a silent sigh of relief.
"Youse need to trust me more. I'm Padraig Caraher. If I haven't been killed yet I think I've got a few more years ahead of me." Without another word, Padraig walked on. With a glance at each other, Cillian and Cearnaigh hurried after him, wondering how their friend did it.