Bold Fenian Men
Chapter Twenty-One
Padraig swore as he circled the city for the third time. He'd been everywhere; all the pubs, everyone's houses, all of the places Cillian ended up when he was drunk … nothing.
Now he was getting desperate.
He knew that if Cillian had been killed then it would destroy him. Tears sprang to Padraig's eyes, as he thought about his best friend lying cold, dead and bloody. Padraig furiously blinked the tears away and continued scanning the deserted streets of Belfast.
Something caught his eye up the street. Someone was staggering along the road, either drunk or badly injured. He couldn’t seem to walk in a straight line, and as Padraig drew closer he recognised him with a mixture of fear and relief.
"Cillian!" Padraig called, as he pulled the car over and jumped out. The young man paused and turned, and then he managed a small smile.
"I didn’t think you'd ever turn up," he muttered, and then he collapsed to the floor. Padraig cried out and ran to his friend, dropping to his knees beside him. Cillian was lying on his side, breathing deeply and whimpering slightly.
"What happened?" Padraig murmured. Cillian didn’t reply, just lay on the floor trembling. Padraig lifted his friend up and staggered over to the car with him. Cillian was limp in Padraig's arms, and Padraig could feel his friend trembling.
He laid Cillian down on the back seat of his car, wrapping his coat around him and rubbing his hand. With his other hand he flicked the roof light on, so he could see him better.
"Cillian?" he whispered again. "You have to keep talking, OK?" Cillian murmured something incoherent. Padraig took a closer look at his best friend. Cillian's face was badly bruised and there was a large gash on his forehead. His clothes were scuffed up and he was cradling his left arm to him. He was covered in mud and blood and seemed stunned.
"Who did this?" Padraig whispered to him, stroking his hair gently. "Tell me, Cillian." Cillian coughed, and then he managed to choke out:
"McAllister."
"I fucking knew it." Padraig said savagely. "Can ye remember what happened, Cillian?"
"Not well," Cillian was becoming more alert in the warmth and the light. "He got me when I was coming out of the pub. He had mates with him. They grabbed me and pulled me in a car and they beat me around. I passed out and when I woke up they were dragging me down some alley."
"How did you get away?" Padraig asked gently.
"I screamed like Hell," Cillian managed a smile. "Some lights went on in the house by us and I pulled away and ran. They shot after me but I ran and they missed."
"You were lucky," Padraig whispered, feeling suddenly sick. "Come on. We need to get you to the hospital." Cillian didn’t protest. He lay his head back down and closed his eyes again. Padraig gently shut the door and moved into the driver's seat, heading towards the hospital.
Now he was getting desperate.
He knew that if Cillian had been killed then it would destroy him. Tears sprang to Padraig's eyes, as he thought about his best friend lying cold, dead and bloody. Padraig furiously blinked the tears away and continued scanning the deserted streets of Belfast.
Something caught his eye up the street. Someone was staggering along the road, either drunk or badly injured. He couldn’t seem to walk in a straight line, and as Padraig drew closer he recognised him with a mixture of fear and relief.
"Cillian!" Padraig called, as he pulled the car over and jumped out. The young man paused and turned, and then he managed a small smile.
"I didn’t think you'd ever turn up," he muttered, and then he collapsed to the floor. Padraig cried out and ran to his friend, dropping to his knees beside him. Cillian was lying on his side, breathing deeply and whimpering slightly.
"What happened?" Padraig murmured. Cillian didn’t reply, just lay on the floor trembling. Padraig lifted his friend up and staggered over to the car with him. Cillian was limp in Padraig's arms, and Padraig could feel his friend trembling.
He laid Cillian down on the back seat of his car, wrapping his coat around him and rubbing his hand. With his other hand he flicked the roof light on, so he could see him better.
"Cillian?" he whispered again. "You have to keep talking, OK?" Cillian murmured something incoherent. Padraig took a closer look at his best friend. Cillian's face was badly bruised and there was a large gash on his forehead. His clothes were scuffed up and he was cradling his left arm to him. He was covered in mud and blood and seemed stunned.
"Who did this?" Padraig whispered to him, stroking his hair gently. "Tell me, Cillian." Cillian coughed, and then he managed to choke out:
"McAllister."
"I fucking knew it." Padraig said savagely. "Can ye remember what happened, Cillian?"
"Not well," Cillian was becoming more alert in the warmth and the light. "He got me when I was coming out of the pub. He had mates with him. They grabbed me and pulled me in a car and they beat me around. I passed out and when I woke up they were dragging me down some alley."
"How did you get away?" Padraig asked gently.
"I screamed like Hell," Cillian managed a smile. "Some lights went on in the house by us and I pulled away and ran. They shot after me but I ran and they missed."
"You were lucky," Padraig whispered, feeling suddenly sick. "Come on. We need to get you to the hospital." Cillian didn’t protest. He lay his head back down and closed his eyes again. Padraig gently shut the door and moved into the driver's seat, heading towards the hospital.