Bold Fenian Men
Chapter Twenty-Five
"Get in there, Caraher." McAllister shoved Padraig hard in the back through a doorway. Padraig knew where they were. He knew that this was the place these guys took most of their victims before they killed them, and now Padraig was terrified that he was going to be just that. Another victim.
"I know where I'm fucking going." Padraig hissed. McAllister just shoved him again.
"Don’t make me hurt you, Caraher." Padraig laughed.
"I see. So if I'm a good little wee lad you'll pat me on the back and send me home? I don't think so." Padraig stopped and turned to face McAllister. "You're wasting your time. I'm not going to tell you anything so you may as well kill me now."
"I don’t care if you're not going to tell me anything." McAllister hissed. "I don't want to question you. I just don’t want to rush the moment. I'm going to enjoy killing you. I've been waiting for this moment for nearly four fucking years and I'm not about to rush through it."
"See if I care." Padraig hissed back, just as coldly. "I'll never give you the satisfaction."
"It's not going to dampen my mood." McAllister smiled. He grabbed Padraig by the front of his shirt and shoved him backwards through the other door and into the pub. It looked a lot like the pub where Padraig and Cillian spent a lot of their times, except this was a UVF pub, not an IRA one. Apart from this small difference and the obvious lack of Irish tricolours on the walls, it almost could have been any old pub Padraig would have drank in.
"You've a very sad life, Billy." Padraig said, not loosing his balance and standing his ground, still cradling his bleeding hand.
"At this particular moment in time, I don't care." McAllister sneered. Padraig took a quick glance around, and saw that there were several other men in the pub at the time. Padraig thought about David Gamble. He almost smiled. How the tables had turned on him, eh?
"Well." Padraig spread his arms out and looked round the pub. "You've got me. I'm here, unarmed. No catches. Let's get this over with."
"You really are something, aren't you, Caraher?" McAllister asked, shaking his head. "You truly don't realise how much trouble you're in, do you?"
"I do, in fact. But there's no point in worrying about the inevitable, is there?" Padraig asked. McAllister's voice became angry, dripping with hate.
"You just think that you're going to worm your way out of this one as well, don’t you? Where would you be, though, Caraher, without all your little soldier boys?" McAllister grabbed Padraig by the front of his shirt again. 'Without all those boys dying for you? You'd have been dead long ago if it hadn’t been for all those people diving in front of you! We didn't kill them, Caraher. You did."
Padraig felt a dull numbness spread through his body at McAllister's words. It had been the very thing that he'd thought himself, but he had been too scared to say it out loud, in case for some strange reason saying it out loud made it true.
"You're lying," was all he could croak out. McAllister grinned an evil grin.
"Have I hit a nerve, eh, Padraig? Does that hurt your feelings?" McAllister shook Padraig hard. "Well it's true. You wouldn’t be upset if you didn’t know it was true. You killed them. You may as well have shot those lads yourself. Do you remember wee Proinsias, eh?" McAllister sneered as he saw the pain flash through Padraig's green eyes.
"Don’t you dare speak about him," he whispered.
"Ah, so you do remember him? You did nothing, you coward. You did fucking nothing. You sat at home, safe, and you listened to him being beaten and tortured and murdered, and you did fuck all. You let him die, Caraher. You're more guilty of his death than I am."
"YOU!" Padraig suddenly screamed. "YOU KILLED HIM! I'LL FUCKING KILL YOU!"
And suddenly Padraig had pounced on top of McAllister, using his good hand to punch him wherever he could. He only had a few seconds to lay into him before the others in the pub jumped into action, grabbing Padraig and hurling him away from McAllister. Padraig hadn’t time to even lift his head up before McAllister was over him.
"Hold him," he said, and Padraig's hands were pulled roughly behind his back. Padraig cried out in pain as one of them touched his gunshot wound, deliberately digging his fingers into the wound.
"I'm going to fucking enjoy this," McAllister spat, and he raised the glass that he held in his hand up into the air, before bringing it down on Padraig's head. Padraig slumped forward as the glass shattered on contact with his head, but he couldn't fall to the floor because of the two men holding him. Through the blood trickling down his face, he realised that he had no desire to fight back.
He knew it was useless.
"I know where I'm fucking going." Padraig hissed. McAllister just shoved him again.
"Don’t make me hurt you, Caraher." Padraig laughed.
"I see. So if I'm a good little wee lad you'll pat me on the back and send me home? I don't think so." Padraig stopped and turned to face McAllister. "You're wasting your time. I'm not going to tell you anything so you may as well kill me now."
"I don’t care if you're not going to tell me anything." McAllister hissed. "I don't want to question you. I just don’t want to rush the moment. I'm going to enjoy killing you. I've been waiting for this moment for nearly four fucking years and I'm not about to rush through it."
"See if I care." Padraig hissed back, just as coldly. "I'll never give you the satisfaction."
"It's not going to dampen my mood." McAllister smiled. He grabbed Padraig by the front of his shirt and shoved him backwards through the other door and into the pub. It looked a lot like the pub where Padraig and Cillian spent a lot of their times, except this was a UVF pub, not an IRA one. Apart from this small difference and the obvious lack of Irish tricolours on the walls, it almost could have been any old pub Padraig would have drank in.
"You've a very sad life, Billy." Padraig said, not loosing his balance and standing his ground, still cradling his bleeding hand.
"At this particular moment in time, I don't care." McAllister sneered. Padraig took a quick glance around, and saw that there were several other men in the pub at the time. Padraig thought about David Gamble. He almost smiled. How the tables had turned on him, eh?
"Well." Padraig spread his arms out and looked round the pub. "You've got me. I'm here, unarmed. No catches. Let's get this over with."
"You really are something, aren't you, Caraher?" McAllister asked, shaking his head. "You truly don't realise how much trouble you're in, do you?"
"I do, in fact. But there's no point in worrying about the inevitable, is there?" Padraig asked. McAllister's voice became angry, dripping with hate.
"You just think that you're going to worm your way out of this one as well, don’t you? Where would you be, though, Caraher, without all your little soldier boys?" McAllister grabbed Padraig by the front of his shirt again. 'Without all those boys dying for you? You'd have been dead long ago if it hadn’t been for all those people diving in front of you! We didn't kill them, Caraher. You did."
Padraig felt a dull numbness spread through his body at McAllister's words. It had been the very thing that he'd thought himself, but he had been too scared to say it out loud, in case for some strange reason saying it out loud made it true.
"You're lying," was all he could croak out. McAllister grinned an evil grin.
"Have I hit a nerve, eh, Padraig? Does that hurt your feelings?" McAllister shook Padraig hard. "Well it's true. You wouldn’t be upset if you didn’t know it was true. You killed them. You may as well have shot those lads yourself. Do you remember wee Proinsias, eh?" McAllister sneered as he saw the pain flash through Padraig's green eyes.
"Don’t you dare speak about him," he whispered.
"Ah, so you do remember him? You did nothing, you coward. You did fucking nothing. You sat at home, safe, and you listened to him being beaten and tortured and murdered, and you did fuck all. You let him die, Caraher. You're more guilty of his death than I am."
"YOU!" Padraig suddenly screamed. "YOU KILLED HIM! I'LL FUCKING KILL YOU!"
And suddenly Padraig had pounced on top of McAllister, using his good hand to punch him wherever he could. He only had a few seconds to lay into him before the others in the pub jumped into action, grabbing Padraig and hurling him away from McAllister. Padraig hadn’t time to even lift his head up before McAllister was over him.
"Hold him," he said, and Padraig's hands were pulled roughly behind his back. Padraig cried out in pain as one of them touched his gunshot wound, deliberately digging his fingers into the wound.
"I'm going to fucking enjoy this," McAllister spat, and he raised the glass that he held in his hand up into the air, before bringing it down on Padraig's head. Padraig slumped forward as the glass shattered on contact with his head, but he couldn't fall to the floor because of the two men holding him. Through the blood trickling down his face, he realised that he had no desire to fight back.
He knew it was useless.