Bold Fenian Men
Chapter Twenty-Six
McAllister looked down at the still, bloodsoaked figure of the young IRA Volunteer lying at his feet. He was still alive, McAllister knew that. He could see his chest moving as he breathed, and he whimpered every so often. He was deeply unconscious, but he was alive.
McAllister crouched down next to the IRA Volunteer, rolling him over onto his back. Padraig Caraher's face was badly bruised and covered with blood and cuts, and he was so deeply out of it that his eyelids weren't even flickering. McAllister looked into the face of his worst enemy for a long while. He couldn’t help but think that this was too easy. Killing Padraig Caraher was meant to be something that would take a lot of planning, and they'd found him standing in his living room. And now they had him. It seemed like there would be some catch, but if anyone was coming for him they have arrived by now.
Padraig groaned slightly and rolled over, coughing but not waking. McAllister could tell that Padraig had bad head injuries and was probably dying, but he made no effort to speed up the process. All these years McAllister had wanted Padraig Caraher dead, and now he finally had him.
McAllister reached over and firmly slapped Padraig's face several times, causing Padraig to stir. His eyelids flickered and his groaned again, and after a few more hard slaps, Padraig's eyes opened. The usually sharp green of them had been dulled with pain and oncoming death, but they were still more alert than McAllister would have expected, and it scared him.
"And we're here again?" Padraig croaked. His voice was weak, but his words were strong. "Where's it going to leave you, McAllister?"
"And what do you mean by that?"
"You seem to think … you've always seemed to think …" Padraig's eyelids drooped closed again and it took several more hard slaps to bring him back round. 'You've always seemed to think that killing me will solve everything.' Padraig managed a smile.
"It will, Caraher. The IRA won’t know what to do without you."
"No, it won't." Padraig smiled. "You … you wouldn't understand. Did the IRA give up when Padraig Pearse and James Connolly and Michael Collins died? No they didn't … and they won’t give up now. So shoot me, God damn you, and find yourself in the same place again in a few months."
"I will." McAllister said coldly. "You think that they'll get over you, don’t you? They won’t. This is going to destroy them and you know it. You're scared, Caraher, I can tell." Padraig smiled.
"I do not fear death, McAllister. I can’t fear it, not after seeing it every day. It's not myself I fear for. It's you."
McAllister just smiled and slowly loaded his gun.
"Then you're wasting your time. Because I don't need feared for." McAllister finished loading the gun and cocked it, pointing it straight at Padraig's head. Padraig didn’t even flinch. He only closed his eyes, and McAllister saw his lips form the shape of the words to the Lord's Prayer.
And then Padraig Caraher was looking right at him, and they were eye-to-eye for the briefest moment, before McAllister pulled the trigger. Padraig's eyes didn’t close, but the light faded from them, and McAllister knew he had him.
McAllister crouched down next to the IRA Volunteer, rolling him over onto his back. Padraig Caraher's face was badly bruised and covered with blood and cuts, and he was so deeply out of it that his eyelids weren't even flickering. McAllister looked into the face of his worst enemy for a long while. He couldn’t help but think that this was too easy. Killing Padraig Caraher was meant to be something that would take a lot of planning, and they'd found him standing in his living room. And now they had him. It seemed like there would be some catch, but if anyone was coming for him they have arrived by now.
Padraig groaned slightly and rolled over, coughing but not waking. McAllister could tell that Padraig had bad head injuries and was probably dying, but he made no effort to speed up the process. All these years McAllister had wanted Padraig Caraher dead, and now he finally had him.
McAllister reached over and firmly slapped Padraig's face several times, causing Padraig to stir. His eyelids flickered and his groaned again, and after a few more hard slaps, Padraig's eyes opened. The usually sharp green of them had been dulled with pain and oncoming death, but they were still more alert than McAllister would have expected, and it scared him.
"And we're here again?" Padraig croaked. His voice was weak, but his words were strong. "Where's it going to leave you, McAllister?"
"And what do you mean by that?"
"You seem to think … you've always seemed to think …" Padraig's eyelids drooped closed again and it took several more hard slaps to bring him back round. 'You've always seemed to think that killing me will solve everything.' Padraig managed a smile.
"It will, Caraher. The IRA won’t know what to do without you."
"No, it won't." Padraig smiled. "You … you wouldn't understand. Did the IRA give up when Padraig Pearse and James Connolly and Michael Collins died? No they didn't … and they won’t give up now. So shoot me, God damn you, and find yourself in the same place again in a few months."
"I will." McAllister said coldly. "You think that they'll get over you, don’t you? They won’t. This is going to destroy them and you know it. You're scared, Caraher, I can tell." Padraig smiled.
"I do not fear death, McAllister. I can’t fear it, not after seeing it every day. It's not myself I fear for. It's you."
McAllister just smiled and slowly loaded his gun.
"Then you're wasting your time. Because I don't need feared for." McAllister finished loading the gun and cocked it, pointing it straight at Padraig's head. Padraig didn’t even flinch. He only closed his eyes, and McAllister saw his lips form the shape of the words to the Lord's Prayer.
And then Padraig Caraher was looking right at him, and they were eye-to-eye for the briefest moment, before McAllister pulled the trigger. Padraig's eyes didn’t close, but the light faded from them, and McAllister knew he had him.