Bold Fenian Men
Chapter Twenty-Seven
"They've got him, haven’t they?" Cillian whispered, from where he was sitting, slumped at a stool at the bar, watching Cearnaigh and young Roisin with worried eyes.
"This is Padraig we're talking about, Cillian," Cearnaigh said, but he didn’t sound so sure. At the moment, nearly the whole of Belfast's IRA unit were sitting worriedly in the pub. They'd had their arguments before, and they'd had times where they'd nearly drawn guns on one another, but at them moment they were all united in worry. That was the sort of effect Padraig had on them. He seemed to unite them, and that was why he'd been so effective.
Now they were waiting for news on if he was dead or not. It all seemed like a bad dream.
Cillian leapt to the phone by the door as it rang, praying harder than he'd ever prayed in his life that it was Padraig. Padraig, with some witty comment telling him that he was OK. Perhaps he was even in Crossmaglen right now, riding out the storm until it was safe to come back?
"Hello?" Cillian grabbed up the phone. Behind him, the whole room held its breath.
"Don’t sound so hopeful." Although Cillian didn't recognise the voice, he felt his heart drop and he suddenly felt weak at the knees.
"Who is this?" he croaked, his throat dry.
"That doesn't matter. He's dead. Gone. Nothing you can do about it."
"It's not true," Cillian whispered.
"I'm afraid it is." The voice laughed, and then the phone went dead. Cillian slowly turned round to face the rest of the pub.
'They got him,' he eventually whimpered, and then he fell to his knees and began to sob.
~
"He's not dead." Roisin said again, for what must have been the four hundredth time. Cillian lost his temper.
"ROISIN! WOULD YOU STOP SAYING THAT? IT'S BAD ENOUGH KNOWING HE IS DEAD WITHOUT YOU TRYING TO GIVE US ALL FALSE HOPE!"
"He's not dead!" Roisin yelled back, though not as loudly as Cillian had yelled. "For God's sake, Cillian! You know him better than I do! This is Padraig Caraher we’re talking about! He won't be dead! It's not that easy, Cillian! It's not that simple!"
"He's only human, Roisin! He can’t just jump up and be OK if they put a bullet in his head, can he? And that's probably not all they did to him, either. They probably beat him and tortured him and did all sorts to him … he's probably better off dead after they were through with him!"
Roisin was about to reply, to crack up at Cillian and ask him what sort of a friend he was and ask him just how much faith he actually had in Padraig, but the door to the pub cut her of by creaking open. Instantly everyone froze, not knowing if it was friends or people set on getting rid of the rest of Padraig's unit.
But nothing could have prepared anyone for who it actually was. Even the whole of the Belfast UVF bursting in through the door would have been less shocking than seeing Padraig Caraher standing there. Standing, despite clear injuries and a gunshot wound to the forehead.
But he wasn't standing for long.
"I'm back, bitches," he muttered, and then he slumped to the floor and was still.
"This is Padraig we're talking about, Cillian," Cearnaigh said, but he didn’t sound so sure. At the moment, nearly the whole of Belfast's IRA unit were sitting worriedly in the pub. They'd had their arguments before, and they'd had times where they'd nearly drawn guns on one another, but at them moment they were all united in worry. That was the sort of effect Padraig had on them. He seemed to unite them, and that was why he'd been so effective.
Now they were waiting for news on if he was dead or not. It all seemed like a bad dream.
Cillian leapt to the phone by the door as it rang, praying harder than he'd ever prayed in his life that it was Padraig. Padraig, with some witty comment telling him that he was OK. Perhaps he was even in Crossmaglen right now, riding out the storm until it was safe to come back?
"Hello?" Cillian grabbed up the phone. Behind him, the whole room held its breath.
"Don’t sound so hopeful." Although Cillian didn't recognise the voice, he felt his heart drop and he suddenly felt weak at the knees.
"Who is this?" he croaked, his throat dry.
"That doesn't matter. He's dead. Gone. Nothing you can do about it."
"It's not true," Cillian whispered.
"I'm afraid it is." The voice laughed, and then the phone went dead. Cillian slowly turned round to face the rest of the pub.
'They got him,' he eventually whimpered, and then he fell to his knees and began to sob.
~
"He's not dead." Roisin said again, for what must have been the four hundredth time. Cillian lost his temper.
"ROISIN! WOULD YOU STOP SAYING THAT? IT'S BAD ENOUGH KNOWING HE IS DEAD WITHOUT YOU TRYING TO GIVE US ALL FALSE HOPE!"
"He's not dead!" Roisin yelled back, though not as loudly as Cillian had yelled. "For God's sake, Cillian! You know him better than I do! This is Padraig Caraher we’re talking about! He won't be dead! It's not that easy, Cillian! It's not that simple!"
"He's only human, Roisin! He can’t just jump up and be OK if they put a bullet in his head, can he? And that's probably not all they did to him, either. They probably beat him and tortured him and did all sorts to him … he's probably better off dead after they were through with him!"
Roisin was about to reply, to crack up at Cillian and ask him what sort of a friend he was and ask him just how much faith he actually had in Padraig, but the door to the pub cut her of by creaking open. Instantly everyone froze, not knowing if it was friends or people set on getting rid of the rest of Padraig's unit.
But nothing could have prepared anyone for who it actually was. Even the whole of the Belfast UVF bursting in through the door would have been less shocking than seeing Padraig Caraher standing there. Standing, despite clear injuries and a gunshot wound to the forehead.
But he wasn't standing for long.
"I'm back, bitches," he muttered, and then he slumped to the floor and was still.