Ashes to Ashes
Chapter Nine
"I don't like you and you don't like me, but for the time being we're going to have to get along." Darragh said, after spending the last five minutes banging on the back door of Diarmuid Feeny.
"What the Hell are you doing here?"
"They turned up at my house."
"What did I tell you?"
"Yes, I know, I get it, you're right." Darragh rolled his eyes. "Look, can I stay here?"
"No" Diarmuid said simply. "You can take my car and get a fucking ferry out of here. I'll pick it tomorrow if you don’t get seen."
"I'm not leaving Ireland." Darragh said firmly. "Let me in or I'll find somewhere else to stay." Diarmuid looked at Darragh for a few moments, realising that there was no negotiating. Sighing heavily, he moved aside and allowed Darragh to step into the warmth and light of his kitchen.
"We'd better go and see the news and see what they're saying about you." Diarmuid said, leading Darragh into the living room. Darragh felt a pang of homesickness. Diarmuid's house was the same layout as Darragh's.
"Police entered the house looking for twenty-year-old Darragh Callaghan, but upon arriving they were told by his wife that he was not in the country. Police arrested twenty-year-old Grainne Callaghan and took her in for questioning, but no information has come of that. Police have reason to believe that Callaghan is guilty of the IRA murder of thirty-six-year-old Simon Henderson on Christmas Day last year, and also have reason to believe that he is linked to as many as seven similar killings across Belfast. They believe him to be dangerous and command has gone out to the police and army forces to shoot him on sight."
Darragh coughed, jumped up, coughed again, and then fell down on the chair.
"What the Hell … ?" he asked. "Grainne too … fuck … they're going to fucking KILL ME, Diarmuid!"
"I know. I heard." For the first time, Diarmuid looked worried about his comrade. "Now do you believe me that you have to go?"
"Oh, Jesus, Jesus, no!" Darragh ran his hand through his hair and his voice choked up. "Diarmuid, what am I going to do?"
"Here's what you're going to do. You're going to stay here over night. Do not leave this house. We'll get up early tomorrow and I'll drive to a port down South. They'll be watching the ones up North. We'll get you out, Darragh. I know we have our differences but I'll not leave you by yourself."
Darragh nodded his gratitude, but his mind was elsewhere. He felt tears in his eyes as waves of fear crashed over him. He was only twenty years old. He couldn’t die. This wasn't happening. His heart was thumping madly and he gripped his hair with his hand, squeezing his eyes shut. He'd never been so terrified in all his life. He could be sitting in a car or walking down the street and they'd blow his head off …
He thought of Grainne … his beautiful, young wife Grainne and their three small children. Suddenly he began to sob. Everything finally caught up with him over all these years and he fell to the floor sobbing. Diarmuid gawped at him in astonishment. He never knew how to deal with these things. He saw many young Volunteers breaking down over the years but he never did work out how to comfort them.
Darragh looked beyond comforting now, however.
"Darragh, come one," he said awkwardly. "Stop it. It's not going to help anything. You're going to be all right. You're going to get out of here."
"I don't w – want to get out of h – here," Darragh sobbed, barely audible through his fearful sobs. "I want to stay with my family, I want to be a normal guy, I want to cuddle my children and keep them safe and put them to bed and not have to worry about kissing them g – goodbye and not c – coming home … I was going to l – leave, Diarmuid, I was going to leave the IRA but I can't … I can't now because they're g – going to fucking k – kill me!"
Darragh was by now hysterical, and looked as though he was going to throw up if he carried on. Diarmuid did the only thing he could. Walking swiftly over to the sobbing form of Darragh, he slapped him hard around the back of the head. Darragh coughed and jerked, shocked into silence.
"Crying over it is not going to help, Darragh!" Diarmuid said, firmly but gently. "Pull yourself together, man!" Darragh took a deep, shaky breath, and slowly stood up.
"You're right. I'm going to bed."
As Darragh was heading out of the living room, he caught his name on the television again, but this time it was a different report.
"As police investigate the cases involving Darragh Callaghan, from the Ardoyne area in Belfast, they have reason to believe that he has a accomplice just as dangerous. Witnesses to the Christmas Day shooting described seeing a red Ford Cortina car leaving the grounds of the premises, and after investigating and interviewing witnesses, police have named the second suspect as Oisin O'Donnell, also twenty years old and from the Ardoyne area. He is also believed to be dangerous, and is also listed as shoot on sight."
"No."
Darragh's heart skipped a beat as he spoke. Oisin … he knew where Oisin would be. He'd be at the local pub on the corner of his road. There was surveillance on this road … Oisin wouldn't have seen the news, and he'd walk home … and he'd be shot down without a chance.
Darragh walked swiftly into the kitchen, and went immediately to the third drawer on the left of the oven. He pulled it open, reached to the back, and his hand closed around a small pistol. He took it out, expertly checked if it was loaded, saw it was, flicked the safety catch on, and placed it in the pocket of his jacket.
Diarmuid was sitting in the living room, unaware of what was going through Darragh's mind. Unaware of the fact that Darragh had heard everything.
Slam.
The front door suddenly slammed closed. Diarmuid jumped up, looking out of the living room door in surprise. And then it clicked. He ran into the kitchen and checked the drawer. It was still open and there was no gun inside it. He ran through the hall and pulled the front door open.
Down the street, he could just make out the dark figure of Darragh Callaghan, hurrying away down the street.
"Shit!" he muttered, and then he pulled on some shoes, threw on a coat and then hurried down the street after him.
"What the Hell are you doing here?"
"They turned up at my house."
"What did I tell you?"
"Yes, I know, I get it, you're right." Darragh rolled his eyes. "Look, can I stay here?"
"No" Diarmuid said simply. "You can take my car and get a fucking ferry out of here. I'll pick it tomorrow if you don’t get seen."
"I'm not leaving Ireland." Darragh said firmly. "Let me in or I'll find somewhere else to stay." Diarmuid looked at Darragh for a few moments, realising that there was no negotiating. Sighing heavily, he moved aside and allowed Darragh to step into the warmth and light of his kitchen.
"We'd better go and see the news and see what they're saying about you." Diarmuid said, leading Darragh into the living room. Darragh felt a pang of homesickness. Diarmuid's house was the same layout as Darragh's.
"Police entered the house looking for twenty-year-old Darragh Callaghan, but upon arriving they were told by his wife that he was not in the country. Police arrested twenty-year-old Grainne Callaghan and took her in for questioning, but no information has come of that. Police have reason to believe that Callaghan is guilty of the IRA murder of thirty-six-year-old Simon Henderson on Christmas Day last year, and also have reason to believe that he is linked to as many as seven similar killings across Belfast. They believe him to be dangerous and command has gone out to the police and army forces to shoot him on sight."
Darragh coughed, jumped up, coughed again, and then fell down on the chair.
"What the Hell … ?" he asked. "Grainne too … fuck … they're going to fucking KILL ME, Diarmuid!"
"I know. I heard." For the first time, Diarmuid looked worried about his comrade. "Now do you believe me that you have to go?"
"Oh, Jesus, Jesus, no!" Darragh ran his hand through his hair and his voice choked up. "Diarmuid, what am I going to do?"
"Here's what you're going to do. You're going to stay here over night. Do not leave this house. We'll get up early tomorrow and I'll drive to a port down South. They'll be watching the ones up North. We'll get you out, Darragh. I know we have our differences but I'll not leave you by yourself."
Darragh nodded his gratitude, but his mind was elsewhere. He felt tears in his eyes as waves of fear crashed over him. He was only twenty years old. He couldn’t die. This wasn't happening. His heart was thumping madly and he gripped his hair with his hand, squeezing his eyes shut. He'd never been so terrified in all his life. He could be sitting in a car or walking down the street and they'd blow his head off …
He thought of Grainne … his beautiful, young wife Grainne and their three small children. Suddenly he began to sob. Everything finally caught up with him over all these years and he fell to the floor sobbing. Diarmuid gawped at him in astonishment. He never knew how to deal with these things. He saw many young Volunteers breaking down over the years but he never did work out how to comfort them.
Darragh looked beyond comforting now, however.
"Darragh, come one," he said awkwardly. "Stop it. It's not going to help anything. You're going to be all right. You're going to get out of here."
"I don't w – want to get out of h – here," Darragh sobbed, barely audible through his fearful sobs. "I want to stay with my family, I want to be a normal guy, I want to cuddle my children and keep them safe and put them to bed and not have to worry about kissing them g – goodbye and not c – coming home … I was going to l – leave, Diarmuid, I was going to leave the IRA but I can't … I can't now because they're g – going to fucking k – kill me!"
Darragh was by now hysterical, and looked as though he was going to throw up if he carried on. Diarmuid did the only thing he could. Walking swiftly over to the sobbing form of Darragh, he slapped him hard around the back of the head. Darragh coughed and jerked, shocked into silence.
"Crying over it is not going to help, Darragh!" Diarmuid said, firmly but gently. "Pull yourself together, man!" Darragh took a deep, shaky breath, and slowly stood up.
"You're right. I'm going to bed."
As Darragh was heading out of the living room, he caught his name on the television again, but this time it was a different report.
"As police investigate the cases involving Darragh Callaghan, from the Ardoyne area in Belfast, they have reason to believe that he has a accomplice just as dangerous. Witnesses to the Christmas Day shooting described seeing a red Ford Cortina car leaving the grounds of the premises, and after investigating and interviewing witnesses, police have named the second suspect as Oisin O'Donnell, also twenty years old and from the Ardoyne area. He is also believed to be dangerous, and is also listed as shoot on sight."
"No."
Darragh's heart skipped a beat as he spoke. Oisin … he knew where Oisin would be. He'd be at the local pub on the corner of his road. There was surveillance on this road … Oisin wouldn't have seen the news, and he'd walk home … and he'd be shot down without a chance.
Darragh walked swiftly into the kitchen, and went immediately to the third drawer on the left of the oven. He pulled it open, reached to the back, and his hand closed around a small pistol. He took it out, expertly checked if it was loaded, saw it was, flicked the safety catch on, and placed it in the pocket of his jacket.
Diarmuid was sitting in the living room, unaware of what was going through Darragh's mind. Unaware of the fact that Darragh had heard everything.
Slam.
The front door suddenly slammed closed. Diarmuid jumped up, looking out of the living room door in surprise. And then it clicked. He ran into the kitchen and checked the drawer. It was still open and there was no gun inside it. He ran through the hall and pulled the front door open.
Down the street, he could just make out the dark figure of Darragh Callaghan, hurrying away down the street.
"Shit!" he muttered, and then he pulled on some shoes, threw on a coat and then hurried down the street after him.