A Life for a Life

"Miceál, I know that you have this image in your head, and I want to set some things straight for you. If your father had lived that night, he would not have been the same. You wouldn't have had the same family life. Not only would your father just be completely destroyed at the death of his best friend, but he would either be arrested or have to leave he country indefinitely. Darragh would never recover from Oisin's death, you know that. You remember how close they were. Hell, you even called him Uncle. You still do. Darragh would have been wrecked, ripped apart by that. Plus, he wouldn't be able to live with you. He would have had to have left the country, by himself, and gone to live across the border, or maybe even further away." Diarmuid let another heavy sigh escape him. He didn’t want to tell Miceál this, and he knew that Miceál would be angry. "From what I saw when I found Darragh after Oisin had been murdered, Darragh probably wouldn't have lasted long if he lived by himself."

"W – what?" Miceál croaked. His throat was dry, and he knew what Diarmuid was getting at, but he refused to believe it until he actually heard it.

"Darragh was wrecked. He no longer cared if he lived or died at that moment. When the soldiers turned up, I had to persuade him to run. I don't know, perhaps it was that moment of hesitation that cost him his life? But from my experiences, and from what I witnessed that day, I wouldn't have been surprised if Darragh killed himself if he had to live in isolation like that. He wasn't in his right mind. All he could think about was Oisin."

During the long pause that followed, Diarmuid forced himself to look at Darragh's young son. Miceál was watching the floor, his bottom lip wobbling, his eyes burning, fighting desperately not to cry. It didn't work, and once the first hot tear had left one of his eyes, it was impossible to stop others following.

"Miceál?"

"W – Why are you m – making up such lies about h – him?" Miceál whispered, his voice a feeble and unconvincing attempt to sound angry, but betrayed by the waver and grief in his voice.

"I would never lie, Miceál. That is simply my observations, that's all."

"Da would never do anything like that! Da would never voluntarily leave us … it was an accident – no, no it wasn't! He was murdered, shot down, he didn't mean for it to happen, he didn't hang about on purpose so he got shot, he didn't, he didn't –"

"I'm not saying he set himself up, Miceál." Diarmuid said firmly, standing up and walking to where Miceál was bent over on the sofa, doubled over in his grief. He cupped the boy's chin with his hand and gently moved his head up, so they were eye to eye. Miceál tried to force himself to stop crying now Diarmuid was looking right at him, but large tears still found their way down his cheeks.

"Then what are you saying?"

"I'm saying that if Darragh had survived that night, he may have considered it. Not necessarily carry it out, but most certainly consider it."

"But you said that h – he d – didn't want to g – go when the soldiers came for h – him," Miceál hiccupped, and it was breaking Diarmuid's heart to watch Miceál like this, in this state. He wanted to hold him, to comfort the young boy as though he was his own son.

"Do you know what made him move, wee one?" he asked quietly, so Miceál could barely hear him.

"What?" Miceál's own voice was quiet and heavy with grief.

"I remember it like it was yesterday. I told him he'd be killed if he stayed. He turned to me and said, "At least I'll be with Oisin." Just like that. And that was the very thing I didn't want to hear. I turned to him and said, "And leave Grainne and Miceál and Aoibheann and little Caolan?" and then I grabbed him and threw him into the kitchen, and then he made a go of it." Diarmuid sighed heavily. "Unfortunately, it was too late. I'm so sorry for that, Miceál. If I could have done, I would have taken those bullets for him. I have no family, no wife, no children, and he had you. I would have died so that he could have lived. But there was no time. I tried, believe me I did, but before I could even move there was a bang and there was blood and …"

Miceál let out an awful noise that was neither cry nor yell, more of a pain-filled scream than anything else. Diarmuid pulled the boy towards him and held him close, holding him tighter than anything, his hand buried in his hair. Miceál sobbed against him, his whole body heaving with the force of he sobs ripping through him, and for the first time ever, in thirteen long, guilt-filled years, Diarmuid began to cry as well.

Diarmuid had never cried over Darragh and Oisin before … and it was a relief to let it all out. He'd never gotten over the guilt he'd felt, that he had lived and Darragh had died, in pain, leaving behind his family whom he had cherished.

The boy had quietened now, and he reminded Diarmuid of how he had been on the day of his father's funeral. Miceál was leaning his head against Diarmuid's shoulder, occasionally trembling and letting out soft whimpers.

"He'd be so proud of you now, Miceál." Diarmuid whispered into the young boy's ear.

"He would?" Miceál replied softly, still loving to hear such things.

"He would." Diarmuid nodded. "He always hoped you'd follow in his footsteps, as much as he liked to worry. He raised you to be a wee Republican, and he'd be so proud of you. You're providing us with valuable information that we wouldn’t have even dared dream of. And do you know what?"

"What?"

"Only a few weeks before your father was killed," as he said the words, he tightened his grip on Miceál reassuringly. He felt Miceál grip him back. "Your father told me that, should anything happen to him, to take something and to keep something for you. He said that he knew that one way or another you'd follow in his footsteps and become a soldier of Ireland, and so he told me to keep something for you and to give it to you when the time was right, in case something happened to him. He had it right up until the day he died. It was on him when he died, in fact."

"What was it?" Miceál couldn't keep the curiosity out of hit voice.

"He told me to give it to you when the time seemed right. I think the time's right now, don’t you think?" Diarmuid helped Miceál sit back on the sofa, and then he briefly left the room. Miceál, wiping the last traces of tears from his eyes, heard him rummaging around in the kitchen.

Diarmuid came back in a few seconds later.

"It might be a bit of a shock at first," he said softly, and then he sat down beside Miceál, and handed him the very gun that Darragh had had on him the night he had been shot. Miceál's breath caught in his throat as he held it carefully in both hands, taking in every tiny little detail. The gun was well used, with several scratches in the shiny silver metal, and the handle felt smooth. Miceál softly stroked it, and it felt light and comfortable in his hand, as though it knew that Miceál was descended from its previous master, as though it had almost been waiting to get back into the hands of a Callaghan.

Looking closely, Miceál could make out several small bloodstains, and he knew that this blood had belonged to his father, and it had been spilled as his father had been dying. However, no tears came. Instead, he softly touched them, and then he gripped the gun tightly and looked up at Diarmuid.

"Thank you," he whispered, and he had never sounded so sincere.

"You look after it, kiddo. It's yours now."