A Life for a Life
Chapter Fifteen
Miceál got back "home" late that night, the gun tucked safely in an inside pocket of the denim jacket that used to belong to his father. Every step he took, he could feel the gun press against him, against his beating heart, and, strange though he knew it sounded, he found it incredibly comforting.
He got back to the house, letting himself in and locking the door firmly behind him. He then went upstairs to his bedroom and sat on the end of the bed, glancing around quickly before taking the gun carefully out of its hiding place and holding it in both of his open palms again, gazing down at it as though it was about to open up the meaning of life.
He couldn't believe he had it. This gun, this gun that used to belong to his father, and now it was his. Something that his father had kept close to him all the time, something that his hands had held, and Miceál knew that when Darragh had been concealing it, the gun would have been pressed against his beating heart, as well.
Miceál carefully took out the picture of him and his father, and he shuffled up the bed so he was resting against the headboard. Placing he gun and the photograph on the bedside table, he watched them with a mixture of happiness that he had them, and sadness that this was all he had left.
Eventually, the view of the items became blurred, and eventually everything went dark, as Miceál drifted into what he knew was going to be an uneasy sleep.
"Ma, put it down!" Miceál was twelve years old now and he was standing in the kitchen, an eleven-year-old sobbing Aoibheann standing just behind him, begging his mother to put the bottle down again. "Ma, we told you, no more drinking! No more!"
"You said, Ma, you said!" Caolan was only nine, but he was putting his penny's worth in as well. Aoibheann, as always hating confrontation, had buried her head in her hands, sobbing loudly, as her two brothers desperately tried to calm a hysterical Grainne down.
"And do you know another reason why I'm like this?" Grainne shrieked. "I married the most selfish little bastard in the world, and then you lot came along and he always promised me and he always said to me that he would never leave me, and what did he go and do? He left me! He even had the cheek to come back here and die in the house! I mean, what a bloody cheek is that, eh?"
"You don't mean it, Ma, you're drunk, you're really, really drunk," Miceál said, loudly and firmly, too mature for a twelve-year-old's voice. "You love Da, you do love Da, and you don't mean that. He wanted to say goodbye! He didn't do it to spite you, he loved you! More than anything!"
"Well, he had a funny way of showing it!" Grainne took another heavy swig from the bottle. "And you, you no-good little … well, you're just like him, aren't you? You think that you're in control of everything but you're not! You're not! You're a wee brat, do you know that, Miceál Callaghan?" Grainne's slurring had become a lot worse now.
"All right Ma, I'm just as bad, I know, just put the drink down!" Miceál knew that the best (and probably the only) way to get his mother to obey him was to agree with her, no matter what she said.
It wasn't working. Grainne reached up and took another swing. And then she swayed on the spot slightly, and crumpled to the floor.
Aoibheann screamed, a loud, piercing scream that went right through Miceál like a knife.
"MUMMY!"
"Is she all right?" At the sound of his sister's terrified voice, Caolan began to panic as well, looking from his unconscious mother to Miceál, horrified.
It was always the same, always up to Miceál to reassure them, always up to Miceál to make things better … well, what if he couldn't this time? One day he wasn't going to be able to make things better!
Miceál went to his mother's side and crouched down next to her, brushing her hair out of her face. She was still breathing, and her eyes were closed. She looked relatively peaceful, the first time that Miceál had seen peace in her face since it had happened. He gently pressed his fingers against his mother's neck, feeling her pulse racing.
"It's all right," he told Aoibheann and Caolan. "She's just passed out because of the alcohol. She'll be fine. Well, she'll have a bad hangover, but she'll be all right." Miceál, with great effort, rolled his mother onto her side to ensure she didn't choke, and then the three children stayed there, silently, wanting to go but not daring to leave their mother.
They didn't notice Grainne stirring until she let out an angry cry and grabbed Miceál, who cried out in surprise as his mother gripped him by the throat.
"YOU ALWAYS STUCK UP FOR HIM!" she shrieked, gripping so tightly that Miceál let out a strange choking noise.
"Ma – get – off!"
Aoibheann and Caolan ran over and managed to prise Grainne Callaghan off her young son, and Miceál staggered backwards, his eyes wide.
"You always stuck up for your father when he was leaving us!"
"You shut up about Da!"
Grainne leapt at him, and Miceál yelled and dived out of the way –
Still yelling, Miceál woke up as he hit the floor, where he'd somehow launched himself right out of bed. There was a clatter and his father's gun landed beside him, and Miceál gripped onto it, breathing heavily, anger pulsing through every nerve ending in his body.
There was no anger at his mother, none at his father … no; all the anger in Miceál's body was directed to the man who shot his father. If it hadn't been for him none of this would have happened. Ma wouldn't have started drinking, she wouldn't hate him, she would have just been a normal mother … Diarmuid was wrong, his Da would have been OK …
Miceál let out another yell of pure anger. He was going to get them back. Even if he died doing it.
He got back to the house, letting himself in and locking the door firmly behind him. He then went upstairs to his bedroom and sat on the end of the bed, glancing around quickly before taking the gun carefully out of its hiding place and holding it in both of his open palms again, gazing down at it as though it was about to open up the meaning of life.
He couldn't believe he had it. This gun, this gun that used to belong to his father, and now it was his. Something that his father had kept close to him all the time, something that his hands had held, and Miceál knew that when Darragh had been concealing it, the gun would have been pressed against his beating heart, as well.
Miceál carefully took out the picture of him and his father, and he shuffled up the bed so he was resting against the headboard. Placing he gun and the photograph on the bedside table, he watched them with a mixture of happiness that he had them, and sadness that this was all he had left.
Eventually, the view of the items became blurred, and eventually everything went dark, as Miceál drifted into what he knew was going to be an uneasy sleep.
"Ma, put it down!" Miceál was twelve years old now and he was standing in the kitchen, an eleven-year-old sobbing Aoibheann standing just behind him, begging his mother to put the bottle down again. "Ma, we told you, no more drinking! No more!"
"You said, Ma, you said!" Caolan was only nine, but he was putting his penny's worth in as well. Aoibheann, as always hating confrontation, had buried her head in her hands, sobbing loudly, as her two brothers desperately tried to calm a hysterical Grainne down.
"And do you know another reason why I'm like this?" Grainne shrieked. "I married the most selfish little bastard in the world, and then you lot came along and he always promised me and he always said to me that he would never leave me, and what did he go and do? He left me! He even had the cheek to come back here and die in the house! I mean, what a bloody cheek is that, eh?"
"You don't mean it, Ma, you're drunk, you're really, really drunk," Miceál said, loudly and firmly, too mature for a twelve-year-old's voice. "You love Da, you do love Da, and you don't mean that. He wanted to say goodbye! He didn't do it to spite you, he loved you! More than anything!"
"Well, he had a funny way of showing it!" Grainne took another heavy swig from the bottle. "And you, you no-good little … well, you're just like him, aren't you? You think that you're in control of everything but you're not! You're not! You're a wee brat, do you know that, Miceál Callaghan?" Grainne's slurring had become a lot worse now.
"All right Ma, I'm just as bad, I know, just put the drink down!" Miceál knew that the best (and probably the only) way to get his mother to obey him was to agree with her, no matter what she said.
It wasn't working. Grainne reached up and took another swing. And then she swayed on the spot slightly, and crumpled to the floor.
Aoibheann screamed, a loud, piercing scream that went right through Miceál like a knife.
"MUMMY!"
"Is she all right?" At the sound of his sister's terrified voice, Caolan began to panic as well, looking from his unconscious mother to Miceál, horrified.
It was always the same, always up to Miceál to reassure them, always up to Miceál to make things better … well, what if he couldn't this time? One day he wasn't going to be able to make things better!
Miceál went to his mother's side and crouched down next to her, brushing her hair out of her face. She was still breathing, and her eyes were closed. She looked relatively peaceful, the first time that Miceál had seen peace in her face since it had happened. He gently pressed his fingers against his mother's neck, feeling her pulse racing.
"It's all right," he told Aoibheann and Caolan. "She's just passed out because of the alcohol. She'll be fine. Well, she'll have a bad hangover, but she'll be all right." Miceál, with great effort, rolled his mother onto her side to ensure she didn't choke, and then the three children stayed there, silently, wanting to go but not daring to leave their mother.
They didn't notice Grainne stirring until she let out an angry cry and grabbed Miceál, who cried out in surprise as his mother gripped him by the throat.
"YOU ALWAYS STUCK UP FOR HIM!" she shrieked, gripping so tightly that Miceál let out a strange choking noise.
"Ma – get – off!"
Aoibheann and Caolan ran over and managed to prise Grainne Callaghan off her young son, and Miceál staggered backwards, his eyes wide.
"You always stuck up for your father when he was leaving us!"
"You shut up about Da!"
Grainne leapt at him, and Miceál yelled and dived out of the way –
Still yelling, Miceál woke up as he hit the floor, where he'd somehow launched himself right out of bed. There was a clatter and his father's gun landed beside him, and Miceál gripped onto it, breathing heavily, anger pulsing through every nerve ending in his body.
There was no anger at his mother, none at his father … no; all the anger in Miceál's body was directed to the man who shot his father. If it hadn't been for him none of this would have happened. Ma wouldn't have started drinking, she wouldn't hate him, she would have just been a normal mother … Diarmuid was wrong, his Da would have been OK …
Miceál let out another yell of pure anger. He was going to get them back. Even if he died doing it.