A Life for a Life
Chapter Sixteen
"I can't believe that there's another one of us been killed."
Miceál rolled his eyes as he heard the same thought be spoken aloud from the mouth of Chris Smyth, for what must have been the hundredth time. Miceál had been working hard at his job, as the quicker he got the work done, the quicker he could eavesdrop and get useful information for the IRA. However, the people at his workplace hadn't missed his good work, and now Miceál was acting as Smyth's personal assistant. This was a job Miceál loathed, as in his view, Smyth should have bee dead long ago.
"It's a shame." Miceál tried to sound sympathetic, but he nearly choked on his hatred of the man, and all of his comrades, as well.
"I'm sure we'll get through it. They've not beaten us yet. Are you all right with that paperwork? I need to speak to some people."
"I'm fine, go ahead. It's what I'm being paid for, after all." Miceál said brightly, trying to cover up for his icy tone before. It worked, and Smyth left the room. Upon hearing his footsteps echoing away up the long corridor and no footsteps coming back the same way, Miceál quietly stood up and went into the main office, immediately ransacking the desk for information.
"Come on, come on, come on," he muttered to himself. "Has to be something here!"
And then he froze, because right there, in the filing cabinet he was currently rooting through, there was a file with a name all too familiar on it. Darragh Callaghan.
Miceál's breath caught in his throat as, his hands trembling violently, he softly opened the file. Paper clipped to the first page was a photograph of his father. Miceál felt his eyes burning with tears as he looked at it, gently stroking his father's face. How he wanted to steal the photo, to take it with him, but he knew he couldn't.
Turning the photo over, he saw a handful of brief notes on his father, in what looked to be Smyth's handwriting:
CALLAGHAN, DARRAGH
ARDOYNE AREA
TRACED P.I.R.A
KNOWN TO BE ASSOCIATED WITH; OISIN O'DONNELL, DIARMUID FEENY (FEENY IS A KNOWN SENIOR P.I.R.A MEMBER).
Miceál couldn't help it, and he turned back towards to the photograph of his father. He stared at the picture for a long while, just watching his father's smiling face, wondering, wishing that his father could be at home now, to look after him, to keep the family together, to be there for him …
Footsteps sounded up the corridor. They were close – Miceál hadn't realised that they were so close. Panicking slightly, he quickly threw the file back together and put it back in the filing cabinet. He then frantically ran back out to his desk and dived into the chair just in time – the door then opened and Smyth came in right that same second.
"You all right, Michael?"
"I'm fine." Miceál said, sounding as though he was concentrating. 'Just confused myself, s'all.'
Smyth nodded, and then disappeared back into his office. Miceál held his breath, his heart hammering, waiting to be found out … surely he must have been found out by now …
"Michael?" Miceál swore.
"Crap," he muttered, after a barrage of worst words. It was now or never …
"Michael?"
"Aye?" Miceál asked casually, coming to the door and leaning against it in hat he hoped was a casual manner.
"Has anyone been in here when I was gone?"
"Not that I know of," Miceál furrowed his eyebrows, as though in thought. "Why?"
"This,"
Miceál's heart skipped a beat. The photograph of his father had been lying on the floor by the filing cabinet. He had obviously missed it in his hurry to get out. Cursing himself in his head for being such an idiot, he felt the colour drain from his face at the shock of seeing his father's photograph again.
"Are you all right, Michael?"
"W – why?" Miceál's throat had gone suddenly dry, and his eyes flashed with anger. How dare Smyth put his filthy hands on that photo … he wanted to have a gun in his hand … blinded by hatred for the man in front of him, all Miceál wanted to do was shoot him down, stand over him and kill him like his people had done to his father …
"MICHAEL!"
Miceál got the feeling that Smyth had been calling him for quite some time.
"Sorry,"
"What's got into you, boy? What's wrong with you?"
"I …" Miceál though quickly, gleaming a chance for information regarding his father. '"I thought I recognised the face from somewhere, that's all."
"You do?"
"Yeah. When I lived in South Armagh … they were talking about him."
"You lived in South Armagh?" Smyth sounded shocked … unnerved, even. Miceál spied a chance to gain his trust … to draw him in, perhaps.
"Yeah, that's why I moved here. My family were the only Protestant family living in the whole village. Obviously, they didn't take too kindly to that down there, did they?" Miceál was using what he knew about the IRA in South Armagh to build up an incredibly realistic story, but one that he would not tell unless prompted. He didn't want to sound too open about, more like it was a secret he was too scared to speak about.
"So you moved because of that?"
"Yeah. Don't know what took me so long. I guessed I could get away with it."
"What happened?"
Miceál gave a short pause for dramatic effect.
"I was threatened, that's all. I used to work in a shop, and they always used to give me Hell there, and then one morning the car I was driving was stopped and they pulled me out, and it was the IRA. And –" Miceál sighed. "Well, you can imagine what they did to me. I'm lucky to still be here. I don’t really want to go into detail, though."
"And they were talking about this guy, eh?"
"When they took me, aye. Something about it being the fault of 'my kind'. I take it they meant Protestants."
"Jeez. You are lucky to be here."
"I don't even know who he is. How could I have been anything to do with it?" Miceál used the hatred still flowing through him to incorporate realistically into his voice. "How could I? He doesn't look much older than me." Miceál peered closely at the photo as though curious, all the time swearing to his father that he was going to get revenge for his death, and hoping that he wasn't listening to the fact his son was pretending to be a Protestant … pretending to be one of them.
He would understand the fact it was for the greater good.
"He was twenty years old when he died."
Miceál shook himself out of his thoughts.
"That's my age," he muttered, thanking the Lord his father's clothes made him look old enough to get away with being about four years his senior.
"Aye, but he died about thirteen years ago." Smyth said, finally placing the photo back down.
"So how was I anything to do with it?"
"You know how it is. They just want a victim."
"But … was he from there?"
"No. Belfast."
"So why do they care?"
"They're all IRA, aren't they? He was a 'comrade'. I'm sure it was just an excuse to beat on you. If you were the only Protestant they were probably just wanting to put a bullet in you and that was a decent excuse." Miceál nodded slowly, as though drinking it in. In actual fact. Miceál was searching for a non-suspicious sounding question that might gleam information on who had murdered his father. Miceál was still interested in getting the IRA names, but he also had a personal errand he would like to complete – killing whoever had taken his father.
Miceál rolled his eyes as he heard the same thought be spoken aloud from the mouth of Chris Smyth, for what must have been the hundredth time. Miceál had been working hard at his job, as the quicker he got the work done, the quicker he could eavesdrop and get useful information for the IRA. However, the people at his workplace hadn't missed his good work, and now Miceál was acting as Smyth's personal assistant. This was a job Miceál loathed, as in his view, Smyth should have bee dead long ago.
"It's a shame." Miceál tried to sound sympathetic, but he nearly choked on his hatred of the man, and all of his comrades, as well.
"I'm sure we'll get through it. They've not beaten us yet. Are you all right with that paperwork? I need to speak to some people."
"I'm fine, go ahead. It's what I'm being paid for, after all." Miceál said brightly, trying to cover up for his icy tone before. It worked, and Smyth left the room. Upon hearing his footsteps echoing away up the long corridor and no footsteps coming back the same way, Miceál quietly stood up and went into the main office, immediately ransacking the desk for information.
"Come on, come on, come on," he muttered to himself. "Has to be something here!"
And then he froze, because right there, in the filing cabinet he was currently rooting through, there was a file with a name all too familiar on it. Darragh Callaghan.
Miceál's breath caught in his throat as, his hands trembling violently, he softly opened the file. Paper clipped to the first page was a photograph of his father. Miceál felt his eyes burning with tears as he looked at it, gently stroking his father's face. How he wanted to steal the photo, to take it with him, but he knew he couldn't.
Turning the photo over, he saw a handful of brief notes on his father, in what looked to be Smyth's handwriting:
CALLAGHAN, DARRAGH
ARDOYNE AREA
TRACED P.I.R.A
KNOWN TO BE ASSOCIATED WITH; OISIN O'DONNELL, DIARMUID FEENY (FEENY IS A KNOWN SENIOR P.I.R.A MEMBER).
Miceál couldn't help it, and he turned back towards to the photograph of his father. He stared at the picture for a long while, just watching his father's smiling face, wondering, wishing that his father could be at home now, to look after him, to keep the family together, to be there for him …
Footsteps sounded up the corridor. They were close – Miceál hadn't realised that they were so close. Panicking slightly, he quickly threw the file back together and put it back in the filing cabinet. He then frantically ran back out to his desk and dived into the chair just in time – the door then opened and Smyth came in right that same second.
"You all right, Michael?"
"I'm fine." Miceál said, sounding as though he was concentrating. 'Just confused myself, s'all.'
Smyth nodded, and then disappeared back into his office. Miceál held his breath, his heart hammering, waiting to be found out … surely he must have been found out by now …
"Michael?" Miceál swore.
"Crap," he muttered, after a barrage of worst words. It was now or never …
"Michael?"
"Aye?" Miceál asked casually, coming to the door and leaning against it in hat he hoped was a casual manner.
"Has anyone been in here when I was gone?"
"Not that I know of," Miceál furrowed his eyebrows, as though in thought. "Why?"
"This,"
Miceál's heart skipped a beat. The photograph of his father had been lying on the floor by the filing cabinet. He had obviously missed it in his hurry to get out. Cursing himself in his head for being such an idiot, he felt the colour drain from his face at the shock of seeing his father's photograph again.
"Are you all right, Michael?"
"W – why?" Miceál's throat had gone suddenly dry, and his eyes flashed with anger. How dare Smyth put his filthy hands on that photo … he wanted to have a gun in his hand … blinded by hatred for the man in front of him, all Miceál wanted to do was shoot him down, stand over him and kill him like his people had done to his father …
"MICHAEL!"
Miceál got the feeling that Smyth had been calling him for quite some time.
"Sorry,"
"What's got into you, boy? What's wrong with you?"
"I …" Miceál though quickly, gleaming a chance for information regarding his father. '"I thought I recognised the face from somewhere, that's all."
"You do?"
"Yeah. When I lived in South Armagh … they were talking about him."
"You lived in South Armagh?" Smyth sounded shocked … unnerved, even. Miceál spied a chance to gain his trust … to draw him in, perhaps.
"Yeah, that's why I moved here. My family were the only Protestant family living in the whole village. Obviously, they didn't take too kindly to that down there, did they?" Miceál was using what he knew about the IRA in South Armagh to build up an incredibly realistic story, but one that he would not tell unless prompted. He didn't want to sound too open about, more like it was a secret he was too scared to speak about.
"So you moved because of that?"
"Yeah. Don't know what took me so long. I guessed I could get away with it."
"What happened?"
Miceál gave a short pause for dramatic effect.
"I was threatened, that's all. I used to work in a shop, and they always used to give me Hell there, and then one morning the car I was driving was stopped and they pulled me out, and it was the IRA. And –" Miceál sighed. "Well, you can imagine what they did to me. I'm lucky to still be here. I don’t really want to go into detail, though."
"And they were talking about this guy, eh?"
"When they took me, aye. Something about it being the fault of 'my kind'. I take it they meant Protestants."
"Jeez. You are lucky to be here."
"I don't even know who he is. How could I have been anything to do with it?" Miceál used the hatred still flowing through him to incorporate realistically into his voice. "How could I? He doesn't look much older than me." Miceál peered closely at the photo as though curious, all the time swearing to his father that he was going to get revenge for his death, and hoping that he wasn't listening to the fact his son was pretending to be a Protestant … pretending to be one of them.
He would understand the fact it was for the greater good.
"He was twenty years old when he died."
Miceál shook himself out of his thoughts.
"That's my age," he muttered, thanking the Lord his father's clothes made him look old enough to get away with being about four years his senior.
"Aye, but he died about thirteen years ago." Smyth said, finally placing the photo back down.
"So how was I anything to do with it?"
"You know how it is. They just want a victim."
"But … was he from there?"
"No. Belfast."
"So why do they care?"
"They're all IRA, aren't they? He was a 'comrade'. I'm sure it was just an excuse to beat on you. If you were the only Protestant they were probably just wanting to put a bullet in you and that was a decent excuse." Miceál nodded slowly, as though drinking it in. In actual fact. Miceál was searching for a non-suspicious sounding question that might gleam information on who had murdered his father. Miceál was still interested in getting the IRA names, but he also had a personal errand he would like to complete – killing whoever had taken his father.