A Life for a Life
Chapter Nineteen
"I'm telling you, there's something about that kid," Miceál froze just as he was about to enter the room he sat in for hours everyday, typing up seemingly endless reports and memos. He somehow knew that Smyth was talking about him, and he waited, his heart hammering, for the reply.
"I just think he's a little quiet, that's all."
"I just don't get it. Twice he's come face to face with the IRA, twice they've clearly seen him in the company of known policemen, who they've coincidentally shot dead, and twice they've let him go with nothing more than a knock to the head."
"Well, when you put it that way …" the other man trailed off, and there was what Miceál knew to be a thoughtful silence. He wondered if he should try and back away, but curiosity kept him rooted to the spot. If he needed to bail, he may as well find out how soon he would have to do it.
"I'm not saying that he's in the IRA. I'm just saying that he might not be as Protestant as we think he is. I mean, usually the IRA would give you a warning, perhaps, if you're not actually a policeman. But don't they usually give you a one off and warn you not to associate with us again? Because that was the second time he's been caught going about with policemen and like I said, they've not even threatened him."
"Well, they have, haven't they? I mean, he's got a load of stitches in the back of his head at the moment."
"But –" Smyth lowered his voice so much that Miceál actually had to press his ear against the door to hear properly. "Well, I'll be honest with you. I think that he's got something to do with all of these deaths, you know."
"You do?" the other man sounded shocked.
"Yes, I do. I mean, you remember the first day he got here? He was on the main reception, and Oliver, as he always does, tells us he's off to Ernie's. And suddenly, even though he announces – well, announced, God rest his soul – the same thing every day, he's suddenly shot dead by the IRA. Everyone that's been shot has said something about where they live, what they drive, or their habits around Michael Craig!"
Miceál's breath caught in his throat. He was going to have to bail – and fast. His heart hammering, he was about to turn and ditch when he caught something that he couldn't walk away from.
"Didn't you think he was snooping around in your files the other week?"
"I did. I was more concerned with what he was looking at, rather than what he was doing in there, if that makes any sense at all."
"Not really," came the reply. "Elaborate?"
"Well, I wouldn't have minded so much if he had been snooping – I mean, fair enough that he shouldn't be, but it's natural. He's surrounded by criminal records, who wouldn't want to have a look? No, I'm more concerned with the person he appeared to be looking at."
"Who?"
"That Darragh Callaghan. He was killed about thirteen years ago. Michael seemed very interested to know about him. He claimed it was because he was beaten by the IRA because of him, but I couldn't help but noticing that he looks an awful lot like Callaghan."
"He does, now you think about it, doesn't he?"
Miceál worked out why the second speaker sounded slightly weird – there was no mistaking his British accent.
"I'm not sure how I feel about it. I just think that there might be some connection there. He had three kids, you know."
"You're not saying –"
"No, I'm not saying, I'm just … well … speculating, you could say."
"The oldest kid was pretty opinionated, though, wasn’t he?"
Miceál's heart skipped yet another beat. How did they – had they – were they involved with what had happened? How did they know about him?
"Never really thought about it until now." Smyth replied. "Ever since Callaghan was shot I supposed that was the end of it. We wanted him off the street, and we got him off the street. And his wee friend, as well. Shame they died, obviously –"
"Why the Hell was it a shame?"
"They should have gone to jail."
"They'd have got out and done it again."
"I suppose so. I suppose that a few more IRA bastards off the street wouldn't hurt, hey?"
Rage briefly blinded Miceál. If he was thinking along the right lines, then –
"Sure I didn't know if he had a gun, did I? His friend didn't, but I figured one of them must have. That's the only reason I shot him."
Miceál froze. He didn't know what to do. Suddenly he wanted the be sick, but he couldn't moved, all he could do was stand there, his heart hammering, his fists clenched so tightly his nails were digging into his hand, hot tears starting to spill down his cheeks because of the fact that he was on the other side of a door to who had killed his father.
He didn't know how long he stood there. He didn't even know if the conversation continued. He couldn't hear anything – all he could hear was a weird ringing in his ears.
Footsteps shocked him back into life. He turned and hurried back down the corridor, but not before he'd caught a glimpse of the man who had been in the room with Smyth. He knew he would never forget his face. The face of his father's murderer. Miceál hurried through the main reception, and out of the door, and up the street, his heart hammering, his breath coming in short, sharp, painful gasps. Not because he was out of breath, but because he'd never felt hatred and anger of this strength before.
He got back to "his" house, and let himself in, his hands trembling so much that he dropped the keys several times. Swearing, he snatched them back up and jammed them into the keyhole, leaving the door open and failing to notice the familiar car that had just pulled up outside the house.
Staggering into the kitchen, Miceál furiously pulled open drawers and cupboards, until he found his father's gun, securely and safely hidden in the back of a drawer, in case of searches. He picked it up with trembling hands and checked if it was loaded. It was – this was all Miceál needed.
He didn't care that he was going to get caught. He no longer cared what happened. He was going to walk back into that place and finally take revenge for his father's death. He was going to shoot both of them, kill both of them, and he didn't care who saw him.
"I just think he's a little quiet, that's all."
"I just don't get it. Twice he's come face to face with the IRA, twice they've clearly seen him in the company of known policemen, who they've coincidentally shot dead, and twice they've let him go with nothing more than a knock to the head."
"Well, when you put it that way …" the other man trailed off, and there was what Miceál knew to be a thoughtful silence. He wondered if he should try and back away, but curiosity kept him rooted to the spot. If he needed to bail, he may as well find out how soon he would have to do it.
"I'm not saying that he's in the IRA. I'm just saying that he might not be as Protestant as we think he is. I mean, usually the IRA would give you a warning, perhaps, if you're not actually a policeman. But don't they usually give you a one off and warn you not to associate with us again? Because that was the second time he's been caught going about with policemen and like I said, they've not even threatened him."
"Well, they have, haven't they? I mean, he's got a load of stitches in the back of his head at the moment."
"But –" Smyth lowered his voice so much that Miceál actually had to press his ear against the door to hear properly. "Well, I'll be honest with you. I think that he's got something to do with all of these deaths, you know."
"You do?" the other man sounded shocked.
"Yes, I do. I mean, you remember the first day he got here? He was on the main reception, and Oliver, as he always does, tells us he's off to Ernie's. And suddenly, even though he announces – well, announced, God rest his soul – the same thing every day, he's suddenly shot dead by the IRA. Everyone that's been shot has said something about where they live, what they drive, or their habits around Michael Craig!"
Miceál's breath caught in his throat. He was going to have to bail – and fast. His heart hammering, he was about to turn and ditch when he caught something that he couldn't walk away from.
"Didn't you think he was snooping around in your files the other week?"
"I did. I was more concerned with what he was looking at, rather than what he was doing in there, if that makes any sense at all."
"Not really," came the reply. "Elaborate?"
"Well, I wouldn't have minded so much if he had been snooping – I mean, fair enough that he shouldn't be, but it's natural. He's surrounded by criminal records, who wouldn't want to have a look? No, I'm more concerned with the person he appeared to be looking at."
"Who?"
"That Darragh Callaghan. He was killed about thirteen years ago. Michael seemed very interested to know about him. He claimed it was because he was beaten by the IRA because of him, but I couldn't help but noticing that he looks an awful lot like Callaghan."
"He does, now you think about it, doesn't he?"
Miceál worked out why the second speaker sounded slightly weird – there was no mistaking his British accent.
"I'm not sure how I feel about it. I just think that there might be some connection there. He had three kids, you know."
"You're not saying –"
"No, I'm not saying, I'm just … well … speculating, you could say."
"The oldest kid was pretty opinionated, though, wasn’t he?"
Miceál's heart skipped yet another beat. How did they – had they – were they involved with what had happened? How did they know about him?
"Never really thought about it until now." Smyth replied. "Ever since Callaghan was shot I supposed that was the end of it. We wanted him off the street, and we got him off the street. And his wee friend, as well. Shame they died, obviously –"
"Why the Hell was it a shame?"
"They should have gone to jail."
"They'd have got out and done it again."
"I suppose so. I suppose that a few more IRA bastards off the street wouldn't hurt, hey?"
Rage briefly blinded Miceál. If he was thinking along the right lines, then –
"Sure I didn't know if he had a gun, did I? His friend didn't, but I figured one of them must have. That's the only reason I shot him."
Miceál froze. He didn't know what to do. Suddenly he wanted the be sick, but he couldn't moved, all he could do was stand there, his heart hammering, his fists clenched so tightly his nails were digging into his hand, hot tears starting to spill down his cheeks because of the fact that he was on the other side of a door to who had killed his father.
He didn't know how long he stood there. He didn't even know if the conversation continued. He couldn't hear anything – all he could hear was a weird ringing in his ears.
Footsteps shocked him back into life. He turned and hurried back down the corridor, but not before he'd caught a glimpse of the man who had been in the room with Smyth. He knew he would never forget his face. The face of his father's murderer. Miceál hurried through the main reception, and out of the door, and up the street, his heart hammering, his breath coming in short, sharp, painful gasps. Not because he was out of breath, but because he'd never felt hatred and anger of this strength before.
He got back to "his" house, and let himself in, his hands trembling so much that he dropped the keys several times. Swearing, he snatched them back up and jammed them into the keyhole, leaving the door open and failing to notice the familiar car that had just pulled up outside the house.
Staggering into the kitchen, Miceál furiously pulled open drawers and cupboards, until he found his father's gun, securely and safely hidden in the back of a drawer, in case of searches. He picked it up with trembling hands and checked if it was loaded. It was – this was all Miceál needed.
He didn't care that he was going to get caught. He no longer cared what happened. He was going to walk back into that place and finally take revenge for his father's death. He was going to shoot both of them, kill both of them, and he didn't care who saw him.