A Life for a Life

The little three-year-old who watched his father die was a lot older now. Thirteen years older, in fact. He looked exactly like his father. Slightly shorter than him, at five feet and five and a half inches, but the double of him nevertheless.

Despite seeing many other acts of violence in his young life, the sixteen-year-old Miceál Callaghan remembered one thing clearly. He remembered standing in the doorway of his living room. He remembered the blood all over his father, and the pain in his father's face. He remembered his mother begging him not to die, and he remembered being curled up next to him as he went limp.

And he remembered the final promise he'd made to his father. That he was going to fight for Ireland. And now he had made up his mind. He was going to do it today. Exactly a week after his sixteenth birthday – the same time his father had joined. It seemed right.

He didn’t quite now how to go about it, but he was going to try. He knew how to … well, he didn’t have a clue how to start on his journey to becoming a Volunteer, but he knew who to ask for advice.

The street sign drew his gaze to it as he passed it a taxi ride and a few minute's walk later. Ardnaveigh Street. This was the street that they'd killed Uncle Oisin on. Miceal still called him that. He always would. Oisin had been like an uncle to him. He forced his eyes away from the ground where he knew Uncle Oisin had died, and he instead took part of the route he knew his father would have taken after seeing is best friend gunned down – murdered – in cold blood.

He turned onto another street instead of proceeding down an alley, and got to a house about halfway down it. He reached up and banged on the door until it opened.

Diarmuid Feeny was a much older man now. His hair was turning grey and he looked more like a wise grandfather than a revolutionary. But his aged face cracked into a warm smile when he saw the young boy.

"How're you keeping, Miceál?" he asked. He always loved seeing Miceál. Sometimes, when he pulled open the door after a bad day of remembering, he could swear that it was Darragh on his doorstep. Miceál was used to being called Darragh by Diarmuid. At first it had hurt, but, although Miceál had never admitted it, he always wished that Diarmuid would say Darragh.

"Not bad." Miceál replied. "Look, can I come in? I really need to ask you something."

"Anything, m'boy." Diarmuid stepped aside and allowed Miceál to step into the hall. Although Diarmuid had left the IRA years before, age no longer allowing the lifestyle, he remained a senior republican and was still well respected in republican circles. It was not unknown for him to periodically lend the IRA a hand, whether it was allowing them to borrow his car or use his house, to being a fake alibi for those arrested. And he still had valuable links. Links Miceál could use.

"You swear you won't lecture me?"

"What is it?" Diarmuid studied the young by closely.

"I want to join the IRA."

"You want to what?" Diarmuid did a double take at the young boy.

"I want to join the IRA." Miceál repeated. "I've been thinking about it for a while and I've decided now's the time I want to do it. You're the only person that I know who can get me connected." Diarmuid ran his hand through his greying hair.

"I don't know, Miceál,' Diarmuid sounded shocked. "After what happened to your father –"

"So why are you surprised? After what they did, I want to fight them."

"Miceál –"

"I promised him, Diarmuid!" The teenager stared the older man out, his blue eyes flashing angrily in a way that was all too familiar to Diarmuid. It was Darragh's angry look. There was a long pause.

"I know you did, Miceál." Diarmuid said, watching the young boy closely. "But I don't want you going down that path. You've no idea how hard it is. And your mother would never allow it. Not after Darragh."

"She was there, Diarmuid. I watched Da die, and the last thing I said to him … I remember it like it was yesterday! I said, "When I get big, I'm going to fight for Ireland too". And I intend to keep that promise. If you won't help me, I'll find someone else who will. The pubs round here are brimming with IRA men."

"I – " Diarmuid began, but he found himself speechless. He knew that, like his father, once Miceál put his mind to it, he would see it through.

"I promised my dying father I would. And he wanted me to, or else he would have told me to pack it in."

"You were only three, Miceál."

"I know what I was saying. Are you going to help me, or not?"

"You need to be completely sure that this is what you want, Miceál. The IRA is not the boy scouts. You can't just walk in and out whenever you feel. You need to be one hundred per cent sure and you need to be committed. And you need to be prepared to do anything."

"I know that. I will do anything. I'd like nothing better than to take out some of the bastards that killed my father. And Uncle Oisin."

Diarmuid peered at Miceál, watching him closely. Miceál watched him back, his eyes hard and determined.

"God, Miceál …"

"Tell me what happened." Diarmuid did a double take. He hadn't expected that.