A Life for a Life

Miceál couldn't have been unconscious for more than a few seconds, because when he forced his eyes open again he wasn't surrounded by soldiers and police. Somehow, he knew that he still had a chance, and so he summoned the last of his remaining strength and staggered upright. He knew if he could make it to Diarmuid's house he would be OK. Diarmuid could help him …

He was using the wall to keep himself upright and his breath was coming in short, sharp, incredibly painful gasps, but he forced himself to keep going, forced himself to keep putting one foot in front of the other. He was sobbing because of the pain now, and all he wanted to do was lie on the floor and give in.

He thought of his father, and he prayed that his father would stay with him. He couldn’t believe that his father had made it all the way home like this … but then he reminded himself that if his father could make it home, he could get to Diarmuid's.

Diarmuid had been home about half an hour, worried sick about Miceál, when there was a frantic knocking on his front door. Somehow he knew something was terribly wrong, and he rushed to the door, pulling it open, and he cried out in shock and horror when he saw Miceál.

Miceál was in a right state. He was sobbing and gasping, his sobs coming in short chokes, and he was clutching his chest with both hands. Both of his hands and his shirt were drenched in blood, and as Diarmuid shook himself out of he state of shock he was in, Miceál looked up at him with wide blue eyes, whimpered, and then crumpled onto the front step.

It was this that made Diarmuid jump into action. He wasn't going to let Miceál die… he couldn't let Miceál die, couldn't watch him die like his father had. Not knowing where he was getting the strength from, Diarmuid bent down and hauled the unconscious teenager up. Miceál's head dropped down so his chin was resting against his chest, and his breathing was slowing down rapidly. His heart hammering in fear for the child, Diarmuid pulled him through into the living room and laid his top half on the sofa, pulling his legs up separately. Miceál was still, his face pale, his breathing laboured. As Diarmuid checked his pulse, Miceál's eyes flickered open again.

"Am I dying?" he whispered.

"No, Miceál. You're going to be OK. I'm not going to let you die, I promise."

"I got him, you know," Miceál whispered, and he smiled. Diarmuid gave him a thin smile back, but he was slightly disturbed at the fact that Miceál was so close to death himself, but all he could think about was his killing of his father's murderers.

"I know you did."

"The other guy as well. I shot him too. He was slagging off Da, and I shot him, he's gone now."

"All right, Miceál. Just relax, will you?"

Diarmuid knew he was going to have to phone for an ambulance, or else Miceál was going to die. The boy was now terribly weak, and didn't protest at Diarmuid's telling him to rest. Diarmuid knew that the consequences of Miceál going to the hospital would be Miceál's arrest, but he'd rather him be in jail than buried next to his father.

He was just about to pick up the phone when shuffling footsteps startled him. Miceál, holding onto the doorframe so tightly that his knuckles were white, was looking at him, his eyes wide.

"MICEÁL! Get back in there!" Miceál shook his head, and then, risking it by steadying himself against the doorframe, he pointed with one hand out of the door, and Diarmuid somehow knew what he meant. The soldier's weren't stupid, they knew that if Miceál was going to go anywhere, it would be his house.

"I'm not going to jail," Miceál whispered hoarsely.

"You might not have a choice."

"I'M NOT GOING TO FUCKING JAIL!" the force with which Miceál yelled sent him onto his hands and knees on the floor – Diarmuid ran and grabbed him before the boy collapsed again.

"You can’t escape like this."

"Da did."

"And he died, Miceál," Diarmuid pointed out, gently but firmly. Miceál struggled to his feet again.

"I know what I'm doing. I ain't going to die. I can go home and call an ambulance from there and the batty old ext door neighbour – she's a right supporter, her – will back me up that I've been there all along."

"But they've all seen your face, Miceál!"

"It's their word against mine."

"Oh, for –" but Diarmuid gave up as Miceál began pulling himself towards the kitchen, gasping, but determined. "I suppose if I can't talk sense into you I may as well help you. Come on out the back. I'll bring you there."

"You don't have to,"

"Yes I do. I watched your Da go for it by himself and I'm not going to let you." Diarmuid hauled Miceál through into the kitchen, propping him up against the wall while he rummaged through the drawer near to the back door for the keys.

Several things then happened in quick succession: there was a lot of slamming outside as car doors were thrown open and then pulled closed again, a lot of screams of surprise sounded from the street outside, there were running footsteps, and then a lot of commotion from the hallway, which announced that the police and soldiers had arrived.

Diarmuid had just found the keys and threw them to a now alert looking Miceál, who quickly shoved them into the keyhole as Diarmuid darted over to the kitchen door, not knowing how he was going to do it, but hoping to somehow stall them enough so that Miceál didn't go the same way as Darragh had, thirteen years ago.

For Diarmuid, it all seemed unreal, as though he was reliving the events which had resulted I Darragh's death, but this time, he was doing what he had always thought he should have done. As though it was all happening in slow motion, Diarmuid seemed to know what was going to happen.

Miceál had by now pulled the door open, and as he went to dart out he glanced back.

"GO!" Diarmuid yelled at him, passing a fleeting look over him. "JUST GO!" Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the gun get aimed at Miceál.

"No!" Miceál barely had time to leap out of the way, and Diarmuid knew what he was going to do.

"Not this time," he muttered, and he threw himself in front of Miceál just as there was a gunshot. There was a sickening pain, and then blackness.

"DIARMUID!" Miceál screamed, but somehow he knew why Diarmuid had done it, and he didn't wait – he turned and ran.

He could barley think straight as he half-ran, half-staggered up the alleyway behind Diarmuid's house. So many thoughts were running through his head – top most the pain he was in as he struggled on, and the fact that Diarmuid had just saved his life and could be lying dead in his kitchen right now, and the fact that history was practically repeating itself … but this time, this time Diarmuid had acted.

Tears briefly blinded Miceál as he desperately struggled on, clutching his chest with one hand and pulling himself along the wall with the other. With a pang, he felt that his father's gun was still hidden in the inside pocket of the bloodsoaked coat that had also once belonged to him. Miceál didn't fear dying – after all these years he would see his father and Uncle Oisin again. It was leaving his siblings to look after his mother that worried him. That was the only reason he was fighting. Miceál knew that if it hadn't have been for Aoibheann and Caolan, he would just lie on the floor and give in to the waves of pain sweeping through him.

Miceál recognised his street now, and he knew he could duck into his house, where Aoibheann and Caolan would both be at school, and call for an ambulance there. His mother would, once again, be lying in her bedroom – she'd probably only realise what was going on when the ambulance turned up. Not that she'd care, anyway, Miceál thought bitterly. I'm not "her Darragh".

Miceál was halfway down the road to his house when everything started spinning again.

"No," he whispered. He couldn't give in, not now, not now he was so close …

It didn't matter how much he fought. He didn't even recall hitting the floor.