A Life for a Life
Chapter Three
"Tell you about what?" Diarmuid played the fool.
"You know what I mean. Ma never talks about it, though I know she knows. Tell me what happened to Da."
"You … you know what happened to Darragh." Diarmuid said quietly, not wanting to speak to his late friend's eldest son about the matter. "Darragh was shot."
"What happened before that? How did he get shot? What happened afterwards?" Miceál demanded. Diarmuid sighed. He decided to get it over with.
"I found your father here after Oisin got shot. He was in a state … well; you still remember how close they were. He was crying, just grief-stricken. As you would be. I pulled him inside and calmed him down and he fell asleep. The soldiers must have known he was here. They turned up a few hours later. I woke Darragh up but he was just … weird. He didn’t want to try and escape. I reminded him about Grainne and you children, and he moved then. We got into the kitchen. Your father managed to get the back door open but they got in, and I managed to get behind the table, but I heard gunshots and I saw your da get hit. There was nothing I could have done, Miceál, you have to understand that."
Miceál nodded but didn't speak, and so Diarmuid continued.
"He was hit again climbing over the fence. Apparently he made it to the main road and a lad picked him up. Caoimhin, I think his name was. So he made it to your house and then … well, you know the rest."
Diarmuid didn't look at the young boy, until he heard a choked sob. Then he looked up, and he saw the teenager was sobbing, mourning the father whom he never really knew.
"I wish he was still here," Miceál managed. "I still remember him a bit. I wish I'd known him more. I remember he used to take me on his knee when I wasn't sleeping well, and he used to tell me stories about Ireland … not just the IRA. Irish legends, things like that. He taught me all the Gaelic I know. He used to speak to me all the time in Gaelic as I was falling asleep. I picked it up as I fell asleep. He used to stroke my hair and speak to me. And then … then one day he wasn't there anymore. I remember the last time I saw my Da properly. Before it happened. He was laughing. I want to remember him like that. Laughing." Miceál sighed, and Diarmuid felt tears in his own eyes as Miceál continued to sob.
"Come on, lad." he said softly. "Your da wouldn't want you to be like this. He'd want you to be brave."
"That promise I made to him … that I'd look after Ma and Aoibheann and Caolan. I've been keeping that promise for thirteen years and I can't hold this in anymore. All these years I've been putting on a brave face! I was the three-year-old who held his mother when she was completely inconsolable! I was the seven-year-old who was looking after my two younger siblings because Ma keeps going into depression and can't always look after us. I was the twelve-year-old who spent the whole night persuading my mother that she shouldn't swallow all of those pills because I needed her, and Aoibheann needed her, and Caolan needed her, and that Da wouldn't want us to be orphans. And I'm the fucking sixteen-year-old that might have to leave school because Ma might not be able to keep her job because she's still a wreck because Da died. I'm no saint, Diarmuid! Just let me be a baby, all right? Let me cry those tears I should have cried as a toddler! Not a sixteen-year-old … I don’t fucking feel like a sixteen-year-old …"
Diarmuid watched awkwardly. His whole life had been dedicated to the IRA. He had never married, never had children, but he saw young boys breaking down all the time. But not over things like this. He was used to lads crying because they'd just killed someone for the first time and were freaking out, not because they'd lost their father and spent their whole life since they were three years old trying to hold the family together as their mother broke down.
Suddenly, that fatherly instinct that Diarmuid had never experienced before came over him. He didn't quite know what it was but he knew what it was telling him to do. He walked over to the sobbing young boy, pulled him to his feet, and hugged him harder than he'd ever hugged anyone before in his life. Miceál collapsed into him, sobbing harder.
Diarmuid put one of his hands on the back of Miceál's head, holding him close, and he felt tears starting in his own eyes once more. Miceál calmed down slightly after several minutes, but he was still hic-cupping and snuffling. Diarmuid pulled Miceál down next to him on the sofa, and Miceál leant against him, closing his eyes. Gradually, his breathing became deep.
Diarmuid stayed there for a while, before he gently lay Miceál down on the sofa. Getting up, he watched the young boy sleeping, thinking of they boy's father, who'd lay in the very same place, in the exact same position, in the exact same situation. Mourning was a terrible thing.
"You know what I mean. Ma never talks about it, though I know she knows. Tell me what happened to Da."
"You … you know what happened to Darragh." Diarmuid said quietly, not wanting to speak to his late friend's eldest son about the matter. "Darragh was shot."
"What happened before that? How did he get shot? What happened afterwards?" Miceál demanded. Diarmuid sighed. He decided to get it over with.
"I found your father here after Oisin got shot. He was in a state … well; you still remember how close they were. He was crying, just grief-stricken. As you would be. I pulled him inside and calmed him down and he fell asleep. The soldiers must have known he was here. They turned up a few hours later. I woke Darragh up but he was just … weird. He didn’t want to try and escape. I reminded him about Grainne and you children, and he moved then. We got into the kitchen. Your father managed to get the back door open but they got in, and I managed to get behind the table, but I heard gunshots and I saw your da get hit. There was nothing I could have done, Miceál, you have to understand that."
Miceál nodded but didn't speak, and so Diarmuid continued.
"He was hit again climbing over the fence. Apparently he made it to the main road and a lad picked him up. Caoimhin, I think his name was. So he made it to your house and then … well, you know the rest."
Diarmuid didn't look at the young boy, until he heard a choked sob. Then he looked up, and he saw the teenager was sobbing, mourning the father whom he never really knew.
"I wish he was still here," Miceál managed. "I still remember him a bit. I wish I'd known him more. I remember he used to take me on his knee when I wasn't sleeping well, and he used to tell me stories about Ireland … not just the IRA. Irish legends, things like that. He taught me all the Gaelic I know. He used to speak to me all the time in Gaelic as I was falling asleep. I picked it up as I fell asleep. He used to stroke my hair and speak to me. And then … then one day he wasn't there anymore. I remember the last time I saw my Da properly. Before it happened. He was laughing. I want to remember him like that. Laughing." Miceál sighed, and Diarmuid felt tears in his own eyes as Miceál continued to sob.
"Come on, lad." he said softly. "Your da wouldn't want you to be like this. He'd want you to be brave."
"That promise I made to him … that I'd look after Ma and Aoibheann and Caolan. I've been keeping that promise for thirteen years and I can't hold this in anymore. All these years I've been putting on a brave face! I was the three-year-old who held his mother when she was completely inconsolable! I was the seven-year-old who was looking after my two younger siblings because Ma keeps going into depression and can't always look after us. I was the twelve-year-old who spent the whole night persuading my mother that she shouldn't swallow all of those pills because I needed her, and Aoibheann needed her, and Caolan needed her, and that Da wouldn't want us to be orphans. And I'm the fucking sixteen-year-old that might have to leave school because Ma might not be able to keep her job because she's still a wreck because Da died. I'm no saint, Diarmuid! Just let me be a baby, all right? Let me cry those tears I should have cried as a toddler! Not a sixteen-year-old … I don’t fucking feel like a sixteen-year-old …"
Diarmuid watched awkwardly. His whole life had been dedicated to the IRA. He had never married, never had children, but he saw young boys breaking down all the time. But not over things like this. He was used to lads crying because they'd just killed someone for the first time and were freaking out, not because they'd lost their father and spent their whole life since they were three years old trying to hold the family together as their mother broke down.
Suddenly, that fatherly instinct that Diarmuid had never experienced before came over him. He didn't quite know what it was but he knew what it was telling him to do. He walked over to the sobbing young boy, pulled him to his feet, and hugged him harder than he'd ever hugged anyone before in his life. Miceál collapsed into him, sobbing harder.
Diarmuid put one of his hands on the back of Miceál's head, holding him close, and he felt tears starting in his own eyes once more. Miceál calmed down slightly after several minutes, but he was still hic-cupping and snuffling. Diarmuid pulled Miceál down next to him on the sofa, and Miceál leant against him, closing his eyes. Gradually, his breathing became deep.
Diarmuid stayed there for a while, before he gently lay Miceál down on the sofa. Getting up, he watched the young boy sleeping, thinking of they boy's father, who'd lay in the very same place, in the exact same position, in the exact same situation. Mourning was a terrible thing.