A Life for a Life

"What?" Diarmuid looked at his dead friend's son, who was looking at the floor and shifting from foot to foot anxiously.

"Ma … well, she talks to herself a lot, as though she's talking to Da. And the other day, she was awake in her room and I heard her when I got up for a drink, and it was really late, like two in the morning, so I didn't go in, but I listened in and … oh, this is awkward …"

"What, Miceál?"

"She was upset and angry, and she was asking him why he was hardly ever there. She was saying that she wished he'd been at home more, but he was always out on IRA work, and she was saying that she knew he had no choice but she was still mad, and she was saying that she understood he had to because … because you told him to." Miceál's voice had dropped to an uncomfortable whisper. "She was saying it was your fault she hardly ever saw him." Miceál didn't make eye contact, and Diarmuid sensed how awkward he was feeling. He sighed, wondering how to explain to the child.

"Well, I was in charge of he unit your father was in, and we were a busy unit, and so maybe once in a while I did work him a bit harder, and I'm sorry for that. I really am."

Miceál looked up sharply, and Diarmuid was startled to see anger in the boy's eyes.

"You did?" Miceál asked, his voice dangerously cold. "You were the reason why my father had to ditch us? You were the reason why I didn't see him half as much as I should have?"

"Miceál –"

"YOU WERE THE ONE THAT SENT MY DA ON THE OPERATION THAT ENDED UP GETTING HIM KILLED!"

Diarmuid dived out of the way just in time as Miceál jumped at him.

'Miceál, what are ye doing?" Diarmuid gasped, grabbing the boy by his arms and using all of his strength to hold him back. Like his father, he was a lot stronger than his small frame suggested.

"You bastard!"

"MICEÁL!" Diarmuid had no choice, and so he pushed Miceál over his leg and forced him onto the floor, pinning him down. Miceál still put up a good fight, and so Diarmuid had to resort to pressing his arm against Miceál's throat, minimising the air the boy was getting until he weakened slightly. Diarmuid only let go when Miceál had gone slightly blue and wasn't clawing at his eyes anymore.

"Now I don't know what the Hell came over you, Miceál, but I don't want you doing that again! You hear me?" Diarmuid shook Miceál, who glared up at him from the ground, breathing heavily.

"It's all your fucking fault," Miceál hissed. "I could still have my Da and Ma said that he didn't want to do it but you told him that he had to and he did and he was killed because of it … and … and … and Uncle Oisin too! YOU BASTARD!"

Miceál went for Diarmuid again, and this time his fist was able to make contact with Diarmuid's jaw, resulting in a sickening cracking sound and Diarmuid recoiling from him, holding his jaw and muttering curses.

"What the Hell has gotten into you?" he asked when he could, his voice slightly distorted. Miceál jumped back up, and Diarmuid dodged out of the way again.

"It's all your fucking fault!" Miceál repeated, shouting now. "I hate you! Why didn't you make someone else do it? Huh? Why did it have to be my father?! I loved him! I fucking loved him and you stole him from me!"

"I didn't kill him, Miceál! A British soldier killed him, not me! I didn’t take a gun to him, did I? Or to Oisin, I didn't kill them!" Diarmuid, who was still touchy about the subject, was yelling now. "Did I blast them both? No, I didn't!"

"DON'T SAY IT LKE THAT!" Miceál suddenly screeched, diving for Diarmuid again, who dodged out of the way once more, nearly falling over the table. Miceál glared at him, breathing heavily once more, and then he took off into the kitchen. After a brief moment, Diarmuid had no choice but to follow him to make sure he didn't do himself serious harm.

Doing himself serious harm wasn't on Miceál's mind at all, and upon entering the room, Diarmuid noticed this straight away. He realised Miceál's intentions as soon as he saw the knife in the boy's hand.

"Miceál, what the Hell are you doing?" Diarmuid yelled, desperately trying to think of a way to talk the child out of what he was thinking.

"Why the fuck couldn't it have been you? You don't have a fucking family! But no, it had to be my amazing, wonderful father that you sent out there, didn't it?" Diarmuid moved as Miceál lunged at him, grabbing the arm that was wielding the knife and twisting it as hard as he could. He may be a lot older now, but he hadn't forgotten the days where this sort of fighting would save his life.

Miceál was either too angry to feel the pain or was just ignoring it, because he kicked Diarmuid hard in the shins and went for him with the knife again. Diarmuid didn't want to, but he had no choice, and he grabbed the nearest thing to him, which was a saucepan, and he brought it down hard on Miceál's head, knocking him out cold.

He was still holding onto Miceál's other arm, and so Miceál was just half-slumped there, Diarmuid taking his full weight.

"Sorry, Darragh," he whispered, hoping his friend would forgive him for what he had had to do to his son. He took the knife out of Miceál's limp hand so he didn't fall onto it, and then he carefully let the boy slump to the floor, where he checked his pulse and breathing and then placed him in the recovery position, to play it safe.

After a while of Diarmuid staring guiltily down at Miceál's still form, the boy began to stir and his eyelids flickered. Groaning, he opened his eyes and blinked several times, before his eyes focused on Diarmuid, who was leaning against the counter after ensuring that all potential deadly weapons were out of Miceál's grasp.

"I didn't want to do that, Miceál." Diarmuid whispered. Miceál forced himself to sit up, and he gingerly touched the back of his head, wincing. There was no blood, however, so he didn't look too worried.

"Trying to bump me off as well, are ye?" he asked softly, but there was no longer any anger in his voice.

"Why did you do that?" Diarmuid asked gently, feeling that he was safe enough now to crouch down next to Miceál, who looked up at him with sad eyes.

"I don't know. I'm sorry. I just need someone to take my anger out on and you were the only one here. I'm sorry,"

"Anger? Why are you angry?" Miceál's face clouded over.

"I'm angry because it was my Da and my Uncle Oisin who had to be killed out of everyone. I'm angry because Ma just broke down and she doesn't care about us and she just couldn't give a crap and I had to raise Aoibheann and Caolan! THAT'S WHY I'M FUCKING ANGRY! WHY'D HE HAVE TO DIE? WHY? WHY DID MY DA HAVE TO DIE? WHY COULDN'T IT HAVE BEEN SOMEONE ELSE???"

Diarmuid took Miceál's chin and tilted his face up so the boy was looking at him.

"I know what you're really saying, Miceál. And I understand why you feel that way."