A Life for a Life
Chapter Six
"What do you mean, you know?"
"I was there, and you wish that I had been shot and killed instead of your father, and instead of Oisin as well. And you know what? Sometimes I wish that as well, because Darragh doted on you and your brother and sister as well, and I wish he was still here to look after youse."
Miceál gawped at Diarmuid, surprised at his accuracy.
"I don’t want to think that."
"Well, you have a right. Heaven knows I would."
Miceál made his way home slowly that evening, wondering what was in store for him now. Aoibheann was now just turned fifteen, and Caolan thirteen, coming fourteen. Miceál had practically raised them since the age of three, using the little he had learnt from his father and whatever he could make up himself. As a result, the three Callaghan children were incredibly close.
"Everything all right?" Miceál asked as he came into the house. Aoibheann and Caolan were in the living room, watching the TV. Miceál diverted his eyes away from the sofa, which hadn't been sat on since the day his father had died on it. Grainne Callaghan had refused to get rid of it, and she'd refused to let anyone sit on it, and as a result the bloodstains on it were still prominent.
"I think so." Aoibheann said quietly. "She's upstairs at the moment."
"How long has she been up there?"
"About an hour." Caolan answered. Miceál nodded, and then he went up to check on his mother.
"Ma? Can I get ye anything?"
Grainne Callaghan was lying on the bed, seemingly half asleep. She rolled over slowly, her eyes slightly glazed from the fact that she had never recovered from the death of her husband.
"Darragh?" she whispered. Miceál was well used to it by now, and so he just shook his head.
"No, Ma. It's Miceál. You know that."
"I don't want it to be Miceál. I want it to be my Darragh."
"Well, it's not going to be, not for a little while yet." Miceál said calmly. "Now, come on. Do you want anything to eat? I take it you didn't bother feeding Aoibheann and Caolan?" Miceál spoke the last sentence slightly coldly. His mother had never bothered with such things in her state, and as a result Aoibheann had learned to cook when she was only coming out of the toddling stage. Either standing on Miceál's shoulders, or standing on a chair when Miceál was helping her, she'd been cooking for the family since she was about four or five. It was amazing how the three children had adapted to their situation.
"They're old enough now." was Grainne Callaghan's reply. Miceál sighed.
"So is this it?" he asked, the old anger from earlier resurfacing. "Is this going to be your life? Stuck in the past, not caring about your three children? Is that all you're going to do?"
"You don't understand."
"No, you're right, Ma. I don't know what it's like to live without him, do I? I was only his son, after all."
*
A little while had passed now, and Miceál had been successful in his attempts to join the IRA. He had been officially sworn in the week before, and already Diarmuid had told Miceál to come straight to his house, because he had something important to tell him.
And so Miceál found himself that Thursday evening standing on Diarmuid Feeny's doorstep, much like his father must have done all those long, painful years ago.
"You all right, Miceál?" Diarmuid asked as he pulled the door open. Miceál was still harbouring that anger in him somewhere, and Diarmuid was always worried he would lash out again. But Miceál seemed to be saving it for another occasion – preferably one where he had a gun in his young fist.
"I'm fine." Miceál replied, as he stepped into the hallways. He waited until Diarmuid had closed the door firmly before he spoke again. "So, why am I here?"
"Come on into the living room. I need to tell you something before they get here."
"Before who get here?" Miceál's curiosity was heightening.
"You'll see in a minute. Come on through and sit down." Miceál did as he was told, sitting in the armchair by the window. Diarmuid had drawn the curtains already, and Miceál knew that this was probably something to do with the visitors when they arrived, whoever they were. However, it didn't look too suspicious, as the days were shortening and it was already getting dark outside.
At least Miceál didn't have to worry about his mother worrying about him. Aoibheann was the one he had to dodge when he went out late, and he was going to avoid telling his siblings about his involvement for as long as he possibly could.
"So, what do you want to tell me, then?" Miceál demanded.
"We've picked you for something very different, but very special." True to form, Diarmuid was still straight to the point. "They had a word with me because I've known you longest, and I said that you could pull it off if you put your mind to it. You're quick and witty like that."
"Well, what is it?"
"We want you to go undercover for us. You'll be working as a secretary in the police headquarters."
"What?"
"I was there, and you wish that I had been shot and killed instead of your father, and instead of Oisin as well. And you know what? Sometimes I wish that as well, because Darragh doted on you and your brother and sister as well, and I wish he was still here to look after youse."
Miceál gawped at Diarmuid, surprised at his accuracy.
"I don’t want to think that."
"Well, you have a right. Heaven knows I would."
Miceál made his way home slowly that evening, wondering what was in store for him now. Aoibheann was now just turned fifteen, and Caolan thirteen, coming fourteen. Miceál had practically raised them since the age of three, using the little he had learnt from his father and whatever he could make up himself. As a result, the three Callaghan children were incredibly close.
"Everything all right?" Miceál asked as he came into the house. Aoibheann and Caolan were in the living room, watching the TV. Miceál diverted his eyes away from the sofa, which hadn't been sat on since the day his father had died on it. Grainne Callaghan had refused to get rid of it, and she'd refused to let anyone sit on it, and as a result the bloodstains on it were still prominent.
"I think so." Aoibheann said quietly. "She's upstairs at the moment."
"How long has she been up there?"
"About an hour." Caolan answered. Miceál nodded, and then he went up to check on his mother.
"Ma? Can I get ye anything?"
Grainne Callaghan was lying on the bed, seemingly half asleep. She rolled over slowly, her eyes slightly glazed from the fact that she had never recovered from the death of her husband.
"Darragh?" she whispered. Miceál was well used to it by now, and so he just shook his head.
"No, Ma. It's Miceál. You know that."
"I don't want it to be Miceál. I want it to be my Darragh."
"Well, it's not going to be, not for a little while yet." Miceál said calmly. "Now, come on. Do you want anything to eat? I take it you didn't bother feeding Aoibheann and Caolan?" Miceál spoke the last sentence slightly coldly. His mother had never bothered with such things in her state, and as a result Aoibheann had learned to cook when she was only coming out of the toddling stage. Either standing on Miceál's shoulders, or standing on a chair when Miceál was helping her, she'd been cooking for the family since she was about four or five. It was amazing how the three children had adapted to their situation.
"They're old enough now." was Grainne Callaghan's reply. Miceál sighed.
"So is this it?" he asked, the old anger from earlier resurfacing. "Is this going to be your life? Stuck in the past, not caring about your three children? Is that all you're going to do?"
"You don't understand."
"No, you're right, Ma. I don't know what it's like to live without him, do I? I was only his son, after all."
*
A little while had passed now, and Miceál had been successful in his attempts to join the IRA. He had been officially sworn in the week before, and already Diarmuid had told Miceál to come straight to his house, because he had something important to tell him.
And so Miceál found himself that Thursday evening standing on Diarmuid Feeny's doorstep, much like his father must have done all those long, painful years ago.
"You all right, Miceál?" Diarmuid asked as he pulled the door open. Miceál was still harbouring that anger in him somewhere, and Diarmuid was always worried he would lash out again. But Miceál seemed to be saving it for another occasion – preferably one where he had a gun in his young fist.
"I'm fine." Miceál replied, as he stepped into the hallways. He waited until Diarmuid had closed the door firmly before he spoke again. "So, why am I here?"
"Come on into the living room. I need to tell you something before they get here."
"Before who get here?" Miceál's curiosity was heightening.
"You'll see in a minute. Come on through and sit down." Miceál did as he was told, sitting in the armchair by the window. Diarmuid had drawn the curtains already, and Miceál knew that this was probably something to do with the visitors when they arrived, whoever they were. However, it didn't look too suspicious, as the days were shortening and it was already getting dark outside.
At least Miceál didn't have to worry about his mother worrying about him. Aoibheann was the one he had to dodge when he went out late, and he was going to avoid telling his siblings about his involvement for as long as he possibly could.
"So, what do you want to tell me, then?" Miceál demanded.
"We've picked you for something very different, but very special." True to form, Diarmuid was still straight to the point. "They had a word with me because I've known you longest, and I said that you could pull it off if you put your mind to it. You're quick and witty like that."
"Well, what is it?"
"We want you to go undercover for us. You'll be working as a secretary in the police headquarters."
"What?"