A Life for a Life
Chapter Eight
"Aoibheann?"
It was five past eleven the same night, and Miceál, now going by Michael Craig, was standing in the hallway of the dark house, off the Shankill Road, all by himself for the first time that night.
"Miceál! Where are you?"
"Aoibheann, something's come up. I'm fine. But I'll not be at home for a while, all right? I'll come visit and all, but I'm somewhere else at the moment. Can you look after Ma and Caolan for me?"
"What's going on?" Aoibheann sounded suspicious.
"I can't say."
"What have you got yourself into, Miceál?"
"Nothing. Aoibheann, I can't tell you anything. Just do me a favour and get on as normal and if you ever see me in the street don't say anything to me, all right?"
"Miceál! Why are you leaving us?" Aoibheann had begun to sob. "Why can't I speak to you? What have we done?" Miceál softened his voice to his younger sister.
"I'm not disowning you or anything like that. I love you all. But I'm doing something very important and I need your help on this."
There was an incredibly long and horrified pause.
"You're in the IRA, aren't you?" Aoibheann eventually whispered.
"Just, please, back me up on this. I love youse all, you know that."
It nearly killed him to do, but Miceál put the phone down. He then went upstairs to his bedroom, and looked out of the window at the dark street outside. He couldn't believe he was living on the Shankill Road. He softly padded over to the other side of the room and flicked the light on, drawing the curtains on the street outside. He was going to have to pretend to be a Protestant until the IRA decided that he had to pull out, and that could be years. Miceál didn't want to think about that. Ciaran said that at most it would be a year. They couldn't risk keeping him for too long. And if things got too hot, the IRA could bail him out whenever they wanted, simply by pretending to send him death threats so he had to move. That was the beauty of the power of the IRA when you were on their side.
Miceál caught sight of himself in the mirror as he walked past it. He looked exactly identical to his father now, wearing a pair of his father's shoes, and the trousers and the jacket had all belonged to him at one point as well. Diarmuid had never known it had existed, but when Miceál put his hand in the top pocket of the denim jacket of his father's, he'd pulled out a small photo of his father holding him as a child, only a few weeks before he had been killed. Miceál cherished it now, and it stayed in that pocket close to his heart at all times.
Miceál didn't sleep for the whole night. He hardly ever slept well anyway, and even when he did he was plagued by horrific nightmares about what had happened to him in his young life. Not just about what had happened to Darragh, but of other things that had happened when his family had fallen apart. Things he didn't want to think about if he could help it.
Miceál finally moved when it would be time for him to get ready for work. He kept on what he was wearing – it wasn't too casual and it made him look older. He had to remember that he was supposed to be twenty.
Pain suddenly shot through Miceál's heart as he realised he was supposed to be the age his father was when he had been murdered. He got himself a quick breakfast although he wasn't really that hungry, and then he let himself out and took a slow walk to the police headquarters, allowing himself time incase he got lost.
"You're new, aren't ye?" Miceál nearly jumped out of his skin, and he turned to see the woman in the house next to him peering at him from her front door.
"Aye." Miceál shrugged. "Why?"
"Not many people moving into this place." The woman said, looking at him closely. "From what I've seen, everybody is moving out."
Miceál shrugged again.
"This place is better than where I used to live."
"You won't be saying that in a few weeks time."
"Oh, I will. The last place I lived was full of fenians." Miceál knew that because it was for the IRA, he could easily get into character. The woman smiled and chuckled, just as a voice sounded out behind her.
"Who are you talking to, Doris?"
"Just our new neighbour." The husband appeared at the door as well, and looked at Miceál closely.
"When'd you move in?"
"Yesterday."
"Must have been late."
"It was."
"You should hear him, George." Doris laughed. "He's a right one, aren't you? You should have heard what he said about where he used to live."
"I did hear him." George laughed as well. "What do they call you, kid?"
"Michael Craig," Miceál said flawlessly. He'd already gotten used to the sound and he had no trouble with remembering it as his "real" name.
"Craig, eh? Nice Protestant name you have there."
"Of course." Miceál nearly cringed as he said it, but he kept himself together. "Anyways, I have to get going. I have to get to work. It's my first day and I don't want to be late already."
"All right. See you later, Michael."
"See you round."
It was five past eleven the same night, and Miceál, now going by Michael Craig, was standing in the hallway of the dark house, off the Shankill Road, all by himself for the first time that night.
"Miceál! Where are you?"
"Aoibheann, something's come up. I'm fine. But I'll not be at home for a while, all right? I'll come visit and all, but I'm somewhere else at the moment. Can you look after Ma and Caolan for me?"
"What's going on?" Aoibheann sounded suspicious.
"I can't say."
"What have you got yourself into, Miceál?"
"Nothing. Aoibheann, I can't tell you anything. Just do me a favour and get on as normal and if you ever see me in the street don't say anything to me, all right?"
"Miceál! Why are you leaving us?" Aoibheann had begun to sob. "Why can't I speak to you? What have we done?" Miceál softened his voice to his younger sister.
"I'm not disowning you or anything like that. I love you all. But I'm doing something very important and I need your help on this."
There was an incredibly long and horrified pause.
"You're in the IRA, aren't you?" Aoibheann eventually whispered.
"Just, please, back me up on this. I love youse all, you know that."
It nearly killed him to do, but Miceál put the phone down. He then went upstairs to his bedroom, and looked out of the window at the dark street outside. He couldn't believe he was living on the Shankill Road. He softly padded over to the other side of the room and flicked the light on, drawing the curtains on the street outside. He was going to have to pretend to be a Protestant until the IRA decided that he had to pull out, and that could be years. Miceál didn't want to think about that. Ciaran said that at most it would be a year. They couldn't risk keeping him for too long. And if things got too hot, the IRA could bail him out whenever they wanted, simply by pretending to send him death threats so he had to move. That was the beauty of the power of the IRA when you were on their side.
Miceál caught sight of himself in the mirror as he walked past it. He looked exactly identical to his father now, wearing a pair of his father's shoes, and the trousers and the jacket had all belonged to him at one point as well. Diarmuid had never known it had existed, but when Miceál put his hand in the top pocket of the denim jacket of his father's, he'd pulled out a small photo of his father holding him as a child, only a few weeks before he had been killed. Miceál cherished it now, and it stayed in that pocket close to his heart at all times.
Miceál didn't sleep for the whole night. He hardly ever slept well anyway, and even when he did he was plagued by horrific nightmares about what had happened to him in his young life. Not just about what had happened to Darragh, but of other things that had happened when his family had fallen apart. Things he didn't want to think about if he could help it.
Miceál finally moved when it would be time for him to get ready for work. He kept on what he was wearing – it wasn't too casual and it made him look older. He had to remember that he was supposed to be twenty.
Pain suddenly shot through Miceál's heart as he realised he was supposed to be the age his father was when he had been murdered. He got himself a quick breakfast although he wasn't really that hungry, and then he let himself out and took a slow walk to the police headquarters, allowing himself time incase he got lost.
"You're new, aren't ye?" Miceál nearly jumped out of his skin, and he turned to see the woman in the house next to him peering at him from her front door.
"Aye." Miceál shrugged. "Why?"
"Not many people moving into this place." The woman said, looking at him closely. "From what I've seen, everybody is moving out."
Miceál shrugged again.
"This place is better than where I used to live."
"You won't be saying that in a few weeks time."
"Oh, I will. The last place I lived was full of fenians." Miceál knew that because it was for the IRA, he could easily get into character. The woman smiled and chuckled, just as a voice sounded out behind her.
"Who are you talking to, Doris?"
"Just our new neighbour." The husband appeared at the door as well, and looked at Miceál closely.
"When'd you move in?"
"Yesterday."
"Must have been late."
"It was."
"You should hear him, George." Doris laughed. "He's a right one, aren't you? You should have heard what he said about where he used to live."
"I did hear him." George laughed as well. "What do they call you, kid?"
"Michael Craig," Miceál said flawlessly. He'd already gotten used to the sound and he had no trouble with remembering it as his "real" name.
"Craig, eh? Nice Protestant name you have there."
"Of course." Miceál nearly cringed as he said it, but he kept himself together. "Anyways, I have to get going. I have to get to work. It's my first day and I don't want to be late already."
"All right. See you later, Michael."
"See you round."