A Life for a Life

Miceál walked briskly to work after that. Although his exterior seemed calm, he didn't like being questioned. He needed time to at least get a bit of his story right.

He found his new place of work quite easily and let himself in, instantly feeling anger bubble inside him. He loathed the police. Not only had they assisted in his father and Uncle Oisin's murders, but they also did nothing to bring anyone to justice for unlawful killing. Shoot on sight meant shoot them if they were armed, and there had been no evidence of weapons on either of the young men's bodies when they had been examined later.

"Can I help you there, lad?" someone asked him, and Miceál shook himself out of his angry trance just in time to process the question and answer it.

"Aye, yeah, my name's Michael Craig. I'm meant to be starting work here today."

"Ah, right enough you are. Well, come over here and I'll show you what you're doing."

Miceál was happier than he thought he would be, sitting behind the desk all morning. All he had to do was answer phones, fill in forms for low-key stuff and deal with enquiries. But already his eyes were flicking around for any tiny scrap of information that would be useful to the IRA.

"This our new guy?" someone asked, and Miceál realised it was about him, and so he listened in.

"Aye, this is Michael Craig. He's doing all right, aren't you, lad?"

"Nothing I haven't done before." Miceál shrugged. The newcomer was in a police uniform, and it was all Miceál could do not to spit the words, his hatred was so strong.

"How long have you been living here, then?"

"About twenty-four hours." Miceál shrugged.

"You got a job quick, didn't you?"

"I applied before I moved." Miceál said, slightly shortly. He cursed himself mentally, telling himself to hold the hatred in. He'd see results soon; he just had to be patient …

"Not sure why you'd want to move to Belfast. It's rough here."

"No rougher than where I used to live."

"And where was that?"

"I was from the only Protestant family living in a village in South Armagh." Miceál said smoothly, straight off the top of his head. "Things got tough and I moved here. I was threatened."

"Threatening everyone these days, aren’t they?"

"Yeah. I thought moving to the Shankill area would keep me away from them a lot more than living in their stronghold."

"Well, good luck to you, Michael." Yes, Miceál thought bitterly. Good luck to me indeed.

*

"Miceál! What the Hell are you doing here so soon?"

Miceál didn't answer as he let himself into Diarmuid's house. To his delight, Ciaran was also there. A puzzled Diarmuid came in behind Miceál.

"You've not bailed out, have ye?" was the first thing Ciaran asked.

"Of course I haven't." Miceál said briskly, getting to the point. "One of the main detectives is called Chris Smyth. He drives a blue Ford Cortina with the registration number KZY 4433, and he always comes from down the Shankill Road, never up it, is what I heard. Another one of them – I don't know his name yet – but he was stupid enough to announce that he was away to Ernie's Bakery, and I quote him, "I may as well because I go there everyday to get my lunch" – our lunch break is from one until two. Last I heard he was a detective as well. That's right, they're a couple of the bastards who are bringing in our boys and beating them senseless while they're under arrest."

There was a long pause, during which Diarmuid and Ciaran gawped at Miceál in sheer amazement.

"O – OK," Ciaran eventually spluttered. Diarmuid disappeared out of the room, returning with a notepad and a pen.

"Say all that again," he said, slightly breathless. Miceál repeated it all of the top of his head.

"To sum it up, Chris Smyth, blue Ford Cortina, KZY 4433, and Big Idiot, Ernie's Bakery, one until two in the afternoon."

"How did you get all that information in one day?" Ciaran asked in amazement.

"I just watched and listened. It's actually not that hard. See, they think just because they're on a Protestant road they can let their guard down. Well, they can't. I'm there now."

"You're doing brilliantly, Miceál." Diarmuid said, looking at Darragh's young son with pride. "Your da would be proud of you, you know that?" Miceál smiled.

"I hope so. Listen, I was thinking."

"What?"

"If I come into contact with anyone there who had anything to do with Da or Uncle Oisin's death, I'm taking them out myself."

"Miceál –"

"It's not open to negotiation. I'm doing it, and I don't care if I have to throttle them with my bare hands."

The young boy's eyes were hardened, and both Diarmuid and Ciaran knew that there would be no persuading him otherwise.

Miceál got home earlier than usual, and he went upstairs to his bedroom, throwing on an old pair of jeans and an old T-shirt to lounge about him. He felt tired, but he didn't want to go to sleep. He knew what was waiting if he did.

However, once he was lying back on the bed, looking up at the ceiling, he felt himself beginning to drift off. Soon darkness had closed in and he had fallen asleep.

"No, Ma," Miceál was once again seeing his thirteen-year-old self standing in the living room, standing over the collapsed form of Grainne Callaghan, who was lying on the floor with a half-empty bottle of Vodka in one hand, and several packets of pills in the other. "Don’t take any of them, Ma, don’t do this to us. You can't leave us as well. Da wouldn’t want you leaving us by himself, would he?"

Grainne's speech was slurred heavily, and Miceál had to listen intently to work out what she was saying.

"I don't care anymore, I want to be with my Darragh!"

"You can't, Ma, not yet. You can't leave us. You can't leave me and Aoibheann and Caolan!"

"I can too!"

"You can't!" Miceál was terrified now, and he opted for the shock factor. "You can't kill yourself. You'll go to Hell for that! You'll never see Da again because you'll be in Hell and Da will be in Heaven. We're not allowed to kill ourselves! It's not for us to decide! That's what the priest says at Mass. You can't do that!"

"I CAN TOO!"

"NO!" Miceál dived over for the pills just as Grainne tried to swallow them, and she gripped the Vodka bottle in her other hand and brought it down on her own son's head. Miceál screamed out in pain as the glass shattered and the alcohol burnt at the cuts, and he heard Aoibheann and Caolan scream as well and he knew that they'd seen the whole thing, but he had the pills, Ma couldn't take them now, it didn't matter that he was hurt …

That was the last thing he remembered before he lost consciousness. When he woke up, he was still lying sprawled in the living room, with a sobbing Aoibheann hugged him and Caolan wiping cold water on his head, trying to clean the blood away.

"She didn't do it?" Miceál whispered hoarsely.

"No," Aoibheann whispered, her voice catching as she kissed her brother's cheek with relief. "We thought you were dying. You looked so sick,"

"I'm all right," Miceál muttered, but he knew nothing was farther from the truth.