Newry he’d been seeing when they arrested him. Cindy, her name was. And he’d be thinking of the next family visit. Surely.
On the other side of the church he saw Michael Rafters with his head bowed over clasped hands.
You’re the best runner this side of the county. A small price to pay, Fergus. A small, small price
.
He thought of Felicity and Cora. They hadn’t come to church but were up on the mountain again, investigating the earth surrounding the body. Mam had ordered the family to say nothing about Joe to them and he’d obeyed. But the secret was like a wedge of politeness. They’d arrived late in the evening. He’d felt foolish, nodding at them, showing them to their room, pointing out the bar of soap, wishing the sheets weren’t old polyester and the curtains and carpet not faded brown. But they’d said how comfortable they’d be and he’d felt like a giraffe in a kennel and backed away.
‘The mass is ended, go in peace,’ Father Doyle said.
‘Thanks be to God,’ the whole congregation said loudly, as if in relief it was over. Fergus slipped out of the door without bothering to bless himself with water from the font. He escaped through the pristine graveyard with its gravel plots and plastic see-through crosses full of plastic flowers. He’d a vision suddenly, of a burial party huddled in the far corner under the great Scots pine, where the McCann plot was, burying Joe in a pathetic, thin coffin. He slapped his head. That was not going to be. He meandered over to the bench at the opposite corner and sat down. The sun shone and made him weary. He let his eyelids shut and listened to the chatter of people leaving, the crows cawing and the wind in the hills.
Joey will be fine and I’ll be out of here. Soon. Sooner. Soonest
.
When he opened his eyes, Michael Rafters was sitting beside him.
Jesus
. The man was a panther.
‘So,’ Michael said, crossing his legs and slouching back.
‘So what?’ said Fergus.
‘Your brother’s joined the strikers, I hear.’
‘He’s been moved to a different block. That’s all we’ve heard.’
‘And why was he moved?’
Fergus shrugged. ‘Dunno.’
‘I’ll tell you why.’
‘Why?’
‘He and your man Sheehan. They joined the strike yesterday morning. Then the screws moved them out, before the strike could spread where they were. That’s the truth of it.’
Fergus bit his lip. ‘I don’t believe it.’
‘It’s true. I had it from a good source.’
Fergus looked at the light playing on top of the Scots pine and said nothing.
‘It’s their choice,’ Michael said. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘It’s a bloody farce.’
‘It’s a struggle, Fergus. Not a farce. It’s in deadly earnest.’
Fergus raised up his hands as if to embrace all the dead of the graveyard. He sucked his lips in between his teeth hard, to stop his eyes filling.
‘Fergus, we need you. Just for a few bits of ferrying. Nothing more. We don’t pressgang people here. We’re not like the Brits. But we could really use your help. Just this once.’
‘I’ve my exams starting.’
‘I know. And with Joe and all, you’ve distractions enough. But this is just something to add to your regular morning run; totally safe, I promise. But so important to the struggle, I can’t tell you.’
‘I want a united Republic, same as anyone, but—’
‘There’s no other way to get it. That’s a fact. We’ve a Long War on our hands, Ferg. We’ve all to pull our weight.’
Fergus stood up. ‘Dafters,’ he said.
Michael smiled up at him, his lips framing a
What?
‘You’ve your way of doing things and I’ve mine. I don’t judge. I just want peace.’
‘You sound like those bloody Belfast wives. Soft and gooey in the centre.’
‘Yes. That’s me. Soft as they come.’
‘You’ll be getting the Nobel Prize next.’ Michael playfully punched him in his belly. ‘Fergus, Joe was always mighty proud of you. Your brains and speed. Mr Nippy, he called you. I
On the other side of the church he saw Michael Rafters with his head bowed over clasped hands.
You’re the best runner this side of the county. A small price to pay, Fergus. A small, small price
.
He thought of Felicity and Cora. They hadn’t come to church but were up on the mountain again, investigating the earth surrounding the body. Mam had ordered the family to say nothing about Joe to them and he’d obeyed. But the secret was like a wedge of politeness. They’d arrived late in the evening. He’d felt foolish, nodding at them, showing them to their room, pointing out the bar of soap, wishing the sheets weren’t old polyester and the curtains and carpet not faded brown. But they’d said how comfortable they’d be and he’d felt like a giraffe in a kennel and backed away.
‘The mass is ended, go in peace,’ Father Doyle said.
‘Thanks be to God,’ the whole congregation said loudly, as if in relief it was over. Fergus slipped out of the door without bothering to bless himself with water from the font. He escaped through the pristine graveyard with its gravel plots and plastic see-through crosses full of plastic flowers. He’d a vision suddenly, of a burial party huddled in the far corner under the great Scots pine, where the McCann plot was, burying Joe in a pathetic, thin coffin. He slapped his head. That was not going to be. He meandered over to the bench at the opposite corner and sat down. The sun shone and made him weary. He let his eyelids shut and listened to the chatter of people leaving, the crows cawing and the wind in the hills.
Joey will be fine and I’ll be out of here. Soon. Sooner. Soonest
.
When he opened his eyes, Michael Rafters was sitting beside him.
Jesus
. The man was a panther.
‘So,’ Michael said, crossing his legs and slouching back.
‘So what?’ said Fergus.
‘Your brother’s joined the strikers, I hear.’
‘He’s been moved to a different block. That’s all we’ve heard.’
‘And why was he moved?’
Fergus shrugged. ‘Dunno.’
‘I’ll tell you why.’
‘Why?’
‘He and your man Sheehan. They joined the strike yesterday morning. Then the screws moved them out, before the strike could spread where they were. That’s the truth of it.’
Fergus bit his lip. ‘I don’t believe it.’
‘It’s true. I had it from a good source.’
Fergus looked at the light playing on top of the Scots pine and said nothing.
‘It’s their choice,’ Michael said. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘It’s a bloody farce.’
‘It’s a struggle, Fergus. Not a farce. It’s in deadly earnest.’
Fergus raised up his hands as if to embrace all the dead of the graveyard. He sucked his lips in between his teeth hard, to stop his eyes filling.
‘Fergus, we need you. Just for a few bits of ferrying. Nothing more. We don’t pressgang people here. We’re not like the Brits. But we could really use your help. Just this once.’
‘I’ve my exams starting.’
‘I know. And with Joe and all, you’ve distractions enough. But this is just something to add to your regular morning run; totally safe, I promise. But so important to the struggle, I can’t tell you.’
‘I want a united Republic, same as anyone, but—’
‘There’s no other way to get it. That’s a fact. We’ve a Long War on our hands, Ferg. We’ve all to pull our weight.’
Fergus stood up. ‘Dafters,’ he said.
Michael smiled up at him, his lips framing a
What?
‘You’ve your way of doing things and I’ve mine. I don’t judge. I just want peace.’
‘You sound like those bloody Belfast wives. Soft and gooey in the centre.’
‘Yes. That’s me. Soft as they come.’
‘You’ll be getting the Nobel Prize next.’ Michael playfully punched him in his belly. ‘Fergus, Joe was always mighty proud of you. Your brains and speed. Mr Nippy, he called you. I
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