We repeat, the aim of the IRA has always been the liberation of our
homeland. Any who aid or abet the enemy must fall full prey to force of
arms. (The Republican Proclamation)
Somewhere in the distance a dog kept at his baying. A long mournful
whelping that seemed torn from the damp night's very throat. Sean could
not help but hear it; so deeply did the dog's vocal cords implant sound
upon human ears. He could not help but think of the provos warning
nuzzled like that dog's steady cry over and over into the fabric of
one's memory swift as searing iron.
"Aid or abet," he murmured softly to himself, "a long distance is
covered by such a comment."
His Catholic heritage did him no justice in resolving the torment. By
birth, name even appearance and occupation--all such persuasions meant
he should embrace what the Republicans preached. One no sooner got his
name on their lips, Sean Paddy MacGuire than they knew him Catholic.
Two grandfathers had died in the troubles prior to Erie's break with
Westminster. That alone should dictate undying hatred for the English
and their stooges, the Prods, in Ulster. He found little comfort,
though, in the ever continuing war of nerves. Yet the manifesto bade
every Catholic to think with his blood and put shoulder to duty.
Sean emptied his glass, left his seat at the window's ledge and made
for the tavern door. Sectarian violence often came to pubs and was
drawn clearly along denominational lines. O'Leary's was an obvious
target for Protestant extremists that much he knew. Still, a man needed
a pint from time to time so he doubted if he would discontinue the
practice.
He shook his gabardine jacket clear of his arm and stepped into the
night. Overhead a moon glimpsing the clouds made through an effortless
sky. He might, should impulse seize him, step through the border area
of Protestant Ulster to reach his home near Falls Road. Suddenly, the
pub door became a fringe of orange heat amid whirls of smoke. Barely
clear of the doorway, MacGuire was propelled by the force of the
explosion's impact clear of danger. Dazed and uncomprehending, the full
realization of his chance good fortune not yet registered, he stood
watching the flames etch their amber fingers through the archway into
the pilings about the roof. Elsewhere, two figures ran through the
night scarce turning to watch their most recent torching. Had he a
revolver bringing them down would have been matter of fact, at least
the part of squeezing several bullets in succession about their
direction. He had no such weapon and could only watch them make good
their escape.
From the vicinity of the blast Sean could make out only engulfing fire
spreading itself over the full circumference of O'Leary's pub. Placing
coat against face, he edged closer to the door in hope of entering the
building. Common sense told him anyone in the interior of the pub would
be cremated by now. Foolish to speculate further about them, he winced.
The demolished doorway also seemed to exclude any survivors since in
all likelihood the blast had originated from those quarters. Silently,
he tried to reconstruct the former faces about a room which minutes
before had seen quiet patrons sipping a pre-supper drink. He was close
enough to peer about the ruins of the entrance. A form or rather a
booted figure face down under what appeared a fallen beam lay
motionless before him. Astride the man, he half dragged then manacled
the bleeding figure clear of the surging flames. Ensuring his immediate
safety, MacGuire went a second time into the now inferno like remains
of O'Leary's. Conscious now of the enormity of the blast as sirens
wailed and a clatter of noise began, grim faced police and officers
whose job it was to make sense of such happenings began to arrive. He
was about to attempt a second entry when a wall of fire ended further
heroism. He could not visualize anyone surviving twin disasters of
explosion and torch. For a scant moment he watched the smoke billow
into the sky illuminating the shabby houses of the neighbourhood.
Nowhere could he find it within himself to hate. This surprised, even
frightened him. An utter exhaustion filled him as he turned to see whom
chance had allowed escape from the fire.
His shadow cast a tower's presence about the parking lot onto the
prostrate form. Swallowing hard, MacGuire prepared to stare into the
face of the man he had carved from fire's possession. In a single
motion, once his fist grabbed the man's clothing, a muzzle lay against
his throat.
"Thought I was through eh, damned Mickey," the fierce eyes seemed to
speak all at once. "I've killed tonight. I'd soon as kill you now and
complete the errand 'cepting I may need the temporary use of your skin.
Now get to your feet."
MacGuire obliged the blackened face with nostril openings gaping hate.
Already he was calculating his chances. The area was filling with
people. The light from the raging building had ended their darkness.
The gunman shoved the revolver again into his face. The man seemed to
enjoy his threats of pistol whipping and promised death. MacGuire
looked once again into the face more from force of the last twenty
minutes' unreality than any perplexity of fear.
Got to think fast, must use the chance card of generosity for all its
worth, he thought.
"I saved your life," he pronounced slowly. It met the anticipated
response. In that slow second when his gaze met his assailant an
opportunity afforded itself. The gunman in a mock gesture of
appreciation had trained the weapon barely upward into his reach. In a
single motion, half embrace and step into his adversary's stride, he
had the man over. MacGuire was instantly aware of his opponent's
strength. Enraged at the ruse's success, he glanced a blow across the
Catholic's forehead.
"Guess you're happy he's dead," the soldier was saying as he helped
wrap a bandage into place. "We're grateful for any extremist's death.
Makes our job a lot easier," he was almost laughing now. Death wore
such an ordinary face when it courted so often.
Sean had yet to reply. He was staring at the shovel with the snapped
handle. The blade had separated on impact against the terrorist's head.
The man was nowhere to be seen. Rescue squads--the familiar ambulance,
fire brigades were attempting a body count in the rubble of O'Leary's.
"Say, you alright? I said guess you're pleased you managed to pull away
from that one," the lively soldier virtually leered as he pressed again
for some comment.
"The dog . . . his noise, did you . . . ."
"No," the soldier stared uncomprehending.