Slowly
his mind began sorting through the confusion. I’ve been hit,
he thought, sweet Jesus, I’ve been hit.
Then, thinking of cover, he was surprised to find he couldn’t
move.
“Lie still, Sean,” someone shouted. “Don’t
try to move, we’ll get you out of here.”
Lying in the street with his left cheek pressed against the smooth,
wet stones, it seemed to Sean McGuire that “the troubles,”
having managed to disrupt so many other lives, had suddenly and undoubtedly
reached his. This isn’t the first time events haven’t
gone as planned, he thought. Fuck you, Rafferty, goddamn you to hell.
You lose.
The persistent drizzle began seeping through his clothes. The numbness
he’d first felt was gone and he wasn’t sure which was
worse: the dampness, the cold, or the pain creeping through his body.
Nothing’s working. I can’t move. I shouldn’t even
be here. Oh Ma, he thought as the darkness crept over him, I just
want to come home.
Back in England, Mick Rafferty continues to tend the bar. His face
is as cheerful as ever and he still has a good ear. When asked if
he’s heard the news about Sean McGuire, he slowly shakes his
head from side to side.
“It’s a damn shame, isn’t it? One of these days
we’ll manage to get our hands on those murdering rebel bastards.”
While having his afternoon pint down at Pat O’Conner’s
pub, Sean’s uncle Wolfe talks to anyone who might listen. “We
told him time and again about the things that can’t and won’t
be changed,” he says. “He wouldn’t listen. Thought
he was different. Well, that’s what comes when dealing with
the English.
"
You might as well deal with the devil.”