Authors: Roger Barry
Why do funerals seem to focus the mind, on what we’ve been, what we were destined to become? Who’ll be standing here when it’s my turn
he wondered,
anyone?
Tom and his father didn’t always see eye to eye, but in general they got along well. Mike had been a well set man in his early sixties, with thinning black to grey hair and piercing blue eyes.
Until the cancer took hold, that is.
In the final few months, not a lot remained.
Tom scanned the crowd gathered on this ugly day. A good turn-out, he thought. His father was well thought of in the local community. A group of firemen in full uniform stood in a row to one side, hands clasped together, their presence a mark of respect to a departed work colleague. Tom’s mother Mary stood to his left, looking washed out and pale. The last year or so couldn’t have been easy. From as far back as Tom could remember, she always had the appearance of being younger than her age, but watching the life being slowly drawn from her husband had taken its toll, and now she looked every one of her fifty-nine years. Large flecks of grey were in evidence, cutting a determined path through her auburn, shoulder-length hair. On his right stood Joey, solemn and quiet for once. Tom’s kid brother had always been the joker of the pack. More a wild card, if the truth be told. He’d caused his father grief on more than one occasion. He seemed to have an inbuilt compulsion to flirt with authority, walking that tightrope. Nothing too serious, though. Just some minor scrapes. Still, he always seemed to come out the other side smelling of roses. Partly to do with those looks of his, Tom guessed. A real lady killer was our Joey. Blond hair, blue eyes set in that pretty, almost angelic face. Then, as if he was trying to distance himself from that pretty-boy look of his, those tattoos. They covered both arms ‘till there was hardly a bare piece of skin left. Not much chance of getting a nine to five with those arms. Unlike Tom, going on five years now with the Government.
‘So, who’re you working with then, Tom’ he’d sometimes be asked.
‘The Government’ he’d reply.
No elaboration. That was as far as you could go.
It wasn’t that he was involved in some form of clandestine operation. Tom was no counter-terrorist. He just sat at his computer screen, analysing data, checking for patterns in all the randomness that’s flying around out there. He was a desk jock. He suspected there were people who worked in that drab, grey, non-descript building in Boston who were all those things. But you just didn’t ask questions. Need to know basis, no more. Still, you weren’t expected to work too hard, and the money was pretty good too, enough to be living in a nice little apartment in Allston. Could be worse, a lot worse. Nice roof over your head, and a bit more too.
Christine stood slightly apart from the main body of people, looking suitably solemn. Those three years they’d been going together had flown in, and dragged in, both at the same time, if that’s possible. Rachel sorta filled in the gaps. Going together. Going where?
Tom hadn’t figured that one out yet. He liked Christine, sure, but that was just about all he was sure of in their relationship. Love? He wanted to love, he could be as touchy-feely as the next guy, he just didn’t know if he wanted to spend the rest of his days playing house with Christine.
No lightning bolts. Not yet anyway.
She looked pretty though, he had to admit that. Well, she did today, anyway. Standing there in a calf length navy coat and long suede boots, her auburn hair tied back in an austere ponytail, and her hazel eyes taking in the surroundings.
She could definitely look the business when she put in the effort
, thought Tom. The trouble was, sometimes she didn’t bother with the effort at all. That was part of it maybe. Tom had seen her looking a bit the worse for wear, once or twice too often for his liking. Maybe he was in love with the idea of being in love. Maybe he’d watched too many rom-coms, seen too many beautiful women in beautiful clothes, after the makeup artist had done their stuff. What the hell would those silver screen beauty queens look like first thing in the morning, after working their way through a bottle of Californian Red the night before? Not too glamorous, he was sure of that.
As Tom shifted his eyes from Christine, someone else caught his attention. Standing behind her, even more removed from the gathering, stood a man, early-sixties maybe, steely grey hair, six foot tall or so, and stocky. Clothes a bit strange, almost like they were from another decade. He had the look of someone you wouldn’t want to tangle with, even with his advancing years. But it was his eyes that were his most distinctive feature. Those eyes, looked like they could pierce quarter-inch plate. And they were staring over at Tom. He began to feel a bit uneasy, shifting from foot to foot, in the full glare of those dangerous eyes. Then, the eyes moved on to someone else.
Thank Christ for that
, he thought.
Tom moved quickly as soon as the service ended, getting back to the house to greet the mourners as they arrived, the dubious duty of being the elder son. Hugs were duly given, hands were shaken, and condolences muttered. Barely aware of who he was greeting, his eyes glazed over as he stared off into the mid-distance. Maybe the funeral affected him more than he had thought, or let on.
Tom felt guilty, there was no denying it. He felt guilty because he was glad the old man was dead. The last year or so had been a pain. Countless visits to the hospital, just to sit there, and watch him die. Guilt, and relief, that’s what he felt. He was sorry his father was dead, but it was also a relief, to get back to normality. He’d his own life to live, hadn’t he? Nobody could blame him for wanting to gain control of his own existence again, without distractions.
If wanting that was a sin, then I’m a sinner
, he thought.
Bless me father, for I have sinned, for tinged with the sorrow is a sense of happiness on this eventful day.
The old man would understand, he reckoned.
Then again, maybe not.
Maybe he’d regard him as a selfish little prick for feeling the way he did.
Maybe he was right.
What drew him back with a start was the handshake.
He became aware of the bear-like grip that grasped his hand. His eyes quickly re-focused, only to come into contact with those piercing beams from the cemetery.
‘Sorry for your troubles’ the gruff voice said, in an accent he couldn’t quite make out. Certainly not American, possibly Irish or Scottish. He released Toms hand and strolled on through, heading for the back of the house, and out into the garden. The grey drizzle had abated, luckily enough, and some of the mourners had moved outside. The house would have been straining at the seams had the garden not been available to take the excess. When the finger food had been dished out, and everyone’s glass had been filled with something, alcohol mostly, Tom moved to the relative quiet of the kitchen. His mother was there, busying herself with this and that, trying to keep occupied.
‘Who is the fuck is that grizzly old bastard?’ Tom said thinking aloud, as he eyed the stranger with the piercing eyes.
‘Less of the language Tom if you don’t mind, and especially on the day that’s in it’ she admonished.
‘Ops, sorry. But who is he’?
Who, him? That’s Pat Feeney, you’re father’s brother’.
‘Who?’
‘You heard me, you’re uncle, from Ireland’.
‘Tell me more’ said Tom, pouring Southern Comfort into a tumbler, and lighting up a cigarette.
‘Thought you quit’ said his mother, ’you saw what those things did to your father’
‘Yes, I know, but what with the stress of the day and all..’
She gave Tom a dirty look. He struggled to recall the few snippets he’d heard about this strange man.
‘So, if he’s my father’s brother, how come I know virtually nothing about him?’ Tom asked.
Mary let out a heavy sigh. It had been a long, arduous day. This was the last thing she needed, but she carried on.
‘Maybe this is a bad time to be raking over old history’ she said.
‘Then again, maybe it’s a good time. He and your father grew up in the family home in South Armagh, in Northern Ireland’ she began. ‘There was a lot going on over there at that time. If you need to know the details, Google it’ she said wearily.
‘Anyway, your father was always the quieter one of the pair. All he craved for was a bit of peace, you know what he was like. From the time I first met him to this day, he’d do anything to avoid an argument. He was a good man’, she added wistfully, her face saddening as she came to terms yet again that day that he was gone. She dragged herself back to the question at hand with difficulty.
‘He always had an obsession with getting away, searching for a better life. His brother was the opposite. His preference was always to face trouble, head on. Your father used to say that Pat was the most stubborn man he ever knew. When the opportunity came to get to the States, Mike grabbed it with both hands. Not Pat though, he had joined the IRA. Not long before your father left for here, Pat was involved in a number of ‘incidents’, shall we say. Brought a lot of trouble down on the family. Mike pleaded with him, but to no avail. Said he wasn’t going to run away to America, when there was a fight to be fought at home’.
Mary poured herself a small glass of white wine. Normally she wouldn’t drink, but this was no ordinary day.
‘Rumour has it’ she continued, ‘he became renowned as a very proficient marksman, and South Armagh wasn’t known as bandit country for no reason. He was suspected of a number of high profile shootings. They say he killed one British soldier, shot in the head, from over a quarter mile away, although nothing was ever proven’.
She took a sip of wine.
‘I think any communication ceased when your father left. Neither was too pleased with the other, I know that. When Mike was dying, I decided that maybe I should make contact, so I wrote to him to explain the situation. He sent back a card saying he’d be over soon, but he never arrived in time. Whether that was a good thing or a bad thing, I’m not entirely sure’.
Mary produced the card from back of the worktop, and handed it to Tom. He examined it, turning it over.
There was a picture of an old stone tower on the front, with breakers from the sea rolling in behind.
‘Easky, County Sligo’ it read ‘the home of West coast surfing’.
‘He must have moved then’ said Tom, ‘from the North, I mean’
‘Yes, like I said, nothing was ever proven, but I think he thought it better to clear out. Moved to his grandmother’s old house in the West’.
Tom’s curiosity was aroused. Armed with a refilled glass, he ventured out back. Standing alone, saying nothing, but with eyes that took in everything, was Pat Feeney. Tom approached cautiously.
‘Hi, I’m Tom, Mikes eldest’ he announced, ‘glad you could come’.
‘I know who you are, lad’ he answered.
‘You’ve had a long trip over’ continued Tom undaunted, ‘where are you staying? I mean, if you’re not booked in somewhere, you’re welcome to stay here’.
‘Thanks lad, but I’ll be heading back soon. Have the night flight to Shannon, then home. I’ve no wish to impose’.
He looked at Tom.
‘Your father and I didn’t always see eye to eye, but he was a good man. Mike always sought the quiet life, the peaceful life, which is a good thing. But sometimes, peace only comes after war. Sometimes, you can’t have one without first having the other. That’s where we differed’.
Tom nodded, unsure of what to say.
‘Well, I’d better hit the road, it’s getting late’ he continued. He held out his hand. As they shook, he fixed Tom with those steely eyes.
‘We’ve seen little or nothing of each other over the years, which is unfortunate, but that’s the way of the world. Remember though, blood is thicker than water. If you’re ever in trouble, if you ever need anything, anything at all, you come see me’.
And with that, he walked back into the house, offered his condolences to Mary, and was gone.
A head shot from over four hundred yards
, thought Tom.
Nothing wrong with those eyes, anyway!
Tom was back in his apartment on Saturday morning, lying in bed, when the phone rang.
‘Hi Tom, it’s Rachel. How are you holding up?’
‘Oh, ok y’know, not too bad’
‘I was wondering if I might drop over later, take your mind off things?’