6

It was a little after three in the afternoon when the tall man shuffled around the corner. He walked unsteadily along the derelict street, his home since his release on licence as part of the agreement struck by the traitors on Good Friday. His house was a small two-bedroom box at the end of a row of six identical units. The last of his neighbours had moved out just over a year ago, which meant that apart from his daily visit to the club on the street behind and weekly trek into town to see his probation officer, he could have been invisible. But he wasn’t invisible! He was a leader of men! Not many men at this present time; four to be precise. When he walked in the room, they sat up straight. When he talked, they listened. And when he had a plan, they executed it without question. And after three years of working on it, he had a plan; one that had fallen right into his lap. It was not flawless and time was against him. But he knew it was a plan that would shape an entire nation’s destiny. It would jolt his people out of their sleepwalk to oblivion. It would place him firmly in the pantheon of great Irish patriots. Throughout its eight hundred years of usurpation, time and time again the Irish people had risen and fought for their freedom. And now in his time, their leaders had let them down. Cast their dreams aside. Sold them a promise of United Ireland based on a lie. He would not be bought by fancy political posturing, or by the wording of some clever draughtsmen in Whitehall. A few Irish place names, a passport, and a promise of a tomorrow he’d never share was not nearly enough. Platitudes spewed from the smiling mouth of a British prime minister or a former comrade, who’d lost his stomach for the fight, didn’t change the one irrefutable fact he knew to be true: he’d been born under British occupation. He’d lived his life governed by British justice, and if the status quo remained the same he’d die under British rule. History had shown, in the darker times, and these were the darkest of all times, it was the actions of a few that awakened the masses. The wolf in sheep’s clothing that was the current British administration would bare its teeth again if his plan came to fruition. It would bring the full force of its might down on his people. It had always cruelly done so in the past. As sure as night followed day, it would do so again. And when it did, it would awaken his people from their slumbers; remove the scales from their eyes. He knew he would not be popular. He was not seeking popularity. He knew he’d be reviled by his own people. He knew he might die. A blood sacrifice was a noble act. He knew if he did not die, he’d spend the rest of his life in incarceration. But better to die fighting for freedom than live his life on his knees! History would be kind to him. Future generations would rejoice at his name! They would understand the necessary brutality of his deeds. Just as Yeats recognised the ‘terrible beauty’ born in Easter 1916, so, too, others would understand the bloody necessity of his actions.