‘Now who wants to have that on their death bed?’ Sean wondered aloud. His brother sat up and questioned him on his mutterings.
‘ I mean having it written across your stone like that seems to say, it’s okay, don’t attack this grave- he was a follower. Not that there is anything wrong in that, it’s just that it seems a bit harsh that you even need to wear your religion like that even when you are dead. I mean, surely it’s not right that even dead men are questioned.’
To this his brother gave no reply. For honestly, there was no reply. The conflict had grown so much that on this day, the second anniversary of their departed father’s death, most of the boys who were always scrapping with the ‘other side’ did not even know why they were bought up to fight. Obviously they knew what it was to be Catholic or Protestant but they never really knew why there was a problem with that. Fighting with Catholics was what was instilled in the protestant boys from the start and visa versa.
For Charlie, the anniversary of his father’s murder was a brutal reminder of what was happening around him and his powerlessness to do anything. No one knew what happened to his father other than the fact he was murdered and that another man, this time a Protestant was also murdered that night. Neither family knew what actually happened but both of the deceased did. All each family knew was that they had lost their father and their husband and home provider. All four of the boys, though very different both suffered the same things on that day and continue to suffer now. Both wives were faced with the most awful decisions and paralysed with fear. But sadly both men had lost their families, their wives, their children and their lives. Neither man wanted it to end like this. Indeed most probably neither man wanted to fight anyway, deep down inside them. They were good men turned bad by the bad things that surrounded them. Really they had no choice- if they had not fought they would have already died or and if they had not told and taught their children to fight, their children would be dead.
Malachi and Sean rose up muttered a ‘I love you’ at the harshly engraved stone and left the yard at two minutes to twelve. At three minutes past Charlie called for his brother Ryan and the two walked onto the street. In the distance they saw two figures they recognised. They were those of the McLeary children. In any other place on any other day between any other two people a polite ‘I’m sorry’ would have ensued. But not then, and not for a long time to come would that happen here, in Northern Ireland between two grieving Catholic boys and two grieving Protestant boys. These boys were so similar yet they would never say a kind word to each other until the day they died.
Charlie and Ryan soon met with Malachi and Sean on that street. Neither of them said anything but both of them new what they would say if someone else said something first. At that point, as stares like daggers were shot at each other and you could hear the buzzing air around them, a bird flew out behind the houses. It caught all four boys off guard as it cried out. Sean swore as did Charlie and they said the same thing. They both stopped and looked at each other for a few seconds and then there was a deafening shout of laughter from behind them. Both of their brothers, who were about eight at the time, were holding onto each other laughing at the older boys. Within seconds the older brothers were yelling at their little siblings for touching a member of the ‘other side’. At scrap began to brew.
Soon there was the whole street involved, mothers yelling at children to stop, fathers giving their own kids, which had joined in by now, advice and the fighting amongst themselves. There was blood everywhere and then a police siren was heard. The people scattered and the only ones left were the four boys. The youngest ones where dying and the oldest were almost dead. Each had received multiple injuries.
‘My God.’ Sean looked at Charlie and whimpered. Charlie turned using his last strength.
‘Help us God’ Charlie muttered, loud enough for only the other three boys to hear. They all looked at each other and as their mothers arrived crying and screaming, a silent realisation passed between all four boys. They were so similar and yet so alike. It occurred to them all that they all loved one God after all. They both believed in the same person, thing even. All these lives had been lost over a fight over something which there was no reason to fight over.
Their mothers ceased to cry when they realised what had happened- not only their children’s death as fourteen year olds and eight year olds, but also what had happened between their boys as they died. They looked to each other and consoled each other with their eyes. There was nothing left to say.