Excerpt: The first time they met in the Bogside was nervewracking, to say the least. Pat had at least managed to talk Jack out of showing up at the school gates, which really wouldn’t have been much more than assisted suicide; he’d worked out fairly quickly that they wouldn’t take out their full anger on him, partly because there were very few people willing to beat up somebody whose arm was still in a sling, but mostly – and more valuably – because far too many of their fathers knew his da, and even if his da had made it pretty clear how he felt about it, there weren’t many teenagers willing to beat up Adam Pearson’s son. Pat hated that – hated the idea that he was even remotely reliant on his da for anything more than food and shelter, hated that his da’s name was more important to them than what he stood for, hated that every time he got away with it he felt like a coward – but it did keep him in one piece.
That wouldn’t go for Jack. True, some people might back off if they knew his da was in the police, but most people would just hate him more for it, and besides, it wasn’t as if they’d stop to ask for his family tree before beating him to a pulp. And true, Jack might be a better (or at least more willing) fighter than Pat, but that didn’t mean he could take on the entire school. So Pat had asked, cajoled, begged until Jack had agreed not to go through with it.
Instead, they met at Free Derry Corner, the closest thing either of them could think of to neutral ground. It wasn’t safe, but then, none of Derry seemed to be safe right now. Maybe that was just Pat overreacting, but he didn’t think so. It had been just over a week since what they were calling Bloody Sunday, and he’d never felt so much anger, hurt, or revenge in the air before. The barricades hadn’t been that bad. Nothing he could remember had felt so utterly doom-laden. The Bogside was ready for war, every Republican in Northern Ireland was gearing up to wreak havoc, and the Protestants weren’t exactly dormant either, he was guessing. Rossville Street felt very empty as he walked down it, very exposed.
His legs were shaking, and he was starting to regret choosing Free Derry Corner to meet. He hadn’t been this far down Rossville since the shootings, and however hard he told himself that it was over and done, when he passed the flats, he had to stop for a moment to breathe. The pain in his arm flared up again, hot and agonising; it had to be coincidence, he told himself firmly, or something psychosomatic about coming back here, but although he knew that was true, it didn’t take away the pain.
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Excerpt: The first time they met in the Bogside was nervewracking, to say the least. Pat had at least managed to talk Jack out of showing up at the school gates, which really wouldn’t have been much more than assisted suicide; he’d worked out fairly quickly that they wouldn’t take out their full anger on him, partly because there were very few people willing to beat up somebody whose arm was still in a sling, but mostly – and more valuably – because far too many of their fathers knew his da, and even if his da had made it pretty clear how he felt about it, there weren’t many teenagers willing to beat up Adam Pearson’s son. Pat hated that – hated the idea that he was even remotely reliant on his da for anything more than food and shelter, hated that his da’s name was more important to them than what he stood for, hated that every time he got away with it he felt like a coward – but it did keep him in one piece.
That wouldn’t go for Jack. True, some people might back off if they knew his da was in the police, but most people would just hate him more for it, and besides, it wasn’t as if they’d stop to ask for his family tree before beating him to a pulp. And true, Jack might be a better (or at least more willing) fighter than Pat, but that didn’t mean he could take on the entire school. So Pat had asked, cajoled, begged until Jack had agreed not to go through with it.
Instead, they met at Free Derry Corner, the closest thing either of them could think of to neutral ground. It wasn’t safe, but then, none of Derry seemed to be safe right now. Maybe that was just Pat overreacting, but he didn’t think so. It had been just over a week since what they were calling Bloody Sunday, and he’d never felt so much anger, hurt, or revenge in the air before. The barricades hadn’t been that bad. Nothing he could remember had felt so utterly doom-laden. The Bogside was ready for war, every Republican in Northern Ireland was gearing up to wreak havoc, and the Protestants weren’t exactly dormant either, he was guessing. Rossville Street felt very empty as he walked down it, very exposed.
His legs were shaking, and he was starting to regret choosing Free Derry Corner to meet. He hadn’t been this far down Rossville since the shootings, and however hard he told himself that it was over and done, when he passed the flats, he had to stop for a moment to breathe. The pain in his arm flared up again, hot and agonising; it had to be coincidence, he told himself firmly, or something psychosomatic about coming back here, but although he knew that was true, it didn’t take away the pain.