Diamond Rain: Adventure Science Fiction Mossad Thriller (The Spy Stories and Tales of Intrigue Series Book 2) Read Online Free PDF Page A

again.  Thomas’s mother spoke up.
    “Hush.  He’s only a child.  Come
here Thomas.  Your ma’ll take care of you.”  She addressed the man with the
pipe.  “You and your politics - look where it got us.  You and your kind are no
longer welcome here,” she cuddled Thomas as she pointed towards the door.  When
her guests did not move she became impatient.
    “Out, I say,” she screamed.
    “We’ll pass the hat at the pub
tonight.  He was a good man.  He knew what he was getting into.  Can’t you
see?  It’s why we’ve gotta be free,” said the tall man, speaking with a pipe
dangling from the side of his mouth as he made his way out.
    “I’ll let myself out.  Father
Connolly’ll be by in the morning.  There’ll be a parade before the coffin and a
masked, gun salute.  You can’t stop it,” he added before closing the street
door, leading directly onto the sidewalk.
    Thomas’ mother wouldn’t let Thomas
or his sister go to the funeral because of the IRA men and their gun salutes
and because she feared more trouble.  So Thomas waited.
     A week later, Thomas spoke up at
breakfast.
    “I wanna go to the cemetery, Ma.”
    “I can’t make myself go there,
Thomas.  Maybe your aunt will take you.  She’ll be by later today.”
    “Alone, Ma. I wanna go alone.”
    He wrapped up some flowers his
mother had given him and he made his way to church first, to pray.  The calm of
the church and its rituals eased his pain, crowded out ‘the troubles’.  Thomas
knelt in a pew.  The church occupied a religious site dating back to 546 A.D.,
something which always amazed him.  Thomas was soon lost in thought.
    A priest genuflected in the center
aisle, cleared his throat and turned towards him.  Their eyes met for an
instant.  Father Connolly cleared his throat again and moved into the pew
behind Thomas.  Thomas ignored him.  His impatience with all forms of authority
and growing sense of isolation since his father’s death won out.  He got up,
made the sign of the cross and sidled out of the pew.
    “Thomas,” said Father Connolly.
    “Father.”  Thomas acknowledged him
without making eye contact.
    Thomas continued walking. The
priest got out behind and followed at a distance.  Dreary overcast weather
accompanied them as they walked separated by about twenty paces.  On Palace
Street, they turned right onto Bishop Street.  When he got to the right turn on
Orchard Row, Thomas stopped and waited for the priest, upbringing overcame his
pride.
    “What might I be doing for you,
Father?”
    “Could I walk with you a wee bit,
my son?”
    “Suit yourself, Father.  Only one t’ing-”
    “What might that be then, my son?”
    “I’m not the son of any man alive,
Father, and especially not yours.”
    Tears welled up into his eyes, but
not one was shed.  Thomas took control of his emotions.  “This is my problem,
father.  I need to face it alone.”
    “A man after your father’s heart,
Thomas.  I’ll just accompany you to the front gate then, if that’s alright with
you?”
    They walked together up Orchard
Row, then along Lecky Road to the left, Thomas’ hands pushed deep into the
pockets of a tweed jacket several sizes too big for him and rolled up at the
sleeves.
    “Get to the grave and get it over
with, Thomas,” said Father Connolly as they stopped just near the entrance to
Derry City Cemetery.  The burial ground was opposite Celtic Park.
    Thomas made his way to his father’s
grave.  First he saw the epitaph: ‘Died in Custody for a Free Derry’, then the
date: ‘August 13, 1969’.  Now he knew he was not going to be able to maintain
his composure.  He let the tears flow.
    He swept the gravestone and placed
the flowers his mother had given him in a vase full of stale water.  He
genuflected and left abruptly, ushering in a period of emotional mourning that
would stretch into his forties.  From that day forward, Thomas gave up trying
to make sense of the jumble of voices