Now and in the Hour of Our Death Read Online Free PDF Page A

life had been like before they stuck him in here.
    Yes, he’d been a dyed-in-the-wool Republican. Yes, he’d made explosives for the “Cause,” but there’d been more to life than that. He could see himself back in Belfast, in the stands watching a game of soccer.
    â€œOh, for fuck’s sake, pass the bloody ball.” These words were roared by Jimmy Ferguson, who stood next to Davy, one of the hundreds in the terraces, out in the open air, in the drizzle, leaning on iron pipes set in the ground like upturned, flat-topped U’s.
    â€œJesus, Davy, that winger should be traded, so he should.”
    â€œGive him a chance, Jim. It’s his first season with Celtic.”
    â€œIt should be his bloody last. Christ, would you look at that?”
    The Glentoran forward who had intercepted the misdirected pass was dribbling the ball down the right wing, coming nearer to the Celtic goal. He sent it soaring across the goal mouth to be fired by the centre forward straight into the back of the net.
    The Glentoran supporters cheered.
    The goalkeeper pointed at his full back in the gesture beloved by all goalies, as if to say, “That wasn’t my fault.”
    â€œDo you know,” said Jimmy, “I’m getting frozen. Do you fancy leaving early and going for a jar?”
    â€œFair enough. As long as I’m home by six. Fiona’ll be expecting me.”
    They walked from the grounds and took a bus to their usual pub. Three snotty-nosed kids stood outside, each clutching a bag of potato crisps and a glass of orange Crush. Davy stopped and spoke to the biggest. “Would you lot not be better in the bus shelter out of the rain?”
    Children were not allowed into public houses, so their fathers would be inside having a pint while the wee ones had to be content to shiver outside. It troubled Davy. He’d seen enough cold, underfed kids on the streets of the Catholic Falls district, aye and on Sandy Row, the Loyalist stronghold. He was fighting for the wee ones as much as for Irish freedom. Social justice was meant to be part of the Provos’ agenda.
    â€œMy da would kill me if I didn’t wait for him like he told me.” The lad dragged his sleeve across his nose and sniffed.
    Davy stuck his hand in his pocket and pulled out small change. “Here.” He gave it to the boy. “Away you and your mates to that wee café and get some hot chocolate inside you.”
    The child hesitated.
    â€œWho’s your da?”
    â€œWilly McCoubrey.”
    â€œI know him. I’ll have a word in his ear. Tell him where you’ve gone. You run away on now.”
    â€œThanks, mister.” The boy ran off, yelling at his friends to “come and get some hot chokky.”
    Jimmy shook his head. “You’re daft about kids, aren’t you? You’re just a big softie.”
    â€œNot at all.”
    â€œPull the other leg, Davy. Do you think my wee girl, Siobhan, calls you Uncle Davy because you’re an ould targe?”
    â€œWell…” Davy didn’t want to talk about kids. Fiona had made it very clear she didn’t want any. Not while the Troubles ground on and on. Maybe, because she knew that what he was trying to do was supposed to bring the civil war to a close, maybe that was why she still stayed with him. Jesus, but it had been a near thing the day the Abercorn was blown up. He’d thought she was going to walk out.
    â€œAre we going in for a jar or aren’t we?” Jimmy held the swing door of the pub open.
    Davy picked up the plane. It would be great if wee Jim could hold the doors of this fucking place open as easily.
    â€œHow’re you getting on, Davy?”
    Davy swung round. “Jesus, Pa, you near scared me to death creeping up like that.”
    â€œHave you a guilty conscience?”
    Bloody right he had.
    â€œHere, let’s have a look.” Pa slid his callused hand along the freshly planed surface.