Strawman

In Chapter Four: Held at gunpoint by Mick, Fionn gets into the ambulance the police have ordered for Mick's escape...as far as the hospital. Mick questions whether the ambulance attendant and driver are police, and shares this suspicion with Fionn, who tries to assure him everything is alright.

As he sat, Fionn found he was remarkably calm for his situation. There was something about this man that didn't fit with the gun and his being wanted. He didn't fool himself that he was totally safe, but he, nonetheless, didn’t believe that Mick would hurt him. And he could see Mick was barely able to hold the gun in his wounded left hand, his right arm still snug around Fionn's shoulders.

For awhile, Fionn silently mulled over his thoughts about Mick, going through all that had happened to bring him to this point. And the gun? He was especially curious about the gun and more than a little concerned it might be used. Mick had kept it hidden until he needed it to get away with Fionn. What might happen when they finally got to the hospital A&E? He couldn't imagine Mick would bring him and the gun into the emergency room but, without both of them, Mick had no assurance of escape.

Where would they be when Mick finally let him go? How would he get back home? He thought about his father, certain Da was likely already driving somewhere along the route to the Carna County Hospital. He wondered how Mick would escape if he didn't have Fionn with him as a shield.

He knew it was a bad idea but his curiosity got the better of him.

"What did you do, mister? Why are you on the run? How did you get the bullet in your arm?

He could tell Mick was in no mood for questions and regretted asking so many. Still, Mick cleared his throat and said quietly. "I'm doing the country's work and that's the size of it."

Now, more confused, Fionn continued his inquiry. "What's the 'country's work' mean?” he asked.

"Freedom. Justice," Mick said a bit louder.

Still puzzled, Fionn asked, "What freedom?" he asked.

"A lad like you livin' down here in the Republic hasn't a clue about your history," Mick glowered. "Ireland's bloody freedom!"

"What's wrong with that?" Fionn wondered to himself, even more confused. He asked again, out loud this time, "What's wrong with wanting that?" then continued. "Ireland has freedom though, doesn't it?"

Mick could tell Fionn was earnest in his questioning and softened his tone before he answered.

"Your part of Ireland is free, indeed. But the six counties up North still have to contend with Britain, politically, anyway. We - my people - want a united Ireland. The six counties should be part of the Republic."

A sudden realization came over Fionn. "Are you in the IRA, then?" he asked, his eyes widening. This was like something he’d heard his parents talk about often as Da was reading the newspaper.

"Somethin' like that," Mick replied. He closed his eyes in pain as the vehicle hit a bump.

"See those fellas up there?" Mick gestured his head towards the driver and attendant. "They likely don't want Northern Ireland to join the South. It's been that way since partition. That lot wants to stay part of Britain. And that's a problem for us."

"For who..." Fionn began. Mick cut him off.

"Do you not think Ireland should be one country?"

Fionn nodded. That seemed reasonable.

"And that's why the fight continues, though it may be without me."

"Why without you?"

Mick said, "I'm no fool. How far do ye think I'll get with them on my heels? And as weak as I am?"

Fionn thought of the blood on the barn floor and on Mick's anorak.

" I don't know," Fionn finally said.

"Not too bloody far, I'll wager." Mick laughed.

Despite his situation, Fionn didn’t want to think about Mick getting caught or, worse, injured. What about himself? Maybe he’d get shot or injured somehow? The thought terrified him, so he banished it as best he could.

He looked back at Mick and saw he was holding the gun loosely. It looked like it could easily fall out of his hand. Mick’s eyes were closed. Maybe he could get the gun from Mick, but then what?

He was getting a bit desperate in his thoughts, but did his best to banish the negative scenarios from his mind. Fionn was a particularly religious person, especially for one so young. He was an altar boy at the church in the town, and Mam made sure he and his siblings got to Mass each morning every Lent in his memory. Some youngsters would consider this a chore, and nothing they wanted to do, but Fionn had a different outlook. It was why he and Toby went to visit the St. Brigid's Grotto so often. He firmly believed in miracles, and couldn’t wait for one to happen to him. His father had laughed at the very idea and told him to catch himself on. “You’re as well waitin’ for a miracle as waitin’ for thon horse to do a cartwheel,” he’d said.

Fionn prayed silently, assuring God that if only he would be alright, and Mick not shot, he’d say two Rosaries every night until he turned 16. That seemed like a good enough age.

He was on this third ‘Hail Mary’ when the ambulance began to speed up. Fionn knew the speed limit on this road was 100 kmh, and they were now travelling much faster than that.

Mick’s eyes shot open. “What the bloody hell?”

The words had barely left his lips when the vehicle made a razor sharp turn to the right, into a verge on the side of the road. Both he and Mick were hurled backwards into the side of the van, then immediately thrown forward when the driver slammed on the brakes.

Fionn was thrown against the stretcher which had somehow stayed in its place despite the force. For a moment he was dazed but he didn’t think he was hurt. He looked at Mick who’d landed against the rear door of the ambulance. Mick must have hit his head as there was blood on his forehead. Then, Fionn saw that Mick’s left hand was empty and, panicked, began to look around the van floor. On leaving Mick’s hand, the gun had slid under the stretcher, inches from where Fionn was now sitting. Without thinking, Fionn reached out and grabbed it before Mick could get to it but, when he looked at Mick, he hadn’t moved.

Slowly, Fionn raised the gun and pointed it. “Mick,” he said, quietly at first. When there was no response, he shouted, “Mick! I’ve got yer gun, Mick.” After a few seconds, Mick opened his eyes, and started to say something. Whatever it was, it was drowned out by a loud voice yelling from just outside the rear panel door.

With that, the door swung open and a two policemen, standing beside the ambulance attendant, were leveling their guns at Mick. They instantly understood the situation and asked, “Where’s the gun?”

Mick didn’t respond. Fionn, still pointing Mick’s gun, said, ”It’s here. I’ve got it,” then added, “He wasn’t going to hurt me.”

Fionn felt tears welling up behind his eyes and, willing them away, said, “I think he’s injured again.”

“Well, he’s in the right place for it,” said one of the gardi to a solemn chorus of low chuckles. “Bellaghey,” he then called but, seeing Mick unresponsive, quickly reached in and grabbed him, pulling him out of the ambulance from where he’d been thrown.

“It worked,” the second garda commented. That speed and turn did the trick. I wasn’t sure it would at all. He still had the boy.”

“That was a concern, indeed, but it was a chance we had to take. There’s no telling what would have happened at the hospital. It would be putting even more people in danger.” He had reached under Mick’s arms and was attempting to stand him upright.

“Take his legs,” he said to the second garda who immediately complied. The pair hoisted Mick, and began to walk in tandem towards their car and the opened back door.

“Mind his arm,” Fionn yelled after them. “It’s bad I think.”

“We’ll take good care of him, son. Don’t you worry.” Fionn detected a bit of sarcasm in the policeman’s voice.

When they had closed the car door, the second garda walked around to the front of the car. He opened the passenger side door and was about to get in when another car pulled in behind them.

“Da!” Fionn shouted as his father got out of the family’s sedan. “Sorry, I’m sorry,” Padraic called as he ran towards the ambulance, where Fionn was now sitting facing out the huge back door.

“The bloody truck wouldn’t start, so I had… .” Never mind,” he said. “How are you? Are you hurt at all?”

“I’m fine, Da. Mick wouldn’t hurt me,” Fionn assured his father as he reached his arms out for a hug.

“Wouldn’t he now?” commented the garda under his breath. He was standing beside Padraic, in front of Fionn.

“No, he wouldn’t. He could have but he didn’t,” Fionn insisted.

Padraic was looking at the gun in the policeman’s side holster. “Constable, I didn’t know the guards could carry guns.”

“They can’t. We’re Special Unit. We need them, believe you me.”

“Thank God there was no shooting,” said Padraic.

“You can thank God all ye want. He’s worked in mysterioius ways today, I’d say.”

The garda began to walk back to the police car.

“Will ye follow me back to the station. We’ll need a statement from the wee lad.”

“Could we not go home to let him calm down a bit first?”

“Da, I am calm. It’s grand.”

“Well, but you’ll come into the station this afternoon?” he asked in a commanding tone.

“We will indeed,” agreed Padraic. “Right after a wee bit of breakfast.”

“OK,” said the guard. He was getting in to the car, but stopped and called over, “That’s a brave young man you have there, Padraic.”

“Sure don’t I know it?” Padraic agreed, looking at Fionn with a smile.

Fionn hadn’t taken his eyes off the back seat of the police car where Mick seemed to be slumped down. Without changing he gaze, he said, “He’s fightin’ for Ireland, that’s what he said.”

“I would think he was,” said his father, putting an arm around Fionn’s shoulders.

They watched as the police car began to pull away.

Suddenly Fionn broke free of his father’s arm and ran into the road just behind the car.

“Mick!” he shouted as loudly as he could. “Mick. Mick. Up the ‘RA!”

He turned around and smiled at his father. Padraic shook his head in agreement and lifted a fist.

The boy knew his history.