We buried Thomas\u2019s da today. We put him in the same patch of ground that we had pretended we were putting Thomas. Eighteen months. I never thought the old man would last so long.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The day was bright, clear and warm but there wasn\u2019t much of a crowd. A couple of the fellas that he\u2019d started drinking with, after Thomas, and his wife. She came up and shook my hand, afterwards, thanking me for coming.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
She looked more relieved than sad.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cThese are hard times,\u201d she\u2019d said. \u201cBut at least the priest didn\u2019t take long about putting him in the ground.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I stood for a while, after everyone else had gone, and admired the view.<\/p>\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n
#<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I remember the funeral, the other one, for Thomas. It rained hard, there was no wind and the water fell in heavy sheets across the graveyard. That place is on top of a hill and normally you can see for miles. On a fine day you can see from Lough Neagh in the east to the Sperrins in the west and all the way to Louth in the South. That day, you couldn\u2019t see as far as the grey stone wall that penned-in the dead.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The ground around the grave sucked at our feet and the wooden boards beneath our soles were swollen and soft, like decaying flesh.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Not that there was any of that in the coffin we were putting in the ground.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The priest droned on for an age about the young man we\u2019d all lost and ignored the shuffling and the grumbling in the crowd as we got wetter and colder and the mud crept higher and higher up our legs and threatened to drag us all down with the empty box.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Thomas\u2019s dad turned to me after his heavy clod of earth had bounced hollowly on the coffin. He grabbed my arm, his fingers hard as stone, and he fixed me with sunken grey eyes.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cNo man should live longer than his children,\u201d he said. I\u2019d been Thomas\u2019s friend for twelve years and that was maybe the first time he ever spoke directly to me. He only spoke to me once more.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
#<\/p>\n\n\n\n
This is how we lost Thomas.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The sky was the fiercest blue with a single skiff of white cloud scraping the edge of space high above us. We were at Eskragh Lough, six of us. We\u2019d dumped our bikes in the long grass that grew right to the edge of the water, tossed our clothes behind us and dived in.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Eskragh\u2019s not a big lough, but it\u2019s deep and the water was still icy.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
We roared at the shock of it and made for the big wooden raft that was tethered near the middle of the lough.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
And then we lay, for an hour or two or more.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Sometimes we talked. Bullshit about girls or football or the Brits or music.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I remember Dec\u2019s house had been raided by the army about a week before and he kept telling everyone about waking up with a huge British soldier, his face all blacked out with camouflage paint, looming over the end of the bed and staring down the barrel of the soldier\u2019s rifle.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cAll I could see were teeth and eyes,\u201d he roared. \u201cI shat myself.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Sometimes we swam.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Sometimes we just lay and let our fingers and toes trail in the water.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
We watched the army helicopters, big ones lumbering like fat bumblebees and sleeker ones that zipped like angry wasps, as they buzzed across the sky. And we watched the swifts and house martins rip the air, twisting and turning and swooping after insects. Sometimes a fish would break the water and we\u2019d cheer and pretend we\u2019d seen it leap.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Then, at some invisible signal like a flock of birds suddenly rising, we were up and off and swimming back towards the shore and our bikes.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
But only five bikes were picked up.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
We called and shouted. I swam back out to the raft. We swam deep into the lough.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
We looked and looked. And then we went for help. And they looked and looked.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
They never found Thomas.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Eskragh isn\u2019t big, but it is deep.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
#<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I went to Thomas\u2019s wake. I stood in the line that snaked out the door and down the path of the wee garden while we edged closer and closer to the house. I stopped in the doorway and watched the people wander around with their cups of tea balanced on hardly-used saucers whose absences left holes in the display of the little china cabinet in the hall. Tidy little sandwiches, cut in triangles with the crusts removed, rested beside their dainty cups. These people, far more used to mugs and whole rounds of bread, looked uncomfortable and confused in their best clothes. Up they stepped, each one repeating the same mantra: \u201csorry for your loss… sorry for your loss… sorry for your loss…\u201d, the same grave shake of the head, a firm handshake and pursed lips as they traipsed past. Thomas\u2019s ma and grandda sat on the sofa and nodded each of them through.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I couldn\u2019t do it. I couldn\u2019t cross the threshold.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The line crept on. I let other\u2019s pass me.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I\u2019d turn around, I\u2019d go home.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
But I couldn\u2019t leave.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I couldn\u2019t go forward and I couldn\u2019t go back.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Thomas\u2019s ma looked up and saw me. I was trapped. She rushed across and grabbed my hand, patting it gently.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cYou\u2019re alright,\u201d she said, softly.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cI\u2019m sorry,\u201d I felt my throat tighten and my eyes sting. And then I was crying, tears hot on my face and gasping for breath, leaning heavily against Thomas\u2019s ma. \u201cI\u2019m so sorry.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cIt\u2019s alright.\u201d She stroked my hair and whispered. She lead me through the kitchen, busy with women, aunts and neighbours, making sandwiches and tea, and lead me out into the quiet evening on the back step. \u201cIt wasn\u2019t your fault.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
We sat on the step, the two of us crying for a long time. She held my hand in her lap. She smelled of earth and lemons and she rested her head on top of mine.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
After a while someone coughed in the doorway behind us and Thomas\u2019s ma straightened up and smoothed out her skirt.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cI have to go back,\u201d she said, not letting go of my hand. \u201cI want you to have something of his, before you go.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I shook my head.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cI don\u2019t – \u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
She stopped me.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cGo up to his room, it\u2019s just like he left it, I haven\u2019t been able to go in there yet,\u201d she patted my hand again. \u201cTake something. Anything. Something that you can keep, that will remind you of him.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cThere isn\u2019t anything \u2013 \u201c<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cKathleen?\u201d The voice came from inside, it was soft, slightly worried.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cI\u2019m grand, I\u2019m coming,\u201d she said, then turned back to me. \u201cI have to go back. You go on now.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
#<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I dreamt of Eskragh. I dreamt of something pale and cold moving in the depths. It was fast and sleek and it shimmered slightly in the moonlight.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I followed in its wake as we moved through the water, down and down we went in the darkness and never reached the bottom.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
And then the thing was gone and I was deep in the freezing lough and my lungs were burning and behind my eyes a terrible pressure was building and building as I began to rise, too slow, too slow, surrounded by a halo of silver bubbles.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I looked down.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The pale thing looked at me. For the first time I saw a face and sad, familiar eyes.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I woke with a gasp<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The sweat that soaked my bed was icy cold.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
#<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I had been in Thomas\u2019s room plenty of times before. We used to sit here listening to the charts on a Sunday afternoon and taking turns to play Deathchase or Manic Miner on his Spectrum.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
He had a collection of page three girls cut out and hid between the pages of an old Warlord annual in his cupboard, we used to look at them too. I riffled out the yellowing newspaper pages and jammed them into the pocket of my jacket. It felt important that his ma didn\u2019t find those.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Then I sat on the bed.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Was there anything I wanted here?<\/p>\n\n\n\n
We\u2019d long copied each others records, cassettes and computer games and, anyway, those weren\u2019t the kind of things that his ma had meant.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
There were books and comics, Thomas was a reader, but I didn\u2019t have much use for them.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
There were Thomas\u2019s medals for football and hurley. The harp his uncle had made him when in the Long Kesh. There was the picture of Thomas Clarke signing the Proclaimation of the Irish Republic before the Easter Rising. Thomas\u2019s ma was a Clarke, and Thomas had been named after her ancestor. And there was the picture of the Sacred Heart his parents had put above the bed.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
None of this meant anything to me.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I stood up, rubbing my forehead, kneading my temples.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
There was nothing here for me.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Then the door opened.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Thomas\u2019s da was standing there.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I jumped and suddenly felt guilty. I was trespassing.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cMissus Toner said I could come up,\u201d I said. \u201cI wasn\u2019t… I didn\u2019t mean to \u2013\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
He just stood there, holding the door open.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I edged forward, ducking out beneath his arm.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
As I passed him he stopped me with a hand on my shoulder. He was holding out something. I took it. I tried to say thank you but the old man wouldn\u2019t look at me. He stepped into his son\u2019s room and, without a word, closed the door.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I looked down.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I was holding Thomas\u2019s Saint Christopher\u2019s Medal. He always wore it. The silver medal on a leather band with the neat silver clasp, it was his favourite thing.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I weighed the medal.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Why hadn\u2019t he worn it at Eskragh?<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I wandered down the stairs and out of the house, the medal gripped tightly in my hand.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
#<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I was walking past Fallon\u2019s, it\u2019s an old man\u2019s pub full of serious drinkers \u2013 men whose faces burn red with the tracery of veins spreading from their nose. The sacred heart lamps.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Thomas\u2019s da came stumbling out, hard drunk on a Thursday afternoon. I was walking home from school, still in my uniform, and almost walked into him.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
He looked at me. Did he recognise me? I don\u2019t know.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I opened my mouth to say something but found I didn\u2019t have any words.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cEskragh took my son,\u201d he said. \u201cIt won\u2019t give him back.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
He didn\u2019t last another week.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
#<\/p>\n\n\n\n
It\u2019s dark. Eskragh is black and slick and smooth and it laps stickily at my feet, spreading a sickly chill up my body.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I take off my shirt and stand naked and shivering before the lough.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I take a breath and then I wade in fast, knowing that I must move quickly before the cold takes away my will. Another breath, almost a gasp as the water grips my chest, and then I dive in.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Down.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Already my lungs are aching.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Down.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I have Thomas\u2019s St Christopher\u2019s Medal gripped in my hand, the leather band wrapped around my wrist.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Down.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Eskragh isn\u2019t a big lake, but it\u2019s deep.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
<\/p>\n\n\n\n