Pray for Us Sinners by Patrick Taylor Read Free Book Online Page A

yours?”
    â€œDunno.” It could have been. He saw the pleading in her eyes. “I don’t think so.”
    â€œDoesn’t matter.” He’d never heard such a defeated tone in her voice.
    He fidgeted. “Do you mind if I’ve a smoke?” She tolerated his habit. He usually went out into the yard, but something told him not to leave her this time.
    â€œGo ahead.”
    He took his time selecting a Woodbine, lighting up. He looked at her through the smoke. She was shaking her head slowly, the dark wings of her hair moving, framing her face. He could not meet her gaze as she said, “Two of his daughters are in my class.”
    He rose and leaned across the table, reaching out his hand to comfort her. To touch her swaying hair. But she moved away from him.
    â€œI don’t know what their mother was thinking. She sent them to school today.”
    He could see the film of moisture before her eyes.
    â€œThe younger one, Deirdre, asked me, ‘Why, miss?’” She flicked the back of one hand across her left eye, inhaled, and stared into his being. “What do you say to a little girl, Davy?”
    He looked away.
    â€œWhat do you say? He died for Ireland? He’s with the angels? It was an accident?”
    The cigarette shook between his fingers.
    â€œIt was no accident, Davy, and you know it.”
    â€œI’m sorry.”
    â€œSorry? Sorry? For God’s sake, is that all? You never see what your bombs do. You’re like those pilots in the Second World War. High above the carnage, conscience clean.”
    Davy slumped back into his chair. She was right. He hadn’t seen. Didn’t want to see. He’d seen enough the day Da died.
    She stood. “Do you remember what I said after the Abercorn?”
    Davy clasped his big hands like a supplicant altar boy, bowed his head, and waited.
    â€œDavy, I love you.”
    He looked up, a tiny smile beginning, but it was banished when she said, “Two years ago I asked you to get out. Now I’m telling you.”
    â€œFiona…”
    â€œYou choose, Davy. The Provos or me.”
    â€œBut…”
    â€œNo buts, Davy.” She stepped back. “I’m going out.”
    â€œI’ll come with you.”
    â€œNo, thank you.” The ice in her words chilled him like the touch of a corpse’s hand, and he could do nothing but stand and watch as she left.
    She hadn’t come home until the small hours. He’d pretended to be asleep, not knowing what to say. He’d lain beside her until the morning, his eyes wide, his mind churning like a cement mixer with a slipped clutch. He hadn’t moved when she rose, dressed, and left, pausing only to look down on him and whisper, “I love you, Davy McCutcheon.”
    He’d spent the day bleary-eyed, heart-sore, waiting, doing little things about the house—vacuuming, dusting, mending the broken latch on the gate to the yard, anything to occupy his mind. But school would be over now, and she would be coming home.
    Davy heard her key in the lock, the door opening, and her footsteps in the hall. He rose. She stood in the doorway, a pile of exercise books under one arm, her raincoat and head scarf soaked. He made no move to go to her.
    â€œWell?” she asked.
    He shook his head. “I can’t.”
    â€œAll right.” She set the books on the table, turned, and left.
    Davy stood, hands dangling by his sides. He loved her, loved her more than the life in his body, but …
    But Da had died for Ireland, as hundreds of others had; many more had sacrificed their freedom, their homes, their loved ones. He, Davy McCutcheon, had made the Provo Declaration. He had given his boyhood and young manhood to the grey, grim “Cause,” and now he must give up the only lovely thing he had ever owned, he thought. He had no choice. He knew he’d never had a choice, never since the days Da had spun his stories of