Ahoy for Joy by Keith Reilly Page B

both not yet ten years old, were approached by a group of bigger boys. They were a little older and Michael knew some of them a little having seen them around the streets or at the local shops. They were a rough looking bunch, with shaven heads his mother maintained was to keep the nits away and jeans too short that left skinny white ankles on view. Still, Michael knew they were to be taken seriously.
    At first they chatted amicably, but they were suspicious of Paul and began milling around him in an increasingly intimidating fashion. His name could easily pass on both sides of the religious divide, but they wanted to know what school he went to, a fact that would immediately reveal his religion.
    â€œThe same school as me,” Michael had maintained, “sure we’re in the same football team.”
    Michael could see they were unconvinced and felt the situation deteriorating. The two friends made several attempts to leave, wishing the others well and motioning to go. But someone always stood in the way, each time with increasing menace and then once with a sharp push that caught Paul square on the shoulder shoving him firmly towards the centre of the group. Both boys looked around for an escape route, but there were five of them, bigger and faster and making a run for it seemed less and less of an option.
    What might have started as mischief with no real agenda, quickly turned into fairly threatening behaviour with the five larger boys surrounding the two frightened young friends. Tacitly it became apparent that Michael, the relative newcomer to the area, didn’t quite know the rules and had brought his little
fenian
friend along to play. Strangely, this was a point they failed to mention, nor an accusation they openly made. Instead, they rather campaigned from a veiled agenda, seeking some
truth
from Michael, the off-loading of a burden on his mind, or some admission of guilt that could then be considered reasonably and objectively.
    The game was sophisticated far beyond the years of its players and certainly beyond the intellectual capacity one might have imagined such youngsters might possess. They weren’t explicit in their accusations, but said things like;
no one would bring a Catholic here to play
and describing the beating that
anyone
who did would receive, but that
Michael would be fine, because he would never do that
. No Michael was an okay guy, they knew Michael.
Michael
would never do that.
    It became like a mantra.
You would never do that, sure you wouldn’t
they were saying to him, one after another. Poor Paul was petrified and Michael distraught, his eyes wide, staring like a rabbit, comatose in fear as the inevitable set to unfold.
    Suddenly, the mood changed to a more conciliatory tone. It was really all the more sinister, but the voices were less jeering and feigned sympathy.
People do make mistakes
. Then one of the older boys put his hands on Michael’s shoulders and stood square before him. He was pale and gaunt, with a gold earing in one ear and just above his left eye was a scar that slanted upwards making him look slightly Chinese in appearance.
    â€œHey, we’re all human after all.” He said softly. Michael wasn’t convinced of that, but he listened to what was said. “But sometimes, if we make a wee mistake, it’s better to just admit it. Get things over and done with. You know?” He raised his eyebrows, looking expectantly at the young boy who was very much aware that the shaking of his body could easily be felt through the hands laid upon him.
    â€œHey, we all make mistakes,” he went on. “Listen, Michael,” the lad leaned over close to him and whispered in his ear. Michael could smell the cigarette smoke on his breath. “You know what it’s like at home when you’ve done something wrong.” He paused. Michael nodded. “Sometimes, it’s just better to own up if you’ve done something wrong, rather than