the first place. Surely only British citizens should be allowed to join the British Army! But Ciaran was reminded of his own passport. How it was Irish , not British.
His mam’s face crossed his mind. Her disapproving look.
Army’s no place for a Falls Road boy .
There was a sudden scream. It sounded like Ron. Ciaran ran to the bigger room, looked in.
“Ron?” he said. “You okay, mate?”
It was dark, the sunlight dimming, affording Ciaran little light despite the plywood building’s open top.
In the corner, he noticed Ron struggling with someone—or something.
Ciaran raised his rifle even though it was loaded with blanks.
Ron stumbled towards him, the Polish man clutching his own throat, blood soaking the brilliant white fabric of his boiler suit.
Ciaran froze, dropped his gun. “What the—” he mouthed.
Ron reached for him, one arm outstretched, panic in his eyes.
Ciaran backed away, looking for help. Grady was in the corridor, the Sarge beside him.
Another man staggered into view. It was the man Ron had been struggling with. He looked young: tall and thin, wearing a chef’s uniform. Ciaran realised it was the kitchen hand from the canteen yesterday, the one standing by his mop as the news played on TV.
Only, something was very wrong with him.
He looked a mess. His face was blue, his whole body bent over itself as he crept forward. One of his feet dragged like it was broken.
Ciaran backed down the corridor, the kitchen hand following.
“J-Jesus, Sarge...” Ciaran said, looking to his CO, “What the fuck’s wrong with him!?”
The kitchen hand’s mouth opened, a viscous cough erupting. As he stepped into the better light, Ciaran could see blood gathering on his chin. He realised with horror that it wasn’t the lad’s own blood but Ron’s.
“Stand aside, Private,” the Sarge said.
Ciaran pulled back, watching as the Sarge raised his handgun, aiming it point-blank at the lad’s head.
He fired.
The shot rang out louder than Ciaran expected. The noise was everywhere, echoing around the plywood walls of the house.
It was the first time he’d watched a man die. Sure, he’d watched stuff online—suicides and beheadings, anything he could find, genuine or otherwise. Ciaran thought it would prepare him for the real thing. He thought he’d be ready to see this.
But he wasn’t.
And he certainly wasn’t ready for what came next. Ron was on the floor, choking on his own blood, his lips forming a gargled plea.
“Sh-shouldn’t we call for help, sir?” Ciaran offered, but the Sarge ignored him, instead standing over the wounded European man and unloading two rounds into his head.
“Fuck!” Ciaran gasped, jumping with each shot. “Jesus Christ!”
His voice broke, giving way to sobbing. Tears flowed down his face, and he rubbed them away with his hand. He looked to Grady, finding the other lad’s face dry like stone, eyes glued to the two bodies on the ground, chest rising and falling in short bursts as if excited.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Nobody wanted to talk about the FIBUA. It wasn’t that it hadn’t affected them—most of the other recruits looked as shocked and scared as Ciaran—it just seemed best not to talk about it. Not directly, anyway.
Lunchtime, and pretty much everyone had started drinking already. The officers seemed to turn a blind eye to it, perhaps realising the recruits needed an outlet after the day’s horrifying events.
But Ciaran was sober.
He left the others as they filed into the canteen.
He pulled the mobile phone from his pocket. Slid it open, accessed his contacts list and chose MAM.
The phone rang twice before a familiar voice answered.
“Hallo?”
Ciaran went to say something but his voice was shaking.
“Ciaran? Is that you son? What’s wrong? Where are you?”
“Nothing’s wrong, Mam,” he said, sniffing back the tears. “Just wanted to hear your voice.”
“Ciaran,” she said. “I’ve been trying to get you for ages, son, but you
His mam’s face crossed his mind. Her disapproving look.
Army’s no place for a Falls Road boy .
There was a sudden scream. It sounded like Ron. Ciaran ran to the bigger room, looked in.
“Ron?” he said. “You okay, mate?”
It was dark, the sunlight dimming, affording Ciaran little light despite the plywood building’s open top.
In the corner, he noticed Ron struggling with someone—or something.
Ciaran raised his rifle even though it was loaded with blanks.
Ron stumbled towards him, the Polish man clutching his own throat, blood soaking the brilliant white fabric of his boiler suit.
Ciaran froze, dropped his gun. “What the—” he mouthed.
Ron reached for him, one arm outstretched, panic in his eyes.
Ciaran backed away, looking for help. Grady was in the corridor, the Sarge beside him.
Another man staggered into view. It was the man Ron had been struggling with. He looked young: tall and thin, wearing a chef’s uniform. Ciaran realised it was the kitchen hand from the canteen yesterday, the one standing by his mop as the news played on TV.
Only, something was very wrong with him.
He looked a mess. His face was blue, his whole body bent over itself as he crept forward. One of his feet dragged like it was broken.
Ciaran backed down the corridor, the kitchen hand following.
“J-Jesus, Sarge...” Ciaran said, looking to his CO, “What the fuck’s wrong with him!?”
The kitchen hand’s mouth opened, a viscous cough erupting. As he stepped into the better light, Ciaran could see blood gathering on his chin. He realised with horror that it wasn’t the lad’s own blood but Ron’s.
“Stand aside, Private,” the Sarge said.
Ciaran pulled back, watching as the Sarge raised his handgun, aiming it point-blank at the lad’s head.
He fired.
The shot rang out louder than Ciaran expected. The noise was everywhere, echoing around the plywood walls of the house.
It was the first time he’d watched a man die. Sure, he’d watched stuff online—suicides and beheadings, anything he could find, genuine or otherwise. Ciaran thought it would prepare him for the real thing. He thought he’d be ready to see this.
But he wasn’t.
And he certainly wasn’t ready for what came next. Ron was on the floor, choking on his own blood, his lips forming a gargled plea.
“Sh-shouldn’t we call for help, sir?” Ciaran offered, but the Sarge ignored him, instead standing over the wounded European man and unloading two rounds into his head.
“Fuck!” Ciaran gasped, jumping with each shot. “Jesus Christ!”
His voice broke, giving way to sobbing. Tears flowed down his face, and he rubbed them away with his hand. He looked to Grady, finding the other lad’s face dry like stone, eyes glued to the two bodies on the ground, chest rising and falling in short bursts as if excited.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Nobody wanted to talk about the FIBUA. It wasn’t that it hadn’t affected them—most of the other recruits looked as shocked and scared as Ciaran—it just seemed best not to talk about it. Not directly, anyway.
Lunchtime, and pretty much everyone had started drinking already. The officers seemed to turn a blind eye to it, perhaps realising the recruits needed an outlet after the day’s horrifying events.
But Ciaran was sober.
He left the others as they filed into the canteen.
He pulled the mobile phone from his pocket. Slid it open, accessed his contacts list and chose MAM.
The phone rang twice before a familiar voice answered.
“Hallo?”
Ciaran went to say something but his voice was shaking.
“Ciaran? Is that you son? What’s wrong? Where are you?”
“Nothing’s wrong, Mam,” he said, sniffing back the tears. “Just wanted to hear your voice.”
“Ciaran,” she said. “I’ve been trying to get you for ages, son, but you
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