The Good Samaritans

A cool breeze swept briskly over the countryside. From the hilltop upon which Dennis was standing it seemed that streaks of light were being carried, in waves, across the landscape as the wind rustled the overgrown, lush, green grass in steady intermittent gusts. Gleaming rays of morning sunlight shone brightly off the dew covered grass. It reminded him, for a moment, of the ocean.

Purple rhododendrons peppered the hillsides and large swathes of land were partitioned by hedgerows and grey stone walls, erected many years earlier, and stacked to about waist height. A single road slithered across the landscape, winding around the hills and stretching across the grassy plains.

Dennis watched as a motor car glided down a hill, following the road out of a town just a few miles in the distance. The car backfired and coughed as it fought its way up a steep incline, on the other side of which was a large ditch which looked as though a plow had possibly been dragged across the road just after a storm when the earth was still muddy and malleable. The car, however, was unable to see this crevasse until it came over the summit and started down the other side.

Dennis, who was lying flat on his stomach scratching away at the dirt with a small twig as he passed the time before he’d have to go to work, raised his head in sudden anticipation of what was obviously to happen next. The driver of the car stomped on the breaks and cut the wheel hard to the left, but his reaction, while impressively reflexive, had simply come too late. The car’s momentum carried it forward, regardless of his efforts, and right into the ditch with a loud crash.

Dennis climbed to his feet and tossed the twig over his shoulder as he rushed down the hill toward the scene of the accident. His heart raced as he hurried down from atop the hill, his running quickly transitioning from a gallop to a sprint and finally into little more than a controlled fall as the grade of the hill reached its steepest point and his body built up more momentum than he could manageably handle. He tripped over his legs at one point and tumbled for several feet before he recovered, this time assuming a more rhythmic gallop in hopes of remaining on his feet.

“Hold on, ‘dare!” He shouted as he reached the bottom of the hill and moved toward the road. “Just hold on, ‘dare! Stay in teh car!”

He quickly came upon the scene and moved around to the side of the car, keeping a distance of about a foot from the ditch, which appeared much deeper than it had from atop the hill. He could make out three men in the car. The driver nervously opened his door while the man in the passenger seat started climbing out the window on his side on account of his door being jammed as a result of the accident. A third man, seated in the back, remained where he was. Dennis couldn’t tell what the third man was doing, but could hear him shouting angrily at the driver.

“What in ‘da fuck ‘ave yew gotten us int’a?!” He demanded.

“Just stay in teh car ‘dare, sir.” Said Dennis, gesturing toward the driver.

Another man jumped over a stone wall and jogged toward the vehicle as well. He was a burly man, with grass stains on his knees and wore a tattered gray sports jacket over a white shirt.

“Best stay roy’t wayr youse are.” Said the man, in agreement with Dennis, as he approached the vehicle. He squinted when he got closer and was able to make out the face of the passenger. “Dougal?!” he said with surprise as he came to a stop beside the car.

“Hello, Jimmy. Funny runnin’ int’a you loy’k ‘dis, but I can’t say I’m not relieved, anyway.”

“Aye. Well alright, Dougal, come on outta ‘dare, I’ll give ye a hand.”

Dougal was noticeably relieved. He climbed out the window and Jim grabbed him and helped him over the ditch and onto the ground where it was safe.

“What are ye doin’ out here?” Asked Jim, patting his friend’s chest and slapping his thighs. “Especially wit out y’er-... oh but ye left ye’er coat in the car ‘den, dintch ye?”

Dennis, meanwhile, made his way around to the back of the car and opened the door. “Mind the driver.” He reminded James. He and Jim were cousins and had spent most of their lives living only a short walk away from one another. “And you, ye’er Mr. Brodie, are ye?”

“Leftenant Brodie. Yes.” Replied the man seated in the back.

“Leftenant Brodie from West Belfast?” Dennis inquired further.

The man’s face changed from a look of annoyance to one of suspicion. He didn’t respond to the question and instead puzzled over Dennis’ face, wondering for a moment if Dennis was an off-duty constable who’d been informed of his arrival.

“Did ye hear?” Asked Dennis. “I asked ye if you were Leftenant Brodie from West Belfast, here on Royal Irish Constabulary business?”

“That’s right.” Admitted Brodie, in a voice that lacked its usual confidence.

“I’ve got something for ye.” Said Dennis, delving his hand into his jacket pocket. Brodie quickly grasped at something at his hip with his right hand and stiffly extended his left palm toward Dennis.

“Don’t!”

There was a loud crack and the lieutenant jerked backward in his seat. With the second crack his head whipped violently to the right and his body slumped forward against the back of the driver’s seat. Jim took a step forward, shoved a .38 revolver into the passenger window and fired three shots in rapid succession. The driver went limp and blood spattered against the windshield and dashboard. Dougal staggered back in horror. He started to run before he could bring his gaze away from the ghastly scene and so quickly lost his balance and fell to the ground.

“Relax, Dougal.” Said Jim as he walked away from the car. “You’re fine. What teh hell were ye doin’ in a car with the likes of ‘dem, anyway?”

“Youse fuckin’ killed ‘dem!” Dougal exclaimed in horror, his face pale and his eyes wide.

“He was already dead, Dougal.” James informed him. “We were just deliverin’ teh message.”

“Let’s get on, ‘den!” Implored Dennis, wanting to get away from the scene as quickly as possible.

The Troubles

Michael stepped outside into the cool morning air. Thick grey clouds hung low in the sky, like a lid over the city. The breeze was gentle and intermittent, carrying with it the peculiar scent of a coming storm. Having felt what he thought might have been a raindrop, Michael looked up sharply, leaving one hand on the doorknob so as to not lose his balance as he often did when he stared upward into the endless sky. An inconvenient affliction for a person of his interests. The night sky had always fascinated him and he had become something of an amateur astronomer in recent years. His girlfriend thought perhaps he’d done so as an outlet for the stress that plagued him ever since he’d taken up his new career.

He let his head down slowly and his hand, having relinquished its grasp on the door, moved reflexively into his pocket and retrieved a carton of cigarettes. The feel of a fag between his nicotine-stained fingers lifted an immense weight off his shoulders. Delving his free hand into his hip pocket he grasped his lighter and with a single, sharp, and rehearsed motion he’d given light to a flame. It was only now, as he attempted to introduce the flame to the end of his cigarette that he noticed the trembling of his hands.

“Morning, Michael!” Came a sudden, booming voice from behind. Startled, he jumped and spun around. The old Constable, Sean Reilly, approached in his characteristically long, determined strides. “What brings ye ta’ the station ta’day?”

“Oh, nothin’, you know... Just some minor electrician’s work.” Michael replied.

“Ah, right so. Well it’s good ta’ see a Kelly here under less... Dramatic circumstances, shall we say?” Commented Reilly in his customary condescension.

“Oh, certainly... Certainly. Me cousin says ta’ say hello to youse, by the way.” Michael replied.

“That so?”

“Aye. Left something inside for ye. Just a little sumthin’. Ye know? Ta’ show there’s no hard feelin’s.”

“Well... Never taught I’d live ta see the day, but none the less... It’s good ta hear. Time’s ‘ave changed, ‘aven’t they? Well, stay out of trouble, Mikey... Or well, better yet, keep yeer cousin out of trouble. No sense causin’ any ruckus now, is there? Not after Good Friday.”

“S’pose not. See youse around, Constable.” Said Michael as Reilly disappeared into the station.

Relaxing his posture and dissolving the not so easily manufactured elation from his face, Michael turned toward the street and took a long drag from his cigarette, holding the smoke in his lungs as he returned the carton and lighter to their respective pockets while massaging his brow with his free hand. Stress always gave him headaches.

He closed his eyes and let the smoke out smoothly through his nostrils, imagining the stress leaving his body in each grey puff. His shoes squished as he stepped down onto the pavement and approached the curb, all the while scanning the shop windows across the street. All sorts of sales and gimmicks lined the windows, mostly tailored toward tourists of the American variety.

He cracked his neck, and dug his hands deeply into his coat pockets as he stepped to and fro, rocking his body back and forth partly in an effort to stay warm and partly due to an unconscious, nervous compulsion. It was the dance of a man thrust into an unaccommodating atmosphere and encumbered by the chains of his own, inherited obligations... Or so that’s how he chose to view his peculiar burden.

“C’mon, c’mon.” He repeated impatiently under his breath as he looked down the road at a line of cars waiting to be released by an stubborn traffic light. He rubbed the back of his neck and, removing the cigarette from his lips for a moment, chewed nervously on the inside of his left cheek.

While he watched the line of cars begin to move he started walking along the curb to meet one of them. A small, brown car, rusted under the handles and around the bumper. A piece of card was peculiarly stuck over the registration number on the license plate with a few digits hurriedly etched on with marker. Michael took a final drag from his cigarette and tossed it down onto the pavement, suffocating it beneath his foot before opening the rear side door of the car to get in.

“Hey there, Mick. Everything go aright?” The driver asked in a tone which mixed a friendly inquisitiveness with a heavy disparagement; the kind that smacks of a performance review, in a way that almost seemed casual. All of this was accomplished in a way only a Belfast man, such as himself, could pull off. Michael climbed into the car and shut the door.

“Fuckin’ peachy. Let’s just go, okay?” Michael replied in a tired voice.

“Sure ‘ting.”

The car cruised down the road at a casual speed, Michael staring out the window up toward the clouds, away from his driver, over the heads of the people moving about on the sidewalks, and away from the shop windows that lined the road. He gazed at the thick gray quilt that rolled lazily overhead and felt his breathing and his heart begin to slow as he relaxed. There was a loud thunderous clap and a rumble that reverberated in the atmosphere. It was enough to shake the car, even.

“Ah, now tha’ was a good one.” The driver remarked in admiration.

“Shut the fuck up and drive, Danny.” Michael retorted, impatiently. His eyes shifted to the side mirror and he watched the thick gray cloud rise lazily into the air in dark plumes of cotton destined to join its kindred on a solemn march, rolling along to the deafening beat of the gods’ primordial war drums.

“Right so. Just sayin’ good work, is all.”

“Work... Aye.” Michael repeated to himself, silently, as the rain began to poor down from above, pattering against the glass. “Jus’ work, is all.”

The sound of sirens began to rise in the distance, whining bitterly between the woeful lament of a dozen car alarms. Michael lit another cigarette as he watched people begin to peak their heads out of shop doors, and press their faces against the windows to see what had happened while mothers shepherded their children inside and away from the street. Beat cops rushed toward the blast, shouting orders to people on the streets and sidewalks to move this or that way, and to get away from the cars parked along the curbs. All in a day’s work.

“Brits out.” Said the driver.