Father and Son Read Online Free Page B

world, but sometimes
evil makes mistakes. Your baby was murdered because of a mix-up. Sorry…
    He clicks through several more obituaries, burning with a rage he
cannot understand or rationalise. What is it he’s looking for? Someone saying
that Sheenan was a murdering bastard, that nothing should be allowed to assuage
the guilt of a person who destroyed a life that was two weeks old, a life that had
hardly begun?
     
    Whilst in the Maze, Sheenan was instrumental in shaping the Republicans’
approach to talks with the British government. He was said to be one of the few
men that Mo Molan, the British Secretary of State for Northern Ireland,
genuinely respected. When the Good Friday Peace Agreement was signed in 1998,
Sheenan left prison and severed all ties to republicanism. He moved to a small
village in County Kerry and worked as a self-employed electrician, becoming involved
in a number of local charities. He never spoke about republicanism again.
     
    John stops. Good-bad-bad-good . He knows all about moral
relativism. Tony Ray’s son? He’s spent his entire life thinking about good and
bad and what it means. But in all that time, through a difficult adolescence in
which he slowly came to understand that his father and brother were criminals,
he never saw them as evil. Robbing and counterfeiting? Dodgy, yes, but who had
his dad ever harmed? Chanel, Rolex, the Bank of England?
    He clicks through more obituaries. They seem almost to be celebrating
Sheenan’s life, a glowing recommendation for terrorism as a career path. He
wonders what the obituaries for the fortnight-old baby were like? Or any of
Sheenan’s other victims for that matter. He knows the papers are right, that everyone
is a product of their environment, of the times they live in. Everything, every
act, should be judged in its context, one man’s terrorist is another man’s freedom
fighter…
    He knows all that. But the sense of disgust won’t go away,
the feeling that some acts are so evil they should never be forgiven. A dead
baby, Roberto’s mashed-up skull… Is there nothing that deserves death in
return?
    He hears the scratching of keys in the lock.
    A moment later the door opens and Den is standing there, jeans,
trainers, her old brown leather jacket.
    “I still have my set,” she says, squeezing out the thinnest of smiles
as she slips the keys back into the front pocket of her jeans.
    He gets to his feet, the laptop still in his hands.
    “Mmm, got yourself a Mac,” she says.
    She looks around, quickly taking in every detail of John Ray’s huge
and annoyingly tasteful bachelor pad. It doesn’t seem to have changed one bit since
she was last here.
    “You want coffee?” he says, putting the Mac down and starting towards
the kitchen area. Then, thinking better of it, he walks over and kisses her on
the cheek.
    She smells just like she always used to, a faint hint of peaches.
And it was her skin, he used to tell her, not her perfume. Straight out of the
shower she smelled just the same.
    He looms over her, six-two to her five-seven.
    “You let your hair grow,” she says.
    “Nah, I just haven’t cut it.”
    “Or brushed it. The message?”
    “Huh?”
    “You texted me.”
    “I… sorry, yes, I just didn’t expect to see you so quickly.”
    “Staying with my sister for a few days. I had some leave due. And
no,” she smiles sarcastically, “I don’t have anywhere better to go.”
    He wants to hug her, push his face down into her neck, feel her skin
against his.
    But something’s wrong. The sarcasm is frozen on her face.
    “Hello there!” says Jeanette as she emerges from the bathroom in a robe
that’s too small for her, the pre-Raphaelite richness of her hair at its burning
best against the white towelling.
    “Traded down to an older model, John?” says Den.
    “Ouch!” Jeanette laughs, makes her way to the kitchen. “ You must be the ex.”
    “Cropped up in the conversation, have I?” Den says, arms folded, as
if