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you again Signorina. Not many people
tonight, so you can choose your table.’
    ‘Hello, Stefano – this is my brother. Be nice to him.’
    ‘Your brother! But he doesn’t have your beautiful red hair.
He has your eyes though. Please, take a seat.’
    ‘No, you’re right Stefano,’ she laughed. ‘What happened to
your beautiful red hair, brother?’ She reached up a hand and ruffled Michael’s
jet black locks.
    ‘You’re the only redhead in the O’Reilly family. You’re a
freak of nature, Sis. Either that or the milkman’s got some explaining to do.’
    They settled on a corner table, and after perusing the menu
decided on Ravioli and a bottle of Chianti. Michael felt himself beginning to
unwind, only now recognising how tense he’d been for the last two days. After
the second glass of wine Siobhan started to loosen up too. She began telling
him her plans for the future.
    ‘When I’ve saved enough I’m going to buy somewhere by the
sea, and manage a hotel. Somewhere that gets the tourist trade in the summer.
You can come and visit of course.’
    ‘Mmm, sounds good. Suppose I should stop doing building work
and find something more lucrative to do. Never did go to university in the end.
And I’m nearly 30. I thought you wanted to go to America.’
    ‘Yes, that’s an option too. I haven’t really worked it all
out yet, Michael. When I do I’ll be sure to let you know.’
    The talk continued over a second bottle of Chianti and an
ice cream dessert. For a few hours Republicanism and dead friends, if not
forgotten, were temporarily relegated to the backroom of memory. Around 10.30
they said goodbye to Stefano and returned to the house. Siobhan was a little
unsteady on her feet. She put her arm through Michael’s and they weaved ever so
slightly to the front door.
    ‘I’ll make some tea,’ she said, heading for the kitchen.
    ‘Ok, I’ll be next door.’ Michael walked into the living
room, switching on the light. He stopped dead in his tracks. The room was
occupied. A man wearing a balaclava stood next to the fireplace, pointing a
pistol at his midsection. He had one finger to his lips. Michael stood immobile
in shock as the visitor motioned him to sit on the sofa. He forced his legs to
move and then sat down, his brain racing. The man once again raised his finger
to his lips and moved quietly to the door, waiting. Michael did as he was bid,
and said nothing.
    The gunman was behind the door when Siobhan arrived, holding
two mugs of tea. She saw Michael’s grim expression first.
    ‘What is it?’ she began, then, as she closed the door, saw
for herself.
    To her credit she stifled a scream when she saw the raised
finger. She exhaled with a long moaning sound as the mugs left her hands and
shattered on the bare wooden floor. Then she took an involuntary step
backwards.
    ‘Sorry to alarm you,’ came a voice from behind the
balaclava. ‘I need a word with your brother. Why don’t you sit down next to
him?’
    Siobhan moved to the sofa, her breath coming in quick gasps.
For a minute everyone was silent. Michael was inwardly cursing the fact that
he’d relaxed his customary vigilance, and wondering who the hell this man was
and for what purpose he’d been sent. Siobhan was willing herself to calm down.
She took a few slow breaths, waiting for her heart to stop thumping.
    ‘How the hell did you get into my house?’
    Michael put a hand on her arm. ‘Don’t get angry, Siobhan.’
He looked at their visitor. ‘What do you want?’
    The man stayed by the door, gun levelled at both of them.
‘The business of an arms shipment in Cork, Michael. After your phone call this
morning it was discussed long and hard. Certain conclusions were reached.’ His
voice was clear and calm. He’s done this before, thought Michael. An
executioner. He tried to place the accent. It wasn’t Irish, maybe Northern
England. Certainly nobody he’d ever met.
    ‘What conclusions?’
    ‘Eight men shot dead, allegedly