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CHAPTER 1
ROISIN
While looking at my father, I almost can’t believe the words he’s saying. Almost. I wish his plan, and the reasons behind it, were new to me, but they’re not. My parents have always been about the cause. I was raised with it hanging over my head, no matter how many times I tried to talk to them about looking at the world differently they ignored me.
I understand how deeply ingrained the cause is for my parents. They grew up with the sound of bombs going off, fear ingrained in their lives, and war in their hearts. No matter how long they’ve been in America, they never got over growing up in Belfast with their parents fighting for Irish unity and Northern Ireland’s independence from the British.
Even when they left Northern Ireland, my grandparents on both sides stayed. My grandparents sent my parents and my older brother to the US hoping they would find more opportunities, including when it comes to the cause. They still remember the bombings, the death, and the constant strife. They never lived in Belfast as a truce was found and the people on both sides tried to find a semblance of peace.
To them, their homeland is still mired in hate and violence.
My inability to see violence and unnecessary death as the means to gaining Irish independence has made me feel like an outsider when it comes to my family. My parents hate it when I talk about peaceful protest and a better way to achieve the goal embedded in them by the bombs of their past.
“I don’t understand,” I try to buy myself a little time to process what my father is asking of me.
I look toward my mom, but she’s of no help. Her face is set, her eyes filled with the fire from the same fight her parents fought, the one she was born into.
She’s not going to help me. It doesn’t come as a surprise, but it would be nice to have an ally in my family. I’ve never had one and have always been the outcast.
Mom shakes her head at me, disappointment chasing away some of the neutral expression on her face. “You don’t understand, Roisin. You have no idea what it means to live under tyranny. You have no idea the sacrifices made in the name of a unified and free Ireland.”
I nod slowly. What else can I do? I’ve heard about how my parents grew up my entire life. They were both only a year old when Bloody Sunday sparked violence on both sides. Their entire childhood in Belfast was mired in war with stark lines being drawn between the people.
They were taught to hate the Protestant loyalists and to see them as colonist plants from the United Kingdom. Knowing the history, they weren’t exactly wrong about that, but at some point, they stopped being British plants and started being Irish loyalists. The Irish part just never seemed to matter with the canyon formed from religion and loyalties between the two sides.
“I know how important the cause is,” I whisper the words even though it’s hard to get them past my lips.
It’s not like I don’t believe in Irish independence. I just focus on the long-time relative peace which has been based on discussion and the quest for understanding and compromise. At least until recently. Still, Belfast hasn’t been mired in the same trouble it was when my parents were children.
“Then you will do this,” my father’s voice is hard and doesn’t allow any room for me to argue with him. “Cillian Murphy has done business with him in the past and has reason to believe McCarthy is now selling arms to the opposition.”
The mention of Cillian Murphy has my heart stuttering in my chest. Cillian is one of the men behind the scenes of the current iteration of the IRA. He grew up with my father and has come over to visit throughout the years. I think he might be bitter over my parents leaving Ireland. Even though they came here with the purpose of finding new opportunities and resources for the cause at a time when the idea of a resolution still felt like such a long way off.
Cillian, much like my parents, never let go of the violence and hate instilled in him while growing up. I fear Cillian even more than I do my father.
It’s hard to admit, but there have been moments when I’ve lived in fear of my father. He’s a hard man. He’s set in his ways. And I’ve never had an ally in my life, one who would protect me and be on my side.
Not my mother.
Not my brother.
Finn is six years older than me and has always bought into the rhetoric my parents fed us. He was two when my parents moved to the US. Maybe he feels the roots to Ireland and Belfast in a way I never could? I just don’t know, but it hurts.
There have been times when Finn was the protective big brother I needed, but when it comes to the cause he’s all in. I wish he could just be my brother and be supportive. I wish he could be there for me when I need him and to understand where I’m coming from.
He doesn’t.
I meet Finn’s eyes and find his jaw is set in the same firm way our father’s is. He wants me to do this. My heart breaks because I don’t see my protective big brother in front of me.
I look away from him, but hope my words hit him. “You’re asking me to insert myself into the middle of the Irish mob and knowingly spy on Declan McCarthy and his business,” I try and keep the scorn out of my voice, but it bleeds through. Along with some fear.
“McCarthy needs to be held accountable for what he’s doing,” Father’s voice is ice cold. “He’s just a man.” His eyes roam over me and a smirk slowly forms on his face. “I’m sure you can figure out a way to find out the information we need, and he won’t be the wiser.”
My stomach drops at the implication in his words. I’ve never felt like more of a pawn for the cause than I do right now. I glance at the quote mounted on the wall which has been there for as long as I can remember.
“Our revenge will be the laughter of our children.”
Bobby Sands, a member of the IRA who gave his life to the cause, said that. He’s been a hero in our home, someone who made the ultimate sacrifice to prove a point.
