THE OLD SOLDIER

The whistle of the kettle snapped him from his daydream. He was at the coast with his wife, a place they went every year for three decades. The same guest house, the same fish and chips and ice cream on a bench looking out to sea. They loved the familiarity of it, the kids would come to call it boring and cheesy, but he and his wife loved it. But the kettle brought him back into the room, a tired but impeccably clean kitchen, he had kept it exactly the way it was the day she died. Clare fell right in front of him. 

Smiling one second, then dead on the floor the next.

He took comfort from the fact she didn’t suffer, and hoped he would go the same way. But for now he waited for his time, going through the motions of life, the daily chores, keeping the garden tidy, he even reluctantly learned how the vacuum cleaner worked, all steep learning curves but they soon became routine and had lost their thrill.

He made his tea in silence, 10.30am on the dot, one sugar and two biscuits on a plate.

The doorbell interrupted the routine. He hoped it wasn’t Dawn from next door, well meaning but a bit much for this time in the morning. It rang again before he was even halfway down the hall, bloody Jehovah’s Witnesses he muttered out loud as he reached for the handle.

Two middle aged men stood on his doorstep, similar enough in appearance to be instantly recognisable as brothers but his military training told him they had very different personalities. One stood forward, the other hung back a little, possibly travellers offering to tarmac the drive or take down that overgrown conifer for cash, probable dump it all in a farmers field somewhere. 

Before he had chance to ask what they wanted, the nearest one addressed him by name and rank. ‘Corporal Hanes’

The back of the throat tones of the Northern Irish accent was clear in the man’s voice.

For the last fifty-four years, he knew this day could come. His past catching up to him. The chance seemed to get less each year, the security briefings less common now, once a year at most. But the risk was always there.

Connor Healy spoke again.

‘We can do this on the doorstep in front of your neighbours or we can come inside and talk in private.’

Kieran Healy shifted his weight as he spotted the curtains twitching in the window of the cottage next door.

John Hanes, spoke gently but firmly. 

‘Come inside, we can talk in the kitchen, and make it look friendly, next door will be calling 999 if you don’t take that scowl off your face and act like you’re pleased to see me.’

He stepped to the side and ushered the two men through the door and pointed down the hall to the kitchen. He closed the door behind them and followed.

‘I just made tea for myself, would you like some, or something stronger?’

‘Tea will be good, save the strong stuff for a bit later shall we.’ 

Connor replied for both of them.

In the kitchen, John filled the kettle and collected two mugs from the cupboard.

‘Milk and sugar?’
‘There are biscuits if you would like one?’

Connor spoke again for both of them. 

‘Milk, no sugar. No biscuits.’

John made the tea in silence, he could feel the brothers eyes were on him the whole time, as he went to the fridge and especially when he went to the cutlery drawer for a spoon. When he finished and turned to the table, he saw that both men had a gun in front of them, he would have been dropped long before he got anywhere near either one of them with a knife from the drawer.

Kieren broke his silence, his voice softer but no less certain. 

‘You don’t seem surprised to see us Corporal Hanes’ you knew this day would come, that we would come, for justice. You knew who we were at the door.’

John hesitated for a second, put down his tea and looked at the two men sitting across his kitchen table. Two men who until 3 months ago had been in a high security prison, released on a miscarriage of justice decision from one of those judges who had not lived through the troubles, who had not been in the streets with bombs going off, who had never held a dying colleague. The type of judge that could not see evil, that thought everyone could change and deserved a second chance. 

So here they were, sat in his kitchen drinking tea. 

Connor and Kieren Healy, the sons of Joseph Healy, IRA soldier, terrorist and martyr to the republicans after being shot dead at a check point in the drivers seat of his car, with his two young sons in the back. Shot and killed by a 22 year old scared shitless Corporal with less than three weeks with boots on the ground in Belfast. 

John cleared his throat and spoke.

‘Yes I knew this day would come, that you would come. I didn’t hide from it, I knew you would find me.’

Connor leaned forward. 

‘You killed our father, you took away our childhood, we are here to even the score. An eye for an eye.’

‘So, drink your tea old man, eat your biscuits and then I am going to execute you, like you executed my father.’

He pulled a silencer from his jacket pocket and attached it to the gun, then placed it back on the table. 

John had seen that look in the boys eyes before, their faces haunted him for years, the mixture of shock and anger. Connors eyes had never left his until he was ushered away by the SAS soldiers who had quickly arrived. He never forgot those eyes and now those eyes stared at him, across the table. 

When he returned from his tour in Northern Ireland, he had been transferred into army intelligence and he spent the rest of his military career learning the psychological aspects of war. He knew this was not going to be quick, Connor needed to be heard first, say his piece, or he would be dead already. It could buy time for Dawn the nosey neighbour to call the police, like she did for the stupidest things, the window cleaner or the delivery driver who she swore were trying to break in.

He also knew Kieren was the weak link, so he engaged him first in an attempt to buy time. 

‘You boys were being used as cover, he thought we wouldn’t shoot with you in the car. That he could draw as many soldiers as possible around the car.’

‘Blow himself and both of you up, with as many British soldiers as he could.’

‘You know that right? That the great Joe Healy was going to sacrifice the two of you so he could go out in a blaze of glory. He needed you two to get close enough, he would have been shot by the SAS sniper 100 yards out, he was on our shoot to kill list.’

Connor interrupted him. 

‘That’s the British army talking, the story they fed the papers to cover for you being trigger happy and killing a father in cold blood in front of his children. It’s full circle time old man.’

John was ready. 

‘The boot was full of explosives and didn’t you ever wonder why your mother was not in the car? You know if you were going shopping like your father said, why would your mother not go? Did your father ever do the shopping on his own before?’

John saw what he had hoped for, Kieren shifted in his seat and had looked away from him towards Connor for reassurance. 

Got him he thought, he is second guessing all of this.

‘Ma, was at my Aunt Mary’s, we were going to pick her up on the way.’

Kieren was trying to put it together in his head.

John continued to engage him.

‘You were headed away from Mary Callahan’s house, you had no reason to be at that checkpoint, your father could have picked up your mother and gone to the supermarket without ever going anywhere near the checkpoint.’

‘Your mother had been sent away because she would not agree to the plan, what mother could?’

Connor picked up his gun and pointed it directly at him.

‘Enough with the fairy tales, if you want to make your peace with your maker I suggest you do it know.’

Kieren stood up from the table. 

‘I need a drink. Where’s the good stuff?’

‘There’s a 12 year old Redbreast in the cabinet in the lounge, glasses are in there too. Bring three.’

As Kieren left the room to fetch the whisky, Connor got to the point. 

‘You die here today old man. Executed, like you executed my father.’

He picked up the gun from in front of him and checked the chamber.

Kieren re-entered the room with three glasses and a bottle of whisky, he poured a generous amount for all three men, he stiffened slightly when he saw the 9mm in Connor’s hand. He knew why they were there but the old man’s words had unsettled him, he downed his glass of whisky and poured another.

He sat back down next to Connor. The old soldier looked tired, but calm, almost resigned to his fate. His execution at the hands of the boys who watched him shoot their father 50 years earlier. 

John Hanes took a sip of his whisky, it bit hard. He had not had a drink in twenty years, he kept it for guests. His mind wandered to where the bottle came from, was it a gift? He was snapped out of his daydream by Connors voice.

Connors voice interrupted him.

‘Any last words, Corporal Hanes?’

The old soldier looked at the men sitting opposite him, remembering the eyes of the boys in the back seat that day. His fingers clenched beneath the table, then relaxed on his thighs. He noticed the slight twitch of Connor’s hand near the gun, the way Kieran’s foot tapped against the leg of the table, restless, uncertain. The clock ticked loudly in the quiet kitchen, mingling with the soft creaks of the chairs as the men shifted their weight. 

John’s eyes flicked between the brothers’ faces and the weapons on the table, tracing the lines of tension and fear that mirrored his own. 

A bead of sweat traced his temple, though his face remained calm. He sipped the whisky slowly, listening to the sound of Kieran pouring himself another drink, timing everything, counting breaths. 

In the next heartbeat, Connor picked up his glass and turned to his brother, to toast their long awaited victory. 

The first shot hit Connor just above the ear, killing him instantly. 

Kieran gasped, hands clawing at his throat as the second bullet hit him. 

The third struck him in the forehead, and he slumped onto the table beside his brother. 

John Hanes set his gun down, the tape still clinging to the handle, and lifted his glass for a quiet, deliberate toast.

‘To slaying old ghosts.’

He got up from the table and walked to the phone on the wall.