by Finn Óg
But I do know about the aftermath of the kind of mayhem you witnessed. The killing. Made worse by the fact that they were children. I’m not going to sit here and say those kids didn’t die because you were there. I don’t know the details and I hope to never say the worst of platitudes that I hate people saying to me – that things weren’t my fault when I know bloody well that they were, but that’s not to say it was your fault either.
What I do know is that you were there for good reason. The LRA were killing and abusing children long before you ever arrived. It’s crippling that you witnessed it, but unless the world starts to take notice of shit like that, then nobody will ever know and it will keep happening. And unless government agencies, or whoever you were there to make answerable for it, start feeling it in the wallet, they won’t bother their holes doing anything about it. What I’m saying, badly, is that it is worthwhile, you and people like you being in these fucking terrible places trying to do your best, because without you this just goes on and on and nobody gives a rat’s ass.
I have wrestled with unintended consequences all my adult life. There are times when you just have to trust that there must be some purpose, that there is a sequence of events that would have occurred whether or not you were there to see them. I don’t know if this was one of those, I can’t say, but I know you and I know you would never have put anyone in danger. You are such a good person, your soul is kind and your heart is huge, and you have suffered for being there, beyond what almost anyone could manage, and I am proud. Of you.
But back to your letter. I’ll try to answer everything you asked even though this bit is hard to explain properly as well.
You spoke about Isla and me, and us being one. I accept that this has been a barrier. I’m not sure I had fully reasoned that out in my head, but I knew it all the same – if that makes sense. Just because I hadn’t thought it through, doesn’t mean I didn’t understand it. Do you know?
This is what it is. I am permanently guilty. I have this pervading and consuming darkness that comes over me, in waves at times, and it scares me, to be honest. I feel like everything I touch or care about has the potential to be damaged by me, as punishment for my behaviour. I can talk more about that later, in a later letter, assuming you want one, of course, because I need to explain and deal with the matters you raise … and maybe now I’m deflecting the hard bit.
You see, I feel guilty about Shannon. I feel, sometimes, that I’m doing a disservice to her memory to have you forge such a strong, motherly bond with Isla. Perhaps that’s stupid. I feel guilty for missing Shannon less, and I feel sad about that. As time passes I learn to live without her, and even writing about her to you seems like a whole other betrayal of her legacy. Because Isla is her legacy, and I sometimes worry and wonder whether it would be fair for her to be raised by another mother. And I know how many assumptions are involved in that statement – me assuming that you would even want that – and I fear that she was so young that she might not remember her mam. I would hate that for Shannon. Yes, I know she’s gone, but I would hate for Isla to not remember me, and so I would hate for her memory of her mam to wither. Wither is the wrong word. It’s … it’s like a scent that gradually disappears. I want her to keep the scent.
I know this is confusing. I know this is probably hard to hear, but I need to be honest and explain. If I can explain it, perhaps you can understand and we can find a way. I’m afraid of Isla thinking … I don’t know. I see Shannon in her all the time, and I wonder if that will become a problem, you know, that she’s so like my dead wife. That’s the first time I’ve ever said that. My dead wife. I don’t know what that means. That I finally said it.
I’m scared that Isla is my everything, and I’m constantly terrified that I will lose her, and I worry that if I let myself care about someone else, that’s just someone else to lose too, as punishment, for all the shit I’ve done. When that bomb went off, you can’t imagine. Actually, maybe you can imagine. Maybe, of all people, you can. I just thought, that’s it – it’s happened. Knew it would happen and now it’s happened. You’ve finally got what was coming to you. And then you found her for me and she was ok, and the relief, and then what did I do? I did what I always do. I went and created a whole new batch of consequences that some day I will have to answer for. And the bottom line is, I don’t want to add you to my list of collateral. In my darker hours I think that if I allow it all to go the way I want it to, you will fall foul of me as well.
There are so many things, Sinead, that I’ve done. So many. You can’t do all that and not answer for it. I did wonder for a long time whether Shannon was my punishment. But as time passes and the pain of that lessens, I wonder if I am due some fresh hell, and I wonder if you are going to be that.
So when they took you, I was sure – again – that this was it. And when they said you were under the house, I was again sure, and then I somehow got to wondering whether you were like my sacrifice to protect Isla – that if they took you, they might spare Isla. I appreciate how completely mad that is, I know that, I do know that. It’s horrendous as a thought, but I thought it and I can’t deny that. I worried that maybe that’s what I was subconsciously doing.
Since I’ve learned about Uganda, and now that you’ve been taken for a second time, I can’t imagine what you must have been thinking. Two weeks they had you – how can that not bring back all that damage? And me talking about it like this, I mean – is that making it worse?
I’ve learned that it is better to talk about this stuff, but it’s impossible for me to find the words with my mouth. Putting it down like this is easier, but that’s not to say that it’s easy. I know what you mean about persuading yourself that you might not send the letter, and then you go ahead and send it anyway. That helps, I think. So now that I know about Uganda, about what happened to you before, I want you to know that you can talk to me about that if you want to and if it doesn’t make things worse. I might understand.
That’s assuming that you want anything to do with me. Maybe what happened these last few months has changed everything again. Maybe that will be my punishment for the past, but also for not being sensible about us. About us.
You mentioned children. Of course that’s not an issue. That sounds so stupid I’d cross it out but, sure, we’re being honest here and I can be so rough. I know that for you that must be an enormous issue. You would be such a fantastic mother, you really, really would, but for me, that’s not, as you asked, a deal-breaker at all. Not one bit.
Maybe we can find a way that you can be? If you want. If you’d still like that.
I think the best thing is for me to stop now. I’m worried I might be making things worse. I know you were sort of, maybe, crestfallen – is that anywhere close to the correct word? – when you got out of the van and left me and Min to clear off away again. I think, maybe I’m wrong, that you thought I’d got the Uganda letter by then, and that when you realised I hadn’t there was still stuff to be said. But what matters, to me anyway, is that I have it now. And that I am so proud of you.
Sam
He folded the paper, wrote Fran’s address on it, placed it in another envelope with instructions, opened the channel and typed.
In a couple of days, get her to check the recycling.
Sam, Hi Sam, Dear Sam,
How do you start a letter like this?
You’ve made me happy and sad. In the interests of being honest – brace yourself here, Sammy boy, we are in for a rough ride.
That’s more than you’ve said in all the time I’ve known you. Four years it is now – did you even know that? I’m grateful, I’m grateful for your honesty, and I know this stuff doesn’t come easy to you. If I’m being honest, as we are, then it’s not entirely a walk in the park for me either.
It means so much to hear that you’re proud of me – and, no, it wasn’t clear before. It wasn’t very clear what you thought of me, really, other than I assumed you liked having me around because you asked me to be ar
ound. But, and here’s the hard bit – Sam, you didn’t say what I am to you. You hinted and you hinted at it and you seemed to suggest a future but I bloody need you to say it, Sam. I need to hear it – read it, whatever. I need you to remove any ambiguity at this stage and just say what you want.
And now I feel bad because you’ve explained all that about Shannon. I had to read that, like, a dozen times and then go for my daily allowance of a walk to think it all through, again and again, but it does make sense. It does. I get it.
But then I get selfish and start to think, well, what room does that leave for me? Cos I can’t have children, Sam, so, what, if there is to be a role (see earlier note about clarification required), does that mean someone like me would have?
I love that you’ve been so open with me, I do, and that’s making me feel like a spoilt little bitch by demanding more, but I’m in it now and I might as well give you the whole shebang.
You didn’t say if it matters, what happened to me. I’m really terrified of that. That you will, somehow, think I’m … The stuff that happened in Uganda – not that I can’t have children, although that was a huge relief, thank you – the other bit. The fact that I was – you said it – violated. Ugh. This is so hard to ask, but does that matter to you? Cos we can’t walk on eggshells for the rest of our lives, and I don’t ever want you to treat me like I’m broken.
You mentioned sacrifice. On some level I understand that. It’s funny how two people can think the same thing, dark as such thoughts may be, and that they can follow that twisted, mangled logic. I don’t have a great deal more to say about that other than we both suffer from dark thoughts. That’s just the way it seems to be.
Finally. I’m in a panic writing this, so I’ll write it really quick, and maybe tear the end off the page before I send it but maybe I’m kidding myself.
You didn’t say it. I need you to tell me one way or another. Do you love me?
And you never said explicitly that you WANT me to be Isla’s stepmother – that you WANT me to be your, I dunno, your partner, or whatever.
Shit. Wow. Stopping now.
Sinead
Dear Sinead,
I’ll be brief.
Of course it doesn’t matter.
And I love you. I’ve loved you for a very long time.
Sam
AFTERWORD
Thanks for getting this far.
I wrote this book one year before it was published, in the midst of the misery that was lockdown one. So many people have been lost since, to the virus, in the migrant crisis at sea and still, I know, because of late diagnoses in hospices and hospitals across the planet. I would never have imagined that as I publish, belatedly, that we would be entering lockdown three. If you’ve lost someone, I sincerely hope you are doing as well as can be expected.
I want to thank some people, not least those readers – some of whom have written and told me about their work on the frontline during this dreadful period. I often write about courageous characters, and I tip my hat to you lot more than any others. It’s easy to look courageous when you possess no fear – it’s those of you who are scared and yet continue to go in and work for the benefit of others that have the real grit and bravery.
Thanks to Migump and my pal in stroke city for first eyes, as ever. To Victoria for the edit during her own challenging Covid times. To my ARC team for the invaluable feedback and encouragement and keeping the scribbling going. Thanks to the big lad and the oul’ wans for keeping the rum flowing and me afloat.
Thank you to my curly crew to whom this book is dedicated. Days and nights at sea will never be the same without you. Thank you to the big one whose armour often appears impenetrable; you are tough-out and I miss you more than I could ever tell you.
Thanks, always, to the real Isla. You make me laugh, you make my heart smile. I luff you with all my heart.
Finn.
ONE MORE THING!
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