I'm beginning to wonder if the ending I've written is no longer valid. If this volume is drifting into tenderness and acceptance. I don't like that...but I'm not stopping anything until it's done and I can see the whole of it.
This is my favorite moment in the third draft...when Brendan is finally caught by the British...
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I opened the door just as a stocky Para was about to use his battering ram, so I slipped into to Todd’s attitude and snapped, “What the hell’s wrong with you? I said I’s comin’!”
I thought for a second he was going to ram my head instead of the door, but another man stepped forward, one I’d not seen before. “Are you Jeremy Landau?” he said, another true Brit.
“That’s me.”
“Let me see your passport.”
Already I could see the forms of women and children whispering up, despite the mist. And I could sense the hate in their eyes. I started to get a strong feeling of ugliness, so I handed it over without hesitation. I knew that’s the last time I’d have my hands on it. But Jeremy was no fool; the second he was called he’d know something had happened and would fall into some story like, "It's here somewhere." Then be shocked that it could not be located.
As for Aunt Mari and Uncle Sean, they could stick to the story that I was Brennan McGabbhann, and how would they know otherwise. They had photos of their nephew, yes, but not very good ones. Besides, the FBI and State Department had looked into it all and found nothing...and prove anything to the contrary. Uncle Sean had David Landau's law firm and his connections, so they'd be fine. Right now my one concern was for minimizing the Haggertys’ troubles.
“I’d invite you in,” I said, keeping the twang, “but this ain’t my place so--”
“No need. You’ll come with us.”
“Wait, Mrs. Haggerty’s not home an' her gran'kids're here, so I gotta wait till she gets back and--”
“What’s this?” It was herself bolting from the house two doors down, a cloth holding eggs in one hand, another woman right behind her and just as angry. “Mr. Landau, what’s this?”
“It’s nothin’, Mizz Haggerty,” I said. “These gentlemen just want me to go clear somethin’ up.”
“You bloody Brit bastards,” she snarled, “he’s an American. Just because you think you can treat us like this doesn’t mean you can the whole world!”
“By the saints,” someone added, “he’s American?!”
“The fuckin’ English!”
"Arrogant bastards, all!"
More women and children were coming out. I grew more and more nervous. I'd once wondered if this was another method of pushing back against the Paras -- surround them with loud angry females to confuse the issue and dare them to raise their weapons. But this time even a quick look at how the grunt soldiers fingered their triggers, and how too many already had the beginnings of wicked feral grins on their faces. That showed me we’d not have a repeat of the night at Ma’s. The riots of the last weeks had put them too much on edge to be willing to back down peacefully, even if it was to avoid an incident with a pack of women and children.
I couldn't allow this, not on my behalf, so I turned to Mrs. Haggerty and her mates and said, “Ladies, it’s all right. Thanks. I don’t mind goin’ with ‘em. I’ll just call the ‘Merican consulate from their office and get everything straightened out in two shakes of a lamb’s tail. It’ll be fine.” I turned back to the man in charge with a smile and added, “It’s just a little misunderstandin’, right? Don’t want no trouble here.”
I honestly couldn’t tell if he was a commander or captain or just a top sergeant, but at least he was smart enough to look around at the noisy seething crowd, hold his tongue and nod. He pointed to the closest of two Saracens and said, “In here,” then begrudgingly added, “Please.”
"Just lemme get my boots." The look in his eyes shifted into a warning that I was not to do a damned thing more but what he’d asked, so I shrugged and let two of the grunts lead me around to the back of the first beast, in tandem.
The second I stepped from the house my socks were soaked through, and the mist was chillier than I'd expected so I much regretted not having my coat or jumper. This was not going to be a pleasant ride. A monster of a Para opened the rear door as three others kept close watch on me and the rest warily made for the second Saracen, the women still calling all of God’s curses down on them and children as young as four maligning them.
But as I was about to get in I noticed movement from above, like an arm waving from behind a chimney, and looked up to see a single, dark, perfectly-shaped brick softly hurtle over the roof top to slowly, slowly, slowly curl downward, downward, downward through the mist, twisting and spinning like a sprite, weighing nothing as it whispered closer and closer, a thing of such remarkable beauty and grace floating in the air, I stood still and watched it grow larger and larger...until it screamed of its danger and I gasped and turned away from it, thinking it might hit me.
Instead, it slammed onto the bonnet of the Saracen behind me and ricocheted into the chest of a Para that was keeping watch on me. He cried out and collapsed and his mates swung into full battle mode as the once-growling crowd of women burst apart like petals falling off an open rose in a sharp breeze and scrambled back to their homes, dragging their children behind them while more bricks and stones came pelting down on the Brits.
And on me. I was clipped in the back and hit full on my left hand as I scurried away from the Saracens to find a place of safety and saw the Paras taking cover behind the vehicles and a corner house, rifles prepped ready to fire and aiming, and I cried out, “They got real bullets!” with no hint of Texas in my voice then.
That’s when the Brit commander grabbed me and slammed me into a doorway, snarling, “Right, you’re from bloody America.”
I couldn’t help but burst into laughter at the comical anger in his face. He punched me with his pistol, cutting open my left eye, yet still I laughed.
It was insane -- the chaos a few rocks can bring and the stupidity of the anger of these bastards against those they occupied and the futility of it all in the face of the world’s disinterest and the fact that Ma was dead and would never get to see any of this finally crush the spirit of those who lived here and no one would learn the lessons of the place because we were now a template on how to fight back against the oppressor and none of them could see how it never really worked, and this stupid bastard thought he could beat me into ending my laughter when it was beyond my control, all of it, all of it.
I heard gunfire from the Paras’ rifles and laughed even harder as I choked out, “Ya stupid bloody bastards, you’re shootin' at ghosts!”
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...but now I'm wondering if it will survive.
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