Sorry this has taken so long. I've been busy with other things and didn't have time to finish it until this week. This will be the last one until next season most likely.

"Plans Revised"

"John Patrick, why don't you come with me?" Jeni pleaded with him.

"I told ye. I do not want to leave. I will stay here and sing."

"But you could come to the states with me and sing there."

"Why leave me family to do what I'd be doin' here?"

"You could find someone to pay you there."

"So I could sing nonsense for them. No. I tell stories, Jeni."

"You could still do that. You could find someplace that would pay you for gigs and let you sing what you want."

"Jeni, ye don't understand. I can't leave."

She sighed in frustration and turned to leave. "I'm leaving Wednesday," she called over her shoulder. "Stubborn man," she muttered to herself as she walked out of the door.

*******

One night a few weeks after Jeni had left, John Patrick was sitting at the table while his parents were watching television. They turned the volume up as a news report came on the channel. "This afternoon there was an attack by a group of IRA terrorists in the city of Belfast," the news announcer began. "Twenty car bombs were detonated in less than fifteen hours. Thirty-three people are now dead and more injured. This man, Edward Dougherty, is believed to be responsible for this act."

John Patrick's head jerked up in time to see his brother's picture flash across the screen. His parents were staring in shocked horror at the television. "That can't be true," he mother said. "Edward wouldn't do that."

Both Seamus and his son knew that what she sais wasn't true, no matter how much they all wanted to believe it. They knew that he was perfectly capable of the act he was suspected of committing. The old man turned the television off before they could hear anymore. John Patrick turned back to what he was working on, but couldn't keep his mind on it. After twenty minutes, he finally gave up on it for the moment and stood up to take a walk.

Stepping outside, he took a deep breath of the fresh air. Then, he started down toward the water. When he reached it, he walked along the shore until he came to where the ground rose high above the water. He sank onto the grass and stared out over the water. Remembering back to when they were younger, John Patrick realized Edward had always been headed down this path. He'd always been passionate about "his cause." "It must be his destiny," he said to himself.

He sat there contemplating things for awhile longer before heading back to the house. When he walked inside, Edward was sitting at the table. Seamus was standing in the middle of the room with his arms crossed. His wife's eyes and face were red and puffy from crying. The younger man walked over to his brother and demanded, "Did ye do it?"

His mother tried to stop him. "John Patrick, can't ye see he's tired and hungry?"

Neither of her sons seemed to hear her. They were too busy having a private, silent battle. Finally the older one said, "It can't be proven."

His younger brother wasn't to be put off that easily. "Did ye do it?" He repeated his question.

Edward refused to even look at him, let alone answer the question. John Patrick stormed into his room and slammed the door. He noticed the latest letter from Jeni sitting on his bed. He picked it up and began to reread it.

Dear John Patrick,

I am glad to hear that you are doing fine. Everything is well here.

"Too bad things aren't fine now," he growled.

I still wish you'd change your mind and come here. But I know you'll do what you must. To let you know, I am now living in South Dakota.

He dropped the paper on the floor, knowing the rest by heart. After a moment of hesitation, he grabbed a suitcase out of his closet and started throwing clothes into it, then he grabbed his guitar and what money he had. When he had finished that, he walked back into the kitchen, placing his suitcase and guitar on the floor by the door.

"Where are ye going?" His mother asked with concern.

"Away from all this," was all he would say.

"Where will ye go?" His father asked.

"To America," he replied, finally making the decision.

Edward looked up from the table and there was a sneer on his face. "So, you're gonna run away to America? Think you'll leave it all behind. Ye can't run far enough."

John Patrick clenched his jaw, then, remembering the Gaelic he had learned, said, "Is fear rith maith na drochsheasamh." A good run is better than a bad stand. He turned to his parents and said, "Slan agat. Fad saol agat."

He picked up his suitcase and guitar. Then, without even a glance back, he walked away.

*******

The first hint of morning was beginning to appear over the horizon when John Patrick finally reached the airport. He had slept uncomfortably beside the road for a few hours, but this had not been enough to keep him wide awake and alert. He stumbled into the terminal and up to the desk where the clerk looked at him suspiciously.

"I need a ticket for New York," he said after glancing at the sign listing departures.

"Are ye drunk, sir?" She asked, noticing his bloodshot eyes and the slight slur of his words.

He shook his head, but his exhaustion caused this movement to give the effect of a spinning room. Reaching out a hand, he grabbed the edge of the counter to gain some balance. His feet were sore and tired, and his head was throbbing with pain from weariness. He reached into his pocket and pulled out some money. Sliding it across the counter, he said, "I've walked here from Ardglass and am dead tired. Could I please just be havin' the ticket."

She counted the money, then handed the ticket over to him, still not trusting him because of the way he looked. He made his way over to a bench, slumped down onto it against the wall, closed his eyes, and was instantly asleep. The next thing he knew, he was being awakened by the announcement, "The flight for New York will be departing within the hour. All passengers please make your way to gate C."

He stood up slowly and made his way to the designated gate. On the plane, he found a window seat and sat down in it. Minutes later a young man sat beside him. Trying to start a conversation, he asked with a distinctly American accent, "Who are you?"

"Just a ramblin' Irishman." As the words escaped from his mouth, the lyrics to an old song came back to him. He whispered them to himself as they crossed his mind. "I am a ramblin' Irishman. In Ulster I was born...But to be poor I could not endure, like others of my station. To America, we sailed our way and left this Irish nation."

The American just stared at him for a second, then turned his attention elsewhere. John Patrick closed his eyes and slept until the plane landed on the other side of the ocean.

*******

John Patrick sat at the table in the small restaurant counting out the small amount of money he had left. "Twenty, thirty, forty, forty-five, fifty. Only fifty dollars. Cain't last long with this." He had traded in his native currency for American dollars. Now, he needed to find a way to get his hands on more.

After ordering and eating a small meal, he left and wandered the streets. He had only walked a few blocks when he spotted a bar. He considered walking on past it for a moment, then changed his mind and strode inside. Walking up to the bar, he motioned to the bartender.

"What'll you have?" The other man asked when he reached him.

"A pint if ye please."

The bartender just stared at him for a second, then asked, "How long have you been here, son?"

"I just arrived a couple of days ago."

"Well, there's a pub down the street that sells what you want. Maybe you should go there."

"Thank ye," he said nodding his head at him.

John Patrick walked down the street until he came to a pub that he was pretty sure was the one the bartender had been talking about. He once again asked for a pint upon reaching the long, wooden bar, and there was instantly a tall glass of dark brown liquid placed in front of him. He nodded his thanks, then took a sip of his drink.

When he had finished, he stood up to leave. On his way to the door, a drunk staggered across his path and nearly fell into him.

"Excuse me," he said, wanting to leave even though he was in no hurry to get anywhere. He didn't have anywhere to go.

The man leered up at him through glazed eyes. His breath smelled strongly of alcohol as he said, "What're ya doin' 'ere, mick?" His words were slurred together and barely coherent. "We don't need yer kind 'ere."

"And what kind would that be, sir?" He asked, saying the last word with a sharp bite of sarcasm.

"Ya mus' either be a drunk or a terroris', Paddy," the drunk informed him.

Like ye have much room to be talkin', he thought to himself, but just said, "I am neither."My brother is the terrorist. "Now, if ye will please get out of me way."

The drunk put his finger against John Patrick's chest and poked him.

"I was leavin'. If ye are in me way, I cain't do that."

"You can get out of my way," he sneered.

Just then a younger man stormed over to them. He was an exact copy of the older man and was only slightly less drunk than his father. He had the same belligerent sneer on his face though. "What do you want?" He asked.

"Just to be leavin'," was his reply.

"Then why don't you do that, instead of harassing my dad."

John Patrick's temper was beginning to rise at the attitude of these two men. "He's the one harassin' me. Your da started this. Maybe ye should be talkin' to him about leavin' me be."

"You don't know what you're talkin' 'bout," the older man sneered at him.

"Aye, I do," he said as he started to push his way past the two men.

"Where do ya think you're goin'?" The belligerent young man demanded of him.

"Home," he said, which made him laugh inwardly. Home was an abandoned building that only kept him out of the rain. At night, he laid shivering on the cold floor until sleep overcame him. There was no light except what came through the dirty and broken windows. Home wasn't exactly the word for it.

"Not until we settle this."

"There is nothin' to settle."

As he started forward again, the young man threw a punch at his jaw. It connected solidly, but only stunned him, not knocking him down. He lunged forward and grabbed the man's arms, trying to restrain him. His attacker kicked his leg and managed to draw away as John Patrick was recovering from the blow. Then, the Irishman moved in and jabbed to his mouth with one fist while the other connected with the man's stomach. The drunken man grunted in pain, and his father came up behind John Patrick, breaking a bottle over his head.

He fell to his knees, stunned for a second, then shook his head and managed to get his feet under him again. He turned to the father, and his look sent the old drunk staggering backward. Then, he turned around and backed his aggressor against the bar where he hit him once in the nose, then once more in the stomach. He held him there until the bouncer came over. Once he had thrown the two men out of the bar, he returned to where John Patrick was standing, holding a hand to the back of his head.

"Saw how you handled those men. Not too bad. You looking for a job?"

"No," he said, then after a moment, changed his mind. "Actually I am. But I was plannin' on getting one singing."

"You're a singer?"

"Aye. Usually just what I write."

"I do believe the boss is looking for an act to play here. I'll tell him about you and see what he says."

"Thank ye, sir."

As he was turning away, the man's voice came from behind him. "Do you have a place to stay?"

He turned around again and was about to say yes, then stopped and shook his head. "No. I've been stayin' in an abandoned building. I have no job and no money." This last was said in a matter-of-fact tone, not as a way to get pity.

"If you'll wait 'til I'm done here, I'll take you to my place, and you can stay there until you get on your feet."

He thought about the offer for a moment, and nodded his head. "Thanks."

"It's not a problem."

John Patrick walked to the bar and bought a drink while he waited for his new friend to get off from work. After two more drinks, he had forgotten about the throbbing pain in his shin and at the back of his head. He didn't even notice that blood was slowly sliding down and parting his hair in the back. Once he had downed a few more, he saw his friend motion to him. Jumping off of the stool, he nearly fell flat on his face. He swayed on his feet, but managed to walk to the door without falling.

His new friend, Patrick Bentley, helped him out to his car, then he drove to his apartment. When he got him upstairs, he saw the dried trail of blood that had made it's way down the back on John Patrick's skull. "And I thought you were just drunk," he said with a chuckle as the other man staggered into a chair.

He washed the blood from the back of his friend's head, then placed a bandage over the cut. "You can sleep on the couch," he told him. "I'll be right in there." He pointed to a doorway on the right side of the room.

He laid on the couch, closed his eyes, and fell into a restless sleep. When he woke up the next day, Patrick was pulling the shades over the window. He slowly sat up and blinked a few times until began to become aware of his surroundings. As he started to stand, it felt as if someone was using his head as a spinning top. He put it in his hands and waited for everything to be still again.

He was still standing there when Patrick walked over to him with a cup of coffee in his hands. "Here, drink this," he said, holding it out to him. "It might help you feel a bit better."

He took it as his mouth opened to say something. It was so dry, however, that his "thanks" only came out as a croak. His head felt like it was about to burst open at any moment. The coffee felt soothing as it slid down his parched throat.

His friend was saying something to him, but the pounding in his ears was drowning out the sound of the words. "John?"

He slowly shook his head to clear it, then looked at his friend with a question in his eyes.

"I was saying that I have to work tonight. We can go get your things from that building before that though. Then, you can come with me, and I'll introduce you to my boss."

He just nodded his head and said, "Thank ye. I am grateful for all ye've done."

He shook his head. "Don't even think about it. I'm glad to be able to help you."

*******

That night John Patrick walked into the pub behind Patrick. They made their way to the door of a back room where the American knocked. A deep voice gave him permission to enter. When they walked into the room, John Patrick saw a tall man sitting behind a very well-organized desk. He smiled when he saw his employee. "What is it, Patrick? And who is your friend there?"

"This is John Patrick Dougherty. He's a singer, so I thought he might be the solution to your problem."

His boss nodded before turning his attention from his employee. "You're a singer?"

"Aye, sir."

"What do you sing?"

"Mostly what I write."

The other man nodded, then said, "I see you have your guitar with you. Would you mind playing for me, so I can know what you sound like?"

"Not at all," he replied as he opened his case and took the guitar from it. He plucked at the strings, then started to sing.

How can I give a testimony of my life

When I'm still trying to hold my head up high.

I'm trying so hard to hold my head up high.

But every time I turn around

I feel as though I've let ya down

Always something else

Every time I turn around

Feel as though I've let ya down

But I can't outrun myself.

How can I give a testimony of my time

When it's so hard to pen a simple valentine

It weighs a little heavy on my mind.

But every time I turn around

I feel as though I've let ya down.

Always something else.

Every time I turn around

Fell as though I've let ya down.

But I can't outrun myself.

Oh, you know...

If I told ya once I told ya loads before

I couldn't love ya more.

When he was finished, John Patrick looked up at the man behind the desk. There was a thoughtful expression on his face as he kept the musician waiting. Finally, he nodded his head and said, "I believe I have found what I'm looking for."

A wide smile broke across John Patrick's face as he held out his hand to him. "Thank ye, sir. I am grateful."

"No, I am the one who is grateful. You can start Friday night."

They left the office and Patrick congratulated him. "I have to work. You can either stay here or walk home." He had a feeling he knew what his friend would choose and smiled to himself as John Patrick headed to the bar.

A half hour later, he walked over to Patrick and told him, "I'll be headin' home now."

"All right, John. My cousin is coming from out west. Don't be surprised if she's there or shows up sometime tonight."

When John Patrick arrived home, he opened the door and was shocked at who he saw sitting on the couch. After a moment, he closed his mouth which had fallen open and stepped inside. Closing the door behind him, he took another step forward and said in a hushed voice, "Jeni."

Her head whipped around and it took her a moment to realize who he was. When she finally did, she jumped up from where she was sitting and asked in a startled voice, "John Patrick, what are you doing here?"

"I live here now. I'm guessin' ye are Patrick's cousin."

"Yeah. He said he had a friend staying with him, but not who it was."

They came together, wrapping their arms around each other. When they pulled away, John Patrick smiled at her. "I have missed you."

They sat on the couch and talked until the early hours of the morning. The two of them were surprised when they heard the door open, not realizing so much time had passed. Patrick saw his cousin, and a smile broke across his face.

"I wish you would've told me your friend was someone I knew. I wouldn't have been so surprised when I saw him again."

"You know John? How?"

"We met a few years ago when I was in Ireland."

"That's right. I forgot you'd been over there. After a moment, he said, "I'm gonna crash now. See you two in the morning. Glad you were able to come, Jeni."

They waited until he had left the room, then continued their conversation. John Patrick finally went to bed when the sun decided to make its appearance over the horizon.

*******

When John Patrick arrived at the pub Friday night, his new boss was waiting for him. "You ready?"

"Always have been," he replied with a confident smile.

"You still want to use that name, Conchobar."

He just nodded his head, cringing inwardly at the mispronunciation of the name, but not wanting to correct him.

"All right. You'll go on in about fifteen minutes."

When he was finished that night, his boss payed him, and he headed to the bar for a drink. Jeni was waiting for him when he got home. "So, how'd your first night go?" She asked him.

"Not too bad," he replied, showing her the money he had made.

They sat on the couch, each with a drink in hand. After awhile, Jeni cleared her throat and said, "I'm leaving in a few days."

"Already? You've only been here for a couple of days." He knew she wouldn't be staying for a long time, but was hoping it would be longer than this.

"I know, but I have to get back home."

"I understand."

*******

After nearly a year, John Patrick had made enough money to get his own apartment. Another three years later he had gained quite a bit of popularity. His shows sold out on word of mouth alone, and there was usually standing room only. He had been offered record contracts, but always turned them down. That wasn't what he wanted. All he wanted to do was sing his songs, and he was doing that.

One night he was leaving his apartment for work when his phone rang. Picking it up, he answered, "Hello."

"John Patrick."

"Daniel! How have ye been?"

"Fine. Ma's been wonderin' about ye."

"I'm doing fine. Tell her that for me. Tell her not to worry."

"I will, but I don't know how much good it'll do."

John Patrick laughed at the truth of that statement. They talked for a few more minutes, then he left for work.

That night there was a full room once again. As he made his way to the microphone, the crowd started yelling and cheering. Some even raised their glasses and bottles to him. He grinned at them and asked, "How about a new song then?"

This just made them scream even louder. The grin stayed on his face as he began to sing.

I'm in tight

With a demon called deception.

It's all right

He's a treating me quite well.

I'm in tight

With a demon called deception.

He's right beside me when I fail.

To whisper words

Like Brother, nothing here is any good

Ya see the birds, they're a dropping like a star of wormwood

And all I wanted was just a little patch of green.

We were peasants

And the cotton was our king.

In the fields

I will sing a prisoner's song

While deception whistles right along

Right along.

Charlie sang for a pocker full of pills

Where deception was a clickin his high heels

We're in tight

Playing seven one-night stands

And deception made me as I am.

As I am, As I am, As I am, As I am.

Truth is

I'm in tight

I barely saw the light

Just a it clicked in

Something saved my skin.

Something saved my skin.

Finishing the song, his eyes met those of the woman who had just walked in with her young friend. She was the one he had dreamed of years before. He hardly noticed the crowd's applause as he made his way toward her.