Niall Mallon had spent the last five years in HM Prison Maghaberry, located in Lisburn, Northern Ireland. At 17, he joined a paramilitary group, thinking he was doing his country a service by trying to rid Northern Ireland of English tyranny. What a feckin' eejit he had been. His stupid beliefs got a man killed, and Niall often wish he had died that day as well. Since being incarcerated, he hadn't heard from any of his family; he didn't know if any of them even wanted to see him.
Michelle was around 13 when he was sent away. Christ, she must be 18 now. Then there was the youngest sibling, Grady. He was 8 or 9 when Niall went away, making him 13 or 14 at the very least. Did Ma and Da have any more wains while he was inside? He wasn't sure if he'd ever find out.
There was plenty of craic going around the prison about this whole Good Friday Agreement and what it could mean for people like Niall and others in his situation. If it went through, they might all be set free. Whether any deserved to be set free was of course extremely divisive, even amongst prisoners. Some still held onto their hatred for the English, saying they'd do it all over again. Niall was sick of all the hate. Barely a year in prison showed him hate and violence brought nothing but more of the same. He'd had enough.
In early May of 1998, Niall was sat in front of a group of older men, going over the details of his crime.
"Ye are Niall Martin Mallon?" one of them asked. "Son of Martin Patrick Mallon and Deirdre Michelle Mallon?"
"Aye, that's right," Niall answered, his voice distant.
"Ye were born and raised in Londonderry?" the man asked another question.
"Aye," Niall answered, although he never cared for his beloved hometown to be referred to by that name.
"Do ye know why ye were imprisoned?" the man asked another question.
"Pretty sure ye all know why I'm in here." Niall replied. "But if ye need some specific shit fer today's records, it's cuz I killed a man back in 1993. I s'pose domestic terrorism was the main charge, but, to me at least, it's because I took someone's life. Purely accidental, but I ended someone's life regardless."
"And how did this happen?" another asked.
"Because a feckin' bomb went off," Niall answered. "I was told nobody would be at the buildin' I was ordered to set it up at. They were probably talkin' a load of shit about it, but I believed 'em cuz I was a 17 year old eejit who had no feckin' business gettin' involved with paramilitary shit. But I got involved, cuz some older bastards convinced me it was the right thing to do for our country. That blowin' up some buildin's would scare off the English. They gave me a bomb to set up in the lobby of some government buildin', where supposedly nobody would be at when the damn thing went off."
Niall began shaking some, as he retold what happened that day.
"There was someone there that day," Niall continued. "Older fella named Connor Brody. He was a security guard who attempted to speak to me as the bomb prematurely detonated. How in the name of God I survived, or more importantly why, I have no idea. I can still remember the flames 'round the lobby, my breathin' bein' extremely faint, as if somethin' was jabbin' my sides. Turns out yeah, loads of shrapnel had lodged themselves in me. Plus I got torn up some."
Niall began tearing up as he gave the rest of the details.
"Connor Brody was lyin' next to me," he went on. "His eyes never leavin' mine. I saw him pantin' like mad. Blood purin' out as the life faded from his dark brown eyes. I passed out as emergency services were just showing up. When I woke up in hospital, they informed me Connor Brody was dead when they got there; not that I needed remindin'. Had a wain, he did. I think they said he was 14 or 15. I confessed right then and there, no point trying to talk up a load of shit like so many others had and still try to do. Some thought I did it cuz I thought it'd give me leniency or some bullshit. I deserved to be punished. A man was dead an' it was my fault."
"How do ye feel about bein' set free, Mr. Mallon?" the man who began the questioning asked.
"I don't really see a point to it," Niall shrugged. "My family hasn't spoken to me since my sentencing, apart from some letters here and there from my younger sister. But I doubt I have much choice in the matter."
"Would ye try to get yerself incarcerated again, Mr. Mallon?" another man asked.
"There's no point in doin' that," he shook his head. "Even if my family won't see me, last thing I'd ever want is them to hear I got out only to get myself locked up again. What I'll do after gettin' back outside, I'll seek employment, try to properly contribute to society."
Afterwards, Niall was sat back in his cell. One bit of luck was he got a single man cell. No worries if someone trying any funny business on him during lights out. One less thing to worry about he supposed. He looked at the few possessions he had collected during his time locked up. On a small shelf were a couple books for general maintenance skills, couple fiction books, and a Bible (pretty much every inmate had one). Sticking on the mirror above his sink were some family photos he'd had in his wallet from before his time inside. They included one of him holding Michelle when she was a newborn, then one of the two of them holding newborn Grady, and one of the whole family at Christmas before he ran off to join that stupid group.
Niall looked at those photos intensely, then looked at himself in the mirror. Five years. It'd only been five years, but he looked so different now. He was only 22 years of age, but damned if he didn't look older. In his teens, he often kept his jet black hair short and trimmed, but in prison he let it grow out, so it was now fairly shaggy. There even appeared to already be some grays coming in. He'd grown a beard which also seemed to have added a few extra tears to his face. His pale blue eyes were so weary looking, he bet his own family wouldn't recognize him, at least not easily.
His family. He'd always been so close to Ma and Michelle. Grady was still so young at the time, Niall liked to think they'd also get on well. He and Da were another story altogether. At one point they were close, extremely close. When did it all go wrong? Niall figured when he hit his teen years, when he started becoming a mouthy little shite. Da started off patient with him, but it soured the more Niall fell down a path of delinquency.
Things really took a turn when he got caught trying to jack a car stereo not long after turning 17. He and Da had the biggest argument of their lives when it happened. Niall decided he couldn't take anymore of this supposed "oppression" in the Mallon household, and bolted. He stayed with a couple friends from school who soon introduced him to the old bastards that would radicalized him into their stupid cause.
Before that, Niall wasn't exactly thrilled with how things were in Northern Ireland, but he didn't put the blame solely on one specific group. Shit was complicated and he knew that at the time. But those old bastards brainwashed him into thinking it was all on the oppressive English empire and filthy Protestants for the Troubles. Even with the delinquency, Niall barely got into fights, but after joining that group he got into one too many scrapes with his alleged oppressors. This only involved fistfights, Niall was always a physically strong lad, but then came the day in '93 with the bomb.
Niall met men in prison who'd taken far more lives than himself, most of whom did it on purpose, and many of them seemed to show no remorse for their actions. How could they not feel nothing from that? Maybe because they'd been at it longer than himself? That would make sense in a fucked up way. Niall hadn't been at this shit long, but his first and only experience taking out another life was enough for him. It was honestly too much.
Nearly every night he relived that day in his head. Walking into the building with a small parcel that was in fact a makeshift bomb. Placing it on the desk of the lobby security, where he saw the nameplate of Connor Brody. He began walking away, when a voice called out, making Niall freeze in his tracks
"Ye there!?" Connor Brody called out.
He turned around to see the man calling to him. He was definitely security based on his uniform. Stocky frame, looked to be in 30s to 40s. Niall grew pale, he was told nobody would be in at this time.
"Ye drop off this package?" Connor Brady asked, tapping the box lightly.
That seemed to be enough to make the feckin' thing go off! Niall then remembered the flash and deafening sound that came the very second that box was tapped. Next thing he remembered was opening only one eye (at this point the other no doubt horribly bruised), breathing heavily, each breathe causing indescribable pain. He could barely move his head, but in his peripherals he saw something was piercing his side, plus the flames all around the lobby.
The next thing he saw was Connor Brody. He'd taken far more damage from the bomb than Niall, as he was much closer. His breathing appeared to be even more rapid. Blood was also pouring out of him worse than Niall. He's not sure how long they lied there, but they never lost eye contact as Connor Brody's breath slowed down, until it just stopped. He recalls trying to say something, but unable because no doubt his throat was fucked up in some way too. He heard sirens as he passed out.
Niall woke up in hospital a few days later. Ma and Da were there, both looking at him with shock at what happened to him. The police arrived soon after hearing he had woken up. His parents shock only grew when they learned he'd taken someone's life.
"What happened to ye, Niall!?" Ma exclaimed through tears. "How could ye have done such a thing!?"
Those were the last words Niall heard from Ma as Da tearfully took her out of the room. He tried to call out to them, but his voice had indeed been damaged in that explosion, so he could only make a low croaking noise. The last time he saw them in person was his trial. By that point he saw the damage inflicted on his body from the shrapnel released from the bomb. Pretty much all his right side was fucked up in some way. The most noticeable injuries were the nearly gone pinky finger and the tip of his ring finger being gone, plus the scars on his face, and a slight limp. Somehow he was still able to see out of his right eye. The damage to his throat had made his voice sound like someone who smoked 6 packs a day, wee bit ironic as he'd only tried cigarettes a handful of times.
These injures remained permanent reminders of what he had done. Whether he'd look down and see his mangled hand, or see a reflection of his once decent looking face (he'd been called a massive ride on more than one occasion during his teens), he'd know what he did. Then of course there was reliving that moment almost every night, waking up in a cold sweat, barely able to breathe.
