(an excerpt from a forthcoming book of the same name by Kevin John Ragnarsson Wilson Lee Clarke)
Chapter 1
It was a quiet, cool, and beautifully crisp Irish lakeside morning as I busied myself tending to the deck of a recently moored motor launch, returned early after an overnight fishing expedition.
I was happily lost in my thoughts, at peace, once again declaring myself grateful. ‘I’m so lucky being here … there could be worse jobs I thought, and just look at that view.’
Suddenly, shaken from my daydream by an unfamiliar sound, I stood bolt upright. Again, I heard it once more … was that the crack of a gun shot!?
Dropping everything, almost without thinking, I leapt from the deck of the launch, in full stride I raced across the 200 yards from the mooring to the door of the cottage. Stumbling into the kitchen, gasping for breath and almost toppling over … there on the floor was Sean. Not moving, lying before me in a pool of blood.
‘God no, please no!’ With the bitter stench of cordite lingering in the air I clambered to kneel beside my love. Confused, I was grasping, hands eventually beneath Sean’s head, cradling him as the milky morning sunshine streamed through the kitchen window.
Was it dream, a nightmare? ‘Sean … Sean, please wake up!’
Then, an overwhelming smell of Chloroform is all I remember from that time, darkness took me as I choked on those awful fumes.
The next thing I recall is being jostled awake, I didn’t recognise where I was, I appeared to be a cell before I began to remember …
‘Wha? Sean, Who’s here with me?’ I spluttered …
Then a voice, a friendly though authoritative voice began:
“Good morning young ‘un. You’re feeling a little groggy no doubt? My name is PC Lonigan, I’m with the local constabulary and you are safe here. I’ve brought you tea, so drink that up, you’ll feel better once you do. Call out for me if you want anything, I’m just next door.
I sat stunned, barely hearing this words. “I-I need to speak to someone – there were gunshots! Sean, he’s been killed … has he been killed?
Son, we believe terrorists killed your friend, Sean Fitzpatrick. You are a very lucky young man. Being a descendant, a relative of Michael Collins, the killers dare not harm you!”
My kindly guardian advised me not to say anything more until legal representation arrived later that day. PC Lonigan then informed me the police intended to keep hold of my car, ‘for a bit’ also that the cottage is out of bounds. Then, this unusually kind officer declared the police would provide me with the means to go home once I’d made a statement. This was to ‘ensure my safety,’ he said. I was to leave Ireland and return to Northumberland.
I was blubbering inconsolably now. In shock and feeling desperate. I had no life, he was dead, Sean was gone …
PC Lonigan also made sure I understood there would be no discussions about what happened with anyone outside of my legal counsel and that the authorities would be in contact with me to follow-up, as and when more information was required.
It wasn’t long before I was required to make a statement. I found myself sat at a small wooden table together with my solicitor and a detective, both of who journeyed from Dublin.
PC Lonigan was also with us, providing copious tea and cake.
‘Now Michael, said the detective. We need you to hear all about you and exactly what you know about what happened at the cottage. In your own words, tell us please, how you came to be associated with Sean Fitzpatrick and your relationship with him.’
‘Where do I start?’ I replied.
Start from the very beginning Michael. Remember, you are not in any trouble, we simply need to understand your story …
© 2023 Kevin John Ragnarsson Wilson Lee Clarke
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