The Bog
By Joe Mallon
MICHAEL SAT IN THE BACK ROOM OF SEAN BOURKE’S PUB, SMOKING A FAG. The rest of the boys sat out front, one man guarding the door.
Despite the current situation, didn’t he have fine memories of Sean? He would fill two pint bottles of Guinness so Nana could take them home to Grandpa Jack. Yes, a fine man.
Michael would soon learn his fate. Was it life? Or would he spend eternity at the bottom of a bog?
Either way. The decision lay in God’s hands, not his. He did not fear death. He fingered his rosary in his right pocket, praying for no particular outcome.
The door opened. In came Finbar Liston. He pulled up a chair next to Michael, lighting up a fag himself. He blew a stream of smoke into the air.
“Ah, Michael, a fine spot you’ve put us in. A fine spot indeed. And yourself.”
“I’ll take my punishment, Finn. For better or worse.”
Finn nodded. “The boys know it. All the better for ye.”
Finn took a long drag on the smoke, flicked the ashes, and placed the fag on the edge of the table. He placed his elbow on his knee, his legs crossed.
He stared at Michael, his lips pressed together. “Sure I’ve taught ye better. The sin’s on me as much as yourself.”
Michael shook his head. “I’ll hear no such talk. The fault is mine and mine alone. “T’was carelessness on my part. Bad habits.”
Silence hung between the two men. Finn stood. “Let’s take a drive.”
Michael looked at him.
“Come now, it’ll be fine.” Finn uncrossed his legs, hoisting himself up.
They walked out the back door of the pub. Finn’s car sat behind it. “You drive. I’ll sit on the passenger side.”
“Where are we headed?”
Finn tossed the fag onto the ground. He lit another. “The bog.”
So this is how it would end. He’d accept God’s judgment, despite his wish for life. T’was the bog for him. He was glad it was Finn.
“Ye know the way, I assume?”
“I do.” From the corner of his eye, he could see the barrel of the gun in Finn’s pocket, pointed at him.
They drove through the blackness of the night, no moon to light the way. Hedgerow added an additional treachery to the road. A car followed behind them. They’d have the shovels for the grave, a‘course. And security for Finn.
After a half-hour drive, Michael pulled onto the side of the road.
Finn opened the door. “Let’s take a walk.”
Michael nodded, joining Finn. They walked away from the cars, the ground growing soggy as they walked deeper into the bog. The two men in the other car got out, rifles in hand, stood guard, unmoving.
Finn crouched down, picking up a handful of peat moss, rubbing it between his fingers until it crumbled to earth. “Ye know, bodies as old as four thousand years old have been found in the bog. Most died murderous deaths, with great pain and suffering.”
Michael nodded. “I learned it in school.”
Finn stared at Michael. “And ye understand there’s the traitors from the Troubles are buried in many a bog as well.”
Finn said nothing.
“And those who made dangerous mistakes.”
Michael stared straight ahead. “I know my history, Finn.”
“I’m sure ye do, boy, I’m sure ye do.”
It would be soon now. Both men knew where the bog bodies were best left.
T’was his grandpa that taught him about the bogs. The treachery of it for those who lost their way, the legends and the myths. And a’course, he taught him about the Bog Men, bodies perfectly preserved for decades, centuries.
“Ye understand you’re like a son to me.”
Michael’s shoes were soaked through and through. “I do. There’s no hard feelings.”
Finn nodded. “Bloody bog. Stick to the path, now, or ye’ll find yourself knee-deep in it. Don’t want to lose a shoe, now, do we?”
It would be soon now. Both men knew where the bog bodies were best left.
“Stop here, Michael.”
They stopped.
The bog. He would miss it and its earthy smell. He would miss the muskiness of the heather, the beauty of the small ponds covered with lilies. He missed his grandpa.
“Well then. Let’s get on with it.” Michael took a step forward, in front of Finn, waiting for the bullet to the back of his head that would end his life.
The silence of God’s eternity passed.
“Turn back around, ye id’jit.”
“What?” Michael did as instructed.
Finn, smiling, slapped him twice on his cheek with a gentleness Michael did not expect. “Ye think I’d off the likes a’ ye?”
The smile disappeared, replaced by firm but sad eyes. “Yer to leave Ireland. For quite some time, I’m afraid. Until all this blows over. And until ye prove yourself. Prove yer habits have changed.”
Michael’s expression remained unmoved.
What did he feel?
Relief?
Sadness at leaving home?
Should he thank God for His forgiveness?
“And have ye decided where I’ll go?”
“America. Chicago. There’s an Irish neighborhood. Bridgeport. They say it’s the oldest in Chicago. Lower class to be sure. Ye’ll fit in with no one noticing ye.”
“America?” It was not a country with streets paved with gold, from Michael’s experience. “Why Chicago?”
Finn stared at him. “I didn’t ask for an opinion, now did I? Nor will I again. Ye understand what I’m sayin?”
Michael nodded. “I do, Finn. It’s not my place to ask.”
Finn put his hands on Finn’s shoulder’s. “You’re a good lad, son. Ye’ll do a fine job in America.”
Michael let out a silent breath of relief. Relief, yes, but Finn’s trip to the bog sent a message Michael deserved.
“Thank you, Finn. I’ll not forget this.”
Finn looked at him with a cold eye. “There’s no thanks needed nor wanted. You’re to start the business in America. Ye’ll not have our help. And ye’ll stay away from our business. Yours is an independent operation. I’m sure ye understand the implications of crossing paths.”
Michael nodded. No words passed.
“How long will I be gone?” The thought of leaving home cut him to the bone.
“Until we deem the matter closed. And then some. Three years, to say the least.”
God in heaven. Three years in America. Away from Ireland. Away from Banogue, home of his childhood, the boys. God, it was something awful. Yet he would not complain. He was alive, for better or worse.
Finn stared at Michael. “Ye’ll leave tomorrow. A flat has been arranged. Ye’ll be given an address and a contact. We’ll both carry burners. My expectations are they’ll be rarely used. A phone call is a dangerous thing, as well you know.”
Michael nodded. “I do.”
Finn placed his hand on Michael’s shoulder and squeezed. “I wish there was another way, Michael. I do. But this is best for you. And us, o’course. A hunter best hunts alone. You’ll be a better man for it when ye come home.”
Finn pulled out a flask. “Slainte.” He took a long draw, then handed the flask to Michael.
“Slainte.”
