Goliath

The sporadic gunfire echoing through the narrow streets of Dublin sounded to ten-year-old Patrick Murphy like the rolling thunder from a summer storm brewing somewhere in the distance. Patrick peered around the corner and saw that the street was deserted. With a smile on his dirt-smeared face, he realized his luck was holding. For days, Irishmen fought one another as soldiers from both the Irish Republican Army and the Provisional Government battled for control of Dublin. Patrick looked over his shoulder and waved to his brother, sitting behind the wheel of a borrowed, white-panelled truck, O’Doul’s Butcher Shop emblazoned on the sides in sizeable blue lettering.

A moment later, Liam, Patrick’s older brother, waved back and drove to the corner before stopping to let him climb back on board. Sitting beside his brother was a man they had only met this morning. He wore a long, grey trench coat and a cap pulled down low on his head. The man had short red hair and a stern-looking face. His name was Mister Lewis, or so he said, and that was all they needed to know. A large, battered wooden box sat on the truck’s floor with one of Mister Lewis’ legs resting on top. His constant fidgeting with the pistol in his hands made Patrick uneasy. He had seen weapons before, as his older brother was a volunteer with the government militia, but their passenger seemed nervous, as if expecting something to happen.