On the following Sunday evening, they went for a walk, as usual. But, not as usual, Kevin looked serious.
“So, here we are. D day,” he sighed. They had reached the border of the district.
“I wish you’d stay here…” she whispered.
“I wish you’d come with me.” He replied.
They stared at each other’s eyes for what seemed to be a century. Then Sadie took off the Huguenot cross she wore around her neck. She offered it to Kevin.
“This way, a part of me will always be with you. "Let us be closely united in the same spirit and the same thought.", Saint Paul said.” She stopped. Tears were coming up to her eyes.
“You’ll keep in touch, will you?” she asked in a hollow voice, as he hugged her.
“I will. I promise. I’ll try to have you joining me as soon as possible.”
She got free from him quietly. After a last look at her watery eyes, his turned his heels and walked away in a determined step so that she couldn’t see his own tears.
He had no choice: he couldn’t hesitate; he had not to look backwards. It was the only way, he knew it. The only way out of hell… He had been so keen on leaving a few days before; though, he was afraid… Afraid of what, he didn’t know. But he dreamed he were not walking alone in those streets, at nightfall. Those streets, in which people had died, and where other innocents were bound to die, he knew it. That awful thought made him quicken his step.

Suddenly, he stumbled over a stone. As he drew himself up, he made out a huge heap of bricks: a barricade. The rebels had fought again. Guns were scattered around, blood-stained streamers had been left on the pavement. Kevin could hear in his head the sound of bullets, the scream of their victims. Somewhere in the town, women were mourning for their husbands, their brothers, their sons… He could hear their sobs distinctly, he had the feeling they were just by his side.
Suddenly, he saw a figure creeping in a small pool of blood. He hurried and knelt down near the wounded man, who was gripping a catholic cross and reciting prayers in hysteric whispers. Kevin urged him to calm down, but the man seemed hypnotized. He let out an unexpected shriek and, with turned up eyes, pointing at the protestant cross around Kevin’s neck, he shouted:
“Clear off! Let me die alone! Get off, you bloody Brits lover!”
Kevin moved backwards, puzzled. He opened his mouth to give an explanation, when he heard a gunshot, and immediately felt an unbearable pain in his chest. He fell on his knees, his hand pressing his heart: blood was running through his fingers.
People wearing hoods were running towards him. Two of them lifted the injured man by the arms and took him away. A third one cast a glance at Kevin and gasped. He dropped his weapon; Kevin recognized it at once: it was the one Brian used to keep under his bed. He looked up: his friend was standing in front of him, horror-struck. He knelt down and mumbled:
“What are you doing here?”
“I’m leaving. I’m fed up with that Troubles thing…” Kevin whispered. He coughed, spat blood and moaned:
“Brian… What were you doing here, by the way?”
“I’m with the IRA guys. I didn’t know you were… I swear I didn’t know, I didn’t mean to shoot you… I’ll help you, you’ll be all right.”
“Brian… I can’t see anything… I can’t see…” Kevin muttered in a jerky voice.
“You’ll be all right,” repeated Brian; with a tremulous voice. “All right. Hold on hard. Don’t go now, Kevin! I promise I’ll leave the IRA and forget everything about guns!...” he cried.
Kevin’s head dropped on Brian’s shoulder. The latter seized his gun and raised it to his temple. He knew Kevin’s family would never forgive him for what he had done. He would never forgive himself either, anyway. He pulled the trigger for the last time. Nothing. He had used his last bullet.





Sadie Rafferty turned off the television. That film, “Bloody Sunday”, had stirred her, as well as her son Kevin.
As she went to bed, she took off her jewels and put them away in box. At the bottom was a blood-soaked Huguenot cross…