I have arrived in Omagh. In my bedroom there is the sound of an irritating irregular incessant drip.
Drip. Drip. Drip…. Drip drip drip. Drip. Drip drip…………..drip….. Drip… Drip drip drip….Aghhh
In a shithole flat I once lived in, Eglantine Avenue to be exact, a bird once got stuck in the attic and pitter pattered about. It was annoying. Only annoyed me though, other boys rooms were at rear of the flat.
Drip. Drip drip drip…..drip.
Fuckin annoying thing.
Driving to Omagh detour outside Desertmartin via Magherafelt to Moneymore. The dreary shires of planted South Derry. On through Cookstown.
As we approached Teebane Crossroads and the vandalized monument to the workers shot there my mind moved on to Kathleen O’Hagan.
Shot dead by Billy Wright’s compadres on along that road in 1994. Seven months pregnant she was. Her husband Patrick returned to the house to find his four older sons aged 8 to 4 cradling her body. I remember reading the reports in the Herald when I came home, similar to today and feeling physically upset.
In reality we have little to bother us.
The drip continues.
Back in this room where I grew up, played, listened to my brothers when they thought I asleep. Where I studied, dreamed, read, longed for girlfriends, smoked out the window, cried for my granny.
Why is this house different now. What had happened it. What has happened me. The drip continues. I must investigate. Maybe there lies the answer.