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This isn’t a love story, Paddy tries to keep clinging on to that fact. He repeats it over and over again till it’s burnt into his mind, his flesh, his beating heart. This isn’t a love story and it never was a love story. It’s a sad story, a sad and tragic story that right now has no end. Eoin was the only lick of love that Paddy had ever gotten a taste of, his mother and fathers marriage was broken beyond repair after his oldest brother killed himself each blaming each other. The only model and example of love to Paddy had been of shouts and screams at the dinner table and sake venom dipped insults when they thought nobody could hear them, his sisters liked him but he doubted they loved him, they knew he was odd, that he was different. One day he had sneaked into their rooms and found himself playing at the hem of one of Francis doll dress. The lace was soft, blue and comforting. Miles better than the pocket knife he had got when their grandparents came back from their holidays. The knife was sharp, dangerous, cold. Paddy never liked it. He was starved of love until Eoin. Eoin whose soulful eyes looked past the bullshit that Paddy threw in everyone’s way to get them to leave him alone. Eoins smile that challenged the suns light. Eoin. Eoin was Paddy’s love story.
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This isn’t a love story. It’s a tragedy. Stirlings got them all huddled together, as if this is a happy time, as if they are all school boys taking a photo on the last day of school. Paddy doesn’t know whether to laugh or cry. He does neither. He does what he was taught, he shows and feels nothing.
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Eoin taught him something else though, Eoin taught him joy, love, obsession. Eoin taught him other things too, how to hold a man while they sleep, how to kiss someone on the lips with hunger. Indulge in pleasures that had been denied for so long. Eoin showed him to be vulnerable is to be beautiful, to be vulnerable is to be known and Eoin wanted to know. In the end he knew more about Paddy than Paddy did himself. Eoin was Paddy’s love story.
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This isn’t a love story. People drenched in sweat from the heat and adrenaline of surviving the parachute jump are next to Paddy, some smile, some cheer, some laugh as if they’ve escaped the jaws of death, ignorant fools who are foolish to think they can keep running, they will get tired but death never will. Paddy’s left hand drifts, it grasps at air. It’s suppose to be grasping at something warm, something alive. It’s suppose to be holding a hand, callused and large, shaking from the fear of this whole ordeal. It’s suppose to be Eoins hand giving him a little squeeze to show that they made it, it’s all fine. There’s only air there. Paddy’s eyes unfocus and drift to a speck of sand, he despises sand. How can it take away the one thing that was his. This isn’t a love story.
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Paddy wants to wake up, he wants to pinch himself from this nightmare and he wants to wake up in Eoins arms, he wants Eoin to tell him off for the fights he keeps finding himself in, he wants Eoin to help him wash the grime and filth off, he wants Eoin to read to him, sing to him, scream at him. He wants to hear Eoins thick Irish accent, he wants to be reminded of home. Eoin kissing him senseless. Eoin holding him close. Eoin listening to him when Paddy sees no point anymore in carrying on. He wants Eoin, he wants his love story back.
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There’s talk of a camera, then a talk of a photo. Paddy doesn’t say anything, he glares at sand. He hates sand. He hates it for taking away the only thing that was his. He hates sand he hates it for taking away the only thing that was his. He hates sand he hates it for taking away the only thing that was his. He hates himself for letting love blind him and allowing Eoin to follow him. This is not a love story.
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Eoin wrote stories, Paddy writes poems. Under the starry night they would exchange their work to one another. The work of their loved labour reduced to just words on a sheet, each other heart open to bear. Paddy had never written poems of love, there was no reason. After Eoin kissed him though and holds him, whispers how he loves Paddy into his collarbone he thinks he might see the appeal of them after all, that he might write a poem of all the things he loves about Eoin Mcgonigal. An unfinished poem is thrown in the fire to keep it burning. This is not a love story
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Stirling’s smiling, proud and happy that this group of outcasts has potential to grant him glory, that these pawns can get him the respect he clambers for, a spoilt child becomes a spoilt man. Coopers smiling, maybe from adrenaline, maybe from the thrill of surviving. He is young, he does not know what is yet to come. Fraser stares straight down to the camera. He doesn’t smile, he doesn’t do anything. He stares and paddy wonders if he also wants to wake up from this nightmare and to be done with this whole horrid affair. Easonsmith
positions the camera to face the group.
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When Eoin blushed it would reach the tip of ears. A detail paddy had noticed when the younger man had tentatively asked if Paddy would ever consider visiting the Mcgonigal family home. Paddy accepted and extended an invitation of his own to see the Mayne household. At the end of the night a promise was made to make a Mcgonigal-Mayne household on the outskirts of Newtownards. It was a love story.
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Robert Blair “Paddy” Mayne really really really fucking hates sand.
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A camera flashes, paddy’s hand dumbly reaches out once again to be comforted by his lover. It
grasps at nothing, it graps at air.
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Eoin Mcgonigal is not in the photo of “survivors.” Eoin Mcgonigal is never in a photo again. Eoin is dead. Paddy wants to scream, he wants to howl in the night with anguish he wants to beat someone bloody so that they could start to understand the pain inside of him. He does nothing, as he has been taught by his mother. He betrays no emotion. He feels nothing. This is not a love story
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Paddy stares at the sand in disgust, he feels disgust about himself, he feels disgust about Stirling, all he feels is disgust. He wants to wake up from this nightmare. (He will never wake up) He wants to hold Eoins hand (He will never hold it again) He wants to cry (He’s not a coward so he will not cry) This is not a love story. It’s a tragedy.
