“Isn’t funny how the white creamy Guinness stays on men’s lips.” Peadar smiled and took another gulp.

I had no answer. He seemed so relaxed in the pub. His tie, I thought was a bit garish, but, as he often said, a man’s tie was the only way to show the difference, “the in-between”.

We sat in the snug, away from the bar, yet various strange characters came up to us and said, “How’re ye doing? Peadar, haven’t seen ye in ages”

The 5.30pm public house full of men. Men coming home from work, answering their call to talk, to connect, to be together with friends and workmates, --to forget, --to relax, to be among their own.

That was my First Pint.

Not with my brother, nor my father, but with him, Peadar.

“Have that,” He said, handing me that overflowing chalice of Guinness. I accepted, and drank and drank.

Many pints later, Peadar spoke of how the line between good and evil is blurred. That there is a wide uncharted space, the space called “the in between”. He held my hand, pressed it, and, I passed out.

We had been school friends; he had always been the joker. The one who knew the right answers, and later, alone together, scoffed at the questions. “Just answer what they want” he smiled and charmed me with his worldwide wisdom.

“You needn’t believe what you say, just play the game.

Ireland has enough martyrs to fill a million graveyards, you won’t be missed. Play to the middle ground, the in-between.”

Much later at one of those parties, with “A Lighter Shade of Pale” playing in the background, I asked my then girlfriend, Veronica, why Peader was such a hit with the girls. “Because he’s no threat, you eejit,” she said, pushing me away, once again.

All these thoughts keep coming back, the drinking, the laughts, the jokes, and his hilarious stories.

How we all laughed.

He was funny, and amid a crowd of friends he glowed.

But, once I turned and watched his face. His eyes betrayed him; we were getting what we asked. He was acting and he was happy acting.

Peadar lived in “the in between”.

He was at ease there.

I remember one time I left a party alone. I could hear his voice from the open window, adding punch lines, witticism, and smart remarks to the conversation. His young audience was in raptures. The girls amused, the boys almost in love with him.

The chameleon was in full flight; the “in-between” ground was being flown over once again.

No convictions, no strong held views, no beliefs, just a cynic’s eyeball view of life, of all life.

I vomited into the bushes and walked home, his voice still echoing in my mind.

He dropped out of University, “much too academic for me” he said that Monday morning,

That day I signed on for a Political Science Degree.

Another world, my world called. I walked away, away from his. I felt the burden of his tortured life lift from me. I felt a kind of freedom, enjoyed with a pang of guilt.

For year and years we stayed apart.

Yet my memory held his soul, somehow worrying for him. Somehow wondering about him.

I met him just once again. I’d been traveling abroad for a few years. Full of convictions. Full of the poison of patriotism. Collecting converts for the cause, willing to play a part.

Somehow my organisation’s special branch tracked his whereabouts and a meeting was arranged.

In a small bar outside Dublin we had, what was to be our last drinks. He looked so well and full of fun. Beaming with healthy cynicism.

His life, what I had once thought of as a failure, he said, had strengthened him. He’d tried the priesthood for five years, then the army for three, and then, he laughed “Marriage”.

He said he now ran a successful import/export firm operating on the border between Dundalk and Newry.

I mentioned the danger, the bombs, the shootings, and the carnage.

“There’s no danger provided you know who you’re talking to,” he beamed, ”then you know what to say”’.

He smiled that smile of his, so honest and yet so false, living in the “in-between”.

And I staked my claim, hating myself but still loving my convictions. My organisation wanted a small job done, just a hand-over of information.

He accepted. Not because he believed in my nationalistic cause, but because of the danger and double dealings involved.

The empty pint glasses made circles round our table.

It was late, but time had been well spent. We made for the doorway.

“I have three daughters,” he said beaming at me as we shook hands. Be-sure to call on the wife, whenever you’re near Dundalk, she’ll love you”.

He staggered along the main road North, laughingly missing the cars and trucks by inches.

He waved at me, or.... maybe, at the world.

The execution was quick. The perpetrators efficient.

The bullet went in the back of the head. I could hardly recognise my friend’s face. The bullet came out between the eyes. His face had a disbelief look; this time death was for real.

The police were kind; his wife was spared the horrific details.

I was in Newry, that Sunday. Somehow the police traced me and I was asked to identify the victim. I was questioned many times, but could offer no information helpful to them.

Peader had play his last hand, and lost.

The police suspected he was playing what they called a “double game”.

The IRA denied any responsibility for the murder. They added that they had thought he had been a spy and had been monitoring his movements.

The UVF said they were not involved in his execution but had had reason to believe he was a spy.

Peader’s middle ground, “the in between” had proved fatal.

His body was laid to rest in an inter-dominational graveyard. I hoped he might find peace there, inbetween.

More peace than I can ever hope to have in this life or any other, in between or not.