the rah man cometh

The nephews scrambling around me in carefree chaos. Toddler Tom spouting questions about every conceivable thing.
"What's that Uncle James? What does it do? Who's that in the picture? Where's that? Why Uncle James? Why?"
Each question asked as I finished answering the last one. At the same time five year old John ducking in and out trying to get me with a water pistol.
For a moment I turned again to God.
"This doesn't count," I was thinking. "Being Goodbye Mr Chips doesn't count. I don't want to help or guide thousands of kids. I don't need thousands. I just need one."
Then I could no longer resist the unfolding wonderment.
I accepted the miracles.
It was an afternoon touched by grace.

That evening the phone rang.
"Hello James."
The voice had a northern twang.
I recognised it.
"Do you know who this is?" he asked. "Don't use names. Just say if you know me."
"Howya Toolers," I replied. "How are things?"
There was a sound of mild exasperation from the other end of the line.
The man I was talking to had kneecapped people for less than what I'd just done.
He has what you might call a vague connection to people involved in extreme politics in Ireland.
They're not the IRA.
They are more correctly understood as a splinter group from a splinter group of a splinter group which bears something of a resemblance to a splinter group of that organisation.
I suppose they have about twenty members if you count the wives and girlfriends.
The IRA was too moderate for any of them.
And their acquaintanceship with Ireland's greatest living poet? Some years ago they'd held a conference in the region. None of the press turned up. Except for good old England loving pro American James.
Since that time they've apparently laboured under the misapprehension that I am somehow a professional journalist who will give them a fair hearing.
So here we are.
"James," sez the northern accent. "We heard you were having a spot of bother."
"Ah come on Pete," sez I, "Is the Rah surfing the internet now?"
"We're surfing everywhere. Are you having problems?"
"Nothing you can help with Pete."
"James if you say the word."
"Not my style Pete."
"Well just remember."
"It's never going to happen."
There was a moment's silence.
"Why did you call me?" I asked finally with some bemusement.
"You were kind to us," he said.
And hung up.

I sat there in the stillness of evening at the old chateau. The house was quiet. Family all off somewhere enjoying the unseasonal warmth of late April. I could hear a lawn mower from a nearby garden.
My throat was dry. I was shaking like a leaf.
Briefly I wondered why I should be shaking.
I wasn't being threatened.
What is it to me if some random nutters raze Deliverance to the ground?
But it would have been fun.
It would have been fun to say: "At my command unleash hell."
And now I knew why I was shaking.
Because I nearly had said it.

What held me back?
I owe these people nothing.
What had stopped me?
The vision of my nephews scrambling onto my knees eased once more into my consciousness.
I realised that in an odd and most true way they had just saved me from the snares of satan.