Guard Your Heart

 IONA
 Friday 17 June

 We shouldn't have run. I jolted upright in bed, my brow damp with sweat from the nightmare. Except it wasn't a nightmare – it was real. That animal look of hatred they'd flashed before shouting “Fenian bastard!”, the crack of the first punch. I flinched. It'll all be better in the morning is one of our parents' biggest lies.
 Malala, Mandela and Beyoncé glared down at me from the posters on my walls. So much for my own courage under fire. Some people are born epic, others leg it when the opportunity to make a difference is staring them in the face. I pulled the duvet over my head and breathed through cotton. Was he still breathing?
 When we'd sneaked home in the wee hours there'd been the initial wave of relief. No hand on the shoulder. No sirens. Nothing. Unfortunately, conscience was a real bummer, mine in particular. I stared at the threads weaving a random pattern over my eyes. If only I were more confident. That, or less honest. It was going to kill me to drop it and say nothing, like Andy wanted. Turning, I wedged my face into the wall, willing the burning in my throat to vanish. Something, anything, had to be better than doing nothing. We'd learned the word in school – one of a string of isms and phobias straight from citizenship and history textbooks; exactly where it belonged. Sectarianism. No amount of praying was going to make it jump back into the pages. I balled my fists into my stomach as it churned, my mind reliving that split-second choice to run. ‘Stand,’ my conscience had said, but fear and a tug from Andy had fired my feet. [...]
 We'd walked in silence through Kilfennan housing estate. Only at our door did I notice my brother's face, whipped whiter than ice cream. ‘Say nothing,’ he whispered. ‘Promise? They'd only dish out the same on me.’ Should I show him the phone? The one with the cracked screen and criminal evidence stashed amongst its photos? The one I'd quickly switched off because of the notifications buzzing? It was his phone, whoever he was. Not mine. [...]
 Switching it on, I buried it under the covers as a series of missed notifications pinged loudly. It wasn't locked. A smear of dried blood caked the edge of the glass. I grabbed my mouth as the thought of watching the video brought bile into my throat. Not yet. No. Who was he? Scrolling the contact list of Irish names, some of which I couldn't even pronounce, one thing was obvious. Definitely Catholic. It wasn't that I wanted to think old-school, them and us, it was just there. By nursery I knew my ‘good’ and ‘bad’ colours. At primary school, I learned my letters – ‘aitch’ not ‘haitch’, my numbers – ‘three’ not ‘tree’. Everyone was tattooed under their skin. ‘What school are you at?’ people asked. Answer ‘Saint’ anything and it was dead cert you were Catholic. ‘Where are you from?’ The killer question. I usually bit my tongue and said, ‘The city.’ Tourists thought it mad our two communities still couldn't agree on the name after eighteen years of peace. Derry and Londonderry. Same place. Different worlds. Catholic and Protestant. Irish and British. Nationalist and Unionist. Even if we didn't care about it anymore, somehow we still needed to know. Especially in my family.
 I flicked into his photos. Group selfies. Lads in a school uniform – St Columb's College across the river. Was he the one grinning at the front, dark hair and brown eyes? A head-and-shoulder shot in a suit with a girl in a red dress. Definitely him. Mischievous, wavy hair on top, short at the sides. He was well fit – tie loosened; top button open. [...] Switching back to the home screen, I paused. Facebook. The app fired up a stream of posts, but I clicked to his profile. Aidan Hennessey. Bingo. Lives: Derry, Ireland. St Columb's College. Birthday: 10th April 1998. I nearly choked. We were the same age. To the day. I'd never met anyone else born on exactly the same day – the Good Friday they signed the Peace Agreement. If it hadn't felt like trespassing, I'd have delved in-depth through his profile. How could I contact him if I had his phone? With that question, I realized I'd already made my decision. Contact him. Return the phone. Assure myself he wasn't laid out like a sleeping vampire. Chat show over, Andy's footsteps were shuffling below. Before he would have a chance to change my mind, my fingers tapped the Facebook search into my own phone: A-I-D-A-N H-E-N-N-E-S-S-E-Y.
 There – seventh down, same profile pic.
 Hi. Hope you're OK? I have your phone. Message me. I was there. Sorry.
 A second's hesitation.
 Send.