Beasts. Dear God. Talk about one hell of an atavism, it was living in the MacCullah household. He was - well - not like other boys - not even remotely. If you didn't know him, or better, he you, you didn't want to get his attention, maybe even toss a slab of meat to distract him. Katharine's twin brother, Ian, was a colossus, frightening. He could scare steel off a tank.

Strong? Strength is a thin word, pulled of too many lessers, strength of character, of conviction, inner strength. Nah. Strength doesn't cut it. Ian had annihilation. He was cosmic force and embodied cataclysm and yet, somehow, within his soul, there lived unhatched innocence. He was another toss of grinning chaos but this time as metempsychosis, reanimation, incarnation. He oozed menace, detached, unchallenged.

He also labored under obedience to Da who channeled the youth's fork lift capacity into the carpenter trade, as an apprentice. Work bound was a street under longstanding siege. "Hello Ian," both sides would call out, "How ya doin?" Not losing his stride, he heaved away overturned cars that blocked his way. They learned to just leave his path. Who would dare tell him to go around looking like something that bullets would annoy? You don't want to annoy an Ian. "Bracing day for working outside, huh?" Hostilities didn't resume until he was out of sight. The barricade boys were assured two breaks a day. Ian going, Ian coming, when young ladies in his wake could run in food and cigarettes. Some siege. Each side required he other side's rocks to hurl back. Somehow, this makes sense in Ulster.

 Ian didn't say much, especially to the intolerant contentions of the bonded tradesmen, all majority men. How unlike everything Da taught. So, who do you believe? All these men, or Da? Home is strong. Home is what grounds. But poison in the air was everywhere. Drifting is easy in Belfast. Catholics were inherently evil. No? All they wanted was to destroy. Right? They had no calling other than Vatican oppression over children of the rightful British empire. Obvious. Gotta keep those fuckers in their place. "Ian, wanna come? We're going raiding tonight! You can eat a house." He ignored those timidly teasing offers, but they thought that they could see that he was unsure and vacillating more in their direction. At least, he seemed to be listening more. Or was he just sizing up potential enemies?

Maybe Da was naive, an honest man honestly wrong. Ian, by his very nature, might have been more quickly swayed to intolerance. But his sister's friend, the poet, made him laugh and Ian never laughed. Gavin was not what the tradesmen were describing at all. Since Ma died, Ian's bond to his sister only grew. Bottom line, whoever - whatever - Katherine wanted, that is who and what Ian wanted. God help any mortal who didn't share her want.

"Process, Ian." Staying out of the workings to free his sister was more than he could bear. But Da, captive of faith and hope, indoctrinated by phraseologies of government, insisted, "Process, Ian. We must go through process." But Da was weakening, withering from years of tortuous absence of process. Letters were written, letters, letters and more letters always with questions. But there were no answers.

Ian only wrote one letter. The questions were there, but he sought no answers. If you read beyond his words it was clear. His time, repressed by ages of pseudo civility, had come  -  again.