There wasn’t much left of him now after the beatings and torture.
But he could still remember her voice. It is said music is one of the last things to disappear from memory – one of the last things to abandon the folds of the brain. And her voice was crystal clear music for far too many years they spent together to be easily forgotten.
That Irish lilt as she sang, it seemed from morning till dusk, as they worked side by side on the farm. The babies she sang to sleep and ground after the soldiers had finished.
The next day he had killed two of them in the pub. Walked right up and knifed them before the rest piled on top of him.
Tomorrow they’d gut and quarter what was left of him to hang from the walls. And in a year the song with his name would start the 300 year journey to freedom.
But for now, in this instant, he heard her singing.