The Blood on My Hands: An Autobiography by Shannon O'Leary

Author:Shannon O'Leary [O'Leary, Shannon]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Abuse, Autobiography, Murder, Non-Fiction, True Crime
ISBN: 9781519695871
Google: tbLmjwEACAAJ
Amazon: B01BX34VFC
Publisher: CreateSpace Independent Publishing Platform
Published: 2016-02-03T00:00:00+00:00

The car was swerving all over the road. Grandfather fumbled in his pocket for his pills. Two frightened boys rolled from side to side in the backseat.

“I think he’s drunk,” Michael whispered to Benjamin.

“My father doesn’t drink,” he replied angrily. The car nearly hit a post.

“Well, something is wrong!” Michael was scared. The lovely day out to the races with his grandfather was being ruined by the car ride home.

“Slow down, Grandfather.”

But Grandfather didn’t hear them. The pain in his chest gripped tighter and tighter, making it difficult to breathe.

Benjamin tried to smooth things out with Michael. “Stop worrying. The road straightens out in a minute.”

Grandfather managed to take control of the wheel. Eventually the car turned in to my grandparents’ driveway.

“Home at last,” shouted Benjamin as he jumped out of the car.

“How was it?” Mum asked as the boys rushed through the door.

“I’m never going out with him again,” said Michael. “Grandfather can’t drive properly.”

On the evening of April 29, 1968, the phone rang.

“Hello.” My mother’s voice lowered, and her face went white. “Yes, I know,” she said. “My father is dead.” I stood and watched her from the doorway as she called the club, trying to contact my father. “Go and get some warm clothes,” she called to us. “We’re going to your grandmother’s house.”

Grandfather had been found dead on a train between Lindfield and Central Stations. Always in control, he panicked during an angina attack. Frightened and too embarrassed to cause alarm, he had hidden behind his newspaper, placed the tablets under his tongue, and tried to appear normal. The people next to him didn’t realize what was going on when his newspaper dropped to his lap. Everyone on the train thought he had fallen asleep.

Later, when a conductor found Grandfather dead, he still had six undissolved heart tablets under his tongue. Coronary thrombosis and arteriosclerosis caused his death.l Today, heart surgery would have saved his life.

For our family it was an immeasurable loss. Grandfather had been a firm foundation in the lives of his wife and six children, and the news of his death devastated all. Jessica blamed herself for his death, while Leah howled endlessly. His youngest child, Benjamin, was only eleven, and Tara was twelve. Later she became so distraught she tried to jump into the grave with her father’s coffin.

My mother organized the funeral arrangements, and she said I was too young to attend.

“Grandfather is dead, and the funeral’s on Thursday,” I told Sister Luke.

“Are you all right?” she asked me, and I shook my head.

“I can’t cry!”

“That’s all right, dear,” she said philosophically. “Some children are not close to their grandparents.” I cringed and watched her retreating, rosary beads clicking loudly, heels hitting the concrete walkway.

“I loved him,” I wanted to shout. “Don’t you understand? I want to cry, but the tears won’t come out.” My loss had weighted my tongue, and I couldn’t talk. My tears wouldn’t flow, and in their place I felt only numbness and grief. Grandfather had protected me.

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