“You agree with that?”
“Not really.”
I laughed. “We finally got something in common.”
The kid returned in no time, as if he was afraid to leave me alone. One minute he’d stand so close I could smell the cooked flesh. Then he’d twitch and hang in the air, his mother’s bloody handprints on his clothes. There was this feeling that I could, I don’t know, relate? Like I was hung up in the air along with him. It was stupid—I still had the luxury of breathing and I’d been the one to lead that child to his end. We had nothing in common beyond the knock on the door and my mistake.
I couldn’t call home. What would I do? Cry to my mother? She’d lord it over me how she was right, how I was a murderer and an idiot. I could hear her lecturing me about a regular job and my inflated pride. And the meat of it, what irked me, she’d be right—a hundred percent. I made the choices that brought me here and became a fucking monster. A kid killer. The worst of it? I didn’t know if I was entirely sorry. All I could do was sit, drink, and smoke. Stare at the ghost of a kid that was living in fear until I came along and ended his life.
I didn’t deserve to be back at a tent stewing on any of this. I deserved something worse. I was still a coward, though. If I had any less yellow in me, I’d have pulled my service piece and eaten a bullet. I didn’t, and I wouldn’t. I convinced myself that would be too easy—sure. Truth was I wanted to live. I wanted to make this ghost go away, to find myself someplace else without having to stare my brother in the eye knowing what I had become.
God, Liam, that kid could’ve been his age.
I stood up. Walked out of my tent and found Nikolavic huddled with a few other squaddies—assholes with names I don’t remember anymore.
“Hey, they got a satellite phone on site?”
Nikolavic nodded and pointed behind me. “I heard reception’s shit, but it’s worth a shot.”
“Thanks.” I lit a new cigarette and found my way to the man with the phone, some poor private who looked bored out of his mind.
I handed him my extra pack of cigarettes and smiled. “Mind if I get a little solo time—calling the wife.”
He skulked off without a word. The first cigarette from the pack already between his lips.
I sat on an old scuffed stool. Stared at the phone for a good, long while. There was only one place I could turn to. Only one man I knew wouldn’t ask questions. I didn’t even know if he could help, only knew there were lots of rumors I heard in and out of bars from off-the-boat micks in Yonkers. They said he was important, that he was a man of power.
I prayed that was true and I dialed the only international exchange I ever knew. I ignored that shame I felt—the thought that my grandfather would be so damn disappointed in me for doing this. There were no more options. If I stayed out here any longer, I knew I would do something drastic. Sure, I could play the “gone crazy” card, but I was a shit actor. That grift would probably take me as far as a military psych evaluation and they’d find me fit for duty in no time. No, I was sure of it. This was the right choice to make—no matter how much I felt it was wrong.
The phone rang four times. Then an answer. “Hello?” His voice seemed rougher than I remembered.
“Uncle Sean?” My voice cracked. “Uh, it’s Bryan, Karen’s son.” I wanted to cry. To break down and tell him my sins, but I held it all in. “I need your help.”
9
An hour after landing in Ireland on a private plane—thirty-six hours of flying—my Uncle Sean locked me in the janitor’s closet of his pub and kicked the shit out of me. It was a pain I never felt in my life. Found out that day that folks who’ll tell you that they “went numb” or “stopped feeling” after a certain point were either liars or stronger than I ever was. Sean mixed it up, which made it even worse. A steel-toed boot against my ribs was entirely different from a bear-sized fist to my jaw. The guy was an old hand at inflicting harm, and he gave me a hell of a lesson that evening.
In his prime, Sean was a typical, ginger-haired, wiry, street-fighting mick. Over time, he became a broad-shouldered ogre. He was covered in thick, knotty scars. They marked his history of bar fighting, gun shooting, and political rabblerousing. He had a particularly vicious-looking mark under his right eye that ran across the lower lid and down to touch the corner of his mouth. His knuckles were thick and jagged from abuse against the faces of those dumb enough to disagree with him or do him wrong.
In short, he was a violent maniac.
“You’re a fucking coward,” Sean told me in his thick, Killarney lilt. He sounded strangely jovial. “When you’re back on your feet, you start here. Cook, clean, do as I say. Once you’re back to your normal color and gait, we’ll discuss what we do with you.” His mouth hovered over my face. Whiskey-soaked breath stung my eyes. “Understood?”
By that point my face was so inflated, I could barely breathe. Speaking was far out of reach. I gave him a nod.
“There’s a mop behind you. Be happy the both of you weren’t acquainted more intimately.” He opened the closet door. Light spilled into the room and I could hear the bustle of patrons. U2 was playing “Zoo Station;” I hated that song.
Sean had beaten me half to death during peak business hours. That was his way. More suited to bleeding a man dry than worrying about customer service.
“Clean up the mess you’ve made of the floor and yourself. Head upstairs and talk to Siobhan—she’ll sort out what you can’t.” He limped off. “See you at dinner,” he said over his shoulder.
I remember laying there for a while. In the corner to my right, I could see him—the little Iraqi boy—my companion this entire time. He was crouched with his scorched hands held over his ears. I still couldn’t see his face.
“I’m sorry,” I whispered. “I’m so sorry.”
There was a slop sink near the mop. I used it to rinse off with bitter cold water. Tried my damnedest to ignore the kid as he stayed there, shivering. I heard a high-pitched buzz in the air, as if a mosquito lingered near my ear. Then the noise stopped, and the kid was gone—always happened that way. I made a list of my regrets in my head. Top of the list: coming to Ireland. I was better off back in Iraq.
After washing up, I wet the mop and cleaned my blood from the floor. Took a few passes, but I managed to get things looking as if I hadn’t caught the beating of my life in there. I hesitated to emerge from the closet. Embarrassment and the pain being equal motivators. It never occurred to me until the drive from the private airfield that I was completely alone. My squad was probably just reporting me AWOL and it would still be some time before my family knew what I was up to, if at all.
There was only so much time I could spend in the dark, so I made my way back to the bar and asked for a pint of lager to dull some of the pain setting in. I took a few soothing sips of my beer and passed the time counting the patrons that zipped by my stool. Sean was at the opposite side of the bar relating stories to a group of older gentlemen. The way he moved his hands, I wondered if he was explaining the beating I took fifteen minutes prior. The way they laughed, I could only assume that was the reason. Three beers later, I stood up. My head felt like a lead balloon on a toothpick, but I managed to make it upstairs.
My family was originally known as “old” IRA. After their war went belly up, they weren’t too thrilled about treaties and being “calm” or “nonviolent.” I agreed with them for the most part. As an American, I never truly understood the how and why, but they were my family, so I defaulted to whatever their line of thinking was—loyalty and all.
My grandfather was another story. He decried any violent behavior—believed that true Irish independence would be accomplished without a fight. Can’t remember if he was even educated in all the matters or if he was going by newspaper headlines and songs. He passed right before I made the decision to join the Corps—hit and run while he was walking to work—so the opportunity to impart any wisdom was lost across some scumbag’s front bumper
and dragged two miles down Southern Boulevard in the Bronx.
Much of the IRA bombing and insanity happened in Northern Ireland, but that’s not to say my family’s hands were clean since they hunkered down in Killarney. They were free. Could have kept their noses out of the mess up north, but blood—shed and shared—had a habit of fogging the mind.
My uncles Edmund and James were both gone—the former shot dead by a Brit somewhere in Northern Ireland right before I showed up, and the latter locked away for life in the Maze Prison. They weren’t as aggressive as Uncle Sean. Probably why they didn’t make it through the way he did. Sean was also smarter than he led on. He spent most of his time sending young, idealistic men back and forth to cause a ruckus in his place. This kept his hands clean. Not many of his soldiers returned. The ones who did either disappeared at Uncle Sean’s discretion or served him loyally.
I remember my mother would watch the news and turn into a nervous wreck whenever anything came up regarding bombings in England or Ireland. We’d get regular visits from men in suits that tossed around words like “connections” or “PLO” or “collusion.” I’d ignore most of it. Kept Liam entertained with a game of Mario Brothers or Zelda. We had enough of a shit hand in life at the time and we didn’t need any of our family’s runoff interfering with our own traumas.
Three weeks into mopping and scrubbing with the occasional microwaved fish and chip dinner, Sean finally sat me down. I remember the way he smiled that night. I was terrified. There was no shortage of stories in the short time I’d been at the pub. Sean had a reputation as a hot-headed psychopath—that much my bruises were proof of—but there were rumors of dealings with people outside of the IRA. Whispers of secret meetings with Russian hard-asses, of drug and sex trade money, even some Middle Eastern connections. I had to wonder what I’d allowed myself to get sucked into.
Those doubts would come, and that little boy would show himself to me. An instant message of exactly why I deserved to be there and why I deserved to be afraid. So, I resolved myself to do whatever Sean asked. Not out of loyalty, but because I didn’t deserve a choice. I’d already seen what happened when I could make the calls.
“How are you mending up?” Sean spoke as if we were old friends. Sipped three fingers of whiskey—neat—in a fancy highball glass.
I nodded. “Fine, I guess.”
“Called your mum. Explained the situation.”
I nodded. Surprised he would do that so soon. “Is she pissed?”
Uncle Sean grimaced. “You’d face no worse hell anywhere in the fucking world right about now, boy.” He lit a cigarette. Offered one to me. “Explain what happened. Why you decided to call and disrupt our fucking lives.”
I sighed. Took the cigarette and lit it with the candle on the table between us. Shifted my chair to the side and exhaled smoke away from him. Leaned forward and rested my elbows on my knees. Kept my eyes downcast. “I made a mistake.”
“Going there or coming here?” He leaned back, and the floorboards whined in complaint.
I thought that one over for a few drags. “Both. I was waking up at two-fucking-thirty in the morning every day in a cold sweat, even before what happened. Realized I was fighting for no one. Realized I either left as soon as I could, or I’d die somewhere in the sandy asshole of the world.” I decided I wouldn’t tell Uncle Sean what happened. I wasn’t ready to admit it, and in all honesty, I was pretty sure he didn’t care to know. He was the kind of guy happy to remain ignorant of as many sins as he could—even his own. Let him think that the solitude and the loud noises got to me. I was convinced the burden was mine to bear either way.
Sean nodded. “So you ran.”
“Not because I was scared. I’ve had my fair share of bruises. Sure, never killed a man, but I never backed down from a fight.”
“What made this different?” His tone was easy. Like a psychiatrist.
“I told you. It was for no one. I felt like an idiot for being out there because of a bunch of rich assholes.”
Sean scratched his chin. Reached forward and lifted his whiskey to his lips. Relished it for a moment and brought his attention back to me. “I pulled every fucking string I had bringing you here. More money than I could have wanted to exchange between more hands than I would have wanted to caress.” His look darkened. “Do you have any reason to make me regret that?”
I shook my head. “No, sir.”
“I hope you mean that. Your grandfather and I weren’t close, but we were blood.” Another long sip. “It’s why I did what I did and why I do what I do now.” He jabbed half an index finger at me. “Take my advice and listen to what you’re told to do and fucking damn well keep your head about you.” He stood up. “Your mum’s a pain in the arse and I don’t need her wailing on and on about pulling you from one shit storm to die in another.”
“You think I could give her a call? Maybe try to get in touch with Liam?”
Sean shook his head. “Bad idea. You’re a fucking traitor to your country now, a war deserter. We’ll give it time. Maybe in a year.”
I hadn’t thought of that. I was a traitor. The only traitor I ever heard of was Benedict Arnold.
“So, what do you need me to do?” I reached toward my own pint. Nearly tossed it over my head when I lifted it to my lips. I drained it in one go.
Sean’s shoulders slumped. He sighed. “No need to discuss now. Just needed to know you’re not going to run off on me as well.”
I shook my head. “I’ve got no more family anywhere else.”
Sean chuckled. “You’ll do right to remember that. Now go make yourself useful.”
Most of my days at the pub were spent cleaning or staring into half empty pint glasses. Siobhan, Sean’s wife, was pleasant enough. She and her daughter, Jessica, were the only other people that spoke to me. I figured I was off limits to anyone else. I’d get the occasional “good morning” or “hello,” but bar regulars avoided me as if I was on fire. It bothered me. Here I was, a cunt hair shy of nineteen and I was a grizzled exile. Found myself wondering if it wasn’t so bad of an idea to get in touch with the US Embassy in Dublin—call it a day. The Marine Corps didn’t play around. I’d face worse than what I had out here for sure, even if I took the whole conscientious objector stance. The idea of a long sentence behind the walls of a prison was a definite motivator to appreciate Sean’s help.
So I stayed. I mopped, I cooked, and I cleaned. There were days I’d find myself staring at the payphone near the bathrooms like an old girlfriend. All I had to do was make a single call—no different from pulling the trigger with the barrel of a gun under my chin. Over that time, the boy stopped appearing. The worst of it a flash of something hollow and burned at the edges like film in an old projector.
Maybe it was timing, or maybe he saw the way I eyed the phones and TV, but Sean finally called me into his back office. I was beginning to forgive myself, and in hindsight, I think he knew that was a bad thing. Even if he wasn’t sure of what happened to me in the Gulf.
“I think it’s high time you started on settling your debt,” he told me.
I gripped my mop handle. Imagined it was his throat. It was wrong of me—the man saved me—but the anger was there. Barely out of my teens, misplaced sentiments, and a complete lack of understanding—shit, it was the equivalent of handing a blind man a machine gun. Sean didn’t care. I knew that. All he wanted was a recruit.
Sean watched me—studied me. “I know where your head’s at. What you need is focus—something to keep your mind off things.”
“What do you need me to do?”
“Fight for someone—for your kin.” He eyed one of the many posters hanging up around the bar that espoused Irish independence and the shared struggle of the IRA and PLO. “See, there are wars worth fighting, Bryan. You’ve found yourself in the right position to learn that.”
I understood what he was talking about. “The stuff up north…the Troubles…”
He no
dded. “Troubles. Load of shite that is. It’s a war for fucking independence. A proper motivation. We ain’t fighting for oil or whatever the fuck that daft idiot in the States wants. This is for a truly unified Ireland. That’s a worthy cause, no?”
At the time I didn’t know shit about shit. So I said, “Yes.”
Sean smiled. “Very well, let’s get to the heart of the matter.” He reached into his front shirt pocket and pulled out a wad of handwritten notes. “What did the military teach you about improvised explosives?”
The Devil’s Dance Floor—Now
10
I’m around the corner from a shithole strip club called Dolly’s in the Gun Hill Road section of the Bronx. Wish it was the morning, but the place doesn’t open until four or five and I need to figure out what kind of patterns these girls follow. The list Paulie gave me was four names long. I could kill any one of the girls; I had to make sure the message was clear to the surviving three. I narrowed it down to a girl named Shaniqua Reese, better known as Lexis. It was a fairly easy process. Closed my eyes, moved my finger around the list. Whatever name was nearest to my finger when I stopped counting to ten was the one to go for. Not scientific, but fair. This was more about sending a message. The types of guys who sign off on these jobs already see these girls as objects. There won’t be much hand-wringing if one of them gets taken off the board permanently.
This neighborhood used to be worse. Now, it’s a little better. Still a few of the remnants of worse days, but you see more smiles. The curbs aren’t littered with glass from shattered car windows. Ain’t a building in sight with wooden boards over windows, tagged with amateur graffiti, or something semi-decent to look at. Not to say that I’d want those days back, but a certain charm seems to slip away once a neighborhood isn’t as seedy as it used to be. Can’t imagine what lifelong Brooklynites must feel. Entire cultures were razed in the short span of a decade out there. Glad I was never too fond of the place.
Hell Chose Me Page 6
