by J S Grey
Malachi’s Wish
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The Four Corners Series
JS Grey
Copyright © 2021 by J S Grey
All Rights Reserved
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
CONTENTS
Chapter One - Ten Years Ago
Chapter Two - Present Day
Chapter Three - Niall
Chapter Four - Niall
The Letter
Chapter Five - Blake
Epilogue
About the Author
Consuming Redemption: Love in the North – Chapter One
TRIGGER WARNINGS
Whilst every effort has been made to deal with delicate situations respectfully and with compassion, certain scenes in this short story may be considered triggering for some people as the themes deal with homophobia, trauma, and physical assault. We hope that you read this story with an open mind and read it in the way that it was intended.
This story takes place before and after the events of Consuming Redemption. This short story can be read as a standalone, but further details are explained within the full-length novel.
Acknowledgments
Again I want to say thank you to my husband and son, who lose me for days at a time when I disappear into a black hole of writing and social media promotion. So thank you for putting up with my erratic schedule and moods. I love you both and promise to try and be more present… until I start another book.
Next, I wanna thank all the folks at my Grey’s Grinders reader group. You guys fill me up with all your support and guidance and I love you all very much and appreciate your support.
Chapter One
Ten Years Ago
Northern Ireland
The kitchen door swings open, the blustery wind from outside sweeping through the kitchen. The ruffles from the ivory white tablecloth on the round dining room table billow in the wind like we’re in the set of a 1980’s music video. My dad stands on the mat, dirty boots in hand as he shakes himself off like a wet dog.
“Would you close the fecking door!” my mother shrieks, standing in the doorway of the kitchen leading in from the living room where she has been knitting a shawl for old Pat’s granddaughter down the street. She clutches the ball of wool tight in her hand as she runs the other up and down her arm to ward away the goosebumps.
“Yeah Pa, you’re letting all the heat out,” my sister Dawn whines from behind me. I turn to see her pressing her knees together, shoulders hunched over as she stirs a large pot on the stove with a giant wooden ladle. The air in the kitchen is thick with the deliciously warm smell of the vegetable stew my sister has been preparing for the past hour.
“Oh, I’m sorry Princess,” my dad bellows from the back door, “you’re more than welcome to come down to the barn and help the hands with the sheep; they’ve helped deliver fifteen lambs this evening. They are down there right now, covered in blood. You can go on down, and I’ll stir your soup for you?” Gentle mirth plays on his face.
“Fifteen?” my mother gasps. “Are the farmhands switching over with the night shift soon?” Taking a seat at the table next to me, my mother continues with her knitting.
“Yes, I’m just coming up for a break and then I’ll go back down before the shift change, most of the other girls down there only had one or two labs, Old Lindy though had three. She looks a little worse for wear so I’m going to sit with her awhile I think.” Closing the door behind him, my dad places his boots on the coarse brown mat in the mudroom before shucking off his rainproofs and hanging them up on the metal hooks behind the door. “When did you get back up here boy?”
“About twenty minutes ago Pa,” I call from behind a large mug of coffee, warming my hands. “I helped Misty deliver her first lamb, she caught me off guard so I had no chance to put my gloves on. My hands were not a pretty sight after.”
My dad chuckles, walking around the table and pats me on the shoulder. “I’d imagine not boy, no.” Taking his spot at the head of the table, he rests his large hands on the top and drums his fingers against the tablecloth. “I was surprised you came home to help with the lambing, to be honest Niall, thought maybe being in that fancy university in Dublin might have softened you up boy.”
My mother rests her head softly against my shoulder and laughs lightly.
“Are you kidding,” Dawn says, coming up behind me and gripping both of my biceps in her firm grip, “The man is built like a mountain!”
My dad chuckles and nods solemnly. “Aye, that he is.”
My sister pats my back and returns to the stove.
I’ve worked on the farm for as long as I can remember: my parents' plan for me is, at some point, to take over the farm from them when they retire. Although, I can never even imagine a time when my dad will want to retire. At six foot three and built like a tank himself, he’s always told us that even amongst the dirt, noise, and stress of the farm, it is the one place where he can find peace.
It is not the place I find peace. It’s home for sure, but it is also the place where I spend all of my time hiding the fact that I am gay. The farm is a very macho place, where the men are stereotypical macho men. Talking about girls, breaking open the beers at the end of the shift, a punch on the back, or a slap on the shoulder is the sign of a job well done. Visually I fit right in, my frame wide, muscle on muscle that can only be gained from daily hard graft working the land.
Our moderately-sized farm is equipped with all the latest gadgets and equipment: from tractors, cultivators, cultipackers, and mechanical plows, to the more scientific soil testers and irrigation systems. My dad wants me to learn the basics like he had learned from his father: giving me a quarter acre of land to till by hand and sow seeds on my hands and knees. He says it’s character building. What is it? It is the perfect way to get the dirt so ingrained into your skin that it would take a good month of scrubbing to get it all off.
Instead, I left the farm after college and enrolled in the University of Dublin, where I am currently working on my business degree. I’d initially wanted to run a design and consultancy firm once I graduated, which is still a potential option, but the only thing I’m sure of is that I want to build something myself, from the ground up, something that is just mine.
I’ve stayed in touch with my sister a lot whilst away; she’d guilted me into making sure that I call at least three times a week, telling me that I’ve left her with a bunch of yokels. I’ve pointed out those yokels are also called mum and dad, and promised to keep in touch. Dawn found out I was gay a couple of years earlier one night when I’d told my parents I was going down to the barn to muck out the stalls. My sister had been worried as it was a cold night and had brought me a flask of hot coffee, only to walk in on me getting head by one of the farmhands, Jack. She’d promised not to say anything, but it had been too much for Jack, who’d left to work on another farm a few weeks later.
Dawn has kept her promise but has always tried to convince me that I should be open with our parents, that they’ll be supportive and loving. I’ve always made excuses as to why it’s not the best time and that I’ll tell them when I’m ready. I guess that time is now.
At university, one of the guys in my class had spent most of the first semester eye-fucking me from across the lecture hall. One day I’d worked up the courage to go over and sit next to him. I’d found out his name was Mal
achi, we’d started dating and have grown close quite quickly. He told me his dream was to move to the States, to cash in on that good ol’ New York obsession with Irish Bars, and open his own place. I told him he was nuts but he just kissed me and said I’d come round. I’d scoffed at him, but the thought has taken root in my brain and the more I think about it, the more I can't shake the idea that it’s genius.
We’d talked one night after about six months of dating. He’d told me that he doesn’t want to date in secret anymore. He’d told me that he’d had bad experiences in the past dating closeted guys, and it isn’t for him anymore.
There is nothing left standing between me and telling my parents the truth. I’d called Dawn and told her my plan. She had been excited, and had concocted a plan: she’ll cook the family dinner tonight, giving my mother a break, while I come home to help out for lambing season, and tell my parents all about Malachi and me.
“Ok, dinner’s ready Pa, wash your hands!” Dawn admonishes him, noticing the smears of dirt still streaked across the backs of Pa’s hands. He grumbles but then gets up, quickly washing and drying off his hands before returning to the table. Dawn moves around the table, filling each of our bowls with hot soup, placing large chunks of bread and butter on side plates next to us.
My dad leads us in a short prayer, and we get down to the business of eating. My dad and I wolf down at least two bowls before the rest of them finish their first. It takes a lot of calories to maintain the size of the bodies that we’re working with. I feel a sharp kick under the table; my head snaps around to look at my mother, who gives me a sweet smile and continues to eat her soup. A bark of laughter escapes my sister on the other side of me. How she managed to kick me on the other side, I will never know. Dawn gives me a pointed look and tips her head the way of our parents.
I scrunch up my eyes and give my head a small shake, but she reaches out and kicks me again.
“Will you two cut it out?” my mother barks. I roll my eyes at Dawn, who shakes her head and laughs. I see my dad smile at the two of us warmly before standing up to take his bowl to the sink. Dawn’s right, our parents are great and they love us so much. It’s now or never.
I take in a deep breath and nod at Dawn, whose smile looks like it’s about to crack her face in half. I don’t want this to be dramatic; I want to get this out the way, field any questions, and then help Pa out down at the barn.
“Listen, Ma,” I put my hand on her arm and smile tightly, “Pa, listen I need to tell you something, and I don’t want you to make a big deal out of it. I’ve been seeing someone at Uni, for nearly eight months now, and it’s quite serious. He’s called Malachi, I’m gay.”
There are reactions that you expect to come your way when you announce to your parents that you’re gay; shocked gasps, maybe stunned silences, potentially tears. What I don’t expect is my father’s fist to connect with my cheek so hard, that I hear the crunch of bone underneath as it cracks. I don’t expect the blood flowing freely from the jagged open gash on my face to be so warm.
I hear my sister scream as I slip off my chair under the table, banging my head on the table edge and then on the concrete floor underneath. I reach up to grab on to my mother to pull myself up, dazed and unsure of what’s happening, only to be stunned when she recoils and pulls away from me.
“Don’t touch me!” she screeches. “You're disgusting,” she spits before pushing to her feet, moving towards my dad, pushing her face into his chest, and sobbing. I’m not sure what hurts worse, the fire on the side of my face or her reaction.
My sister screams, flying at my dad, her nails out like talons as she claws at his face, gouging out a chunk of his flesh. My mother yells and tries to grab Dawn before she can strike out again, only to be on the receiving end of Dawn’s backhanded slap. My mother grabs her face and moves away. The shock is evident in her eyes as she regards us both like we are strangers to her.
Everything else happens so quickly. My parents demand that I leave their house that night and never contact them again. They call me every terrible name I can imagine. My heart breaks as I see my sister beg and plead with our parents to let me stay. When they are unmoved, she begs me to let her come with me. I’m in no place to financially support a fourteen-year-old girl, so with a heavy heart, I have to leave her there. I kiss her on the forehead and tell her she will always be my favorite person. She sobs and wails and tells me that I am hers. I leave the house with a bag of my things, and head to my car and away from home.
Chapter Two
Ten Years Later - 2009
New York City
“Derek, you asshole!” I laugh as the drunk off-duty firefighter spills a third of a glass of Guinness over the surface of my bar. Derek winces and reaches for the bar rag resting on the hook on my side. I swat his hand away and pour him another half, realising that’s probably going to be his limit. Derek has been a regular at my bar for the entire seven years we’ve been open.
Malachi and I finished our time at university, both securing business degrees before spending a year working odd jobs and saving enough capital to finance our move to New York. Securing some investments, we had opened an Irish-themed bar in the East Village of Manhattan. We’d named the bar The Shannon after the river in Ireland. We’d told friends it was just because we wanted the bar to have an Irish-sounding name. Still, it was on a ferry tour of the Shannon early one summer evening when Malachi slipped his hand into mine and whispered in my ear that he loved me, before falling to one knee and asking me to marry him. I’d said yes before he’d finished asking the question. Gay marriage was not legal in Ireland at the time, but the promise that he was mine forever was enough for me until we could make it official.
Making a circle of other Irish friends in the City has been a godsend, like bringing a little piece of home to the Big Apple. The bar opening had been a huge success. We’d converted the area at the back of the bar into a small stage space to feature new upcoming folk bands: one of the draws that made us a great place to start a bar-hopping night out. Our place had been featured several times in local media and publications for our diverse outreach, especially amongst the local LGBT community.
We’d lived a very happy life, even though I hadn’t thought, after what had happened with my family, that I’d ever be happy again. Malachi had proved me wrong, making me happier than I’d ever thought possible. That was until one evening when he stepped off a sidewalk on the way home from the store and was hit by a city bus. For the second time in my life, my heart was destroyed. They said he was killed instantly and that he wouldn’t have felt a thing. It had provided some comfort; I’d been numb. I’d come back to the bar and the deafening silence was too much for me to take. I’d picked up a pool cue that had been propped against the wall and proceeded to destroy every piece of the bar I could reach. It wasn’t right that the bar should be here if he wasn’t. This bar was his dream.
Collapsing in a heap on the floor, I cried for what felt like hours until one of the bar staff, Lisa, had found me. Fearing we’d been robbed, she ran to me, checking me for injury. I’d told her that Malachi was gone; she’d held me as I cried out my pain, the tears never-ending. She took care of things at the bar, calling in a team of cleaners and tradespeople to help fix the mess I’d made. Closing the bar for a week had been necessary. I’d stood outside the bar the night before we re-opened, the day after burying the love of my life. I couldn’t go inside. I’d looked up at the sign, the green neon mocking me with its glow. An idea struck me out of nowhere. I called Lisa, who’d made all the arrangements.
Three days later, I stood outside the same bar, looking up smiling at the new sign above the door. In the same green neon, the name ‘Malachi’s Place’ was now displayed firmly on the front of the building. I felt his presence with me as I walked inside.
That was three years ago.
Now I stand behind the bar, wiping up the spill Derek has made as he glugs back the remainder of the pint in front of him. He tips his glass in
my direction, asking for another, a hopeful expression on his face.
“I don’t think so, Derek.” I reach across the bar taking the glass from his fingertips, then reach further across, snatching the keys from his pocket.
“Hey!” he slurs. “They’re mine.” He moves to swipe them back from me.
I slide them into my back pocket and he scrunches his nose up at me. “And they will be yours in the morning. Lisa’s already texted Christine. She said her shift finishes at the hospital soon, so she’ll swing by and pick you up.” I nod towards Lisa at the end of the bar. Derek gives her a quick salute before his head droops, and moments later soft snores rumble between his mouth and the wooden bar top. I laugh and grab a clean bar towel from under the counter, folding it up and sliding it under his head.
I turn to roll my eyes at Lisa, but in her place at the end of the bar is Blake Trentnor. Fuck my life.
Blake is the lead singer of Cinder Faith and a constant torment for my eyes and libido. Blake wandered into the bar early last year, and I’d been in no place to notice how extraordinarily hot he was. He’d slipped a CD across the bar one evening when we were slammed with tourists and football fans letting out from the Giants game. He’d asked me if we had any open spots for bands to play since the stage area at the back seemed to have gone unused for a while. It was hard to have that much life in the bar without being reminded of how much Malachi had adored listening to live music whilst we worked in tandem behind the bar.
I’d just been about to tell him to sling his hook when Lisa had dived across the bar, snatching the CD out of his hands and arranged for him to come back the following afternoon with his band to play for the both of us. He’d smiled wide, winked at me, and left the bar. I’d given Lisa a complete ‘what the fuck’ face, but she waved me off telling me we were losing business on the off-peak to other bars and that she wouldn’t let me piss away Malachi’s legacy. I’d initially been annoyed for a moment, but she was right. This place deserved to be what Malachi had envisioned.
