Of Blood and Honey (Fey and the Fallen)

by Stina Leicht

  Oran looked over at him and smiled. “We can give Bobby a go at him for the driving. What do you think?”

  Éamon nodded. “Yes. I think that would be wise.”

  “Driving?” asked Liam. “I’m to drive?”

  Oran smiled. “Theoretically, we’re to be in the business of raising funds for the cause. Once the truce is over, of course.”

  “What?”

  Oran leaned in closer and whispered, “Bank robbery. You’re the wheel-man.”

  “What?”

  There was a knock on the door. “Mr. Kelly?” The voice was young and male.

  Oran and Éamon froze.

  Heart slamming, Liam got up and went to the door but didn’t open it. “Aye.”

  The boy on the other side said, “You’ve a phone call. Downstairs. Auntie Katherine said I was to come get you.”

  “Thanks.” Turning to Oran, Liam said, “I have to—”

  “Go on,” Oran said.

  Once again, Liam ran down the steps and found the receiver dangling from its cord. He snatched it up. “Hello?”

  “Liam?” Father Murray asked.

  Danger. “Is she all right?”

  “She’s going to be fine. Just fine.”

  Kill—

  Sod off, he thought at the voice. The hand holding the receiver was shaking. “Thank God. What was wrong?”

  Father Murray paused. “It was a virus. A bad one. Look, they want to keep her in hospital—”

  “Hospital? She’s in fucking hospital? You said she was going to see a doctor not—”

  “She’s fine. It’s only a precaution for one nigh—”

  “Which hospital? Tell me. Where is she?”

  “They’re only going to keep her overnight and then she’ll stay with her Aunt Katie. Here in Carrickfergus.”

  “Carrickfergus? Why the fuck did you take her up there? Isn’t that a Protestant town?” Danger. She’s in danger. Kill it. Find her.

  “Calm down, Liam.”

  “I’ll not calm down. I’m sick of everyone telling me to be fucking calm,” he said, banging his fist on the metal shelf below the phone. He grabbed the edge and held on.

  “Will you trust me?”

  “What kind of a fucking question is that?”

  Father Murray sighed. “She said to say that you’re only starting your life together, and you’ve the taxi business to start. She doesn’t want you to see her like this. She doesn’t want you to worry—”

  “It’s too fucking late for that.”

  “I understand,” Father Murray said. “Look, she wants to stay with her Aunt Katie until the worst of it is over. Then she’ll be home again.”

  Liam tried to absorb what was happening. He searched his memory for an image of an Aunt Katie from the wedding and couldn’t place her, but he’d been drunk that night and the Gallaghers were a much larger family than his own. He was lucky to keep track of her eleven brothers and sisters, and he’d grown up with most of them. He hit the shelf a second time. It left a dent.

  “Liam?”

  He grabbed the shelf again. His knuckles were white. “I’m here.”

  “She’s going to be all right. I promise. They’ve given her some medicine, and some fluids. She’s sleeping. She’s doing much better already. I’ve a friend here. She’ll be safe. I’ll stay and keep an eye on her for you. You needn’t worry. She’s in good hands. The best.”

  Danger—

  Shut it. “Thank you, Father.”

  “She’ll be home soon, and better than ever. You’ll see. Now, go on. Get some dinner in you. I’ll call again tomorrow.”

  “Thank you. Goodbye, Father.” He hung up the phone and stared at the graffiti scrawled on it, but not really seeing it. Father Murray was right. She’d be fine, and she’d be home in a few days. Liam let go of the shelf, went upstairs and shared a few pints with Oran and Éamon.

  Mary Kate came home three days later as promised. He met the two of them on the street in front of the apartment building. She exited the car, pale and weak, and Liam had to suppress an urge to crush her in his arms. Afraid of another misstep, he waited for a signal from her as to how he should react. Father Murray slammed the door of his old VW Beetle with a thump and then pulled a small suitcase from the back.

  “Oh, Liam,” Mary Kate said. “I missed you so much.”

  She put her arms around him, and after a while he lifted her up. She felt too light, but she was warm and kissed him on the lips.

  “I’ve got the bags,” Father Murray said.

  Liam started to carry her up the stairs.

  “What are you doing?” she asked, laughing.

  “What do you think?”

  “I’m not an invalid.”

  “Not at all,” Liam said. “You’re my bride, and I’m seeing you home proper. Stop wiggling, or I’ll drop you, and I hear that’s bad luck.”

  “Bad luck, indeed. You’ll have us both in hospital,” she said.

  “Aye, well, then. Think they’ll let us kip together?”

  He took her up all three flights of stairs, over the threshold and into the flat. He was breathing heavy by the end of it, and she laughed the whole way. He didn’t let her go until he’d placed her on the sofa. His back and arms felt ready to give out, but it was a good hurt. Father Murray stayed for a cup of tea and then left. He seemed subdued and distant and watched the two of them together with an expression that Liam could have sworn was regret. He decided the situation must have brought up a painful memory, and so, attempted to keep the exuberance down to a minimum until Father Murray left.

  Mary Kate slowly recovered, but the way she moved it was clear she was in a great deal of pain. He did what he could to help without bringing too much attention to what he was doing since whenever he’d slip and show his concern she’d become angry. From time to time Liam caught her weeping. It was hard going, and sometimes the tension between them was bad enough that he wondered if they should’ve married at all. He was miserable, but then so was she. He spent as much time as he dared outside the flat, tinkering with the taxi or talking to Oran or Father Murray. Oran claimed that the first year of marriage was the hardest and that eventually things would sort themselves out. After a month of abrupt mood swings, arguments and sudden dashes to the washroom she eased back into her old self again. Hopeful that Oran was right and the worst was over, Liam attempted to put the incident out of his mind.

  Chapter 13

  Andersonstown, Belfast, County Antrim, Northern Ireland

  September 1975

  Liam stood in the queue outside of The Harp and Drum, holding Mary Kate’s hand and breathing out mist clouds. Tugging at his scarf so it would cover the back of his neck, he hoped they wouldn’t have to wait long. It was fierce cold and the damp was in the air. He noticed Mary Kate was shivering, put an arm around her and pulled her close. She allowed him to keep his hand on her waist and seemed to be in a good mood. The Harp and Drum was much like any other Belfast pub, but it boasted a private club in the basement that featured up-and-coming rock acts. They were waiting to see The MacMillian Five, a band he’d heard about from a passenger a few days before. Supposedly, the drummer had once played with Bad Company, but Liam often heard talk like that from musicians and most of it was shite. So, there was no way of knowing whether the band would be any good. However, there was a crush to get in, he had enough in his pocket to buy a few pints, and it seemed Mary Kate might be amenable to a bit of fun after if he played her right. All in all, that was a good omen for the evening.

  Glancing over his shoulder he noticed the two men in long black coats, hanging around a shop across the street. He’d first seen them when he and Mary Kate were three blocks from the pub. Both wore flat caps and scarves pulled up over the bottom halves of their faces, and appeared overly interested in the crowd gathered in front of the pub. Liam would’ve been concerned about a Loyalist attack but for the fact that he could’ve sworn one of them was wearing a priest’s collar. He didn’t like the lo
ok of either man, regardless.

  Enemy, the black thing in Liam’s head whispered.

  Without thinking, he put a hand inside his pocket and grasped the steel lighter he’d taken to carrying. Mary Kate had painted a tri-color on the side and had declared it the People’s Lighter by way of a joke when he’d refused to loan it to her the night before.

  “Are you not going in?” the big man at the door asked.

  Liam paid the man, and he and Mary Kate went down the narrow steps into the club. The room was small, smelled of stale cigarettes and old vomit, and the bare concrete walls were wet with condensation. The bar positioned on the left wasn’t much more than a counter top with a couple of barstools stuck in front—not that he could’ve grabbed a seat anywhere. The place was packed. The stage at the front of the room took up half the space, and young people holding various drinks milled close to the platform which was apparently a tight squeeze for five musicians and their gear. At the moment, the Stones were blaring out of the speakers, and Mick Jagger was bemoaning the fact that he didn’t always get what he wanted.

  “Let’s go over there,” Mary Kate shouted in his ear.

  Liam nodded, and he took her hand, pushing his way to the back of the room through the crush of long-haired men and their dates. With so many people crammed into such a small space it was warm in spite of there being no heat. He loosened his scarf. By some miracle he located an abandoned table—a tiny round thing made from furniture scraps. There were no chairs but at least they wouldn’t have to hold their drinks the entire night.

  “What’ll you have, love?”

  She grinned. “I’d like a short. Make it Bushmills.”

  “That’s my girl.” He wove his way back through the crowd to the bar. It took a while to get the barman’s attention, and by the time he returned to her he had to tell some drunken tosser to bugger off and get away. It almost came to blows and would have but for the tosser’s friend.

  “Taximan,” the friend said, pointing to Liam. “Black Hack.”

  The tosser stared and swallowed. “Oh, right. Very sorry, sir.”

  The pair of them vanished into the crowd.

  Mary Kate shook her head. “I tried to tell him I had a date, but he wouldn’t listen. Why do they always have to hear it from another male?”

  Liam reached over and pushed a curl from her face. “Can’t blame him. It’s fucking beautiful, you are.” He let his hand move down her back and then a bit lower. He moved closer and spoke into her ear. “I don’t suppose there’s any chance of me getting you drunk and removing your—”

  “Liam!” She slapped his hand away from her thigh and tugged down her skirt, but she was smiling and it gave him hope.

  The band began playing, and by the sound, they weren’t half-bad. The guitarist had delusions of Jimmy Page. So, Liam sipped his whiskey and watched the crowd. A few of them seemed to be unaware that Ziggy Stardust and the whole peace and love scene was dead, and that if it was dead anywhere it was definitely West Belfast, but he supposed there wasn’t any harm in giving it a go. Liam was getting into the music and starting to relax when he spied the two men from outside. Neither had unbuttoned their coats or taken off their scarves. They seemed to be glaring at him in particular, but it was difficult to tell.

  Danger. Enemy. Get away. Must leave.

  If they were UVF—Ulster Volunteer Force, and the two of them had guns, they’d have a hell of a time bringing them up in this crowd. On the other hand, if they were planting a bomb—

  Leave. Must leave. Get out of here. Now. Before they come for us.

  Liam’s heart staggered and then raced. He turned to tell Mary Kate that they needed to go when he spied Father Murray.

  “What’s he doing here?”

  “Who?” Mary Kate asked.

  “Father Murray. He’s over there. Do you see him?”

  Father Murray had moved up to the bar and was speaking to the shorter of the two men in the wool coats.

  “Maybe he likes rock music,” Mary Kate said and shrugged.

  “Do you think so?”

  The shorter man began arguing with Father Murray and gave him a shove.

  “Stay here. I’ll be right back.” Liam didn’t wait for her answer. He made his way to the bar.

  “—not in support of your little experiment.”

  Father Murray shouted back. “Then the Prelate will have to bring it up with Bishop Avery himself.”

  The taller man touched the shorter one on the shoulder and then bobbed his head in Liam’s direction. His eyes were hard. Father Murray turned around.

  Enemy. Kill them. Rip their throats out. Now. For once Liam didn’t violently disagree with the thing in the back of his head. “Are these men bothering you, Father?” Liam asked, fist at the ready.

  “Why, hello.” Fear flickered across Father Murray’s scholarly features. “There’s no problem at all. Liam, I’d like to introduce you to Father Dominic and Father Christopher. We’re from the same Jesuit Order.”

  Neither man looked anything like a priest. If anything, they reminded Liam of certain sentenced prisoners from Malone—the ones known for trouble of the worst kind. Father Dominic, the shorter of the two, had a long scar across the bridge of his nose. He didn’t seem the sort you’d want to make angry, and by the look of it, Father Murray had just made him very angry indeed. Nonetheless, Father Dominic gave a grudging nod by way of a greeting as did Father Christopher. Father Christopher gave the impression that he thought Liam was something less than human.

  “What the fuck are you looking at?” Liam asked.

  Father Christopher said, “Go to hell, demon.”

  “What did you call me?” Liam asked.

  “They were just leaving,” Father Murray said, placed a restraining hand on Liam’s shoulder. He spoke to Father Dominic. “Please give the Prelate my regards.”

  “One day,” Father Dominic said, shoving a finger at Father Murray’s chest and making him stumble, “you’re going to be very sorry for this, Joe. Very sorry, indeed. You’ve gone soft.”

  “I’m flattered by your concern for my well-being,” Father Murray said.

  The pair shoved past, bumping into Liam on the way out. A blinding flash of pain shot through Liam’s shoulder, and Father Murray put out a hand to steady him.

  “You should go back to Mary Kate and enjoy your evening,” Father Murray said.

  “Who were they?”

  “No one you need worry about,” Father Murray said. “But if you should see them again… stay away from them. And call me. Understand?”

  “Why?”

  “I have to go,” Father Murray said. “We’ll talk about this tomorrow.”

  Liam got the impression he was in a hurry to get outside and that there was some unfinished business. “All right, Father.”

  Father Murray moved toward the exit and ran up the stairs. Liam glanced over at Mary Kate to make certain she was well. She appeared to be enjoying the music. He thought again about Father Murray being shoved and decided to risk going outside for a bit. Father Murray was firmly in support of non-violence which, to Liam’s experience, didn’t work well when the opposition was firmly in support of the opposite. He stopped to talk to the man watching the door.

  “Need some air. Getting back in a problem? My wife is still inside.”

  The big man looked at him, exhaled a cloud of cigarette smoke at the ground and shook his head.

  “Thanks, mate.” Liam rushed up the stairs. Scanning the street, he didn’t see Father Murray or the other two priests. He was about to head back down the steps when he heard someone shout. It came from somewhere on the right. He turned and jogged that direction, but before he reached the corner he spied them fighting in an alley. It took him a moment to register that that was indeed what was happening. Liam looked around until he spotted an old board in some rubble. He grabbed it, hefted it and moved closer. What he saw next gave him pause a second time.

  Father Murray wasn’t getting a good k
icking as Liam had thought. All three priests were standing over a man lying on the ground. Father Dominic held a blood-soaked dirk. His coat was torn, and he held his left arm at an awkward angle. Liam smelled blood, and something else. Something that wasn’t right. It stank of decay and long death. He knew the difference between fresh blood and old. He’d become familiar with both in the infirmary at Malone. The stinking black puddle forming under the man on the ground slowly expanded, and he saw Father Christopher lift his boot to avoid the stain.

  What the fuck just happened? Am I really seeing this? Or have I finally gone mad? “Father?” Liam asked and regretted speaking at once.

  Father Dominic whirled, brandishing the dirk. “Drop the weapon, spawn.”

  “Don’t,” Father Murray said. “He’s an innocent, I’m telling you.” He stepped in front of Father Dominic.

  “Drop the club.” Father Christopher placed a hand inside his coat.

  Liam blinked. “What?”

  “Liam, do as they say,” Father Murray said, holding his arms out as if shielding him.

  Father Dominic moved closer, causing Father Murray to shuffle backward in order to keep his position. Father Christopher edged toward Liam’s left. Both exuded a professional menace that Liam recognized at once. A broken board wasn’t much defense against a long knife—particularly when wielded by someone who knew what to do with one, but at least it was something. Drop the board, and he’d be at their mercy, and they didn’t appear to have mercy on their minds. Liam worried about Father Murray getting in the way. The beast squatting in the back of his brain pressed for freedom to attack. Kill all of them. Now. Now.

  “Liam! Please! The peaceful solution! It’s the only way!”

  Reluctantly trusting Father Murray, Liam dropped the splintered board and put his hands in the air. “There. It’s done. I’m sorry,” he said. “Thought they were attacking you. Who is that man? Why did they kill him?”

  “That thing isn’t a man anymore than you are,” Father Dominic said.

  He knows what we are. Kill him. “What?”