by Stina Leicht
A hard kick knocked the thoughts out of his head. He looked up, expecting to see Jimmy’s sister, infuriated at being ignored. Instead it was Oran, and he was scowling.
“Just what is it you think you’re doing?”
Liam opened his mouth to tell him to fuck off, that he didn’t belong in Protestant Ballymena, that he, Liam, was supposed to be in hiding, and he, Oran, should go back to Belfast where he belonged, but what came out was too weak to be heard above Rory Gallagher’s guitar.
“This place is disgusting.” Oran yanked him up off the floor. “Time to go.”
“No.”
“Oh, yes,” Oran said, dragging him across a filthy shag carpet that had been new and clean not so long ago.
Jimmy blocked the hallway. “Who the hell are you? And where do you think you’re going with Billy?”
“Billy?” Oran’s frown furrowed deeper into his face. “Billy here is leaving your grand company.”
“He owes for the smack. And he isn’t going anywhere until he pays.”
Oran let go, and Liam’s head thumped against the wall, a picture rattled, and someone laughed—Jimmy’s sister by the sound. Oran will give up now, Liam thought. He would leave him to fade into just another stain in the already stained carpet.
“How much?” Oran asked.
Praying that whatever it was that Jimmy wanted would be too much for Oran to pay, Liam stopped tracking the conversation. He got the vague impression that some sort of negotiation took place. He didn’t care. He crawled back into the comfort of brain-numbing electric guitars. Time passed. He measured it in needles and promptly lost count. The next he saw Oran he was wearing a different shirt under his heavy coat, and once again Liam felt himself lifted from the floor. This time Pink Floyd’s Animals swirled in the air around Oran’s angry face.
“A bit of help for fuck’s sake. For having lost as much weight as you have, you’re heavy.”
“Sod off.”
Oran whispered in his ear. “Not an option, mate. You’ve only two. The first is coming with me. The second is a bullet, and I don’t fancy gunning you down, you hear me?”
“Why?”
“Holiday is over. You’re back on duty,” Oran said. “It’s pathetic you are. What did you do to your hair? Cut it in the dark with a machete, did you?”
“How did you find me?”
“Easy enough,” Oran said. “Your uncle asked down at the pub when you didn’t come home. Sent word to your mother. She sent a message to me, thinking I might know something. She’s worried sick. You’re lucky she didn’t come looking herself.”
Stumbling out the door with Oran, Liam cried out when sunlight bored into his eyes. He was coming down already. He could feel it. He tried to go back into the house, but was no match for Oran. Oran half-dragged him to an unfamiliar green car parked on the street, threw open the passenger side door and tossed him in. Liam smacked his head on the steering wheel. He actually felt the pain this time. That was bad. His bruised head exploded, and if he didn’t know any better he would’ve sworn that at some point he’d been dragged down a flight of stairs feet first.
“For fuck’s sake, man,” Oran said, climbing into the car. Sometime in November, Éamon had decided that a certain level of redundancy was in order for their unit. Oran was the muscle, but it was time he should fill in as the wheelman if Liam couldn’t. Oran had been driving since the end of January, and it was still a shock to see him behind the wheel. “The sight of you. You smell like a sewer. When was the last time you had a bath?”
“Should’ve shot me.”
“Oh, cut your sniveling,” Oran said. The car’s engine roared to life, giving voice to his anger. “There’s plenty lost family in the war. Don’t see any of them filling their veins with shite. We’ve been patient on account of Mary Kate and how she was done. But now’s the time it’s over. No more of this. You hear me? HQ won’t tolerate it.”
“Where are we going?”
“Home. Belfast.”
“Won’t go back to the apartment.”
Oran shook his head. “Afraid you’re in no state to be trusted on your own, mate. First, you’re in for a long chat with Éamon. After that, you’ll be staying with me and mine.”
“No.”
“You’d rather live with Níal? Fine by me, but he can’t cook, and by the look of you you’ll want some nursing and feeding up. Especially after Éamon.”
Liam pushed himself into a sitting position. Countryside flitted past the windows faster than he could track. It made him dizzy. “Didn’t say nothing to anyone.”
“Glad to hear it, mate,” Oran said. “Don’t much relish shooting you, myself. But sometimes the drugs do the talking for you. That’s why HQ has the regulation. No drugs. Ever.”
“Didn’t. I swear it. Want to sleep first. Can’t we wait to see Éamon?”
“If there’s enough left of you after Éamon is done then you can sleep all you like.”
Liam blinked. He’d known HQ wouldn’t approve of what he’d done, but he hadn’t thought about what that meant exactly.
“So, it finally sinks in,” Oran said. “You stupid bastard.” He slammed on the brakes and steered the car to the side of the road. It was clear he was new at the driving and didn’t know how to handle himself. The tires slipped off the road before the car finally stopped. The windshield wipers screeched. Liam hadn’t noticed the sleet. “Don’t just sit there with that stupid look on your gob. Goddamn it, man. Do you not see the trouble you’re in? I can’t believe you did this. We trusted you. We thought you were up here to get yourself together. Not this. Éamon has orders. We all do. Do you know what that means now?”
Liam swallowed and nodded. The last of the heroin seemed to have faded away. He was freezing and wanted to be sick. “I’m sorry.”
Oran snorted. “Well, if you’re not, you will be soon enough.”
“I’ll clean up. I swear.”
“And you’ll stay that way, you hear?”
“I will. Never again. Not even an aspirin.”
Oran gave him a judging look. The old Ford’s engine idled, and outside, it started to snow. The wiper blades slapped away the flakes, but still they came until they built up into a small drift on the car’s hood. “Well, I don’t know it has to go that far.” Dropping the car into drive and carefully steering back onto the road, the emotion on Oran’s face transformed from anger to apprehension. “Didn’t want this for you. You’ve been through enough.”
Liam nodded, feeling sicker. His teeth clattered together, and he wrapped his arms around himself. He wished he knew where he’d left his coat. The pub? Jimmy’s place? He couldn’t remember. He didn’t even know what day it was, or how long he’d been gone from his uncle’s. It had to have been a while if Oran had come to get him.
“If it’s any consolation,” Oran said. “I don’t think Éamon will be too hard on you. We all know what you been through. And well, there’s the other reason.”
“What reason is that?”
Oran gave him a sideways glance. “Like as not something real bad might come of it, you know?”
“I wouldn’t do anything to—”
“I know you wouldn’t. You know as well as I do that Éamon is just doing his duty. We all do what we must for the cause. But just the same. I don’t think he’ll take any chances.”
“If Éamon’s so fucking scared of me, why doesn’t he just top me and get it done with?”
“Ah, well,” Oran smiled and said, “as much trouble as you are, he still thinks you’re the finest wheelman the cause has ever seen. And anyway, HQ isn’t exactly flush with silver bullets. I mean, what else is certain to kill Lon Chaney, Jr.?”
Feeling somewhat relieved, Liam nodded.
“Nonetheless, you do this again you’re a dead man. Whether Éamon is right about you or I am, doesn’t matter. Given enough bullets I suspect we can make even the likes of you bloody uncomfortable.”
“I won’t. Never again.”
&nbs
p; “You’ll want to,” Oran said. “Just. Don’t. Was bad enough burying Mary Kate. I’ve no wish to bury you too, mate.”
“Would you like something to eat?” Elizabeth asked in a tired but concerned voice. She was hunched so that she could look him in the face, although Liam wasn’t sure why anyone would want to do that at the moment. He’d seen himself. He looked like something out of a horror movie—not in the sense that Éamon seemed to think of him—more like the victim.
Liam shook his head, it made the headache worse, but he didn’t want to speak. It hurt too much, and he was afraid his mouth would bleed again. He didn’t want to put her to any more trouble. He’d already given her enough of that. He’d done nothing but throw up in a bucket from the time Oran had deposited him on the sofa sometime about two o’clock in the morning until the sun had came up. She was pregnant with Oran’s fifth child, and she had enough to deal with.
“You have to eat something,” she said. “I heated up some soup. You should try just a bit.”
He shook his head again, shut swollen eyes and pretended to go back to sleep.
“All right, then,” she said. “I’ll leave you a glass of water. There’s a straw in it. The soup is on the stove if you change your mind. You know where the tea is. I’m off to work now. Someone will come by soon. You’ll be all right for a little while, won’t you?”
He grunted and shivered. He felt her throw another blanket on him and then her footfalls went out the door.
Unsure of how much time had passed since the door had shut, he opened his eyes and waited to sit up until after he was certain she was gone. He really wasn’t in that bad shape—all things considered. Éamon had been careful, and Liam had let him do what he must. Now that his head was clear, Liam knew he deserved it. He’d endangered Oran and the others. He wouldn’t do it again, of that he was certain—no matter how much his blood itched and his bones ached. At least it was pain he could control. It was pain that wouldn’t last forever, and twenty-four hours after his last fix, he already felt better than he had any right to if Jimmy’s sister had been telling the truth. Nonetheless, his stomach muscles ached from being sick so much, and he was exhausted, but the nightmares had come back all the more vivid for having been quieted.
Liam didn’t know how long Éamon would require him to stay on Oran’s sofa, or how long Elizabeth would have to tell the children that Uncle Liam was ill and needed quiet. He did know that Oran and the others were planning another job and that he’d have to drive soon. Liam didn’t know if he could, didn’t know if he wanted to. Hell, he wasn’t sure of anything much anymore—except that everything about Belfast reminded him of Mary Kate, and the monster living in the back of his brain wanted nothing more than to kill every last one of the men who had murdered her. The force of the beast’s hatred frightened him. He understood now what had kept him from opening up his veins with more than a needle. The monster wanted to live, needed to live, and it would drag him back into consciousness and life whether he wanted it or not.
Someone knocked on the door. Liam considered not answering but thought better of it. It was Níal or Éamon come to watch over him of that he was certain, and if he didn’t answer there’d be trouble. Shuffling to the door, Liam discovered Father Murray standing in the hallway.
Father Murray said, “You look like hell.”
The monster stirred in the back of Liam’s head, but he was too exhausted and sick to do much more than stumble backward. With nothing to stay the tide, memories of laughter and potential for happiness flooded in. He looked away and blinked. We’d have had a child were it not for him, he thought. I’d have had something of her. A family. “So, Oran has sent you to watch me has he?” Anger choked his voice.
Father Murray settled into a chair. “If anyone sent me it was your mother. She’s worried for you, and I can see why.”
“She could’ve come herself.”
“The little ones are sick. She couldn’t get away.”
Liam retreated to the sofa, wrapped the blankets tighter around himself and waited for what was to come. There wasn’t much avoiding it.
“Is there anything I can do?” Father Murray asked.
“Bring her back. Take back what they did to her and the babe. Take back what you did. Bring back our child. The one you killed. I should fucking kill you. And I would but I haven’t the strength. So, babble at me as you will. I’m through listening.”
Father Murray looked guilty, and his voice was barely above a whisper.
“We said the Mass—the Month’s Mind—for them in Derry.”
“I’d rather you didn’t have to.” Liam couldn’t stop the rage, it seemed. He needed someone to lash out at, and Father Murray was handy.
The corners of Father Murray’s mouth drew in tight. “I know what happened that night.”
Liam was on his feet before he realized it. Father Murray stared as if he’d gone mad, and for a moment Liam thought he might have the energy for violence after all. Not here. Think of Elizabeth and Oran. He searched for a logical reason for having gotten up. Not hungry, but needing to get out of the sitting room, he went into the kitchen and poured soup into a bowl with shaking hands.
“It wasn’t your fault,” Father Murray said.
The pan slammed down on the stove and warm soup splashed onto his arm. Another mess for Elizabeth to clean up. “I don’t wish to talk about it.” He looked for a towel.
“All right,” Father Murray said. “Let’s talk about a constable slaughtered in his home the night Mary Kate died. Let’s talk about the man’s wife telling the RUC she saw a great black dog tear apart her husband before her very eyes.”
Liam found what he sought and began wiping up the stove.
Father Murray entered the kitchen and whispered, “I know, Liam. The man’s gun had been fired. We found you with a matching gunshot wound a few blocks away. We wouldn’t have looked near the Falls Road but for Oran. He knew you’d go into the Shankill looking for revenge. And he was right, wasn’t he?”
Automatically placing a hand on the stove’s iron grill, Liam discovered its surface was still hot but not enough to burn—at least not in the way expected. A low-grade ache froze his skin. The tingling didn’t recede but at least it got no worse.
“Why? After all you’ve done to stay out of trouble—why would you resort to revenge? Would it have made Mary Kate happy, you think?”
The beast in the back of Liam’s head roared at the mention of Mary Kate, taking the agony in his head to new levels. “Don’t you talk about her!” He slammed his other hand down upon the stove top to stem the rush of emotion and pain.
“I covered for you. Blamed it upon another. One of the Fallen. They won’t be coming for you. Not now. And you damned well know who. But do it again, and I don’t know I can stop them. You can’t do anything like that ever again. Promise me.”
“Go, Father. Now.” Liam shuddered against the weight of all he was holding back. One of the iron rings came off the top of the stove, and he blinked before he realized it was designed to do so, and that he hadn’t broken it. “Get out. Please. For fuck’s sake. Before I do something else I’ll regret.”
Father Murray went out the door and turned in the hallway. His expression was filled with worry. “What are you going to do?”
The monster will have its way. And when we’re done there’ll be an end to it at last, Liam thought. He slammed the door in Father Murray’s face without giving him an answer, dropped the iron ring on the floor and then ran to the washroom to be sick.
Oran, Elizabeth and the kids were eating their dinner when the telephone rang. Elizabeth exchanged polite greetings and inquiries with the other end of the line before she paused next to the sofa with a worried look.
“It’s no trouble at all. Thank you, Mrs. Kelly. And the same to you,” she said. “Liam, it’s your Ma. Calling from Derry.” She held out the phone receiver.
He shook his head.
“She’s waiting to speak to you,” Elizabeth
said.
He rolled away from her to face the back of the sofa. The blow on his shoulder came as a shock. Rubbing the pain out, he looked up and saw Oran.
“Take the call,” Oran said.
With some effort, Liam dragged himself from the sofa. He accepted both phone and receiver from Oran and then staggered barefoot to the washroom, stretching the cord as far as it would go. Then Liam looped the cord under the door. It wasn’t quite long enough and left him sitting on the cold tiles with his bare back resting against the closed door for privacy—not the most comfortable position, but it would do.
“Liam? Are you there?” His mother’s voice was filled with concern.
It didn’t do much to stave off his resentment. “Aye.”
“Father Murray says—”
“Don’t want to hear it, Ma.”
“And why not?”
“Because the fuck talked Mary Kate into murdering our child. That’s why!” On the other side of the door, Liam heard a door slam. Elizabeth must have taken the weans for a walk to circumvent yet another dubious expansion of their burgeoning vocabularies. It was just as well.
“I don’t understand. What—”
“Father Murray convinced Mary Kate to have an abortion when she became pregnant a month after we were married.”
His mother gasped. “That’s impossible.”
“It is possible. Very fucking possible. When you consider Father Murray thought the babe would grow into a monster.”
“You’re not making any sense,” she said.
“It’s clean, I am,” Liam said. “Will no one fucking believe me?”
“Watch your language, young man. I’ll not listen to—”
“Why is it you never told me about my real Da?”
The question was met with shocked silence from the other end of the phone. Liam would’ve thought she’d rung off but for the sound of her breathing.
“Answer me, Ma. Why?”
