Of Blood and Honey (Fey and the Fallen)

by Stina Leicht

“I told you. On your seventeenth birthday!”

  “A photo stuck into a book is not telling me! It’s avoiding the subject! Same as you have my whole life, Ma! Did it never occur to you that I should know what it is that I am? That having such a father might affect me in some way? That Father Murray might use that as an excuse to kill our child—Mary Kate’s and mine?” Sweat felt slick on his skin and the rapid beat of his heart urged the pain in his temples into higher levels.

  There was a muffled conversation on the other end of the phone. He assumed she was at his Gran’s house—the only person with a phone who could afford a lengthy call to Belfast. She must’ve asked for privacy because a familiar disgruntled sound preceded a slamming door. After a few moments his mother spoke into the receiver at a whisper. “You seemed perfectly normal to me.”

  “Normal? I’m normal, am I?” His stomach twisted into a queasy knot. “Are you sure about that?”

  She sighed.

  “Tell me, Ma. Please.”

  She paused, and her hesitation only served to make him angrier. He spoke through clenched teeth. “I’ve a right to know the truth.”

  “His name is Bran—”

  “I know that already. Bran Monroe—”

  “The family name—Monroe. That, she made up. A lie. Your grandmother insisted. She told everyone that your father was in the British Navy. That he and I had run off together because the Church wouldn’t marry us. And that your father died before you were born. Drowned, it was. That I’d come crawling back after. I was too young to fight her. The lie was the only way she’d allow me to keep you. The only way I could bring you into the house. Otherwise, they would’ve forced me to give you up. For adoption. I couldn’t. I’m so sorry.”

  Liam swallowed the lump forming at the back of his throat. It was quite a lot to process all at once. So. It’d all been a lie. Nonetheless, it wasn’t the whole of the truth, and he wanted all of it. He wouldn’t settle for anything less this time. “Father Murray seems to think my Da is—” He closed his eyes and forced the question out past the pain in his head and the itching chill in his bones. It was the only way he’d know for sure. “He seems to think my real Da is some sort of… demon. Is it true, Ma?” The words sounded mad echoing off the practical reality of white washroom walls. The chill seeped through the seat of his jeans. He gritted his teeth to keep them from chattering and berated himself for not bringing a blanket from the couch but—

  “Father Murray means well, but... no. Your father is not a fallen angel or a demon,” she said, her voice gaining a measure of confidence. “He’s Fey.”

  “He’s mad?”

  “No. At least I don’t think so. He’s one of the Fianna.”

  “What?”

  “You heard me. He’s a Fey warrior. He can change forms, so he can.”

  Liam felt suddenly dizzy as if someone had yanked a rug from beneath him.

  “He can become an eagle or a horse. Many things. I’ve seen it. He’s a púca. Like in the stories,” she said.

  The wolfhound at the Kesh, he thought. Was it him? “I’m—I’m Fey. Not mad. Fey.”

  “You’re my son. You’re human. No matter what they say.”

  “I’m not human, Ma.”

  “You are—”

  “No, Ma. Listen to me. I’m like my father. Do you hear? Like the—like the stories Aunt Sheila used to tell. Shite. That’s why she told me those stories, isn’t it? She knew, didn’t she? Gran knew. Father Murray knew. Did everyone know but me?”

  “Don’t do this to yourself—”

  I could’ve saved her, my Mary Kate, if I’d but known. The knowledge of it slammed into his gut and threatened to force up the soup he’d consumed earlier. His own mother had lied to him.

  She sniffed. The sound of it carried over the phone line. “You’re my son. Nothing else ever mattered.”

  I could’ve saved her, he thought as the phone dropped from his hand.

  “Liam? Liam? Please listen to me! I only ever meant to protect you!”

  “That’s all I ever wanted. To protect my family. You didn’t tell me what I should’ve known. I could’ve saved her, Ma. Had I but known. I could’ve saved them both.”

  He let her tinny voice rattle off excuses at empty air until he gathered enough energy to slap at the phone and ring off. He’d had enough.

  “Well,” Oran said, “What do you think?”

  It had been two days since Father Murray’s visit, and Liam felt more focused than he had in a long time. His mother had attempted to speak to him several times over the past forty-eight hours, but he’d refused. There were no complications now—nothing holding him back. He knew what he had to do, and he would do it. Nothing else mattered. No longer lost, he had purpose. He stared at the blue Escort and frowned. “What do I think? It’s an RS2000. That’s what I think.”

  Oran said, “It’s newer. It’s better.”

  “I drive 1600s. I know 1600s. I know how they work. I know what to expect out of them. How hard I can push them. How much they can take. I don’t drive 2000s.”

  Oran sighed. “Well, you’ll drive this 2000 because that’s what we’ve got. Would you rather drive your cab? It’s what the others resort to, you know.”

  “Why didn’t you let me get the car?”

  “Because you’re in no shape for it, that’s why.” Oran slammed the hood shut. “What the fuck’s the matter with you?”

  Liam paced the littered yard behind Bobby’s mechanic shop, his work boots crunching gravel and old cigarette butts. The place smelled of discarded oil. He threw himself down on the old car seat the staff used for a sofa. It let out a whiff of mildewed vinyl. He picked up a small stone and threw it at the chain-link fence. The sky was an angry grey. “It’s going to rain tonight. Pavement will be wet.”

  “Isn’t it always?” Oran asked, sitting next to him on the bench seat. It tilted a little and then righted itself. “Won’t have to worry about it for a couple of days yet.”

  Liam paused. He suddenly guessed what Oran must be thinking, and he didn’t like it. “I’ll need to take it out.”

  “Fair enough,” Oran said. “You should get acquainted.”

  “It’s got good tires on it.”

  Oran grunted.

  “I hear the suspension handles better. I won’t have to make any adjustments.”

  “How would you know?” Oran asked. “You been unconscious for at least a month.”

  “More like three.”

  “Right.”

  Getting out a cigarette, Liam then offered one to Oran. Oran accepted and lit the end.

  Liam took a deep drag and then settled back, blowing out his nervousness in a small cloud of smoke. “It’s going to be all right, you know.”

  “What is?”

  “The drive,” Liam said. “You don’t have to worry about me. I’m ready.”

  Oran peered at him out of the corner of his eye. “Didn’t say you weren’t.”

  Selecting another rock, Liam tossed it at the fence. The metal links let out a ring, the stone bounced off and hit one of the junked-out cars Bobby used for parts.

  “You’re not wearing your crucifix,” Oran said.

  Liam shrugged.

  “Blaming God are we?” Oran asked.

  “Doesn’t matter,” Liam said. “I’m bound for Hell anyway.”

  “What the fuck are you on about?”

  Sirens echoed off the buildings, and it wasn’t until the shouts came from the front of the shop that Liam understood what was happening. He jumped to his feet and dragged Oran up with him.

  “The fence. Come on,” Liam said.

  “But Bobby—”

  “He’s up front. Peelers have nicked him already.”

  Liam ran and jumped, grabbing the links and pulling himself up. The fence shuddered with Oran’s weight, and Liam almost lost his grip. He reached the top, dropped down the other side and landed on his feet. Although constables were jogging up one end of the alley, he could easily outrun th
em. Oran might have trouble, but it was possible.

  “Stop right there, you Fenian bastards!”

  A scent drifting down the alley brought Liam up short—a scent that dredged up memories of a stairwell in December, of three masked men wearing constable’s shoes. Liam stopped and put up his hands.

  “What are you doing?” Oran grabbed his arm and tugged.

  “Go! I’ll keep them busy,” Liam said.

  Oran glanced backward. “We can both make it.”

  “I said go!” Liam jerked free.

  “I won’t leave you.”

  Someone shoved Liam from behind, and he fell and hit his chin on the ground, biting his tongue. Tears sprang into his eyes at the fresh burst of pain. Tasting blood, he was roughly searched. His hands were jerked behind him and the cuffs locked into place. He could hear Oran jabbering about his wife and kids and needing to give them a call. Liam had been taught to keep his mouth shut, but he assumed Oran had his reasons and knew what he was doing. For himself, Liam would follow orders. He’d made enough mistakes, and he wasn’t about to make another.

  The constables yanked him up from the ground. Liam turned to see his captors, risking a beating to get a visual to match the scent. He was rewarded with a glimpse of red hair and a narrow nose before he was slammed face-first against the chain-link fence.

  Got you, the monster thought.

  “What’s your name?”

  The constable on the other side of the table was balding, and his uniform coat fit neatly across broad shoulders. He had introduced himself as Detective Inspector Haddock in a Liverpool accent smothered with London. He stank of stale cigarettes and old beer, and it made Liam want to be sick. He sat on a hard wooden chair, his wrists trapped in cuffs and focused on the steel table in front of him. The detective was playing yet another pointless game with him—one of many Liam had endured over the past seven days. Detective Inspector Haddock knew his name already. The RUC had Liam’s driver’s license along with everything else that’d been in his pockets when they’d arrested him.

  “I know you can talk,” D.I. Haddock said. “Heard you squawk when Johnston gave you that thumping. So, you can just answer the fucking question.”

  Not going to talk. So, you can toss me back in the cell, thought Liam. But you can’t, can you? Time is up. If you were going to ship me off to prison you’d have started the process already. Right? So, this is just the last gasp before you let me go.

  D.I. Haddock slammed both fists down on the table, and Liam involuntarily jumped.

  “Answer the question!”

  Turning away, Liam thought of how the beast would resume its work. First on the list was the big ginger Peeler. Liam didn’t need a name. Now that he knew where the man was stationed, tracking him to his home would be easy. Then would come the questions. Liam couldn’t believe his luck. He hadn’t even had to search the city—just endure a few days of shortened sleep and the occasional hiding. D.I. Haddock with his empty threats was not important. D.I. Haddock wasn’t even worth worrying about.

  “Fine, then. Don’t talk, and we’ll let you go. You’ve done your seven days. That’s how this plays out, is it?” D.I. Haddock asked. “But there’s more. See, here’s the best part, young Mr. Kelly. I may know you didn’t talk. And you may know you didn’t talk. But your friends aren’t going to be so sure, are they? And you’re in enough trouble with them already, aren’t you?”

  D.I. Haddock grabbed Liam’s arm and shoved his sleeve up, exposing the track marks inside his elbow.

  “I don’t know where you found heroin in this godforsaken country. I don’t particularly care because frankly, I don’t give a damn what you fucking Paddies do to yourselves,” D.I. Haddock said. “But your friends do care don’t they? And who’s to say you didn’t sell out for a hit? Maybe even a whole supply?” He set his teeth in a vicious grin. “Yes. That’s right. I think maybe I should have someone contact you outside. Once a week. Be sly about it but not quite sly enough. Make sure they know. Make a few calls. Keep an eye on you. Maybe even leave you something for your trouble. Whether you accept it or not won’t make a difference. It’s their perception of the situation that matters.”

  Liam jerked his arm free and glared.

  “Got to you, have I?” Haddock asked. “Yes. I have. I can see. Welcome to the rest of your life, you piece of shit. You think you can fuck with me? You’re wrong. I can make bloody sure the last moments of your life are a living hell. And the nice part is, I won’t even have to lift a finger. Your Fenian scum friends will do it for me.”

  Haddock lit a cigarette and blew the smoke in his face. Liam didn’t move.

  “Way I see it, this is your last chance.” Haddock said, “All we really have to do is shoot you up and plant a kit on you. A pretty picture, that. One even a Paddy could put together.”

  Looking away, Liam listened to the sound of his heart. His whole body quivered with each thudding beat. He’s lying. He can’t do it. He won’t. He’s a Peeler. It’s a threat, that’s all. Peelers are bastards, but he won’t do it. Calm down. Don’t show him anything. They’ve fucking revoked political status. You’ll go in for good. Don’t say anything. Don’t give him anything. Don’t—

  “Nigel!” D.I. Haddock reached inside his coat and brought out a zippered bag. “It’s time!”

  The door slammed open and a Peeler came in. Liam recognized him from the beatings. He was a few inches shorter than Liam and weighed at least twice as much. Of course, after two months of Jimmy’s smack Liam couldn’t have fought Oran’s Granny. Constable Nigel Johnston had blond hair, a crooked nose and a really unpleasant right hook. He stepped behind Liam’s chair and placed a meaty palm on each shoulder. Haddock unzipped the bag.

  “Hallway is clear,” Constable Johnston said, “We’ve fifteen minutes. No more.”

  “Time is running out fast,” Haddock said, holding up a spoon. “Don’t get the idea I don’t know what to do. I worked narcotics for six years. Undercover.” He set the spoon on the table and unbuckled his belt. Then he came around the table and looped the belt around Liam’s arm and drew it tight. The detective’s hands were cold.

  “One minor infraction,” Haddock said, “And they send me to this… shit hole. Fucking Belfast.”

  Liam watched in horror as Haddock cooked the heroin in the spoon using the cigarette lighter from the zippered bag. The syringe plunged into the cotton ball. Haddock’s movements were efficient. Practiced. “Hold him tight, Johnston. Don’t want him to wiggle and make a mess, now do we?”

  Fear shot ice shards into Liam’s stomach, and sweat trickled down his sides. It’s only a threat. He’s not really going to—

  “This is high-grade smack. Shame to waste it on the likes of you. One last time,” Haddock said in his terse accent. “What’s your name?”

  Liam tried to get up from the chair but was slammed back down at once. He wasn’t in shape for a fight, and Constable Nigel Johnston knew exactly how to handle himself. Liam had learned that much the hard way.

  Haddock held up the syringe. “Your choice,” he said and then pinned Liam’s left wrist to the steel table with the other hand. The needle stabbed down and sharp pain rocketed up Liam’s arm.

  “No!” He tried to escape, to dislodge the needle and failed.

  “Too late,” Haddock said, clucking like a disappointed school teacher. “You had your chance.”

  The heroin was still warm as it entered Liam’s veins. Struggling, he didn’t notice when the belt had been removed. Either Haddock had been none too gentle when he’d removed the needle or it’d been his own struggles, but blood dripped on the floor. Liam blinked, feeling dizzy. He had a whole inventory of bruises, cuts and a number of cigarette burns courtesy of Constable Johnston. Small pains. All of them vanished in a warm haze and then Liam’s eyes fluttered closed.

  “Oh, no. You’re not sleeping here.”

  “Did you give him too much?”

  “He’s just being stubborn. Fucking Paddies.”
<
br />   Liam’s head rocked back.

  “Wakey, wakey.”

  “We’ve only four minutes, boss.”

  “Get him out of here.”

  Then movement. Grey tiles. A car. Ribbed vinyl upholstery sticky against his cheek. The smell of old cigarettes. Door open. Outside. Cold. Pavement. Steps. There were steps, and he was using the rail to keep himself from falling. Marveling at the cold steel in his palm and no pain. Water oozed from the sky in icy silver sheets, but he couldn’t feel it. The warmth in his veins burned out all other sensations. The colors. Everything outlined in gold. Beautiful. A woman stood in front of him. She had dark wavy hair, freckles and amazing brown eyes. Her flower print dress bulged about the middle. Pregnant. She spoke but he couldn’t make sense of the sounds she made. Pretty sounds. He sat, unable to go any further. His hand in a water puddle. Threads of bright red swirling in cloud-filled water. Reflection, Liam thought. It’s a reflection. Red liquid stained the sky, and he wondered if it would rain blood. He thought of the plagues in the Bible and started to laugh. An angel came for the first born. Had it been a fallen angel? Someone screamed. Oran appeared. A dark bruise over his left eye.

  “Didn’t,” Liam said, seeing the anger etch lines in Oran’s face.

  Oran’s mouth moved, but again Liam couldn’t make any sense of what was being said. His head grew too heavy to hold up. So he rested it on the walk and watched black patches form in the clouds. The inky spots bled over everything until there wasn’t anything else.

  Chapter 22

  Andersonstown, Belfast, County Antrim, Northern Ireland

  April 1977

  A knife blade of pain shot up the inside of Liam’s left arm and lodged into his spine somewhere between his shoulder blades. “Mac an mhadaidh sráide!”

  “Stop jumping about,” Oran said. “Let me change the bandage.”

  Seven-year-old Brian sat next to his father, his little face intent under thick brown curls. “What did Uncle Liam say?”

  Oran jerked the dressing free none too gently, taking parts of the scab with it. Liam pressed his lips together to keep from screaming something else little Brian would regret repeating.