by Frank Zafiro
I laughed. “That sounds like something a government would do.”
He smiled. “It does, doesn’t it?”
“Especially the English,” I said.
A question formed in his eyes, but he left it unasked. “The thing is,” he said, “my mother didn’t agree. She said that the love songs were there to remind us why we got married in the first place. Why we fell in love.”
“Ah. A true romantic, she.”
“She was. And she warned me that someday, when I least expected it, I’d be hit by the thunderbolt.”
I smiled. I didn’t have to ask what that meant. My mother had never warned me about such things, but I sure as hell knew it when it happened.
After that, the words just spilled out of both of us. There was no pretense. No filter. As much as we rushed to know each other physically, our conversation roamed far and fast in an effort to know each other factually.
I learned he was an American from River City, Washington. He had no family left. I told him where I was from in Ireland and that only Uncle Terry remained in my family. We shared childhood stories. Dreams. We danced slowly up to the present day, nary a lie between us.
“Did ye find work here in Canada?” I asked him.
He shook his head. “I got in a little bit of trouble, so I had to leave town.”
“Law trouble?”
He shrugged. “It wasn’t really illegal. Just a little bit...funny.”
“Laddie, people don’t leave town over something that’s only a little bit funny.”
“They don’t, huh?”
“No. And they definitely don’t leave the country over it, either.”
“No? How about an entire continent? Do people do that?”
I was silent for long moment. Then I took a deep breath and I told him everything. I told him about growing up Catholic in the Northern Counties. About my mother getting sick when I was nine and dying at the hospital while my father and I were on the train to come and see her.
I didn’t stop there. I described the day I waved goodbye to my father. He waved goodbye from the street, his hat cocked on his head in that jaunty way he wore it. He smiled at me like only a father can smile and only at his daughter, at that. Then a car drove past with two men in it. The passenger leaned out and called his name. When he turned away from me, there were two sharp cracks. His head jerked back. His body pitched to the ground. The car accelerated away, leaving me alone with my own screams.
“That’s awful,” Laddie said, squeezing my shoulder. “Who did it?”
I shrugged. “I never knew for certain. Could have been the English. Could have been Sinn Fein, thinking he was collaborating with the English. Or any number of other possibilities.”
“What a mess,” he whispered.
“We have a saying in Northern Ireland,” I told him. “It says that where the Troubles are concerned, if ye’re not confused, ye don’t know what’s going on.”
“I believe it. Did you ever find out who the men were? Did you get them back?”
I shook my head. “No. Don’t go looking for a happy ending, Laddie. This is real life. And it’s an Irish story, not a Canadian one.”
“I’m American.”
“Even worse. You and your Hollywood.”
We fell silent, both lost in our own thoughts.
“You want something to drink?” he finally asked me.
“That’d be grand.”
He sat up and pulled on his jeans. “I’ll get some ice.”
I watched him grab the plastic bucket. The silhouette of his body seemed familiar to me somehow. Comforting.
“Be right back.” He slipped out the door, propping it open slightly with the swinging lock fixture.
I lay in the darkness, the smell of sweat and sex hanging over me. I wanted to berate myself for falling into bed with this strange man, and an American at that. But it felt too right. Too perfect. So I tried to convince myself that it was only a one-night stand. A night to forget. Or to remember but not speak of.
That didn’t work, either. I knew the same thing lying in bed that I knew standing in the bar the moment I met him. I was his until I died. And he mine.
I cursed in Old Irish and rubbed my eyes.
The door rattled and a black silhouette stepped through.
“Good,” I said. “I’m dying of thirst.”
He’d taken the two strides to the bed before I realized it wasn’t Laddie. “You greedy bitch!”
The voice had the barest hint of brogue. Probably a cousin of someone back home, I thought absently.
“How’d you find me?” I asked coolly.
“What? You think you’re so smart? Think we couldn’t follow you here to Vancouver? You think you can hide in a big city like this? After what you did?”
He was an amateur. A pro would have already shot me and been out of the room. He must have picked me up at the airport somehow. Someone figured out I was headed to Vancouver. But who?
And did they know about Uncle Terry? Or had they gotten to him already?
“Traitorous bitch,” he growled at me. “Turning on your own people.”
“Go feck yerself,” I told him. He’d probably lived his whole life here in Canada, far from the Troubles. What did he know of what went on over there? How many loved ones had he lost? He was just some eejit cousin of some other eejit back in Ireland.
“What did you say to me, you bi–”
I rolled off the far side of the bed, holding the pillow. As soon as I hit the floor, I tossed the pillow up into the air toward him.
He fired. The heavy clacking of the gun’s slide mechanism overshadowed the spitting sound of the silenced rounds.
Another moment and I was at his feet. I drove my shoulder into him hard, striking him behind the knee. His arms windmilled as he fell backwards. I jumped on top of him, grasping for the gun.
He threw a wild punch that grazed my forehead. I jabbed my thumb into his throat. He squealed and punched again. That one caught me flush in the jaw and lifted me backward. Stars flashed in my head.
I landed on the carpet with a heavy thud. The bright flashes faded to twinkle. My jaw throbbed.
“Fucking bitch!” he yelled, scrambling to his knees. “I’m going to blow your—”
His words were cut off. A rasping gurgle escaped his lips.
I shook my head to clear it. In the darkness, I could make out Laddie behind the intruder. His arms wrapped around the man’s throat like a boa constrictor. Both of the intruder’s hands flailed at Laddie’s squeezing arms.
The gun. Where was the gun?
I felt around on the floor until my hand touched metal. My fingers wrapped around the grips. It felt like a .45. Probably Colt.
“Let him go, Laddie. I’ve got the gun.”
Laddie gave him a final squeeze and pushed him to the floor.
“Get the light.”
Laddie rose and flicked on the table lamp. The intruder lay face down on the carpet, gasping for air and clutching at his throat.
“You should have let me kill him,” Laddie said.
“There’s still time for that. First I have some questions for the lad.” I prodded him with the tip of the silencer. “Up with ye now. I’ve a question or two.”
He let out a rasping cough, but forced himself up to a sitting position. When he looked at me, his eyes widened slightly. His gaze swept up and down my body.
“Get a good look, lad,” I said. “Because if ye don’t answer my questions, this’ll be the last girl ye ever see in the nip. Ye hearin’ me?”
He looked me in the eye and nodded. When he met my gaze, I saw the fear in those eyes. Fear was a good thing.
“Good. Now what’s yer name?”
“Walt,” he sputtered, rubbing his throat.
“Fine name, Walt. Fine name.” I leaned forward. “Now, Walt, this next question’s a bit important. I need to know who sent ye.”
He paused.
I pointed the gun at his foot and fired
.
The gun slide clacked. The silencer suppressed the crack of the explosion, but the concussive force of the round shook the room. The bullet tore into Walt’s foot. His eyes flew open wide in disbelief.
Then the pain set in.
Laddie immediately stepped forward with the pillow and pressed it against Walt’s mouth to suppress the screams. Walt’s face broke out in a deep sweat. Mucus flared out of his nostrils. His breath came in ragged gasps.
“Now do ye think I’m serious?”
He nodded frantically.
I motioned toward his foot. “A good doctor and a month of recuperation and that’ll be better. Leastways so ye can walk. Ye don’t look to me like much of an athlete, so I don’t imagine ye’ll miss the full use of it.” I swung the muzzle of the .45 toward his crotch. “But some things just don’t ever heal right.”
He shook his head rapidly left and right, terror mounting in his eyes.
“Are ye gonna tell me who sent ye?”
His motions changed to frantic up and down nods.
I met Laddie’s eyes. He moved the pillow away from Walt’s mouth.
Walt’s lips trembled. He stared down at his white tennis shoe as it slowly turned red.
“Who, lad?” I prompted him.
His eyes snapped to mine. “It was Niall. He’s my cousin.”
“I figured as much. And how did he know I was in Vancouver?”
He shrugged. “I don’t know exactly.”
I raised the gun to his other foot.
“No, please!”
“Tell me everything you do know.”
Walt whimpered. Then he told me his pathetic story. Niall figured out I’d fled to Canada. One of his computer geek mates was able to access the flight itineraries out of Ireland. I was afraid of that. They must not have had time or resources to come after me in Montreal, but by the time I got to Vancouver...
“Why you?”
“Niall said he needed it done quick. Before you disappeared.”
“What name did he give you?”
“Name?”
“What name did he call me by?”
“Angela Quinn.”
“And?”
“And that your real name was Shae.”
No mention of Tara Kelly. Maybe that was still safe.
“All he wants is the money,” Walt said. “He said if you had it, I was supposed to—”
“I don’t have his feckin’ money,” I snapped at him.
Walt blanched and stopped talking.
“When were you supposed to call him back, then?”
“As soon as I...as soon as it was done.”
I glanced up at Laddie. His face was calm.
“Well, Walt, then I’d say ‘tis done.” I raised the pistol and fired a round directly into his forehead. His body flopped to the floor and lay still.
“We should go,” Laddie said.
“Do ye think?” I asked sarcastically.
He nodded, a slow smile spreading over his face. “Yeah. This is one of those situations that’s a little bit funny.”
We cleaned up as best we could and dressed. Laddie had fewer possessions than I did. His room was rented under an alias. We slipped out into the night. I was going to leave the .45 behind, but Laddie couldn’t bear to part with it.
“Besides,” he said, “you never know when you’ll need it.”
At my motel, I grabbed my bag. We took his tiny Datsun and drove to the other side of Vancouver before holing up in a Motel 6.
Inside the room, we sat at the small table in silence. I wanted to tell Laddie the story that got me here. How brokering a simple, if strange, deal had gone to shit. How Niall’s crew, the IRA and the cops all wanted my hide. But somehow, I think he understood it without being told.
I lifted the telephone and dialed Terry’s number from memory. Terry picked up the phone with a sleepy “hello.”
“Terry? It’s Tara.”
“Tara? How are you, lass?”
“I’m all right. You weren’t at the airport.”
“I know. And I’m sorry. But your Aunt Mary had a stroke. I had to take her into the hospital in Cranbrook. I tried to leave you a message at the airport—”
“I heard them call for me. I wasn’t sure I should answer.”
“I understand. Listen, I can come get you in the morning, I think. Will you be okay until I —”
I looked over at Laddie. “I might have a ride worked out,” I told Terry.
“A ride? How’s that?”
“I’ll explain when I see you. And I’ll see you soon.”
He was silent for a few moments. “All right,” he said finally. “I’ll see you soon.”
I hung up the phone and returned my gaze to Laddie. “I have an uncle,” I said.
“That’s nice.”
“In Rossland.”
“Good.”
“We can hide out there.”
He was quiet for a moment. “Yeah, maybe. But we need some cash first. Enough to last a year or two.”
“A year or two? Where in the hell are we going to –”
“Don’t worry,” he said. “I’m a good planner. Everything will go like clockwork.”
“What will?”
He held up the .45 and waggled it.
“Ye want to rob someone?
He shook his head. “Not someone. Something.”
“Stores?”
“Nope.” He smiled. “Banks, baby. We’ll rob banks.”
I stared back at him. I knew I couldn’t say no.
I knew I didn’t want to.
I’d found my new life.
Egyptian Eyes and Irish Lies
The trip out to the deserted farmhouse was bumpy and silent. The bumps came from the dirt road that tossed Niall’s small car about. The car lurched left and right and in and out of the deep ruts, rattling my teeth. The rust bucket creaked in protest with each jolt. I wondered again if the bottom would fall out before we reached our destination.
The silence was because I didn’t entirely trust the fucker Niall.
The car lurched to a stop at the end of the lane. Niall killed the engine and beamed over at me. “Are ye ready to see something grand?”
“If ye’re only trying to impress me to get into my knickers, save yerself the trouble,” I told him. “That’s not happening.”
He gave me a sly smile and said nothing.
I sighed. I wanted to tell him that one time—a drunken mistake, at that—doesn’t mean a pile of shite, but it wouldn’t do any good. He’d only smile wider.
“Why are we here?” I asked instead.
“Ye’ll see,” he said, pulling the keys from the ignition. Without a word, he opened the car door and got out.
I cursed in old Irish and followed him.
Niall strode to the front door of the faded, leaning farmhouse with confidence, his swagger more pronounced than usual. I walked behind him, more cautious. I didn’t think he’d be fool enough to take a girl out into the country and rape her, but with some lads, you never know. He’d have a surprise coming if he tried, though.
The windows to the farmhouse were all either broken or boarded over. The roof had fallen into disrepair. I wondered briefly how much of the interior remained dry when the rains came.
At the door, Niall paused. He gave a knock, paused again, then gave another series of knocks.
“Secret Agent Man,” I whispered sarcastically.
Niall shot a hard glance over his shoulder at me. “Mind yer tongue. This is serious business.”
“Oh, really? But a moment ago, ye were giddy like a schoolboy. Now, suddenly, it’s serious business?”
His eyes narrowed. “It’s for the Cause, lass. Now shut yer gob.”
“Go feck yerself.”
He turned around and took a step toward me. “Don’t think ye’re above getting yer pretty little arse beat.”
The door cracked open and a voice filtered out. “Brian?”
Niall’s jaw clenched
. He pointed his finger at me and jabbed it in the air. Then he raised his eyebrows to ask if I understood his warning.
I figured the man takes himself far too seriously, but I nodded back to him all the same. It was more out of curiosity than anything. That and being in the middle of the nowheres with him and now a second man, too.
“Brian?” The voice behind the door repeated. The question was followed by a metallic click.
My ears pricked up at that. I’d heard enough gun hammers cocked to know the sound.
“No, lad,” Niall said, turning away from me. “It’s me. Niall.”
There was a pause, then the door swung open. “Get in here. Quickly.”
Niall walked through the door. I hesitated.
“Ah, feckin’ Jaysus. Ye brought her?”
I recognized Sean’s voice then. I’d have sighed again, except I knew that while I couldn’t always trust Niall, Sean was off his nut. And he had a gun, the plonker. I didn’t figure it wise to provoke him.
“Well, get yer arse in here, then,” he snapped at me. He waved his empty hand in my direction. Then he looked over my shoulder at Niall’s car. “Aw, fer Christ’s sake, Niall. Why don’t ye jes’ put out a feckin’ sign that says ‘Here Be Rebels?’ What’re ye thinking, parking right out in the open like that?”
“Dry up, Sean, and let Shae in.”
Sean rolled his eyes and waved me inside. I stepped through the door and into a musty living room. A lantern glowed on the mantel of the old stone fireplace. In the corner, I spotted a wooden box full of groceries and a sleeping bag. That wasn’t nearly so interesting as the coffin covered in a sheet next to it.
“Ah, Jaysus,” I murmured, a small spike of fear cutting through my stomach. “Don’t be telling me that the two of ye went and killed someone.”
“What if we did?” Niall said.
I motioned at the covered coffin. “Then I’d say it was right grand of ye to provide him with all he needs for a proper burial.”
Niall smirked.
I didn’t know why he’d asked me out to this farmhouse, but I decided it was time to get to the core of it. “If ye did kill someone,” I told him, “then that’s yer own feckin’ business. Ye don’t need to be bringing me into it.”
Niall said nothing.
I stepped closer to him. “And further, ye can drop the tough man o’ Sinn Fein pose. I’m not impressed.”
