Mermaid in a Bowl of Tears (Exit Unicorns Series Book 2)

by Cindy Brandner

  “Casey—” she began, but he cut her off, voice eager, but tender with feeling.

  “Do ye ever think of it? There we were an ocean apart, havin’ our own experiences, dreams an’ fears, not aware of the existence of the other an’ yet every decision, every fork in our separate paths was bringin’ us closer together. The first time I saw ye,” his voice was very low, and she could feel the touch of his eyes, soft on her face in the deepening twilight, “I felt as if all that time I’d been waitin’ for somethin’ only I didn’t know it until I saw yer face. An’ that,” he swallowed as if suddenly nervous, “is how I felt when I saw this wee bit of land, an’ the tree that had survived eons of time. It was as though I’d come home, and this place had simply been waitin’ for us to find it.”

  “You want to buy this?” she asked, aware suddenly of the emerald gloom that had descended into the hollow.

  “Aye, well—” he swallowed again, an odd half-smile playing about his lips, “as a matter of fact I have bought it.”

  “What?!”

  “Now Jewel,” he began in a wheedling tone, hands out in a supplicating gesture that was designed to sooth.

  “You can save the sweet talk, you silver-tongued Hibernian bastard,” she said, hands on hips. “And explain to me how long you’ve been up to this.”

  He attempted a weak grin. “I’m feelin’ a real kinship here to those neighborhood boys ye spoke of before.”

  “You’re not bleeding,” she said grimly, “yet.”

  He winced slightly and sighed, face sobering suddenly. “It’s only when I found the place I could see us here, growin’ old together, watchin’ our children play amongst the trees. I wanted more than anything to rebuild the house here on this spot, to feel it shape an’ form beneath my hands and rise up on a foundation that was more than just mortar an’ bricks. Maybe it sounds foolish to ye, but can ye honestly tell me Jewel that ye don’t feel it? This spot, this wee bit of earth is special. It’s consecrated.”

  She did feel it, had from the minute he took her hand and led her down the stairs. She sighed, knowing he had her over a barrel. He saw the capitulation in her face and just barely restrained a grin of satisfaction. He took her hands, pulling her off the damp stone.

  “I want to give ye a home Jewel, will ye allow me to build ye one? Will ye accept the work of my two hands an’ know that every board an’ nail is fastened with love?”

  She looked about her, seeing it with an unromantic eye, being that it was now connected to the balance in their bank account for several years to come.

  There was no denying that the hollow held great charm. Bottle green shadows clustered at the foot of trees and gathered amid the tall grass. The gate, once white, was furred with moss and tiny purple flowers. In this hour, between light and dark, it might have been the portal from the real world to a place of timeless enchantment. However, she could see the house would need a great deal of work, as would the outbuildings which would have to be re-constructed from the foundation up. On the other hand, the house, appearances notwithstanding, looked solid enough. The hollow was ringed in trees, a veritable forest of pine and elm, with a lone ash tree spreading its strong branches over the laneway. Yes, a good place to retreat from the world. To raise children and grow old, watching generations come and go.

  “The wee village just down the lane is called Coomnablath—it means the hollow of the flowers. I thought it suited. That I should like to build ye a home in a hollow filled with flowers.”

  His words held the unmistakable ring of sincerity, and the sound of a man who’d found his bit of earth and wasn’t to be moved from it.

  “Where you go, Casey Riordan,” she said quietly, moving into the circle of his arms, “I follow.”

  “Will I build ye a house then, Jewel?” he asked softly, though she could detect the tremble of pure happiness beneath his words.

  “Aye, build me a home,” she replied, and heard the echo of joy in her own words.

  “I told ye I’d provide ye with better than stars for a roof an’ leaves for a pillow someday.”

  “Casey,” she pointed out practically, “there is no roof on that house.”

  “Aye, well I did say someday, did I not?”

  She laid her head against his arm, the smell of crushed fern and tobacco rising from the weave of his sweater. In the hollow the little house, neglected as it was at present, glowed softly, as though it saw a glimpse of its own redemption.

  “Welcome home Jewel,” Casey said, and the words, said with such love, seemed a blessing on this venture.

  Above the first evening star winked into life, right upon the dark crest of a pine. And suddenly she felt an upwelling of joy flood her entire being. Casey was right, this house, this bit of land had been waiting for the two of them to come and make it a home.

  A home. Their home.

  With the moon for light, the stars for a roof and the scent of roses all around.

  Chapter Twenty-six

  The Boy

  THE FREAK FALL OF SNOW was the last they saw of winter. The weather had turned quickly after that, the day’s hours stretching out noticeably and a fine haze of green wrapping itself around Belfast’s shoulders.

  Casey had begun work on the house; the foundation had been re-poured and the lumber delivered for repairs to the framework. He’d also undertaken repairs on the crumbling stone fireplace.

  “I didn’t know you could do stonework,” Pamela commented, when he’d shown her the plans he’d drawn for renovations to their home.

  “Aye, spent a year apprenticed out to a master mason, an’ learned my lessons well enough that I can manage something like a fireplace. It’ll not be an elegant thing, but if it draws the smoke upwards an’ throws a bit of heat into the room, I’ll not complain.”

  “You were apprenticed to a mason?”

  “When I was fourteen. I’d quit school an’ Da’ figured a good dose of manual labor would cure me of my longin’ to be part of the work force. Didn’t work though, turned out I’d a bit of talent for it an’ I enjoyed the work.”

  Things were progressing fairly well at the youth center as well, though he’d not as much time as he would have liked to get the inside of the old building fixed up. Both boys and girls had begun to drop by, and as he was the chief, cook and bottle washer as well as bookkeeper and counselor, there wasn’t a great deal of time left over to play carpenter. He’d managed a patch and paint job as well as a few shelves and repairs to an old table that someone had donated.

  This morning he planned to get a start on fixing the myriad leaks the ceiling was perforated with right after breakfast, but had to go out and get the plaster and a few other things for repairs. He was juggling cans and attempting to open the door when his keys dropped through the grating in the sidewalk.

  “Jaysus Murphy,” he muttered in frustration. The grate was ancient and weighed as much as he himself did. He sighed and got down on all fours, setting the plaster cans to the side.

  He peered through the grate, unable to catch a glimpse of the key in the muck that lined the hole. He swore softly. Pamela was off taking pictures out Ballymena way so his only option was to go to Pat’s work, and hope his brother had the spare keys on him. It meant at least an hour’s delay on his own work day.

  “I can pick the lock for ye.”

  He straightened up slowly, hardly breathing. He’d helped a lad out of a scrape with some Republican toughs three days before. He hoped he wasn’t about to face the consequences of that action. But when he stood to his full height, he discovered a gangly, awkward boy with a black eye and swollen lip adorning his fair-skinned face. A shock of ginger hair fell over blue eyes, and the end of one long finger was being chewed nervously. He narrowed his own eyes in recognition; it was the boy he’d just missed rescuing from the silver car two weeks before.

  “Can ye?” He knew he shouldn’t be furthering the child’s criminal career by taking him up on the offer, but on the other hand he didn’t relish the tr
ip to get the spare keys.

  “Aye, I can, but then ye have to let me have a word with ye.”

  Casey sighed, watching his quiet morning swiftly disappear. “Ye can have a word, if ye can get us inside.” He twitched his nose towards the building across the way. “There are ears listenin’, if ye take my meanin’.”

  The boy nodded, and then dug about in his pockets. He came up with a professional lock pick. The ancient doorknob was no match for his expertise, the door swung open within thirty seconds.

  “Come in then,” Casey said, opening the door and flicking the lights on.

  He took off his coat, throwing it over a chair before shuffling through the previous day’s mail, all the while keeping an eye on the boy to judge his demeanor.

  He still stood in the narrow entry, though he’d been swift to shut the door behind him. He took in his surroundings with suspicious eyes, as though he expected someone to leap out at any moment and throw a gunnysack over his head.

  “It’s not so much to look at just yet,” Casey commented casually, “but it’ll be decent enough when we’re done. We’ve the small lending library,” he nodded toward the shelf of worn paperbacks, with a smattering of ancient hardbacks that constituted their library. “Do ye read?”

  “Na,” the boy said, “readin’ is a waste of time. It’s all pretend isn’t it, words? Don’t mean much on the streets.”

  “It depends on yer situation I suppose.”

  “How d’ye mean?” The question was asked in a harsh tone; the child certainly seemed a native of Belfast’s streets.

  “Well if ye have a deal of time on yer hands, ye might be grateful for books. I know I read plenty when I was in prison.” The boy’s eyes widened slightly at this pronouncement. That ought to go some way toward establishing his own street credibility, Casey thought with satisfaction.

  “Now what is it ye want to talk about?”

  “Johnny McGuire said yer a good man in a spot of trouble.”

  “Did he then? An’ what else did our fine Mr. McGuire tell ye?”

  “That ye were a mite hard at times, but that ye’d not a hypocritical bone in yer body. He said ye always play fair.” And that, thought Casey, was about as kind a character assessment as he was likely to ever have bestowed upon him.

  “What is this spot of trouble Johnny thought I could assist ye with?”

  “I’d like to have someone rubbed out,” the boy said, face dead white, but determined beneath his freckles.

  Casey’s eyebrows shot up toward his hairline. “I think ye’ve been watchin’ too many American gangster movies. I’m not in the business of takin’ care of people in that manner.”

  “Look, if yer not interested I can take my case elsewhere.”

  Casey took a deep breath and reached into the reservoir of patience this boy was rapidly depleting.

  “I’m interested in helpin’ ye man, but by help I don’t mean haulin’ dead bodies about in the boot of my car. However, if there’s somethin’ short of murder I can do to assist ye, I’ll be more than happy to do so.”

  The boy wrapped his arms around himself tighter, pale pointed face decidedly unhealthy under its bruising. “Just feckin’ forget it alright? The lads up at the home said you were different, but yer just like everyone else, ye won’t see what ye don’t want to.”

  “What home?” Casey asked sharply.

  “Kincora,” the boy said defensively, “the boy’s home.”

  “Come to the kitchen,” Casey said, “I’ll make ye a cup of tea an’ find somethin’ for ye to eat. Then I think ye’d best start at the beginning.”

  The boy followed him to the kitchen, arms still crossed defensively over his thin chest. He sat at the newly finished table and eyed Casey with fervent suspicion. Feeling a tad suspicious himself, Casey kept the boy in his peripheral vision as he fired up the stove, cracking eggs one-handed while taking the sausage out of its brown butcher paper.

  He put the kettle on to boil, measured tea out into the pot and rolled the sausages over onto their sides as they began to sizzle in the pan. Generally he’d no trouble talking to anyone, but was at a bit of a loss as to where one picked up the conversation after being asked to kill someone. Thus the room remained quiet, other than the pop of the eggs frying in butter, and the low hum of the kettle as the water began to roll inside of it.

  When the food was ready, Casey added two slices of bread to the plate for good measure and set it in front of the boy.

  He hesitated over the food, though he was only too obviously teetering on the fine edge of starvation.

  “Eat up,” Casey said gruffly, putting the pot of tea on the table between the two of them. “I’m not interested in a thing ye have to say until ye fill yer stomach.”

  The boy accordingly ate, with one eye on the door and one flicking up and down from his plate to Casey. A bloody street rat, who trusted no one and likely wasn’t very trustworthy himself. Casey knew he’d have to take anything the boy said with a generous serving of salt.

  Casey poured himself a cup of tea, added the sugar and milk, and then in an offhand tone asked, “Ye want to tell me who the man was tryin’ to push ye into the car two weeks back?”

  The boy hesitated halfway through swallowing a sausage whole, lashes sweeping down to cover his eyes. “Just someone I know.”

  “Didn’t seem over fond of the man,” Casey said calmly, noting the nervous tick that had set up in the boy’s left eyelid. “Here have some more tea, are ye full then?” The boy had pushed the plate away, as clean and free of traces of food as a starving mongrel would have left it.

  “Full as I’m likely to get,” the boy said matter-of-factly, “can’t seem to make food last for more than an hour or two an’ then I’m starvin’ again.”

  “Aye well,” Casey poured a generous dollop of cream into the tea, “yer tall. My da’ claimed I ate twice my own weight everyday when I was yer age. Have ye been on the streets long?” He tacked the question on casually, as if it were a query about the weather.

  “Long as my memory goes back,” the boy said, then gave him a sharp glance as if he’d been tricked into revealing a dark secret.

  “Now that ye’ve eaten, do ye want to tell me what ye think I can do for ye?” Casey asked, fervently hoped the subject of contract killing wasn’t going to resurface.

  “Johnny McGuire said he dropped in here, said ye were easy to talk with an’ that ye’d helped him out of a—” here the boy’s tongue faltered slightly, “situation.”

  “Aye, I did,” Casey said dryly.

  The ‘situation’ had been trouble with the lad’s local chapter of the IRA. Johnny had been stealing bicycles for a fence that operated out of Dublin. The IRA had verbally expressed their disapproval of this particular manner of making a living, and had warned a non-verbal admonition would follow it up. Casey had intervened on the boy’s behalf, the OC of those streets being someone he’d chummed with in grammar school. It had taken a little arm-twisting, a great deal of charm and promises he’d rather not have made, but in the end, Johnny, while no longer in possession of contraband cycles, was still the owner of two unblemished kneecaps. Word being what it was on the streets, he’d had a steadily increasing stream of boys popping in to see if he could ‘help’ them out. Quite often it consisted of little more than a meal and, if they were sufficiently relaxed, a listening ear.

  “Ye were sayin’ ye’d come from the boy’s home?” He had heard rumors about the things that went on behind the walls of the school and none of them were good.

  “I did. What do ye know of the place?”

  “Enough,” Casey said, “to know it’s not a place ye’ll be longin’ to get back to.”

  “The man ye saw me with t’other day, he’s the governor of the Home. I’d run off a few weeks back, can’t live there no more. ‘Twas sheer bad luck he saw me that day.”

  “Yer afraid of him.”

  The boy nodded, and seemed to make up his mind to something. The words came in
a rush after that. “Bastard’s a flaming nance, everyone knows it but no one’s brave enough to say so, ‘cause he runs with some pretty tough people, an’ even most of them are afraid of him. He’s got a gang, though they like to call themselves a ‘paramilitary organization’, like that makes rape an’ murder okay. Can I have a fag? Don’t worry,” he said sarcastically, in response to Casey’s look of disapproval, “ye’ll hardly be adding to my corruption.”

  Casey sighed and handed over the cigarette, reaching across to light it for the boy. The boy wrapped one thin hand around Casey’s broad wrist, putting the cigarette to the flame and fluttering his eyelashes in an unnervingly feminine manner. The boy then rubbed his thumb suggestively across the inside of Casey’s wrist. Casey merely raised a brow and shot a black look at the fluttering lashes.

  “Don’t play me boyo, or ye’ll not get an ounce of help from my direction.”

  The boy took a long drag off the cigarette, slowly releasing Casey’s wrist. Then he shrugged. “Had to be certain ye were playin’ it straight.”

  “Don’t do it again,” Casey said firmly, leaving no doubt that the consequences would be dire should the boy not take him seriously on this matter. “Now how ‘bout tellin’ me yer name?”

  “Name’s Flip.”

  “Flip? I meant yer Christian name.”

  Flip laughed, “Flip is the name I goes by, don’t hardly remember any other name now.”

  Casey sighed and lit a cigarette for himself. “What did yer mam call ye?”

  “Don’t remember my mam. Someone told me once she was on the game.” Flip shrugged as if it were an everyday occurrence to find out one’s mother was a prostitute.

  “How long have ye been at the home?”

  “Last three years, give or take a few month on the streets here an’ there. Thought it wouldn’t be so bad, hot meals, a bed at night.” He shook his head. “Ought to have known better, nothin’ is ever free, is it then?”

  “Not much,” Casey replied, wondering if the boy’s cynicism was earned or merely a façade to appear tough. Most likely a little of both. The street was no place for a child, the streets of Belfast even less so.