“Such as?” she asked softly, as he traced the outline of her hand against his chest.
“He’d burn himself with cigarettes, back of his hands, inside of his elbow an’ such. I brought it up once, thinkin’ I could maybe help but he just brazened it out, acted like he’d no notion of what of I was talkin’ about. So I let it lie, I’ve often wondered since then if I should have pushed him on it, found a way to stop him.”
“You can’t be responsible for everyone you know,” she said, stroking the side of his face.
“It’s a weakness of mine,” he said gruffly, “tryin’ to make everyone behave as I see fit, my da’ always said I meddled where I was most likely to get hurt. Damn man was always right.”
“Are you going to get hurt this time?” she asked, worried that it was already too late for such questions.
He looked at her in the dim light, expression rueful. “Yer not a woman for comfortable questions, are ye Jewel?”
“Don’t sidestep me Casey, are you?” she insisted.
“And yer pushy too,” he added, “an’ the answer is no, I’m a big boy now an’ I learned my lesson with Robin a long time ago.”
“That’s your head speaking, what does your heart say?”
He sighed. “That I still love the man like he was a long-lost brother.”
“That’s what I was afraid of.”
He brought her hand to his mouth and kissed it, then yawned. “Don’t be frettin’ on my behalf, Jewel, I can take care of myself.” He turned, punching up his pillow, making all the small motions she’d come to know as his pre-sleep ritual.
A moment later his breathing was deep and even and she thought him asleep when he spoke quietly, voice as soft as the dark that enfolded them.
“D’ye think, Jewel, that a man can haunt ye even though he’s alive an’ breathin’?”
“Yes,” she said, speaking both to his pain and her fear, “yes, I do.”
Chapter Twenty-eight
Lucky You, Lucky Me
AS MOVING DAY APPROACHED, Pamela became increasingly aware that the issue of Lawrence would have to be settled. He’d taken over the small room off the kitchen downstairs, took his meals with them, and even obeyed the strict curfew laws Casey had laid down early in his tenure. In short, he’d made himself quite comfortable.
From the little she could gather, Lawrence had been on the street for the last six months. Sleeping in doorways through all sorts of weather. Before that he’d spent an unspecified amount of time in the boy’s home, a subject on which he maintained a guarded silence.
“If Kincora is where he went for sanctuary, then it was like leapin’ from the fryin’ pan into the fire,” Casey said when she spoke to him about the boy’s refusal to talk about his recent past. “There’s whispers about what goes on up at that place, an’ most rumors have a whiff of fact to them. If even a fraction of what I’ve heard is true, then it’s little more than a stable of young boys for men with a taste for such things.”
“What? But he was there for two years, surely...” her protest died on her lips at Casey’s raised brow.
“He’ll not know any different, Pamela. He’d been sellin’ himself before Kincora, an’ at least it came with guaranteed meals an’ a bed at night. That was more than he could be certain of on the streets. It’s what he knows, aye, an’ humans are likely to do what they know an’ understand even if it’s threatenin’ their life. If he decides to live with us, I’ll not allow him to go about as he pleases. I won’t have him falling back into that life.”
“If he decides to live with us?” she echoed, glad that she wasn’t going to have to broach the subject herself.
“Well,” Casey said, avoiding her eyes, “it’s only that it’s occurred to me that God meant for us to take him in because we’re not to have children of our own.”
His words opened up the hollow place beneath her ribs that she managed to ignore most days. Hearing him give voice to her own fears, however, made them harder to discount.
“That can’t be the only reason we offer him a home, though.”
“I know that Jewel, an’ mayhap the main reason is because it’s the right thing to do. I’d never sleep another sound hour were the boy to take to the streets again. I’d just as soon be able to check an’ make certain he’s in his bed at night. He needs us an’ I think that’s reason enough to do it.”
“Then ask him,” she said. “He needs to hear it from you to know that we really mean it.”
“Aye, I’ll ask. Are ye certain yer up for this? Teenagers aren’t the most charmin’ of creatures at the best of times.”
“I don’t think we could separate him from you without surgery at this point.”
Casey took her hands. “All jestin’ aside woman, it’s a big responsibility an’ just because the lad has taken a shine to us doesn’t lessen that burden. I wouldn’t blame ye at all if ye didn’t want to do this.”
“We can’t not offer him a home. Besides the right thing is rarely the easy thing, we both know that.”
“Well it’s rare that want an’ right come together, but despite my nerves I’m feelin’ the both things at present.”
“Good, then it’s settled.” She stood, her mind already moving on to what to make for dinner. But Casey still held her hands firmly in his own.
“And what of yer own wants? What is it that you want Jewel?”
“You,” she said simply, “and a baby or two. To occasionally take a picture that means something.”
“Well ye’ve got me, an’ ye’ve a rare talent with the wee box,” he smiled, an expression that didn’t reach his eyes.
“Don’t give up hope,” she squeezed his hands in return. “I still believe we’ll have a child.”
He brought her hands up and kissed them. He laid his cheek against her palms, stubble plush and soft on her skin.
“And what about you Casey Riordan, what is that you want man?”
“Just you darlin’. As long as ye love me, the rest will sort itself out.”
Outside it was full dark, the one functioning streetlight having given up the ghost the previous night. She and Casey were reflected in the window, the outline of the two of them slightly misty with condensation. It was like looking down a long hallway where time ran in both directions, a place where they were eternally young or caught in the clasp of old age. In such moments it struck her that she could not remember a time that she had not loved this man. Nor a time when she was not loved by him. The awareness of this both soothed and frightened her.
Casey turned his head and the reflection wavered. He kissed the palm of her hand. “Either way we’re lucky,” he said.
“Yes,” she replied softly, not needing to ask what he meant, “we are.”
Chapter Twenty-nine
Paddy’s Lament
ROBIN HAD DEVELOPED THE HABIT of coming by of an evening and helping Casey with whatever task occupied him on the house. They’d slipped rather naturally back into their old friendship, though there was a reserve built up through years apart and secrets that they both kept. Casey was still wary, but relaxed a certain amount into the comfort of a shared past.
Tonight he was framing the upstairs hallway, which he’d opened up from its original state, as well as enlarging the landing at the top of the stairs. Robin, at present, was sitting on said landing, having a smoke and continuing his rundown of all the Republican news.
“Second battalion’s OC just got five years in Long Kesh. They could use a good man to take his place, that’d leave ye responsible for the majority of the Catholic housin’ estates. It’d dovetail well with what yer brother is tryin’ to do.”
This theme was not a new one, Robin had it down chorus and verse and was apt to sing it at least once every visit.
“An’ so I’ll give ye the answer I’ve given ye the last six times ye’ve mentioned it—no, I’m not interested. Besides Pat would never speak to me, much less work with me, if he thought I was within a mile of that battalion.�
�
His protests had the usual effect—absolutely none whatsoever.
“There’s a lot of talk within the battalions. The lads aren’t entirely satisfied with the present leadership.”
“Mayhap not, but they’re all scared of him, an’ that’s all he needs to keep control. Pass me that square, would ye?”
“Fear is not the right way to control, yer da’ taught us both that. D’ye remember the time he raked us over for usin’ our size to intimidate Gus Bradley?”
“Aye. If I remember correctly he used his own size to put us neatly in our places, though.”
Robin laughed, stubbing his cigarette out in the empty tin can that was kept about for that exact purpose. “He said a physical demonstration, with a dose of our own medicine, was the best preventative he knew.”
Casey eyed the ceiling line owlishly. The damn thing would not come out perfectly level, try as he might. Apparently trying to square the roof wasn’t going to square with trying to maintain the original integrity of the outside walls.
“So what is it ye think Joe cannot provide?”
“Well for starters he’s not got a great deal of organizational skill,” Robin said. “And he’s no sense of history—an’ that’s not something anyone could ever accuse you of man. There’s no sense of what we’re to be about. It’s chaos from top to bottom.”
“Bobbie,” he sighed in frustration, both at Robin and at the roof. “Let it be man.”
Robin however, was not one to be gainsaid. “If I didn’t know better man I’d say yer afraid. Ye never had fear when we were lads.”
“I’m not that boy anymore, Robin.”
“Then who the hell is it that ye think ye are?”
Casey sat and poured two cups of tea out of the flask he’d brought along. “Give me a cigarette.”
Robin pulled one from his pack and gave it to him. He held out a lit match, and Casey took a sweet, lung-filling drag that made his head swim with pleasure.
“Only the second one I’ve had today, I’m tryin’ to cut back.”
Robin merely quirked a dubious brow at him and continued doggedly on his previous track. “I asked ye a question man, who is it that ye think ye are these days?”
Casey gave him a black look, then relented on a long exhalation of smoke.
“I don’t always know, Robin, but I’m tryin’ to remember who it was my father taught me to be, an’ that wasn’t a man of hate, nor violence, but a man who worked hard an’ looked after those around him. That’s who I want to be, Bobbie, that man my father wanted me to be. The one he believed I could be.”
Robin sighed theatrically. “When ye start talkin’ about yer da’ in such a manner, I know I’m defeated. But perhaps we could use ye in an advisory manner, that way ye could salve yer conscience about bein’ counted as one of us, but still use yer brain in the manner for which it was designed.”
Casey took a deep breath through his nose and turned over a sheet of paper on which he’d been making rough plans for a pantry. He fished a pencil from his pocket and drew three broad strokes on the page.
“Look, it’s simple really. The movement has always run on the holy trinity of the army, the party an’ the paper. Never forget how important ink is to the revolution.” Below his hand, he’d drawn a rough triangle of the three eternal supports of the Irish revolutionary movement. “Ye need a paper to support your ideas an’ to unify all those that are on the fringes an’ maybe feelin’ a bit disenfranchised by the movement. Ye ought to publish both an English version an’ a Gaelic one. Talk to Rory Callahan, he’s a fourth generation printer. He’ll know the costs an’ difficulties of startin’ up a paper.” He stroked a line out to the side.
“Ye’ll need to put a support system in place as well, for the families of the men who will inevitably find themselves in prison or on the run at some point. Ye talk to the women about that, they know who’s in need of tea an’ comfort an’ has no groceries in the cupboard. Supply them with a stable fund of petty cash, they can come to ye direct for larger sums when there’s need an’ they’ll put the supports in place.”
Robin nodded, the beginnings of a smile playing about his mouth. Casey merely rolled his eyes and continued.
“Now the party is a bit of a different matter. Ye need to organize from the bottom up, youth clubs are yer first level of indoctrination as ye know. They’re also handy for recruitment purposes, ye can skim the wheat from the chaff in that manner. Now about the women, the Officials I think are a bit out of date with the Cumann na mBan. The world is movin’ forward an’ ye’ll have to accept that women are part of that movement. They’ll want an active role, some will likely want to be on active service an’ if ye know how to use what they offer, it’s a good thing.
“As for Sinn Fein, open contact is out of the question. Publicly ye divorce the army an’ the party—it’s not good for the ballot box if ye take my meanin’. Ye let the local constituency offices deal with the neighborhood issues, they’ve got their own boys who can keep order on the streets. No hard men in the party, no one wants to take their complaints to a man who looks like he’d have little compunction about shootin’ them at close range. Ye need the talkers, a man who can speak well is the best asset, an’ someone who’s dog stubborn to push bills through an’ stay the course, despite the discouragement they’re goin’ to come against. The further apart the party an’ the army can be seen to be, the better. In fact if ye can get the politicos to publicly castigate the army an’ its policy of armed force all the better. Even a man with the devil’s own tongue in his head can’t make much progress if the voters see him as supportin’ a force that uses violence to make their point.”
He stopped to take a swig of his tepid tea. “Now the army—what I see as yer biggest problem here is what has always been the stickin’ point. Arms. Where do ye get the money an’ where do ye get the weapons once ye have the money? Seems simple enough to say it, but ye know it’s never been easy. There’s never any bloody money, an’ British intelligence is keepin’ their eyes peeled for guns or ammo of any sort. Ye need money from outside, not just the annual contribution from skint farmers up north.” He rubbed his forehead, leaving a smudge of lead in the wake of his fingers.
“Ye need to get somethin’ organized over the pond. I know of a few men who could handle it. Ye need to beat the drum a bit—play on Irish American sympathies, the Mother country an’ all that. With luck ye’ll be able to count on a steady if small flow of cash, it’ll be enough to keep things goin’ once everything is established but it won’t be enough for a large haul of arms, which ye’ll need. Don’t look to America for the arms either, it’s too traceable, an’ the Brits are keepin’ a tight eye on those channels right now. If ye have the money, look to the Middle East. They’ve got access to Russian weaponry, which isn’t the best quality but it’s a sight better than a few rusty old Lee-Enfields an’ pistols that have been buried in some farmer’s field since the Civil War. I know a man in Germany who has contacts. I’ll leave his numbers with ye. Get yer boys in London to set up the deal, it’s likely yer bein’ watched with a gimlet eye right now an’ any call ye make, especially at the public phones, is goin’ to be highly suspect.”
“Ye need a good, solid man in the offices, someone with patience for all that are goin’ to wander through. The journalists, the radical students, the man whose granddaddy fought the Tans fifty years ago an’ the dreamers; for some reason, which I can’t always fathom, we always attract the bloody dreamers.”
Robin leaned back against the staircase railing, folding his arms in a relaxed manner across his chest. “As I remember it, ye were a bit of a dreamer yerself, man. ‘Twas you that taught me what the struggle was really about.”
“Aye well, I was a boy an’ now I’m a man, an’ the direction of my dreams has changed a bit.”
“Love her that much, do ye?”
“I do,” Casey replied soberly, “I made a choice some time back, an’ I’ll stick to the course I’ve chos
en.”
“Despite all the bumps in the road?”
“’Tis the bumps that make a man appreciate the ride,” Casey replied, but there was no levity in his face or tone and Robin took the hint that this particular subject was closed to him.
Robin took his tea from the floor, swirled the lukewarm depths and then peered into the cup as though searching for an answer in the scummy liquid. “Ye should be runnin’ things,” he said, tone light, eyes still fixed to his cup. “Joe’ll never be the sort of leader you were an’ could be again for us.”
Casey shook his head resolutely. “Bobbie, I’m not interested. I’ve a good job, a nice home an’ a marriage that I’ll not risk for anything.”
Robin shrugged. “It’s only a wee bit sad, ye know. It’s as if ye’ve completely avoided yer destiny.”
Casey made a derisive noise. “What destiny? An early grave or several decades spent behind bars? A grand fate, surely, but one I can live without. Besides there’d be a bloodbath the likes of which I’ve no wish to ever see.”
“Still,” Robin continued stubbornly, “I think ye’d be the best man for it.”
“Why?” Casey asked, tone exasperated.
“For all the obvious reasons, the Riordan name is legendary, ye’ve experience of leadin’ men. Ye’ve done yer prison stint, an’ that always commands respect. An’ then there’s some more subtle reasons that yer maybe not thinkin’ about.”
“Such as?” Casey asked, brow cocked quizzically.
“Because yer such a fine upstandin’ citizen,” Robin said, with a flash of impudent teeth.
“Don’t take the mickey on me,” Casey growled.
“Seriously, ye daft bastard, think about it—yer gamely employed, yer respectably married, ye don’t drink on Sundays, yer well-spoken an’ still know all the prayers on yer rosary beads. An’ when the mood is on ye, yer about as readable as a big stone wall. Those are all good qualities in a commander. Ye add those to yer name an’ yer natural ability to lead, an’ it’s so obvious ye could trip over it in the street.”
Mermaid in a Bowl of Tears (Exit Unicorns Series Book 2) Page 35
