Freedom First, Peace Later

by Jeanette Hewitt

  “Yes,” she uttered the word and it was as though a weight had been lifted off her shoulders, a weight that she had not even been aware of carrying.

  They were quiet for a moment before Connor spoke up.

  “Shall we go home?”

  Less than thirty minutes later they stood in the lounge of the apartment, facing each other, both wary of this step that they were taking into unknown territory that would change everything for them. Bronwyn moved first, until she was close enough to touch him. She took his left hand in hers and kissed it. It was a signal, a green light, and Connor reached up with his right hand to brush the hair away from her face. He leaned in, closer, until their lips were touching, his hands coming up to pull her hair until it fell loose around her face. Suddenly, the passion hit them. There was a sense of urgency, as if they both realised this was what they had been waiting for, perhaps even before Rosina had died. The expensive dress, which Bronwyn had carried so carefully all the way home from Fifth Avenue, was now forgotten as it fell to the floor. Bronwyn pulled off his shirt. Unable to contain their hunger for each other any longer, they fell to the floor.

  An hour later, they were both in the double bed in Bronwyn’s room. Connor was asleep, so she took the chance to study him. He was so damn beautiful, she thought as she looked over his handsome face. His skin, naturally dark, had tanned to a deep bronze in the hot New York sun. His body was muscled, his chest smooth and brown. Her eyes traveled down his body and she stared at the scar that marked his leg. It had healed well, and although he walked with a slight limp, it was barely noticeable. She looked back up at his face. He was smiling slightly in his sleep, and she felt a flutter in the pit of her stomach at the thought of him in her bed. She couldn’t believe that it had finally happened, that he had said he loved her, and she offered up a short prayer that he wouldn’t regret it come morning. His eyes slowly opened and he looked at her sleepily, propped up on one elbow, sheet clutched tightly to her, watching over him.

  “Hey,” he murmured, holding out his arms.

  Happily, she lay down beside him, and they lay encircled in each other’s arms until dawn, two kindred spirits, who had finally found each other in the best way of all.

  Connor opened his eyes and for a second the unfamiliar room confused him. Then he remembered and he sat up, looking over at Bronwyn’s side of the bed. She wasn’t there, so he climbed out of the bed and wandered through to the lounge. She was standing with her back to him, looking out the window, sipping from a bottle of water.

  “Hi,” he said and she turned around.

  “Morning,” she replied. “How are you?”

  “Fine.”

  He frowned. They were being awfully polite. He hoped that she wasn’t regretting last night. He couldn’t stand it if their friendship was ruined.

  He walked over to her and decided honesty was the best option here. Speaking from his heart, he laid his cards on the table.

  “I’ve no regrets, Bronwyn. I know you, and I can see you’re wondering.” He took her hand.

  “I’ve wanted you for so long that I’m really scared of messing up. I don’t want to ruin things between us.”

  “You know I feel the same,” she said, turning back to the window. “I can’t help but think about…”

  “Rosie?” he finished for her and she nodded.

  “Bron, Rosina was so special, but…it wasn’t right between us.”

  It was the first time that Connor had admitted it to himself, and he felt something like betrayal towards Rosina as he said the words.

  “What do you mean? You two were perfect together,” Bronwyn exclaimed. She led Connor over to the table and pulled up a chair beside him.

  “My ma, she asked me if I was in love with Rosina—if there was passion, and fire, and all that.” Connor’s face burned with embarrassment. “There wasn’t. I know that now. I even knew it then.” He looked up at Bronwyn, shaking his head sadly. “I’d never met someone so good, so pure, sweet, and innocent—all I wanted to do was protect her.”

  “Oh, Connor.” She laid her hand over his, not knowing what else to say.

  “Then there was you, so confident, so outspoken and brave, and from the start I could see that you’d been protecting her all her life as well. And what I feel for you is so, so different.” He gripped her hand tightly. “Should I feel guilty?”

  She pulled him into an embrace.

  “No,” she whispered. “There are so many different kinds of love, Connor. The way you feel about me now doesn’t mean that you loved Rosie any less. You just loved her in a different way.”

  She felt him relax against her, the tension flowing from his body, and he held her tight.

  “Thank you,” he whispered.

  * * * *

  Across the street from their apartment, a solitary figure sat in a coffee shop and stared up into Connor and Bronwyn’s window. The man had been sitting there for over an hour now, watching Bronwyn as she sat in the window, lost in her own thoughts. When Connor appeared behind her, and they exchanged words before holding each other close, a small smile played on the man’s lips. He was glad that the couple was happy and had found each other; it had certainly taken enough time. He hoped that they took advantage of every minute they spent together, because life was precious, as he had found out for himself.

  The man, sitting alone, nursing a single cup of coffee that was now cold, got up and, throwing some coins on the table, left the shop to make his way down to the set of three telephone booths at the corner of the block. Minutes later, the middle telephone began to ring. He stepped inside and picked up the receiver.

  “Hello?”

  “It’s me,” the familiar voice came from the end of the line. “It’s starting, so keep your head down and it’ll all be over soon. Have you seen them?”

  “Yes. Just now.” The man nodded. “They’re at home.”

  “Good. There’s a telephone booth covered with graffiti on the far corner of Times Square. Be there tomorrow at six P.M., and I should be able to call you with good news.”

  He hung up and left the telephone booth. One more day—just one more day. He had to hold on and keep watch on Bronwyn and Connor, then he could make his presence known.

  * * * *

  Later, when Bronwyn and Connor had got out of bed for the second time, they sat opposite each other at the kitchen table and talked about what was happening between them.

  “I thought it was just me. I never thought you were interested,” admitted Bronwyn.

  “We wasted so much time,” replied Connor.

  Bronwyn thought about it and shook her head. The timing was wrong before, she told Connor, both of them had been too shattered by events in their lives to embark on a relationship. Friendship was what they had needed then, and now that they were stable, the time was right.

  “Cally will be pleased,” she said, giggling. “She said you were mad about me.”

  “Cally is a very perceptive lady. Why don’t we stop by there later? We did leave the party without saying goodbye,” he said.

  “You’re right. I’m sure she’ll understand, but we’ll drop in,” she looked at him coyly. “Are you not going to work today?”

  “No, I’m not.” He pulled her up from her chair and onto his lap. “Today I’ve much more important things to do.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  Endings

  Back in Crossmaglen, after a long period without trouble, tensions were rising in the army barracks. Stu sat up in the observation tower, literally counting the hours down until the end of his shift. Tonight was his last shift—his last ever day in Crossmaglen, and he was more than ready to go home. Home to his family, and to Ellie. He knew that when he arrived home he had a lot of thinking to do about his future in the army, or whether he wanted to continue in this career. He was almost certain that he didn’t; after the two easy years in England, Northern Ireland had changed him for the worse, and he didn’t want to risk being sent somewhere similar to Irela
nd, where the depression would take further hold of him. It hadn’t all been bad though. He would take away some memories of this town and hold them to him for the rest of his life. Bronwyn was one of these memories that he thought about every so often, on his shifts in the tower. He hadn’t known her well, but he would have liked to, and he hoped wherever she was now she was happy. Surprisingly, he had kept in contact with Alia, who had introduced him to Mary, the mother of the lad who had been with Bronwyn that fateful night. The army would have no doubt frowned upon his fraternising with the enemy. That’s what they were, technically. Both women visited him occasionally, normally bringing him some homemade food or a bottle of alcohol. With Bronwyn gone, these two had made his life in Crossmaglen sane, and he would always be grateful for that. In fact, he decided, he would go visit Alia when he came off shift, to say goodbye to her. That decided, he called Carter up into the tower and persuaded him to play a hand of cards with him.

  * * * *

  Kathleen James, Rosina’s mother, was in the dark depths of despair, and had been since Rosina had died. It was more true to say she had felt this sadness since Rosina was conceived, but until she had told her daughter the truth, she had managed to keep the depression at bay. Now it ate away at her, gnawing her from inside out, and if the truth were told, Kathleen was slowly going crazy. She blamed the bastard man who had ruined her life almost twenty-two years ago, but because she had no chance of finding him, she had nobody to vent her frustration on. If only Rosina hadn’t gone off with the Protestant; that had been the undoing of them. If she’d just left well alone, they would have continued muddling along together and she wouldn’t be dead. Kathleen sat and thought about it, in the large house that was now too big for just one person. It had been days since she had eaten anything. Even when she did force some food down, it was mere morsels, but she didn’t care. The Prozac her doctor had given her, washed down with a quart of gin every day, was all she needed to keep afloat. But now the pills weren’t working, it had all become too much, and Kathleen knew that she was not much longer for this earth. One way or another, be it by the pills and alcohol, or the hand of God, she was nearing the end of her time on this earthly plane, and for that Kathleen was grateful. But before she went, there was something she had to do, and she was trying to get up the courage to go there now. She needed her revenge. Because the father of her child and Connor were nowhere to be found, she would wreak havoc on the next person in line, the woman who had stolen her girl away from her. Mary Dean.

  * * * *

  Alia sat in Mary’s kitchen and waited until Mary had opened the bottle of wine and poured out two glasses before she told her the news.

  “Come on then.” Mary sat down. “You’re like a cat on a hot tin roof!”

  “Bronwyn called me this morning. She’s found herself a boyfriend.”

  “Well, fancy that. American?” Mary asked as she sipped at her wine.

  “No, Irish…” She raised her eyebrows at Mary and waited for the penny to drop.

  “My boy?” Mary threw back her head and laughed. “Well, it’s about bloody time!”

  “That’s what I said,” replied Alia. “And she said that Connor’s met up with your husband’s family. That’s real good news.”

  Mary smiled; she was very pleased that she had tracked down Billy’s family in New York. It had taken some work; there had been none of his family in Crossmaglen to ask. She had gone back to Billy’s old neighbourhood and asked around. They all remembered her. They also remembered

  what had happened to Billy, therefore most of them were unwilling to help her. But eventually she had found an elderly neighbour who still sent Christmas cards to Billy’s brother, David, and she had willingly passed over his address in America.

  “He wasn’t my husband,” she said, smiling sadly. “But it’s nice to hear him called that.”

  “It must have been very hard,” said Alia. “Losing him like that.”

  Mary was just about to reply when there was a knock on the back door.

  “It’s open,” Mary called out and they both turned to see who their visitor was.

  “Just me.” Stu came into the kitchen. “It’s my last day, and I just wanted to say goodbye. I went to your place, Alia, but figured you’d be here.”

  “Come in. Take a glass of wine with us.”

  Mary, like Alia, had grown fond of the English boy who seemed to have attached himself to them. Since Connor and Barry, the men of the families, had gone, he had tried to make sure that they were both okay, and both the women appreciated that.

  “I’ve got something for you.” Stu pulled a Smith & Wesson revolver out of his bag and put it on the table.

  The two women stared at it.

  “Bloody hell,” said Alia.

  “Listen, we’ve got intelligence back in the barracks. They tell us stuff that they hear and, believe me, things are getting worse. I want you to keep this here, but it never came from me, okay?” Stu said.

  “I don’t know if I could use it,” Mary said. “And if I did, I’d probably miss.”

  “It doesn’t matter if you don’t use it. If someone came after you, pointing it at them would be enough.”

  “Show us how to use it,” Alia said.

  Twenty minutes later the gun was lying partially dismantled in Stu’s lap. He was satisfied that the women had a basic knowledge on how to use the weapon, and now he allowed himself to relax, helping himself to a glass of wine to mark the end of his service in Crossmaglen. As he chatted with Alia and Mary, he caught sight of a shape moving past the kitchen window. He was just about to ask Mary if she was expecting anybody, when the back door crashed open. The three seated at the table gaped at the woman standing in the doorway.

  It was Kathleen; she was drunk, trying to stand steady, leaning on the frame of the door for support. Her eyes were wild, and she looked a million miles away from the poised woman that Alia had known. The thing that scared Alia most, though, was the large, shiny gun that sprouted from her hands, pointed straight towards Mary.

  “Kathleen…” Alia went to stand up and Kathleen immediately swung the gun in her direction. Alia sat down abruptly, and Kathleen turned once more to face Mary.

  “You took my girl,” she said, in an eerily calm voice.

  Mary stared back at the woman whom she had never met but had heard so much about.

  “She came to me. You threw her out,” she replied defiantly. As soon as Kathleen had burst into the room, gun in hand, Stu had started to reassemble the revolver that lay in his lap. He did it, stealthily and silently, calling upon all of his experiences with firearms to help him regain control of this situation. Now, with the revolver together and fully operational, he slid off the safety catch, and the click echoed in the silent room. Kathleen, drunk as she was, heard it and looked at him as if noticing him for the first time. He stood up, and as he did so she saw the glint of metal in his hand. Almost on reflex, she moved the handgun across to him at the same time as he held up the Smith & Wesson. Stu tried to shout, to tell her to be calm and put her gun down, but when he saw her finger squeeze the trigger, he knew he had no choice but to let off a shot of his own.

  Shoot to wound, he told himself, not to kill, and he angled the gun down slightly. A huge noise erupted from Kathleen’s rifle, and Alia let out a scream. The shot was amazingly accurate, catching Stu in his stomach before he could get a shot of his own off, and he fell backwards, reaching behind to try to remain standing. Another shot rang out and caught him in his left thigh. He let out a yell between clenched teeth and slipped down the wall, where he flailed around on the floor, trying to breathe, trying to get the pain under control. Holding his right arm steady with his left, he pulled up his hand and aimed the gun at her. Not caring now if he killed the mad woman, he let off three shots in quick succession, knowing that he had to hit her now, because he wouldn’t be able to hold on much longer.

  The kitchen was filled with smoke, and when it cleared a little he saw the woman again.
She was on the floor, writhing around and making odd noises in the back of her throat that told him he had hit her well; the bullets had ripped through her chest, and she was choking on the blood that filled her lungs. Seeing that his job was done, he moved his head around to his left and tried to focus his gaze on Alia and Mary. They were crouched on the floor, arms around each other and heads down. They were all right, he thought with relief, and let his gun drop to the floor. It was getting harder and harder to catch his breath. He laid his head back to lean against the wall. He held on until he could hear nothing more from the dead woman in front of him, and then his head fell forward.

  His job was done.

  It was over.

  * * * *

  “Someone’s been following me,” said Bronwyn, as they sat in Mayfair. The bar was empty, all the customers had left, and Bronwyn was helping Connor to clear up before he locked up for the night. Now, as she made the statement that she was being followed, he frowned and automatically glanced out of the window into the street.

  “What do you mean?” he asked.

  She put the final glasses in the dishwasher and turned to face him over the bar.

  “The last few weeks, it’s like someone’s watching me.”

  “Well, who is it?” he asked.

  “I don’t know. I’ve not seen anyone. It’s just a weird feeling. Like I’m walking down the street and I sense someone watching, but when I turn around, nobody’s there,” she struggled to explain. She wondered if Connor thought she was overreacting, but when she looked at him he looked concerned.

  “I don’t want you going anywhere on your own,” he said. “You know I’m always going to have to be careful. People from back home might still be after me. From now on, you’re not to be alone anywhere, okay?”