King of Dublin

by Lisa Henry

  Darragh’s face burned. He shook his head.

  Ciaran sighed, his shoulders dropping. “The king made me—and everyone believed the lie. Even you, even me. Can’t blame you for that.” He looked so ashamed.

  “Blame me,” Darragh repeated back, turning Ciaran’s words around. He wouldn’t let Ciaran take on an ounce of shame for what Boru and his men and Darragh himself had done. “I am not a good man.”

  “Maybe not. Or maybe you are a good man in a very bad place. I don’t know. But you did save me.”

  “Condemned you first.”

  “I’m alive,” Ciaran said. “Is that … is that what you wanted? To set me free?”

  Darragh nodded.

  Ciaran rubbed his throat. “I thought …” His hand shook. “I thought you wanted me for yourself.”

  I do.

  The old woman watched them, sharp-eyed.

  Darragh shook his head. “Not to hurt you. Not if it means hurting you.”

  “Bullshit, Darragh. You … you said yourself. You wanted the king to give me to you. You said those things.”

  Yes, on the day I carried you. “It was the cruellest thing I could think to say. I thought I had to be cruel. I thought it was the only way here.”

  And you hated me. You hated me, and I wanted to hate you, too. I wanted to hate you right from the start, because if I cared at all I knew we’d be bound together until I saw you safe.

  Ciaran didn’t say anything for a while. Then he frowned. “Doesn’t feel nice, does it? To be chained up like an animal?”

  “It does not.” Darragh’s heart sank. He knew he had no right to expect Ciaran’s forgiveness, but he wanted it so much it ached. Not just the forgiveness for its own sake but for some sort of validation. For someone to tell him he wasn’t a monster. “Please, Ciaran, I—”

  “Don’t talk to me,” Ciaran said sharply. “Don’t say another word to me.”

  “Ciaran …”

  Ciaran spun around and headed for the steep steps, clattering up them quickly.

  “Hmm,” said the old woman. She cast a speculative look at Darragh, then turned to follow Ciaran, taking the light with her and leaving Darragh alone in the dark.

  “Don’t get too comfortable,” Maureen told him. “You’re not staying.”

  Ciaran stared at her over the brim of his mug of tea. He set it down on the scarred tabletop. “Why not? I can be useful to you.”

  Maureen snorted and tucked a hank of grey hair behind her ear. “You certainly can’t. You think I can put you in a fight? You’ve got a target painted on you now, Ciaran. If that mad fucker catches word you’re still in Dublin, he’ll rain down hell on us.”

  “After Croke Park, he’ll rain down hell anyway,” Ciaran said. “I can fight.”

  “But you won’t,” Maureen said. “Not here, and not for us. You need to go home while you’ve got the chance. You think any of us would stick around here if we had warm beds and hot food waiting for us over the border?”

  Ciaran scowled. “That’s exactly why I should stay.”

  Maureen’s craggy face softened. “There’re enough martyrs in our history, Ciaran. We don’t need any more.”

  “I don’t want to be a martyr. I want to be a help.”

  Maureen didn’t look convinced. “And what of the man downstairs? If he’s not loyal to the king, as he says, then we can’t very well keep him prisoner any longer. I won’t stoop to that level. And even if he was, there’s no point in keeping him around as another mouth to feed.” A cold, calculating look came to her eyes. “So tell me. You know him best. Do you think he is? Loyal to the king?”

  I thought he was. Then I thought he wasn’t. I never knew him at all. I never knew how little I knew.

  Ciaran shook his head. “Don’t think so. I don’t think he has any loyalties at all in this world. We should just let him go back to where he came from. That’s all he’s ever wanted. To go home to his people. Give him a chance and he’ll run the whole way there and never look back.”

  “Is that what you want?”

  “I— What does it matter what I want?”

  Maureen shrugged. “He personally victimised you, whether it was at the orders of the king or not. I haven’t got a court to try him in, so you’ll be the one to decide what justice he should get.” She leaned forwards then, taking his hand in her own—a tender, motherly gesture. “In your position, I would want revenge.”

  “Justice and revenge aren’t the same thing.”

  “They are here,” Maureen said. “They are now.”

  Ciaran sighed and scrubbed his face, overwhelmed by the responsibility she’d placed on his shoulders. He didn’t want this. Didn’t want to hold Darragh’s fate in his hands. Maybe Darragh hadn’t wanted to hold his, either. “He didn’t … I mean, he was kind about it. He didn’t enjoy it like the others did. He tried to be kind about it. He came here looking for medicine for his people, looking for help, and thought that if he did what the king asked, then … Even I wasn’t that naive. Everybody called me Boy there, but he was the child.”

  “Child?” Maureen raised her brows. “Or killer?”

  Milbourne Avenue. Darragh had never said exactly what happened; he hadn’t had to say it. “He did what he needed to do,” Ciaran said, wondering why he was defending Darragh. “He did what any man would have done. I thought of revenge a lot of times, but never … never against him.”

  That was the truth. Maybe it made no sense to Maureen, how he could differentiate between the men who used him because they liked to hurt him and the one who’d used him because he’d been ordered. But there was a difference. And, at the time, it had bound them together somehow. Both of them hostages to the king.

  “I won’t ask who your man is inside Boru’s court,” Ciaran said. “But I’ll tell you this. He’s a very good actor.”

  Maureen looked at him questioningly.

  “Because I know it wasn’t Darragh,” Ciaran said. “And I could never find a difference in the way the others treated me. Should I want revenge against your man as well?”

  Maureen smiled slightly. She tapped the side of her mug of tea. “You are a clever one, Ciaran Daly.”

  Too clever by half, his father had always said.

  “I’m not clever. I’m asking you. Should I want revenge against your man?”

  “Maybe you should. I won’t allow you to have it, but maybe you should want it all the same.”

  “Well then. Giving me Darragh is kind of a hollow offer, isn’t it?”

  “If you look at it that way, I suppose it is.”

  “Glad we’re agreed. So let the culchie go free to his people, and let me stay and fight. Get my revenge on the man who most deserves it.”

  Maureen snorted. “Oh, son, you’re in no shape to be fighting anyone’s battles, not even your own. Have you looked at yourself lately? You’re so busted up you can hardly sit down.”

  The humiliation of those words hit Ciaran hard, his face flushing hot as he squirmed in his chair—even though it did nothing to disprove her theory. He’d almost forgotten once he’d put these clothes on. Forgotten who he’d been and what he’d done to survive, or at least depersonalised it enough to believe it had been Boy, and now he was Ciaran again and could leave Boy dead in the rubble of Croke Park. But now here it was, all back again, still so very much a part of him, a part he could never leave behind. The shame nearly choked him.

  “I’ll heal,” he said. “I’ll get stronger.”

  “Not coming into winter you won’t.” She sighed heavily. “Go home, Ciaran.”

  “I am home. I was born here.”

  For a moment he saw the years lifted off her wrinkled face. She smiled and sighed. “No, you were born in old Dublin, and that place doesn’t exist anymore.”

  “It can.” Ciaran balled his fists. “It can, or you wouldn’t still be here. You’d have gone north by now. But you hold on. Why do you stay, if you don’t believe you can make it better?”

  “Don’t
mistake me for an idealist,” Maureen said. “I’m just too old and stubborn to move.”

  Ciaran didn’t believe that for a moment. She gave everything. Risked her very life to fight the king, to fight the madness Dublin had fallen to. She must have some plan, some vision of something better. Maybe not a return to the past, but something.

  Whatever it was, Ciaran wanted to help build it.

  “I won’t go,” he said. “I can be of use here, I know it.”

  Maureen huffed. “Well, stubborn little shit, aren’t you?”

  “Would I be alive now if I weren’t?” Ciaran leaned back in his seat and felt a crooked grin tug at his mouth. He was swaying her.

  She frowned at him. “I suppose you wouldn’t. Well, you say you can be of use?”

  “I can.”

  She shoved her mug forwards. “Prove it. Make me another cup of tea then, and we’ll talk some more.”

  Darragh moaned as Ciaran’s mouth left warm trails over his chest. He’d missed this, missed this stolen affection between them. And Ciaran was so beautiful, so golden he seemed to glow, even in this dim cellar. His small hands slid down Darragh’s ribs, as warm as his mouth. How was he so warm? Darragh was cold. Chilly. Uncomfortable, shoulders aching, but so thankful for Ciaran’s touch. He arched his back towards it, stifling another moan as one of Ciaran’s hands slipped past the waistband of his trousers.

  “I want you,” he said. “I want you bad.”

  “It’s been a while since I heard that from anyone,” a voice said, and Darragh’s eyes flashed open.

  The old woman was standing over him.

  He looked around for Ciaran, but the cellar was otherwise empty. The warmth of the dream rushed away, leaving him colder than before. Leaving him aching for Ciaran’s touch.

  “I—” he said, his head pounding. “I was dreaming.”

  “I would say you were! And what a dream it must have been.”

  He averted his gaze, twisting in his bonds.

  “Well, whatever happened between you, clearly he has a little bit of fondness left for you, as well. I put the choice to him, and he wants you set free.”

  “He does?” Darragh’s whole spirit seemed to wake at those words.

  “Apparently. And I’ll be respecting his wishes … on one condition.”

  Darragh nodded and stared at her craggy face. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen an old person. They’d been the first to go at home, when the sickness came. The old, the weak, and the little babies. Her grey hair and wrinkles fascinated him. Age meant experience, meant knowledge. And to have survived so long under the nose of the king, she must be very canny indeed.

  “I want you to take him away,” the old woman said. “I’ve no place for him here—frankly, he’s nothing but a liability to me—but he wants to stay. Wants to fight.” She snorted as though the idea amused her. “Take him back north, where he belongs. I can’t spare the resources for the task, especially if he’s unwilling. This way, I get you both out from under me.”

  Darragh nodded eagerly.

  “You might find his father’s gratitude of some use if you get him back in one piece. Might get that medicine after all, hmm? Or you might wind up taking the fall for his kidnapping, who’s to say.”

  The thought of that reward, shared among his people, made Darragh’s heart swell. He wanted it. Wanted it bad, wanted to return home having fulfilled his promise to protect his people. He’d been gone so long now they probably feared him dead. How much sweeter it would be to get back there now, to turn their mourning tears into laughter. He ruminated on the old woman’s words for a moment.

  “Is it likely, do you think, that they’d blame me for taking him?”

  She snorted. “I don’t know the odds.”

  “And if I don’t bring him back there?” Not that there was any question about that. He couldn’t very well leave Ciaran stranded in Ireland when he should be back with his father where he belonged. And yes, the risk of returning him was high, if the law of the North decided Darragh deserved punishment, but the potential reward! Food, medicine, supplies, petrol, maybe even safe passage to the North for what was left of his people. Civilisation. A return to the life most of them were too young to even remember. He could give them that.

  “Then I suppose he’s your problem. Just keep him out of Dublin and away from my fucking war. He thinks you’re a good man, so I’m respecting that opinion and putting his life in your hands. It’ll be on your conscience if something happens to him.”

  Darragh nodded, and then frowned. “I don’t know the way.”

  “It’s north,” the old woman said. “Even you can find north, hmm?”

  “I don’t know the way out of the city,” Darragh elaborated in frustration. “I lost my map. We have no supplies at all. We won’t get far like this.”

  “Maps are worth shit. I’ll tell you a safe route so simple that even your big dozy head will hold on to it. And you’ll have supplies. As much as I can spare. Food. Water-purifying tablets. First aid bits and bobs. Consider it my payment for taking the boy off my hands in a way that keeps them clean.”

  “Don’t call him that,” Darragh barked.

  The old woman’s eyes flashed in sudden fear, and she put a hand on her heart. “Well, aren’t you a surprise? Not the dumb lunk they all take you for, are you? Although you might try keeping a civil fucking tongue in your head when you speak to me, given that I’m the one getting you out of here.”

  Darragh’s face burned at the insult, burned with shame that he depended on this woman, burned with conviction that he’d been right to defend Ciaran’s honour regardless. “Sorry.”

  “Oh no,” the woman said. “Don’t apologise. We understand one another, you and I. You were the thorn in my side during the Milbourne Avenue raid, but I can let bygones be bygones. I owe you, after all.”

  “You owe me?” Darragh asked, dumbfounded. “What for?”

  “For smacking Boru in the face with your hurley,” she said. “It’s only a shame you didn’t kill him.”

  Darragh nodded fervently.

  “Still, I doubt the blow was enough to slip his brain back into the right gear, so the sooner you get Ciaran out of here, the better for everyone. Boru will want his revenge, and given that he’s a mad fucker, he’ll want it bad, and he’ll want it now.”

  Oh, Darragh could believe it. The attack on Croke Park had to have been humiliating. Not only had he lost his Boy, lost his chance to punish Ciaran and Darragh for their disobedience, but he’d also lost his grand show. All that electricity and blood, come to ruin.

  “I’ll do it. I’ll take him north. To safety.”

  The rat queen patted Darragh fondly on the cheek, just a little too rough for comfort. “Good man.”

  For the first time since he’d come to Dublin, Darragh believed those words.

  Ciaran came awake to pressure on his chest and a hand over his mouth. Half a whimper escaped into the hot palm over his face until he remembered his pride, until he remembered that he was free. He wasn’t Boy anymore. He twisted.

  “Don’t move,” Darragh said.

  Like hell he wouldn’t. He tried to throw Darragh off, redoubling his efforts, but it was easier said than done with Darragh kneeling on his fucking chest. He tried to shout, but that big hand was clamped over his mouth. He tried to bite, but couldn’t manage it.

  Rage filled him, drowning out the fear. This wasn’t going to happen. He was Ciaran, not Boy. Nobody got to touch him without permission. Not like this, not again.

  He kicked both legs and bucked, but Darragh didn’t shift. Didn’t do much of anything, actually. His hands didn’t wander. His touch didn’t turn sexual. He didn’t try to steal a kiss. He didn’t even stroke Ciaran’s hair. Ciaran settled back, eyes wide and furious, and waited. It was no use fighting in this position, but if Darragh tried anything funny, maybe then he’d leave an opening Ciaran could exploit.

  “Easy,” Darragh murmured, like he was speaking to a ho
rse. “Whisht. Whisht.”

  Ciaran spat a burst of curses into Darragh’s palm. What the hell was this?

  “We have to go now, under cover of darkness, before the king tears this whole place apart. I know the way out of the city. We’ll go north. Return you to safety.”

  Ciaran shook his head hard, whining again.

  “And freedom,” Darragh added.

  Ciaran growled, wishing his mouth were free so he could rip every one of Darragh’s statements to shreds. Ciaran didn’t have to go anywhere. Darragh couldn’t possibly know the way out of Dublin, and the North wasn’t safe, or free. Not for any person living in the refugee camps, at least. Ciaran had been privileged enough not to, but he hadn’t asked for preferential treatment. He detested it. Not like his father and the other members of the Dáil, living in their row of terrace houses and pretending they still had something to govern.

  Damn him. Where was Maureen, or anyone? How had Darragh managed to get past them?

  Darragh rose off him, but before Ciaran had time to struggle, Darragh flipped him over onto his stomach and pulled his hands behind his back. Rope cut into his wrists. He shouted, but Darragh shoved his face into the mattress to muffle the sound. Waited until Ciaran was out of breath, then released him.

  Ciaran panted. “What are you— You fucker!”

  “Easy,” Darragh said again.

  Tape ripped. Ciaran tried to push himself off the mattress, but Darragh knelt on him again. Taped his mouth while he twisted under Darragh, and he thought that was the worst of it, but then Darragh taped his fucking eyes, blinding him before he turned him onto his back again.

  After all Ciaran had gone through and survived, this was the most terrified he’d been, other than the day Boru had put the knife to him.

  Darragh’s voice came to him through the darkness, still soft and deceptively gentle for a kidnapper. “I’m sorry, Ciaran. I don’t want to hurt you, but you won’t stop struggling and shouting and we really do need to leave. Now. Once we’re free of the city and I can be sure you won’t come running back here, I’ll cut you free. I promise.” A hand cupped his cheek, full of so much twisted affection Ciaran wanted to puke.