by Monica James
The Craic’s 90
A classic Irish phrase which means a good time.
The building is painted red with small Irish flags draped along the balcony’s ledge. It’s in a good, busy location, and is modern, but has an aul’ feel to it. It’s jammed full of patrons, which is a blessing as well as a curse.
We can blend in, but as far as earwigging, we won’t be able to hear a thing above the rowdy drunks.
With nothing but confidence, we enter, taking everything in.
It’s everything you’d expect to see inside a traditional Irish pub. The walls are dark brown with green and white accents. Wooden barstools surround the kegs acting as tables, and some tasteful light fixtures help brighten the room.
But the noisy drinkers aren’t here for the décor. They’re here to get plastered.
We walk inside, heading straight for the bar. I take a moment to listen and watch, like a smart predator does. Instantly, I’m drawn to a pretty blonde behind the bar. She’s pouring pints with skill, hinting this isn’t her first night behind the bar.
Cian notices me looking. Standing at six-four, he can clearly see where my attention is. Rory soon catches up to speed. We wait in line, soaking up the atmosphere for an entirely different reason to everyone else here.
“C’mere till I tell ya,” shouts a hammered eejit two patrons in front of us to his friends. “I’m gonna ask Erin to have a drink with me.”
His mates laugh, slapping him on the back as if they don’t believe him. “Yer a real bungalow. A pretty thing like Erin Doyle wouldn’t touch ya.”
Rory makes eye contact with me as he heard what I did.
Looking around the room, I see a pretty girl sitting with a group of friends.
Tapping the man in front of me, I try my best to smile when he turns over his broad shoulder to look at me. He doesn’t hide his disgust that someone like me would dare speak to him.
“Excuse me, but I overheard that girl over there tell her friends ya were bleedin’ massive.”
The man follows where I’m pointing, and his attitude soon changes.
“Janey Mack,” he says, smirking. “Excuse me, lads.”
This ballbag would believe a table of pretty birds are interested in him because he’s a cocky cunt. He doesn’t need any further encouragement and heads off into their direction.
Cian shakes his head, just as disgusted as I am. “Oh, yer excused, cockhead. Ack, these fuckers sound like buck eejits,” he says under his breath.
And he’s right.
Their slang and accents are different. I studied some basic lingo and hope it’ll get us through without being detected for who we are. But the reason I sent that knob away is because now I can subtly earwig on the conversation in front of us.
“I don’t care whatcha think. I’m askin’ her,” the eejit with red hair persists.
His friends all laugh, apparently not having much faith in his pickup attempts.
“Yer full of wind and piss. Besides, a girl like Erin is too good for a gom like you.”
“And her two brothers are scary as all shite. They rule Dublin. Stay away. I’m not savin’ yer pig-ignorant arse. Again.”
“Run yer lamps over her,” the infatuated eejit says to his friends.
Cian, Rory, and I follow his line of sight and when we see he’s drooling over the blonde bartender, we all make the same assumption.
This is Erin Doyle—the only daughter of Brody Doyle.
Cian grips my bicep to stop me from advancing. It was an involuntary movement. My body is prepared to fight as this pub has a Doyle working behind the bar. I doubt it’s because she needs the money. This pub is owned by the Doyles and is definitely a front for something.
And I intend to find out what that something is.
The three men wait until Erin can serve them, and when she makes eye contact with the eejit, she rolls them.
“What’ll it be then?” she shouts to be heard over the music.
“If yer not on the menu, I’ll have three pints of the black stuff.”
Cian snorts while I try not to boke at the lame pickup line. No wonder his mates were having a laugh at him.
Erin doesn’t crack a smile when she pours the three drinks and places them on the bar. “Anything else?”
I don’t hear the eejit’s reply because my attention is diverted to the big lad who just walked behind the bar. Erin doesn’t seem bothered that he’s helping himself to the top shelf whiskey. He’s tall and has light brown hair.
His hard face reveals he doesn’t take shite from anyone. He has a sense of control, entitlement, which means he has to be a Doyle. And the way girls are falling over themselves to get a juke at him confirms this.
I’m guessing this is Liam—the eldest Doyle sibling.
They say he’s dead spit of his dad, so I take a close look at him, memorizing the face of a monster. He grabs some glasses and walks over to a table in the corner of the room. I see three older men, laughing rowdily without a care in the world.
I gesture with my head that Cian and Rory are to go check it out while I deal with Erin.
The eejit doesn’t take no for an answer, and as Erin waits for him to finish whatever nonsense he’s carrying on with, her gaze lands on me. I expect her to look away, but she doesn’t. She makes it very clear that she’s checking me out and likes what she sees.
My skin crawls, but my mask is firmly in place as I grin, then raise my eyes to the heavens as if bored by the cockhead in front of me. Erin smiles, brushing a piece of blonde hair behind her ears.
The eejit finally gets the hint, and he and his friends leave, which gives me room to step forward. “Three pints of Guinness, thanks,” I say in an American accent that would make Amber proud.
Erin nods and commences pouring my drinks.
She is very pretty, but I don’t let her good looks have me away with the fairies. No matter what she is, first and last, she will always be a Doyle, and her gold crucifix necklace is just confirmation of this. She is the enemy, a dangerous enemy with a pretty face.
“Yer American then?”
“Yes,” I reply coolly. “I’m here on vacation with friends.”
“Ah, some craic. How ya liking it here?”
“It’s awesome. Although, it’s fucking cold.”
She laughs while I mentally catalogue everything I can about her. “Have you worked here for long?”
“Aye, my whole life. My family owns this pub,” she clarifies when I don’t respond. “It’s expected of me to be here, regardless of if I want to be or not.”
She doesn’t seem happy of that fact.
“I know that feeling all too well,” I reply, pushing my glasses up the bridge of my nose.
“I imagine you would,” she says, making a point to look at my bruised face. “I’m Erin, by the way.”
“Mike,” I reply with a smile.
“Well, Mike, that’ll be ten euros.”
I pay her, ensuring our fingers touch when I pass her the money. “Keep the change, Erin. It was nice meeting you.”
I grab my drinks, hoping my aloof act works—it does.
“I have a break in half an hour. I hope yer still here.”
Smiling, I don’t bother saying anything as I walk away with drinks in hand. Rory and Cian are doing a good job at blending in, and when they see me, they can read the buzzin’ expression on my bake. Setting the glasses down onto the table, I casually turn my back toward Liam, not wanting to raise any red flags.
“How’d it go then?” Rory asks from behind the rim of his glass.
“Grand. It’s her,” I affirm as her comment about her family owning this pub means we’re on Doyle turf.
“Yer sure?” Cian asks softly, keeping his eyes peeled to the table behind me.
“Aye, she told me her family owns this pub. She’s got to be Brody’s daughter.”
“She could be a relative,” Rory reasons, and he’s right. She could be. But I feel it in the pit of my stomach that she and the cun
t behind me are Brody’s kids.
“What else did she say?”
“Nothin’. Just that she’s havin’ a break soon and hopes I’m here when she does.”
Rory jokingly pretends to boke while Cian shakes his head. “Ach, yer breakin’ hearts even in Dublin.”
“Fuck off,” I playfully reply, throwing back my drink.
The men behind me are talking softly, which just confirms they’re talking business, and when one of them stands, excusing himself to use the jacks, this is my cue to find out what they’re discussing.
I finish my drink, then follow him.
The jacks are empty, apart from the man taking a piss at the urinals. I keep my eyes up front and use the urinal two away from him. It’s as awkward as it sounds, making conversation when taking a piss, but thankfully, the shithead doesn’t seem to mind.
“Look at the bleeding state o’ you, lad.”
Turning to look at him, I smile. “I ran into a door,” I reply with cheek.
He laughs loudly. “Ack, you Americans are bitta craic. My name’s Aidan.”
“Mike,” I reply, thankful when I hear Aidan do up his fly. He walks over to the sink to wash his hands. When I’m done, I join him.
“Ye can fight then?”
“You should see the other guy.” I whistle, lathering my hands with soap.
Aidan laughs, turning off the taps. And when he does, a crucifix tattooed on his left wrist catches my eye.
Time stands still.
I blink once, needing a moment to process what I’m seeing in case my eyes are playing tricks on me. But it’s there, bringing back a downpour of emotions.
Ma’s screams, her wheezing for breath, all of it comes crashing to the surface, threatening to drag me under and silence the memories for good.
But I need to hold it together because Aidan has something I want, something I’ve been looking for since I was five years old.
Answers…and his fucking head.
“Yes, I can fight, why?” I ask, needing to keep this conversation going. “You need someone to fight for you?”
Aidan dries his hands on the paper towel, appearing to weigh over my question. “Yer offering?”
Aidan is guarded, and so he should be. I would be suspicious if he welcomed me into his circle with open arms. But I will do anything to gain his trust because it’ll make what I plan to do to him wild craic. I am not going to merely kill him—I’m going to paint Dublin with his blood.
The door opens and the person who enters has me clenching my fist, but I need to calm down, as I can’t stir any suspicion.
“I thought ya fell in.”
Aidan laughs. “Ye know what happens when ya break the seal. Was just talkin’ to this nice fella. Liam, this is Mike from America.”
I have no idea why my nationality makes a difference, and right now, I don’t care because I was right—this fucker is Liam Doyle.
Liam eyes me closely. I wonder what he sees.
Once I finish drying my hands, I offer one to Liam. He looks down at it and eventually shakes it. When we connect, sheer fury overwhelms me, and it takes every ounce of control I have not to kill them both where they stand.
“How’s the form?” He asks how I am, but I play thick, seeing as I’m supposed to be American.
“How’s the what?”
A grin spreads across Liam’s bake. This was a test. And I passed.
“What happened to yer face?” he asks, looking at me closely.
“Oh. Someone had a smart mouth. I didn’t like it.” I don’t elaborate.
Aidan looks at Liam, clearly attempting to read what’s going on behind those cold blue eyes.
“Have a drink with us?” Liam phrased it as a question, but I know I don’t have a choice.
“Sure. Sounds good.”
Aidan chuckles, slapping me on the back like we’re old friends. If only he knew how I wish to break every bone in his body. We exit the jacks while Liam remains behind to take a piss. When Rory and Cian see me walk out with Aidan, their eyes widen, but they remain calm when they don’t sense any threat.
“These yer friends?” Aidan asks, as he clearly noticed us standing by them. He offers his hand, which both boys shake.
“Yeah, these are my boys,” I reply, ensuring they hear me speak with my American accent to alert them to think fast as they cannot be Irish.
“Nice to meet you,” Rory says with a French accent. I mentally thank Estelle, Rory’s first girlfriend and exchange student from Paris, as he’s adopted the accent perfectly. “I’m Paul.”
Cian smiles. “G’day mate, mi name’s Kanga. Bloody ripper to meet ya.” Looks like his obsession with Crocodile Dundee has paid off.
These lads are smart, playing along perfectly. Their accents are flawless.
Liam appears a moment later, grinning when he sees he has company. Just what is he playing at? “Grand to meet ya, lads, mi name’s Liam Doyle.”
Just hearing his name aloud is so surreal. I have been hunting him and his clan for so long, so to be here, it almost feels like a dream. But this is no dream. This is real life, and I’m really going to end the Doyle bloodline, even if it takes the rest of my life to do so.
Cian and Rory continue with their roleplaying, introducing themselves.
“What do ya get when an Irishman, an Australian, a Frenchman, and an American walk into a bar?” Liam says playfully, attempting to set a lighthearted mood.
But we know better. However, we all play along, laughing and fueling his already large ego.
The other men introduce themselves, but they’re of no interest to me as I assume they’re acquaintances. I have a wee hunch this may be a casual business meeting as such. It makes sense for it to occur on Doyle turf.
Liam wants this to appear informal, but if they dare step out of line, they’ll be punished as Liam has home ground advantage.
Cian and Rory make light conversation with the other two men, but Liam and Aidan make clear their interest is with me. “How long ya in Dublin for?”
“A couple of weeks,” I reply, sipping my Guinness.
Every time Aidan talks, laughs, or breathes, I want to slam his head onto the table and make him bleed. I’m inches away from ma’s killer, and I can’t do a thing about it. Not yet, anyway. I need to remind myself of this because the urge to inflict pain on him is almost unbearable.
“So, yer a bit of a rebel then?” Liam says, lowering his voice.
I just smile in response.
“Did ya want to make some extra money while yer here?” And the real reason Liam has shown interest in me has been revealed.
“Doing what?” I ask, not wanting to appear too eager.
“Chance yer arm and trust me, bucko.” Liam throws back a shot of whiskey, waiting for me to reply.
“Okay, I’m in.”
Cian and Rory have heard the exchange, and by their stiff upper lips, they’re seconds away from telling me to wise up, but this is happening. I don’t know what I’m needed for, but I’m going to find out. I can’t let this opportunity go.
Liam hollers, slapping my back happily. “Good lad. We do have a wee initiation process.”
“What is it?” I keep my cool as I knew there was a catch.
Liam pours a shot of whiskey and slides the glass my way. “Yer a good fighter?”
Nodding, I accept the whiskey and knock it back.
“Gas. Let’s see how good ya are then.”
Aidan gulps down his whiskey, making a face as he stands, hinting this is happening now.
“Thanks for coming, lads. I’ll be in touch.” Liam dismisses the two men as their business is done for now. They don’t argue and shake hands before leaving us alone.
Liam grabs the bottle of whiskey and heads for the front door.
“The fuck ya playin’ at?” Cian whispers into my ear as we push our way through the crowd.
“Houl yer whisht,” I reply softly, not wanting to set off alarm bells. “That fucker, Aidan, h
as a tattoo on his wrist.”
Cian’s eyes widen. He understands the importance of that comment.
“Wise up!” Rory frantically utters, always the level thinker of us three. “I thought ya said nice and quick? This is not either of those things. With yer temper, Punky, this will end badly.”
And he’s right.
I just never thought I’d find myself in a situation such as this. I didn’t know what I expected to find coming here, but I need to know why the Doyles’ pub address was locked away in my da’s drawer.
Just as I’m about to exit the pub, Erin grabs my arm. I refrain from recoiling, but only just.
“Where ya going with my brother?” she asks, eyes darting to the doorway where Liam has stopped to talk to some bird.
“Oh, Liam is your brother?” I ask, playing dumb.
“Aye, and he’s someone ya don’t want to be messin’ with. Please, just go home.”
“I’ll be fine. Thanks for the heads-up,” I reply, surprised that she seems genuine.
“Jaysus,” she mutters under her breath, reminding me why I’m here. “Mind yerself.”
Nodding, I don’t faff about and leave Erin behind as the boys and I follow Aidan and Liam around the corner. They walk casually, hinting nothing is wrong. We’re just a bunch of mates, out for a casual dander.
But whatever faces me, I know won’t be good.
When we turn down an alley, things become real. A big lad is waiting for us. Cian and Rory come to a sudden stop while I merely take a close look at him, wanting to know who he is.
“This is my brother, Hugh,” Liam reveals. The luck of the Irish seems to be true for me tonight because I’ve just met the three Doyle siblings.
I can see why Hugh has the reputation that he has. He’s built like a brick shithouse. The scar across his left cheek adds to his hard appearance. His eyes are dark. His head shaved.
“What’s up?” I casually say while Hugh snickers when he hears I’m “American.”
“Some neck on ya bringing this bleedin’ clown to me.”
This cunt has opted to use slang with the belief that I won’t understand him. But I understand him, all right.
Liam ignores Hugh and turns to me with a predatory smile. “Think ya can take him?”
I take a moment, pretending to size him up. I don’t want to appear too arrogant, but with confidence, I take off my glasses and unthread my tie, giving them to Cian for safekeeping. He looks at me, scared.