by Stina Leicht
“Let them. What does it matter?” He edged closer.
Unable to stop herself, she closed her eyes and breathed in the scent of him as she always did and remembered a time when she’d been truly happy. “There’ll be talk.”
“It’s only words, love. Mortals have short memories.”
“Not all do,” she said. “It’s a married woman, I am. That may not mean much to you. But it means a great deal to me. I swore an oath when I married Patrick—”
“You keep your oath, but does he do the same? And where is he?” Bran gazed across the churchyard at the thinning crowd.
She stood up and dusted off her dress. “He’s gone to the pub, I imagine.”
“And the coward left you and the children to the danger?”
And how is it what you’ve done is any better? “I’m serious. You must go.
Now.” “Ma!” Little Moira ran to her from across the churchyard.
Sheila had the rest of the children with her and was tracing her own path through the tombstones. Moira wrapped her arms around Kathleen’s legs, almost toppling her over. Kathleen reached down and straightened the scarf covering Moira’s brown curls. “Were you good for your Aunt Sheila?”
“Yes, Ma. Who was that man?”
As it turned out, Moira wasn’t the only one who’d seen.
Chapter 7
Londonderry/Derry, County Londonderry, Northern Ireland
29 January 1972
The concrete walls of the tenement flat reverberated with the sounds of warring children and clanging pans, the sounds of seven people packed in a cramped space. Four-year-old Jamie and five-year-old Moira sat on the floor, fighting over a rag doll—their matching brown curls the same shade as their mother’s. Little Eileen was unsuccessfully negotiating a truce. In between the screaming Liam heard his Aunt Sheila gossiping with his mother in the kitchen.
The cacophony and the scent of boiling chicken meant home, but Liam couldn’t have felt more alien. He surveyed his half siblings and noticed—not for the first time—that he resembled none of them. The months he had been gone only intensified the feeling of separation. He was weary and wanted nothing more than to sleep; anything to stop the thinking and remembering, but sleep wasn’t an option. The crowded sitting room doubled as his bedroom. In any case, when he did sleep he only dreamed, and he didn’t want to dream either.
He got up from the lumpy couch that served as his bed. When he did his mother appeared, blocking the hall. It was always like that now, as if she were tuned to his every movement. The room became quiet.
“Will you be home for supper?” she asked, her voice fragile. The heat was out again, and she was wearing two sweaters to keep off the chill. She folded her arms across her chest, and then she seemed to reconsider lest he take it as a threat, and instead dropped her arms to her sides.
He had been home from Long Kesh Internment Camp all of two days, and with the exception of the Frontliners who called him a fool for getting caught, everyone treated him like he might break or produce a bomb. Liam wasn’t planning on doing either. He wasn’t about to give anyone an excuse to send him back to Lisburn, and as for breaking… well, he’d done all the breaking he’d ever do in the Kesh.
Even Mary Kate treated him differently, but that wasn’t so bad. She treated him like a hero—and if heroes spent afternoons between Mary Kate’s thighs, even if they went to hell for it, he supposed there were worse fates to be had. “Off for a walk,” Liam lied. The flat’s concrete walls pressed in more than he liked to admit.
“Again?” she asked. “You’ll be careful won’t you? Stay out of trouble?”
“Yes, Ma. I will.” At least as far as soldiers are concerned, he thought. Mary Kate’s father might feel a wee bit different.
“We’re to Mass early tomorrow,” she said. “Your father thought we’d do something nice after. For your birthday. A picnic.”
Patrick Kelly was his stepfather, not his father, and Liam would’ve been willing to wager the idea was not Patrick’s, but Liam had had his fill of confrontations so he let the lie stand. “What about the march?” Liam asked.
“We’ll stay well clear of that. I told you about the Paras. Mrs. Foyle says there are sure to be more soldiers than usual and—” His mother looked away, uncomfortable. “Arrests.”
Feeling tired, Liam stepped outside and rested his back against the closed door with a deep breath. He loved his mother. He did. He hated lying to her and didn’t understand why he did it. That she approved of Mary Kate was obvious, having invited her over for cooking lessons multiple times while he was away. However, he was dead certain his mother wouldn’t think much of how they’d been spending their afternoons. Guilty as he felt, he was also happy, even if the first time Mary Kate had let him make love to her he’d shamed himself by crying. She hadn’t laughed, or drawn back as he feared she would. Instead, she pulled him closer and whispered soothing words until the tears stopped.
Afterward, she kissed him tenderly and then said, “I thought I was the one who was supposed to weep.” Embarrassed, he’d looked away.
“I didn’t mean to make you feel ashamed.” She’d touched his cheek. “This means as much to you as it does to me. And that makes me love you all the more.”
Standing now in the hallway outside his flat, he checked his watch and saw it was three o’clock. He took the steps two at a time and then loped down the street. Running had once been a pleasure; it had been the one school activity in which he had excelled and after three months of confinement it had become a physical need. It was cloudy and cold, and the wind was up, but he didn’t realize he had forgotten his coat until he was halfway down the block.
Rounding the corner, he spotted her. A gust caught at Mary Kate’s long brown hair, pulling it into her pretty oval face. When the sun was bright it brought out golden highlights in her curls. In the approaching storm she resembled a graveyard angel. One graceful hand captured the flying tresses and trapped them behind her ear. Her coat flapped open, and he saw she was wearing a new green dress. The idea that she might be wearing it for him provided a measure of warmth in spite of the cold.
When he thought about it he supposed he had always loved her—ever since the day he’d been playing with a football, bouncing it off a wall. He’d accidentally hit her with it and then laughed when she’d cried. In response, she’d blackened his eye for him. Even at age nine the wee thing had had a punch that would fell a mule. She was four months older than him, fiercer than any angel written in the Bible and every damned bit as beautiful.
From the tilt of her chin he knew something was wrong. His heart stumbled. Running faster, he brought himself up short when two men stepped out of the alley. Neither looked happy.
“Stop right there, son,” Patrick Kelly said, holding up his hand. His big red face was redder than usual. Mr. Gallagher took a place next to Patrick.
Oh, Lord, it’s her father, Liam thought. Shite. He’s pissed.
Mary Kate closed the distance and threw her arms around him in a tight hug. Her face was wet and cold on the front of his shirt. He kissed the top of her head.
“Bridget told father.” She buried her face deeper. “Don’t know how she knew. I certainly didn’t tell her.”
“Shhh. It’s all right,” Liam said.
Patrick Kelly said, “Unhand the girl.”
Ignoring his stepfather, Liam pushed Mary Kate behind him. He was more concerned with Mr. Gallagher. Liam had known him almost as long as he’d known Mary Kate, but at the moment the man looked as though he was ready to punch someone.
Please, God, don’t let it come to that. I don’t want to hurt him, Liam thought.
“I said—”
Liam lifted his chin. An icy raindrop slapped him in the face. “I heard you the first time, Father.” Turning to Mr. Gallagher, Liam said, “I’m sorry, sir. You’re well within your ri—”
“Don’t be telling the man his rights,” Patrick Kelly said. “We’re here to see the proper thing
done. And so it will be. You’ll not see the girl again.”
“I’m marrying her, if she’ll have me.” It was out before Liam had time to think.
Patrick moved closer and said, “Don’t be a fool, son. She’s only your fir—”
“Don’t.” Liam felt a twinge of terror as black memory tried to surface, but he shoved it down with all his might. A tingling sensation originating in his chest crawled down his limbs. He focused on the pressure of Mary Kate’s arms and prayed it would go away. The last time he’d felt like that he’d done something terrible. “Don’t. You. Insult. Her.” He balled up his fists. The powerful, black beast in his head fought to free itself. He trembled with the effort to keep it back.
No. Don’t. Please stop.
The color in Patrick’s face drained away. Mr. Gallagher’s eyes grew round with horror. Liam didn’t know for sure what it was they saw, but he knew that look. He had seen it in the Kesh often enough, and now understood it had followed him his whole life. It explained why he had not been able to get work no matter how hard he’d tried—why Sister Margaret had been so insistent that he repeat his prayers exactly. It had nothing to do with his missing Protestant father. Something wasn’t right in him, and everyone sensed it.
There’s a devil in that boy, Sister Margaret had once said to his mother.
And it was getting worse.
Mary Kate’s voice came from behind him, loud and clear. “I’ll marry you, William Ronan Monroe Kelly,” she said, using his full name as if she wanted all present certain of who she meant. Then she squeezed him tighter. “Never wanted anything more in my whole life.”
The black hulking thing pressing for freedom shrank as the meaning of her words sank in. Liam stood a bit taller and let out a shaky breath. “I’m sorry. This wasn’t how I wanted it. Was going to get work first and then a ring.”
“It doesn’t matter,” she said.
“And just how do you think you’ll live?” Patrick Kelly asked.
Mary Kate circled around Liam and tucked herself under his arm. “I’ve a job.”
His step father made a disapproving sound in the back of his throat. “You’d expect your husband to live off you?”
“Worked well enough for you. How long was it last?” Liam asked. “Two years? Three? And to be sure it wasn’t the only time.”
“That’s different!” Patrick Kelly seemed to have forgotten his fear. “Your mother and I didn’t start our lives as beggars!”
“Is that so? Then why is it we lived off Granny for all those years?” Liam asked.
“Don’t you drag out the family troubles in front of—”
“I’m sure I’ve not said anything Mr. Gallagher doesn’t know already. Him and the whole of Derry.”
“You fucking wee bastard,” Patrick Kelly said. Moving closer until his nose was perhaps an inch from Liam’s chin, he then cocked back a fist.
Some things never change, Liam thought. “That’s right. I’m not your son,” Liam said, turning his face toward the threat. He didn’t blink. He knew he was a goner if he showed any sign of backing down. “This is between Mr. Gallagher, me, Mary Kate and my mother. As of this moment, you’re out of it.”
The sleet quit blustering and got serious, smacking the pavement with everything it had. Freezing rainwater poured over Liam; the only warmth in the world was Mary Kate at his side. She was all that mattered. Patrick Kelly didn’t twitch. Fist held high, his rounded face was bunched so tight that a vein in his temple pulsed.
The tingling sensation was back. Let it go, Liam thought. It would be so easy. No more sanctimonious speeches about a man’s duty to his family. No more begrudging every mouthful of food. Dead easy. You know it. You’ve done it before.
No. I didn’t, he argued with himself. It wasn’t me.
A big man at six feet two and sixteen stone, Patrick Kelly had once intimidated him, but Liam had learned a great deal in the Kesh, and one of those lessons had been that when a man was afraid of you, you used it to your advantage. If you didn’t, you’d end up on the wrong side of a shed getting the shite pounded out of you.
Unease shifted behind Patrick Kelly’s eyes.
“I said leave.” Liam stared down that doubt until his stepfather looked away.
“That’s it,” Patrick Kelly said. “Don’t you expect another damned thing from me.”
His stepfather turned and stormed down the street, seeming to take the black thing in Liam’s head with him. Liam released the breath he was holding and prayed the rest would sort itself out.
Once Patrick Kelly was gone, Mr. Gallagher spoke in a quiet voice. “Mary Kate, there’s never been any stopping you.” He sighed. “If you want to marry, your mother and I will consent.”
“Thank you!”
She left Liam’s side, and hugged her father. Liam felt the lack at once. Watching them together, he made up his mind. “Mr. Gallagher, sir?”
“Yes?”
“I wish to wait,” Liam said.
“What?” Mary Kate asked. “After all this?”
“We have to. I don’t want to ruin everything. It has to be right,” Liam told Mary Kate. “For you.”
Mr. Gallagher stared at him, and Liam felt himself being measured. Afraid the black thing would be worked into the equation, Liam looked away.
“I love her, sir,” Liam said. “I do mean to marry her. I don’t think I could live without her. Not after—” He stopped himself before he said anything he would regret and shrugged. “I’ll do my best. For her. I swear. Everything I can. More. Give me a year. To find work. I’ll leave if I have to. Head down south. She’ll be safe.”
“Leave Derry? Are you mad?” Mary Kate asked.
“Mad enough to marry you,” Liam said, shivering with cold.
One corner of Mr. Gallagher’s mouth turned up. “Welcome to the family, son.” He held out his hand.
Liam took it. “Thank you, sir.”
He swore to meet Mary Kate only while chaperoned until they married. And with that, Liam walked home, teeth rattling in his head and soaked through, only to find his mother standing at the front door, crying. A large laundry bag rested at her feet.
“Why did you do it?” she asked, holding out his coat.
He took it from her and put it on, thankful of the warmth. “I love her, Ma.”
“Not that,” she said, whispering so her voice didn’t carry down the hallway to Mrs. Foyle’s. “Always knew there’d come a day. Mind, I’d much rather you’d waited. What were you thinking? What if the girl is pregnant?”
“We’ll marry sooner, I suppose.”
“Simple as that, is it? You’ll learn, my lad. You’ll learn. And you’ll stand by that girl too. You’ll not have to worry about her brothers or her father. Oh, no. I’ll break both your legs myself. No son of mine runs out on—”
She would too. He smiled. “Don’t worry, Ma.”
“She’s a good girl, Mary Kate. She’ll see you don’t get into too much trouble.” She put a hand to his cheek and looked down at the bag. “No. It’s your father. Why did you have to press him?”
“He’s not my father.”
Her eyes flashed up at him.
Might as well, he thought. I’m out anyway. “If he was a Protestant, I don’t care. Surely, I can have his name at least? Munroe is all I have.”
“I’ll not answer that question. Not now. Not here. Don’t ask it.”
“Who are you protecting?”
“You,” she said, closing her eyes with a deep breath. “I want you to go to your Gran’s for a while. I called her. She’s expecting you.”
“No.”
“Just until your—until matters settle. You won’t have to stay long. A few days. I’ll talk to him. In the meantime, you’re to go to confession tonight, or I’ll hear of it. I spoke to Father Murray at the church. You’ve until six.” His mother picked up the sack. “Look at you. Why did you have to go off without even a coat? You’ll catch cold.”
“I won’t.”
Resigned to his fate, he took the laundry bag from her. Sadness welled up inside of him. He had only just gotten home.
“I’ll see you tomorrow. At your Gran’s.” She hugged him. Her hair smelled of lavender as it always did. “I love you.”
“Love you too, Ma.”
She clung to him like he was going to vanish. “You’re a good boy. You’ve always been so—no matter what anyone says.” She whispered in his ear. “Packed your birthday present. Don’t you go opening it until tomorrow.” She let him go with a sniff and fled, slamming the door shut behind her.
Liam didn’t move until his vision stopped blurring, then he headed for St. Brendan’s. Before he did, he paid a visit to Patrick Kelly’s car.
In for a penny. In for a pound, he thought.
“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned,” Liam began, “It’s been three months since my last confession.”
“More like six,” Father Murray said. “But who’s counting? Well, outside of your mother.”
“Got that impression did you?”
On the other side of the shadowy screen Father Murray shook his head. “I’m thinking I’ll need a strong cup of tea for this one. You too. Come on. Mrs. Finney will have left the parochial house by now. We can talk in private.”
“Thought I was here for confession?”
“Tell you what—you still feel like confessing afterward we can always come back.”
When Liam met Father Murray outside the confessional, the priest glanced at the laundry bag. “Tsk. It’s that bad, is it?”
“She’s sending me to Gran’s for a few days.”
“Ah. I see.” Father Murray leaned closer. “In that case, we’ll have the whiskey. You’ll have need of it before you face the old witch. Of course, don’t tell anyone I said so.”
Father Murray was one of the new ones, from a seminary in Dublin. His short hair was dark brown, and he wore a close-trimmed beard and black horn-rimmed glasses. Liam followed him out of the church, uncertain.
“Your mother says you’re seventeen now.”
“Tomorrow. Yes.”
Father Murray gave him a long look. “Happy Birthday.” In his soft Dublin accent it sounded like an apology.