by Stina Leicht
“Do you know Fionn mac Cumhaill?”
Bran paused and turned around. “Why do you ask?”
“Because your Liam told me that a creature with filed teeth attacked him the day he was first arrested. He said it mentioned the mac Cumhaill before it did so.”
Stepping closer, Bran asked, “Did he wear a blood-soaked cap and hobnailed boots?”
Father Murray tried to remember how the creature had been described, but he hadn’t paid much attention, assuming it to be only a demon at the time. “He said it was dressed as a British paratrooper. That’s all.”
“Oh, no,” Kathleen said, “a Para? You’re sure?”
“What is it, Kathleen?” Bran asked.
“The Paras,” Kathleen said. “They wear a beret. It’s red. It’s part of the uniform.”
Bran clenched his fist. “The Redcap.”
“What does this mean?” Father Murray asked. “Is it one of your ones? Are there factions? I need to know.”
Bran turned to Kathleen and grasped her arms. “I’m so sorry. All this time. He hadn’t moved against you. I didn’t think he knew of either of you. I thought he was only after my men.”
“That was years ago, and nothing has happened since,” Kathleen said. “Maybe it’s dead now.”
“He’s not dead,” Bran said. “He’s in prison. Biding his time. I should know. I put him there myself. And there he’ll stay. I’ll see to it.”
Father Murray got to his feet. The back of his trousers were soaked through, and his teeth were chattering. “There is more in heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy,” he thought. Maybe Shakespeare knew more than how to turn a pretty phrase. “Is there anything I can do to help?”
Bran faced him, giving him a long judging stare. “You’re serious.”
“I am,” Father Murray said. “I don’t know you all that well but having met you… well, strange as you are, I think I believe you.”
“Not killing any more of us would go a long way,” Bran said.
“I’ll talk to the bishop. Present the idea. Perhaps I can get a delegation together. Discuss a truce or a partnership. I can’t promise they’ll be open-minded, not at the start. But I can try.”
Bran put out his hand. “I thank you at least for that.”
Father Murray nodded. “Can I—I mean, would it be possible to contact you again?” He looked down at the offered hand and with only the slightest hesitation, took it. Bran’s skin was cool but quickly warmed.
Bran gave him another long stare. “Perhaps, Joe Murray. Perhaps.”
Chapter 15
Andersonstown, Belfast, County Antrim, Northern Ireland
October 1975
Exhausted from a long day driving and an even longer one working on the taxi’s recalcitrant engine, Liam made his way up the three flights of stairs. He was filthy, covered in grease up to the elbows, and it’d been for nothing. In his attempt to make the bastard run better he’d managed to banjax the timing and would have to ask Bobby to drop by and help him in the morning. Liam didn’t want to call Oran—as much shite as he gave Oran for not being able to drive, it’d be too embarrassing, and Liam simply wasn’t in the mood. Bobby was the quieter of the two brothers and had proven to be a patient teacher and forgiving of mistakes. This was good because try as Liam might he couldn’t work on an engine for longer than a couple hours without his hands going numb and getting a headache. He’d start dropping tools and then his temper would grow short. Happened every time, but Bobby said he could make a mechanic of him yet.
Throwing open the door, Liam was met with the welcoming scent of boiling chicken. His favorite. His stomach rumbled as he slipped out of his coat and tossed it onto the sofa.
Mary Kate peered around the kitchen wall. “The dinner is almost ready.”
“That’s wonderful,” he said and sighed.
“Bad day?”
He went to the washroom to clean up, and she followed him.
“No more than usual, really,” he said, using the soap to get rid of the first layer of grease. “Fucking choke on the carburetor giving trouble again.”
She nodded, kissed him on the back of the neck and then left him to scrape off the grime. By the time he was done the dinner was on the table. She seemed distracted but happy as he sat down.
“Well, I’ve done it,” Mary Kate said with a bright smile that cut him through.
“What did you do? Exactly.”
“I’ve quit the Socialist Party.”
He swallowed and put down his fork. “But you adore Bernadette Devlin.” It had been a point of disagreement between the two of them since the beginning and had resulted in many heated discussions about politics over the past few months. She believed in socialism. He didn’t. It didn’t help that the Officials, who were Socialists, and the Provos, who were much less so, were having a merry go at one another all over the news. The Officials were in favor of the continued truce but the Provos were not because there’d been too many Catholics killed by Loyalist paramilitaries during the truce. The Brits weren’t interested in real negotiations and enough was enough. Someone had to protect the civilians from the UVF and the UDA. Everyone knew the RUC damned well weren’t going to do it because everyone also knew that most constables were also Loyalists.
She looked away and shrugged. “I’m tired of all the bickering.”
“You’re done with politics altogether?” he asked, his heart sinking.
“No,” she said. “I’m considering one of the other student groups.” She paused and whispered in Irish, “If I could, I’d join Sinn Féin.”
He choked. He hadn’t told her he’d volunteered; he couldn’t. It was against the regulations, and the Provos could be quite strict when it came to the regulations.
Sinn Féin, he thought. The political arm of the Provisional IRA. Did I let something slip? Or did someone tell her? If she’s figured it out, what of the neighbors? Do they know too? Will the RUC come—
“Aren’t you going to say anything?” she asked.
With his heart slamming in his chest like a rubbish lid against pavement, he got up and laid a hand inside the empty steel sink. “What do you want me to say?”
“I won’t get into trouble.”
“You always say that. And you always do. The protests are one thing. Demanding fair housing and work and having a real vote. I’ll support you. But what of last week and the riot? And the riot before that? You scared me half to death when you didn’t come home. And for all that, I’m still paying Oran on the loan of the bribe money it took to get you out.”
“No more stone throwing. I promise.” Although his back was to her, he knew she was smiling. He could hear the edge of laughter in her voice. “Anyway, I was only sitting in the street this last time. I wasn’t doing anything.”
“That didn’t stop them from killing Jim Wray! You were there! Remember? Thirteen dead! We heard the shots! Doing nothing didn’t stop them from putting me away either! Doing nothing never stops them!”
“That’s just it,” she said in a quiet voice. “Doing nothing won’t stop them. I have to do something.”
He shut his eyes and slammed his hand against the bottom of the sink to drive out the prickling. Dishes clattered inside the cabinets with the force of the blow. “No, you don’t! Not like this!”
He felt her hand on his arm. “Oh, Liam. I’m so sorry,” she whispered. “I thought you’d be happy.”
“Tell me you passed exams, I’ll be happy! Tell me you’ll be getting more money out of your grant, I’ll be happy!” He turned to look at her, and she flinched away from him. It shot a bolt of guilt through his heart. He looked away to hide his eyes. “One day you won’t be coming home from University. One day you’ll be in a morgue. Should I be happy then?”
She switched to Irish. “It’s a political organization. It’s not like I’d be taking up a gun or making bombs.”
He turned his head before his face could betray him. The IRA had been
standing down since February, but he’d kept silent nonetheless. With the last series of killings and bombings it was obvious that the truce wasn’t going to last—if it wasn’t effectively over already. She let out an exasperated sigh and then stomped out of the tiny kitchen. He heard rustling noises. The tear of paper. When she returned, she waved a sheet of ruled notebook paper under his nose. There was a message printed on it; she always printed when she wanted to be sure he understood, and it never failed to humiliate him. He was shaking with anger as he read it.
I know, it said.
“All the more reason you shouldn’t do it, Mary Kate.”
She moved to the table where they ate their meals—when he wasn’t working, or when she wasn’t at Uni or a political meeting. Shoving the plates aside, she wrote another message. Pointing to the new note, her index finger landed in the center with a thump.
This time he read, I support your decision. I wanted to show you how much. Is that wrong?
He took the pencil from her and wrote in his big, slow scrawl made worse by tension, When we have children. What of them? One of us has to be there for them. We can’t both be in prison. He said, “I forbid it.”
Frowning, she took a deep, shuddering breath. He watched the storm brewing behind her eyes and knew it for a slammer. She grabbed for the pencil, and he jerked it back, then held up his hand to stop her.
She hissed in Irish, “Then maybe you should’ve thought about that before you lied to me! Before you went and volunteered without so much as consulting me! Forbid, you say? You’ve had no surprises from me, William Ronan Monroe Kelly. I’ve always been political. I come from a long line of Republicans. If it’s one of us that should be quitting, it’s you.”
He blinked at the force of her fury.
“Anyway, it’s not me who’ll be carrying a gun,” she whispered, continuing in Irish. “It’s not me who’ll be in a morgue. You think I’m happy about that? You think I haven’t thought of that from the moment I found out?”
He wrote, How did you find out? Must know. He underlined “must” three times.
Folding her arms across her chest, her chin acquired the familiar obstinate angle he had grown to love and dread all at once. He handed her the pencil and for a moment he thought she wasn’t going to take it.
She wrote, Elizabeth MacMahon told me. Last week. Then she slammed the pencil onto the table, breaking the point.
His unit consisted of Éamon Walsh, Níal Healy, himself and Oran Mac-Mahon. Elizabeth was Oran’s wife.
A knock exploded against the door, and Mary Kate yelped.
“Mr. Kelly? There’s someone on the phone for you,” a female voice from outside said.
Mary Kate slumped in relief and left the table to open the door. A short middle-aged woman with brown hair gathered in her usual wispy blue scarf stood disapproving in the hallway.
“He’ll be right down, Mrs. Black,” Mary Kate said. “Did they mention who they were?”
Mrs. Black seemed to be avoiding looking at him. “I didn’t think to ask.”
Liam pushed past. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome,” Mrs. Black said in a disparaging tone.
When he reached the third stair he heard Mrs. Black whisper, “Couldn’t help hearing the ruckus. Did the brute hurt you?”
He ran the rest of the way and berated himself for shouting. Never mind what anyone might have overheard—and he had to be careful of that at all times. Bullying a woman was the kind of thing his stepfather would do, and he hated himself for it. No matter that Mary Kate had been just as angry. When he reached the payphone on the first floor, he snatched the dangling black receiver. “Hello? This is Liam Kelly.”
“Ah, good. You’re there. I’m to come get you.” The voice on the other end of the line was pure Dublin.
Liam checked the area for anyone who might be listening then he whispered, “Oran?”
“We’ve a job. Now. Tonight.”
Liam’s heart dropped into his stomach. His first assignment and here he was already letting the others down. “Car isn’t ready. Was adjusting the carburetor and—”
“Never mind that,” Oran said with a laugh. “We can walk. What the fuck are you doing, man? You’re the driver not the mechanic.” And with that, he hung up.
By the time Liam returned to the flat, Mrs. Black was gone, and Mary Kate was sitting on the sofa among his automobile manuals, flipping pages and pretending to scan the images of intake and exhaust systems. He could tell from the way her lips were compressed that the argument wasn’t over. He wanted to apologize, but he was too angry with himself to do it properly and even if he wasn’t Oran would be there any minute.
He strode into the bedroom, stepping onto the bed in order to create enough space to open the closet. It was mid-October and cold. He needed something warm and preferably in a dark color. Scrounging through what little he had, he was able to find a navy turtleneck. His jeans would have to suffice. He pulled off the green long-sleeved shirt he’d been wearing and then retrieved the knit cap he’d prepared, tossing it onto the bed. He heard her step into the doorway.
“Don’t you dare walk out on me,” she said, fists at her sides.
He looked at her, helpless. “I have to go.”
“I said—”
“This isn’t because of the row,” he said, hoping she’d catch on. “I have to go.”
Another knock came. “Liam?”
“Oran’s here,” Liam said. “I have to go.”
Mary Kate’s hand flew to her mouth and tears formed in her eyes. “Oh, no.”
Oran pounded on the door. Liam squeezed past Mary Kate, and headed for the cramped sitting room. “Keep your fucking knickers on. I’m coming, damn you!”
“Liam, wait!” Mary Kate ran from the bedroom with a small cardboard box in her hand. “I was going to give it to you for Christmas, but if you’re—I want you to wear it.”
He opened the box and found a silver medal inside; the figure in the center of the circular medallion was bristling with arrows. The image didn’t give him a good feeling.
“The church only had three saints’ medals for soldiers and none of them were St. Joseph. I couldn’t give you St. Michael. He’s for constables too. Didn’t think it’d be right,” she said. “And St. George is English. This one’s St. Sebastian.”
“Of course. The English would leave us the one plugged full of holes.”
Mary Kate reached inside the box. “I had it blessed for you.”
She fastened it around his neck with a sniff, then she kissed him. The medal clinked against the crucifix his mother had given him for his First Communion. She’d been adamant that he start wearing it as soon as he’d been released from Malone. He never understood why and kept it under his shirt. As far as he was concerned it only made it easier for the Prods to spot a target. He jammed the sweater on over his head and then pulled the knit hat on without unrolling it over his face.
“I love you,” Mary Kate said. “Come back to me. In one piece. I’d like to have you whole when I finish giving you a good knock about the ears.”
“I love you too,” he said with a smile.
From outside he heard, “What are you doing in there? Giving the girl a shag? We’ll not be gone that long. Newlyweds. Shite.”
Liam grabbed his anorak and threw open the door. “Not enough time. I’d need a few hours to do her proper.”
“It’s a wonder you ever get anything else done, then.” Oran tipped his hat at Mary Kate. A whole head shorter than Liam, Oran was almost ten years his senior and tended to sound as if he were twice that. “Your man is naught but a braggart.”
“Hardly,” Mary Kate said, and Liam felt her grab his arse. “Get along then. Save some energy for me. I’ve a feeling I’ll be needing a ride later.”
“Yes, Mrs. Kelly,” Liam said with a bow.
“Does your mother know you talk to your husband like that in public?” Oran asked, shifting the toolbox he was carrying to his other hand.<
br />
“What?” Liam feigned innocence. “She’s talking about the cab.”
“She is, is she?”
“Needs me to take her somewhere.”
Mary Kate struck a sultry pose in the doorway that would’ve put Brigit Bardot to shame. The top of her white peasant blouse slipped off one shoulder. “Aye, I do.” She blew him a kiss and shut the door.
“In the cab?” Oran asked. “Remind me never to sit in the back.”
“Can we hurry this along?” Liam said, discovering that turning away from the door was tougher than he thought possible. “I’d like to get back before she cools off.”
Oran punched him in the arm. “Lucky bastard.”
As they passed Mrs. Black’s flat, he saw her door was open a crack. She peered into the hallway through the two-inch gap.
“Evening, Mrs. B,” Liam said.
She slammed the door with a harrumph.
“What is she on about?” Oran asked.
Sighing as they stepped onto the sidewalk, Liam said, “We had a fight, Mary Kate and I. Mrs. Black thinks I hit her.”
“Did you?”
“How could you even ask?”
Oran glanced away and shrugged. After a long pause, he said, “I like you, Liam, but sometimes you get this look about you. And I get the feeling I’d rather not see you crossed or riled.”
Liam remembered Mary Kate flinching away from him in the kitchen. He nodded, feeling a heavy weight tugging at his shoulders. Happy as he was, there were times when he thought he shouldn’t have married—not because of Mary Kate—but because of the monster living inside him. When he was with Mary Kate he often forgot about the creature altogether, and for that reason he hoped that she might have the power to banish it forever. Nonetheless, from time to time the thing would remind him of its presence, and he’d worry if there might come a day when it would slip from his control.
Again.
Never. I’d never let it harm her, he thought.
Mrs. Black’s whisper echoed in his head. Couldn’t help hearing the ruckus. Did that brute hurt you?
I’m not Patrick. I’m not at all, at all. Liam walked half the block in silence then said, “You don’t trust me.”