Of Blood and Honey (Fey and the Fallen)

by Stina Leicht

  Níal shouted, “We’re in the fucking Shankill! Are you trying to murder us?”

  Staring straight ahead, Éamon said, “Keep it down, Níal. You’ll stir the BAs and God knows who else.” His voice was dead calm even if his face wasn’t.

  The shuddering purr of army helicopters fluttered in the distant sky.

  Oran said, “Here are the plates and the screwdriver.”

  “Thanks.” Liam took the items Oran handed over the back of the seat and checked the alley one last time before stepping out. Then he walked to the front of the car.

  The ring. The man was married. Had a family, Liam thought. No. Can’t think about that. Not now. No time. He concentrated on not dropping the screws. The sense of elation was gone, leaving him empty. Cold. He removed the front plate with hands that were strangely steady. Finished, he retrieved the old one and tucked it under his arm as he headed to the rear of the car.

  It started to mist.

  That was bad. The pavement would be slick. Icy. He’d have to make adjustments.

  Mick. He called me Mick. Definitely Mick. Or was it “a mhic” meaning “sonny”? Shite. Was it the Irish or not? Did I just kill a Catholic man with a family? One or two Catholics were known to have found their way onto the force—a misguided attempt to curb the RUC’s general inclinations.

  The hand holding the screwdriver began to tremble.

  Took the back of his head off.

  A car door swung open, and Oran appeared.

  Painted the wall with the insides of his head. Just like… just like that soldier did to Annette MacGavigan.

  “Are you well, Liam?”

  With the last turn of the screw Liam’s stomach did a lazy flip. Old nightmares flooded into his mind in vivid detail, lending a garish crimson to the face of the constable he’d just shot. The old plates slipped from his numbed fingers and clattered onto the ground. His face and hands went cold and the back of his throat grew slick. Standing, he staggered three steps and then threw up into a rubbish pile. Blackness swirled at the edge of his vision. The ground tilted. He stopped himself from smacking his head into the brick wall with an outstretched hand.

  “Pull yourself together,” Oran said. “We need you, man. Éamon can’t drive. Níal is fucking useless if it isn’t a lock or a safe. I’d take over, but we both know I can’t.”

  Liam noted a touch of panic in Oran’s voice. Wiping vomit from his chin, Liam nodded and spat.

  “Here,” Oran said.

  A white handkerchief contrasted against the black splotches in Liam’s peripheral vision. He wiped his face. His mouth was coated with muck, and he spat again to clear it. He almost lost control of his stomach a second time when he felt a lump of vomit shift from the back of his nose to his throat. He didn’t want to swallow but didn’t have another choice.

  Oran whispered, “You only did what you had to.”

  Spitting one last time before straightening, Liam’s whole body trembled with the effort. I’ve done worse, he thought. It didn’t help. No matter what else he’d done in the Kesh he hadn’t murdered anyone. Sanders may have killed himself but that wasn’t Liam’s doing—not directly. The constable’s surprised face stubbornly haunted the surface of his mind. Liam breathed through his mouth, unwilling to risk the stench of his own vomit. “Do we have any black tape? I think I put some in the boot.”

  “What for?” Oran asked.

  “Bullet hole.” Liam pointed above the bumper.

  “Ah, well. It’s not like that’s all that unusual around here, is it?”

  Liam opened his mouth to explain, but Oran held up a hand.

  “I’ll look. Get yourself together.”

  Oran opened the boot of the car and rooted around.

  “Left side,” Liam said, wishing Oran would hurry. If Loyalists spotted them their families would be lucky to have pieces to bury. “In the box with the petrol can.” It’s good the bullet didn’t hit that.

  Letting out a grunt, Oran said, “And here I thought you’d gone daft with all the preparations.” He pushed the boot shut and tossed the tape to him.

  Liam caught it one-handed. Feeling better, he unrolled the tape with a violent jerk and measured it against the hole. Too narrow, the tape wouldn’t quite cover the damage with one application. A couple layers later, Liam checked his work. Judging it might pass in the dark, he stuck the last of the tape in place. He reached for the “Safe as Milk” sticker on the back window and paused. The front seat sported a ragged round hole just to the right of where he’d been sitting. He swallowed back a fresh bout of nausea and peeled the bumper-sticker from the rear window. Oran gave him a raised eyebrow.

  “They’ll be searching for a black RS1600 with the previous license number and the sticker,” Liam said. “It’s why I put it on in the first place. Conspicuous, it is. Now we’ll be harder to spot.”

  “Ah, didn’t think you were a Captain Beefheart fan, but I wasn’t going to ask,” Oran said. “Is that everything?”

  “Finished,” Liam said, crumpling the sticker and then tossing it onto the rubbish pile. He stuffed the old plates under some rags and straightened.

  “And you’re good?”

  “I am,” Liam said, hoping the lie would prove truth. “Mary Kate has an early political meeting in the morning. And she’ll be worrying.” He hopped into the car and cranked up the engine. Then he proceeded to trace his way back to the Falls at a more sedate pace. He got them to the Upper Falls Road without incident.

  They weren’t far from where he needed to drop Éamon and Níal when a prowl car pulled up behind them and shined a flashlight through the rear window.

  Only going home after a few, mate, Liam thought. Just like everyone else. The thought was almost a prayer. Liam’s fingers tingled on the steering wheel. After a long pause, the constable swerved around them and went on his way. Not long after, Liam stopped where Éamon directed him, and Níal and Éamon got out. Níal approached a rusted ’72 model Escort parked on the street, unlocked the boot of the car and proceeded to transfer the bags. Oran helped.

  Éamon leaned inside. “There’ll be a report.”

  Liam nodded.

  Reaching in, Éamon placed something on the seat. Three crisp twenty pound notes rested on black vinyl. Liam blinked.

  “Am I allowed to take that?” He’d heard what happened to those that decided to help themselves to funds earmarked for the IRA. Sixty pounds wasn’t much compared to what had been stolen from the bank, but no amount was worth a bullet in each knee or the head—certainly not an amount as small as sixty pounds.

  “It’s your share and will be noted in the record.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  There was a long pause, and Éamon stared as if he were seeing Liam for the first time. “Where did you learn to drive like that?”

  “Bobby is into the racing. Rallies. Lets me drive sometimes.”

  “Good. Good,” Éamon said. “You keep with that.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Éamon straightened, settling into his standard military bearing and proceeded to walk away. If he did so a little more stiffly than usual, Liam couldn’t blame the man. Instead, he snatched the sixty pounds off the seat and stuffed it into the pocket of his anorak. It was more money than he’d seen all at once in his life. Mary Kate was going to go ape. And maybe, just maybe if he wasn’t too late getting home she might not have one of her headaches.

  Oran and Níal finished unloading the bags and relocked the boot. Then Níal headed home with a wave.

  “Where to, Mr. Knievel?” Oran said, climbing into the front seat.

  “You got it wrong. He rides a motorbike.”

  “Could’ve fooled me.”

  “We’re to a nice abandoned car park,” Liam said. “We’ll change the wheels and then have a bit of a bonfire.”

  “Looks like a late night.”

  “Are you telling me you can’t change a tire all that fast, old man?”

  Oran gave him an obscene gesture. “The
cheek on the young these days. Set your barbs if you like. You’ll change your tune soon enough. I’m the one with the whiskey.”

  At the car park, they loaded the stolen racing wheels into the back of Liam’s black cab. Then Liam got out his wrenches and approached the RS1600.

  “What are you doing?” Oran asked.

  “The plugs are new,” Liam said. “No sense in torching them.”

  “Leave them.”

  “They cost me, they did. Special performance ones for the racing, they are. And the Quartermaster won’t reimburse for them.”

  Oran put a hand on his shoulder. “And what will the RUC think when they go to searching the burned out mess? ‘Oh, look someone took the time to remove the plugs before they abandoned the car? Now, who would do such a thing?’ The RUC are known to be a bit dim but even I should think they’d be looking into the garages after a thing like that. Leave them.”

  A great deal of whiskey and several hours later, Liam staggered up the apartment building stairs with Oran’s help. It was about four o’clock in the morning, and Liam attempted to be as quiet as he could. Even so, Mary Kate opened the door before he’d gotten out his key. Dressed in a short white nightgown, she didn’t look pleased. All hopes of a proper welcome home evaporated when she sniffed and scrunched up her face in disgust.

  “Evening, love.” Liam gave her what he hoped was his most charming smile. It didn’t have the desired effect, however, particularly after he tripped over the doorstep. Oran just about yanked his arm out of its socket pulling him back to his feet.

  “And where have you two been? The pubs are long closed,” she said, stepping back. “Don’t lie. I spoke to Elizabeth two hours ago. She said you’ve not been home.”

  Oran steered him to the sofa and then dropped him. Liam bounced once on the cushions, and the apartment whirled as Mary Kate closed the door.

  “We had a bit of trouble,” Oran said. “Dr. MacMahon thought it best to administer a drop of something to numb the pain.”

  “A drop? More like a gallon.” Mary Kate moved closer and gasped. “Oh, shite. Is that blood?”

  “Not his,” Oran said, pushing the anorak off Liam’s shoulders.

  “No. Wait.” Words slid through Liam’s teeth and off his tongue before he could give them proper shape. The apartment spun in a new and interesting direction.

  “What is it?” Oran asked.

  It took three tries, but Liam was finally able to produce the pound notes from his pocket before Oran removed the jacket. “Ish for you, Mar—Mary Kate.”

  Her eyes widened and then narrowed. “Where did this come from?”

  Oran said, “A bonus for a job well done.”

  Thou shalt not kill, Liam thought and flinched. “T-twenty ish for Oran. Owe. Owe him. Last of… bribe money.” Liam laughed, and drunk as he was he knew he didn’t sound good. Barking mad, he must be. Barking. He snorted. Job well done. Did that BA get a bonus when he shot Annette, I wonder? Did the Paras after they gunned down the thirteen that Sunday? A bonus along with a grand medal from the Queen. “Oh, shite,” he said. “I think I’m going to be sick again.”

  Oran helped him into the washroom where he lost whatever whiskey remained in his stomach along with anything he’d eaten in the past month. He was too weak to get off the floor when it was done. So, Oran and Mary Kate cleaned him up and dumped him into the bed where darkness blissfully ended all possibility of thought. Before the blackness completed its work he heard Oran say, “He’ll be in a bad way tonight. If he’s not right after that, you call me.”

  Chapter 17

  Andersonstown, Belfast, County Antrim, Northern Ireland

  December 1975

  Liam woke disoriented and feeling worse than he had in his whole life—including the times he’d landed in the Malone infirmary. The yellow light filtering through the bedroom curtains was bright enough to sink molten shards into the back of his brain. Pans clattered in the kitchen, a signal that Mary Kate was home. Judging by the force she put behind each blow she wasn’t in a good mood. For the first time since he’d been with her he wished he were dead. The agony in his head had grown too big for his skull and was threatening to crack it open like a baby pterodactyl splitting its eggshell. He couldn’t remember why he hurt so much. Sitting up, he instantly wished he hadn’t and groaned. In a flash, Mary Kate was at his side with a glass of water.

  “Here,” she said, her face tight with worry and fear. “This will be what you’re needing.”

  He blinked, considering whether or not his stomach would accept such a thing without rebellion. Drunk. I was drunk. “What are you doing home?” His voice was no better than a croak, and he decided he sounded every bit as bad as he felt.

  “It’s half past one,” she said. “We’ve eggs. Sean always wanted a Belfast fry after… well… Said the grease did him a world of good. Are you well enough to eat?”

  The thought of grease made everything worse. “No.”

  “Oh.”

  In careful motions for which he was profoundly grateful, she sat on the edge of the bed and held out the glass. He took it and drank, inwardly swearing never to touch the drink again. She seemed to hold herself away and wouldn’t look at him. Her pretty lips were set in a tense line. She didn’t leave, only sat there while unspoken questions curled in the air between them. When no gentle touch on the shoulder or head came as it always did when he was sick, his heart ached enough to compete with his head. He’d had nightmares of hurting her—dreams of blood and screaming. Did the monster get free? What have I done now? He found himself searching for bruises on her face, her arms.

  “I… called in for you,” she said, the fear in her voice sparking terror in him. “Told them you were sick.”

  Right. It’d been Friday when he’d come home from—I killed a constable, he thought. Does she know? Is that why she’s acting like this? “Have you seen the paper?”

  “Didn’t buy one. Wasn’t in the budget.”

  “Can you borrow it from Mrs. Black?”

  Mary Kate looked away but not before he saw the lie plain on her face. “I asked earlier, but she’d already used it for fish guts.”

  He thought, She’s seen something and isn’t telling me. Finished with the water, he lay back down and rolled away from the pain in his chest.

  “Won’t you be getting up?”

  The light was too strong; it etched images into the back of his skull with acid—images he wished nothing more than to forget. The surprised look. Lumps of wet darkness on brick. Annette MacGavigan’s bloody hair. Jagged flaps of skin. Thou shall not kill. He pulled a pillow over his agony-filled head.

  “All right. Rest then.” Her dread seemed to drain her concern of warmth. “I’ll have the dinner for you in a few hours. You’ll be wanting it then.”

  He listened to the door shut and forgot everything for a time. When he woke next it was night, and Mary Kate was talking to someone.

  “I don’t know what manner of creature you brought home yesterday, but that isn’t my husband.”

  Liam’s heart froze.

  “Calm yourself,” Oran said. “He’s taken it hard. He’s a good man, and you can be proud of him no matter what they’re saying on the radio and the television. He saved us all.”

  Jesus Christ, what are they saying? Was the man a Catholic? Did he have children?

  “I’m not talking about that. It’s something else,” she said. “He… does things in his sleep. Makes sounds. Growls. Something else, I….” He heard her whisper but couldn’t understand what she said.

  “There has always been something a bit off about Liam as long as I’ve known him, Mary Kate. You been married to him for what? Almost a year? And you’ve not noticed before now?”

  “That creature isn’t the man I married. Liam is sweet. Loving. He certainly doesn’t growl or… or….”

  Liam pulled the pillow tighter over his head to shut out her words, but it didn’t do any good.

  “You’re fooling yourself. H
e’s got something in him all right. Something dangerous,” Oran said, his voice dropped to a low murmur.

  “You don’t believe that, surely?” Mary Kate said. “Old tales. Used to scare children.”

  “I do, and you do too. In the dark. At night. Tell me you don’t,” Oran said. “I’m from Dublin. Lived there until Bobby and me came here for the cause. But my grandfather was a farmer. He told us the stories, and I know what I see when I see it.”

  “Oh, go on.”

  “My grandfather met one once. Neighbor asked him to stay with his wife one night while he went for the doctor. Grandfather ran down the road. Was met with a young man at the crossroads, he said. With a fiddle and a bow and eyes that glowed red. Played a tune of such sweet sadness he’d never heard in his life nor ever did again. Walked slow, he did. Prevented my grandfather from doing anything more than the same. Before they reached the house the young man told him the Fair People had claimed the good woman for their own. He told my grandfather not to worry, and then left off the road. She was dead when my grandfather arrived.”

  “Listen to Liam singing with his tapes in the taxi, and you’ll know he has no talent for the music. Even if they were real, that’s proof enough he isn’t one of them.”

  “His eyes aren’t right. You’ve seen it. I know you have.”

  More than my eyes, Liam thought. I never told her. I let her think I was normal. I married her with a lie between us.

  “That’s just a trick of the light,” she said. “Like as not my eyes go red from time to time if my mother’s Polaroids are any proof.”

  “You didn’t see. The way he drove.”

  “I’ve been to the rallies. There’s others that are better, but they’ve the money, and they’ve been at it longer. My Liam is good at the racing. He loves it. There’s nothing off in that. Nothing… fey.”

  Oran’s voice lowered. “No one drives like he did that night. I’ve never seen the like. What he did… Was too fast. Don’t think I’m complaining. I’m thankful beyond measure. But we should’ve been caught. The RUC had us dead to rights. Even Éamon says so. We should’ve cracked up. We should’ve died. Between the RUC, the Army helicopters and the check points I don’t know how he did it.”