by Stina Leicht
She staggered backward to the sofa. The sheets and blankets he’d used only a day or two before were gone. It wasn’t his bed anymore. It was only a sofa. Her sofa.
“Was brave. Didn’t beg or nothing. Died protecting us. But there were too many of them. They killed everyone. I was—I was the only one got away.”
Covering her face, she sank to the couch. “I don’t want to hear anymore.”
“He said he wanted you to know he loved you.”
Her hands dropped from her face. “Shut up!”
“But—”
“He didn’t love me! Not enough! If he had, we’d be in Dublin. Safe. And he’d be alive!” She stood up, her face pinched into a mask of rage. “I never wanted to come here. I told him he was mad, and he’d only end up dead. He promised me! Well, I was right! Oh, Christ, it isn’t fair!”
Liam didn’t know what to say. “Oran believed in the cause.”
“To hell with the cause! Stupid fucking war! What are we to do now? What am I to tell Brian? Your father died for the cause? So he can volunteer when he’s old enough? And die too? It never ends!”
“Oran didn’t want that. Wanted a good long life for him.” It was out of his mouth before he’d thought about what effect it might have on her.
Elizabeth paused and blinked. Her face was now an unattractive mix of bright red, orange freckles and colorless white. Snot ran from her nose, mixing with the tears.
His skin itched with dried blood, and he didn’t think he could stand her staring. “I… I need to use your bog. Must clean up before I go.”
“You’re leaving?” Her voice was quiet. Defeated.
“I am. I’d stay. Help set things to rights. But I don’t want to bring—”
“Good.”
That one word cut Liam deepest of all. It drove home everything she’d said in one short syllable. Then the agony of seeing Elizabeth’s face became too great, and he fled, slamming the washroom door behind him.
Liam watched the street as a chilling rain numbed West Belfast’s jagged wounds. A clump of sullen teens loitered on the corner, smoking—most hadn’t seen the inside of a school building in months or even years, he assumed. Two women with grocery bags crossed the street to avoid passing too close. One of the youths shouted something unintelligible and the others laughed. With no hope of a future to keep them in school, the gangs were worse than the paramilitaries if anyone bothered to ask Liam. At least the paramilitaries had a more significant cause for violence than boredom, and they didn’t prey on their own. He looked on as the gang finished up their smokes and then moved farther east. Relief loosened a knot in his shoulder. He’d have to leave soon and didn’t like his comings and goings being observed, especially now—not that it actually mattered when he thought about it.
He’d passed the summer in the abandoned building. Mary Kate had been dead and gone eight months, and he was still alive. It was late August now, almost September. Gazing down at the street through the boards nailed across a broken window pane, Liam longed to be as empty as the house around him. Winter in this place was going to be unpleasant. About all that his current residence had to recommend it was the view, and if he were a sniper it provided an ideal vantage point, but that was all. With no electricity, the place was far from warm. Little more than a husk, the plumbing was gone, and every window pane was broken. The devastation was not the result of war, but of brutal practicality. The Housing Authority ordered it to prevent squatting, which was precisely what he was doing.
He wasn’t the only one. A family of twelve, the Currans lived in the walk up at the opposite end of the row. Of course, there wasn’t much risk of prosecution for squatting in this part of Belfast, and they were also fortunate to have electricity in addition to a roof over their heads. However, it was the only house on the row with power and as a result Liam didn’t have any other neighbors. Naturally, the Currans concerned themselves with the Electricity Service’s collection agents about as much as they did the Housing Authority’s. No meter reader was foolish enough to enter the Catholic areas of West Belfast’s ghetto—being marched out at gunpoint tended to get the idea across rather efficiently.
Up the ’Ra, Liam thought.
A man with long blond hair made his way down the street. He was memorable for both the length of his hair, which reached down to the middle of his back, and his imposing build. It was the third time Liam had spotted him in a week, and that alone made Liam nervous. But for the hippy-length hair, he would have taken the man for one of Father Murray’s assassins. He certainly walked like someone who knew what they were about. He was both out of place and familiar at the same time and reminded Liam of the photo his mother had given him long ago—the one he still kept in that battered book at the bottom of the olive green laundry bag containing what little remained of his life.
He resisted an urge to run downstairs and confront the blond man out of curiosity. The monster in the back of Liam’s brain seemed to know him and was reassured by his presence. Liam didn’t know what to make of the situation. He told himself repeatedly that it didn’t matter. The only thing that did was killing Haddock—but not before extracting information from him on the last of Mary Kate’s murderers.
Noting the time, Liam got up from the window and went to the fireplace. Then he tossed another half-rotten timber into the fire and began the process of making tea. Haddock would be on his way home from the station soon, and Liam planned to be standing at the man’s door when he came home. It had taken months to locate Haddock’s latest residence. Twice Liam was certain he had the man dead to rights only to discover Haddock had pulled up stakes. The bastard was too damned careful for a regular Peeler, and even if Éamon hadn’t said so, Liam would’ve known Haddock for MI5 on that alone. If Liam were concerned about life after Haddock’s death, he might consider that a dilemma. For one thing, the ’Ra wasn’t in favor of freelancers and generally came down hard on that kind of thing. Although, the British government was going to have a hell of a time blaming a wild animal attack on terrorism—not that a little thing like concrete evidence had stopped them before.
Gulping hot tea, Liam heated his hands on the cup. The foul stuff scalded his mouth but succeeded in warming him nonetheless. Without the assistance of sugar or milk, the reused teabag produced a liquid that wasn’t even remotely satisfying, but it formed the bulk of his diet aside from toast and whatever the monster ate.
He avoided thinking of how much he wanted a hit, but the urge remained. It lived like a rat in the pit of his stomach, gnawing at his insides. Heroin would stop Elizabeth’s words from replaying in his head. Heroin would make being alone with his thoughts more bearable. Heroin would keep the memories of Mary Kate at bay, but he had to stay clean. He wouldn’t have the strength or clarity of mind to top the last murderer if he didn’t. Every day was a struggle, and he often wondered why he bothered. Elizabeth had been right to ask God that question. Why the fuck had he lived? No one was sure to miss him were he to die. Certainly not Elizabeth.
His appetite hadn’t returned, and his living conditions hadn’t done much for his appearance either. Thus, no amount of talk could convince her he was off the smack. It didn’t matter to her that the ’Ra didn’t restrict its activities to running off meter readers. It didn’t matter that as far as Liam knew Haddock was the only source for any illegal drug in Belfast. She was convinced he’d always be addicted, and perhaps she was right. The last time Liam had seen her he’d promised he would kill those responsible for Oran’s death. She had only given him that stare and then explained to him in very firm language that she didn’t give a damn about revenge. She wanted him out of her family’s lives. Forever. Frankly, he couldn’t blame her. Everyone he cared about seemed to die in particularly nasty ways. Best he steer clear. Best for the poor weans.
He did everything he could for them, anyway—which wasn’t much, all things considered. He left food and money on their doorstep when he had it, often not bothering to take any of it himself, and whi
le she waited until he was gone to open the door, she obliged him by not throwing any of it out. Where the money came from he wasn’t certain. Stolen from a Peeler or a BA, he assumed. With no reason to enforce control over the monster that lived inside him, the thing came and went as it liked. Sometimes he watched events from the far corner of his own brain, but more frequently he didn’t bother. He didn’t want to know what the monster did. Living with the knowledge of what he’d already done was bad enough. So, he lost himself in the flood of sensation. It was the only relief from his thoughts—the closest thing to drugs to which he had access.
Glancing around the empty room, Liam realized that about all he’d leave behind was an old mattress, two blankets, the contents of his kit and a few bits of crockery. He supposed he should be sad about that, but all he could think of was that there’d be an end to the pain. To be sure his mother would grieve if she wasn’t already, but that’d be about all, and it wouldn’t be for long. She had other children to live for.
There came a sound from downstairs and because he wasn’t expecting it, it took several seconds to register that someone was knocking on the front door. Liam paused. Whomever it was seemed determined. They weren’t going away. He went to the window with the intent to tell them to bugger off and stopped.
A priest.
The priest was alone. He knew him for one even though all he could see was the top of the man’s grey flat cap. For a moment Liam wondered if it was one of the Church’s assassins, but then the man looked up, and Liam recognized Father Murray.
What the fuck is he doing here? A blast of super-heated rage roared through his veins and then vanished, leaving him emptier than before.
“I know you’re in there. You have to let me in. I’ll not leave until you do.”
“Leave me be,” Liam said. He felt weary as if the moment of rage had used up the remaining energy he’d had.
“I understand your anger—”
“Take your fucking psychology and shove it up your arse.” Liam moved away from the window and went back to his tea. He could hear Father Murray pacing on the front step. The man finally went away, to Liam’s relief, but then reappeared at the back garden several minutes later. The back door was broken, and peering out a rear window overlooking the garden, he spotted Father Murray tugging at the boards nailed to the doorframe. Liam cursed and went to the top of the stairs.
“This isn’t helping your situation,” Father Murray said, his footsteps thundering in the house below. When he appeared at the bottom of the stairs, shock registered on his face before it evolved into pity. “What have you done to yourself?”
Liam sat on the top step. “What does it fucking matter?” His voice sounded rough from lack of use.
“Of course it matters.”
“What do you want, Father?”
“You must leave this place. Come with me. We’ll get you cleaned up and—”
“No.”
Father Murray sighed. “I’m so sorry. For everything. I should’ve talked to you. I should’ve told you. All of it. In any case, you seemed well enough without my interfering.”
“Without your interfering? You told Mary Kate rather than allowing me to do it!”
Father Murray looked away. “There was a danger. I thought there was. I thought I had to.”
“Are you implying I might have harmed her?” Liam banished images of the car crash and looked away.
“The Fallen thrive on war and torment. They tempt men into committing vile deeds. Fallen angels can’t be reasoned with. Bloodshed is the only way they can be stopped.”
Liam paused as several clues fell into place at once. “Were you meant to kill me?”
“By the time I found you, you were already a boy of thirteen. I pleaded your case before the bishop. It was easy to see you weren’t like the others. I documented everything—”
“Wait,” Liam said, thoughts rushing too fast in his head to track. “Already? You kill babes?”
“The spawn of—I did—I don’t anymore,” Father Murray said. “Please. They know you’re in the area.”
“Let them come. At least they know enough to do the job right. ’Ra don’t know shite. Like as not they’ll send someone with fucking silver if Éamon was anything to judge by.”
“I’m serious. You must leave.”
“I’ve nowhere else to go, Father.”
“Come with me, then. Please.”
“And how would that be any different from handing myself over to one of your death squads?”
“I’ll hide you.”
“And why would you do such a thing?”
Father Murray sighed. “Your father isn’t one of the Fallen. You’re both Fey. It was all a terrible mistake. I’ve much to make up for.”
“Is there a proper penance for murder then, Father? A few ‘Our Fathers.’ Say the rosary once or twice, and we’re both in the clear. Is that it?” Liam saw Father Murray wince.
“You aren’t one of the Fallen, and I can’t stand by and allow them to kill you for one—no matter what.”
Liam recalled the night in the alley when he’d seen the two priests standing over a dead man and understood that Father Murray wouldn’t be able to stop the Church’s assassins. Rather, by standing in the way he would only be putting himself in danger. In spite of everything, Liam wasn’t sure he wanted that. Let no one else die because of me. Please, he thought. Let there be an end.
Again, he was reminded of his Aunt Sheila’s stories of fairy men stopping priests along dark and lonely country roadways, the questions about the end of the world. The stories made sense to him now in ways that his Aunt Sheila could never have understood. Or perhaps she had and that’s why she’d told him the stories to begin with.
“What happens to me when the end comes, Father? Is there a special Hell for the Fey, or am I already in it?” He found himself laughing, and he didn’t like the sound.
“Don’t do this to yourself.”
“I’m afraid, Father.” Liam sighed and pushed both hands through his filthy hair. “I’m afraid somewhere along the line I went a bit mad.” The skin along his arms prickled.
“I can help you.”
Reaching into his pocket, Liam brushed his fingers against his lighter. Before he withdrew his hand he felt something else there as well. The coin. He fished it out of his pocket, needing something to hold onto that wasn’t associated with a happy memory, but he was trembling, and it slipped from his fingers. It rolled down the stairs.
Father Murray caught it, glanced at it, paused, and then examined the coin more closely. Anxiety registered on his face. He came up the steps and perched on the stair just below. “Where did you get this?”
Liam said, “One of the men who murdered Mary Kate left it for me to find. Only I don’t know why. Doesn’t have any Loyalist meaning, at least none I’m aware of. Fucking bastards.”
“Why didn’t you show this to me before?”
“Wasn’t important.”
Fear was plain on Father Murray’s face now. “The night she died—Did you see a man in a blood-red cap? The one you told me about seeing before. Did you see him again?”
Thinking back, Liam tried to dredge up memories of the men who’d knocked him down in the stairwell. As often as he’d tortured himself with images of that night he could only remember three men in that stair-well—not four, but four had been there, he knew. He’d known from the trail he’d found outside the apartment building. The fourth trail, stinking of old blood, had dead-ended. He hadn’t considered what it might mean at the time. Had the same creature he’d seen before, the one from Aggro Corner and Bloody Sunday, participated in Mary Kate’s murder? What did it all mean? He shivered. “No, Father. I didn’t see any such man.”
“May I keep this?”
“Certainly. It’s done me no amount of good,” Liam said. “But what is it?”
“A shilling from the Tudor era. Mary Tudor, to be exact.”
“What’s that got to do with me and Mar
y Kate? Why did I see that creature before? What does it want from me?”
It was Father Murray’s turn to look away. “I’m not entirely sure. But I’ll find out. And when I do I’ll tell you everything.”
Liam nodded. For some reason he couldn’t explain he felt better for having seen Father Murray. It wouldn’t change anything, Liam knew, but at least someone was aware he was alive—someone who didn’t wish him dead or simply gone.
“When I come back for you,” Father Murray said, “will you consider leaving with me then?”
Pausing, Liam decided the lie was best. He knew if he didn’t, Father Murray would never leave, and he would run the chance of missing Haddock again. “Sure, Father.”
“Good,” Father Murray said, and got up from the stair. “I’ll return within an hour if I can.”
Liam watched Father Murray go and mentally said goodbye for the last time. Then he went back to the fireplace, banked the coals just in case and then grabbed his hat. When he was certain Father Murray was gone, Liam sprinted down the stairs, changing form as he ran down the now dark and deserted street. The change came easier now, only problematic when he considered what he was doing. He almost enjoyed it—the short stab of pain, the flood of amplified sights, sounds and scents, the feel of grit under the pads of his feet. Grass was heavenly as was the running under the shadows of trees and the pursuit of the prey. The Hound relished the feel of warm flesh and blood in his teeth—the taste of fresh death. Running.
The rain had stopped, and the sun had buried itself in the horizon, extinguishing the sparks of life in the damp earth. He rounded the corner and loped past gutted buildings and the remains of an old barricade. He checked the street but didn’t see any sign of the blond man. A pair of young priests proceeded down the walk in tandem. The vigilant way in which they moved spoke more of Inquisition than funeral procession. The closest church was four blocks in the other direction. What were priests doing here? One of them had a scar running across his nose.