by Stina Leicht
Not for the better, her mother would have said.
Complicated as her situation was, Kathleen couldn’t bring herself to regret the choices she’d made, much as she’d tried. I’m not a good person, she thought. Mary, Mother of God, forgive me. I’ve tried so hard to be, but I suppose I will always be that sinful girl. She thought back to the last time she’d seen Bran and sighed. Patrick deserved more. He had rescued her from her parents, after all. He had made her honest—at least in her mother’s eyes, but she didn’t love him, not as much as she should. Patrick knew it, she was certain, and if he lost control of his temper, it was her fault, wasn’t it? Because she didn’t love him enough. Because she actually loved someone else.
This is my penance. At least Patrick is a good father to the children.
Don’t lie to yourself, she thought. He hurt Liam. Maybe not the others. But he did hurt Liam. And that was her fault too, wasn’t it? She’d pretended it wasn’t happening instead of confronting Patrick, instead of stopping him. Although, the boy wasn’t the only one to suffer, God knew. Never in front of the children. She was proud of that one thing. The children didn’t know. Still, Liam bore the worst of it. And she’d pretended. It was safer for everyone, she’d thought then. Hide the bruises. Pack Liam off to his Grandmother until Patrick sobered up or cooled off. That was the answer. It was safer.
She pulled the plug on the sink, let the dirty water drain out and stared at the grit revealed in the bottom. She didn’t know why she was thinking of these things now. The past was the past. Liam was grown and no longer living at home. She could keep pretending that everything was normal—except it wasn’t.
She stared at the damp grit and tried not to think of the last time she’d spoken to her son, the last time she’d known he was safe.
Her whole life had been about acting out pretense after pretense. The outright lies. She glanced up at the little radio with Moira’s name scrawled on it in her best red nail varnish and indulged in a sad smile. Well, maybe not my whole life. She loved her children—all of them—with a fierceness that sometimes frightened her.
The girls were too small to get into much trouble. Although, she had to admit that Moira sometimes disturbed her with stories of seeing things that weren’t there. Her drawings of the Wee People had been the result of many a long chat with the nuns at the school. Although, truth be told none of the pictures depicted anyone terribly wee. Then there was little Patrick. Every day he seemed more and more sullen, and the older he got the less he listened to her. Sixteen-year-old Eileen, on the other hand, was an ideal child. However, Kathleen couldn’t help wondering how much of her behavior was due to lessons she’d learned while watching her older brother. Don’t cause trouble. Don’t draw attention to yourself. Stay hidden.
Each of her children made her worry in their own way, but the one that concerned her the most of late was Liam, and there was no one that she could go to for help. You know the RUC are right. He went and volunteered, she thought. He did it because of her. Mary Kate. The Gallaghers are all political. Every one. They find him—he’ll go back to prison for good. From the day Mary Kate had died, her Liam had not been the same. And now he’d shut her out. He had his reasons, to be sure. She understood. She should have told him about Bran, but she’d foolishly hoped that he wouldn’t ever have to know. She’d so wanted some wee bit of normalcy for him—even if it was only a façade. Wasn’t being a fatherless boy burden enough?
Imagining the worst, how Liam might be dead or in jail, had worried her sick, but Father Murray had called. He’d said Liam was safe and that she would be hearing from him or seeing him soon. When she did she resolved to apologize for all the times she’d failed him. Why did he punish himself so? Why couldn’t he stay out of trouble? She knew the answer. Liam was still bearing the brunt of it all. That was it. Same as before. Well, it had to stop. She would make it stop.
Sins of the father.
Or is it the mother?
Someone knocked on the door. She wiped her hands on a towel and went to answer it, but by the time she got there whomever it was had gone, leaving behind a white envelope. She scanned the hallway and then picked it up. The weight of the paper told her there was a card inside. She closed the door and sat on the sofa to read it.
Meet me on the corner. Tonight at eight o’clock.
There was no signature, only the letter B.
Something about it didn’t feel right. To begin with, Bran had never left her a note before. For a long time she’d wondered if he could write. The Fair Folk didn’t go in much for written history as everyone knew. Nonetheless, Bran’s Latin was better than hers, and he could recite long passages of Irish poetry and literature, past and present. The handwriting wasn’t how she imagined it would be. The thin script was barely legible for all the swirls and embellishments. She didn’t know what she expected from him, but it wasn’t that. The card disturbed her. For a moment she considered that perhaps someone had meant it for another door, but the idea that it might actually be for Mrs. Foyle or Mrs. McKenna was ridiculous.
Kathleen sighed. Of course it was from Bran. Who else would send such a cryptic message? Besides hadn’t she warned him to be more discrete? Bran had been seen—by Mrs. Foyle of all people, and once again Kathleen found herself the subject of disapproving stares. She didn’t need him hovering over her as if she were helpless. She was a grown woman. She could take care of herself. It wasn’t long before Patrick heard the gossip. He hadn’t reacted well, and it’d taken much effort to convince him that she was not having an affair. Of course, it didn’t help that her assertion was only a half-truth. Bran wasn’t a mortal man, was he? And was it technically an affair if she wasn’t sleeping with him?
I am not a good woman, she thought. Pretense.
She burned both card and envelope in case Patrick might find them. Then she returned to her housework, considering what excuse she would give to get away that night.
“I’m to my mother’s now,” Kathleen said, looking over her shoulder. It was close enough to the truth. Father Murray had called to inform her that Liam was hidden away safe at her mother’s, injured but recovering. The plan was to visit Liam after the quick chat with Bran—and it would be a quick chat. She’d see to that.
Patrick grunted. “I’ll be calling her to see you’re not lying, woman.”
“You do that,” she said, attempting to keep the contempt from her tone and failing. She could always blame an army checkpoint if she were late. It was good that her mother didn’t care much for Patrick. Of course, Kathleen wasn’t sure her mother cared much for anyone.
In any case, Patrick had eaten his dinner already and was watching the television while drinking his beer. He’d be content for a few hours at the least. She slipped out the door and down the stairs, taking care to be especially quiet about it. To her relief, Mrs. Foyle didn’t so much as stir on the other side of her door.
By the time Kathleen had gotten outside it was misting. She opened her umbrella and then pulled the collar of her coat tighter about her neck. She walked to the corner and waited, hoping she’d guessed the right one. She’d been there for a quarter of an hour when a man in a black coat walked directly to her. He was wearing a dark flat cap, and the taps on his shoes scraped the pavement. A chill went through her at the sight of him. She avoided eye contact, hoping he’d pass without noticing her.
“Are you Kathleen Kelly?” His accent was English.
Taken by surprise, she turned and stared. “I’m expecting someone.”
He took her arm. “I’m sure you are.”
“What? Let go!”
A car pulled up. She caught a glimpse of three men. The one sitting in the front passenger side had a large hump on his back that caused him to fit strangely in the seat. The rear passenger door opened, and she was shoved inside. A blanket was thrown over her. She screamed as she was forced to the floor and then something hard pressed against her skull.
“Shut up. Now. Or I’ll kill you. Understand?�
� The question was accompanied by a brutal shove. The second voice didn’t belong to the Englishman. It was Irish, she was certain of it.
Too frightened to speak, she nodded.
“Good. Don’t move, Catholic bitch.”
The car sped away. Her heart drummed in her ears, and her mouth was dry. The wool blanket smelled of gasoline and oil.
It was stored in the trunk, she thought. A sharp pebble on the plastic floor mat pressed uncomfortably into her knee while her mind raced through possibilities. Someone turned on the radio and Kenny Rogers lamented his wife, Lucille, through the speakers. The men in the car were silent, apparently content in listening to the music. They’re professional, or they’ve done this before. Her first thought was that they were paramilitaries—Protestant UFF or UVF of course, but she couldn’t think of anything she’d done that might have drawn such attention. She wasn’t political.
Liam is in the ’Ra, she thought, and her heart froze. What if they want to know where he is? What if this was in retaliation for something Liam has done? She shut her eyes against the idea. No. Her Liam wouldn’t have done anything to warrant this. She was sure of it. The note had been signed “B.” So, whoever had taken her knew Bran’s name. Maybe. The more she thought about it, the more confused she became. She finally came to the conclusion that she didn’t know anything and couldn’t until someone explained. She would have to wait. Chasing her fears in endless circles didn’t help.
In a short time the tension became too much. She started shivering and couldn’t hold still no matter how frightened she was. The pain in her knee grew unbearable. She took a chance and shifted. Pain exploded in the top of her head as one of the men hit her with something hard. The butt of the gun.
“I said, don’t move.”
Tears slipped down her face, and she resisted the urge to rub the rising bump. She focused on the ridges of the plastic car mat under her palms instead. She was terrified and couldn’t help cursing herself for having warned Bran off. I can take care of myself, she thought. What was I thinking? She concentrated on breathing and slowing her pounding heart. Calm down. You haven’t done anything wrong. Wait. Find out what they want. Maybe they’ll see reason.
The car slowed and a hand shoved her farther down until she was a tight ball with her forehead resting on the warm bump in the center of the car’s floor. Wrapping her hands over the back of her head for protection, she prayed. Hail Mary, Mother of God, forgive us our trespasses—
The car stopped.
“Not a sound now.”
She heard a squeak of a window being rolled down and the temperature in the car dropped at once. A dog barked.
This is a checkpoint, she thought. They’ll notice me. They always shine a light in the back, don’t they?
Suddenly, the air tingled. There wasn’t any other way of describing it. It was saturated with energy like lightning waiting to be discharged in a storm. She could almost smell the ozone in spite of being under the blanket.
“Hello, Officer.” It was the man who’d met her on the corner.
The Englishman. The hope of being discovered dimmed.
British or not, they’re soldiers. They’re trained to look for this kind of thing. Aren’t they?
“Evening, sir. License, please. Where are you headed this evening and why?”
“I’m visiting a cousin. Owns an estate outside of town.”
She listened to footsteps trace a path around the car, and her heart jumped. Please, God. Let them notice something. A dog started barking, and the guard stopped.
“There isn’t anything back there worth looking at. It’s cold and damp, and you’d rather go back to your tea.” The words came from the front seat in a loud whisper. It wasn’t the Englishman. It was the man with the hunchback, she was sure of it.
The electrical charge in the air became so heavy that she couldn’t breathe. One of the men in the back seat coughed.
Mary, Mother of God, please let him notice. Let him do something.
“Nothing back here,” the guard said. The dog continued to bark and snarl. Kathleen heard a thump as something slammed into the side of the car.
Outside, someone shouted, “Get that dog away from there!”
“Very good. Everything is in order, sir. Have a good evening.”
“Thank you.”
The window squeaked again, and the driver gunned the engine. She felt all the blood in her body drain down into her hands and feet. The shivering grew worse. Tears traced cooling paths down her face as disappointment set in. It wasn’t long before the car stopped again, and she was dragged out of the back with the blanket still over her head. The moment she thought to throw the blanket off and run, a hand clamped onto her arm, and she was guided into a building. The floors were concrete and their footsteps echoed until she was pushed again into a room. The blanket wasn’t removed until she was pushed and fell onto what felt like an old sofa. It stank of mildew.
Blinking in the light, she saw her captors clearly for the first time and panicked. Three of the men were dressed in military surplus clothes. None wore masks. One of the smaller men stared right at her, but his eyes were unfocused as if he were in some sort of trance. Drugs? There was something wrong with the big one. Whether it was the hunched back or something else, she couldn’t decide, but he didn’t move like a normal person. He twitched as if he were ready to take flight, his head moving in short jerks like a bird’s. She didn’t like him at all. His gaze made her feel like a rabbit in a field being targeted by a human-sized owl.
“We’ve questions,” Hunchback said. “And you’ve got the answers. Don’t you?” The tingling returned to the air. “Don’t you?”
She found herself nodding in answer because that was what he wanted from her. He smiled, and his charcoal eyes burned with such intensity that she had to look away.
It was then she noticed the Englishman’s flat cap was a deep crimson edging on brown, the color of drying blood, and his teeth were filed to sharp points.
“Hello, Kathleen,” the Redcap said. “I believe introductions are in order. You may call me Henry. Henry, son of Bran.”
Chapter 26
Londonderry/Derry, County Londonderry, Northern Ireland
September 1977
Liam woke to someone shaking him. It was late. He knew it by the hushed ticking of the nightstand clock and the darkened window.
“You must get up.” It was Father Murray, and he was speaking in a frightened whisper.
Is a punishment squad on the way? Blinking, Liam found himself tangled in the plastic tubes. In his rush to get free, he pulled something he shouldn’t have and sharp pain shot up his left arm. “Get these fucking things off me. I can’t move.”
“Stop your thrashing. I’ll be right there.” Father Murray shut the door and turned on the light. “Calm yourself.”
“Calm? Is it you they’ve come for, Father?”
“You’re safe. I didn’t wake you for that.” Father Murray took Liam’s left arm and gently attacked the bandages. Withdrawing the needle from the vein inside Liam’s left elbow, Father Murray placed a cotton ball on the tiny wound and bent the arm to hold it in place while he cut fresh tape. “That’s going to bruise.”
He did everything with an expertise surprising in a priest. It made Liam wonder how Father Murray had acquired the skill, as well as who’d stuck the IV in his arm to begin with. He’d assumed it’d been the doctor he met in the cave but was beginning to think otherwise.
“Then what’s wrong?” Liam applied pressure on the cotton ball while Father Murray wrapped surgical tape around it. If it was Father Murray that did all this, where did he get all the equipment? Who else knows where I am?
“How do you feel?”
“Tired. Bit hungry but otherwise fine.” He tested his back by stretching his shoulders. “The pain is gone.”
Father Murray raised his eyebrows and then lifted the back collar of the T-shirt Liam was sleeping in to have a look. He tugged at a bandage
there.
“That’s interesting.”
“What is?”
“It appears the burns have healed already. Your father said that might happen.” Father Murray’s face squeezed into a concerned frown, then he seemed to come to a decision. “I’ll take the bandages off. Then put some clothes on while I pack.”
“Where are we going? What’s happening?” Liam pulled the T-shirt over his head.
Father Murray stripped the hospital tape securing the bandages with practiced motions. “Your mother has gone missing.”
“What? What happened?”
“She left the flat to come here and somewhere in between there and here she vanished.” Father Murray finished, throwing the stained gauze in the trash. “You’re done.”
She was on her way here. Liam blinked and stuck an arm in the fresh shirt. His heart was drumming out a forced march. “No one saw her?”
“I’m afraid not.”
“Where are we going?”
“We’re to meet your father. Then we’ll look for her. Together.” He left the room.
Liam tugged on the blue jeans, long sleeved shirt and sweater—all were a bit too big for him. The work boots, however, were exactly the right size. Before snapping up the anorak draped on the chair, he put a hand to the back of his head and found that not only were the burns on his scalp healed but most of his hair had grown back. He decided not to waste time wondering about it until the crisis was over. Then he’d have questions. A lot of them. He threw open the door and stepped into the hallway only to bump into his Gran. She was wearing a white housecoat, and her gray hair was gathered in a long braid that hung over one shoulder. An apron was tied over her housecoat—the white one with the blue flowers embroidered on it. She looked right at him with her ever-present scowl and then glanced away. The expression on her face—outside the usual distaste—was unreadable.