The Dark Beloved

by Helen Falconer

  For a few seconds Aoife could only stare silently back at him, halted in mid-bite of her sandwich.

  Even though she’d seen his updated image on his Facebook page, it was still shocking how much Killian had grown since she’d seen him last – almost as much as his cousin Darragh. And he looked older in other ways as well: less boy band, more male model. His trademark floppy hair had been cropped short, and his face was thinner; his cheekbones now high and sharp; cheeks slightly hollow. Something about him touched her heart like a freezing hand . . .

  Down.

  Something about . . .

  Down.

  His face . . .

  Stop that. Killian’s hair wasn’t the blackened red of dying coals, but white-blond: the colour of Mayo sand. The eyes of the Beloved were the inky blue of midnight, flecked through with tiny golden stars. Killian’s eyes were silvery grey, like a cold low-lying mist on a winter’s day.

  And yet . . .

  ‘This is a surprise. What are you doing here?’ Killian pulled off his wet coat and gave it a strong shake, before hanging it on the handlebars of his bike.

  ‘Eating,’ said Aoife, continuing to do so.

  ‘Then don’t let me interrupt you.’ He threw his leg over the crossbar of his blue racer and sat balanced astride the saddle, toes on the ground, arms folded.

  She frowned at him. ‘Aren’t you going into class? The bell went ages ago.’

  ‘Right back at you.’

  She took out a third sandwich. She had packed a big lunch. ‘I prefer it out here.’

  ‘Hanging out in the bike shed, eating like a pig? Is this a symptom of your unstable mental condition?’

  She looked at him.

  He smiled back at her in a surprisingly friendly fashion, running one hand through his wet fair hair, spiking it up. ‘Don’t get me wrong, I don’t really think you’re mad. I’m just interested. Tell me about where you went this summer.’

  She stuffed down the last piece of crust. ‘I don’t want to talk about it.’

  He nodded, still very friendly. ‘I can understand that. That was a pretty unbelievable story you were telling Carla— It’s all right, don’t worry!’ He raised his hand as Aoife looked up sharply. ‘Everyone else, she’s just saying it was a nervous breakdown. It’s only me she was telling about your fairy delusion, and she’s sworn me to secrecy – and don’t get thick with her about it, she had to tell someone or she’d have had a breakdown herself. She’s had a rough summer.’

  Again, she felt she might have got Killian wrong. She’d never liked him – especially since he’d lied to Carla about Aoife fancying him last May. But here he was, being genuinely concerned for Carla. And not even being that mean about the ‘fairy delusion’. ‘I’m not cross with her for telling you and I know she’s been miserable, thinking I was dead. I feel crap about that. I just didn’t have a way to contact her.’

  ‘No mobile phone network?’

  ‘No . . .’

  ‘The fairy world must be very old tech. But couldn’t you have just used magic?’

  Annoyed at herself for letting her guard down, Aoife started packing her lunchbox back into her bag.

  Killian watched her, swinging his foot, brushing the sole of his trainer against the ground, to and fro. He said, ‘Satisfy my curiosity. What was this fairy world like? Is it better than this world?’

  She stood up, shouldering the bag. He also slipped off his bike and stood up. ‘Wait, don’t run off on me. I like the fairy thing. I was googling it last night. Is there really a whole different world under the surface of Connacht?’

  ‘I have to go now.’

  ‘No, wait, I’m not ripping the piss, I think it’s interesting. Can you really make fairy gold? I’d like to do that. Sometimes I almost feel like I could . . . I have some skills myself – I always know who’s texting me even before I look, I don’t know how . . .’

  She made to move past him, to get her own bike, but he put his hand on her arm. His touch made the hairs on the back of her arm stand up, right through her jacket, and she shook him off sharply, with a shudder of revulsion.

  He looked surprisingly hurt. ‘Hey – do you hate me that much?’

  ‘Sorry . . .’ She had to stop thinking how the builder’s son reminded her of Dorocha. It was ridiculous. ‘Of course I don’t hate you.’

  ‘But you don’t like me?’

  ‘Of course I like you – you’re . . .’ His hand was on her arm again, and she pressed her lips together, steeling herself not to react.

  He was smiling into her face. ‘Good, because I like you too, fairy girl.’ And his perfect mouth came close to hers.

  She jumped back in absolute horror. ‘What are you doing? Get off me! I don’t mean that way! I like you because you’re Carla’s boyfriend!’

  ‘Fine, grand.’ But he was still smiling at her, unbothered, elbows akimbo. ‘I get it – Carla’s your best friend, and you girls stick together. But you know, down the road—’

  ‘Don’t you dare dump her!’

  He laughed, holding up his hands, palms out. ‘Aoife, come on. I’m not even sixteen yet. I’m hardly going to be going out with some girl I met in school for the rest of my life.’

  ‘She really cares about you!’

  ‘And I care about her, and I don’t want to hurt her – she’s sweet. She’s maybe the sweetest girl I’ve ever been out with. But one day I’m going to have to hurt her—’

  The dark power burst out of her.

  Killian screamed long and loud, slapping his hand to his chest then crashing sideways, striking his head off the sharp metal corner of the bike rack – which was when the scream cut off abruptly, like a door slammed shut on a raucous party.

  Aoife couldn’t physically move. Her vision was spotted black. She was going to be sick. She’d had no idea what she’d been just about to do . . . It was only when he said, I’m going to have to hurt her . . . Killian lay on the damp floor unmoving, a little streak of blood running out from under his hair. She’d killed Killian Doherty . . .

  He rolled over onto his face, groaning.

  ‘Oh, thank—!’ Dizzy with relief, Aoife rushed over to him.

  ‘What happened to me?’ He was struggling into a sitting position, feeling the back of his head. ‘I feel really weird.’

  Aoife crouched in front of him, holding up three fingers. Her hand was trembling, weak from the discharge of power. ‘How many?’

  He glanced dismissively. ‘Three. Last thing I remember . . .’ He frowned and took his hand from the back of his head, then looked startled at the dab of blood on his fingertips. ‘I’m bleeding!’ His eyes focused on her, shocked. ‘Jesus, Aoife! What did you push me for?’

  ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to—’

  ‘Jesus, Aoife . . .’ He was on his feet, now – spitting fury. ‘I can’t believe I was trying to be nice to you! I can’t believe Carla said you’re not dangerous! Jesus Christ, you’re insane . . .’ And he raced away across the courtyard, splashing blindly through the rain.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Crouched over the handlebars, she hurtled across the flooded yard, out of the school gates and down the hill towards Kilduff.

  First the welfare officer, then Killian. He was right – she was literally insane. She couldn’t protect people by going around acting like a lunatic! Flinging Deirdre Joyce to the ceiling! Her mother was right – she could have killed the woman! And it was beyond crazy to attack Killian, just because – one day I’m going to have to hurt her – he’d been talking about splitting up with Carla. Killian wasn’t some evil demon – something about his face – he was an annoying, selfish teenage boy who might one day break her best friend’s heart . . . until Carla realized what a jerk he was and found someone new.

  There was no heroism in battering mere humans with fairy power.

  If she couldn’t control herself, she needed some sort of help.

  Maybe she should take pills, like Carla’s Auntie Ellie?

  Hot
and sweating, despite the rain, she turned her focus to slowing down before she reached Kilduff, so as not to knock anyone over this time round. She was still going about thirty kilometres an hour as she swept past the shop and across the square, heading out down the Clonbarra road. Yet by the time she passed the empty estate, she found herself slowing further . . .

  Stopping. U-turn. Riding back.

  When she reached the church, the porch door was ajar. Perhaps she had noticed subconsciously that the church was open, and that’s what had prompted her to turn round. She left her bike, leaning it against one of the fancier tombs – one with a door and a railing around it. It was the Doherty resting place. Killian’s grandparents, Joseph and Betsy, lay there. What would they have thought if they had known how close their handsome grandson had been to joining them, at Aoife’s hands?

  Entering the porch, she dipped her fingers in the small font of holy water and crossed herself. The glass doors to the interior were locked, but she touched her finger to the brass keyhole and the mechanism clicked open. (She felt momentarily smug – now, that was the sort of magic power that made life easier.) Stepping into the aisle, she crossed herself again, and dipped her knee to the altar. Then sat down in the nearest pew. Then knelt on the embroidered prayer cushion, with her hands resting on the back of the pew in front. Then restlessly took off her school coat, which was still dripping. Then, still unable to settle, checked her phone. Still nothing from either Carla or Shay.

  Through the stained-glass windows on either side of the church, and the rose window high above the altar, struck coloured bars of light. Under the rose hung a wooden Christ, much larger than life, arms spread upon the cross, head drooping under His heavy crown of thorns. Gazing at Him, Aoife folded her hands again, and tried to imitate His stillness. The Catholic church was a part of her family life, the same as nearly every family in Kilduff. She had never thought about whether she believed in God – she had just always assumed she did. She had been baptized; she had made her Holy Communion, and her Confirmation. Her mother had brought her to church every Sunday since she was a child. She had accepted without question that Jesus Christ was her saviour.

  And now she needed Him to save her.

  She said, in her mind, to the man on the cross: Father, I know not what I do. Save me from myself. Whoever I am.

  In the still, cold silence of the church, the wooden man gazed down.

  I don’t want to kill anyone. Save me. Take away from me this dark, unholy power.

  The man’s eyes were weary. Was He even listening?

  Lowering her gaze, she recited the first part of the rosary, under her breath: ‘I believe in the Holy Spirit, the Holy Catholic Church . . .’ In the stony cold, her breath came out in smoky wisps, condensing on the air. ‘I believe in the communion of Saints, the forgiveness of sins, the resurrection of the body and life everlasting. Amen.’

  As she finished, a jaunty tune sprang into her head – for a moment she wondered who it was by, before she realized it was one of her own. It was the song that had formed itself in her head the last time she was in this church. And now the lyrics were coming back to her as well:

  Your God says he’s the holy one,

  But you know he’s not the only one . . .

  She couldn’t block out the annoying tune, because it was coming from inside her head, and she couldn’t pray until it stopped. She rested her forehead on the polished rail of the pew in front of her, waiting for it to end.

  I think he’s just the lonely one,

  Maybe he’s the phoney one . . .

  At last it died away, and her head went quiet. Her eyes still closed, she said loudly: ‘Glory be to the Father, and to the Son, and to the Holy Spirit. As it was in the beginning, is now, and ever shall be, world without end. Amen.’

  A hand touched her arm, and she shook it off with a startled yelp, then saw who it belonged to and sprang to her feet. ‘Sorry, Father, I didn’t see it was you.’

  ‘And I’m sorry if I disturbed you, Aoife. Please sit down again.’ The priest lowered himself into the pew in front of her, settling himself sideways, his long thin legs stretched out, feet resting in the aisle. Under the hem of his black robes he was wearing surprisingly expensive-looking trainers. He raised his eyes to hers – dark and small in his clean-shaven face. He didn’t smile, but then, he had always been a cold, dry man. ‘Welcome to the House of God, Aoife.’ His voice, like hers, came out in small white puffs, like a man smoking outside a pub. ‘And may I ask, how did you get in?’

  ‘The door was left open – I thought it was OK to come in, I’m going now. I’m sorry for disturbing you – it’s just, the door was left open and it was raining out.’

  He remained sitting. ‘The door is always open to those who seek God’s help.’

  ‘I know, but—’

  ‘Sit down, Aoife.’

  She sat. She had been raised to show respect to the priest. Besides, she knew how good Father Leahy had been when she was ‘dead’ – visiting her parents almost every week, saying Mass for the peaceful repose of her and Shay Foley’s souls – assuring everyone that the angels had brought the star-crossed lovers straight to the feet of God.

  When she had settled herself, he said, ‘Good. Now – tell me why you are here.’

  ‘No reason, Father.’ She knew it sounded ignorant, but it was God she had come to ask for help. Not this dry, cold priest, who would think she was mad if she told him one word of the truth.

  The priest continued to study her, unsmiling. ‘But you came in here to pray?’

  ‘Yes, but—’

  ‘Tell me why.’

  Her heart sank and she squirmed slightly in her seat. She should have understood. Father Leahy was clearly wanting to hear all about her five months away with Shay Foley. He wouldn’t have been impressed by Carla’s ‘nervous breakdown’ story, even if he had heard it. He must want her to explain how she could do something so sinful – run off with a boy, and her not even sixteen, and never make contact with her parents to say where she’d gone. He must be expecting her to make a very long, very interesting, confession.

  The priest was still gazing at her with his small dark eyes. Disapproving. Cold. Fascinated.

  She was mortified to feel herself blushing. ‘I know it looks bad, Father, but it didn’t happen the way you think.’

  He raised thin eyebrows. ‘And what exactly do I think?’

  ‘I . . .’ Her voice faded; she looked down into her lap. This was awful, knowing what was in his old-fashioned head and having no way of disproving it. ‘I can’t talk about this.’

  ‘You mean, you can’t tell me the truth.’

  She didn’t answer.

  He put his white hand on the polished rail of the pew between them. ‘But what if I already know the truth?’

  Her cheeks grew hot. ‘You don’t, Father, because it’s definitely not what you think.’

  ‘Mm.’ As if to buy himself time to consider what he was going to say next, the priest rummaged for something in his robe, took out a handkerchief – a cotton one – and blew his nose. He said eventually, ‘It might surprise you to hear this, but I know all about you.’

  ‘Really, Father, you don’t.’

  He folded the handkerchief carefully back into his pocket. ‘I do, Aoife. In fact, I’ve known for years.’

  ‘No, seriously, you— What?’ She stared at the priest blankly, completely thrown off track.

  His eyes moved across her face, studying it like a strange, unfamiliar object. ‘That’s right, Aoife. Years and years. Yet I hid the truth – even from myself.’

  The rhythm of Aoife’s heart quickened slightly. She sat up straight, saying nothing, only listening.

  The priest smiled dryly, dipping his head – acknowledging that he had won her full attention. ‘Yesterday, a welfare officer asked me for directions to your house. Do you remember? You were cycling by at the time, and I signalled for you to stop.’

  ‘Sorry, Father.’ A knee-jerk re
action, while she desperately tried to work out what was going on.

  He waved her fake apology away. ‘I wanted to introduce you to the woman in the car. She was asking about Maeve and James O’Connor’s four-year-old daughter, Eva. And I wanted to prove to her that you weren’t four but fifteen.’

  ‘That’s right, I . . .’

  The priest held up his soft white hand. ‘Less than an hour later, I met the same woman again – this time in the garage, where we were both buying petrol. I asked if she’d found the child she was looking for. She showed me a picture she had taken on her phone, of the child in question sitting at your kitchen table. “The child is adopted and everything is in order,” she said. “The child is adopted and everything is in order.” She didn’t seem able to say anything else. She paid for her petrol and drove away.’

  Aoife kept her expression deliberately blank. Inside, she was dancing. She’d been right: the welfare officer couldn’t break the deal. Eva was officially safe. She said boldly, ‘The fact is, Father – my parents have adopted a little girl. They didn’t like to say anything until the whole thing was finalized, but now that everything is in order, I think it’s OK to tell everyone.’

  The priest again went through the elaborate process of retrieving his handkerchief and blowing his nose. Then he said, ‘When James O’Connor was in his twenties, he moved to Dublin.’

  Once more, Aoife was thrown by his reply. It seemed to have no bearing on what they’d just been talking about. ‘I know, Father.’

  ‘Later, James’s parents moved to Australia to be with his sister, their daughter. For years the O’Connor family home stood empty.’

  ‘I know, Father.’

  ‘Then one day James and his Dublin wife came home with their own daughter, Eva. She was very sick. No one was allowed in to see her, because of the risk of infection. But everyone believed the O’Connors had brought the little girl home to die.’