It was, he thought, as Voltaire had so succinctly put it, ‘History is no more than accepted fiction.’
It hardly needed adding that the accepted fiction was inevitably written by the victors.
He returned to the desk, picked up the paper with Casey Riordan’s name on it and ripped it into pieces. Some things were worth saving, war notwithstanding.
Chapter Twelve
June 1973
Father to Son
Casey sighed with relief as he stepped into the warm water. It had been a long day, filled with a variety of difficulties: a stone mason who didn’t seem to realize the workday didn’t start at noon, a shipment of stone that was only half of what he’d ordered, and a set of painters who had argued from the minute they’d arrived until he had threatened to knock their heads together.
He kept Conor snugged tight to his chest as he lowered himself into the water, their shared nightly bath had become a ritual for the two of them. The warm water helped make the lad sleepy and Casey savored the quiet time alone before handing him off to Pamela to be fed and put to bed for the night. He settled with a sigh of contentment into the warmth, the baby splaying small hands in startlement as the water closed over his dimpled bottom and lower back.
He kissed the rounded curve of his son’s head, breathing deeply of his scent: milk and talc and the sweet, green smell that was all the laddie’s own. Conor clutched his tiny fists into Casey’s chest hair, causing him to draw a sharp breath.
Every inch of him was a wonder, and it boggled Casey’s mind to think he himself had once been this tiny, this vulnerable. From the near transparent shell-like ears, to the ten perfect wee fingers and the incredible velvet of his skin.
There were times that he noted the contrasts between his own scarred, hairy body and the delicacy of what had been created between him and Pamela. It never failed to humble him and yet people had babies every day, did they not? But not this baby, one much hoped for and often despaired of. They had tried for such a long time, and been sore grieved by the death of their daughter, Deirdre. And then another girl had been lost during his internment and he had begun to wonder if they were fated never to have their own children. For a bit it had seemed there might not be a chance for another child, as the tenuous threads of their marriage had been strained to their limits, then the miracle of this child, and a fragile new beginning between his parents.
He dipped a flannel washcloth in the water and poured a bit of the soap Pamela had made for the baby onto it. A waft of lavender, the dusty, sunny scent of chamomile, and the sweet summer fragrance of geranium billowed up on a vaporous cloud. He washed the baby slowly, paying particular attention to the crease of the neck. He had been nervous at first of handling the baby, his hands being bigger than Conor’s head, but it had become natural within days, as though Conor were an extension of his own flesh—which he was, both literally and figuratively.
This time each night had become a time for rambling talk, of stars and trees and small gossamer creatures. It was hard to talk sense to someone so soft and tiny, and so Casey allowed his whimsy to take flight and knew that should anyone else overhear he was likely to feel a fool, but with only Conor listening, it seemed right. He remembered his father telling him how it was with one’s own children.
“Ye’ll understand when ye’ve yer own babby,” his father had said. “Ye can tell them all yer soul in safety an’ so ye find that ye do. Ye wish ye could give them the wisdom of the world an’ keep their innocence intact at the same time, but of course ye cannot an’ that’s one of the hardest things about bein’ a parent.”
“Did ye feel that way about me?” he had asked, for he’d just received a rousing lecture on the virtues of celibacy not twenty minutes previous—for getting caught by the nuns with his hand on Theresa O’Dell’s budding breast in the custodian’s closet.
His father had reached over and ruffled his hair. “Aye laddie, I still do—every day. When I look at ye, I see a young man, but I still see the wee lad I held in my arms an’ rocked to sleep nights too.”
It was true, he did find himself discussing everything with Conor, from God to the squirrel that had gotten into last year’s flower seeds. Tonight, however, it was time for a less philosophical discussion. As charmed as he was by this tiny bundle, still a man had other needs in his life which tended to be ignored when there was an extra tenant in the marriage bed.
“See, son the thing is yer goin’ to sleep in yer own bed tonight come hell or high water an’ that’s an end to it. A man has certain needs, an’ to be blunt, yer interferin’ with the fulfillment of mine.”
One seaweed eye squinted balefully at him.
“Ah, don’t even try it on me, laddie. I’m a veteran of this particular war. Yer Mammy’s an expert at those looks.”
Conor’s only response was to release a trickle of hot liquid down his father’s chest.
“Well, ye’ve made yer point,” Casey laughed, “but yer still sleepin’ in yer crib tonight an’ make no mistake of it, boyo.”
Conor merely gnawed on his wet fist and loftily ignored this threat.
“’Tis a grand thing to have a woman that ye both love an’ desire, an’ I could wish no more than that ye’ll know such a thing yerself one day. An’ I’d hope that yer own child will have the good grace to allow ye some leeway in achievin’ those desires.”
Other than a brief ‘unh’, Conor tactfully refrained from comment on this notion of his father’s. Casey decided a direct plea might be more effective.
“’Tis rumored that a man can actually go blind from a lack of such things. Ye don’t want to be responsible for yer own father losin’ his sight now do ye, boyo?”
Casey couldn’t have sworn to it, but it did look as though the lad rolled an eye at him.
“Alright, I admit it’s not likely but yer lookin’ at a desperate man here, son.”
Conor appeared to give this some thought, returning to a reflective chew of his fist.
Casey suddenly realized that he and the baby were no longer alone. Pamela was standing quietly in the doorway, a towel cradled across her forearms.
“Oh, Jewel, I didn’t hear ye come in.” He flushed slightly, wondering how much of the conversation, one-sided as it might be, she’d heard.
She had a very tender smile on her face as she bent over the tub, lifting Conor out of Casey’s arms and wrapping him snugly in the towel. The minute he smelled his mother, Conor began the snuffling bleat that precursored the lusty howl he put forth when he was hungry. She bent and kissed Casey’s wet curls.
“The two of you are beautiful together.” She looked at him from over the head of the increasingly indignant Conor, and said, “I’m taking this one to feed him and put him in his crib. So if a desperate man should find himself in the bedroom in, say, half an hour, I’ll meet him there.”
It was a full three hours before either of them arrived at their appointed meeting, as Mr. Guderson had unexpectedly shown up and needed Casey’s help with fixing a tractor engine, and after that task had been finished he stayed for the cup of tea Pamela offered while Casey fixed her with a frustrated glare. She returned the glare in full measure and asked Mr. Guderson if he’d like a slice of pound cake to go with his tea.
When at last he took his leave of them, Casey was looking things too unlawful to be uttered.
“I’ll be up in a minute, Jewel,” he said, shutting the door behind Lewis’ back. She knew he would do his nightly check of doors and windows, a habit long ingrained in him by a life in Belfast’s rough interior. But after the watcher in the woods episode, she wasn’t inclined to argue with his concern.
The evenings had been chilly, but the bedroom glowed with a delicious warmth. Casey had slipped up the stairs partway through Mr. Guderson’s visit, leaving her alone to endure the lecture on the proper care of sheep. Now she saw that he’d come
to light the fire. A sense of heightened expectation had her shivering, but not with cold.
“Oh Lord,” Casey said, coming in behind her. “I did think the man would never leave. For someone who rarely has more than two or three surly words for a person, he was in rare form tonight. Pound cake!” he snorted. “If I lose my sight altogether, be it on your head woman.”
She unbuttoned her blouse and Casey slid it off her from behind.
“How much time do ye estimate we have?” he asked, in the tone of a man who feels doomed to celibacy for the foreseeable future.
“Not much, judging by how these feel,” she said, wincing as Casey unhooked her bra and she felt the full weight of her breasts.
“Oh God, that’s wonderful. Don’t stop.” Casey was rubbing the groove lines in her shoulders created by the ungainly contraption that had been made, in particular, for nursing mothers. His fingers, long and powerful, made short work of the knotted muscles.
Conor had been asleep since eight o’clock and her breasts were full and tight, tingling with the need to be suckled.
“Do they hurt?” Casey asked, staring in a fascinated manner at the breasts to which, despite his daily contact with them, he still hadn’t fully adjusted.
“Not too much anymore. They’re just rather full right now.” She looked down at them ruefully.
Casey traced a forefinger along the swell of one breast, following the line of blue vein visible in the low light of the fire.
“D’ye want me to get the laddie for ye, Jewel?”
She looked into his eyes, dark with the heat of desire.
“No,” she said and caught her breath as he cupped the full weight of her breast in his hand, thumb stroking across the nipple, now taut with both milk and desire. She could feel the wet on his palm as the milk started to flow, needing only the barest stimulation to let down.
He laid her back on the bed, replacing his hand with lips that were warm and firm. She groaned with both relief and want. The very feel of his skin against her’s was like coming in from the cold on a bitter night. Her entire body felt lit from within by a warm white light, each nerve ending pulsing separately as Casey’s hands moved over her.
“Don’t tease, man,” she said arching toward him.
“Tell me what it is ye want, Jewel,” he said, voice soft and husky. His lips moved across her shoulder, teeth sinking gently into the muscle, causing her breath to catch hard in her throat. “Tell me exactly what it is that ye want.” His hand, hard and calloused, slid across her belly, readying her for a more brute intrusion.
“You,” she whimpered low in her throat, desperate suddenly to feel him inside her, to make of their two respective beings, one. One flesh, one heart beating in accord, one purpose—seeking absolution of the body through passion, finite and fleeting as it might be.
Casey obliged most happily, drawing in a sharp breath as he slid inside her.
“Are ye alright?” he asked. “I’m afraid of hurtin’ ye, Jewel.”
“I’m fine,” she gasped. “For God’s sake, just don’t stop.”
He chuckled low in his throat. “Don’t think I could even if I wanted to, woman.”
He moved again gently and she felt that shift begin, where the world around dissolved and there was nothing but this—Casey against her, hot and solid, and time itself slowed, stopped, and this was all there was of existence, herself and the man she loved more dearly than life itself.
Her hands ran the length of his back from the firm round of buttock to the oddly smooth scars on his back, up across the arcing muscles of his neck and into the soft curls that cradled his skull.
“Lord, woman,” he whispered, mouth against her ear. “I’ve missed this something terrible.”
“Me too,” she whispered back, crying soft and low in her throat as he moved again, an exchange of the flesh and spirit and a recommitment of their individual selves to this marriage.
She arched hard against him in the final moment, knowing the frustration of never being able to get quite close enough, even as her own body felt the shattering relief of release. Casey, with a shaking breath, joined her a moment later, then lay with his forehead bowed to her own, the thrum of their pulse in unison like a blood cadence.
“Wow,” was all she had the presence of mind to say as Casey moved to lie full length beside her, managing to look smug and stunned in equal measure.
“Lord, that was something else altogether,” he said. “I feel a bit like an owl that’s been knocked from its perch.”
“Mm,” she sighed, “it’s called deprivation.” She cracked one eye open, surveying the blankets on the floor, the wet towel and the fine spray of milk across her husband’s forehead. “Sorry about that.” She reached up and dabbed the droplets off his face.
“For what?”
“The mess,” she said. “I feel like a cow these days. If I’m not nursing, I’m leaking. I only hope you don’t find it disgusting.”
Casey gave her a bemused look. “Tis my son yer feedin’ with it, so I’d be a bit of a jackass, darlin’, did I find it disturbin’.”
Just then a loud wail issued forth from down the hall. Casey laughed and sat up on the bed. “His timin’ is a thing of beauty. I’ll say that much for the boy.”
“I’m glad you still find me desirable,” she said softly, watching him as he stood and stretched, fingertips touching the ceiling, before he grabbed his pants off the chair. He turned and gave her a raised eyebrow.
“Jewel, I can’t imagine a set of circumstances under which I wouldn’t desire ye, but it’s only the more so now that we’ve the lad. It’s another tie between us. It strengthens the web of all I feel for ye, an’ that, I can assure ye,” he said softly, “is a very great deal.”
She smiled and stretched, body feeling akin to softly melted silver ready to be poured and set. “Go bring me your son, man.”
He leaned down and kissed her. “Aye, ye bossy wee woman. I’m goin’.”
Chapter Thirteen
Muck
Muck O’Hagan was considered in some circles to be the best and most fearless journalist currently working in Northern Ireland. In other circles, he was considered a muck-raking bastard trying to fan the flames of Nationalist/Republican/IRA rebellion. Not that any of said organizations needed help in that area, for the bright hope of the Civil Rights movement had become a conflagration gone out of control.
Patrick Riordan had known Muck since the days of that bright hope, and had always liked him. He also admired his work. Muck might have a bit of a suicidal bent with the stories he covered, but he could sympathize with that. The stories needed telling and he was a great believer in the responsibility to truth that the press owed the public. It wasn’t beyond Muck to write a good old-fashioned muck-raking scandal story filled with lurid detail and nicknames to cover the real identity of those he wrote about. But this fooled no one, for Muck would often write another story in the same issue of the paper where names were named and punches were not pulled, and the hooks and links to the veiled story were obvious.
Muck had been on the receiving end of more than one death threat, most of which came to the newspaper. He had a cork board over his desk filled with them.
Muck, whose real name was Clifford, had a gentle, dreamy exterior with roughly the same dimensions horizontally as he possessed vertically and glasses that would give a Coke bottle a run for thickness. People who had known him for more than five minutes were not fooled by that exterior unless he wanted them to be. He had the tenacity of an angry pit bull when he got his teeth into a story and would out the truth no matter the cost.
Patrick, not one to fear pit bulls in either their canine or human incarnations, had liked Muck from the beginning. The man, two years younger than Patrick himself, had grilled him mercilessly about his family’s Republican background during w
hat was meant to be a peaceful march protesting the imprisonment of six Irish laborers in a British jail. In exasperation after a full hour of such questioning, Pat had threatened to upend him into the next barrel or hedgerow they happened across. Muck had laughed and apologized and they had been firm friends ever since. Therefore, when his brother had come to him asking who in the press they might approach about this story, Pat had thought of Muck first and only.
Pat arranged to meet Muck upstairs at Madden’s, a dark, cozy bar firmly entrenched in the Republican community. Like most Republican bars, it had seen its share of violence, and when he entered the door all the heads turned round to look at him. Once they ascertained Pat wasn’t a Loyalist assassin they turned back to their drinks. A few nodded at him, or said hello. If they didn’t know Pat by name, they knew Casey, and knew he was a safe quantity. The bartender, John, nodded at him and tilted his head toward the narrow stairs. Muck had already arrived.
He was waiting upstairs in one of the wooden corner booths, round head shiny as a bowling ball in the sun. One of God’s more beauteous creatures Muck was not, but inside that round head was a brain as sharp as a stiletto. At this time of day, there wasn’t a man behind the bar upstairs but Muck had two Guinness on the table, his own already half down the glass.
“Pat, it’s good to see ye, man. It’s been a bit of a while.”
“It has, indeed,” he agreed and sat across from Muck, tucking his long legs around the table post. After Sylvie’s death he had disappeared for awhile, unable to face the idea of talking to anyone, of receiving condolences or having to convey the words that would tell of her death. He still did not want to speak of her and Muck, a wise man, simply skipped all the polite chatter that might inform the beginning of most meets like this one and got straight to business.
“So ye have a story for me, then?”
As Pat was also a man who knew how to get straight to the core, he simply sketched in the information in broad strokes, adding detail to make certain points, and leaving it out where there wasn’t anything factual. Muck wouldn’t appreciate guesswork and could fill in the gaps himself, which he did with the intuitive mind and enormous knowledge he held about his city and its labyrinthine deceptions and distortions.
Flights of Angels (Exit Unicorns Series Book 3) Page 12