“Why?”
“Because if I had done what he had forbade, you would be buried next to your parents right now, and he would have been left without any family.”
Sean knelt beside the graves, reaching out to them with his hands. He then walked over to his grandfather’s grave, clicking the beads of his rosary. He then quoted a poem his grandfather had written, which he had asked him to recite at his wake, when he was finished, he stood up, wiping his forehead.
“I try to be the man my grandfather raised me to be,” he said to Alistair. “But it seems like there is another person inside of me telling me to reject it. I can’t tell if it’s myself, or what others tell me. They mock me for my unwillingness to fight back when I’m insulted or mocked, yet I feel unashamed as long as I believe I am doing the right thing. But I doubt because there’s this voice that continues to say that I’m not doing what’s right when I see what happens around me and not try to intervene. What is the right thing to do?”
“You need to decide what God wants you to do. We cannot do that for you. I chose my path. Your grandfather chose his path. I’m sure whatever path you choose, as long as it is done with God’s blessing, it will bring you peace.”
Sean gazed at his grandfather’s grave, then he rose and shook hands with Alistair.
“Thank you, sir,” he said.
“You don’t need to thank me for coming here.”
“I mean thank you for what you did when you saved my life.”
Alistair smiled at Sean, but did not say anything.
“I will see you hopefully sometime next week,” Sean said.
“Next Sunday, if you can. Have a merry Christmas.”
“Merry Christmas to you as well.”
Alistair and Sean went through separate ways, exiting from the gravesite through two alleyways that ran opposite to each other. Sean looked back several times at his parent’s tombstones before finally pushing himself into the narrow passageway. He could hear Alistair’s footsteps echoing as they crunched down on the snow. They sounded slow and deliberate.
Sean took out his watch and looked at the time. He needed to hurry. He promised to be meet Patrick and Evelyn at their house in half an hour. He didn’t want to be late. They didn’t like it. Patrick especially didn’t like it.
Once again retracing his steps, he whistled the tune of a Christmas carol, which eventually grew into singing. He blew into his hands and rubbed them again as he we waved to several carolers he passed by at the corner of a street. He placed his hands in his pockets and jerked his head away when he noticed two men walking down the street across from him, seeing as there were no automobiles on the road. They didn’t offer him much of a glance as they passed out of his vision.
He recognized both of them; two thieves who lived his neighborhood, three blocks away. They didn’t work for the O’Brien brothers, but it was known they paid the brothers to let them work the neighborhood, as long as it wasn’t their homes they robbed. Because of this, no one crossed them.
Sean heard a scream come from behind him. He turned around and realized it had originated from across the street. The two thieves who had passed him had approached a husband, wife, and their son. The first thief was assaulting the wife, while the second thief restrained the husband. The son to watch it all a foot or two away silently.
“Help!” the wife cried.
“Stop them!” the husband shouted.
“Please, help us!”
“Police!”
Sean stood still for a moment, then he ran across the road. He came close to them and then stopped, calling out to the robbers.
“Leave them alone!” he said.
The thieves paid no attention. It was as though he didn’t exist. The first thief
“Help us!” the husband said.
“For God’s sake, stop them!” the wife said.
For an instant, the two criminals gave Sean a glare. Seeing as how he stood motionless, they returned back to their victims and continued their deed.
“Stop or I’ll call the police!” Sean said.
“Help us!”
“Leave them alone!”
“Damn it, do something!”
Sean implored the thieves to desist. They ignored him. He then turned around and yelled for police to come and aid them.
One of the thieves pulled out a small caliber pistol and tried to point it at the husband, but he knocked it out of his hand. Sliding across the snow, it landed at Sean’s feet. Both the thief and the husband turned to see what would happen.
When Sean did not pick it up, the thieves made no attempt to retrieve it and resumed their attacks.
As Sean called for the police again, the mugging ended; the other thief produced his own pistol as he threw the wife to the ground. He aimed it at her and pulled the trigger. He then turned to the husband and did the same. When both of the man and woman were motionless, the thieves bent down and ran through their pockets, taking the wife’s purse and the husband’s wallet. They chuckled as they threw a penny to the boy, who stood next to the bodies of his parents. His mouth was open, but no sound came out.
“Merry Christmas,” one of them said.
They offered the same words to Sean as the one thief picked up his pistol, clapping him on the shoulder. Then they ran out of the street, ducking into the alley nearest to there.
Sean and the son stood across from each other, staring at the bodies. Unable to voice his weeping, the son raised his head up to Sean, while police sirens sounded in the distance.
“You could have stopped them,” the son said. “Why didn’t you do anything?
Sean didn’t answer.
“You could have shot them. Why didn’t you?”
Silence.
The boy pointed a finger at him.
“Murderer! Murderer! Murderer!”
Sean ran away. But no matter how far he ran, that same voice echoed.
Murderer. Murderer. Murderer.
***
The door flew open, striking the back of the wall as Sean stumbled inside his home. He swallowed, feeling his throat with one hand. He covered his face, then his ears as if to block out the voice. His legs trembled as he lowered himself to the floor, rocking himself back and forth. He picked himself up, then did so again when his legs failed him a second time.
The voice would not stop.
Murderer. Murderer. Murderer.
He tried to speak to it, but it didn’t listen.
The grandfather clock in the living struck nine o’ clock. He was expected at the Malone’s soon.
Dropping his hands down to his side, Sean walked through the hallway and into his bedroom. Ignoring all else, he approached the closet and pushed the sliding door back. He grabbed a handful of clothes on the hanger and pushed them aside. Behind it all a chest sat in the corner. He grabbed it by the handles and dragged it out into the middle of the room.
Grabbing the key from one of the drawers in his dresser, h blew the dust away from the chest, wiping it off of his hands. He inserted the key into the chest. When it unlocked with a click, he waited a full minute before opening it.
Inside the chest lay a trench coat, a pair of trousers, gloves, and boots, all his grandfather’s former possessions.
He took them out of the chest and placed them on his bed. He went back over to the chest, staring down at the bottom of it, where a revolver slept inside of a holster. His grandfather had taken it from the hands of a Black and Tan he had killed – the first life he had taken.
Sean heaved as he took the holster, placing it in his lap. He ran his fingers along the side, unbuttoning the flap. He then grabbed the pistol stock and pulled it out. He found a dozen boxes of .455 Webley Mk II cartridges inside the chest. He took one of the boxes and opened it up, taking out six bullets as he opened up the chamber to the revolver.
Six movements later, he threw the chamber back into its place.
Sean stood up, holding the pistol out in his hand. He kept the pose only for a
moment, before storming out of the house.
Five minutes later, he found himself outside the hovel the two thieves lived in. He saw smoke rising from the chimney. His chest rose and fell as he held out the pistol in front of him, studying his hand as it trembled.
Glowering, Sean walked up to the door and kicked it open. It fell off its hinges as he walked in, pushing it aside.
The two thieves sat by the fireplace, using the flames’ luminosity to count the sum of their money. Having hard the door fall, they turned to see him, lurching in order to catch the money as it nearly dropped out of their hands.
“What the hell?”
“What is this?”
Sean stared at them, silent.
They stared back. It took them a moment to recognize him.
“Hey, I know ya!” one of them said. “Ya the one who just helped us out with that little thing back there. Thanks a lot! We’re sure if ya were gonna do somethin’ or not. Ya made the right choice.”
No response.
The thieves looked down, observing the pistol in his hand. They grinned and cackled.
“Whadya gonna do, kid?” the other thief said. “Kill us? Ha!”
Silence.
“Ya had ya chance to get us, kid. It’s too late. Ya ain’t gonna do nothin’ to us know. The O’Brien’s let us work this neighborhood. Ya know that. Ya do somethin’ stupid, they gonna find out sooner or later.”
“Look at that face, Ernie. He couldn’t hurt us if he wanted to. He’s too innocent.”
Sean raised the pistol. His lips quivered, but stayed closed.
The first thief got up from his chair. He went over to the table in the center of the room, where he had left his pistol. He reached down for the butt of the gun.
“Looks like this kid needs a little welcoming,” he said.
Sean pulled back the hammer. A tear fell from his eyes.
Two flashes brightened the street outside.
***
Sean walked outside of the house. He opened the chamber to the revolver, pulling out two shells. He placed them in his palm. They burned his skin, but he did not flinch. He held them until they cooled, then he squeezed his hand into a fist, the edges cutting into his flesh.
With a scream, he ran down the street.
No voice responded.
***
At Patrick and Evelyn’s home, they heard five knocks on their door. Patrick barked at Evelyn to get the door as he attempted to open a bottle of ale. Evelyn obeyed.
She found Sean at the front steps. She was about to speak to him when she noticed the absence of a smile.
“Are ye alright?” she said.
“I’m actually feeling much better,” Sean said.
“Come inside; it’s cold out there. We were getting a little worried.”
“Worried about what?”
“Worried that ye may get into trouble.”
“Do not worry yourself about that. I will not be having that problem for a while.”
They came inside the living room, where Patrick leaned against the sofa. He raised his bottle of ale, which he had managed to open, into the air with a laugh.
“Sean, me boyo! Merry Christmas!”
“Yes, I prayed it would be so.”
“Come over here and have some of our best ham.”
“We’ve been savin’ it for today,” Evelyn said.
“And some for tomorrow, no?”
“Of course, brother.”
“Now I donna want ye eatin’ so much of it that we donna have any for tomorrow.”
“Of course, brother.”
“Ye hear me? We’re gonna have a grand old time for Christmas, and nothin’ gonna ruin it for us!”
“Let us pray that does not happen,” Sean said.
All three of them sat at the supper table, where a ham Evelyn had prepared had been placed. Evelyn used an old piano bench for her seat. The meal was interrupted twice when Sean had to replace the candlelight in the center of the table as well as help Patrick up after he had fallen out of his chair. After supper, they conversed in the living room, and as they did Patrick frowned at Sean.
“What happened to your speech, Sean?” Patrick asked.
“What speech?”
“Ya tongue; ya speakin’ like an Englishman now.”
“No. I’m speaking plainly.”
“How can that be?”
“I say what I wish to say.”
“And what is that?”
“That I wish you a merry Christmas and pray that the Good Lord will bless you and your wonderful sister.”
“Donna speak like that around me. I donna know how ya go about talkin’ when ye not around us, but when ye in me home, ya speak like an Irishman, not a bloody limey!”
Evelyn looked at Sean; he looked back at her, nodding his head. She smiled.
“Very well,” Sean said.
“I’m keepin’ the house pure Irish,” Patrick said. “Understand?”
“I understand.”
“Say ‘aye.’”
“Aye, I will do it.”
“That’s me boyo!”
“How was the ham, Sean?” Evelyn asked.
“It was perfect, thank ye. I couldna made it better meself. Ya a blessin’ to have cookin’ for us all.”
“Thank ye.”
“What shall we do first, Sean?” Patrick asked.
“Let us sing,” Sean replied.
“Sing? Sing what?”
“A song.”
“Well of course a bloody song! But what?”
“How about ‘Christmas in Killarney’?”
“Bloody brilliant! Go ahead, Sean, and bloody sing it!”
“I wish you had some music to go with it,” Evelyn said.
“It’s quite alright.”
Sean stood up from the sofa and opened his lips. Their mouths opened as they listened to him sing. He sang each verse and the chorus, tapping his hand against his knee. They joined in when they knew the words, but they grew silent as tears trickled from his eyes.
“How grand it feels to click your heels/ And join in the fun of the jigs and reels/ I'm handing you no blarney/ The likes you've never known/ Is Christmas in Killarney.”
The room became quiet when he finished and stood still. Patrick glanced at his sister, whose eyes widened. He then turned back to Sean, cocking his head.
“Somethin’ the matter, Sean?”
“No.”
“I hope it is not the ham.”
“No.”
“What is it?” Evelyn said as she walked over to him. Sean stared the picture on the wall of their two families. She put her arms on his shoulders. He looked down at her. She put her hand over her mouth.
“I hope we haven’t ruined anythin’ for ye,” she said.
“No,” he said.
“Is there somethin’ ye want?”
His answer came in the form of a whisper.
“Aye, that there would be.”
“What do ye want?”
“Somethin’ that I canna have.”
“Is there anythin’ we can do?”
“No.”
“Anything at all?”
“No. Not one thing.”
“Why not?”
Sean gazed into her eyes. He grabbed her wrists, rubbing with his fingers.
“Can ye bring back the dead?” he asked.
“No,” she said.
“What is goin’ on?” Patrick asked as he rose. “Sean, if ye be hurtin’ man, we be able to help ye in any way.”
“Ye want to help?”
“Aye.”
“Ye see that bottle that ya hold in ya hands?”
“Aye.”
“Throw it away.”
Patrick gawked at Sean, then looked down at the bottle, scoffing.
“What? Are ye out of ye mind? This is the best hard tack I’ve ever tasted!”
“Throw it away.”
“Never!”
“Then ye canna help.”
“What does that have to do with anythin’?”
“It has to do with everythin’, Patrick.”
“What is with ye and me drink?” he asked. “Ye have a problem with me and me drinkin’?”
“Aye.”
“And ye have the daftness to come under me roof and say it to me on Christmas Eve?”
“Aye.”
“Please,” Evelyn said to Patrick as she approached him. “It shouldna matter for one night. We can find somethin’ else to drink.”
“I donna want anythin’ else!”
Her eyes glistened as she pleaded with him, taking his hand.
“Please donna yell.”
Shifting his weight back and forth, Patrick slapped her hand away.
“I’ll do whatever I bloody feel like!”
Evelyn trembled, backing away from her brother. She moved to the corner of her room where her doll waited for her. She picked it up as she looked at the fireplace, where four stockings hung from the mantelpiece.
“Enough,” Sean said to Patrick. “We shall speak of this later.”
“No!” Patrick said. “We speak of it now!”
“No.”
“No?”
“What other possible meaning could that word have?”
“What has come over ye?”
“Either ye put the bottle away or else!”
“What?”
“I’m not bein’ daft. I’m serious.”
“What are ya gonna do?” Patrick said.
Evelyn cried. Sean pointed at Patrick.
“I’m warning ye,” he said. “I donna want ye sister to be disturbed anymore. It’s over. Either ye somber up and stop this nonsense or ye will find yeself in a world of trouble!”
“Bah! Since when did ye ever find the nerve to say such baloney? I doubt ye could kill a man, even if ye had to.”
“Ye doubt is misplaced.”
“Really?”
“Aye.”
Patrick went to confront Sean. An instant later, he found himself on the floor with a small line of blood coming from his lips. Both he and Evelyn looked over at Sean, who held his fists up as he loomed over Patrick with a glare he had never seen before.
“Bloody hell!” Patrick said. “What has come over ye? Ye crazy, man!”
Men Who Walk Alone Page 21