King of Dublin

by Lisa Henry

  “Now,” the king said. “Noel, take their van.”

  One of the men stepped forwards, headed for the driver’s-side door, knocking Ciaran roughly on the shoulder as he passed. It must have knocked Ciaran out of his stupor, too, because he realised he could move again. Danny was still crying inconsolably, and Richard and Sarah were dead. That meant it was only Ciaran left.

  “You can’t do this,” he said, staring straight at the king, even as he heard their van rumble to life behind them. “This food is for the people, not for your thugs.” He balled his hands into fists. “You’re no king.”

  The king’s eyes narrowed, and there was fury in them for a moment, but then he smiled, holding up a hand to stay the man with the gun still lingering over his shoulder. “And what’s your name?”

  Ciaran briefly considered giving the man a fake name, but then decided against it. Either the king wouldn’t recognise his name, or maybe he’d realise what he was dealing with and back off. He cleared his throat and lifted his chin. “C-Ciaran,” he said, ashamed of the way his voice shook. “Ciaran Daly.”

  A terrible look of recognition came over the king’s features. “My, my, my! Kevin Daly’s son, what an honour! See, my subjects? Even the so-called government of this country sends a hostage and an offering of supplies to its rightful king!”

  “I’m not a hostage. He didn’t send me.” Ciaran backed up a couple steps as the king’s men prowled forwards. The nose of the van hit him on the back of the knees.

  “Ciaran!” Danny shouted. One of the other thugs had his head by the hair, a gun barrel jabbed against one temple. “Just do what they want, Ciaran! Let them take the van.”

  “Ciaran,” the king mimicked in a singsong voice. “Let them take the van! Lads, flip the uppity little shit over and I’ll show him—and his coward fucking father and the rest of the Dáil—who truly rules Ireland.”

  Hands grabbed Ciaran by the biceps and spun him around, slamming him facedown onto the bonnet of the van. They pinned him there with his arms sprawled.

  “Ciaran Daly, Ciaran Daly,” the king recited, his voice drawing closer, and Ciaran felt smaller hands cup his hips, slipping below them to find the fly of his jeans. “Well, that’s not your name anymore, cunt. Your name’s Boy.” He yanked the jeans down, exposing Ciaran’s bare arse to the cold, damp air. “The king’s boy. My boy.”

  This couldn’t be happening. The man couldn’t be doing this. It was so barbaric, so completely beyond the pale. It was a nightmare, it had to be. Ciaran screamed and twisted against the painful grips of the king’s men, but they were too strong for him.

  Through tear-filled eyes he saw Danny watching, both of them sobbing. For Sarah and Richard, for themselves. And it hurt. It fucking hurt, but there was nothing he could do to stop it.

  “Ciaran!” Danny shouted, over and over again.

  It was the last time he heard his name for months.

  Present day

  When Darragh awoke, the place beside him where Ciaran should have been was empty. A sense of loss overtook him before his anger flooded in behind. The stupid fool would get himself killed out there! For all that he thought he was so clever, he wasn’t clever enough to keep his fucking head down, was he?

  He was angry at himself too. For listening to Ciaran, for believing him just because he said the words that Darragh had desperately wanted to hear.

  “I need you to fuck me, Darragh. I need you to make me feel good. I need you to give me back what Boru took.”

  Oh, he’d thought he could do that. Thought he could save Ciaran in every way, didn’t he? He was a proud fool and had deserved to be played like one. He’d been blinded by Ciaran’s beauty, seduced by his words, when he should have remembered all along that Boru’s Boy was a manipulative creature. And maybe Boru had the right idea by keeping him in chains, because he couldn’t be trusted. Threats didn’t keep him in hand and neither did reason. Maybe the only thing that would was force.

  Fuck him. He was hardly worth going after at all, except Darragh had made a promise to the old woman to see Ciaran safely home, and he had hoped that Ciaran’s father would be so pleased to have his devious son returned that there would be some reward in it. Maybe a punishment—Darragh didn’t pretend to know how things worked in this strange and terrible world—but most likely a reward. If there had been a ransom offered for Ciaran once, then surely he still had to be worth some medicine or supplies? He was hardly in pristine condition, but he had to be worth something. Anything. Darragh couldn’t bear go back to Cúil Aodha empty-handed, especially not after abandoning his people for so long.

  He rolled up the sleeping bag and shoved everything back into his pack. He hoisted it onto his shoulders and headed for the door.

  It was still dark outside. Perfect for Ciaran.

  Ciaran’s hands had still been tied when Darragh had dozed off to sleep, but one rusted stake or sharp-edged piece of metal would have made short work of the rope. And Ciaran could have had hours of a head start.

  For a moment, Darragh leaned in the doorway, staring out into the black night.

  Well, he’d tried, hadn’t he? And it was hopeless, wasn’t it? So maybe he could just walk straight back to Cork and forget any of this had happened.

  He sighed. Except Ciaran would get himself killed on his own, and Darragh would carry that guilt and that responsibility with him for the rest of his days, not to mention the guilt of returning to his people empty-handed when the antivirals they so desperately needed were finally within reach.

  Ciaran would probably head straight back towards Dublin, straight back into a fight he couldn’t win, and probably straight back into Boru’s clutches. He would get himself killed. Darragh couldn’t even pretend he understood Ciaran.

  But he could follow him. He could stop him before he ever reached Dublin. He could take him back to his people in the North, where he belonged, and then Darragh, too, could return to his home—hopefully with a reward in tow.

  Darragh headed out into the night.

  Ciaran didn’t follow the road, knowing that Darragh would. He headed away from it instead, picking his way through an abandoned estate that was overgrown with weeds. He found a small creek but didn’t drink from it despite his thirst. There was a greenish tinge to the water that he didn’t trust and a dead cat decomposing on the scrubby bank. Maybe it wasn’t poisonous, but he didn’t want to risk it. He hadn’t taken any supplies with him; it had been callous enough to trick Darragh with sex in order to make his escape, and he couldn’t bear the guilt of taking the man’s pack as well. He just hoped he’d find something worth scavenging soon, or else he’d be dead of dehydration before Boru ever had a chance to kill him.

  Not that Ciaran intended to give him that chance again. No, he’d come south to make a difference. And maybe he couldn’t do that with food packages and first aid kits, but he could still make a difference where it counted. He could help Maureen and the Milbourne Avenue rats take down Boru. Ciaran had been the king’s slave for months. Maybe even a year. Even if he didn’t know the man’s weaknesses exactly—it was impossible to exploit a character fault in a man whose character was never static enough to get a fix on—he knew other things. He knew the layout of College Green. He knew where Boru kept his supplies. He knew where Boru slept.

  He could be useful, whatever Maureen thought.

  And anyway, this wasn’t just about her and her goals for Dublin. It was about Ciaran, too. About the people of Ireland and Boru’s slaves and Ciaran’s own justice. And about vengeance. He was entitled to that. More than entitled. Sometimes the need of it screamed in him and filled him with a rage he’d never known he was capable of before. But that was okay. It was better to be angry than afraid. He had been afraid for too long already.

  He picked his way along the sluggish creek until it petered out in a boggy field. He couldn’t see the road anymore, and that was good. He thought he was still going south, still headed towards the ruins of Dublin, and there were enough tr
ees now to provide some cover.

  And wasn’t that something? All of this must have been neat and ordered once, but it was growing wild again. Like a prehistoric landscape before men had come along and tamed nature with fences and walls and straight lines.

  The day grew warmer, although there was still a bite to the air. Ciaran unzipped his jacket, his fingers fumbling a little. He was unused to all these layers of clothing when Boru had kept him in next to nothing for so long. He was lucky to have escaped before the winter, when the cold might easily have killed him.

  Which brought his thoughts straight back to Darragh. Ciaran would still be Boru’s slave if it hadn’t been for Darragh. He owed Darragh for that, he supposed, even if Darragh’s stupid attachment had initially condemned them both to death. But Ciaran had repaid that debt by asking Maureen to set Darragh free to go back to his people in Cork, hadn’t he? Their obligations were fulfilled, their debts repaid. Why then did Darragh insist he had to see Ciaran safely back to the north? What business was it of his?

  Ciaran snorted.

  He knew exactly what Darragh thought of him—that he was a weak and snivelling child who needed his da. Well that was bollocks. What Ciaran needed was to make his own decisions and not have Darragh—or Maureen, or Boru—make them for him. And sure, Darragh had Ciaran’s “best interests” in mind and was at least coming from a good place, but it didn’t make him any less of a tyrant to ignore Ciaran’s wishes. He was still treating Ciaran like a slave—if a slightly less abused one. Okay, other than the ropes Darragh had tied him with—which he’d gotten rid of thanks to the twisted metal of a wrecked car—Ciaran was significantly less mistreated by Darragh.

  In fact, he almost missed the big dumb lug, with his surprisingly gentle touch and slow, secret smile. Even the stories of his home, which sounded hard but still somehow so idyllic, a vision of a different path for Ireland. It didn’t have to be like Dublin, and Darragh was a symbol of that. Maybe that was why Ciaran felt flashes of affection for him—when he’d steadied his shoulders going over rough terrain, when he’d turned his eyes up worshipfully to watch Ciaran ride him, when without being asked he’d lunged forwards and taken Ciaran’s cock in his mouth and brought him so much pleasure, freely given.

  But damn it, Ciaran wasn’t a child, and he wasn’t a slave, and he wasn’t going to allow himself to be treated like either. As kind and gentle as Darragh could be, it didn’t change that fact. It never would.

  It was lonely travelling without him, though. The stories that Ciaran had slowly teased out of Darragh—stories about Darragh’s people in that place called Cúil Aodha—Ciaran had liked listening to them. Liked to imagine what life was like there. Listening to Darragh’s stories had restored that cold place inside Ciaran that he’d thought was dead for good. That place where hope had once lived. But it wasn’t just Cúil Aodha; it was Darragh himself, the way the stories made him smile, opening up his grim, stoic exterior.

  Now Ciaran was alone, cutting his own path through the eerie silent wreckage, his only companions feral cats that stared at him with huge luminous eyes and the birds the cats hadn’t eaten yet. He’d even heard the howls of a few wild dogs, but luckily hadn’t seen any of those up close. He had no weapons and wasn’t keen to find out for himself how far they’d strayed from their formerly domesticated selves since the fall of Irish civilisation.

  As his hunger grew, Ciaran was acutely aware that he was city born and bred. He wondered if he had any hope at all of trapping something to eat. And, if he did, of actually building a fire to cook it. And could he tell a poisonous berry from a non-poisonous one? He remembered there was a way to check—was it rubbing it against a cut to see if it caused a reaction?—but he wasn’t sure. Not sure enough to risk killing himself, at any rate.

  Darragh probably knew this sort of thing. He’d probably learned it through hard-won experience or from that little library he’d spoken so wistfully about. What had it been like for him and for the rest of the survivors in Cúil Aodha? Children who’d had to raise themselves and learn everything. God, it was astonishing. They were astonishing. He would have loved to meet them all, to speak with them and hear their stories. They would be stories worth writing down, he was sure of it. Stories worth saving.

  Ciaran ignored his hunger and pressed on.

  It must have been midday when he smelled it: smoke on the air. Smoke, with an underlying scent of barbecuing meat that made his mouth water and his stomach growl. He moved through the underbrush cautiously, lifting his head to catch the scent on the breeze and wondering how close it was.

  Fire meant people, and people meant danger. Ciaran was under no illusions about that. And the sort of people who lit fires and let the smoke carry? They had to be people with weapons, with strength, and possibly even with allegiances to the king of Dublin. This close to the city and this blatant, they couldn’t be friends. But it might be possible for Ciaran to spot them before they spotted him, and to avoid them.

  But God he wanted some of their food. Maybe there would be some left unattended nearby, where he could steal it without them noticing.

  Was Ciaran the type of person to steal? Well, when his choices were steal or starve … He still felt like shit. Hadn’t he once looked down on Ryan for his “the ends justify the means” philosophy? Of course, that had been before he had whored himself out in order to survive. It was easy to tell himself that it hadn’t been a conscious decision, that it was survival instinct only, but he’d always had a choice, hadn’t he? He could have chosen to die instead. Like Danny and Sarah and Richard. All idealistic, all dead.

  Just like now, he could choose to starve, except he wasn’t that noble. He’d steal, and he wouldn’t regret it. Only fools took the high road. Fools like Darragh, who’d nearly gotten them killed, and all because he was too squeamish to fuck Ciaran like the whore he’d been.

  He crept forwards, following the smell, until he could see the curl of smoke rising lazily into the air over his head. His mouth was watering now, the smell of meat was so intense. God, he didn’t even care what it was: rabbit, cat, dog. He just wanted it.

  Ahead of him, the scrubby trees and bushes gave way to open space. Ciaran hunkered down at the edge of the bushes, careful not to be seen. He found himself looking at an encampment. Like a travellers’ camp from books he’d read, except instead of caravans drawn up together, this camp was made up of rusted-out cars and vans, with lines of washing and canvas tarpaulins strung between them. None of the vehicles looked like they’d even start anymore; most had grass growing higher than the wheel arches. Like a wreckers’ yard, except greener. The shell of a building sat at the far edge of the camp, but Ciaran couldn’t imagine what it had once been. Something as prosaic as a parking pay station, maybe?

  “Why, hello there, birdie!”

  Ciaran flinched, the bushes around him rustling as he did. What felt like the barrel of a gun touched the back of his skull.

  “Not trying to sneak up on me and the boys by skulking around in these bushes, are you now, birdie?”

  Ciaran’s eyes darted back and forth, landing on a clutch of red berries hidden in the green. “No! No, I swear. I … I … The berries.”

  “These berries, right here?”

  “Y-yes. But I’m not sure if they’re poisonous or not.”

  “Posh accent like that, I’d say you wouldn’t know the first thing about ’em, no.” The man laughed. “Good thing you didn’t try to eat them yet, posh birdie, because all you’d do would be to shit them out again, so. Wouldn’t kill you, but the dehydration from the skutters would.”

  Hard to thank his lucky stars for that piece of good luck when the barrel of a gun was still pressing against him. “I … I didn’t know that.”

  “What’s your name, birdie?”

  Well, at least in this matter, experience had been a hard but useful teacher. “Danny Ahearn,” he answered. The first name that came to mind, after Darragh’s. But Boru would be looking for Darragh, too.

&
nbsp; “And what are you doing in these parts, ‘Danny’?” Apparently the man with the gun was wise to the concept of a fake name.

  “J-just travelling. Passing through, you know?” But maybe Darragh could still be of help. “My village is sick. I thought maybe I’d find medicine somewhere.”

  “Your village, eh? You sound awful Dublin to me. Sort of.”

  Shit. If this man sussed out the Belfast in his accent as easily as he had the Dublin, Ciaran would be in terrible danger.

  “I’m from there. But I fled. To the countryside. My parents died.”

  “Poor, poor orphan Danny. Wee little birdie.”

  Ciaran stared at the berries.

  “Well, so, I’m Rabbit. Turn out your pockets, Danny. This is a robbery, after all, and I’m a bandit, after all.”

  “I was travelling with someone else,” he said, knowing he’d be expected to explain his lack of any kind of supplies. After all, when Darragh had travelled to Dublin first, he’d done so with a hefty, well-stocked pack. “He stole everything but the clothes off my back.”

  “Nice clothes,” Rabbit said. “I would’a stole them, too.”

  Probably not a joke, but Ciaran couldn’t help but snort a little. The whole situation was so absurd. He should be terrified of Rabbit and his men torturing him for fun, or cannibalising him, or raping him, or maybe all three—all those horror stories he’d heard of bandits from the men of Dublin—or just afraid of them seeing through his “Danny” ruse and handing him straight over to Boru. But something about the gun at his head made him strangely fearless. Maybe he wasn’t afraid to die. Just so long as it didn’t hurt.

  He turned out his pockets, pulling out nothing but lint.

  “Well, there’s a disappointment,” Rabbit said. He lifted the barrel away from Ciaran’s skull. “Turn around then, let’s be having a look at you.”