by Henry, Jane
“She isn’t allowed out with him again,” my father says. “Never should’ve let her out to begin with.”
“Aye. And the boy?”
“My men will deal with him.”
I close my eyes to steady my nerves. My older sister. I have several sisters. There were many of us. My memories flood back to me in bits and pieces. My older sister snuck behind their backs and met a boy she crushed on. She was punished for that, grounded to her room and disallowed anything socially for months on end.
Nausea rolls in my belly again.
I remember. God, I do.
She was punished by watching on screen the way my father’s men tortured and beat her friend to teach him a lesson.
The chilling memory makes the nausea return.
She married the year after that. A different man, of course, one she’d never met. I remember. God, why do I have to remember that? Why can’t I remember something good?
Do I even have any good memories? I must.
The door downstairs opens and closes, and Cormac enters. He talks to his brothers and looks up to me.
“Aileen,” he says, his brows drawing together. “Y’alright, lass?”
I must look a sight, gripping the bannister and standing here frozen like I’ve been turned into stone.
“Fine,” I lie. Even my voice wants to betray me, wobbling like I’ve been gargling with stones.
He holds my gaze, then finally nods. “I’ll be up in a minute.”
I turn back to the stairs, and keep walking up them. One foot in front of the other. One at a time. I finally get to the landing and head to the room.
I have few memories of this house, but Cormac says it’s because I haven’t been here long.
What would happen if I were to go back to my childhood home?
Would I remember what it was like to live under that roof? I shudder to think of it. Cormac told me I’m not allowed contact with them. At first I wondered if it was Clan law, then I wondered if it was his own doing, and he’s a control freak. Now I suppose he feels he has good reason.
But how will I remember who I am if I don’t? How will any of it come back to me? Maybe I need to find a way to go back home, safely, without him finding out and losing his mind. I’m scared of what I’ll remember, but it scares me worse to be assaulted with memories as I just was now.
I could ask him to take me back. To protect me while he did. But he won’t. And then he’ll know I’m planning to go back. But he won’t.
I go to my room and nausea swirls in my belly again. I haven’t eaten in hours, so I figure I’m hungry. There’s a platter left from breakfast on the table, some soda bread and butter still waiting to be picked up. I slather some butter on a slice and eat it, and my nausea abates for a bit.
I pick out some nice clothes, dark colored jeans and a cropped light blue top that matches my eyes. None of these clothes are familiar to me, but I’m okay with that. He provides well for my needs, and I sort of like having new clothes, even if they’re only new because I can’t remember them.
I dress quickly. I want to get into town, to go see the shops. And he’s promised me tonight he has other plans for me as well.
I still hardly know the man, so it’s almost like a date. Almost. We share a bed, a last name, and vows that bind us. I brush my hair, quickly apply some makeup, and slide lip gloss on my lips, when the feeling I’m being watched returns. It’s disconcerting. I wonder if it’s because my memory’s coming back. Do I only feel as if I’m being watched? How could I be, anyway, in a room like this, with bars on the window and guards at the door?
Is this how it feels when memory resurfaces? I look at myself in the mirror. My eyes are bright and my cheeks light pink. My hair shines glossy and golden, cast beneath the glow of sunlight that filters through the window.
My face is round and full, and is it my imagination, or does it look a little softer somehow? I open my mouth and close it again. I wonder if doing some jaw exercises or something would firm up my face a little. I turn to the side and open and close my mouth with wide, exaggerated poses, when I hear Cormac’s voice.
“Aimin’ to catch some fish, lass? What the bloody hell are you doing?”
I feel my cheeks flush a bit, but I keep at it, nonplussed.
“I need to firm up my jaw,” I say, stroking my chin. “I’m getting older or something, because my face looks… fleshy.”
“My God, it doesn’t,” he says. He steps into the bathroom and stands behind me, his hands on my hips. A little tingle races through me when he touches me.
“Are you out of your mind? Fleshy? Mack Martin’s got a heavy-jowled, fleshy face. Your face is perfect.”
“And look at my eyebrows,” I say, arching my brows up and down. “They need a good pluck.”
He blinks and doesn’t respond right away. “They look fine to me,” he mutters.
“Pluck,” I say stubbornly. My eyes drop to my breasts. “And my breasts look bigger, no?” I squeeze them, wincing in pain. “Aye, they’re tender. Must be gettin’ my monthly soon.”
“Mad,” he says under his breath. “And I’ve no objection if your breasts are bigger.” He gives me a wink.
I elbow him. “My breasts aren’t good enough? You need bigger, is it?”
He laughs out loud, releases my hips, and gives me a teasing smack to the arse. “Go on with you,” he says. “Let’s get to the shops before they close.”
“Hey!” I ignore the way my stomach flips with nausea. I’m not going to miss a chance to get out of here, to actually do something. But he’s already nearly at the door.
I take one of the bags hanging up in the closet and slide my phone in a pocket. I’ve got a wallet, with cash, and a credit card he’s gotten for me.
“Cormac?”
“Hmm?”
“Are we going alone?”
“Course not. We’ll have a few men with us as well.”
I frown. “Is that always the way?”
“Aye. Naturally.”
“Was it that way with the Martins?” I ask. I don’t remember having a guard on me. Did I?
“I know you had a guard of some sort, but I can’t say how or when or where.” He frowns. “Wouldn’t be surprised if it was hardly a guard at all.”
“Why not?”
He purses his lips, pausing before he responds. “The Martins aren’t the protective sort.”
I blink, and a memory surfaces again.
I’m in a small room, decorated in whites and yellows with a girlish duvet and thin pillows. It isn’t posh, like this room, but small and utilitarian. Was it my childhood home, then? And there was a man standing out front. Watching guard. I don’t have a fond recollection of him, but a sick feeling of dread twists in my belly when I think of him.
It comes back to me in a rush. He’d give me information or help if I asked in exchange for sexual favors. He took advantage of my situation.
His name was Dermot. Blaine said they killed him for letting me go.
“Aileen? Y’alright? You look stricken.”
I blink, shoving the memory away, the bitter taste of it still on my lips. I shake my head.
“I’m fine.”
He gives me a curious look, frowning. “You sure?”
I sigh. “Yes. I’m sure. It’s just that some of my memories are coming back to me, and so far none of them are pleasant.”
His eyes widen so slightly, it’s barely noticeable, before he hardens his face again. He nods. “I see. Perhaps we need to speak with Sebastian. See what it is that you can expect, or if you—”
“No.” I shake my head, resolute.
“No?” he asks, quirking a brow at me. My heart pitter pats a bit quicker.
“No,” I repeat. “You said you’re taking me into town, and I mean to do just that.”
He raises his brows and leans his hip against the doorway. “That right?”
I feel somehow smaller with the way he looks at me. In the garden, like an idiot, I challen
ged him. Perhaps that was a strategic error.
I decide it likely smart I rephrase my request. Just to be safe. “I mean… please. Can we please still go into town? Maybe just call Sebastian on the phone or something?”
Another wave of nausea hits.
He stares at me for long seconds, before nodding, his lips pursed. “Right then. Off we go. But if I say it’s time to go home, you’ll obey without giving me that smart mouth of yours. Understood?”
“Yes,” I breathe, barely tempering my desire to bounce up on the balls of my feet and clap my hands like a child. “Yes!”
“And when I ask you to recount the memories you do have, you’ll tell me.”
I pause, mulling this over. Not as easy to say yes to. I hesitate, but after some thought, I don’t see any reason not to. “Alright,” I agree, a little less enthusiastically this time. He’s my husband, after all.
He reaches a hand out for me to take. I grin at him. Moments later, we’re walking down the large staircase that leads to the main entrance.
“Will we drive?” I ask.
He shakes his head. “No. Can’t believe I haven’t really shown you before now. But we live close enough to walk, and it’s a bright, sunny day.” Even though I have permission to walk the grounds, I haven’t gone much beyond the gardens that surround the estate.
We take a right at the stone walkway, the sea at our back, walking down a pathway that leads away from the mansion. He takes my hand and gives me a little tug so that I’m on the inside and he’s on the street side. I have another vague twitch of memory, of him telling me that he’d do this, but then it fades as quickly as it came.
“So your Clan’s mansion overlooks the sea,” I say. “We’ll walk away from the sea to head into town.” I’m trying to get my bearings.
“Aye. Since that’s the east coast of Ireland, we’ll walk southwest to get into town.”
“Makes sense. And your men? Where are they?”
“Behind us, but at a good distance to give us privacy. You won’t even know they’re there.” Not sure I like that they’re nearly invisible, but it serves my purpose well for now.
“Good,” I say. I want privacy right now. “Because I want to tell you the memory I had a short bit ago.”
He sobers and nods. “Go on.”
I tell him about the memory of my parents, my sister, and how my parents made her watch her friend be tortured and beaten.
“Seems about right,” he says grimly.
“You think that’s alright?” I ask him. How could he think that okay? I try to pull my hand away, but he doesn’t let me. He holds tighter, squeezing my hand tight enough so that I can’t get away.
“I didn’t say that, no,” he says. “Aileen. Listen to me.”
His voice hardens. I listen, though I’m still fighting anger.
“All I’m saying is that type of thing’s common among the Martins. It’s a shame the boy didn’t have someone to tell him to stay clear.”
“Many did, though,” I tell him. Remembering, how we had so few friends when we were younger, because we weren’t allowed, and once anyone knew who we were, they kept their distance. “It comes back to me when I talk to you.”
He draws a little closer to me, as if shielding me with his body from the memories that threaten to hurt me. He can’t though. Not even a big, muscular man like him can shield me from memories.
“Keep talking, lass,” he says. “Just let it out. Sebastian says it’s like lancing a wound.”
“Oh, ew.”
“Ach, you’re a sturdy lass. You can take it.”
“Sturdy, is it?” I ask, with mock effrontery. “Is that mob man speak for fat?”
“Don’t you dare,” he warns, but his eyes twinkle at me. “I meant sturdy mentally, silly girl. Not physically. When we get back we’ll see how sturdy y’are physically.”
I snort out loud. “Will we?”
“You have my word.”
I like this, walking hand in hand with my husband. He may drive me crazy, but he’s witty, and I enjoy him. Perhaps I’ll learn to even more. God, but I hope so.
I crane my neck briefly, to get my bearings. It’s a beautiful, sunny afternoon with a light breeze coming from the ocean and wisps of clouds painting the sky above. On the coast like this, it’s often rainy and chilly, but today’s a day to remember. Behind us stands the tall spire of a church, and further in the distance I can see the castle.
“Oh, I remember those,” I tell him, turning back around, as if I just remembered the answer on a test. “Holy Family and Cold Stone Castle!”
“Aye. Good girl,” he says with a smile.
The harbor sits below the cliffs to our left. Ships come and go, and several men and women drag large nets of fish to the shore. In front of us lies a small, cozy little place with a large, hand-painted sign out front that reads “Cottage Brew.”
“What’s that?” I ask.
“Local coffee and tea shop. Fancy a cuppa?”
“Aye, please.”
He opens the door. I’m still a bit queasy, but a cup of tea might settle my stomach. He pulls out a chair, and leans in to whisper in my ear, “We’ll see what triggers memories, aye? And if you need to tell me, do.”
I nod. But as I look around the shop, it’s unfamiliar. I’m not sure I’ve ever been in here before. It’s small and classy and impeccably clean, with a long, glossy counter housing scones, breads, and biscuits, and a display of tea so impressive it nearly boggles the mind. Chai and herbals, mints and blacks, whites and fruity.
“Just a plain cup of tea, please,” I tell Cormac. He goes to the counter to order while I look around me, taking in every detail. At the counter, a petite, rotund woman with white hair piled on top of her head, ruddy cheeks, and tiny spectacles perched on her button nose, grins at him from behind the counter.
“Is that your wife, Cormac?” she asks with a grin. She knows him, then. I like that there’s familiarity here for him. He has a home here. Even through my dim fog of memory, I know that I’ve never had anything like that before.
“Of course,” he says. Several people sitting nearby are watching, though they’re pretending they aren’t. Seems the McCarthy brothers are sort of celebrities here.
The jovial woman reminds me of Mrs. Claus. She comes to the table with Cormac, holding a tray with two steaming cups and a plate of pastries. She slides it on the table and reaches her hand to me.
“So pleased to meet, you. Name’s Isobel.” She beams at Cormac. “Oh, isn’t she a picture, lad?”
I smile to myself at her calling him lad.
“Aye,” he says, unabashed. “She is.”
I smile bashfully.
“Pleased to meet you,” I say and point to the tray. “I’m Aileen. Your shop’s lovely, and this looks delicious.”
“Oh, go on with ya,” she says, waving a hand but flushing with pleasure. “Now I’ll let you two newlyweds to yer tea. Do come back?” She bustles away to serve more customers.
“She’s a doll,” I tell Cormac.
“Aye. One of the best.”
I notice the people around us watch us with curiosity but keep a safe distance. Caitlin and Maeve have refreshed my memory, and I know now that he’s one of the heads of the McCarthy Clan, an underground crime ring in Ireland. I also know that I came from a similar clan, the Martins. My memories do resurface in bits and pieces, but it’s like a sketch made of chalk. The clearer, more concrete details are blurry. At times only shadows remain.
I lean in and lower my voice. “They know who y’are? What you do?”
His gaze sharpens. “And you do?”
“What do you think I’ve been talking about with Caitlin and your mam? Prams and nursery rhymes?”
He huffs out a laugh. “Aye. Figured as much. It’s just as well. Would rather you know. And the answer is, aye, of course they do. I’ll explain more later. Not here.”
In privacy then.
He hands me a small plate with a scone and a c
up of tea.
Chatter continues, but it seems as if everyone’s more alert. It isn’t lost on me that my husband is a dangerous man. Caitlin explained to me just today that the residents of Ballyhock aren’t ignorant to the ways of The Clan, but because the McCarthy men take good care of their villagers, giving generously to the church and seeing to it that crime is mitigated, they turn a blind eye to their illegal dealings. Some do, anyway.
I can’t believe how good it feels, just being out together like this. “What else is in town?”
“Oh, lots,” he says. “There’s the fishy. The Cheeky Mackerel, a bit down the road, but before you get there, down Main Street we have D’Agostino’s Italian food. Pretty high end stuff, best calamari you’ll ever put between your lips. Homemade bread and tiramisu that’ll melt in your mouth.”
“Mmm. Can we go there sometime?”
He smiles. “Absolutely.”
“Today?”
He wags a finger at me. “Now you’re pushin’ it, eh?”
“You like that I like to eat so much,” I say. “But it might not be so good for the fleshy face.”
He snorts. “Give it a rest, Aileen. Your face is perfect.”
I take a large bite of scone, and thank him around a mouthful. “Why, thank you.”
“There’s the Blimey Pub and Lickety Split Ice Cream Shoppe.”
“Oooh.”
“Crumb’s Bakery, a laundry, and several little clothing shops.”
“And I get to shop in any of them?”
“Aye.”
“Can we go?”
He looks heavenward and releases a labored sigh. “To the shops? Sure.”
“You look as if you’d rather I poke your eyes out with thumbtacks.”
“Something like,” he grimaces.
I giggle around another bite of scone, then wash it done with hot, strong tea. “Not a fan of shopping?”
“You might say that.” He leans in and whispers in my ear. “But you could make it up to me tonight.”
I grin. “I could. I’ll think on it.”
He growls, but just then the door to the shop opens. Cormac stills. His eyes have gone from jovial to murderous in the space of a second, so quickly my heart skips a crazy beat.
“McCarthy.”