Authors: Stina Leicht

And Blue Skies From Pain (18 page)

BOOK: And Blue Skies From Pain

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Leaning closer, Father Stevenson said, “Fine. If we continue on the assumption that the kid isn’t psychotic. And if what you propose is true…” He paused and shrugged. “Then a presence is possible.”

“Right.”

“But here’s where I hope you’re wrong.” Father Stevenson sighed. “Because if there is an entity in the complex that no one but that kid has detected then security isn’t what it should be. If that doesn’t scare you, it sure as shit scares me.”

“The Bishop isn’t going to like this.”

Father Stevenson drank his hot cocoa and grimaced. “Security will like it less.”

“Would you do me a favor?” Father Murray asked. “Don’t mention this conversation to anyone. Not yet.”

“Bishop Avery is expecting an overview of the test results tomorrow afternoon.”

“It’s important that we get our facts straight before security is involved. You know how they’ll react. The agreement will blow apart.”

Father Stevenson sighed. “Okay. You got one more day. I’ll make up some excuse. But you know we’re cutting it awful fine. There are only three days left.”

“Have you ever read a report that indicated a bad smell associated with the Fallen? The only demons that I’ve been able to find such an association with would definitely be incapable of getting past the security measures.”

Father Stevenson shook his head. “Have you smelled something?”

“Not me. No,” Father Murray said. “But Liam has.”

“Do you think it’s associated with whatever it was he saw?”

“I don’t think so,” Father Murray said. “But I’m going to find out.”

Chapter 9

Belfast, County Antrim, Northern Ireland
December 1977

“ T
his is a dream, so it is,” Oran said in his I’m-older-and-wiser voice.

Oh, for fuck’s sake,
Liam thought, rolling his eyes. Admittedly, compared to Oran, Liam hadn’t seen much of the world beyond the confines of Derry and Belfast. Oran had worked on a fishing trawler before marrying Elizabeth and had visited many distant sea ports, if the stories were true. Also, unlike Oran, Liam had had sex with only one woman in his whole life and that one woman was his wife, Mary Kate. According to some people—that is, Oran—that meant he might as well be a virgin on top of everything else. “Oh, aye?” Liam asked. “So, you’re wanting to talk that solipsism shite, then?”

It was summer. The evening was nice and warm, and they were sitting on the steps outside the apartment building near the car park, having a few pints and a smoke before it was time to go home for dinner. Across the street, four British soldiers had three lads up against a wall and were patting down the poor bastards while a small crowd looked on.

“Solip-what?”

“Solipsism,” Liam said, keeping his tone casual. He got out his cigarettes and offered one to Oran before continuing. “A philosophical theory based on the concept that nothing but the self exists.” Tossing out words Oran didn’t know was Liam’s way of evening the score.

“Where the fuck did you hear a shite word like that?”

“Read it in one of Mary Kate’s textbooks last week,” Liam said, lighting a cigarette and blowing out the smoke in one big, warm cloud. It was hard not to smile and ruin the effect.

Mary Kate hadn’t come home from University yet, but he wasn’t expecting her to show for another hour. He could feel the grease under his nails and the grit in his hair from lying on the ground. He’d changed the oil and had spent a couple hours tinkering with the taxi’s engine. Oran was a professional mechanic, and he was present for company, moral support, and if Liam was perfectly honest, insurance against his freshman efforts banjaxing the engine.

Oran’s face went red. “I’m fucking serious, you bog idiot.”

Liam blinked. It usually took three or four attempts at winding Oran up to get a response.

“Oh.” Liam took a couple swallows of scrumpy and waited for Oran to get to the point. Oran being Oran, that could take a while.

“There’s no time for this,” Oran said, throwing his empty at a pile of rubbish that had collected on the edge of the car park. He missed, and the bottle shattered in a spray of broken glass on the pavement a foot short. He got up. “Fuck you.”

“Don’t go.”

Oran’s brows pressed together in an angry line. “Will you listen? Or are you for playing games?”

“I’m listening.” Liam wondered if it was something to do with the next bank job. Oran tended to get twitchy when a new one was in the works. Liam was usually the last in the unit to know. Of course, they had to give him enough notice to start shopping for a likely car. If a new job was being planned, it meant it was time to tour the Loyalist areas again. He wondered how long he’d have to lift the car? He’d need to replace the spark plugs and tires—

“This is a dream, mate,” Oran said. “A dream.”

—and make the necessary adjustments to the alignment. “I hear you.”

“No, you don’t.” Oran sighed. “Look. We’re not outside your flat, planning a job. This isn’t the summer of 1976. It’s more than a year later. You’re in hospital being studied like a rat in a cage. I’m dead. You shot me. This is a dream.”

A bad feeling solidified in Liam’s gut and twisted. “Don’t say shite like that. I’d die before I’d do for you! And you know it!” Liam’s throat ached. Such a thing wasn’t fucking possible, but the knot in his insides hinted at an unwanted truth and if he wasn’t careful it’d ruin a perfectly pleasant afternoon. Maybe it already had.

Oran bent enough to lay a gentle hand on his shoulder. Now that his face was closer Liam noticed a small pale and round dent on Oran’s forehead just above his right eyebrow.

That wasn’t there before.

“Listen, mate,” Oran said. “It’s all right. I’m your friend. I always will be. Nothing will change that. Nothing. You did me a good turn. No matter how much it hurt for you to do it. I owe you.”

Why would Oran think I’d do for him? Why would he even say a thing like that?
“I didn’t—”

“You did what I asked of you. And you kept my name clean in Elizabeth’s eyes. So I’m here to help. And here I’ll stay. You’re not alone. Understand?”

Liam blinked. Oran wasn’t making any sense at all.

“Something bad is about to happen. And it’s very important that I give you an understanding of things before you wake up.”

It’s the monster in you,
Liam thought.
That’s why he thinks I’ve done for him. He fucking sees it. That fucking creature. They all do. But I wouldn’t let—

“Shut your fucking gob!”

Liam hadn’t understood that he’d been slabbering out loud until Oran’s punch landed. Liam felt the dull smack in his jaw, and his head rocked back far enough to hit the cinderblock wall behind him.

“Shite! Why the fuck do you have to make it so fucking difficult to help you?” Oran shook out his fist and moved his fingers to make certain his knuckles were sound. “You’re going to wake, and you’ll remember. I want you to remember. It’s important.”

Liam stared up at Oran, not believing.

“You must find Mary Kate. You need her. And she needs you. Be careful. You can’t go and scare her. She’ll rabbit off. And she’ll not find her way to you again. If that happens, you’re both fucked. Do you hear?”

“Aye.”

“And never you mind that fuck, Haddock.”

“Wait. Haddock?”

“Listen to me.” Oran blew air out of his cheeks. “He’s not as powerful as he wants you to think. Fucking bent Peeler. He has limits, so he does. You watch for them. You’ll see. Can only go at you for so long. Takes too much energy over there. Are you listening?”

“I am.”

“One more thing,” Oran said. “That priest may be keeping you from shifting for now, but you’re not helpless. You have other resources, you know. Use what you have. Think. I know you have it in you. There’ll come a time when you’ll need to, and soon. Understand?”

“What the fuck are you on about?” Liam asked.

“Just do as I say. Don’t be such a stubborn idiot. Think before you act. And don’t you dare kill yourself, you hear?”

“What?”

“I know you want to. The fucking drugs,” Oran said, glaring. “I know it fucking hurts, mate. You don’t want to feel anymore. I understand. But that’s a coward’s way, and I know you’re no coward.”

Liam looked away and ran his fingers through his hair. His face was hot, but his chest was cold. He didn’t know Oran could see so much.
Must be obvious to everyone.
“Don’t know what you mean.”

“You do. I know you do. I saw. What the fuck were you thinking? That wee bastard with the spots might have killed you.”

“He didn’t.”

“There’s things you must face,
mo chara.
Otherwise, that fucking monster in your head will have you,” Oran said. “And you’ll not find Mary Kate. You’ll be fucked, and there’ll be no saving you. Do you hear? You have to find her before it does.”

“Before what does? The monster?”

Oran shook his head and turned, starting his way home.

“Wait!” Liam stood up, but the scrumpy had more of a kick than he’d anticipated. He was drunk and dizzy and had to put a hand against the wall to keep from falling. “I don’t understand! Don’t go!”

Oran shouted from across the car park. “You’re a smart lad even if you are mule stubborn. So I told Éamon, and so it is. You’ll figure it out. Solipsism. Fuck. The cheek on you.” He snorted. “Well, I’m off. I should look in on Elizabeth and the little ones. Wee Brian is too clever for his own good. Making mischief most likely. Gets it from his ma.” Oran winked.

Liam discovered he was paralyzed. Worse, he couldn’t breathe. He forced air through his throat to call Oran back, but all that came out was a hiss. He tried again and again until his voice cracked through the invisible barrier, and he screamed. “Oran!”

He woke with tears on his face and a painful lump in his throat.
Christ, why the fuck did I have to be the one to live? Why me and not you?

You’re nothing but a junkie.
Elizabeth’s last words to him echoed up from the past. The wee red light near the ceiling glowered at him in the half-light, reminding Liam of where he was.
Fucking cameras.
He took in a slow breath. Wiping his face with the inside of his shirt sleeve, he coughed and then took a slow breath to bury the grief down deep where it belonged—where the cameras couldn’t record it.

Find Mary Kate,
he thought.
Before it finds her. What the fuck did Oran mean by that?
Liam didn’t care what happened to himself when it came down to it, but Mary Kate was another matter.

When did I last check on Oran’s family? Shite. Three weeks? A month? I promised to look after them. What if they need something? What if the weans are in trouble?
He cursed himself for wallowing in his grief. He had responsibilities.
No time for this shite.

Get out of here. Have to get out of here. I must.

If he were above ground, he’d grab his trainers and go for a run to Oran’s for a quick check on Elizabeth and the weans, but he couldn’t, not yet. Suddenly the walls pressed in and then all at once his chest seized up, and he couldn’t move or breathe due to a mind-stunning pain in the middle of his back. It spread to his ribs. His muscles felt like they were knotting on their own, twisting, shredding, ripping themselves from his bones. It wasn’t like the shape-shifting. That was about reconfiguring and changing. This was about destruction. Panic set in. He was going to suffocate if he didn’t breathe soon. Then the fit passed as quickly as it’d come. It left behind a tingling sensation along the backs of his arms not entirely because of the cold.

Gingerly, he sat up and swung his legs over the side of the bed. The room was freezing.

That isn’t good. Should tell Father Murray about that.

What if he tells the fucking Inquisitor? I’m fucked.
Looking up at the cameras, Liam wondered why no one had come to look in on him when clearly he’d had some sort of attack.
Bastards.
He checked the time. It was three o’clock in the morning. He needed to run so bad he could almost taste it. How many tons of dirt, steel, concrete, and stone weighed above his head?
The roof.
There was the track on the roof. His ribs ached with the specter of distant pain—an unwelcome visitor who could return at any moment.
Can’t think about that. Stop it. Now.

He heard a thump from the other room and paused, listening. When it wasn’t repeated he convinced himself it was nothing. Getting out of bed, he decided on a cup of tea.

Thump. Thump. Shuffle.

Rushing across the room, he grabbed the door handle. The door didn’t budge.

Locked. It’s locked. Father Murray locked me in. Why?
Terror surged through his system.

BOOK: And Blue Skies From Pain

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