Read And Blue Skies From Pain Online
Authors: Stina Leicht
And Blue Skies From Pain (38 page)
Bran stared at him for a couple of heartbeats. Liam attempted not to care.
“That’s a lie. You do want something from me,” Bran said. It was spoken less an accusation and more as a statement of dull fact.
Bran’s display of patience only irritated Liam more. An urge to rip and claw at something—
anything
—took hold. “It doesn’t matter! It’s too fucking late!” Liam winced at the sharp flare of fresh pain inside his skull.
Bad idea, the shouting.
anything
—took hold. “It doesn’t matter! It’s too fucking late!” Liam winced at the sharp flare of fresh pain inside his skull.
Bad idea, the shouting.
Sitting down, Bran said, “That too is a lie, I’m thinking.” He took another drink. “Tell me something.”
Liam stared into the empty hearth so he wouldn’t have to look at Bran. The monster skulking in the back of Liam’s head didn’t comment. With one exception, the creature had been strangely silent since Lochlann and the copper bowl. Liam hadn’t given much thought as to why, but in many ways it was a relief to feel its presence and yet not be plagued by its constant muttering.
“Why is it the harder I try to be a father to you, the harder you try to drive me out?” Bran asked.
Liam decided he didn’t want to know the answer—not that he’d have told Bran at this point anyway. All Liam wanted was blessed numbness.
Quiet.
He was tired of caring, tired of struggling with the guilt, tired of the memories and the nightmares, above all tired of the fucking pain. Something had to make it stop, or he’d go mad.
Not an option, mate.
As much as he wanted an end to it, the idea of causing more destruction was far worse. “You’re fucking immortal. Don’t you have other sons whose lives you can make a mess of?”
Quiet.
He was tired of caring, tired of struggling with the guilt, tired of the memories and the nightmares, above all tired of the fucking pain. Something had to make it stop, or he’d go mad.
Not an option, mate.
As much as he wanted an end to it, the idea of causing more destruction was far worse. “You’re fucking immortal. Don’t you have other sons whose lives you can make a mess of?”
At that moment Liam saw something he never expected to see—a flash of deep regret and grief in Bran’s face. Liam was sorry at once.
“The truth?” Bran set the scrumpy bottle down in front of Liam with a thump. The remaining alcohol inside sloshed. “I’d appreciate it if you kept this information to yourself. There’s your mother’s feelings to consider. Aye? I’ve never told her this,” he said. “There were others. And I cared for every one of them. Maybe not as much as my Kathleen… your mother. I was young and foolish once. And made young and foolish mistakes. But no matter. I did love them.” He paused. “As for sons, they’re dead. Every one. Daughters too for that matter. None lived to bear children of their own. Even the ones that weren’t half-mortal.” He took a deep breath and released it. “You are the only child of mine that lives.”
“What happened to them?” The question was out before Liam could stop it.
“Four died the final death in the wars, those that lived long enough to be of age. Two were murdered before they could walk. Most died by their own hand. Ten in all,” Bran said, the pain evident in his eyes. “Then there was Daimhín. I had to—I had to end it for him. He’d—” He choked, got up and then walked to the far window. Keeping his back to the room, Bran didn’t say anymore.
Liam didn’t need to hear. He knew enough. Shuddering, he attempted to absorb the news.
Is that sixteen? Or ten total?
His heart thudded in his ears.
Does it matter? All the others are dead.
He resisted an urge to grab the bottle and down the last of it.
I’m the last.
The knowledge didn’t put a stop to the hurt and grief, but it did force him to think of something else. “I’m… so sorry.”
Is that sixteen? Or ten total?
His heart thudded in his ears.
Does it matter? All the others are dead.
He resisted an urge to grab the bottle and down the last of it.
I’m the last.
The knowledge didn’t put a stop to the hurt and grief, but it did force him to think of something else. “I’m… so sorry.”
“For what?”
“For shouting. It wasn’t… it isn’t… fair.” Liam tried to think of anything he could say that was worth saying.
I didn’t know.
The urge to rend and tear, the rage, was gone. Again, he thought of Daimhín and wanted to be sick.
Is that how it starts?
I didn’t know.
The urge to rend and tear, the rage, was gone. Again, he thought of Daimhín and wanted to be sick.
Is that how it starts?
Bran shrugged. “Apology accepted.”
“It wasn’t you.” Liam hesitated, then forcing himself past his trepidation he said, “This wasn’t about anything you did. It was Mary Kate. I saw her again.”
“Ah.”
“I didn’t know what to do. So, I—I came here.” Liam prepared himself for a fresh bollocksing.
Bran was silent for a moment. “I understand.”
“You do?” Liam blinked.
Another long pause stretched between the two of them. “Her name was Úna,” Bran said, turning to face him. “And I’d save you from that pain if I could, but I understand why I can’t. Some things must be learned on your own. I know.” He combed his fingers through his hair. “Sometimes I think that’s the hardest part of being a father, knowing when to let your children make their own way. It’s even harder to do when you know the odds.”
Outside, a cold wind blasted through Clonard and shoved its way through the broken windows. Crows called warnings to one another. Liam shivered.
“I owe you an apology too, it seems,” Bran said.
The ache in Liam’s brain had dwindled into a dull hurt, but his stomach still twisted in nauseating knots.
Most died by their own hand.
Most died by their own hand.
That’ll be me, if it comes to it. I’ll not make Bran do it for me. They’ll not lock me away either. I won’t let them.
“Your friend, the priest, is free from the hospital. He wishes to meet with you. It’s why I came looking for you. What shall I tell him?”
I’ll not be like Daimhín.
Liam swallowed again, feeling colder now than he had in his whole life. “I’ll meet him today.”
Liam swallowed again, feeling colder now than he had in his whole life. “I’ll meet him today.”
“You’ll have to get cleaned up first. When was the last time you ate?”
“I don’t much remember. Yesterday morning?”
“I’ll have Angus scrounge up something for you.”
The mere mention of Angus brought up images of the ridiculous wig. From the sound of it, that was one of Angus’s lighter practical jokes. “Forget it. I’m not hungry.”
“You have to eat.”
“Aye. Well, I don’t suppose the Fey have a magical cure for vicious hangovers, do you?”
“We do,” Bran said. One corner of his mouth twitched. “But I don’t think you’ll care for it much.”
“What is it?”
“You stand there,” Bran said, pointing to the floor in front of him. “And I punch you in the balls.”
“How is that supposed to help?”
“You’ll certainly forget the hangover.”
“Fuck that.”
“Only trying to help, my son.” Bran assumed the guise of ultimate fatherly wisdom.
“After centuries of drinking, you’d think you lot would come up with a better solution.”
Due to a series of bomb scares, the buses weren’t running, which, given that Bran was gone, left Liam with no practical alternative than to risk a black taxi. Having been a taxi man in West Belfast, he knew the likelihood of the driver having certain political connections was high—depending upon the taxi association of which the driver was a member. Unfortunately, the number of taxi associations which accepted Catholics as members or even passengers was not vast. Still, it’d been almost two years since he’d last been a taxi man. There were sure to be new drivers, drivers who wouldn’t know him, not as he was now. In any case, even if Séamus and his boys did find him, all Liam need do was refuse again. It was a legitimate answer. He’d thought about it as requested, but his answer was still no. He’d done his bit. No more need be discussed.
Then why is it I feel otherwise?
Liam thought.
What is it about Séamus that has me jumping at shadows?
He couldn’t think of a logical reason. So it was that he walked to the Falls Road and found a spot to wait until a taxi man signaled there was enough room for more passengers.
Liam thought.
What is it about Séamus that has me jumping at shadows?
He couldn’t think of a logical reason. So it was that he walked to the Falls Road and found a spot to wait until a taxi man signaled there was enough room for more passengers.
The Black Hack pulled up to the curb, and Liam climbed into the back, giving the driver’s face a quick glance before doing so.
Don’t recognise him. That’s good. Aye?
He gave an address one block from his actual destination and settled onto the seat next to a woman holding a baby. There were four other passengers—four possible destinations. As these things were handled, the original passenger had determined the direction the taxi was headed, which was downtown. The others might need dropping off in between. It was likely he’d be the last. So, Liam rested his eyes and allowed the lively conversation about Christmas dinners, family visits and other holiday plans wash over him without comment.
Don’t recognise him. That’s good. Aye?
He gave an address one block from his actual destination and settled onto the seat next to a woman holding a baby. There were four other passengers—four possible destinations. As these things were handled, the original passenger had determined the direction the taxi was headed, which was downtown. The others might need dropping off in between. It was likely he’d be the last. So, Liam rested his eyes and allowed the lively conversation about Christmas dinners, family visits and other holiday plans wash over him without comment.
At Bran’s insistence, he’d eaten a bit of bread and cheese and drank some water. The hangover had receded enough to make the trip comfortable. He’d been in better shape, of course, but he’d do. After the second drop off and pick up, he helped the woman with the baby get her things out of the taxi. When he climbed back inside he caught the driver staring at him in the rearview mirror with a puzzled expression.
Shite. That’s it. It’s fucked, I am. For fuck’s sake, don’t let him see you’re nervous. One more stop. That’s all. You’ll be fine.
Oh, stop it. All you need do is say no, and it’s done. Aye?
Liam tried to tell himself it wouldn’t matter what the driver reported, regardless. He’d be long gone before the news reached Séamus and his boys. Sweat oozed down Liam’s back underneath Conor’s leather jacket.
Driver won’t do anything. He can’t. You’re fine. He pulls over to give the Boys a ring, leg it. Don’t fucking matter where.
Driver won’t do anything. He can’t. You’re fine. He pulls over to give the Boys a ring, leg it. Don’t fucking matter where.
As it turned out, Liam’s stop was the third. He exited the black taxi on Great Victoria Street and strolled up to a sweet shop with his hands in his pockets. Hunched against the wind and the snow, he attempted to hide his face with the jacket’s collar, but it was pointless. The driver had made him. That was clear when the taxi man stopped at a newsagent’s a block or so up the street and got out. Pretending to look at a holiday display in a shop window, Liam watched the taxi man check the street.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
Liam entered the busy sweet shop, and then immediately turned to gaze out the window. Then he took off Conor’s jacket. He turned it inside out and bunched it up under his arm. It was snowing, and he’d be cold, but it might buy him some time. Once the driver was out of sight, Liam threw open the shop’s door and ran. A couple hundred feet away a cardboard Elvis stood in the walk, pointing toward the entrance to a tiny, narrow record shop. Liam didn’t know how he managed to sprint the distance without slipping in the ice and snow, but he did. Glancing once over his shoulder one last time, he bolted inside the instant he thought it safe. The bell on the door jangled. Teeth rattling in his head, Liam pulled the jacket back on. The clerk behind the counter paused in his work and gave Liam a suspicious look. When he didn’t appear to be there to steal or throw anything, the clerk went back to sorting records. Breathing heavy from panic and exertion, Liam took in great lungfuls of the shop’s air. He could have sworn he smelled old beer, cigarettes, and the ghost of marijuana spliffs past.
Liam entered the busy sweet shop, and then immediately turned to gaze out the window. Then he took off Conor’s jacket. He turned it inside out and bunched it up under his arm. It was snowing, and he’d be cold, but it might buy him some time. Once the driver was out of sight, Liam threw open the shop’s door and ran. A couple hundred feet away a cardboard Elvis stood in the walk, pointing toward the entrance to a tiny, narrow record shop. Liam didn’t know how he managed to sprint the distance without slipping in the ice and snow, but he did. Glancing once over his shoulder one last time, he bolted inside the instant he thought it safe. The bell on the door jangled. Teeth rattling in his head, Liam pulled the jacket back on. The clerk behind the counter paused in his work and gave Liam a suspicious look. When he didn’t appear to be there to steal or throw anything, the clerk went back to sorting records. Breathing heavy from panic and exertion, Liam took in great lungfuls of the shop’s air. He could have sworn he smelled old beer, cigarettes, and the ghost of marijuana spliffs past.
Prod part of town, aye?
He spied Father Murray at the back of the shop, flipping through the record albums with a perplexed look on his face. His right arm was still in a plaster cast, but he looked far better than he had in hospital. His skin was a healthy pink, and he appeared to be rested. He had a brown paper-wrapped package tucked under his arm. It was easy to see it was a record by the flat, rectangular shape.
Turning, Father Murray asked, “Did you run the whole way here?”
“Not exactly.” Liam blew into his hands, scanned the shop and counted the exits.
“You look half frozen. Let’s get something warm. I know a place.”
Liam went to the window and again checked the street. The black taxi which had been parked at the newsagents was gone.
“Is something the matter?” Father Murray whispered.
“Everything’s fucking rosy. Isn’t it always? How far away is this place with the warm tea, Father?”
Father Murray blinked. “The café is a couple of blocks south.”
Will there be time to get there and off the street before Séamus or his boys come looking?
Liam sighed.
Better now than later, I suppose.
“Let’s go, then.” He opened the shop’s door and followed Father Murray out of the record shop and onto the street.
Liam sighed.
Better now than later, I suppose.
“Let’s go, then.” He opened the shop’s door and followed Father Murray out of the record shop and onto the street.
“How are you feeling?” Father Murray asked.
“Bit hung over, is all.”
“You look terrible.”
“Thanks,” Liam said.
“Have you been eating?”
Liam shrugged. “Why is it whenever anyone sees me they fucking ask if I’ve been eating?”
Father Murray gazed up at him. “Do you have to ask?”
Looking down at himself, Liam noticed that Conor’s jacket was hanging on him a wee bit, the white undershirt was baggy, and his blue jeans were looser than usual.
“Well?”
“It’s a wee hangover. Nothing more dire than that.”
“And why were you drinking?”
Liam paused. “What’s with the interrogation, Father?”
“Bran said—”
“I’ll be twenty-three next month. How old do I have to be before you’ll stop treating me like a wean?”
A hurt expression passed over Father Murray’s face. “I’ve only your best interests in mind.”
“I know, Father. I’m sorry.” Liam sighed. He seemed to be apologizing a lot lately.
As it turned out, the word café was a bit upscale for the place. Liam would’ve called it a chip shop. It smelled of grease, coffee and stale cigarette smoke. Its usual clientele, Uni students, were noticeably absent—it being the Christmas holiday. Two customers occupied a booth to the far right, and there was only one waitress on duty by the look of things. She was plump, had long red hair, attractive eyes, freckles, and couldn’t have been more than nineteen. Father Murray selected a table at the back. Liam settled into a position against the wall with a good view of the entrance. The nineteen-year-old waitress brought over the menus, and Liam found himself counting and memorizing the exits while Father Murray ordered.
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