Of Blood and Honey (Fey and the Fallen) (32 page)

“It wasn’t your fault,” Father Murray said.

The pan slammed down on the stove and warm soup splashed onto his arm.
Another mess for Elizabeth to clean up.
“I don’t wish to talk about it.” He looked for a towel.

“All right,” Father Murray said. “Let’s talk about a constable slaughtered in his home the night Mary Kate died. Let’s talk about the man’s wife telling the RUC she saw a great black dog tear apart her husband before her very eyes.”

Liam found what he sought and began wiping up the stove.

Father Murray entered the kitchen and whispered, “I know, Liam. The man’s gun had been fired. We found you with a matching gunshot wound a few blocks away. We wouldn’t have looked near the Falls Road but for Oran. He knew you’d go into the Shankill looking for revenge. And he was right, wasn’t he?”

Automatically placing a hand on the stove’s iron grill, Liam discovered its surface was still hot but not enough to burn—at least not in the way expected. A low-grade ache froze his skin. The tingling didn’t recede but at least it got no worse.

“Why? After all you’ve done to stay out of trouble—why would you resort to revenge? Would it have made Mary Kate happy, you think?”

The beast in the back of Liam’s head roared at the mention of Mary Kate, taking the agony in his head to new levels. “Don’t you talk about her!” He slammed his other hand down upon the stove top to stem the rush of emotion and pain.

“I covered for you. Blamed it upon another. One of the Fallen. They won’t be coming for you. Not now. And you damned well know who. But do it again, and I don’t know I can stop them. You can’t do anything like that ever again. Promise me.”

“Go, Father. Now.” Liam shuddered against the weight of all he was holding back. One of the iron rings came off the top of the stove, and he blinked before he realized it was designed to do so, and that he hadn’t broken it. “Get out. Please. For fuck’s sake. Before I do something else I’ll regret.”

Father Murray went out the door and turned in the hallway. His expression was filled with worry. “What are you going to do?”

The monster will have its way. And when we’re done there’ll be an end to it at last,
Liam thought. He slammed the door in Father Murray’s face without giving him an answer, dropped the iron ring on the floor and then ran to the washroom to be sick.

Oran, Elizabeth and the kids were eating their dinner when the telephone rang. Elizabeth exchanged polite greetings and inquiries with the other end of the line before she paused next to the sofa with a worried look.

“It’s no trouble at all. Thank you, Mrs. Kelly. And the same to you,” she said. “Liam, it’s your Ma. Calling from Derry.” She held out the phone receiver.

He shook his head.

“She’s waiting to speak to you,” Elizabeth said.

He rolled away from her to face the back of the sofa. The blow on his shoulder came as a shock. Rubbing the pain out, he looked up and saw Oran.

“Take the call,” Oran said.

With some effort, Liam dragged himself from the sofa. He accepted both phone and receiver from Oran and then staggered barefoot to the washroom, stretching the cord as far as it would go. Then Liam looped the cord under the door. It wasn’t quite long enough and left him sitting on the cold tiles with his bare back resting against the closed door for privacy—not the most comfortable position, but it would do.

“Liam? Are you there?” His mother’s voice was filled with concern.

It didn’t do much to stave off his resentment. “Aye.”

“Father Murray says—”

“Don’t want to hear it, Ma.”

“And why not?”

“Because the fuck talked Mary Kate into murdering our child. That’s why!” On the other side of the door, Liam heard a door slam. Elizabeth must have taken the weans for a walk to circumvent yet another dubious expansion of their burgeoning vocabularies. It was just as well.

“I don’t understand. What—”

“Father Murray convinced Mary Kate to have an abortion when she became pregnant a month after we were married.”

His mother gasped. “That’s impossible.”

“It is possible. Very fucking possible. When you consider Father Murray thought the babe would grow into a monster.”

“You’re not making any sense,” she said.

“It’s clean, I am,” Liam said. “Will no one fucking believe me?”

“Watch your language, young man. I’ll not listen to—”

“Why is it you never told me about my real Da?”

The question was met with shocked silence from the other end of the phone. Liam would’ve thought she’d rung off but for the sound of her breathing.

“Answer me, Ma. Why?”

“I told you. On your seventeenth birthday!”

“A photo stuck into a book is not telling me! It’s avoiding the subject! Same as you have my whole life, Ma! Did it never occur to you that I should know what it is that I am? That having such a father might affect me in some way? That Father Murray might use that as an excuse to kill our child—Mary Kate’s and mine?” Sweat felt slick on his skin and the rapid beat of his heart urged the pain in his temples into higher levels.

There was a muffled conversation on the other end of the phone. He assumed she was at his Gran’s house—the only person with a phone who could afford a lengthy call to Belfast. She must’ve asked for privacy because a familiar disgruntled sound preceded a slamming door. After a few moments his mother spoke into the receiver at a whisper. “You seemed perfectly normal to me.”

“Normal? I’m normal, am I?” His stomach twisted into a queasy knot. “Are you sure about that?”

She sighed.

“Tell me, Ma. Please.”

She paused, and her hesitation only served to make him angrier. He spoke through clenched teeth. “I’ve a right to know the truth.”

“His name is Bran—”

“I know that already. Bran Monroe—”

“The family name—Monroe. That, she made up. A lie. Your grandmother insisted. She told everyone that your father was in the British Navy. That he and I had run off together because the Church wouldn’t marry us. And that your father died before you were born. Drowned, it was. That I’d come crawling back after. I was too young to fight her. The lie was the only way she’d allow me to keep you. The only way I could bring you into the house. Otherwise, they would’ve forced me to give you up. For adoption. I couldn’t. I’m so sorry.”

Liam swallowed the lump forming at the back of his throat. It was quite a lot to process all at once.
So. It’d all been a lie.
Nonetheless, it wasn’t the whole of the truth, and he wanted all of it. He wouldn’t settle for anything less this time. “Father Murray seems to think my Da is—” He closed his eyes and forced the question out past the pain in his head and the itching chill in his bones. It was the only way he’d know for sure. “He seems to think my real Da is some sort of… demon. Is it true, Ma?” The words sounded mad echoing off the practical reality of white washroom walls. The chill seeped through the seat of his jeans. He gritted his teeth to keep them from chattering and berated himself for not bringing a blanket from the couch but—

“Father Murray means well, but... no. Your father is not a fallen angel or a demon,” she said, her voice gaining a measure of confidence. “He’s Fey.”

“He’s mad?”

“No. At least I don’t think so. He’s one of the Fianna.”

“What?”

“You heard me. He’s a Fey warrior. He can change forms, so he can.”

Liam felt suddenly dizzy as if someone had yanked a rug from beneath him.

“He can become an eagle or a horse. Many things. I’ve seen it. He’s a púca. Like in the stories,” she said.

The wolfhound at the Kesh,
he thought.
Was it him?
“I’m—I’m Fey. Not mad. Fey.”

“You’re my son. You’re human. No matter what they say.”

“I’m not human, Ma.”

“You are—”

“No, Ma. Listen to me. I’m like my father. Do you hear? Like the—like the stories Aunt Sheila used to tell. Shite. That’s why she told me those stories, isn’t it? She knew, didn’t she? Gran knew. Father Murray knew. Did everyone know but me?”

“Don’t do this to yourself—”

I could’ve saved her, my Mary Kate, if I’d but known.
The knowledge of it slammed into his gut and threatened to force up the soup he’d consumed earlier. His own mother had lied to him.

She sniffed. The sound of it carried over the phone line. “You’re my son. Nothing else ever mattered.”

I could’ve saved her,
he thought as the phone dropped from his hand.

“Liam? Liam? Please listen to me! I only ever meant to protect you!”

“That’s all
I
ever wanted. To protect my family. You didn’t tell me what I should’ve known. I could’ve saved her, Ma. Had I but known. I could’ve saved them both.”

He let her tinny voice rattle off excuses at empty air until he gathered enough energy to slap at the phone and ring off. He’d had enough.

“Well,” Oran said, “What do you think?”

It had been two days since Father Murray’s visit, and Liam felt more focused than he had in a long time. His mother had attempted to speak to him several times over the past forty-eight hours, but he’d refused. There were no complications now—nothing holding him back. He knew what he had to do, and he would do it. Nothing else mattered. No longer lost, he had purpose. He stared at the blue Escort and frowned. “What do I think? It’s an RS2000. That’s what I think.”

Oran said, “It’s newer. It’s better.”

“I drive 1600s. I know 1600s. I know how they work. I know what to expect out of them. How hard I can push them. How much they can take. I don’t drive 2000s.”

Oran sighed. “Well, you’ll drive this 2000 because that’s what we’ve got. Would you rather drive your cab? It’s what the others resort to, you know.”

“Why didn’t you let me get the car?”

“Because you’re in no shape for it, that’s why.” Oran slammed the hood shut. “What the fuck’s the matter with you?”

Liam paced the littered yard behind Bobby’s mechanic shop, his work boots crunching gravel and old cigarette butts. The place smelled of discarded oil. He threw himself down on the old car seat the staff used for a sofa. It let out a whiff of mildewed vinyl. He picked up a small stone and threw it at the chain-link fence. The sky was an angry grey. “It’s going to rain tonight. Pavement will be wet.”

“Isn’t it always?” Oran asked, sitting next to him on the bench seat. It tilted a little and then righted itself. “Won’t have to worry about it for a couple of days yet.”

Liam paused. He suddenly guessed what Oran must be thinking, and he didn’t like it. “I’ll need to take it out.”

“Fair enough,” Oran said. “You should get acquainted.”

“It’s got good tires on it.”

Oran grunted.

“I hear the suspension handles better. I won’t have to make any adjustments.”

“How would you know?” Oran asked. “You been unconscious for at least a month.”

“More like three.”

“Right.”

Getting out a cigarette, Liam then offered one to Oran. Oran accepted and lit the end.

Liam took a deep drag and then settled back, blowing out his nervousness in a small cloud of smoke. “It’s going to be all right, you know.”

“What is?”

“The drive,” Liam said. “You don’t have to worry about me. I’m ready.”

Oran peered at him out of the corner of his eye. “Didn’t say you weren’t.”

Selecting another rock, Liam tossed it at the fence. The metal links let out a ring, the stone bounced off and hit one of the junked-out cars Bobby used for parts.

“You’re not wearing your crucifix,” Oran said.

Liam shrugged.

“Blaming God are we?” Oran asked.

“Doesn’t matter,” Liam said. “I’m bound for Hell anyway.”

“What the fuck are you on about?”

Sirens echoed off the buildings, and it wasn’t until the shouts came from the front of the shop that Liam understood what was happening. He jumped to his feet and dragged Oran up with him.

“The fence. Come on,” Liam said.

“But Bobby—”

“He’s up front. Peelers have nicked him already.”

Liam ran and jumped, grabbing the links and pulling himself up. The fence shuddered with Oran’s weight, and Liam almost lost his grip. He reached the top, dropped down the other side and landed on his feet. Although constables were jogging up one end of the alley, he could easily outrun them. Oran might have trouble, but it was possible.

“Stop right there, you Fenian bastards!”

A scent drifting down the alley brought Liam up short—a scent that dredged up memories of a stairwell in December, of three masked men wearing constable’s shoes. Liam stopped and put up his hands.

“What are you doing?” Oran grabbed his arm and tugged.

“Go! I’ll keep them busy,” Liam said.

Oran glanced backward. “We can both make it.”

“I said go!” Liam jerked free.

“I won’t leave you.”

Someone shoved Liam from behind, and he fell and hit his chin on the ground, biting his tongue. Tears sprang into his eyes at the fresh burst of pain. Tasting blood, he was roughly searched. His hands were jerked behind him and the cuffs locked into place. He could hear Oran jabbering about his wife and kids and needing to give them a call. Liam had been taught to keep his mouth shut, but he assumed Oran had his reasons and knew what he was doing. For himself, Liam would follow orders. He’d made enough mistakes, and he wasn’t about to make another.

The constables yanked him up from the ground. Liam turned to see his captors, risking a beating to get a visual to match the scent. He was rewarded with a glimpse of red hair and a narrow nose before he was slammed face-first against the chain-link fence.

Got you,
the monster thought.

“What’s your name?”

The constable on the other side of the table was balding, and his uniform coat fit neatly across broad shoulders. He had introduced himself as Detective Inspector Haddock in a Liverpool accent smothered with London. He stank of stale cigarettes and old beer, and it made Liam want to be sick. He sat on a hard wooden chair, his wrists trapped in cuffs and focused on the steel table in front of him. The detective was playing yet another pointless game with him—one of many Liam had endured over the past seven days. Detective Inspector Haddock knew his name already. The RUC had Liam’s driver’s license along with everything else that’d been in his pockets when they’d arrested him.