Of Blood and Honey (Fey and the Fallen) (8 page)

No. Don’t. Please stop.

The color in Patrick’s face drained away. Mr. Gallagher’s eyes grew round with horror. Liam didn’t know for sure what it was they saw, but he knew that look. He had seen it in the Kesh often enough, and now understood it had followed him his whole life. It explained why he had not been able to get work no matter how hard he’d tried—why Sister Margaret had been so insistent that he repeat his prayers exactly. It had nothing to do with his missing Protestant father. Something wasn’t right in him, and everyone sensed it.

There’s a devil in that boy,
Sister Margaret had once said to his mother.

And it was getting worse.

Mary Kate’s voice came from behind him, loud and clear. “I’ll marry you, William Ronan Monroe Kelly,” she said, using his full name as if she wanted all present certain of who she meant. Then she squeezed him tighter. “Never wanted anything more in my whole life.”

The black hulking thing pressing for freedom shrank as the meaning of her words sank in. Liam stood a bit taller and let out a shaky breath. “I’m sorry. This wasn’t how I wanted it. Was going to get work first and then a ring.”

“It doesn’t matter,” she said.

“And just how do you think you’ll live?” Patrick Kelly asked.

Mary Kate circled around Liam and tucked herself under his arm. “I’ve a job.”

His step father made a disapproving sound in the back of his throat. “You’d expect your husband to live off you?”

“Worked well enough for you. How long was it last?” Liam asked. “Two years? Three? And to be sure it wasn’t the only time.”

“That’s different!” Patrick Kelly seemed to have forgotten his fear. “Your mother and I didn’t start our lives as beggars!”

“Is that so? Then why is it we lived off Granny for all those years?” Liam asked.

“Don’t you drag out the family troubles in front of—”

“I’m sure I’ve not said anything Mr. Gallagher doesn’t know already. Him and the whole of Derry.”

“You fucking wee bastard,” Patrick Kelly said. Moving closer until his nose was perhaps an inch from Liam’s chin, he then cocked back a fist.

Some things never change,
Liam thought. “That’s right. I’m not your son,” Liam said, turning his face toward the threat. He didn’t blink. He knew he was a goner if he showed any sign of backing down. “This is between Mr. Gallagher, me, Mary Kate and my mother. As of this moment, you’re out of it.”

The sleet quit blustering and got serious, smacking the pavement with everything it had. Freezing rainwater poured over Liam; the only warmth in the world was Mary Kate at his side. She was all that mattered. Patrick Kelly didn’t twitch. Fist held high, his rounded face was bunched so tight that a vein in his temple pulsed.

The tingling sensation was back.
Let it go,
Liam thought.
It would be so easy. No more sanctimonious speeches about a man’s duty to his family. No more begrudging every mouthful of food. Dead easy. You know it. You’ve done it before.

No. I didn’t,
he argued with himself.
It wasn’t me.

A big man at six feet two and sixteen stone, Patrick Kelly had once intimidated him, but Liam had learned a great deal in the Kesh, and one of those lessons had been that when a man was afraid of you, you used it to your advantage. If you didn’t, you’d end up on the wrong side of a shed getting the shite pounded out of you.

Unease shifted behind Patrick Kelly’s eyes.

“I said leave.” Liam stared down that doubt until his stepfather looked away.

“That’s it,” Patrick Kelly said. “Don’t you expect another damned thing from me.”

His stepfather turned and stormed down the street, seeming to take the black thing in Liam’s head with him. Liam released the breath he was holding and prayed the rest would sort itself out.

Once Patrick Kelly was gone, Mr. Gallagher spoke in a quiet voice. “Mary Kate, there’s never been any stopping you.” He sighed. “If you want to marry, your mother and I will consent.”

“Thank you!”

She left Liam’s side, and hugged her father. Liam felt the lack at once. Watching them together, he made up his mind. “Mr. Gallagher, sir?”

“Yes?”

“I wish to wait,” Liam said.

“What?” Mary Kate asked. “After all this?”

“We have to. I don’t want to ruin everything. It has to be right,” Liam told Mary Kate. “For you.”

Mr. Gallagher stared at him, and Liam felt himself being measured. Afraid the black thing would be worked into the equation, Liam looked away.

“I love her, sir,” Liam said. “I do mean to marry her. I don’t think I could live without her. Not after—” He stopped himself before he said anything he would regret and shrugged. “I’ll do my best. For her. I swear. Everything I can. More. Give me a year. To find work. I’ll leave if I have to. Head down south. She’ll be safe.”

“Leave Derry? Are you mad?” Mary Kate asked.

“Mad enough to marry you,” Liam said, shivering with cold.

One corner of Mr. Gallagher’s mouth turned up. “Welcome to the family, son.” He held out his hand.

Liam took it. “Thank you, sir.”

He swore to meet Mary Kate only while chaperoned until they married. And with that, Liam walked home, teeth rattling in his head and soaked through, only to find his mother standing at the front door, crying. A large laundry bag rested at her feet.

“Why did you do it?” she asked, holding out his coat.

He took it from her and put it on, thankful of the warmth. “I love her, Ma.”

“Not that,” she said, whispering so her voice didn’t carry down the hallway to Mrs. Foyle’s. “Always knew there’d come a day. Mind, I’d much rather you’d waited. What were you thinking? What if the girl is pregnant?”

“We’ll marry sooner, I suppose.”

“Simple as that, is it? You’ll learn, my lad. You’ll learn. And you’ll stand by that girl too. You’ll not have to worry about her brothers or her father. Oh, no. I’ll break both your legs myself. No son of mine runs out on—”

She would too.
He smiled. “Don’t worry, Ma.”

“She’s a good girl, Mary Kate. She’ll see you don’t get into too much trouble.” She put a hand to his cheek and looked down at the bag. “No. It’s your father. Why did you have to press him?”

“He’s not my father.”

Her eyes flashed up at him.

Might as well,
he thought.
I’m out anyway.
“If he was a Protestant, I don’t care. Surely, I can have his name at least? Munroe is all I have.”

“I’ll not answer that question. Not now. Not here. Don’t ask it.”

“Who are you protecting?”

“You,” she said, closing her eyes with a deep breath. “I want you to go to your Gran’s for a while. I called her. She’s expecting you.”

“No.”

“Just until your—until matters settle. You won’t have to stay long. A few days. I’ll talk to him. In the meantime, you’re to go to confession tonight, or I’ll hear of it. I spoke to Father Murray at the church. You’ve until six.” His mother picked up the sack. “Look at you. Why did you have to go off without even a coat? You’ll catch cold.”

“I won’t.” Resigned to his fate, he took the laundry bag from her. Sadness welled up inside of him. He had only just gotten home.

“I’ll see you tomorrow. At your Gran’s.” She hugged him. Her hair smelled of lavender as it always did. “I love you.”

“Love you too, Ma.”

She clung to him like he was going to vanish. “You’re a good boy. You’ve always been so—no matter what anyone says.” She whispered in his ear. “Packed your birthday present. Don’t you go opening it until tomorrow.” She let him go with a sniff and fled, slamming the door shut behind her.

Liam didn’t move until his vision stopped blurring, then he headed for St. Brendan’s. Before he did, he paid a visit to Patrick Kelly’s car.

In for a penny. In for a pound,
he thought.

“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned,” Liam began, “It’s been three months since my last confession.”

“More like six,” Father Murray said. “But who’s counting? Well, outside of your mother.”

“Got that impression did you?”

On the other side of the shadowy screen Father Murray shook his head. “I’m thinking I’ll need a strong cup of tea for this one. You too. Come on. Mrs. Finney will have left the parochial house by now. We can talk in private.”

“Thought I was here for confession?”

“Tell you what—you still feel like confessing afterward we can always come back.”

When Liam met Father Murray outside the confessional, the priest glanced at the laundry bag. “Tsk. It’s that bad, is it?”

“She’s sending me to Gran’s for a few days.”

“Ah. I see.” Father Murray leaned closer. “In that case, we’ll have the whiskey. You’ll have need of it before you face the old witch. Of course, don’t tell anyone I said so.”

Father Murray was one of the new ones, from a seminary in Dublin. His short hair was dark brown, and he wore a close-trimmed beard and black horn-rimmed glasses. Liam followed him out of the church, uncertain.

“Your mother says you’re seventeen now.”

“Tomorrow. Yes.”

Father Murray gave him a long look. “Happy Birthday.” In his soft Dublin accent it sounded like an apology.

“Right. Thanks.”

They reached the parochial house, and Father Murray let him inside, heading for the kitchen. Liam suspected his stepfather’s entire flat could fit inside the front room. It smelled of furniture polish and antiques. Dark wood paneling gleamed in the afternoon light, and a green carpet runner muffled the sounds of their feet.

“Father Denton is at the civil rights meeting. Won’t be back for a few hours yet.” Father Murray opened a cabinet and brought out two bar glasses. “You had your supper?”

“No, Father.”

Father Murray paused. “Strong drink on an empty stomach is not a good idea. Mrs. Finney made stew. Care to join me?”

Liam nodded. He had been unable to eat. In the Kesh, all he could think about was Mary Kate and food. Now that he was finally out, it seemed he could only manage to eat a few bites at each meal. “Thank you, Father.”

They settled at the kitchen table with two steaming bowls of lamb stew and half a loaf of fresh bread. Father Murray prayed over it and then dug in. Liam picked up his spoon and checked the contents of the bowl for things that didn’t belong.

“Is something wrong?”

“No, Father.” Liam forced himself to put a spoonful in his mouth. It tasted lovely, but once swallowed it sank in his stomach like a paving stone.

“You were in Long Kesh.”

Liam set the spoon back down, and held up his head but kept his eyes to the table. His throat closed shut.

“Sixteen is a bit young for that.”

Listening to his heart pound in his ears, Liam waited.

“You don’t have to say anything if you’d rather not, but you can if you’d like.”

The table was scarred from years of use. Liam studied the polished swirling patterns of the wooden surface. Three of them together formed a face. It was screaming.

“I’ve a brother on the
Maidstone
, did you know?”

The prison ship
, Liam thought. Shaking his head, he swallowed. He felt hollow except for that one mouthful of stew which gathered more weight until it anchored him to the chair.

“Marion Francis volunteered for the IRA when he was eighteen. Stayed with the Officials after the split. We’re different, he and I. I don’t believe violence solves problems. It creates them. But that doesn’t mean I don’t have sympathy for the cause.”

“Didn’t.” Suddenly, Liam couldn’t breathe. The memory of a boot on his back was overpowering.

Father Murray stared. “Didn’t what?”

“Wanted to see Mary Kate. Was two o’clock. Saturday.” Liam had to speak in short clips because he couldn’t force it out any other way. He shut his eyes so he didn’t have to see Father Murray’s expression. “Aggro Corner. Didn’t.”

“Ah.” Liam heard him whisper. “I thought not.”

Liam focused on breathing in short shallow fits.

“So they put you away for being on the wrong street at the wrong time,” Father Murray said. “That’s hard.”

Liam hadn’t expected to be believed. He was certain his own mother thought he was lying.

Father Murray’s chair scooted across the hardwood floor. Liam heard footsteps. The clink of crystal. A heavy glass thumped on the table in front of him, and the rich scent of whiskey burned his nose.

“To hell with it. We’ll eat later,” Father Murray said.

“Aren’t you going to say God only gives us as much trouble as we can handle?”

“Do you want me to?” Father Murray asked. “Liam, there are some things in this world the Lord God doesn’t have a fuck lot to do with. You ask me, that was one of them.”

Liam’s eyes snapped open. He had never heard a priest swear before. Mrs. Foyle had said the new curate had disturbingly modern ways, but then Mrs. Foyle didn’t exactly keep up with current events. She—along with most of St. Brendan’s—preferred to hear Mass in Latin and still ate fish on Fridays even though it’d been six years since Vatican II.A young priest with a degree in psychology had no chance at all of being accepted.

Father Murray said, “Surely we can arrange a stay of execution, it being your birthday. I’ll call your mother. You can sleep here tonight.”

Liam looked up.

“That’s a Tyrconnell, man. Drink up.” Father Murray drank from his own glass with his eyes closed and then sighed. “God bless Aunt Catherine. The Lord never made a more thoughtful woman.” One brown eye opened, and he smiled. “I can see you’ve a bit to learn about whiskey. You don’t like it, you can count it as part of your penance.”

Uncertain, Liam picked up his glass. He’d had a pint or two in the pub with supper and had sampled whatever swill the prisoners brewed in the Kesh—enough to wish he hadn’t the next day, but he’d never drank with a priest before. He took a sip. The whiskey tasted of oak and molten gold. It burned the inside of his nose and heated his belly, thawing the icy knot there in a flash. He wasn’t certain if he liked it or not.

Father Murray nodded. “All right, then. One more to take the sting out, and then we’ll talk.” He poured another round and then capped the bottle.