The Troubles (17 page)

     ‘’Na, not bleach just this.’’ She picks up a white plastic container with intimidating cross bones on the side. “It’s from me work.  It’ll do the job.’’ The harsh chemical, cleaning agent container weighs heavily upon her petite wrist and as though in slow motion, I can foresee the accident that proceeds to follow. I lunge foreword as she spills the bubbling white solution onto her right pant leg.

     “Shite. Cop on, ya daft lass. What have ya done?’’ I yell perhaps too aggressively because this time when she fragilely looks up at me a well of tears threaten to spill. “Oh Kiera!” I conceded with exasperation. “Where’s the loo?’’ She gingerly points down the aged wood skirted hallway trying not to animate the turbulent liquid that had now blistered through her pant leg material and is exposing scarlet skin that is clearly seared. “We’ve got to get yer pants off!’’ Those gray eyes flash stormy wild with perplexity. “Not much choice me sham, the poison will just continue to eat at ya.’’

      The vicious pain of an acid burn is now burrowing into her secondary layer of skin tissue and she concedes quickly. “Aye, get these bloody pants off of me.’’ And in one fail swoop I grasp the pants unzipping the metal zipper and as though I am pulling off a Band-Aid, yank the material off of her delicate hip bones exposing white undergarments with the threading now adhered to the skin of a milky white thigh. Wincing empathically, I wrench the remainder of the pestilent poison from the girl’s overtly fragile and broken skin.     “Agghhh shite that bloody smarts!’’ With a quake of agony she grasps my shoulder and I am now waist height with my face cast aside, as this girl in need of care, is undressed. The modesty she had expressed but moments previous has been replaced by the insight of survival. Picking her up into my arms, I momentarily note her slight weight. This will not do as I mentally note that she needed to eat more.

      “Ya were acting the maggot, Kiera,” I murmur both chiding and scolding the poor girl.

     “I’ve just been so bate since Ma and Da…’’ she replies trying to explain her asinine injury away.  Ya must think me a real tool.’’ Tears continue their free fall from her wide almond shaped eyes as I run cool water onto a cloth.

     “Is this clean?’’

    She tilts her head up and avoiding eye contact determines whether or not the material should come in contact with her raw flesh, regarding it must be bacteria free, she replies, “Aye, I believe I just laundered it along with everything else in this house.’’ She grimaces as I squeeze the cloth over the injured area of her upper thigh.

   “Be still lass. I haven’t touched ya yet.” My words gather a layered, somewhat suggestive tone to them and she jerks away, mortified by my unintentional, flirtatious inflection. Droplets of sweat bead over the small cupid’s bow of her heart shaped lips and with agitation her cheeks gleam rosy yet she stoically and silently grits her teeth. So silent is the young lady, I can barely hear a breath, but I can see her chest heaving imperceptibly, therefore, I continue my medical undertaking with speed and assuredly nimble fingers.   

   “Done. Now breathe Kiera.” I smile, proud of my handy work, her wound disinfected and now bandaged appropriately.

    “Thanks a great deal, Alastar.” She exhales her relief as the searing pain is now dissipating and as we stand, her face in line with my neck, warm, moist, mint scented breath migrates to my nostrils.

    “I’ll get ya somethin’ to wear. Where’s yer bedroom?’’ The bathroom size now feels truly claustrophobic as she once more looks aghast at my directness.

   “Umm, well upstairs, first door on the right.” Having resolved her unease with mature swiftness Kiera’s voice is demure and I am struck by her social grace.

     Her bedroom sits ajar above an empty staircase. In the vacancy of the enclosed ambiance, I can sense with psychic alertness the quality the space takes when devoid of life. This is one experience I have yet to encounter in my family home, although I am facing the intuition of desertedness more and more. There is a depth of loneliness that takes my breath away as I make my way into what could have been a child’s room. All of Kiera’s affirming belongings have been stripped, forming a barren haven, aside from a humble dresser and single bed. I do not wish to intrude further into her private dominion nor disturb the mournful atmosphere, thus I fumble through my task speedily, and precisely remind myself this is an invasion of the barely adolescent young lady’s privacy.

     ‘’That’ll be fine, Alastar. Yer a sound fella.’’ There is a lucent pool of gray that is surrounded by incoming waves of teal blue, composing the eye that gazes up at me with her grateful smile so innocent and youthful my heart lurches into my stomach. The comfortable repose that might have existed has dissipated as quickly as the succor between us has been forged. Nervous tension alerts me again to the indecency of the station our newly forged friendship has appeared to take on.

   ’’O.K. Kiera. I’ll be on me way now.’’ Without so much as a handshake, I can feel myself decomposing into a frenzy of unrequited intent, therefore unceremoniously; I bolt for the back door.

CHAPTER 30: Is fearr rith maith na drochsheasamh (He who runs away, lives to fight another day)

   Kiera Flanagan…I am in a cold shock. The devouring chemical which has been permanently branded upon a peach haired thigh could not be as veracious as my ravenousness for the man who has just deserted me while lying on stark linoleum floor naked, cold and longing for more. I unsteadily pull my pants up gingerly over my wound and make my way out of my bathroom door to see a shadow behind me.  Whirling with a wild panic I shout,’’ Get the hell out of me damn house!’’ My clenched white knuckled fist connects with a cinder block solid chest. I feel something grab my wrist in defense and I hear a man’s surprised voice.

     ’’Kiera, it’s me Alastar. Don’t worry please.’’

     I gaze upward, suddenly furious and humiliated. “What the hell are ya up to Alastar? Either ya are with me or ya are not. Don’t ever do that again.’’ I take my fist from his grasp and spin away from the bewildered man I have left in my wake of fury. “Not these days anyway.  Ya never know what fenian scum will find their way in through a sham’s backdoor!’’ Still frazzled and shaky from the fear his relatively innocent action has evoked in me, I declare adamantly, “I have to get out of the city!’’

     “I’m so sorry, Kiera. I perhaps overstepped a line and didn’t wish to insult yer character.’’  His gleaming incandescent eyes bore into me and I suspect that he does not wish to surpass an insinuated line he has clearly drawn and I blush. He moves even closer to me, his warm body radiating heat in the icy dampness my house carries like all Belfast dwellings now do. The blush grows past my cheeks and I feel an electric glow ignited with a passionate flutter in my stomach. Am I feeling the butterflies my Mother said would alert me to my soul mate?

  “Ma, how’d ya know Da was the one?” I had asked her one Valentine’s Day when I had come home from elementary school in frustrated tears questioning why I did not exhibit the same foolhardy crushes like Ena had on one our neighbors.

    “Darling, I felt it. That’s how I knew.’’

     ‘’Ya felt what, Ma?’’

    ‘’It’s like a lamp, me daughter, which glows from within. Ya feel the shine of love when ya are together and when ya are apart ya feel as though every ounce of ya is blackening. This me fairest of daughters…’’

     ’’I’m yer only child.’’ Whilst devotedly devouring her philosophy on proper courtship I had chided her. She had brushed her work worn fingers across my cheek. “I promise that yer heart will notify yer mind and there will be nothin’ that can be done to defy it.’’

   ‘‘Penny for your thoughts.’’ Large black pupils pull at me like a black hole’s invasive suction. Alastar has a penetrating definition to his social graces, easily surpassing any unease and shyness, which usually impedes the progress of relationships. His disarmingly honest conduct has easily stripped me of modest timorousness and I smile broadly at the man who is mimicking brooding with a playful twinkle in his eye.

    “Aye, have ya got a penny for me? Or is it I who should be givin’ ya a wage?’’

     ‘’To be brutally honest, ya can pay me with a proper date, none of this hard labor shite.’’

     Gleaming, white teeth charm me as I playfully respond. “So, Alastar Taggart… Takin’ care of me is hard work then?’’

    ‘’Aye, Kiera Flanagan.  Ya are a bit of a fine mess.’’ I giggle and lightheartedly sock his broad shoulder, which is still sheathed by a khaki military jacket. He pulls me close to his chest with lightning fast reflexes and breathes into my ear, “Don’t be starting games, me dear, ya are not ready to play.’’ The affectionate moment is ours alone and the cocoon that has cloaked itself as our shield is serene and soothing and I find myself against moral judgment, wishing to stay in this embrace.

    “Where would ya like to take me?’’ My words are muffled into his chest. Lifting both hands with a tenderness I have not felt since my mother’s gentle touch, Alastar clasps his large hands firmly on both of my cheeks.

    “There is a very special yew tree I’d like to introduce ya to.’’

     ’’Another day Alastar. I’ve got so much to do and I don’t have time for fanciful fun.’’  My pragmatism is breaking the spell that Alastar has not so masterfully woven, seemingly, melding us into a web of halcyon tranquility. The intrusive, nauseating thought of my parent’s death has been trailing me like a vicious predator waiting for weakening to finalize its kill. Since my legitimate inauguration to Alastar Taggart, having put a human being to the face of the visibly self-reproachful boy I had seen weeks earlier, broken and deadly all in one hurricane. A soldier wearing the sins of Judas to disguise the honest shepherd inside with the utter convictions of John the Baptist. He has now put me at ease.  Perhaps it has been the mutual loss of our most trusted support systems on this earthly plane that has so effectively and without omission broken down my distrust.

     ‘‘So it’s Wednesday today. ‘Bout Friday, love?’’ His voice caresses the sentiment, as I shiver, missing my Mother more than anyone else in this world.  “Are ya all right, Kiera? Was it something I said?’’  Warm, messy tears drip down to my chin as I am too tired to remain hygienic in company on this day which has been filled with so many firsts that I need time to process all I have let myself experience.

     “Na I’m not good.  We are not. Why in this entire world would God punish ya and me so veraciously? What have we done to deserve this fruitless plague?’’ My earnestness surprises the jovial and flirtatious man before me and as his eyes darken with grief, I feel guilty for inciting his pain when he has finally attained a moment of peace and was present with hope for his future for. His eyes have told me so!

     Daylight comes like a luminescent mirror as the morning dawns early at 6:45 and I awake from sleep’s cover. Alastar left late into the  dusk of evening while our conversation flowed like the whiskey in my flask. His eyes had darted to it with every swig I took and I noted the disapproval whilst reveling in a little rebellion; I will not be a woman controlled.

     My temples seem to be internally combusting and my tongue aches for a non-alcoholic beverage. I am sitting in a warm, soapy bath and reach forward over my naked limbs to the faucet allowing it to run as I drink hungrily from the icy water which flows from Belfast water works. My thigh is now hissing mad with pain and frenzied rushes of penetrating heat and stinging on the skin’s surface as nerves flinch. I move my limbs slowly through the soap bubbles, which have cropped the surface of the antique bathtub and masochistically enjoy the pain, knowing the soapy solution is cleansing the wound.  All I can think of is Alastar Taggart as he over powered and carried me like a rag doll to the bathroom, but I must be delirious to think of such an obscure thought while a bloody, huge wound stares ferociously up at me. My God, what have I done to myself?

     I am still dripping with cold water and am exhilarated by the persistent reliving of the complicated interaction with the man who but days earlier remained elusive, when a shrill scream pierces the silence of my home. If I were to describe the sound of a woman’s plea, it was of such abject terror, that in normal, peaceful circumstances one could not fathom such agony. I frantically rushed to the window facing the street in Mother and Father’s bedroom and pushed my dripping nose against a cloaked, gray glass. I squinted and barely made out a human form in obvious distress. I try to open the window but the freeze of the evening’s frost had sealed it shut. My energy wanes as I pull up with all my might, my face flushing with exertion. I can see the woman as she is running closer.  There is a frantic nature to her speedy gait and one of her arms is pointed before her as if denoting an invisible presence, the other is clasped over her mouth barely suffocating her now fatigued, pitiful moans. Her face is streaked with a thick black substance I can only determine to be soot. Her hair has white ashes enveloping each strand to give the illusion that she might be elderly. ‘’Kiera!’’ I must be hallucinating as I have yet to hear my name declared with such force and equally, sorrow. Why has she called me by name? Looking once again I have yet to establish the identity of the corpselike figure that is in a mad rush down the cobbled street. I grab the quilt from my parent’s bed and wrap it around my trembling body. My wound is throbbing its painful broadcast as I unsteadily make way down the staircase, through my foyer and with a courageous breath I open the front door. A gale of  icy wind catches my damp hair and as I wipe the impediment of tears from cold, from my vision, I am stunned by the figure climbing my stairs. It is Ena! Her body covered in death!