And Blue Skies From Pain (26 page)

Authors: Stina Leicht

BOOK: And Blue Skies From Pain

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“No one knows I’m here.” Her American accent also served to set her apart. “I don’t think Sister Catherine would approve. This is cool, though. Fun.”

“I’ll never tell,” Conor said, moving on. He didn’t stop again until he entered what was obviously the kitchen.

A flood of smells invaded Liam’s senses—cigarette smoke, perfume, incense, alcohol and something else that gave him pause. The scent was very familiar. At the same time, it didn’t belong, at least not in this setting. He closed his eyes and concentrated. Punk music vibrated the wooden floor under his feet. Someone pressed their body up against his back, and he had to clamp down on an urge to rip them apart.

Calm yourself, mate.
He took a deep breath and again focused on the smell. The guitar from “Pretty Vacant” by the Sex Pistols filtered through the rumble of party conversation.
Soap,
he thought.
It’s soap.
He was instantly slammed with a powerful sense of hope and grief. Someone touched his arm. He jerked away before he could stop himself.

“Ronan? Are you all right, mate?” Conor asked.

Liam blinked, not understanding.

“Ronan?”

Right. He means me.
“Yes?”

“Here,” Conor said, handing him a can of beer. Liam’s hand automatically accepted it before he could object. Conor opened his own can with a pop and a hiss. Then he held it up by way of a toast. “Your health.”

Liam glanced at the can in his hand before tapping it against Conor’s, unopened. He hadn’t drunk any of the stuff since before Long Kesh. The thought of doing so now made his stomach do a queasy flip.

“What’s the matter?” Conor asked. His questioning expression held an edge of concern.

“I—well… I can’t,” Liam said.

“You don’t drink?”

“It’s not that. I—”

A short Uni kid with red hair and freckles pushed past. “Con! You made it, mate! Thought you had other plans? What was her name? Angie?”

“She turned me down. Her parents, you know?” Conor shrugged, as if that explained everything.

“Is it because… well… you know… because you’re from the other side of the wall?” the ginger kid asked.

“She said it wasn’t that,” Conor said. “It’s because I’m studying art.”

Ginger snorted. “Ah, well. Her ma has a point. Aren’t you lot famous for starving? Told you to change to engineering. Like me. Much more impressive. Speaking of which, do you still have Angie’s telephone number?”

“Fuck you,” Conor said, shaking his head. “John, this here is Ronan.”

John said, “Nice to meet you, Ronan.”

Someone else pressed against his back, and once more Liam tensed up. The room seemed to be getting smaller—so much so, that he checked for the exit.

“He’s a jumpy one,” John said.

Fuck you, you fucking wanker,
Liam thought.

John looked startled and then a bit frightened. Whatever it was that John saw, Conor seemed to have missed it.

Watch yourself, now. The monster may be buried, but it isn’t dead.

“Relax, mate,” Conor said. “John didn’t mean anything by it.”

“Sorry.” Liam shrugged. “I’m—I’m not much for tight spaces.” He switched the unopened beer to his other hand. “Good to meet you.”

John shook, but his grip was weak, and he seemed in a hurry to end physical contact. He stayed focused on something down and to the right of Liam’s shoulder which only called more attention to the fact that his smile didn’t reach his eyes. “Well… I’d better look in on Terry. He said he was bringing in more beer.” John left.

“Wonder what his problem is?” Conor asked.

Liam shrugged again, disgusted with himself.

“Come on,” Conor said. “Let’s introduce you to Daft Kevin.”

Conor headed for the door, and Liam gave the beer to a lad who couldn’t have been more than sixteen. The kid grinned up at him in thanks and then went back to chatting up the much older, taller, and quite shapely girl with long black hair leaning against the kitchen wall. Liam pretended not to see her deep brown eyes sparkle in interest as he turned away.

How long has it been?
He felt himself stiffen inside his jeans.

Don’t even fucking think about it.

Why not? One wee ride. What’s the harm? What do you want to bet she’s up for it?

What the fuck is the matter with you? You’re not a Uni student on a lark.

He forced himself to follow Conor’s jacket once again into the crowd but was distracted by a glimpse of light brown wavy hair done up in a style vaguely reminiscent of Bridget Bardot.
Mary Kate?
He looked again and then the specter was gone.

“Ronan!”

Liam turned.

“Don’t they have pretty Uni girls where you come from?” Conor asked and winked. “Kevin is over there.” He motioned toward a group consisting of pretty Uni girls sitting clustered around the record player. A boy of about nineteen or twenty sat in the middle of them.

Liam moved closer.

“Kevin,” Conor said. “This here is Ronan.”

Kevin stood up. He had dirty blond hair, squinty eyes and a square chin. Lipstick smears marked the side of his face. He didn’t say a word, just nodded in Liam’s direction by way of a greeting. Liam’s first instinct was to punch him. Swallowing the burst of rage, he said hello instead. Kevin nodded again, over-compensated and then tumbled backward into the squealing girls who proceeded to fuss over Kevin’s imagined injures.

“Come on,” Conor said. “You’ve met the host. Let’s go outside. You look like you could use a breather.”

Once outside, Conor sat on the edge of the short brick wall framing the back porch. The temperature had dropped a few degrees in the past hour. It was still snowing, but that didn’t seem to make a difference to the couples necking on the children’s swings. Liam found himself avoiding looking at their faces. Feeling unbalanced and odd, he didn’t want to risk seeing Mary Kate among them. He wasn’t sure what he’d do if he did. Liam turned his back on the back garden as a strange and powerful sensation—one part ordinary and one part alien—settled on him. On the surface, he had much in common with those around him, the music, their age, the clothes, even the attitude in some respects. At the same time, judging by their faces, most hadn’t lived through the things he had. He didn’t resent their good fortune, quite the opposite. More than anything, he wished he could be one of them. He’d seen enough hardship and loss to last him. Hope and enthusiasm for the future came off them in waves. He could almost smell it.

He perched next to Conor on the wall and did his best to ignore the sounds from the back garden. Falling snow muffled the darkness, giving it an isolated feel. Conor offered him a cigarette. Liam took it and retrieved his lighter from his pocket. He handed it to Conor, who studied the small rectangle of steel for a moment before using it. Conor returned it when finished, and Liam lit his cigarette, snapping the lighter shut with a flip of the wrist. He filled his lungs with smoke before blowing it out in one long breath. Gazing in at the party-goers crammed into the kitchen, he flinched each time he sensed a familiar face.
Was that Oran? No. Mary Kate, again? No.
Haddock was sure to appear. It was only a matter of time. Liam wrapped his hand around the steel warmth in his pocket and prayed for some peace. At least he could breathe, and the dizzy confusion of past and present dissipated a bit.

“Better?” Conor asked.

Liam nodded.

“You’re not political?” Conor asked.

Liam shook his head.
Not any more, mate.

“Mind telling me why it is you’re carrying a lighter with a tricolor painted on it?”

Looking away, Liam tried to focus on the loud music pressing against the kitchen window. Unfortunately, that brought up images of the girl with the deep brown gaze and shining black hair. He shut his eyes and let Mary Kate’s memory surface instead. Chaos crept back inside his skull, turning his stomach. “The lighter isn’t mine.”

“Oh?”

“It’s—I mean, it was… my wife’s.”

“You’re married?”

“Not anymore.”

“She left you?”

“She’s dead. It was my fault.”

“Oh.”

Liam took another long drag, swallowed nausea-coated rage and stared at the cement. “Was political once. I’m not now. I’m done with it.”

Conor said, “How—”

“I don’t want to talk about it. All right?” The words came out in a snarl.

Conor blinked.

Liam sighed. “I’m sorry.”
You’re fucking losing it.
He ran his fingers through his hair. “I shouldn’t have come here.” The glowing tip of the cigarette trembled in the dark.

“That’s why you’re in Belfast.” Conor’s words were stained with sympathy.

Liam slammed his burning eyes closed again. He was afraid to move lest he dislodge the mass of roiling emotions spinning in his brain. His left hand gripped the red bricks beneath him while he fought for some shred of control. Rough brick edges cut into his skin. The pain was real. It was something solid he could hold on to, and he squeezed harder, willing the confusion away.
What the fuck’s the matter with me? Why now?
He was glad he couldn’t see Conor’s face.

“You needn’t say anything more. I’ll not tell the others,” Conor said. There was another long pause. The Ramones stopped playing, and then The Damned went for a go round on the turntable. “It’s good you came tonight.”

Liam held on, praying the army of tears would stop building force under his eyelids.

“Stay here,” Conor said. “I’ll be right back.”

Liam let him go without comment. He heard the kitchen door open and close—the party’s roar rose and fell with the swinging door. He opened his eyes and cooling paths of grief traced lines down his cheeks. His gaze happened to drift to the kitchen window. The pretty girl with the deep brown eyes and wavy black hair stared back at him. He felt his face grow hot. Wiping his face with the back of his arm, he sniffed and looked up again. She was still there, staring. He couldn’t shake the feeling that she could see right through him and down into the dark where the monster lay sleeping. It was then that he noticed something was a bit off about her too. Although her eyes were so brown as to be black, they gave off a silvery sheen when she moved her head. It was like moonlight glittering on the surface of a black pond. He blinked and the effect was gone, taking the strange feeling with it. She winked at him as if they shared a secret—one corner of her full mouth curling into a crooked smile.

He shivered and turned away.
Seeing things. First Conor. Now her.
Finishing his cigarette, he stubbed it out with a vengeance in a potted plant full of cigarette butts. When he returned to his spot on the porch and dared to look into the window again, she’d gone. He considered going inside to search for her, but he couldn’t think of what he’d say to her if he did. Caught between his curiosity, embarrassment, and if he were honest, no small amount of lust, he decided it was best to stay where he was. It didn’t matter that Mary Kate had been dead for a year—
No. Two years. She’ll be two years gone in a week. Christmas eve, mate. How could you fucking forget?
Any thought of another woman had felt like betrayal for so long—it still did.
You need one another.
Oran’s dream words echoed up from the darkness.
Fucking hold it together, will you?

Conor returned and then handed him a short glass, uncorked a bottle of whiskey and poured.

“Why are you doing this?” Liam asked, giving Conor a look. “You don’t know me.”

Conor poured a short for himself and set the bottle on the concrete next to the wall. “I know enough.” He tapped his glass against Liam’s and then emptied it in one go. “It’s hard to turn your back on that lot. Once you’re in. You’re in. I should know. I lost my brother. Neil.”

Liam stared.

“Hurry up,” Conor said. “You need to get a bit of that down you.”

“Why?”

“Don’t argue. Just do it already, will you?”

Liam decided to take Conor’s unspoken apology and swallowed the whiskey. It was smooth, sweet, and tasted of molten sunshine with an edge of chocolate. He felt it melt the sour ball of lead in his belly. The tension in his shoulders loosened. He kept his eyes to the ground or Conor’s face just the same. Conor poured another round.

“That’s very good,” Liam said.

“It should be,” Conor said. “Took it out of Kevin’s father’s liquor cabinet.”

“Is that not going to be a problem later?”

“Kevin doesn’t mind. And like as not his father won’t even notice.”

“Is that so?”

“Doesn’t drink a drop,” Conor said.

“Then why have it?”

Conor shrugged. “Dinner parties.”