Of Blood and Honey (Fey and the Fallen) (36 page)

“Sit down, Mrs.,” a man’s voice said. “No harm will come to you and the little ones.”

Blind, Liam was dragged out of Oran’s flat. The door to a van thundered open, and he was thrown inside. He flipped over onto his back to sit up, and something big and heavy landed on top of him, hitting him in the groin.

“Fuck!”

“Sorry,” Oran said, rolling off him.

When Liam could breathe again he could make out the scents of three others in the back of the van besides himself and Oran. All gave off nervous energy. In pain, Liam had already lost track of which direction they were headed.

“What’s going on?” Oran asked.

“Shut up.”

A series of thumps and shouts followed, which Liam assumed was Oran receiving a violent kicking.

Right then,
Liam thought.
Not a sound.

Oran let out a moan and everything got quiet again. The men settled back into their places once more. Liam closed his eyes and attempted to conserve his wits and energy for whatever was to come. The van drove for quite a long time. Exhausted and with little else to do but worry, he let the hum of the engine lull him into a light doze.

He came to when the van’s door rolled open. It was daylight, he could tell by the weak light the coarse weave of the black bag permitted. They were in the country far from the city. He could hear birds. Chickens. A cow lowing.
A farm, then?
It was difficult to smell much beyond the inside of the bag on his head. Once more he was half-dragged from the van. Rough hands grabbed him—one pair at each of his arms—and walked him across grass. He tripped over an obstacle and then stumbled across wooden planks. A door slammed, and he was pushed to the floor. His arms ached and his wrists were burning with cold. He needed to piss.

“Stay there, if you know what’s good for you.”

Liam nodded.

“You’ve been quiet. That’s good. You might live,” a second, deeper voice said. The sound of its mild approval was gravelly and coated with phlegm. The stink of old cigarettes was heavy in the air.

A heavy smoker,
thought Liam.
Not a Peeler. Peeler would’ve thrown his weight around already. Definitely not Haddock and his boys. Not the Church. They wouldn’t have taken Oran too, would they? Loyalists then. UVF or UDA—Ulster Defence Association. But what if they’re ours? The Officials or Provos?

Oh, Christ. Don’t let it be something I’ve done.

Someone in the next room screamed.

“Oran?”

“Shut up!”

Liam was punched in the face. He ducked his head in anticipation of more blows. Nothing happened. But Oran continued to howl in pain. His voice climbed to ever higher, more desperate pitches. Liam thought he’d go mad. He tried to give himself to the monster, but the monster wouldn’t come. His wrists ached. The cold in them bone-deep now.
The cuffs,
he thought.
Steel is part iron. Is it the steel, then?

Just when he was sure he couldn’t take any more, the screams stopped. Oran was sobbing now. Nothing else for a few minutes. A clicking. A pop. Somewhere flame roared to life. Liam knew that sound and shuddered.

A blowtorch.

Again the screams.

“What do you want from us?” Liam asked. “Who are you?”

“I said, shut your gob and wait your turn!”

This time he was kicked five or six times before they let up. Anything was better than listening to Oran being tortured. It went on like that for hours. Oran’s cries. The beatings when Liam couldn’t stand hearing anymore. He waited for them to ask him questions, but they never did. Whatever it was they wanted they kept at Oran. Liam lost track of time. He needed to use the toilet something terrible. When he said as much one cuff was undone and the bottom of the bag on his head was arranged so that he could see to piss into a bucket. Later, he was given water and part of a ham bap. Unsure of how long he’d be held, he ate as much as he could stand and fought to keep it down. They took a break from torturing Oran, and when they didn’t come for him, Liam slept.

Hours later, it was dark. When a match was struck to light a lantern Liam bit back a scream. He needed to piss again but didn’t want to draw attention to himself just yet. Somewhere outside his hood the men ate their dinner. Roasted meat. Chicken, by the smell. His stomach rumbled. Whiskey made the rounds. He heard the slosh of the bottle and caught a whiff of it. Whoever they were, they seemed a solemn bunch, intent on the job but not enjoying it.

That’s something,
Liam thought.
Maybe not UVF or UDA.
Those bastards would be enjoying themselves. It’s what they did. Not this bunch. Not a single Catholic joke or jibe.
The Officials or Provos then. But if they’re Provos, why torture Oran when I’m the one Haddock got to? Why not just top me and go home? Surely Oran keeping me alive when he shouldn’t have doesn’t deserve this kind of punishment?

When dinner was over footsteps approached. Liam’s heart did a slam dance inside his chest.
Is this it? Is it my time now?

“The boys say you’ve been asking after your mate.”

The hood came off his head. He blinked in the lantern light. Ten or eleven men were in the room—a big open kitchen. White lace curtains. Most were sitting around a table. All were dressed in shades of khaki green.
Paramilitaries. But which?
He dropped his gaze to the floor before he spied any faces.

“Let’s go see him.”

Two men brought Liam to his feet and led him into an empty bedroom. It reeked of blood, sweat, piss, shit and the lingering odor of burning flesh. The first thing he saw was Oran blindfolded and slumped in a chair, blood staining his clothes. The second thing was Éamon sitting in the corner next to a propane tank, an ArmaLite rifle in his lap. The sudden jolt of recognition and understanding loosened Liam’s knees.

This is my fault,
he thought.

Ignoring Éamon, Liam went to Oran. They’d used the blowtorch on his fingers one by one. Liam fought to keep from getting sick. He touched Oran’s lower arm—gently so as not to hurt him. The skin was warm. Oran jerked with a moan.

Not dead,
Liam thought.
That’s good. Right?
“Oran? Speak to me, mate.”

“He’s no mate of yours. Nor mine,” Éamon said from his corner of the room. His face constricted with rage. “He talked to the RUC. Worse. Fucking British Intelligence. MI5.”

“No,” Liam said. “He was protecting me. From Detective Haddock. The bastard was after me. It’s because of the drugs. Fucking Haddock would’ve got to me, but Oran said he was going to have him killed. Said he’d call someone.”

“He called someone, all right,” Éamon said. “He called Haddock.”

“He wouldn’t.”

“He did. British Intelligence got to him. Through his family. Through you. Doesn’t matter. Oran gave up the whole operation. You. Me. Níal. The shop,” Éamon said. “We were supposed to think it was you that squealed. Only we’re not that stupid.”

“I didn’t say anything to anyone.”

Éamon stared. “Glad to hear it.” His face was hard and cold. This was an aspect of Éamon that Liam hadn’t seen before, an aspect Éamon reserved for the enemy. “Time to prove it.”

One of the others unlocked Liam’s cuffs. The bone-deep ache that had numbed his fingers was gone in an instant. If there was a doubt in his mind about steel being a problem for the monster it was gone now. A pistol was shoved into his hand. He wrapped stiff fingers around the grip and looked to Éamon.

“Shoot him,” Éamon said. “That’s an order.”

“What?” It was a stupid question, but he vomited it up nonetheless. He went cold and light-headed as all the blood in his body seemed to drop into his feet.

“Think on it as an object lesson,” Éamon said. “Look hard. This is what happens to those that betray the cause. You take the drugs again—just one more time—and what happens to you will make this look like a nice Sunday afternoon chat. Now. Shoot him.”

Liam swallowed. “I can’t.”

“You will, or I’ll have another go at him with the blowtorch and then top you myself.”

Stalling, Liam took a deep breath. “Not here. Outside. I don’t want his last sight to be the inside of this fucking room. And I want to talk to him. Alone.” He felt the monster stir somewhere in the depths of his subconscious.

If Liam didn’t know Éamon he would’ve missed the fear that flashed across his features. “Fine. But I’ll be watching you. One wrong move and you’re done.”

A man wearing a balaclava over his face roused Oran with a bucket of water. He woke, shouting for Elizabeth.

“Oran! It’s me. I’m here,” Liam said.

The man in the balaclava unlocked the cuffs that had been securing Oran to the chair at wrists and ankles.

Oran blinked in confusion. “What’s happening?”

“We’re going outside, mate,” Liam said. “Can you stand?”

“Aye.” Oran got to his feet. He was unsteady but could walk with a little help.

It was cold and dark outside, but the moon was still full and bright in the sky. The house was far enough from Belfast that Liam could see the stars. They were beautiful, more beautiful and brighter than he remembered seeing before. A forest pressed in against the stone fences. He’d been right. They were on a farm—probably somewhere along the border. It made sense. All the screaming and gunfire in the world wouldn’t bring the Peelers out here—well, not right away. The trees and grass and the hedges were brilliant with moonlight. Somewhere roses bloomed. He could smell them. It was peaceful. Fitting. Suddenly, he was glad he’d asked them to let him take Oran outside. He stopped when they reached a rock where Oran could sit comfortably and then waved the others off. True to his word, Éamon waited a short distance away, ArmaLite rifle at the ready. Liam wondered if he’d gone so far as to load it with silver bullets and then he took off Oran’s blindfold.

“Thanks.” The word was mushy in Oran’s mouth.

Liam realized they’d been at his teeth and shuddered. “Want a smoke?”

Oran looked up. His eyes were glistening with tears. He knew what was up. Liam could see it in his face.

“Sure.” He nodded.

Patting his pockets, Liam discovered he’d left his cigarettes and lighter at the flat. He called out to Éamon and the others and in short order he had two cigarettes and a lighter. He waited until Éamon had left.
At least Éamon is being decent about it,
Liam thought.
In consideration for time served.
He stopped himself from laughing like a madman.

Oran couldn’t use his hands. So, Liam had to light the cigarette and put it in his mouth for him. Liam handled the cigarette for Oran when it was obvious he needed the help. They took a few puffs in silence, both preparing themselves for the horrors ahead. Liam understood he couldn’t flinch. Wouldn’t. It would make things worse for Oran, and Oran had been through enough. He’d be quick about it when Oran was ready. One shot. Painless as he could make it. No fuss. Done. Fuck Éamon. He’d take an hour at it if he had to.

“Everyone breaks.”

“Oh, Oran.” Liam’s vision went blurry, and he looked away.

“Told you. Doesn’t matter. They’ll find something. Just a matter of time. Fucking Peelers. Everyone breaks. You… you have to hold out as long as you can and hope they quit before you do.”

“Who was it done this to you? Who got to you?”

“I’m glad it’s you,” Oran said. “And not him.” He nodded in Éamon’s direction. “Something’s not right about him.”

“What do you mean?”

“Knew everything,” Oran said. “I called him when you went out walking. They didn’t have to… to….”

“Christ,” Liam said, feeling his insides turn to water. “Are you sure?”

“Dead certain. He’s in with Haddock. He doesn’t know I know, or we wouldn’t be talking, I’m thinking. Would’ve told the others but they’re probably in it too. Watch yourself.”

“I will.”
I’ll do more than that,
Liam thought.

“Don’t tell Elizabeth. Don’t tell her it was you killed me. She won’t understand. Tell her— Tell her I fell in a fire fight. Don’t tell her I talked. Let her think—”

“I know. I will.”

“And you’ll look after Elizabeth and the weans? You know, grant them what you can? Good lives, that sort of thing?”

“For fuck’s sake, what are you on about?”

Oran indicated he wanted another puff from the cigarette, and Liam put it between his bloody lips. When the cigarette withdrew Oran turned his head and let out a great cloud of smoke.

“You’re one of the Fair Folk. Only you’re not like they say. My Da always told me to stay away from them. Said they never did a good turn without a bad one right behind. But that’s not you. You’re different. You’re more like us than them. You’re a good man.”

Liam shook his head and thought of the monster. “You’ve never seen—”

“Do what you can for my family. Please. It’s all I’m asking. I can’t.” Oran choked. “I can’t see after them. But you can do it for me. You can protect them. Keep them safe. Don’t let Brian join up. Give him a good job. A good long life. Please.”

“I will,” Liam said. Whether it was true or not that he had the magic— didn’t matter. Oran believed and that was what counted.

Oran let out the breath he was holding. “Good.” He closed his eyes and licked swollen lips. “One last thing.”

“Anything.”

“Haddock. Was Haddock got to me.”

“Then he’ll pay for what he did,” Liam said. “I’ll see to it. He’ll die screaming.”

Oran nodded. “Thank you.”

Both cigarettes were down to the filters. Liam dropped them on the ground and stamped out the embers.

“I’m ready now,” Oran said.

Liam took a shaky breath and nodded.
I don’t want to do this.

“Tell Elizabeth and the weans I love them.”

Liam’s cheeks were cold, and his throat was tight. It was hard to get out the words, but Oran needed to hear them. “I’ll tell them.”

Closing his eyes again, Oran sat up straighter. “You’ve been a good friend. Don’t blame yourself. I’m glad it’s you.”

“Do you….” Liam coughed. “Do you want it in the heart or the head?”