Of Blood and Honey (Fey and the Fallen) (7 page)

Two British soldiers and a constable were stationed outside the cemetery gate. The soldiers stared at the mourners, rifles at the ready. She gritted her teeth against a sudden stab of fear and looked away.
They must be here for Barney.

Father Michael traced the sign of the cross over the coffin. “
Réquiem æternam dona ei, Dómine.
”

Nervous and restless, she attempted to focus on the funeral, but movement under the huge oak at the back of the churchyard drew her attention from Father Michael’s Galway-laced Latin. She squinted at the edge of a shadow running the length of the trunk. Suddenly frozen, her heart stumbled. Was it the IRA, come to honor one of their own? While Michael had been known for a regular at Aggro Corner, if Geraldine were to be believed he hadn’t been political. On the other hand, it wouldn’t be the first time such a thing had been kept secret from the family. Kathleen glanced to the soldiers and then back to Barney. No one seemed to have noticed.

Mother Mary, please don’t let it be a sniper.

“
Et lux perpétua lúceat ei. Requiéscat in pace. Amen.
”

“Amen.” She repeated the word along with the other mourners, unaware she’d done it.
If it is, will the children be able to get away safe?

“
Anima ejus, et ánimæ ómnium fidélium defunctórum, per misericórdiam Dei requiéscant in pace. Amen.
”

“Amen.”

The shadow shifted again. This time she recognized him and gasped.

Bran.

He seemed vigilant as if standing guard. When he saw her he gave her a businesslike nod and a wink—acknowledging her presence but not indicating he had any need to meet or speak with her.

Still, no one seemed to register he was there.

What is he doing here?

The funeral ended, and Freddie McGowan led the procession out of the graveyard. The littlest McGowan boy followed, carrying the Bible in front of him. Then Father Michael and Father Murray joined the procession. The crowd made a path for them, and Freddie’s brown curly head vanished in the sea of adults. The cross seemingly floated over their heads of its own accord, stopping at the cemetery gate and the soldiers. The air filled with the sounds of mourners preparing to leave. Two elderly ladies walked past the oak. One of them brushed Bran’s sleeve. She apologized without noting who it was she’d bumped and joined the others politely waiting for the grieving family to exit first.

“What is it? Is something wrong?” Barney asked her, frightened.

Kathleen paused before answering. “No. Everything is fine.”

“We should get back to the flat,” Barney said. “They’ll be coming for me after the dinner.”

Geraldine’s dull eyes grew sharp, and she clutched Barney’s arm in a panic. “No! I need you home! They can’t take you from me! Not now!”

He curled a protective arm around Geraldine and made soothing noises. “There. There. Calm yourself now. It’s going to be all right.”

“No it won’t! They’ll kill you too. Like they did our Michael. He didn’t do anything!”

Kathleen forgot about Bran and turned to help Barney quiet Geraldine. Slowly the hysterical cries faded into sobs. Kathleen and Barney were able to half carry her as far as the gate. Then Geraldine tore herself free from Kathleen’s grasp.

“Go away home, yous! Murderers!” Geraldine pointed a finger through the iron gate bars at a young private.

The private brought his rifle to bear. All at once, someone screamed, the mourners scattered, and the constable dropped to a defensive crouch. Kathleen tensed up in anticipation of gunfire. She scanned the churchyard for Sheila and the children, but didn’t see them. Father Murray stepped next to Geraldine. Barney rushed in to pull his wife from danger. Kathleen moved to follow but felt a cold hand on her wrist.

“Stay back,” Bran whispered in her ear and tugged her toward the shelter of a tombstone.

“They let my boy die! He was sick! And they let him die!” Geraldine turned away from the soldier, throwing herself into Barney’s arms.

Father Murray held his hands up, and at the sudden movement the end of the rifle changed targets, digging into his chest. It made a dent in his vestment robes. “She doesn’t know what she’s saying.” His tone became steady and quiet. “Please, Private. Put down the gun. This is a funeral. These people are grieving. No one here means you any harm.”

The young Private’s face was pale, and his grey eyes were wide. He blinked and swallowed. Kathleen thought she saw him shudder as the rifle was lowered.

“Thank you, Private,” Father Murray said.

Crouched behind a large tombstone with Bran, Kathleen let go of the breath she was holding.

“That could have been a mess,” Bran whispered.

Kathleen nodded, afraid to speak. Glancing up and to her left, she saw Barney comforting his wife less than six feet away.

“And you almost walked right into the middle of it,” Bran said, keeping his voice low.

“What are you doing here?” she asked in a fierce whisper, still searching for her children.

“Protecting you from your own foolishness, it seems.”

“What about your war? I thought you had more important things to do?”

Bran smiled in an obvious attempt at charm. “What could be more important than keeping my sweet Kathleen safe from harm?” He brushed her cheek with his knuckles.

The gesture was so tender that she winced and checked to see if anyone was looking. “You have to leave,” she said. “Now. Before someone sees you.”

“Let them. What does it matter?” He edged closer.

Unable to stop herself, she closed her eyes and breathed in the scent of him as she always did and remembered a time when she’d been truly happy. “There’ll be talk.”

“It’s only words, love. Mortals have short memories.”

“Not all do,” she said. “It’s a married woman, I am. That may not mean much to you. But it means a great deal to me. I swore an oath when I married Patrick—”

“You keep your oath, but does he do the same? And where is he?” Bran gazed across the churchyard at the thinning crowd.

She stood up and dusted off her dress. “He’s gone to the pub, I imagine.”

“And the coward left you and the children to the danger?”

And how is it what you’ve done is any better?
“I’m serious. You must go.

Now.” “Ma!” Little Moira ran to her from across the churchyard.

Sheila had the rest of the children with her and was tracing her own path through the tombstones. Moira wrapped her arms around Kathleen’s legs, almost toppling her over. Kathleen reached down and straightened the scarf covering Moira’s brown curls. “Were you good for your Aunt Sheila?”

“Yes, Ma. Who was that man?”

As it turned out, Moira wasn’t the only one who’d seen.

Chapter 7

Londonderry/Derry, County Londonderry, Northern Ireland

29 January 1972

The concrete walls of the tenement flat reverberated with the sounds of warring children and clanging pans, the sounds of seven people packed in a cramped space. Four-year-old Jamie and five-year-old Moira sat on the floor, fighting over a rag doll—their matching brown curls the same shade as their mother’s. Little Eileen was unsuccessfully negotiating a truce. In between the screaming Liam heard his Aunt Sheila gossiping with his mother in the kitchen.

The cacophony and the scent of boiling chicken meant home, but Liam couldn’t have felt more alien. He surveyed his half siblings and noticed—not for the first time—that he resembled none of them. The months he had been gone only intensified the feeling of separation. He was weary and wanted nothing more than to sleep; anything to stop the thinking and remembering, but sleep wasn’t an option. The crowded sitting room doubled as his bedroom. In any case, when he did sleep he only dreamed, and he didn’t want to dream either.

He got up from the lumpy couch that served as his bed. When he did his mother appeared, blocking the hall. It was always like that now, as if she were tuned to his every movement. The room became quiet.

“Will you be home for supper?” she asked, her voice fragile. The heat was out again, and she was wearing two sweaters to keep off the chill. She folded her arms across her chest, and then she seemed to reconsider lest he take it as a threat, and instead dropped her arms to her sides.

He had been home from Long Kesh Internment Camp all of two days, and with the exception of the Frontliners who called him a fool for getting caught, everyone treated him like he might break or produce a bomb. Liam wasn’t planning on doing either. He wasn’t about to give anyone an excuse to send him back to Lisburn, and as for breaking… well, he’d done all the breaking he’d ever do in the Kesh.

Even Mary Kate treated him differently, but that wasn’t so bad. She treated him like a hero—and if heroes spent afternoons between Mary Kate’s thighs, even if they went to hell for it, he supposed there were worse fates to be had. “Off for a walk,” Liam lied. The flat’s concrete walls pressed in more than he liked to admit.

“Again?” she asked. “You’ll be careful won’t you? Stay out of trouble?”

“Yes, Ma. I will.”
At least as far as soldiers are concerned,
he thought.
Mary Kate’s father might feel a wee bit different.

“We’re to Mass early tomorrow,” she said. “Your father thought we’d do something nice after. For your birthday. A picnic.”

Patrick Kelly was his stepfather, not his father, and Liam would’ve been willing to wager the idea was not Patrick’s, but Liam had had his fill of confrontations so he let the lie stand. “What about the march?” Liam asked.

“We’ll stay well clear of that. I told you about the Paras. Mrs. Foyle says there are sure to be more soldiers than usual and—” His mother looked away, uncomfortable. “Arrests.”

Feeling tired, Liam stepped outside and rested his back against the closed door with a deep breath. He loved his mother. He did. He hated lying to her and didn’t understand why he did it. That she approved of Mary Kate was obvious, having invited her over for cooking lessons multiple times while he was away. However, he was dead certain his mother wouldn’t think much of how they’d been spending their afternoons. Guilty as he felt, he was also happy, even if the first time Mary Kate had let him make love to her he’d shamed himself by crying. She hadn’t laughed, or drawn back as he feared she would. Instead, she pulled him closer and whispered soothing words until the tears stopped.

Afterward, she kissed him tenderly and then said, “I thought I was the one who was supposed to weep.” Embarrassed, he’d looked away.

“I didn’t mean to make you feel ashamed.” She’d touched his cheek. “This means as much to you as it does to me. And that makes me love you all the more.”

Standing now in the hallway outside his flat, he checked his watch and saw it was three o’clock. He took the steps two at a time and then loped down the street. Running had once been a pleasure; it had been the one school activity in which he had excelled and after three months of confinement it had become a physical need. It was cloudy and cold, and the wind was up, but he didn’t realize he had forgotten his coat until he was halfway down the block.

Rounding the corner, he spotted her. A gust caught at Mary Kate’s long brown hair, pulling it into her pretty oval face. When the sun was bright it brought out golden highlights in her curls. In the approaching storm she resembled a graveyard angel. One graceful hand captured the flying tresses and trapped them behind her ear. Her coat flapped open, and he saw she was wearing a new green dress. The idea that she might be wearing it for him provided a measure of warmth in spite of the cold.

When he thought about it he supposed he had always loved her—ever since the day he’d been playing with a football, bouncing it off a wall. He’d accidentally hit her with it and then laughed when she’d cried. In response, she’d blackened his eye for him. Even at age nine the wee thing had had a punch that would fell a mule. She was four months older than him, fiercer than any angel written in the Bible and every damned bit as beautiful.

From the tilt of her chin he knew something was wrong. His heart stumbled. Running faster, he brought himself up short when two men stepped out of the alley. Neither looked happy.

“Stop right there, son,” Patrick Kelly said, holding up his hand. His big red face was redder than usual. Mr. Gallagher took a place next to Patrick.

Oh, Lord, it’s her father,
Liam thought.
Shite. He’s pissed.

Mary Kate closed the distance and threw her arms around him in a tight hug. Her face was wet and cold on the front of his shirt. He kissed the top of her head.

“Bridget told father.” She buried her face deeper. “Don’t know how she knew. I certainly didn’t tell her.”

“Shhh. It’s all right,” Liam said.

Patrick Kelly said, “Unhand the girl.”

Ignoring his stepfather, Liam pushed Mary Kate behind him. He was more concerned with Mr. Gallagher. Liam had known him almost as long as he’d known Mary Kate, but at the moment the man looked as though he was ready to punch someone.

Please, God, don’t let it come to that. I don’t want to hurt him,
Liam thought.

“I said—”

Liam lifted his chin. An icy raindrop slapped him in the face. “I heard you the first time, Father.” Turning to Mr. Gallagher, Liam said, “I’m sorry, sir. You’re well within your ri—”

“Don’t be telling the man his rights,” Patrick Kelly said. “We’re here to see the proper thing done. And so it will be. You’ll not see the girl again.”

“I’m marrying her, if she’ll have me.” It was out before Liam had time to think.

Patrick moved closer and said, “Don’t be a fool, son. She’s only your fir—”

“Don’t.” Liam felt a twinge of terror as black memory tried to surface, but he shoved it down with all his might. A tingling sensation originating in his chest crawled down his limbs. He focused on the pressure of Mary Kate’s arms and prayed it would go away. The last time he’d felt like that he’d done something terrible. “Don’t. You. Insult. Her.” He balled up his fists. The powerful, black beast in his head fought to free itself. He trembled with the effort to keep it back.