And Blue Skies From Pain (45 page)

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Authors: Stina Leicht

BOOK: And Blue Skies From Pain
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A door slammed.
As always, Father Murray felt a terrible guilt at the memory of Mary Kate. He’d been so sure, so certain the abortion had been the right thing to do. He’d been so focused on the possibility of Liam’s progeny being demonic, and therefore, dangerous, that he’d missed important signs. Liam’s friends, Oran, Bobby, Níal and Éamon.
Provos, all of them, probably. But what about this lot?
Of course, he was only guessing. The INLA—the Irish National Liberation Army—as well as the Official IRA were both socialist, and although Mary Kate had been active in socialist student groups, Liam hadn’t shown any interest in such things. Quite the opposite. Liam had avoided politics and political groups.
And yet, he joined the Provisional IRA. Can there be any doubt of that now?
What about the jacket?
He’d read the message on the back of it and had been glad of it. No Provo would’ve walked about with such a thing displayed on his back.
Anyone can have a change of heart.
“Don’t get too comfortable, priest.” It was the lisping voice. “I’m going to cut your throat and watch you bleed.” The atheist’s accent was clearly from the south. He wasn’t a Dub. That was easy enough to hear. The accent was too musical for Dublin.
But where is he from? Cork? Limerick?
Father Murray didn’t think it was either. “Have I done something to you personally? Or is it more a general grudge against the Church?”
“It’s personal.”
His heart froze inside his chest. “I see. Whatever it is that I’ve done to you, I’m very sorry.”
“I rather doubt that.”
Not Cork. Not Limerick. Eastern. Wexford?
“What is it that I’ve done?”
The distinct clock-tick of a pistol’s safety was the only reply. Click.
On.
Click.
Off.
Click.
On.
Click—
A door opened and then banged shut. “You’re in luck, Father. The lads left us one last gravy ring. If you’ve need of it, it’s—Christ, Mickey! What the fuck are you do—”
“I’m away for a smoke.”
Waterford,
Father Murray thought with a sinking feeling.
He’s from Waterford.
And suddenly, it all fell into place.
Oh, shite. It’s Mickey Hughes, the half-breed. We burned down the whole building and killed everyone inside, but Mickey got away.
I let him get away.
The door slammed a third time. He felt a gentle hand on his shoulder.
“Are you all right, Father?”
Chapter 24
 
Belfast, County Antrim, Northern Ireland
23 December 1977
 
 
 
L
iam stopped the car in the newer section of Milltown Cemetery, Ballymurphy. He could’ve gone to Belfast City Cemetery, but he preferred to summon his father in a known Republican graveyard. It was safer. He was dead certain they were being followed, and stopping at Belfast City Cemetery wouldn’t have sent a good message to the boys. Besides, Oran was buried in Milltown.
“Stay here,” Liam said to Frankie.
“I can’t.” Frankie popped his seatbelt catch. The black web-belt rattled as it was retracted into the seat. “I’ve my orders.”
“Fuck orders. Christ, you’re going to do what that fuck says even if he’s for topping all of us and then stealing the money?”
“Now, I don’t like his methods. I hate what he’s done to you. I don’t like holding your friend, the priest, at all. And I hate what he’s done to that poor—” Frankie stopped himself. “I’m not for defending the likes of Séamus. He’s a ruthless fucking tight-arsed bastard. But HQ made him the OC. I took an oath.
We
took an oath. None of us is in this for ourselves, not you and I. Maybe Séamus is a traitor. Maybe he isn’t. Maybe he’s straying from the organization’s idea of the straight and narrow. But we don’t know anything for certain.”
“We don’t?” Liam raised an eyebrow. “So, you’ve changed your mind? You trust Séamus, then?”
“Not one wee bit. But I’m not certain enough to put a bullet in his skull and then face HQ for it. We need proof.” Frankie sighed and glanced over his shoulder at the side mirror. “Anyway, they’re watching us.”
“Aye? You spotted them too, did you?” Liam threw open the door in frustration. “Please yourself.”
Frankie jumped out of the car.
Liam paused.
Calm down, will you? Frankie is only being careful. He’s doing what he must.
The idea of Frankie being the careful one was sobering. “Walk with me until I tell you to stop. Then stay where I tell you.”
“I can’t—”
Liam sighed. “I’ll stay within sight. I’m not for scarpering. You’ve my word.”
Frankie seemed relieved. “Thanks, mate.”
Both doors thumped closed, and Liam locked the car. Then he turned up his collar against the winter wind and proceeded down the cement drive, his work boots crunching in the snow. He zipped Conor’s jacket closed against a blast of cold and was glad he’d remembered his neck scarf. It wasn’t snowing, but the sky was grey, and for some reason the decade-old The Mama’s and the Papa’s song “California Dreamin’” sprang to mind. It never failed to make him think of when he was thirteen and had thought to run away from home because of his stepfather. The hopelessness of it set in fast. That’d been the first time he’d met Father Murray. Liam willed the song away and out of his head, but the more he tried to forget it, the more the melancholy tune persisted.
He walked with the weight of bad memories tugging at him. The graveyard seemed forested with stone Celtic crosses of varying ages, heights, and sizes. The rare Victorian mausoleum squatted among them. Three funeral services were being conducted in three different plots not far away. Droning Latin and kind words regarding the dearly departed drifted on the air like dead leaves.
Liam knew precisely where Oran’s grave was located, but he pretended to be uncertain, stalling for time. He wasn’t sure his father would answer with Frankie so close by. Liam needed a spot not far from Oran’s grave where Frankie could keep him in sight per the agreement and yet would provide Bran cover—that is, if Bran required such a thing. Liam didn’t know. There were two big Celtic crosses close to Oran’s grave.
If there’s need, that will have to do, aye?
“What are we doing here?” Frankie asked.
“Visiting an old mate,” Liam said. “Oran.”
“They buried him here? In a Republican cemetery? Even after—”
Liam whirled and shoved a finger in Frankie’s face. “Don’t you say another fucking word. You hear? I warned you once. I’ll not do it again.”
Frankie swallowed. Looking spooked, he nodded.
Liam combed his fingers through his hair and sighed. “Sorry, mate.” He knew full well his reaction had less to do with Frankie’s words and more to do with how Oran had died. “It isn’t your fault.”
“Shouldn’t have said it,” Frankie said, and once again Liam was impressed because Frankie stood fast, holding his gaze. “I’m sorry, mate.”
Frankie is no coward. He’s seen what he’s seen and still counts me a friend.
Suddenly, Liam knew he’d do anything to get Frankie out alive and whole. In Liam’s experience, everyone shied away once they’d spied the monster lurking in his eyes. Even Oran and Mary Kate hadn’t been able to look him in the face when he was angry. Not that Liam felt Oran or Mary Kate had been cowards—far from it. After having seen the creature reflected in that copper bowl, Liam couldn’t blame anyone for retreating from it. Hell, he’d done it himself.
And I live with the fucking thing.
The monster gave out a satisfied huff from the back of Liam’s mind.
Not a “thing.” Not “creature” or “demon” either. You’re myself. You, you’re nothing but myself.
He realised at that moment that the more he hated the creature, the more he disowned it and thought of it as something separate, the more power it gained and the less control he had over it. The choice suddenly became clear—accept it and accept sanity, or reject it and be—
He swallowed.
Don’t want to think about that now. Later. Stay whole now. Long enough to get Frankie and Father Murray out of this mess.
“But I don’t understand how a dead man is going to help,” Frankie said, following a few steps behind. His shoulders were up a touch, but his chin was up, and his back, stiff.
“You’ll not understand until much later,” Liam said. “And maybe not even then. Probably for the best, all things considered.”
“I don’t like this. You’re not making any sense at all.” Frankie’s eyes were wide.
Liam paused. “Do you trust me, Frankie?”
To Frankie’s credit, his hesitation was almost imperceptible. “Aye, I do. We’ve always had one another’s backs, you and I. And regardless of… well… Mary Kate not caring for me at all—”
“That’s not true.”
“It is, and you know it. You want the truth? I was jealous, mate. She was something. Beautiful. Smart. And she really loved you. I’ll never have a bird like that.” Frankie shrugged. “Doesn’t matter.” He sighed. “I trust you. But….”
Stopping next to a large, limestone Celtic cross, Liam said, “But?” “This is madness,” Frankie said. “A cemetery? For help? Are you for rounding up an army of the great Republican dead?”
Liam felt the corners of his mouth twitch. “You could call it that.”
Only they’re not Republican—at least, I don’t think they are. Not Socialist, anyway.
The fear and confusion on Frankie’s face intensified in a flash and then dissipated. “Either you’re winding me up, or you’ve gone stone mad.”
Like Daimhín. And Bran will have to—
“Frankie, mate, please. Stay here. Everything will be fine. I’ll be over there for a wee while with Oran, aye? You can watch me from a safe distance.”
“Safe is it?”
“You’ll come to no harm. It will cost nothing for me to try this. And if it works… well, you might have somewhere safe to go when all this is done.”
“And where might that be?”
“With my father’s people.”
“You have gone mental. You hate Patrick.” Frankie frowned.
“My real father. Not my fucking stepfather.”
“Thought he was a Proddy.”
“He’s not a Prod.”
“A Catholic, is he?”
“He’s neither.”
“What is he, then? Jewish? Muslim?” Frankie asked. “Are you, Liam Kelly, secretly black? Your Da’s not… He’s not English is he?”
“For fuck’s sake!”
“Well?”
“No, he’s not English. He’s Irish.”
“If you say so.”
“I do. Now, stop with the questions.” Liam turned, walked to Oran’s tombstone, and prayed.
Mother Mary, Joseph and all the saints, please let him hear me calling.
It seemed an odd thing to do when he thought about it—the praying.
I’m half Fey. If I can be baptised, where is the harm in praying to see my father? No matter what they say.
He stopped just to the left of Oran’s grave and stared down at the carved words in the granite headstone.
Oran MacMahon, Beloved Husband and Father—
It’d been months since Liam had last visited Oran’s grave. He’d attended the funeral. Granted, he’d been hiding far enough away that even he couldn’t hear the service. He’d snuck back later and had stood watch over the new grave lest someone disturb Oran’s rest. Liam had heard of such things happening, particularly if the dead man in question was known for a Republican soldier.
Died 23 April 1977.
So much had happened in eight months. So much had changed. Liam’s vision blurred, and he blamed it on the wind.
Time to do what you’ve come to do.
“Bran?” Liam hesitated, combing his fingers through his hair again to get his fringe out of his eyes. Forcing himself past his uncertainty, he faced Oran’s tombstone and whispered again. “Da? Can you hear me? It’s me. Liam. I need your help. I’m in a wee fix.”
The answer rode a fresh wind gust.
“You’ve never called me Da before.” There was a hollow echo in Bran’s voice, and it sounded as if he were speaking from a long distance.
“I’ve never called anyone da before,” Liam whispered. That was the raw truth. He’d always referred to his stepfather by his first name no matter how many times his ma had told him that he was being disrespectful—regardless of how many times Patrick had tried to beat the insolence out of him. Liam had known full well Patrick wasn’t his father, and Patrick had made it clear there was no confusion on his part either.
“Is that so?” Bran sounded pleased.
Liam felt an unexpected warmth grow in his chest. “Aye,” he said, regretting that circumstances forced him to change the subject. “A man called Séamus Sullivan is holding Father Murray hostage, and he’ll kill him if I don’t do what he wants.”
“And what is it this foolish mortal wants from you, son?”

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