Mermaid in a Bowl of Tears (Exit Unicorns Series) (64 page)

She turned, realizing Jamie was speaking and that she’d missed most of what he’d said.

The Maiden be with you in every pass,
The Mother be with you on every hill
The Crone be with you on every stream,
Headland and ridge and lawn.
Each sea and land, each moor and meadow
Each lying down, each rising up,
In the trough of the waves, on the crest of the billows
Each step of the journey thou goest.

“It’s an old Celtic prayer for travellers,” Jamie said quietly. “Death being a journey into the greatest mystery of all, I thought it appropriate.” His words had served as some sort of incantation, it seemed, for the wind died back, though the fresh chill of the air remained. The icy claws of fear had retracted from her heart, but they’d left a tenderness behind that would remain.

Jamie took her by the elbow and wordless, led her away under the trees, over moss and stone, the prayer lingering in the air behind them.

THE BEECHMOUNT YOUTH CENTER had become a strangely calm center to Pamela’s universe. In Casey’s absence she had done what she could to keep it open, knowing it was what he would want. He had succeeded in making small inroads into the youth of both communities, though for the life of her she didn’t know how he had managed such a balancing act. The footing was precarious at best and the job itself required the juggling of politics both public and private and an innate knowledge of not just the city, but the neighborhoods and even the various streets. Casey had managed this balancing and juggling act with a calm precision that awed her now that she stood in his overlarge shoes, feeling wholly inadequate.

Lawrence, as it turned out, was her most valuable asset. He understood, almost as well as Casey, the lay of the land. “Ye can’t let any of those bastards from the Boyne Boys Brigade in here. All they are is a breeding ground for the Loyalists. They’ll make bad trouble for ye.”

“And how am I to know who they are?” she asked, pausing from her task of re-filling the small larder.

“They’re the ones with the tattoo of a fist crumplin’ up an Irish flag. They have them on their forearms, can’t miss it.”

Between the center and the odd photography job, she was spending the vast majority of her time in the city, a place she was both horrified and fascinated by. Despite unceasing violence and disruption, people still married and had babies, attended weddings and christenings, and it was here she picked up her photography work. Through the offices of Father Jim, a fellow American who had come to Belfast a few years back on sabbatical and never left, she was alerted to all the social functions which might require her services within his parish. She somewhat cynically thought that it was his way of getting her through the church doors, and then plying her with work once she was there, in an effort to re-ignite the dim glow of her Catholicism.

Some nights she didn’t make it home at all, and she and Lawrence would bed down for the night in the small apartment above stairs at the center. Mr. Guderson had taken to checking on her place each day, and if he noted they were absent would feed and tend to the animals for them.

It was on one such night, exhausted by feeding no less than fourteen boys—all of whom regarded her with a guarded suspicion merely for not being Himself, but also an inadequate, not to mention female, fill-in—that she had dragged herself up the stairs just past midnight and collapsed on the lumpy bed, too tired to remove more than her shoes.

When she was small, she’d often woken in the middle of the night, gripped tight in fear with the shadowy vision of a dark creature standing horribly still at the foot of her bed. It always turned out to be one of those odd moments between sleep and wakefulness, where the subconscious still held sway and presented up its demons for viewing.

At first she thought the specter at the end of her bed was just that, a figment of a sleep-addled brain. Then it moved, which wasn’t something that had ever happened before. She screamed and shot straight up in the bed, heart pounding fit to come out of her chest.

The figure started but then moved up toward the head of the bed.

“Get back,” she said, “I’ve a gun and I’ll use it.” She backed up into the headboard as tightly as she could, drawing the bed linens with her. The dark figure continued to advance though, and she wished fervently that she really did have the gun in her hands, and hadn’t left it unloaded under the mattress.

“I’m sorry, but—” the figure began, in what was, all things considered, a very mild and polite tone, when a second man shot into the room attacking the original intruder with what appeared to be a large stick, and a bloodcurdling yell that would have terrified an entire legion of Roman soldiers, and didn’t do much for the state of her own backbone.

Six to one, half dozen to the other, but it seemed the larger of the two wrestling, grappling figures was more likely to be on her side.

She grabbed the lamp, which had a solid marble base, and flung it at the smaller man. Aim having never been her forte however, the lamp connected solidly with the back of the larger man.

Her putative rescuer yelped, then exclaimed, “Jaysus woman, don’t hit
me
!”

She paused, the voice was familiar but she didn’t have time to place it before the narrow cot was thrown on its side and the blankets flew over her head. All sound was muffled, though the voluble curses and grunts were still audible from the two men careening about the room. She tore the blankets away from her face, eyes straining to see in the dark.

The smaller figure shot out onto the narrow landing and started pell-mell down the stairs. The larger gave chase, the sound of two men pounding down the stairs loud enough to shake the building to its seams.

She scrabbled under the mattress for the pistol, then in the bedside table for the bullets. She loaded it with shaking hands and made her way down the stairs on legs that felt like unset jelly.

She turned the light on in the kitchen, finger tight on the trigger. The building was quiet now—preternaturally so. The back door stood open, and in the distance she could hear someone yelling and then the report of a gun. Thank God Lawrence had gone to Derry with Sylvie and was staying the night there with her and her family. He’d likely have shot both intruders just for good measure.

She put her back to the sink and surveyed the kitchen. Beyond was the common room which lay in absolute darkness. There was no feeling of menace, though. She was certain she was alone now.

Footsteps fell on the walkway outside the door, a milk bottle chinking against the bricks.

“Who’s there?” she called out, trying to sound hard and in control of the situation. “I’ve got a gun and I’ll use it.”

“It’s me, Pamela—Robin Temple. I’m comin’ in, okay? Don’t shoot.”

“Give me one reason not to,” she said, the familiar voice not comforting her.

“I mean ye no harm, lass,” he said, and walked in across the doorstep. He was flushed and winded and she knew now who her rescuer had been. Gratitude didn’t make her less wary, however. “I couldn’t catch the bastard, tripped over somethin’ in the street an’ lost him. I’m sorry, it won’t happen again.”

“Who the hell was he?” she gasped, not loosening her grip on the gun at all. “And for that matter what the hell are you doing here in the middle of the night?”

Robin put his hands up in a gesture of surrender, careful to keep his expression neutral. “He,” he gestured with one thumb to the back door that still stood open to the night, “was one of the lads that’s been hangin’ about the last week.”

She narrowed her glance and put one thumb to the hammer of the gun.

“Just how the hell do you know who’s been here this last week?”

Robin ventured a step forward, keeping his hands up in full view.

“Stay put,” she said sharply, “I don’t trust you any further than I can throw you.”

“I’ve had a watch on the center since Casey was taken away. It’s one thing for a man to run this sort of place an’ another altogether for a bit of a woman to do it. I’d not feel right if I left my best friend’s wife to the mercy of the wolves. Honest, it was my turn to watch tonight.”

“Are you trying to tell me that the IRA has nothing better to do than mount nightly surveillance on a drop in center?” She tried to maintain a certain coolness to her tone, but it cracked slightly and she could feel her hands getting slick around the gun.

“It’s not an IRA operation,” he said patiently, “’tis myself an’ a couple of lads I trust. No more than that I swear, now can ye be persuaded to lower the gun?”

She lowered it slightly, causing him to raise his eyebrows.

“Well if it’s castration rather than killin’ ye’ve in mind I’d just as soon the latter, if ye don’t mind. Now come on, yer hands are slippery as glass an’ yer as like to hurt yerself as me with the damn thing.” His tone was matter-of-fact rather than thick with charm and somehow that reassured her enough to ease her thumb off the hammer.

Robin wisely kept his hands up. “I’m goin’ to sit down, alright, ‘cause my knees are shakin’ fit to drop me on my face here.”

She nodded, watching as he put one arm out slowly and pulled one of the kitchen chairs toward himself. She was still ready for some lightning quick move, knowing he was as well versed as Casey in these things. But he sat, dropping the last couple of inches onto the chair as if indeed his legs would no longer hold him.

“Will ye sit?” Robin asked. “Yer makin’ me damn nervous with that thing.”

“Alright, but don’t so much as twitch or I’ll shoot you right where you sit.”

“I don’t doubt it,” he said, and put his hands palm up on the table so she could see them plainly.

She eased back carefully, feeling the chair with her legs, not taking her eyes off of him for a second, knowing that was all he would need to drop her on the floor and get the gun.

He waited until she sat, gun still leveled across the table at him, and then said, “I’m goin’ to reach in my coat and get a flask, because I need a drink if I’m not to piss myself here. I’ll get it slow an’ easy, no false moves okay?”

She nodded and Robin did as promised. The flask was in the inside pocket of his coat and he brought it out slowly. He took the cap off and placed it on the table, then helped himself to a long and generous swallow. He put the flask down by the cap with a long exhalation. “There, I can feel my nerves returnin’. Did Casey get ye the gun?”

“Yes,” she said bluntly, “and he taught me how to use it as well, so don’t think I’ll accidentally plug the stove when I’m aiming for your head.”

Robin nodded. “I believe ye. The man said ye were fearsome when the mood was on ye to be so. I can see that he spoke the truth. Would ye like a drink?”

“No thanks, I’ll pass,” she said dryly.

“I promise I’ll not do anything if ye put that gun down, I swear to ye on my wife’s grave.”

“Your wife,” she said pointedly, “is neither dead nor is she any longer your wife.”

Robin laughed out loud. “Yer a hard one, Mrs. Riordan, but for all I’m a liar an’ a cheat, do ye honestly think I’d hurt the wife of Casey Riordan? First of all the man would hunt me to the ends of the earth did I dare it, an’ have my balls for breakfast when he found me, an’ in the second place I’ve nothin’ to gain by hurtin’ ye. Besides,” he slanted a look sideways at the gun, “I’ve a feelin’ yer no slouch at takin’ care of yerself.”

Oddly enough, the man had a point, there really was nothing for him to gain by hurting her. In fact, he’d saved her from a potentially horrible incident. She lowered the gun, flipped the barrel over and took the bullets out, then put the empty shell on the table by the flask.

“Thank ye,” Robin said, and there was no mistaking the sincere relief in his voice.

“I’ll have that drink now,” she said, and took the flask, hoping he would not note how badly her hand shook. It wasn’t likely, he didn’t seem to miss much of anything. She could see clearly why he and Casey had been such good friends.

It was brandy, which she found surprising. It shot straight to her stomach and immediately found her veins, billowing out in warm waves through her bloodstream. The general effect was a swift and speedy comfort. She pushed the flask back at Robin, knowing too much comfort was a very dangerous thing at present.

“D’ye think perhaps one of us,” he suggested carefully, “ought to shut the back door before we’ve the neighbors an’ the army pokin’ about wonderin’ what’s happened?”

“Go ahead,” she said, knowing the brandy hadn’t fortified her shaking knees just yet.

Robin rose and walked to the back door, shutting it against the interference of nosy neighbors and men with guns. He still wore his coat and boots and was as perfectly groomed and polished as ever. She wondered what it took to really ruffle the man and thought it was likely not something she wanted to find out.

“Tea?” he asked, coming back to the table.

“I’ll make it,” she said quickly, not quite ready to trust him with boiling water at her back. “Is there any crisis in which the Irish don’t find tea applicable?”

“No,” Robin said mildly, the sarcasm seemingly lost on him.

The oddness of the situation impressed itself upon her, making tea for a man who was either her husband’s best friend or worst enemy, in the middle of the night.

The kettle was on the boil and the tea spooned into the pot before either of them spoke again.

“I suppose—”

“I have to apologize—” they both began at once.

“Go ahead,” Robin said, taking another nip off the brandy bottle.

“Thank you—however it was you ended up here tonight, I’m grateful that you did. I’ve no idea why that man was in here, but I’m sure it wasn’t to chat about the good we do for the community.” She shuddered, realizing just how close she’d come to being assaulted. Her legs were shaking again, the brandy’s fortification proving to be rather fleeting.

“Sit,” Robin said in a firm tone, “I’ll finish the tea.”

She sat gratefully, goose bumps rising all along her skin as the fear she’d not had time for earlier came in a wave.

Robin placed the teapot on the table, adding two cups to the table before striding out into the entryway. He came back seconds later with a blanket which he handed to her.