Of Blood and Honey (Fey and the Fallen) (42 page)

“Human beings are known to make mistakes, Liam.”

“Not like this.”

Father Murray smoked in silence for a time. Liam struggled with his question until he couldn’t stand it anymore. “How many was it I killed?”

“When?”

“The car bomb. How many?”

The room was quiet. Liam could make out the ticking of the mantle clock in the next room.

“One,” Father Murray said. “A constable. A woman who lived across the street was injured. Some children witnessed the explosion, but weren’t otherwise harmed.”

Liam let out the breath he’d been holding. “She saved them. Thank God.”

“You can start again.”

“And Father Dominic and Father Christopher? What of them?” Liam felt the top of his left ear and found a scar. It was tender to the touch.
It can’t have healed already,
he thought.
Can it?

“That… is more complicated,” Father Murray said. “They’re alive. Both of them. But neither will be in shape for duty for some time.” He stared down at his hands, thinking. Then he took a long breath. “You’re not a monster. There was no choice. You had to defend yourself. If I can see that, surely you can?”

“I don’t deserve a new start.”

“Deserving has nothing to do with it. I’m not talking about a holiday. What I’m suggesting, it won’t be easy. It’ll be very dangerous. And you’re not likely to get anything in return except more danger. We won’t be thanked. Ever.”

“I’ll think about it, Father.”

Nodding, Father Murray sighed. “I should call your mother.”

“I don’t want to see her.”

“Don’t you think she’ll be glad you’re home?”

“I don’t care.”

“Why?”

“She lied to me. My whole fucking life!”

“Shhh. Calm down, Liam.”

“Kept my father from me too!”

“She was only protecting you.”

Liam filled his lungs as much as he could stand and gave the last all his rage. “Protecting herself, you mean! She told me so!” Something—his skin?—tore underneath the bandages and the pain intensified. Liquid oozed across his back. Squeezing his eyes shut, he gritted his teeth. He felt more than saw Father Murray get up from the chair and gently touch his arm.

“Stop this. You’re only hurting yourself,” Father Murray said.

Taking small breaths, Liam waited for the pain to fade back into a dull throb.

“You have every right to be angry,” Father Murray said, checking the bandages and then sitting down again. “You do. But please. Try to understand something of what your mother went through.”

Afraid to speak, Liam grunted in disbelief.

“There was a reason she didn’t marry right away. Did she never tell you?”

Liam risked shaking his head no. He’d always assumed it was because no one had wanted her.

“She waited for your father.” Father Murray blew out another smoke cloud. “There is much that passes between adults that children don’t see or understand—can’t see or understand.”

The room blurred, and Liam shifted in an attempt to make his back stop hurting. Father Murray put down his pipe and left the room. When he returned, he held out a glass of water and two pills. “There’s no need for you to suffer.”

Liam accepted the pills and the water. Then he wiped his eyes clear with his sleeve. Movement wasn’t easy. He had to be cautious. Father Murray settled into the overstuffed chair and retrieved his pipe.

“Tell me something,” Father Murray asked. “About the bomb. Why would you want to kill a constable?”

“Don’t want to talk about it, Father.”

Father Murray nodded and then allowed the conversation to die.

Liam took a careful breath. “Do you—do you remember what you said when you caught me giving Andy Burns a hiding?”

Father Murray shook his head.

“You said I hadn’t the right,” Liam said. “I told you Andy deserved it. He called my mother a whore. Called me a filthy taig, and said all taigs should die. So, I gave him a kicking. You said, ‘Vengeance is mine, sayeth the Lord.’ I remember that.” The drugs had started to take effect. He knew it because the throbbing in his back had eased, and he felt slow-witted. He supposed it was the painkillers talking more than anything else, but he couldn’t stop himself. “Hated you at the time, but it stuck. I’ve been thinking about those words. After what happened. After the bomb. And I decided. You were right all along. It didn’t matter if you’d only said it because you thought I was a demon to be steered away from doing wrong. Revenge is no business for anyone.”

Liam listened to the beat of his heart and willed it to slow while Father Murray said nothing at all.

“‘The light that shines the brightest also casts the longest shadow.’” Father Murray’s voice was quiet. “When you think about it, it makes a certain

amount of sense.”

“Tell me what to do. I don’t know anything anymore.”

“When I joined the Order,” Father Murray said. “I saw myself as a protector of the weak. We killed so that humanity might live. A terrible thing, but sometimes it’s required. We’ve both seen it, you and I. The thing is, once you’ve accepted that role there are certain lines you cannot cross no matter what happens. The Church forgot that. And I did too.”

“What lines, Father?”

“Hate. Revenge. Self-righteousness. No self-proclaimed guardian can afford them. Unfortunately, each one is a very human emotion. You can’t live the life of a soldier or constable and not feel those things. To not feel them is impossible. But to act upon them is to assume the role of executioner. Assassin. That way is the path to atrocity, and atrocity is the end of everything.”

“I wish there were someone else to do this. Someone better. Anyone.”

“And I can’t help feeling the same,” Father Murray said. “But because of the terrible mistakes we’ve made, you and I, neither of us is likely to forget about the line between guardian and executioner ever at all. And I think that’s required if we’re to do what needs done.”

The drugs were making Liam’s eyelids too heavy to lift. He didn’t want to think anymore.

“Get some sleep,” Father Murray said. “We can discuss this later.”

Chapter 25

Londonderry/Derry, County Londonderry, Northern Ireland

September 1977

It was nine in the morning when Kathleen Kelly started in on the pan she’d left to soak from the night before. The soapy water was warm on her hands in the chilly flat. A distorted patch of light glowed yellow on the grey-speckled linoleum. Moira’s tinny transistor radio was playing Paul McCartney and Wings, and Kathleen watched disrupted dust particles waltz to “Mull of Kintyre” in the sunbeam.
1-2-3. 2-2-3. 3-2-3.
She let herself sing along and sway to the strumming guitar.
1-2-3. 2-2-3. 3-2-3.
The children were in school, and Patrick was at work. The flat was her own. The children didn’t know she listened to their music during the day. Nor did Patrick. It was her little secret, her little indulgence. Rock music reminded her of the days when she would sneak out with her sister Sheila to hear Elvis Presley played on the radio—the days when she first met Bran, who would later change her life.

Not for the better, her mother would have said.

Complicated as her situation was, Kathleen couldn’t bring herself to regret the choices she’d made, much as she’d tried.
I’m not a good person,
she thought.
Mary, Mother of God, forgive me. I’ve tried so hard to be, but I suppose I will always be that sinful girl.
She thought back to the last time she’d seen Bran and sighed. Patrick deserved more. He had rescued her from her parents, after all. He had made her honest—at least in her mother’s eyes, but she didn’t love him, not as much as she should. Patrick knew it, she was certain, and if he lost control of his temper, it was her fault, wasn’t it? Because she didn’t love him enough. Because she actually loved someone else.

This is my penance.
At least Patrick is a good father to the children.

Don’t lie to yourself,
she thought.
He hurt Liam. Maybe not the others. But he did hurt Liam.
And that was her fault too, wasn’t it? She’d pretended it wasn’t happening instead of confronting Patrick, instead of stopping him. Although, the boy wasn’t the only one to suffer, God knew.
Never in front of the children.
She was proud of that one thing. The children didn’t know. Still, Liam bore the worst of it. And she’d pretended. It was safer for everyone, she’d thought then. Hide the bruises. Pack Liam off to his Grandmother until Patrick sobered up or cooled off. That was the answer. It was safer.

She pulled the plug on the sink, let the dirty water drain out and stared at the grit revealed in the bottom. She didn’t know why she was thinking of these things now. The past was the past. Liam was grown and no longer living at home. She could keep pretending that everything was normal—except it wasn’t.

She stared at the damp grit and tried not to think of the last time she’d spoken to her son, the last time she’d known he was safe.

Her whole life had been about acting out pretense after pretense.
The outright lies.
She glanced up at the little radio with Moira’s name scrawled on it in her best red nail varnish and indulged in a sad smile.
Well, maybe not my whole life.
She loved her children—all of them—with a fierceness that sometimes frightened her.

The girls were too small to get into much trouble. Although, she had to admit that Moira sometimes disturbed her with stories of seeing things that weren’t there. Her drawings of the Wee People had been the result of many a long chat with the nuns at the school. Although, truth be told none of the pictures depicted anyone terribly wee. Then there was little Patrick. Every day he seemed more and more sullen, and the older he got the less he listened to her. Sixteen-year-old Eileen, on the other hand, was an ideal child. However, Kathleen couldn’t help wondering how much of her behavior was due to lessons she’d learned while watching her older brother.
Don’t cause trouble. Don’t draw attention to yourself. Stay hidden.

Each of her children made her worry in their own way, but the one that concerned her the most of late was Liam, and there was no one that she could go to for help.
You know the RUC are right. He went and volunteered
, she thought.
He did it because of her. Mary Kate. The Gallaghers are all political. Every one. They find him—he’ll go back to prison for good.
From the day Mary Kate had died, her Liam had not been the same. And now he’d shut her out. He had his reasons, to be sure. She understood. She should have told him about Bran, but she’d foolishly hoped that he wouldn’t ever have to know. She’d so wanted some wee bit of normalcy for him—even if it was only a façade. Wasn’t being a fatherless boy burden enough?

Imagining the worst, how Liam might be dead or in jail, had worried her sick, but Father Murray had called. He’d said Liam was safe and that she would be hearing from him or seeing him soon. When she did she resolved to apologize for all the times she’d failed him.
Why did he punish himself so? Why couldn’t he stay out of trouble?
She knew the answer. Liam was still bearing the brunt of it all. That was it. Same as before. Well, it had to stop. She would make it stop.

Sins of the father.

Or is it the mother?

Someone knocked on the door. She wiped her hands on a towel and went to answer it, but by the time she got there whomever it was had gone, leaving behind a white envelope. She scanned the hallway and then picked it up. The weight of the paper told her there was a card inside. She closed the door and sat on the sofa to read it.

Meet me on the corner. Tonight at eight o’clock.

There was no signature, only the letter B.

Something about it didn’t feel right. To begin with, Bran had never left her a note before. For a long time she’d wondered if he could write. The Fair Folk didn’t go in much for written history as everyone knew. Nonetheless, Bran’s Latin was better than hers, and he could recite long passages of Irish poetry and literature, past and present. The handwriting wasn’t how she imagined it would be. The thin script was barely legible for all the swirls and embellishments. She didn’t know what she expected from him, but it wasn’t that. The card disturbed her. For a moment she considered that perhaps someone had meant it for another door, but the idea that it might actually be for Mrs. Foyle or Mrs. McKenna was ridiculous.

Kathleen sighed. Of course it was from Bran. Who else would send such a cryptic message? Besides hadn’t she warned him to be more discrete? Bran had been seen—by Mrs. Foyle of all people, and once again Kathleen found herself the subject of disapproving stares. She didn’t need him hovering over her as if she were helpless. She was a grown woman. She could take care of herself. It wasn’t long before Patrick heard the gossip. He hadn’t reacted well, and it’d taken much effort to convince him that she was not having an affair. Of course, it didn’t help that her assertion was only a half-truth. Bran wasn’t a mortal man, was he? And was it technically an affair if she wasn’t sleeping with him?

I am not a good woman,
she thought.
Pretense.

She burned both card and envelope in case Patrick might find them. Then she returned to her housework, considering what excuse she would give to get away that night.

“I’m to my mother’s now,” Kathleen said, looking over her shoulder. It was close enough to the truth. Father Murray had called to inform her that Liam was hidden away safe at her mother’s, injured but recovering. The plan was to visit Liam after the quick chat with Bran—and it would be a quick chat. She’d see to that.

Patrick grunted. “I’ll be calling her to see you’re not lying, woman.”

“You do that,” she said, attempting to keep the contempt from her tone and failing. She could always blame an army checkpoint if she were late. It was good that her mother didn’t care much for Patrick. Of course, Kathleen wasn’t sure her mother cared much for anyone.

In any case, Patrick had eaten his dinner already and was watching the television while drinking his beer. He’d be content for a few hours at the least. She slipped out the door and down the stairs, taking care to be especially quiet about it. To her relief, Mrs. Foyle didn’t so much as stir on the other side of her door.