I exhale slowly, watching the tendrils of smoke curl their way out the window and vanish into the night sky. The pack I opened earlier today lies empty on the table and I haven’t taken a single puff, content to let the tobacco burn and the red embers glow and then fade into ash while I relish the calm before the coming storm.
Listening for the telltale jangle of keys at the door. Aengus didn’t even come home last night, which was probably the first smart move he’s made in all this, because I would have taken the agony from my day out on his jaw.
And he’d deserve it.
The front door to our house creaks open. Measured footfalls make their way down the hall, his boot scraping the worn wood floor on every fourth step.
“River . . . ya here?” Aengus’s deep voice cuts through the peace. Though we grew up in the same household, in the same city, people have said his accent is thicker, the way Rowen and I speak more refined.
I could answer but I don’t, don’t get up to greet him. I just sit in my rickety kitchen chair, shrouded in darkness, stewing in rage. And I wonder what kind of “warning” could be worth walking four kilometers with a volatile explosive tucked under your arm. I know my brother’s not suicidal, but that . . . only an idiot would do that.
I sense him standing at the kitchen threshold now, his eyes on my shirtless back, no doubt seeing the gauze patches covering the three shrapnel wounds. They weren’t too bad, after all. Tiny slivers that cut into my skin, thin enough that Eamon was able to stitch me up. That didn’t stop me from passing out from the pain as he dug into my flesh for that last one, though.
“Thought ya quit.” A beam of light hits my face as Aengus pulls two cans of Smithwick’s out of the fridge. He drops one in front of me, not saying a word about the five empty cans lined up at the table’s edge. Normally he’d cuff me for touching his beer.
That’s how I know he feels at least some remorse.
“I did.” I take a single haul off the smoke burning between my fingers, exhale slowly, and then mash the rest of it into the heap of other butts. “Funny what almost getting blown up does to a person.”
He drags out the chair across from me and sits down, straddling it. “Ya weren’t supposed to be there.”
I finally meet eyes with my brother for the first time since the Green yesterday morning. His face is rosy from drink and covered in strawberry scruff, the jeans and shirt that he traded his disguise for rumpled. He looks like he’s been hiding at the bottom of a barrel for the past thirty-six hours.
“You made the front page.” I toss the Times at him. The Herald and the Mirror share similar headlines. In fact, I’m guessing that the bombing in St. Stephen’s Green made every front page from Cork to Belfast.
His eyes only flicker toward it. “Been in to work yet?”
I shake my head. “Rowen’s covering.” The youngest of the Delaney boys, and the one I can always count on, had to miss classes both yesterday and today to cover for me. He was mighty pissed yesterday, but after he found me belly-down in bed last night, moaning in pain, he played it off like it was no big deal. Who needs a college degree when you can watch Greta—the tall blonde from Germany that we just hired—bend over tables to hand out pints to customers, he had joked.
That’s my younger brother. Day and night from the asshole sitting across from me.
“Did he mention anyone stopping by there?”
Aengus doesn’t really mean just “anyone.” “Not yet. But they will.” Gardai always come sniffing around our pub when there’s trouble. It just comes with the territory of being a Delaney.
Aengus nods slowly and then pulls a smoke from his own pack and lights up. The real estate agent who’s trying to sell our house warned us about smoking inside, but right now I don’t care. We already had to cancel one showing this morning because I wasn’t about to leave my bed.
A long, uncomfortable silence settles over us, and it almost unnerves me more than what happened. Normally we collide and combust—yelling, punching, swearing at each other. This is different. This means he’s gone too far and he knows it.
Finally he sighs, lifting his cap from his head to run his hand over his scalp. I’m still not used to seeing the copper-top mop gone. It was the trademark of the only Aengus I’ve ever known. You could see him from a city block away. I think that’s why he shaved it off the day he was convicted. It was too recognizable. Witnesses could easily identify him. “What the hell were you thinking, following me there? Ya knew something was going down.”
“What was I thinking?” I level him with a glare, fighting to keep my voice to a low hiss. Though our house may be detached, the night’s quiet and the windows are open. “You almost killed someone yesterday.”
“Fucking American,” he mutters under his breath, taking another drag. “What was she doin’ jumping past the tape anyway?”
“Doesn’t matter. Can you imagine the madness that would have stirred up? They’d have all of the gardai on this and you’d be back behind bars within a week, and for a hell of a lot longer than six years. And I’d probably be thrown in there with ya,” I add bitterly. “Da already had one heart attack. You want him to have another one?” Doctors say one more would likely kill him.
Aengus ignores the mention of our father and it makes me wonder if he’d care at all. They’ve been on the outs for years. “Did anyone see ya?”
“Besides the American girl who you almost blew up?” I shake my head. “I used the trees and then I scaled the wall.” Not an easy feat, especially with bits of plastic explosive embedded in my body.
He stabs at the newspaper headline. “What can she tell them?”
“Nothing.”
“The article says that she told police the man who fled the scene had an Irish accent. So ya talked to her.” He pushes. “What’d ya say?”
“I told her help was coming. That’s all.” It doesn’t sound like she told them anything else, but who the hell knows what the gardai didn’t tell reporters? Her name isn’t mentioned anywhere and I know they have that. “She was in shock. I doubt she remembers any of it.” I left her lying in the grass, her pretty light green eyes wild with confusion. I hated doing it, too. She’s the only reason I left the house today, to buy every newspaper I could find within a two-block radius.
I needed to know she was okay.
A part of me was hoping for more information, something to tell me who she is and why she’s in Ireland. How long she’s here for.
Where I could find her, if I just wanted to see her again. Then again, the bomb left me off-balance, struggling to get myself out of there in time. I don’t even know if I’d be able to identify her in a lineup now. All I really can remember is a pink cap, lean strong legs, and those beautiful green eyes.
Aengus’s heavy gaze levels me. “They’re already blaming us, without any proof.”
“Not us, Aengus. You, and rightfully so. You and Jimmy and whoever else he coerced into doing this.”
“Jimmy didn’t coerce me into doing anything,” Aengus snaps and I roll my eyes. I’ve never seen my big brother bend to anyone else, not even our father. But for Jimmy Conlon . . . he’d polish his bleeding shoes if the man held up a foot and a rag. As his right-hand man, Aengus is wrapped around Jimmy’s pinky finger.
Listening for the telltale jangle of keys at the door. Aengus didn’t even come home last night, which was probably the first smart move he’s made in all this, because I would have taken the agony from my day out on his jaw.
And he’d deserve it.
The front door to our house creaks open. Measured footfalls make their way down the hall, his boot scraping the worn wood floor on every fourth step.
“River . . . ya here?” Aengus’s deep voice cuts through the peace. Though we grew up in the same household, in the same city, people have said his accent is thicker, the way Rowen and I speak more refined.
I could answer but I don’t, don’t get up to greet him. I just sit in my rickety kitchen chair, shrouded in darkness, stewing in rage. And I wonder what kind of “warning” could be worth walking four kilometers with a volatile explosive tucked under your arm. I know my brother’s not suicidal, but that . . . only an idiot would do that.
I sense him standing at the kitchen threshold now, his eyes on my shirtless back, no doubt seeing the gauze patches covering the three shrapnel wounds. They weren’t too bad, after all. Tiny slivers that cut into my skin, thin enough that Eamon was able to stitch me up. That didn’t stop me from passing out from the pain as he dug into my flesh for that last one, though.
“Thought ya quit.” A beam of light hits my face as Aengus pulls two cans of Smithwick’s out of the fridge. He drops one in front of me, not saying a word about the five empty cans lined up at the table’s edge. Normally he’d cuff me for touching his beer.
That’s how I know he feels at least some remorse.
“I did.” I take a single haul off the smoke burning between my fingers, exhale slowly, and then mash the rest of it into the heap of other butts. “Funny what almost getting blown up does to a person.”
He drags out the chair across from me and sits down, straddling it. “Ya weren’t supposed to be there.”
I finally meet eyes with my brother for the first time since the Green yesterday morning. His face is rosy from drink and covered in strawberry scruff, the jeans and shirt that he traded his disguise for rumpled. He looks like he’s been hiding at the bottom of a barrel for the past thirty-six hours.
“You made the front page.” I toss the Times at him. The Herald and the Mirror share similar headlines. In fact, I’m guessing that the bombing in St. Stephen’s Green made every front page from Cork to Belfast.
His eyes only flicker toward it. “Been in to work yet?”
I shake my head. “Rowen’s covering.” The youngest of the Delaney boys, and the one I can always count on, had to miss classes both yesterday and today to cover for me. He was mighty pissed yesterday, but after he found me belly-down in bed last night, moaning in pain, he played it off like it was no big deal. Who needs a college degree when you can watch Greta—the tall blonde from Germany that we just hired—bend over tables to hand out pints to customers, he had joked.
That’s my younger brother. Day and night from the asshole sitting across from me.
“Did he mention anyone stopping by there?”
Aengus doesn’t really mean just “anyone.” “Not yet. But they will.” Gardai always come sniffing around our pub when there’s trouble. It just comes with the territory of being a Delaney.
Aengus nods slowly and then pulls a smoke from his own pack and lights up. The real estate agent who’s trying to sell our house warned us about smoking inside, but right now I don’t care. We already had to cancel one showing this morning because I wasn’t about to leave my bed.
A long, uncomfortable silence settles over us, and it almost unnerves me more than what happened. Normally we collide and combust—yelling, punching, swearing at each other. This is different. This means he’s gone too far and he knows it.
Finally he sighs, lifting his cap from his head to run his hand over his scalp. I’m still not used to seeing the copper-top mop gone. It was the trademark of the only Aengus I’ve ever known. You could see him from a city block away. I think that’s why he shaved it off the day he was convicted. It was too recognizable. Witnesses could easily identify him. “What the hell were you thinking, following me there? Ya knew something was going down.”
“What was I thinking?” I level him with a glare, fighting to keep my voice to a low hiss. Though our house may be detached, the night’s quiet and the windows are open. “You almost killed someone yesterday.”
“Fucking American,” he mutters under his breath, taking another drag. “What was she doin’ jumping past the tape anyway?”
“Doesn’t matter. Can you imagine the madness that would have stirred up? They’d have all of the gardai on this and you’d be back behind bars within a week, and for a hell of a lot longer than six years. And I’d probably be thrown in there with ya,” I add bitterly. “Da already had one heart attack. You want him to have another one?” Doctors say one more would likely kill him.
Aengus ignores the mention of our father and it makes me wonder if he’d care at all. They’ve been on the outs for years. “Did anyone see ya?”
“Besides the American girl who you almost blew up?” I shake my head. “I used the trees and then I scaled the wall.” Not an easy feat, especially with bits of plastic explosive embedded in my body.
He stabs at the newspaper headline. “What can she tell them?”
“Nothing.”
“The article says that she told police the man who fled the scene had an Irish accent. So ya talked to her.” He pushes. “What’d ya say?”
“I told her help was coming. That’s all.” It doesn’t sound like she told them anything else, but who the hell knows what the gardai didn’t tell reporters? Her name isn’t mentioned anywhere and I know they have that. “She was in shock. I doubt she remembers any of it.” I left her lying in the grass, her pretty light green eyes wild with confusion. I hated doing it, too. She’s the only reason I left the house today, to buy every newspaper I could find within a two-block radius.
I needed to know she was okay.
A part of me was hoping for more information, something to tell me who she is and why she’s in Ireland. How long she’s here for.
Where I could find her, if I just wanted to see her again. Then again, the bomb left me off-balance, struggling to get myself out of there in time. I don’t even know if I’d be able to identify her in a lineup now. All I really can remember is a pink cap, lean strong legs, and those beautiful green eyes.
Aengus’s heavy gaze levels me. “They’re already blaming us, without any proof.”
“Not us, Aengus. You, and rightfully so. You and Jimmy and whoever else he coerced into doing this.”
“Jimmy didn’t coerce me into doing anything,” Aengus snaps and I roll my eyes. I’ve never seen my big brother bend to anyone else, not even our father. But for Jimmy Conlon . . . he’d polish his bleeding shoes if the man held up a foot and a rag. As his right-hand man, Aengus is wrapped around Jimmy’s pinky finger.
