Son of Blood Page 2

  Having sunk half of the can, he wiggled the base of it until it sat safely in the sand and he rested back on his elbows, watching his friends and wondered briefly how his father would react if he could see his son right now.

  Frank Lennon and David McLaughlin were huddled close together, desperately trying to light a cigarette in the wind. Frank, a front row forward in the school team, had been the first boy in school to achieve proper stubble across his chin and cheeks, which meant he was beheld in a state of awe, but he kept both his bright ginger stubble and hair trimmed close. David was tall and lanky and, unlike his two best friends, had no interest in rugby. His hair was longer, lighter, and his nose was sharp and pointed. He was generally quieter than his friends and he was happy about that. The start of their friendship meant that the bullying he’d endured through his early school years had come to an abrupt end, and while Owen and Frank dreamt of a professional rugby career, David was already looking forward to studying for a degree and more.

  The pair finally got one cigarette lit and then used the glowing end to ignite a second. Frank tucked the packet and the lighter inside his fleece and, with a shiver, pulled the zipper right up to his neck. The wood in the fire gave off a loud crack and as Frank brought the cigarette to his lips, the blonde girl reached over and snatched it away from him.

  ‘Claire!’

  She inhaled loudly, the tip of the cigarette glowing brighter in the night.

  ‘Claire.’

  She blew the cloud of grey smoke into his face.

  ‘Well, you didn’t even ask if I wanted one,’ Claire O’Callaghan said, flicking her curly blonde hair out of her eyes. ‘And anyway, I’m your girlfriend. What’s yours is mine.’

  ‘I wish’, Frank muttered, much to the amusement of Owen and David.

  ‘Oh you do, do you?’ she retorted and leant across the sand and kissed him, holding the burning roll-up off to her side.

  ‘Oh, get a room,’ said Sinead, the dark haired girl. Her hair was straight, and had clearly received a great deal of attention before the wind had dragged it around.

  ‘We can, if you want’, Owen said quietly from across the fire, narrowing his eyes at her.

  ‘Friends, Owen. We’re friends.’

  ‘Well, who would you date then? If you won’t go out with me, who would you want go out with?’ He twisted his beer can out of the sand, tilted his head back, and spilt the amber fluid down the front of his Ireland rugby shirt just as two feet, clad in heavy leather boots, landed with a thump inside the sphere of firelight. The dry sand leapt up into the air and was carried on the wind into the fire, where it hissed and was then silent. Frank and Claire disengaged with a hardly audible curse and David shrank into himself like a startled turtle, lowering his chin into the neck of his dark blue ski jacket. Only Sinead found herself with a surreptitious grin creeping across her face.

  A man stepped forward into the light, bringing more and more of himself into view with each pace. The boots became legs covered in thick, dirty denim jeans. A black leather coat reached down to his knees. The jacket was unbuttoned, but the collar, stiff with age and wear, was turned up, giving him the look of the villain in a spaghetti western. A black shirt, the top two buttons open, showed a gold ring hung on a leather lace tied around his neck.

  He stood around six and a half feet tall, and the breadth of his shoulders was simply massive. Had they been stood side by side, Owen Flannery would have been dwarfed, could have found employ as the huge man’s shadow.

  ‘Good evening, children,’ he said, in a deep, guttural voice that was nothing more than a whisper. ‘I hope you are all behaving yourselves.’

  Without breaking stride, barely acknowledging the nods from four of the group or the tempestuous shake of the head from Owen, he walked across the beach towards the town, prodding their plastic drink bag with his foot as he passed. The teenagers could not draw their eyes from him until, from further down the beach, there came a sudden splash from the water’s edge and a muffled thud. The man stopped and turned.

  ‘Christian!’ he called before once again making his way towards the town. ‘Hurry!’

  The grin on Sinead’s face became a full-fledged smile as the boy, the left leg of his jeans wet and matted with sand, walked into view, his head down, shoulders slumped inside his zipped black jacket. Owen rolled his eyes and shook his head once more, catching Frank’s attention by hooking his thumb towards the boy and spitting onto the sand.

  ‘I’m coming, Father,’ the boy said, then paused as he spotted the group. The big one was staring at him but shaking his head, his friends, as ever, were just grinning like idiots. But then he saw Sinead and he could not help himself. He looked right into her eyes and smiled. She returned the gesture, showing him warmth in a look that he could never gain from the fire that continued to crackle and spit in between them.

  ‘You have got to be kidding me!’ muttered Owen, wiping the spilt beer from the front of his shirt.

  ‘Christian,’ Sinead spoke softly, ‘…can you sit with us a while?’

  ‘I have to…my father…um…’ he replied, gestured up the beach.

  ‘I think he’s trying to tell us,’ interrupted David, ‘he has to go and learn the ways of the Force and become a Jedi Knight, like his father.’

  Christian looked blankly at him.

  ‘Oh, come on. Jedi? Jedi Knights? Star Wars?’

  ‘Uh?’

  ‘Oh, come on,’ David repeated.

  ‘Leave him be,’ snapped Sinead, drawing a nasty look from Owen.

  ‘I…I have to go,’ stammered Christian as he started away from the fire.

  Sinead pushed herself to her feet, almost followed him, when she realized all of her friends were staring at her, incredulous looks on their faces.

  ‘I’ll see you soon?’ she said instead.

  He turned around and nodded, averted his gaze from the malicious look he was receiving from Owen, and began walking away. Sinead took her place again next to the fire. The only sounds to be heard were the sea, the wind, and the flames until finally they could make out Christian’s footsteps as he stepped from the sand and onto the path. Owen glanced over his shoulder, estimating the distance, and when even the echoes of each step could no longer be heard, he jabbed an aggressive index finger towards Sinead.

  ‘Him? Seriously?’

  ‘Easy, Owen,’ said Frank.

  Owen got to his feet.

  ‘Or what, Frank? What do you want to do about it?’

  ‘Nothing,’ he muttered as he lowered his head to the sand. ‘Nothing’.

  Sinead shook her head. ‘I’ll be friends with whoever I like, Owen.’

  ‘What? Even that…whatever the hell he is? That freak?’

  He kicked the beach with his expensive shoe and the sand lifted up across the fire and over his friends. They coughed and wiped at their eyes, cursing and exclaiming their surprise. Claire was the first one to look up.

  ‘Oh, my…’

  Owen’s feet were six inches off the ground. A single weathered hand gripped him by the chin.

  ‘Watch what you say, child,’ the man said. ‘Little words travel a long way in this town.’

  With a magician’s flourish, the fingers wrapped around Owen’s face released their grasp and he fell to the floor, sucking in air. His friends were all still staring at the place where, moments before, there had been a giant of a man stood. Now there was nothing.

  4

  They did not speak again until they had mounted the steps to enter the municipal building. The man and the boy had walked side by side through Skerries, taking the longer route around the town as opposed to the shortcut through the church. Christian knew that this was just for show, to enhance the image the residents had of them both, but it was an image his father worked hard to preserve. As they walked, thick, low clouds had rolled in off the sea, placing a lid over the town, obscuring the stars that the boy had seen from the beach. As he strode onwards, only one thought filled his mind.r />
  Sinead.

  Even as people acknowledged them while they made their way towards their meeting, he barely noticed anything around him. Christian simply hoped that he would be able to see her again later, maybe spend some time chatting with her. He didn’t understand why he had to attend the meetings anyway. His opinion was never sought and he was often ignored for the duration, so what was the point of his being there when he could be spending his time being, well, more normal?

  The town was settling in for the night. Many of the houses they passed had their curtains closed, only small cracks of escaping light intimating that there was anyone home at all. The orange glow from the street lights mixed with the beams of passing cars to give the streets the feel of a movie set. The pubs pulsed with music as they passed by, the occasional burst of raucous laughter from within punctuating the calm. The further they walked, the less the sound of the sea infringed upon their hearing, and the boy’s thoughts were interrupted as his ears picked up fragments of conversations, drowned out again when a car or a bus rumbled past, allowing his mind to wander back to Sinead.

  They reached their destination, a horrible, dated monstrosity of a building that had no place in the town, and Christian struggled to keep up as the man took the front steps three at a time. As they reached the hulking door, the man turned.

  ‘You know what they are like, especially after…’ He seemed to curb himself and placed his heavy hand on the boy’s shoulder. ‘So just let them talk. Let them have their moment.’

  ‘Yes, father,’ he replied with a shrug. ‘I just don’t see…’

  ‘Why you have to come? Why you can’t be down at the beach with the children?’ He paused, as if emphasizing the gravity of what he had to say. ‘Because you have a responsibility that others do not. We have a responsibility.’

  ‘But what if I don’t…’

  ‘But you do.’ It was more a command than a comment. ‘We can talk about this later. For now, we need to go inside.’

  Most of the lights within the building were extinguished, and they made their way up the stairs to the first floor in shadows. The carpets were soft and thick beneath their feet, the walls freshly painted. As they headed way along the corridor away from the stairs and towards the back of the building, the rumble of voices and the clinking of glasses became louder. Christian slowed his stride, letting his father take the lead, as he always did. They were almost at the door when it opened and they were greeted by a short, round, balding man with red cheeks and a ridiculously exaggerated smile across his face.

  ‘Martin!’ Connor Mooney boomed. ‘Come on in, come on in.’ He gestured for them to enter with the whiskey tumbler he gripped in his left hand.

  The room was brightly lit and plumes of tobacco smoke hung in the air. A wide desk sat at the far side, overshadowed by a portrait of Mooney in his mayoral attire that hung on the wall behind it. The picture always made Christian smile. It bore very little real resemblance to the man himself. The waistline was much tighter, there was only one chin on the painted Connor Mooney, and the redness in his face, tiny veins cracking the surface of his skin, had been morphed into a healthy glow. As Martin was ushered into the room to the glowing admiration and hint of fear of the rest of the occupants, Christian took his usual chair by the exit and watched.

  After closing the door, Mooney had quickly moved to his desk, rescued a chubby cigar from a crystal ashtray and rejoined Martin, moving him around the room more like a clever puppeteer that a convivial host. There were four other people there, all with a stiff drink in hand, and Christian closely analyzed each of their reactions as greetings were exchanged. Peter Hawke, local Guard Sergeant, as his father had been before him, was a tall and imposing man, but he shook Martin’s hand with deference. It was clear to Christian that their special arrangement made life very easy for this man, and for that he was grateful.

  Of them all, Hawke was the only one Christian considered a decent human being. His uniform was always immaculate and he took the time to acknowledge Christian, unlike others. Martin next shook hands with Damon Flannery. Christian felt his top lip tense into a sneer as the skinny man not only shook his father’s hand but also patted him on the shoulder like he was some obedient animal. Feeling his gums start to throb, Christian had to look away to calm himself, but not before he noticed the dark patches of sweat beneath the arms of Flannery’s lilac shirt.

  He had wondered what the distant odor that seemed to dilute the smoke and alcohol had been, but now it was obvious. It came from Mooney’s sniveling little errand boy, Head of the high school and father to the one person in town whom Christian feared.

  Now, his father was talking with Mooney, his wife who was simply a longer-haired, female version of her spouse, and a tall man who Christian had seen in town but never previously at one of these gatherings. It seemed that he was not the only one focusing in on the introductions; the rest of the room had fallen to silence as the mayor conducted the formalities.

  ‘And, Martin, I would like to introduce you to Patrick Robinson, the newest member of our little group.’

  Robinson was as tall as Martin, but nowhere near as broad. His wavy brown hair fell down across his eyebrows. His suit looked more refined than the one worn by Mooney, and it fitted the younger man better.

  ‘Yes, I’ve seen you,’ said Martin, tilting his chin slightly to one side, never taking his eyes from the newcomer.

  Robinson extended his hand. ‘A pleasure to meet you properly.’

  The two men shook briefly, Martin kept Robinson’s hand grasped tightly in his, suspended in the air between them. The other members of the gathering were exchanging glances. No one looked towards Christian as he leant forward in his seat, knees on his elbows and fingers clasped in front of his face.

  ‘I thought I was to be included in any decisions like this.’ Martin continued to hold Robinson’s stare as he addressed Mooney.

  ‘It seemed such a trivial thing to trouble you with. Peter’s father had more than done his bit for us, and Patrick here, well…’

  ‘And how long has Patrick here been with us?’

  ‘It’s been over a year.’

  ‘It’s been nearly a year,’ He turned his head toward Mooney. ‘Don’t ever think I don’t know what is going on in this town.’

  ‘Not for a moment,’ Mooney exclaimed, his red face now purple. ‘But if we troubled you with every little thing? You have always trusted us before, trusted us to make the right decisions. Then trust us now, please?’

  Martin released Robinson’s hand as he nodded his acquiescence, but still continued to regard him through narrowed eyes.

  ‘I only want what is best for this town, on that I swear,’ Robinson said, breaking the tension in the room. ‘And I want to be the first to thank you for cleaning up that little problem with Buckley. A detestable man!’

  Before Martin had chance to answer, Flannery snorted with derision.

  ‘Cleaning up? The man’s head was nearly torn from his body. I would hardly describe that as cleaning up.’

  ‘How else I am meant to access…my part of the bargain?’ Martin asked.

  ‘No, no, I wasn’t suggesting…’

  Peter Hawke stepped forward. ‘No matter what you are suggesting, Flannery, the truth of the matter is this: It was a car crash. Alcohol levels above the legal limits were found in his blood, the tire marks left on the road indicate that he was speeding. A lethal combination in any circumstances, but throw in the foul weather and what did he expect?’

  ‘And your superiors in Dublin?’ asked Mooney.

  ‘Something like this, they had to be involved anyway. But it just so happens a few of our local residents saw him in the bar, drinking after work, apparently. Knocking them back like nobody’s business. That kind of disregard, he got what was coming to him.’

  ‘So the matter is ended?’ asked Mooney, receiving a nod from the Guard. ‘You see, that is why I love this town. We look after our own. Hawke, when was the last time there w
as a violent crime in Skerries? A break in? An assault? No need for an answer, my old friend. Safest little town in the world we have right here. We welcome strangers, of course we do, but we also make sure they stick to our rules. Thanks to you, of course, Martin.’

  He raised his glass in Martin’s direction and the rest of the room followed suit.

  ‘So, Martin, is there anything else you need?’ Mooney asked, in his usual sycophantic manner.

  ‘Just the books. The school books I asked for, for my boy.’

  ‘Father,’ Christian snapped, rising to his feet. ‘I don’t…’

  ‘Boy, you will be silent and take your seat.’

  ‘But Fa—’

  ‘NOW!’

  Everyone in the room flinched. Mooney’s wife almost fell over the chair behind her and Mooney himself elbowed his ashtray onto the floor, ash and cigar butts scattering across the carpet and leaving a sooty stain in the blue weave. Christian slowly sat back down. Martin turned to Flannery.

  ‘You will have those books for me tomorrow?’

  ‘Yes… Yes, of course. Yes, yes,’ he stuttered in reply, jaw trembling.

  ‘Then if there is nothing else, we shall be on our way.’

  ‘There is, umm, just one more issue, actually.’ Robinson spoke slowly and with great presence. Martin glanced at Mooney. It was only ever the mayor who made requests. And now this new member was just taking over?

  Mooney caught Martin’s look.

  ‘What Patrick means to say is that there has been a traveler spotted. A vagrant, maybe? Now, we’re not sure if he’s just passing through or if he sees himself staying on, but if you could just keep an eye on the situation?’

  ‘Would you like me to encourage him to leave?’