Lucas took a deep breath. “No. There was someone, but I just couldn’t get it together. I don’t care about sex anymore, really, but I am a man, still. Sometimes you just need to be close to someone to feel alive.” His eyes flicked up to Jamie, dead Jamie. “To feel human.”

  “Wasn’t it painful for you? To be so close to me and not say anything? I was always so touchy-feely with you.”

  “I made my choice,” Lucas affirmed, managing a little smile for him. “You were my sunlight, my angel, my reason to get up in the morning. Any pain was more than worth it for the joy and fulfillment I got from being with you.”

  “God, Lucas. I wish I’d known. I’m sorry.”

  “Jamie, can we leave this topic for now? I just need a little time to process everything. Please.” He doubted he could take much more emotion at the moment; he was liable to explode.

  “Okay. One last thing, though. Is the fact that you were in love with me”—Jamie’s cheeks flushed scarlet—“Is that why you haven’t been able to move on?”

  “I think it’s a big part of it. But more than that, I feel like I should have been able to save you. I feel like I let you down. How can I be happy when you’re gone? How can I live and thrive and make something of myself when you can’t? We were so young, Jamie. I should have gotten you out of there. I wanted to protect you from all the awful things in the world.”

  “Lucas, don’t be silly. It’s not your fault that I died.” Jamie smiled warmly at him and put his slightly glowing hand on top of Lucas’s. “I would have died a lot sooner if it wasn’t for you, probably. You protected me, you stood by me, and you kept me sane for two miserable years in those trenches. How can you blame yourself for that? People die in war zones, Lucas. I know you would have taken that bullet for me if you could have. You would have gone to hell and back for me. It’s not your fault I died, please stop blaming yourself for that.”

  Oh, Jamie. No. Lucas’s hands trembled; he could actually feel his breakfast starting to creep up his throat. He couldn’t— Jamie trusted him so implicitly, believed the best in him even now, even now. Jesus. Jesus Christ, Jamie no, no, no, no.

  “Lucas? What’s wrong?” Jamie’s smile was warm and tender, his eyebrows knitted together with concern.

  Lucas, in contrast, felt like a ghost. “Jamie—you don’t understand—I—”

  “Lucas . . . shhh,” Jamie coaxed, sitting closer to him. “It’s not your fault I’m dead, it’s not your fault I’m trapped in limbo, there was nothing you could have done to stop that bullet from killing me.” He smiled and put a weightless hand on his friend’s shoulder.

  “I absolve you of your guilt.”

  Lucas put his head in his hands and breathed in and out. Idly, he wondered how hell could feel so tepid and gentle.

  1904

  Thunder crashed outside Jamie’s home and Lucas awoke with a start. Annoyingly, he had to piss, and he somehow managed to dislodge his tiny body from Jamie’s possessive grip. He carefully tiptoed through the halls, looking for the washroom. In his house they had a communal toilet that the whole block shared, but he strongly suspected Jamie probably had something a little nicer. All right, toilet. Where the hell do rich people shit? He bit his lip and resolved to see if John was awake. The alternative was to go outside and pee on a bush or something. He heard voices and peeked his head around the corner, not wanting to interrupt.

  “He’s only small, but . . . ” John said. “Poor little thing, he was half-frozen when Jamie found him. I just couldn’t bear to leave him out there, not with the rain as it was.”

  “John . . . you don’t know who he is, he could be a gypsy boy or he may have bad people who’ll want him back. Or they might have left him there on purpose, hoping someone would take him in so he can ransack the place.” The grandmother shook her head. “He’s very sweet though, isn’t he? And the Bible says, ‘but when you give a feast, invite the poor, the crippled, the lame, the blind, and you will be blessed, because they cannot repay you.’ I suppose the real problem is how hard it’ll be when you and Jamie have to go back to Anna and wee Fiona. You can’t take him with you, can you? He’ll just be back on the streets.”

  John just shook his head. “I don’t know. I have to pray on it.”

  Lucas tiptoed off, not wanting to be caught eavesdropping on something like this. Fuck. Fuck these people, fuck them for being giving and kind, fuck them for taking him out of the rain. It was so embarrassing, so awful to be gawked at like a Christian charity project. Gypsy fucking orphan, Jesus. They probably half expected him to steal the silver, although to be fair, he had certainly been considering it earlier. He shut his eyes and tried ignoring his angry bladder, scampering back into the room and huddling into the bed with Jamie once more. Jamie wrapped his arms around Lucas’s body and made a contented noise. Lucas was exhausted and found sleep quite easily in the cozy room.

  He woke up the next morning still cuddled up in Jamie’s arms. With a calm little sigh, he snuggled in closer, enjoying the warmth of the blankets and the way the rain sounded as it pelted against the windows. He still had to pee, but it could wait, he was too comfortable and didn’t want to move.

  Jamie groaned pleasantly as he awoke, startling away from Lucas when he opened his eyes. “Huh? Oh—oh of course, good morning, Lucas! Did you sleep well?”

  Lucas nodded against Jamie’s chest.

  “Want to check if breakfast is ready? Granny makes really nice porridge.”

  Lucas just nodded, rubbing his eyes. The house smelled wonderful, like fragrant tea and warm, clean clothes, and he couldn’t help but relax as he made his way through the tidy home. Jamie let him use the toilet and wash his face, and they both scampered to the kitchen to eat their fill.

  “Did you sleep all right, Lucas?” Jamie’s granny placed a generous portion of porridge in front of him, with a drizzle of honey oozing down the top, and she’d added some fresh red fruit that he wasn’t sure he’d seen before.

  “Yes, thank you.”

  “Lovely. Lucas, would you mind saying grace for us?”

  Lucas panicked. Oh Jesus, his family never said grace, shit, okay. “I don’t— my family never—” Of course they didn’t. They weren’t a well-bred godly group of people like the Murrays— fuck!

  John smiled at him, warm and sad. “It’s all right, Lucas. Eat up, as much as you want.”

  Lucas was hungry enough that his embarrassment abated a little. He poked the red thing with his spoon before putting it in his mouth. He was suspicious of it but found the little berry to be tart and delicious. Jamie liked his tea with lots of milk and sugar in it. Lucas had always had his black but imitated his host— damn, it was lovely.

  “This is really nice,” Lucas said after he’d wolfed everything down. “Thank you. I’m really happy right now.” His cheeks were red and he felt like he could cry. Was every day like this for Jamie? Warm and safe and good?

  In response, John tried to pat Lucas’s head, stopping when the little boy flinched violently away. “Sorry, son.” John muttered. He made a point of always letting Lucas see where his hands were after that.

  Lucas wasn’t stupid; he knew this couldn’t last for very long. But the stupid part of him was imagining what life would be like if the Murray family took him in. If maybe they went to their holiday cottage together. He could play with Fiona, get a kitten and laugh when it chased mice in the field. Jamie could read to him every day, and he’d always have porridge with honey, with berries . . . It was a beautiful dream, but why should they take in a street urchin like him? He had nothing to offer; his own father knew what a useless leech he was, how he’d ruined their lives and kept them all miserable. And his manners weren’t good; he saw that now. He couldn’t even say grace right.

  “Well now, Lucas, do you want to come with Jamie and me while I go shopping for books? It looks like the weather will be a little bit nicer today, maybe we can visit the park as well.”

  Lucas nodded, not wanting to be alone in the house without Jamie. John found some of Jamie’s old clothes, which fit Lucas perfectly, and he marveled at having shoes that didn’t get filled with water the moment he stepped outside. They made their way down Grafton Street, wandering in and out of bookstores. Jamie pointed out various things along the way that caught his interest: the new sweeties at the store, the toy soldier set he’d had his eye on for his birthday, a big fat pigeon that was splashing its way through a puddle.

  Lucas just stood back and listened, smiling a little as Jamie talked and talked and talked. He was an angel, he really was. The world was brighter for his presence; everything he touched was sweet and good. The picture Jamie painted of Dublin was one he’d never seen before, where even the oil streak in the gutter had incredible and intense rainbow beauty to it. Lucas wanted to get lost in this world. He wanted Jamie to narrate the rest of his life.

  John, of course, peppered the experience with little purchases here and there. He bought each of the boys a small bag of sweets, a little metal soldier figurine (Irish class, of course), and mildly suggested avoiding the pigeons for fear of catching communicable diseases. He seemed happy, and kept patting the two boys on the head. Jamie and Lucas trotted beside him, playing with their new toys and laughing all the way down the pavement.

  “All right boys, one last stop,” John smiled as they walked toward a hole-in-the-wall bookstore just at the edge of town. “Not a lot of people know about this place. The owner has the best collection I’ve ever seen. I’m going to try and get him to part with a classic I’ve had my eye on for ages.”

  Lucas was getting a little nervous; they were getting near the King’s Inns, and he knew his way home now. Nothing good happened to him here, nothing ever had. “Um . . . Mr. Murray, I don’t think we should . . . ”

  “Lucas? What’s the matter, son?”

  “It’s just we’re really close to where my Da’ works and . . . ”

  John looked at him kindly and fluffed up his hair. “Do you want to go look for him, little one?”

  “No! No, it’s not that, he’s just— he’s a bit . . . ” He avoided John’s eyes, self-consciously rubbing at the bruises on his neck.

  “Ah. Well, I think we’ll manage all right. You tell me if you start to feel unsafe, okay? It’ll just be a minute.”

  Lucas nodded, keeping an eye on the door the whole time they were in the shop. He knew his father would never step into a bookstore, but he was wary all the same. John picked out his books and put them in his well-worn leather satchel, smiling down at the boys. “Shall we?”

  Lucas allowed himself to be optimistic. They walked out of the shop together, Jamie excitedly telling Lucas about what delectable feast his granny was going to treat them to that evening.

  “Oi!”

  Oh no.

  “Oi! Hey, you with the glasses!”

  John turned around and alarm crossed his face as the drunken figure staggered toward him. His eyes were bloodshot, his hair a mess; he reeked of drink and could barely walk.

  “The fuck you doing with my boy?!”

  Lucas had always been small for his age, but in that moment, he wished he could just disappear. He hid behind Jamie for a moment. The older boy put an arm in front of him to protect him.

  “Ah, is Lucas yours? He was alone in the street last night, so I—”

  Mickey’s fist collided with John’s face, smashing his glasses. Oh Christ, oh shit, why? Please don’t let him be hurt, please!

  “You kidnapped my boy! You buggering pervert, you kidnapped my son! I’ll have you hanged for this so I will, you piece of shit!” He pulled Lucas behind him, shielding him from John.

  “Da’, he didn’t!” Lucas protested, trying to hold him back.

  Mick flung out his fist and sent Lucas flying, his lip split in half.

  “Think you’re better than me? Huh? You think you’re bloody better than me, you—”

  He interrupted himself to vomit on the pavement. He raised his head, hands supported on his knees. Jamie’s father looked down at Mick, who turned his attention to his young and battered son. “You think you deserve anything better than what you’ve been given, Lucas? What a joke.”

  Lucas didn’t really cry anymore, but Jamie did. He looked positively petrified. John was bleeding and cradled his face, surely debating what to do. On the one hand, he was terrified of Lucas’s brutish father, and on the other, he felt it would be awful to child in the hands of such a man.

  Lucas longed to leave with them, to let his father become a fading memory, like an old scar. But the Murrays probably didn’t want him, and Mick’s pride wouldn’t let him give Lucas up to them. The dirty little boy would stay with his own flesh and blood, and the rich educated bastard could go to hell. Lucas knew it was stupid to fight against the inevitable. It was only going to make things worse for him, more dangerous for Jamie and John.

  “I’m sorry,” Lucas said gently to both of them, bowing his head.

  “C’mon Da’, let’s go home, okay? Mum’ll be wondering where we are.” He wiped some of the blood away from his lips with his sleeve and managed a small smile for Jamie, but the other boy could barely even look at him.

  Lucas and his father marched away from the Murrays, back toward their hovel. Mick dragged Lucas roughly by his arm, ignoring the gazes of people in the street who seemed mildly perturbed by the sight of a small child with blood running out of his mouth.

  It was better this way. Lucas destroyed everything he touched, and he wasn’t going to do that to Jamie and his family. He didn’t belong in Jamie’s life, anyway. . . John hadn’t tried to intervene on his behalf, and the sensible part of Lucas was glad of it. A part of him was furious, though. How dare such a kind and caring adult not step in to protect him from his belligerent, drunken father? What kind of Christian was he anyway?

  The familiar stench of stale urine assaulted his nostrils, and Lucas knew he was home. His father fumbled with his keys, growing frustrated when he couldn’t keep his hands steady enough to unlock the door. Lucas tried helping him, and was met with a backhanded slap to the face. His poorly coagulated lip wound erupted fresh, and he backed off, not in the mood for any more beatings.

  When Mick eventually managed to open the door, he dragged Lucas inside and shoved him against the wall. He towered over his son, swaying mildly. Lucas tried to imagine him as a reed by the side of the lake near Jamie’s house. He knew better than to smile at the image, and kept his face still. He wondered where his mother was . Normally, she would have intervened by now. Maybe she was trying to get the doctor to do something for Jessie.

  His father took a moment to collect his thoughts, seemingly trying to remember just what he was so angry about. It came to him, and his whole face brightened “Stayed the whole bloody night with some strangers, did you?” Mick demanded, yanking Lucas’s arm so hard he pulled him nearly to his feet once more. “Think you’re too good for me, eh? Think you can do any better than I did? I was a brat, too, boyo. I had dreams, I wanted a better life for meself, and look where that got me.” He spat on the ground and shoved Lucas back against the splintery wall. “Fucked your mother once and now look at me! Me whole life ruined, all my damned money going to feed a bunch of miserable little parasites! And you . . . you started it all, you!

  “You want to live with rich people? You think you can escape this life and leave the rest of us behind?”

  Lucas was weary; his eyes felt dull. He’d heard it all before. There were only so many times he could be blamed for an entire family’s misery before he stopped listening. But blank apathy wasn’t the response that Mick had been hoping for, so he upped the ante.

  “You think that man wanted you? You think he wanted to waste his time and money on a gutter project like you? The Bible wants people to be charitable, but Christ, Lucas . . . you’re even dumber than I thought. Did he bugger you, Lucas? Did you let him? You make me sick.”

  Lucas wasn’t even sure what he was being accused of anymore, so he let the words wash over him. He knew John hadn’t wanted him; he knew the whole thing was a stupid dream . . .

  “And the boy,” Mick started, pulling his flask out of his pocket and downing another a swig of whatever swill he’d managed to salvage that day. “Rich little shit like that . . . maybe I should take him for a night, see how his Da’ likes it.”

  Lucas’s eyes widened and he stood abruptly, his jaw tight. “Don’t. Don’t you go near him! I’ll stop you!”

  Mick smirked. Apparently, he’d struck a nerve.

  “Will you, now? A little pissant like you? What the fuck are you gonna do about it?” He cracked his knuckles and loomed over his small son, licking his teeth. “I’ll find him, I’ll drag him back here, and I’ll—I’ll cut off his finger to send to his Da’. He’ll pay a fucking fortune, I bet. Show him what a friendship with a lowlife like you is worth, eh?”

  Mick made his way for the door, and Lucas wasn’t sure if he was serious. He couldn’t risk it; he couldn’t let Jamie get hurt for his sin of kindness. Lucas grabbed a knife off the kitchen counter and hesitated for a moment.

  “Da’, stop. I’m warning you, leave Jamie alone.” His hands were trembling around the hilt of the blade, an impossible certainty coursing through his veins.

  “His name’s Jamie, is it?” Mick smirked. “I bet he cries easy.”

  Lucas charged, plunging the blade deep into his father’s leg. Mick seemed almost impressed for a moment before he howled in pain, pulling the offending weapon from his sinewy flesh, and letting it clatter to the ground. “You miserable little bugger,” he muttered, trying to stanch the bleeding with his hand. “You ungrateful bastard!”

  “Stay away from Jamie,” Lucas warned again. “I won’t let you hurt him.” He had never physically resisted his father before. If Mick had ever turned his attention to his mother or siblings, Lucas tended to use distraction tactics, redirect the anger toward himself to protect them. But this was more than he could take. For the first time in his life, Lucas saw his father for who he was: a weak, pitiable drunk who could barely keep himself standing and could only win fights against children. He was pathetic, and Lucas marveled at the clarity.

 

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