How could he make up for this? He could devote his life to performing good deeds, he supposed— try to save Ireland, enrich orphans, protect victims of domestic or sexual brutality. No. There was dignity in that, there was the chance for a long and healthy life; exactly the thing he’d stolen from Jamie. Suicide had always had a certain allure for him, yet somehow it didn’t feel powerful enough. He would die with his secrets locked in his heart; no one would know the truth of the matter, there would be no justice for James Murray. There was only one option, then. To confess, to shout from the rooftops the gravity of his crime— I killed the only man I ever loved, I robbed the world of sunlight. He would be tried, maybe, he would be convicted, and he would die for his sins. A life cut short; his secrets revealed . . . how fitting. How sweet.

  He marched himself to the nearest military headquarters and asked to speak to a senior officer as soon as possible, although he didn’t want to explain further than that at the moment. When pressed, he explained that he was a veteran of the Great War and had some important information about some of the later battles he’d fought in.

  Lucas was seated in an uncomfortable wooden chair and given a cup of tea while they dug up someone to talk to him. Although meeting with some random honorably discharged soldier from a decade ago was hardly a priority, it seemed.

  A tired looking major showed up eventually, and Lucas couldn’t help but smile a little. The Irish Free State military; Jamie would have loved to see this. He was led to a small room near the back and again told to take a seat.

  “My name is Major O’Sullivan. I was told you had some intel for us?”

  Lucas hesitated, and he could see the man’s back stiffen a little. He was a stout fellow, wearing thin wire glasses like John used to have, and his hair was a neatly combed nest of salt and pepper.

  “Well? What is it?” he demanded, crossing his arms.

  “I . . . I murdered my commanding officer in Belgium. His name was James Murray, he was a Lieutenant, he was killed on October 14th, 1918, in the Battle of Courtrai. I shot him in the heart, and I watched him die. He was Irish.”

  Lucas peered up at the Major, who was giving him a very incredulous look. “I can’t live with the guilt anymore. I can’t prove it. No one can prove it. But he wasn’t killed in action, he— I murdered Jamie.” He put his head in his hands. He’d never said it out loud before, and the wave of cathartic relief that washed over him was almost painful in its intensity.

  “Murray?” O’Sullivan narrowed his eyes. “James Murray, you said?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “ . . . John Murray’s boy?”

  Lucas’s mouth went dry. He’d known John had still had some connections in the army when he’d died but . . . “Yes, sir.”

  O’Sullivan swallowed and shook his head, his eyes dark. Lucas looked up at him, uncertain. “Why are you telling me this, Connolly? Why now?”

  “I don’t know what else to do—I can’t go on like this. I don’t deserve to be free after what I did. I don’t deserve to live. I have to pay for my crimes. Please.”

  “And why— why would you murder Lieutenant Murray?”

  Lucas met his eyes and swallowed. “He was losing his mind. It was . . . it was supposed to be a kindness. I was wrong. I shouldn’t have done it, and I’ve regretted it every moment of every day since I pulled the trigger. I want to make it right.” A stray tear ran down his face and he wiped it away angrily. “Please . . . ”

  The Major shook his head and exited the room, locking the door behind him. He returned a little while later with another officer in tow, who asked Lucas to stand up so he could be handcuffed and taken into custody. Lucas did as he was told and kept his head down, unsure if what he was feeling was solace. He’d wanted this, right? Wanted to cast himself into the fires of judgment, to pay for his crimes? He tested his wrists against the cold tight metal and swallowed his fear. This is your redemption, Connolly. Jamie despises you. Be a man, stop being afraid.

  Still, it was only natural to want to bolt at the thought of being imprisoned and executed. He was put into a small holding cell at the back of the military office, and idly wondered if his father had ever spent the night in a place like this.

  Time ticked by slowly, and every moment that slipped by he watched and waited for Jamie to come back to him, like he always had in the past. A grin on his face, a glint in his eye . . . C’mon, you daft bastard, I’ll get you drunker than you’ve ever been in your life as payback for killing me, you bloody wanker. And Lucas would smile, and the world would keep turning like it always had. He’d have to explain to Jamie that he was in prison now, that he had confessed to a murder, that if all went according to plan, he’d be dead by next year. But each time he opened his eyes, Jamie was still gone.

  He had no idea how much time had passed before Major O’Sullivan called him into his office. “Mr. Connolly,” he started. “Your case is an interesting one, a difficult one. You are to be court-martialed, and you will most likely be convicted and sentenced to death. Do you have any questions about that?”

  Lucas just swallowed. “No, sir. Thank you, sir.”

  He deserved this. He deserved everything he was getting. This was better than suicide; this was better than a life in prison. The whole world would know he was a monster, and Jamie would get his vindication. How sweet, how fitting, that Lucas would die at the end of a rope for Jamie’s sake. The thought brought him comfort in the dank of the cell, helped him while away the hours as he awaited justice.

  The cell he was kept in was small and cold. There was a tiny window that looked out over a courtyard, but Lucas didn’t bother enjoying the view very often. He imagined most men in this room had been panicking, or distressed, or praying to God that they might be able to make it out of here alive. Lucas had almost forgotten how to feel anything except emptiness and despair. Then Jamie had come back and brought light back into his universe, made him remember joy and hope and worry. And now what did he have?

  The empty chasm left by the death of possibility. The knowledge that he and Jamie might have been lovers, that Jamie had seen his soul and rejected him. His siblings, his memories, even Angela, none of that could make up for the black void that Jamie’s choice had left in his soul. He was worse off now than he’d ever been in his life, and as much as he feared the unknowable future, he was glad that at last his miserable life would be at an end.

  Jamie left of his own volition, with hate in his heart and fire in his eyes. Lucas’s heart had died when Jamie’s stopped beating. His soul had died when Jamie forsook him, and all his body had to do was catch up with the rest of him.

  The heavy sound of a metal key in the lock of his cell awoke him from his stupor, and he looked up at the brusque guard who had disturbed his tranquil misery.

  “Connolly. You have a visitor.”

  Angela brushed past the man and into the cell, throwing her arms around Lucas’s shoulders. She pulled away and slapped him once across the face, then paused, considered her options, and slapped him again with her other hand.

  “You idiot! You complete fucking lunatic maniac!” she cried. Her face twisted up with anger. “What the hell did you do?”

  “Ange . . . ” Lucas started, but he couldn’t meet her eyes.

  “Officer, can you give us some privacy, please?”

  The man nodded and locked the cell behind him, his heavy bootsteps thudding along the corridor at a respectful distance.

  “Lucas . . . What the fuck happened? You confessed to a fucking murder?”

  “How did you find out?”

  “My Da’s a retired colonel, stupid. But that doesn’t really matter right now. Christ. Lucas, they’ll hang you for this.” She clutched his shoulders and made him meet her eyes. “Why, Lucas? Did . . . did Jamie tell you to do this?”

  “No, Angie. He . . . he’s gone, he left.” He saw the desperation and anguish in her eyes, and he regretted causing another human being more pain. Everything he touched turned to ash, his whole life was just a string of failures and regrets.

  “Oh . . . Lucas.” She hugged him, and he nudged his face into the crook of her neck. He reluctantly wrapped his arms around her soft body and scrunched his eyes shut, trying to stop himself from feeling anything.

  “Is it true? Did you really kill Jamie?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why, Lucas? Why?”

  He shook his head and started trembling. He didn’t want to relive that moment again and again. That was what the damned court-martial was for. Angela was smart enough to figure it out on her own, anyway.

  She held him and cried with him; they were beyond needing words to understand each other. He was going to be killed, she was never going to see him again, and he would reject her help if she tried to offer any.

  “Lucas . . . you daft fucking cunt of a man,” she whispered, dripping her snot onto his shirt. “I’m gonna tell your family where you are.”

  “No, Angela.”

  “Yes, Lucas! It’s your family, for Christ’s sake! They deserve to know you’re not gonna make it to Christmas this year since you’re being executed for a war crime!”

  “It’s not technically a war crime,” he said, petulantly sticking his tongue out. “It’s a military crime.”

  “You pedantic fucker— you stupid, wretched man. Of course, I’m gonna tell them, they need to see you, they need to be with you if they . . . ” She buried her head in his chest. “Why didn’t you come to me first? Why do you hate yourself so much?”

  Lucas laughed a little, and he thought of how much he loved her. “There’s a very long story to answer that question, Angie.” He met her eyes and managed a smile. “You’ve been watching me self-destruct for the better part of a decade. And c’mon, Ange, you knew this wasn’t going to have a happy ending. Irish love stories never do.”

  She laughed a little, too, and hugged him nice and tight. Her eyes were red and puffy, and Lucas thought she looked beautiful. “I wish I could have helped you, Lucas. I wish I could have made things better for you.”

  “You did, Angie. You always did. Right now, I know it doesn’t seem like it, but this is the right thing for me to do. All the time I’ve been running from what I did to Jamie . . . I need to tell the truth, I need to face the consequences, and if they hang me for it, well, an eye for an eye.”

  She wiped her eyes and kissed his cheek. “I’ll talk to my father. Maybe I can do something to help you. I don’t care if you want me to or not, I’m gonna fucking try to help you because, God help me, I care about you, and I’d prefer you not to be dangling by your neck.”

  “Ange . . . ” he started, but decided there was little point in arguing with her. He’d committed at least three capital crimes that he could think of. He seriously doubted that some retired old man could get him out of trouble. His best chance was claiming madness, but he didn’t want to go down that route. Jamie had learned of his deeds, and Jamie had judged and forsaken him. The whole world would know what a monster he was, and there was no turning back from this choice.

  Good.

  Angela squeezed him, she kissed him, and she promised him she’d visit again.

  “ . . . I’m sorry, Lucas. I should’ve— maybe I should’ve let you end it in Belgium.” Her face scrunched with pain, and she turned away from him. “Spared you from all of this.”

  “Ange . . . ”

  “I’m so sorry.”

  “Angie?” He called, and she looked at him, her eyes red and her cheeks stained with tears. “After . . . after they . . . will you take my ashes to Courtrai? So I can be with . . . ”

  She hugged him again, nodding against his neck as she cried. “Of course, Lucas. Of course, I will.”

  He watched her go and settled down with his back against the wall. He was lucky to have people who loved him, he decided.

  The day of the court-martial came and went quite quickly, although most of his days seemed to go that way now that the light had vanished from his life once more. If he could feel anything, he would have thought it was funny how little he cared about the outcome of the trial.

  He was treated roughly by the man who had been tasked with bringing him to the hearing, but Lucas didn’t resist as his hands were chained together for the short walk over. He was unceremoniously pushed into a stiff wooden chair in the center of the room, surrounded by a small panel of military personnel. The lighting was sparse yet oppressive, so it was hard for Lucas to make out the features of the men deciding his fate.

  Major O’Sullivan was seated in the middle of the table, and he looked over some papers at Lucas.

  “Lucas Connolly, you are being charged with murder, attempted murder, mutiny, misconduct toward your superior officer, and falsifying records.”

  He put his papers down and met Lucas’s eyes.

  “You confessed to the murder of your superior officer, Lieutenant James Murray of the Thirty-Sixth Division, Royal Inniskilling Fusiliers, during the Battle of Courtrai, correct?”

  “That’s right.” His voice was small, and he looked down at the chains that kept his hands close together.

  “Do you have anything to say in your defense?” the Major queried, his voice carrying an odd mix of hostility and boredom.

  “No.”

  There was a bit of commotion at that, and Lucas fielded a number of questions about his motivations for his actions, his confession, everything. He’d been playing the moment over and over in his head for the last ten years, and barely heard the questions as he responded.

  “Did you kill Lieutenant James Murray?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you regret it?”

  “Yes, every day. Every fucking second.”

  “How long had you planned this murder?”

  “ . . . I hadn’t. It was a spur of the moment— he was so frightened and damaged . . . there was this one second where he was okay and . . . and I . . . ”

  “Mr. Connolly, answer the question.”

  “No. It wasn’t premeditated.”

  “Why now? Why confess now?”

  “I can’t live with the guilt.”

  “What’s changed?”

  “ . . . Jamie would have wanted it this way. He probably can’t rest if I’m free. Please end this.”

  He wondered if he sounded cold as he spoke, but he was no longer capable of conjuring emotions, not even for this. The questions petered off and the deliberation began. The men of the court-martial sent Lucas out of the room to discuss matters. They pulled him back in about fifteen minutes later.

  “The case was a difficult one, Connolly, as we cannot prove that a murder even occurred . . . this is why the attempted murder charge was levied against you,” Major O’Sullivan started, pushing his glasses up his nose. “However, even the intent of physically harming your superior officer is a serious offense, and whether or not your bullet was the one that actually ended Lieutenant Murray’s life is a bit immaterial, isn’t it?”

  “I killed him,” Lucas responded firmly, defensively, almost possessively. “I had the gun pressed against his uniform. I couldn’t have missed, I shot him through the heart— he trusted me, I loved him, and he trusted me—”

  “Shut up!” O’Sullivan snapped. “It doesn’t matter. There is no one to verify your account one way or the other, and this is where the difficulty lies. I did find myself wondering, was this confession just the whim of a madman bent on his own destruction? Suicide by military tribunal to absolve your soul of the sin of self-harm? No. No, you’re a coward, but not like that. I’ve spoken to some of your former squad mates about you, and all of them attested to your irrational attachment to Lieutenant Murray. Most of them sounded astonished that you’d confess to something so heinous. They didn’t believe it. But I do. And I’m not about to let some pissant, indigent trash get away with murdering an Irish officer of James Murray’s caliber.”

  Lucas stared back, unflinching. He was not afraid of this man. He was not afraid of death.

  “There was not enough evidence for the murder charge, Connolly. You cannot be held directly accountable for that. Everything else, however? Your confession is proof enough. It is therefore the decision of this court that you are found guilty of all remaining charges.”

  Major O’Sullivan paused, watching Lucas carefully. “We hereby sentence you, Lucas Connolly, to hang by the neck until dead. And consider yourself dishonorably discharged.”

  Lucas bowed his head for a moment and let the information sink in. Absolution wore glasses and spat when it spoke . . . this was justice, this was the right thing to do. He looked O’Sullivan in the eye and thanked him, ready to face his death head on.

  God help me, God forgive me. Jamie . . . Jamie please, forgive me.

  He tried to ignore the sick feeling in his stomach as they marched him back to his cell. He’d wanted this, needed this finality, this hand of justice to vindicate Jamie. So why was he so afraid? He cursed his fucking coward heart and shut his eyes. This was for Jamie, like everything else in his life.

  1916

  “You’re lucky, one inch over and that shrapnel woulda taken your eye out,” Lucas’s nurse informed him, holding him down with one firm hand. She probed around in his wound with long metal forceps that he prayed had been cleaned recently.

  “And there you go.” She plopped the little piece of metal into a small dish and presented it to him, obviously pleased with herself. Her honey brown eyes gleamed behind her glasses, and she muddled around her makeshift workspace looking for implements of further torture. “Now, I’m gonna need to clean this wound out, and then we’ll stitch you up. How much of a wimp are you? I can get you some liquor for the pain, if you need it.”

  “Not too much of a wimp, but I wouldn’t say no to a drink,” Lucas decided. He came from a long, proud line of alcoholics after all. Shit, he hoped to hell that Jamie was coping okay without him.

  The whole thing had been so idiotic. A bomb had completely missed all of them and cast off several shards of metal in their general vicinity. Lucas had shoved Jamie out of the way and taken a tiny hit in the forehead, which tore open his skin and left him bleeding profusely all over his face and into his eye.

 

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