A reason to kill, p.18
A Reason To Kill, page 18
The Martins were neighbors and friends of her grandfather, so Deirdre often dogged David’s footsteps. Six years her senior, usually he was a good-natured kidder, but once in a while she was the recipient of his anger. Since it was usually something she’d done that caused his upset, she didn’t hold it against him when he yelled at her. Still, never had she witnessed the wrath that showed in his face now. Her John McEnroe look-a-like seemed on the verge of attacking the older men.
“Dee?” Came in a soft whimper. Amy knelt beside her and even in the pale moonlight, Deirdre could see the fear in her face. Under different circumstances she would have teased her cousin; but Deirdre was a bit scared by the intensity of the meeting they were eavesdropping on.
She hushed Amy with a barely audible, “Quiet.”
Intent on the heated argument going on inside, Deirdre struggled to catch some words. “Murders! Fuckin’ blow up people!” The words made her shiver. Though the voices raised often in loud accusations none of it was clear. Suddenly it happened. She had never seen a man cry; David Martin’s whole frame shook, he pulled at his hair as if attempting to rip out handful.
While the other men only yelled, the redheaded stranger grabbed and held David. He forced David’s arms down and Deirdre saw the bloody bandages wrapped around David’s hands and it shocked her. Her eyes began to mist and she pushed from the window to rush through the door. She darted to where Martin had slumped back in his chair and hot tears rolled down her cheeks as her arms encircled his neck.
With a yelped, “Dede!” Brendan Monaghan leaped up from the sofa as if he was going to grab her.
The surprise of Deirdre pressing against him caused Martin to gasp. His bandaged hands clasped her upper arms and thrust her back. “Lass? Where on earth did you come from?”
“Knew you were home.” Her sobs halted as she said, “Papa wouldn’t let me come see you so I sneaked out.”
“And sure, it’s back you’ll sneak.” Monaghan wrung his large paws in apparent distress. “And I’ll be taken you right off.”
“What’s this?” The tall stranger’s features formed into a wide grin. Amy, obviously terrified, had crept in. “Well Martin?” he said. “Seems you could offer these young ladies a bit of tea. They look a mite chilled.” He gently took Amy’s arm and drew her nearer to the warmth of the fireplace.
Martin said, “You shouldn’t have come, Dede. Your Grandpa will have both our hides.”
“He won’t find out.” Deirdre glared at Amy as she spit out a warning. “You squeal, I’ll kill ya.”
A weak grin appeared on the suffering young Martin’s face. “Sure, but you’ll be murdering no one. Who is this poor lass?”
Deirdre mumbled, “Nobody, just my cousin.”
“Just your cousin?” The copper-haired stranger gave a soft chuckle. “But surely, just my cousin has a name?”
The under-size thirteen-year old with the over-bright blue eyes in her too round face whispered, “Amy.”
“Amy, it is. And would Amy be after having some tea?”
“Why were you making Davy cry? He’s hands—you’ve hurt him!” Deirdre demanded.
Martin eyes dropped. “Got hurt at school,” he said. “Must have pulled loose some stitching. It wasn’t O’Donnell’s fault. It’s over now. Walsh, we’ll be after having that drink.”
“I’ll see to the young ones’ tea.” Monaghan said.
Friendly conversation cropped up and remained as such during the brief time the girls were allowed to remain. Still, when Monaghan escorted the girls home, Deirdre demanded, “Why was Davy crying?”
“Lad has that right, he’s lost his pa.”
Deirdre remembered David’s pa, Mr. Aaron Martin, who always appeared to be ready to laugh. His dark brown hair never seemed properly combed. He had made her a Saint Bridget’s cross once. She liked him at lot. “He died?” was a simple statement by the young teen.
For which an angry man replied, “Was killed, lass, was bloody well murdered!”
Chapter 33
Bray, Southern Ireland, 1981
When he returned home that night, exhaustion claimed Seamus O’Donnell. He slept until nearly noon the following day, but was still about three hours shy of a good sleep. So when Tucker, the lad who watched over his nephews and was his all-around helper, told him what occurred the previous afternoon while he was away, O’Donnell developed a slow burn that grew with time.
Now, he stood beside his car, and leaned on the roof and thought about buying a bigger auto. Then he considered the narrow Irish roads, and shelved the idea. He was not in a pleasant mood though the memory of the two young girls he met the night before brought him a brief smile. He hadn’t realized they were Emanon ‘s O’Neill’s nieces until today when he spoke again to Tom Devlin in New York.
He had returned Devlin’s call to assure him he’d done the man’s earlier bidding when Devlin had fairly begged. “Seamus, you have to do it for me.” The phone wires didn’t mask Devlin’s concern. “David Martin is a good lad. Walsh and his bunch set their hooks in him he’ll be a dead lad in less than a year. I was working on a business deal with Aaron Martin. This bomb shit really screwed things up. I don’t want Walsh filling the mind of Aaron’s son with revenge.”
“And, sure, how in hell am I supposed to stop them?”
“Go with them and tone things down. Convince David his pa wasn’t the target. Whoever blew that plane was a nut. You can’t let Walsh persuade the kid it was some government conspiracy. Sacrificing Protestants to level the playing field—that’s the craziest idea he’s come up with yet.”
“Hell, Tom, what if Walsh calls his markers in on me?”
“Won’t happen. The lads love having you so squeaky clean. That way when they tip their hat to you ‘round others it gives them a touch of respectability.”
Tom was right David Martin was a good lad. Jack Walsh was prepared to use him; he might yet but it wouldn’t happen right away. The pot of trouble Walsh’s bunch was brewing upset Seamus more than British soldiers in the North. Though they never made him privy to their plans, Walsh trusted him enough, and needed his legal expertise enough, to lay some information on him. He was fairly certain Walsh hadn’t put a hit on the plane but knew who had. What stake Devlin had in helping Walsh, if any, Seamus hadn’t a clue. But he was convinced that for some reason Devlin’s Yankee friends were supplying funds for operatives in the North. Now, as if he didn’t have enough irritants in his life, Devlin thought he could use him as a go-between. Screw that. He wasn’t getting any further involved with Tom Devlin’s games. Seamus turned and spotted his nephew.
~~~
Deserting his companions the boy broke into a run hollering, “Seamus, I made the team—” He pulled up short.
Seamus didn’t have to say anything. The fury causing the heat in his face instantly told Sean, Colin had squealed.
O’Donnell pulled open the car door, ordering, “Get in!”
“I didn’t hit him that hard.” Sean yelped in self-defense while halting his advance. “I told him not to follow me. I didn’t hit him that hard!”
Seamus’ fingers clamped on the boy’s arm and dragged him forward with the threat, “Get in the damn car or I swear I’ll have a go at you here.”
Behind him Sean could hear the noise of the other children, the chatter of his friends. If Seamus were to thrash him now they’d see. Tomorrow they’d poke fun at him. Tomorrow he’d die from embarrassment. He let himself be shoved in the car. Sliding behind the wheel, he squirmed to the opposite side and pressed against the door as his uncle followed.
Then Sean watched as his younger brother came darting across the playground wishing now he’d beat the brat to death. That would have kept his yap shut.
Leaping into the rear seat Colin proudly announced, “I’ll play Jesus.” Then bragged, “First choice, I was, no one else had a chance.” He lightly punched Seamus on the shoulder.
“You’d no reason to doubt you’d make it.” Seamus said then teased, “Sure, lad, what will you do if they use real nails?”
A snicker followed with, “Bleed, I guess.”
Sean wiggled closer to the door and fumed. Seamus hadn’t cared he’d made the team. Seamus never gave a damn about him—just the brat. Always getting mad at him ‘cause he walloped the brat. Wonder how he’d like it if the brat were always hanging on him. Following him and his buddies. He’d only thrashed Colin ‘cause he threatened to squeal about the club. Smacked him till he puked and swore he’d never squeal. Damn hadn’t he gone and done it anyway.
“What position did you draw?”
Startled by the question, Sean gawked at him in surprise and his uncle, occupied with moving into the flow of traffic, missed the look and repeated the question.
But Sean only mumbled, “We’ve not been set,” for he had lost interest in this achievement. Upper most in his thoughts was his oncoming doom. Seamus shouldn’t get too mad about the fags and beer. Plenty’s the time he’s given them a drag or sip. But the mags.
He surely would flip over the mags. ‘Paper pleasures’ he and his chums jokingly called the nude centerfolds. Most things were comical to the adolescent males. They’d laugh together about how Fat Alice Murray was getting such big boobs her blouses puckered at the buttonholes. They giggled, sneered, and wondered separately how it would feel to touch them. They giggled, joked, and pooled their bob to buy stupid magazines. Damn Colin, Seamus probably tossed them out, Sean worried. His friends were going to be pissed off at him.
While his brother sulked, Colin managed to keep up a running tirade. He rattled on to cover his guilt. He’d sworn not to squeal then he’d gone and done just that. The eleven-year-old worried how God would feel about an informer playing Jesus in next Easter’s pageant. But Sean shouldn’t have made him cry, he consoled himself, then laugh when his ugly friends called Colin a wean. “Bet he wets his nappies and sucks his thumb,” that ugly Tommy had said and got them all into teasing him.
He had tried to come back with, “Sean, you blubber plenty when—” Colin hadn’t gotten to finish. His brother’s fists slammed into his belly and he’d choked on vomit.
The car swung into the long driveway coming to an abrupt stop and the guilt-ridden child blurted out, “Sean didn’t hurt me much!”
Sean didn’t hear the rest of the declaration. Quickly out the door, he was running for the house. Seamus ignored the younger boy and angrily took off after the older culprit.
He caught up with him. Grabbed the back of his shirt and quick marched him up the stairs and into his room.
“Not what you fool lads were about bothers me. Your age, I did much the same myself. But no right you had to beat up on the little fellow. No damn right!” He shoved Sean causing him to sprawl belly down across the bed. Not trusting that in his anger his powerful hands could turn to fists, he tugged free his belt.
Sean dug his nails into the thick quilt and bit deep to hide his shame as the lash smacked across his buttocks. As one blow after another fell he kicked his legs and gagged on the howls that were fighting to get out. The adult strength was fueled by anger so the leather struck cruelly through Sean’s britches and soon his pride was driven away by pain and he sobbed his guilt and remorse. Still the blows came. Soon he was pleading, “Seamus I gotta pee!”
His uncle growled, “Go on!” and began curling the belt around his hand as if he intended to wait while the boy leaped from the bed and made a dash for the toilet.
Standing over the bowl Sean heard his uncle on the stairs and let out the breath he’d been holding. His penis lifted in one hand while the other rubbed at his tear redden eyes and stuffed nose. He watched his penis stiffen, he shook it, and it refused to let out even a tiny yellow trickle. Unconsciously he fondled it, shivered, jerked up his zipper and fled back to his room.
He slumped on his large bed. The wide airy space of the comfortable room was closing in on him like a dungeon. In his rage, Seamus had threatened imprisonment and no further contact with the boys who helped him abuse his brother.
His friends, he thought, would be at Potters drinking pop and punching each other about in fun. He wouldn’t be allowed there. Tommy would be bragging how he made Charley Nessen cry; it happen two weeks ago but Tommy still bragged about it. Sean and the others didn’t mind. Nobody liked pig-face Charley—he was a squealer.
Stew would be home today! Darn! Stew would have a fresh tale to tell. He got to go with his ma once a month to visit his brother in Long Kresh Prison. Stew’s eighteen-year-old brother was a Republican—he was on the blanket protesting prison garb. Sean wondered why this was such a marvelous feat. He knew he wouldn’t want to stay naked in a cold cell all the time. Still, the lads thought the ‘Blanket Men’ grand heroes, so he did too.
For an hour or so he suffered the loss of his freedom more painful than the whipping. Then through the open window, Sean could hear his brother’s laughter mixed amply with their uncle’s so he knew Seamus’ anger had cooled. He slipped over and crouched on the floor beneath the window and watched. They were fooling around as they exercised the two wolfhound pups their uncle had recently purchased for them. Sean yearned to rush down. Normally he would and Seamus would wrestle him about just as he was doing his brother. None of his friends had a parent like Seamus and mostly they were jealous.
“My brother says,” Stew would whistle through a cracked front tooth. “The O’Donnell could whip the Brits single handed if he was of a mind ta.” Then he might snicker and whisper confidently, “Sure, Dan says, it’ll happen one day when he gets tired tryin’ ta pop every cherry on both sides of the border.”
At this the other boys would smirk, laugh, and Sean would join them. His pride didn’t let him ask what was so funny.
Then he might get all squirmy because Peggy Donavan came into Potter’s. Peggy’s blouse was starting to do the same as Fat Alice’s; only Peggy was pretty with great dark eyes in her thin ivory face. Tommy claimed he’d kissed her; Sean thought him a liar but never said so.
“Sean!”
Since his uncle had spotted him, the boy lunged to his feet.
“Come on down, lad, no sense sulking up there,” Seamus called. “Soon as we put the pups up, we’ll take a ride into Dublin for a bite of supper. Go wash up.”
When Sean hadn’t come right down, O’Donnell went to check on him. He paused at the open door to watch what his young nephew was doing.
Sean stood at the wall mirror inspecting his naked hide. He held the green shorts against his buttocks and traced the rosy crisscrosses that marked his thighs and upper legs. They would show beneath the edge of his shorts announcing to everyone what he had endured. Disgusted he flung the fabric, covered his face with his hands, and cried.
Seamus stepped quickly into the room. Capturing the wrists he yanked the boy’s arms down. “I’ll not play!” Sean howled. “I’ll not be laughed at!”
“Nor would I. Nor should you have laughed with your friends at Colin. You’ll not have to expose yourself till the marks fade.”
“I’ll be scratched from the squad.”
“You’ll not. I’ll see to it. Wouldn’t be fair to make you pay twice.” Was followed by a dry laugh as Seamus released the boy’s arms.
“What can you do?”
“You’ll be sick a few days. I’ll attend to it. Now pull your bitches up and let’s get some dinner.”
“Don’t mean ta hurt Colin. Don’t know why I do.” Sean pulled his pants back into place and shoved in his shirt. “You’re still not mad at me?”
“Some upset, your temper,” Seamus said, “you’ll learn to control. The small kid squabbles were one thing. This was different.”
“I’ll not hit him anymore.”
“Wish I could believe that. You’re getting stronger than you realize. One day you could do Colin real harm.” Guilt for his own anger showed in Seamus’ face. He reached out and buried his fingers in the soft hair and pulled his nephew into a close hug. “Damn O’Donnell blood,” he said. “Now let’s put this to rest.”
Chapter 34
Southern Ireland, 1981
William Connors had taken the Concorde from Kennedy on August first at 1:00pm and arrived six hours later at Heathrow. He then hired a private plane for the short flight from London to Dublin. Though his face was far less recognizable than his older brother John’s, on this trip he had to be doubly careful not to call attention to himself. So traveling the commercial airlines was safer than using a company plane.
William slapped his hands against his thighs, and then jammed them into the pockets of his slacks. It had been nearly two months since they’d dared to meet. His intention was to come straight from the airport to the suite James Beechen had taken at the Royal Dublin Hotel.
For three days since James called and assured him it was safe enough, he’d been anticipating this reunion only to arrive and discover James awaited him in dining room. So now he was upset. He stepped quickly away from the service desk and followed the porter. Escorted to the corner table, he saw the vision of everything he desired and his anger dissipated.
The golden head, crowning a perfectly maintained tanned exterior, lifted and the pastel-blue eyes settled on William. The mouth, on the carefully sculptured face, parted in a teasing smile. “I’ve ordered dinner, Luv,” James said. “It’s only waiting on you…rack of lamb…oven browns.” He slurred out the menu as if it really could interest the impatient younger male and waved their waiter off to fetch it.
“Fine, whatever.” William dropped in the chair close to James’ side and wiggled it even nearer so their legs could touch beneath the long tablecloth. “I’m not really hungry for food, you know.”
James’ tone maintained its teasing quality. “Anticipation, darling, makes for greater enjoyment.”
