A reason to kill, p.69
A Reason To Kill, page 69
“You see the kid?”
RJ shook his head in the negative and said, “Working myself up for the conflict.”
Mark smiled. “Come on RJ, Jas isn’t half bad once you get by his defenses.”
“What shape is he in?”
“Could use a haircut. Otherwise, he’s as bad off as a Russian Jew with full cheeks and inner tube belly.”
“Damn! No doubt then he was in on the whole scam?”
“Affirmative.”
“If it ever comes out.”
“It won’t. We’ll have Jason back at the academy, locked away from the media, while the English are still blowing smoke rings?”
As RJ sat on the edge of the bed rolling his glass between the palms of his hands, he worried out loud. “Stew could be a problem? Shits what they did to him. You think he pegged Jas?”
“Lay odds on it. But for some reason Stew’s not giving the law anything. He barely even talked to me, sure as hell didn’t confide any secrets. Mitchell figures he’s been threatened with something far worse than what happened to him. And he’s convinced it’s something no one can protect him from. I’d like to also believe he doesn’t want to give Jason up and discredit our family. But that’s a lot to ask from a friend.”
“This chap, Reed, you had brace the kid, how far can we trust him?”
“Matt? He’s tops. He was my personal slave at the academy.”
“That should make him jump hoops for the family.”
“Easy, man, you outsiders can’t understand what tight relationships develop between a big brother and his little knob.”
“Re…a…lly…How tight?”
“Family, only safe way for boys to play.” Then in a more serious tone, Mark said, “Bri told me Matt saved Jas from getting reamed.”
“Should have let it happen.”
“Come off it. You’d have been the first to play KKK and stuffed those fuckers’ pricks down their throats and I would have helped you. Face it RJ, your kid brother is never going to be a ‘do what I want’ kinda guy. But he’s good raw material and if molded right will probably mature into something better than either of us.”
RJ only frowned. Then gave his cousin a sly wink, as he said, “Never tried a boy.”
“Don’t look my way.”
“Your ass is too hairy. Must be rough on you officer types—all those cute little behinds.” RJ flashed an evil grin and then switched to, “Mark, I need me a wife. Got any ideas?”
“Hell, man, we’re only twenty six we got time.”
“Maybe, but it wouldn’t hurt to start looking. Too bad Colleen’s my cousin; only broad I can stand for much more than an active night.”
“Stew’s had a thing on Colli since we were kids.”
“Stew, right, and damn they’d be perfect.”
“Not in Colli’s mind.” Mark sucked up the last of his ale. He slowly set the mug on the table before he admitted, “She can’t stomach poor Stew—she really dug Franco.”
“There, someone did the family a favor.”
“That shits! RJ. His politics stunk, but Franco was a good friend.”
“Easy, Mark.” Was followed by an honest smile. “Didn’t mean that. Franco was close. I’d love to gut the bastards who did him in that way.”
Appeased, Mark’s sudden anger fled as RJ offered. “How’s something a bit stronger? I’ll need it to confront my baby brother. Hope you’re staying for dinner?”
“Got an invite.”
“Terrific, you can side me when I take Jason on.”
Chapter 124
England, 1985
Curled on the window seat, his small features pressed grotesquely into the pane, Gavin watched his father drive the large car into the howling storm. Swirling snow hit the window blurring his view— still he stared. I won’t cry, he sniffled as he rubbed a button nose into the cold glass. Only be a few days, a week, not much more, Mike had promised. He’d tried to tell Mike, he’d be good, extra quiet, not make any noise. Mike wouldn’t listen.
“You’re going. That’s that!” Mike yelled. He shook him when he yelled back. Warned him to act his age. “Stop that damn blubbering before I give you something to squawk about.”
Gavin had stopped squealing. He’d backed half way across the room out of cuffing range before he shouted, “All right I’ll go!” Then took to studying his bare toes so he missed his father’s hesitation and the guilty look that flashed across the man’s face, he only heard the racket of the slamming door.
Now, he was so absorbed in self-pity, he didn’t become aware of the intruder until Ann touched his back. Startled, his good intentions fled and he burst into loud sobs. “I don’t wanna go! Don’t wanna! Don’t wanna!” and he flung himself against her belly as the tears poured out.
Dropping to her knees, her arms closing protectively, Ann gathered the small boy as she assured. “It’s only a short trip. It is not the plane that frightens you?”
He shook his head side to side as he sobbed. “I wanna stay with Mike. Why can’t I stay here with you?”
Why indeed, she wondered, why was Michael so determined to send the child away? His sister’s home was more than large enough to accommodate them all. Hugging the child tightly she reminded. “You’re to see after your grandfather.”
“That’s stupid! Mike only said that! Little kids don’t take care of big men.”
She cupped the small chin in her palm, kissed the wet cheeks, and promised. “It will only be a short spell. We have to see to Dede—she’s very ill. But as soon as she can travel we’ll all go home.”
~~~
“Okay, what gives?” Thomas Devlin tossed his coat as he entered. “Thought you’d be dressed and raring to go sprout?”
The tiny male hurled himself at the larger male pounding at his stomach in anger as he screamed. “DON’T WANNA GO! DON’T WANNA GO TO NO OLD UTTER COUNTRY!” Only to be grabbed and swung in the air while the man’s frown warned the woman to silence.
“Cut the crap!” Devlin’s bark turned the howls into snivels. Returning the boy to his feet with a sharp crack on the rump he warned, “Mike’s the boss—now get your butt moving.”
“I’ll dress him.”
“Like hell you will, Ann. Gavin’s old enough to dress himself.” A firm shove followed the order, “Move!” causing the boy to scamper off.
“Why Tom?”
“Ann, Mike says the kid goes with his grandfather.” He shrugged. “He must think it’s for the best. Dede’s in rough shape no sense in him seeing her like that. Besides the boy is already a problem for Mauve.”
“That’s not true!” Mauve’s features were set in an angry scowl as she entered the room. “Even with all the hell that’s been going on I’ve loved having my family here. Gavin’s presence has kept us all sane. He never has been a bother.”
“Maybe not to you? But—”
Charles Comford had entered behind his wife. His kick sent a blood red ball sailing as he stepped into the room. “Blast it!”
“It’s only a toy.” Mauve scooped it up before it could roll back in her husband’s path.
“Does he have to leave everything lying about? One child in this big house shouldn’t cause total disruption.”
Devlin caught Ann’s arm to silence her. Her angry expression was mimicking Mauve’s. He ushered her quickly out of the room as Mauve snapped at her husband, “Gavin’s leaving, Michael is sending him home with Pa.”
~~~
Charles Comford knew a sudden sense of shame. His wife had been content helping tend to her brother’s child. He’d been jealous. As if in apology he offered, “Sorry Mauve, rotten weather—a bad day.”
“Michael is bringing Dede here.” Her tone was pure ice. “If you’d rather he didn’t?”
“Don’t be foolish. You know I love Dede. I’m just not use to a small child’s clutter. Let’s not have a spat over it.”
“I have to see to dinner.” She hurried away still fondling the toy.
Colder now than he had been outside, the burning turf drew him. To let a small lad, like Gavin irritate me, he shook his head in disgust at himself. He sipped the warm brandy Mauve had ready for him. It isn’t the boy, he thought, that aggravates me. It is because he is Michael O’Neill’s son.
Mike O’Neill? He grinned as he remembered, so damn fine looking even the prissy Protestant lasses played up to him. With a gladiator build and a temper to match, not a bloke in school dared to call him out. And ‘Charlie Come’ as they called him then, so skinny he resembled an undernourished tree trunk.
~~~
“Ichabod Crane ‘is self,” Kennedy’s snicker was mimicked by his mates. Charles Comford felt the heat that was rapidly coloring his face. Fighting, not one of his strong points, the teenager moved quickly to escape the jeering.
Then Mike O’Neill was blocking his retreat. He nearly panicked. Surprisingly the bigger lad roared, but it was at the others. “Heroes are yah? Yah looking for some action?”
“Come on Mike.” Kennedy gave a nervous laugh. “Sure, yah ain’t sticking up for the poof?”
“So how yah know? You been holding hands with him?” This caused the group to turn on Kennedy with their giggling accusations while Michael’s hand fell on Charles’ shoulder and he said, “Got me a wicked thirst—you buying?”
“Sure.” Charles could hardly believe his ears. He stepped quickly to keep pace with the larger boy as they headed across the road to O’Donnell’s pub.
Colin was on the bar. Colin O’Donnell, who had never so much as nodded to him in all the years they’d known each other, now bothered to talk to him as he bellied up to the bar beside Michael. “Charley, you up for a pint?”
Not trusting his voice, which he was certain would come out in a squeak, Charles shook his head yes. He’d never tasted beer—his mum wouldn’t allow it in her home. In the first sip, he found an instant liking for the brew.
“You took that shit? You walked away?” Michael said as Colin left to tend to another patron’s request.
“Only thing I can raise my hands for is ta pick my nose.” Charles tried to hide his nervousness with humor.
“Kennedy, that fuck off.” Michael tilted his pint and half emptied it. “You’d spit, he’d collapse.” And he whistled in surprise. “You’ve been taking crap long as I can remember. Why? You ain’t no scrawny wart, yah known.”
“Nature sent me up not out.”
“Hell, man, what do yah go?”
“Maybe ten stone.”
“And you think Kennedy goes better? No way. You got the longer reach; he’s gotta get in close to make ‘em count.”
“I…I…” Charles hid the sputter by gulping the beer and he nearly choked.
“You just never been decked?” Michael decided. “You’re scared ‘cause you never been hit.” And he slammed a fist into the unsuspecting youth’s gut, sending Charles gagging and clutching his belly as he sailed backward to land on his butt.
“Not in here!” Colin yelled. “Take it outside!” He was brought up short by Michael’s laughter.
“Only playing.” Michael was already helping Charles to his feet and he grinned. “You wanna slug me?”
Charles fought back the tears and hissed, “Yes! Damn it!”
And the larger youth roared with pleasure as he hugged his victim. “See that Colin, bet he could wup your ass.”
~~~
England, 1985
Plagued by a deep sorrow for the timid youth he’d once been, the adult male dropped a fresh log on the turf as he thought, took Mike O’Neill to knock me on my ass and teach me I could survive the pain. And he remembered the wonder of those early teen years. After Mike taught him to fight he rarely had to. Just knowing he could defend himself gave him the confidence other boys sensed and they left him alone. If only he hadn’t trusted Mike so much—if only he hadn’t told him about…
Robbie Hahn.
~~~
Northern Ireland, 1961
“Lad’s too old for him.”
“Nonsense.” His mother would contradict his father as she came to the boy’s defense. “Gentle as a lamb, Robbie is, not always rough housing and hurtin’ our Charlie like them other boys. Nothing to worry over—not Robbie…”
Two inches shorter but several pounds heavier, and four years older, Robbie Hahn lay on eleven-year-old Charlie Comford’s bed. “What’s bothering ya?” He wiggled his trousers down around his knees. “Betch never seen bare before? Betch ain’t hairy like me?” He openly fondled his penis until it hardened and pushed upright between his palms. “Don’t mind.” He snickered. “I like chickadees. Come touch it.” He coaxed. “Ya been holding my hand, same thing, only it feels better.”
“My pa ‘ll whip me.” Charlie stammered.
“Sure, your pa ain’t gonna know less you tell him?” The older boy reached out a hand to the younger. “Don’t ya like me? You want I shouldn’t come round no more?”
“Don’t say that.” Charlie worried what would he do without Robbie? The other boys would pick on him without Robbie.
~~~
England, 1985
Charles Comford raised his glass in salute to Michael O’Neill’s portrait hanging among his wife’s rogues gallery. He studied it. It appeared fairly recent. Impossible? Then suddenly he realized Mauve must paint from photographs? Funny, he’d never assumed that.
Years of practice hadn’t improved her; there was still a flat quality to her work. Rather like her marriage, he groaned and remembered how fifteen years ago he’d hollered into the phone, “Mike, Mauve is going to marry me!” He’d expected excitement, pleasure, everything he was feeling himself from his friend.
Instead he said, “The fuck she is!” The anger crackled over the long distance wires. “You bastard! My sister is an innocent kid. She’s not equipped to handle your problem.”
“What?”
“You tell my sister? You tell my pa, you fuckin’ like your pork.”
“Mike, I never—I was a kid.” He started to beg only he couldn’t do it anymore and he yelled in anger, “Hold on damn you. The only thing teeing you off is your pa will lose his built in housekeeper and your daughter her surrogate mother!” Suddenly he remembered Mauve was standing there. Slamming the receiver he turned to sputter an explanation.
Only it wasn’t necessary. Her face was as crimson as if he struck her, but she only said, “It’s all right Charles. What you told him is actually true.”
And though Mike let him sweat for a time, he never did reveal to his father nor his sister what Charles had disclosed to him in confidence.
“Damn O’Neills.” He growled out loud. For years his home has been little better than an English extension of their clan. While Michael rarely set foot in it until lately, he thought nothing of parking his daughter. Just as Gordon felt free to send little Amy whenever it suited him and Liam just came for days and weeks, whenever he chose to, and it was like having a king in residence.
Mauve loved caring for her brothers’ daughters and was heartbroken when they left. She’d mope for days. Now Michael had brought his son. With the boy’s parents at court every day, Mauve was left to care for Michael’s son. Though his wife never condemned him because she had no child of her own, it was his fault.
“You are sterile.” The doctor had been blunt, “Nothing can be done to correct that. Perhaps a donor?”
Never! His wife impregnated by another man’s sperm? The idea was disgusting.
Mauve spoke several times of adopting a child. He tried to explain how every day he was faced with the misfits of humanity in the courtrooms. Fighting his damnedest to receive leniency for killers and thieves, that they might be freed to prey on the helpless again. Adopt, and the little bugger might grow up to be one of those misfits. No, he couldn’t chance that. He wasn’t exactly fond of children anyway.
Strange, the O’Neill girls had never bothered him, in fact he enjoyed their antics, found them a pleasure to have around and Deirdre had been much more obnoxious than her shy little brother. Michael’s son— that had to be it.
And because he was neither a stupid nor a cruel man Charles admitted to himself, it wasn’t Gavin he disliked. It was that the boy was a slap in the face reminding him the O’Neill’s name would continue while his own would die out because he couldn’t reproduce.
~~~
Her paleness yellowed in the sunlight that peeped through the patio doors. He had carried her down to the dayroom, where a fire burned brightly in the hearth. A nervous twitch worked in her jaw below the gruesome scar. “Uncle Charlie,” Deirdre sighed, “it’s all such a bitch.”
“What’s such a bitch?” He grinned as he helped situate her frail body in the soft foam of the lounge.
“Life,” was moaned. “You think about it—it’s too weird.”
“Suppose.” He waited until she finished curling her legs beneath her buttocks, then adjusted the tray over her lap, and warned, “Don’t think about it too much.”
Toying with smooth custard, she then chased bits of shaved beef around the edge of the plate, declaring, “I’m a nobody—a non-person. Not so many years ago they’d have called me and Gavin bastards. We wouldn’t have been allowed to use the O’Neill name.”
“What brought this on?”
“Just thinking.”
“Well stop thinking, girl, and start eating. I promised Mauve, you’d clean that plate.”
“You know, before Dad picked me up at the hospital, Dan Mitchell came to see me. He ridiculed me. Said, ‘Lass you’ve misplaced your common sense, your values, and your loyalties. You’re not Irish, you never were.’ Gulping a spoon of custard, she made a wretched face.
“He was attempting to get information from you Dee. He won’t accept the fact you have nothing of value to give him. The Inspector still has a lot to be concerned with.”
The pink tongue licked the spoon then circled her lips before she said, “He’s right you know. My passport says I’m American. I was born in England.” She admitted then sneered. “But damn if I’ll be British. What are you Uncle Charlie?”
RJ shook his head in the negative and said, “Working myself up for the conflict.”
Mark smiled. “Come on RJ, Jas isn’t half bad once you get by his defenses.”
“What shape is he in?”
“Could use a haircut. Otherwise, he’s as bad off as a Russian Jew with full cheeks and inner tube belly.”
“Damn! No doubt then he was in on the whole scam?”
“Affirmative.”
“If it ever comes out.”
“It won’t. We’ll have Jason back at the academy, locked away from the media, while the English are still blowing smoke rings?”
As RJ sat on the edge of the bed rolling his glass between the palms of his hands, he worried out loud. “Stew could be a problem? Shits what they did to him. You think he pegged Jas?”
“Lay odds on it. But for some reason Stew’s not giving the law anything. He barely even talked to me, sure as hell didn’t confide any secrets. Mitchell figures he’s been threatened with something far worse than what happened to him. And he’s convinced it’s something no one can protect him from. I’d like to also believe he doesn’t want to give Jason up and discredit our family. But that’s a lot to ask from a friend.”
“This chap, Reed, you had brace the kid, how far can we trust him?”
“Matt? He’s tops. He was my personal slave at the academy.”
“That should make him jump hoops for the family.”
“Easy, man, you outsiders can’t understand what tight relationships develop between a big brother and his little knob.”
“Re…a…lly…How tight?”
“Family, only safe way for boys to play.” Then in a more serious tone, Mark said, “Bri told me Matt saved Jas from getting reamed.”
“Should have let it happen.”
“Come off it. You’d have been the first to play KKK and stuffed those fuckers’ pricks down their throats and I would have helped you. Face it RJ, your kid brother is never going to be a ‘do what I want’ kinda guy. But he’s good raw material and if molded right will probably mature into something better than either of us.”
RJ only frowned. Then gave his cousin a sly wink, as he said, “Never tried a boy.”
“Don’t look my way.”
“Your ass is too hairy. Must be rough on you officer types—all those cute little behinds.” RJ flashed an evil grin and then switched to, “Mark, I need me a wife. Got any ideas?”
“Hell, man, we’re only twenty six we got time.”
“Maybe, but it wouldn’t hurt to start looking. Too bad Colleen’s my cousin; only broad I can stand for much more than an active night.”
“Stew’s had a thing on Colli since we were kids.”
“Stew, right, and damn they’d be perfect.”
“Not in Colli’s mind.” Mark sucked up the last of his ale. He slowly set the mug on the table before he admitted, “She can’t stomach poor Stew—she really dug Franco.”
“There, someone did the family a favor.”
“That shits! RJ. His politics stunk, but Franco was a good friend.”
“Easy, Mark.” Was followed by an honest smile. “Didn’t mean that. Franco was close. I’d love to gut the bastards who did him in that way.”
Appeased, Mark’s sudden anger fled as RJ offered. “How’s something a bit stronger? I’ll need it to confront my baby brother. Hope you’re staying for dinner?”
“Got an invite.”
“Terrific, you can side me when I take Jason on.”
Chapter 124
England, 1985
Curled on the window seat, his small features pressed grotesquely into the pane, Gavin watched his father drive the large car into the howling storm. Swirling snow hit the window blurring his view— still he stared. I won’t cry, he sniffled as he rubbed a button nose into the cold glass. Only be a few days, a week, not much more, Mike had promised. He’d tried to tell Mike, he’d be good, extra quiet, not make any noise. Mike wouldn’t listen.
“You’re going. That’s that!” Mike yelled. He shook him when he yelled back. Warned him to act his age. “Stop that damn blubbering before I give you something to squawk about.”
Gavin had stopped squealing. He’d backed half way across the room out of cuffing range before he shouted, “All right I’ll go!” Then took to studying his bare toes so he missed his father’s hesitation and the guilty look that flashed across the man’s face, he only heard the racket of the slamming door.
Now, he was so absorbed in self-pity, he didn’t become aware of the intruder until Ann touched his back. Startled, his good intentions fled and he burst into loud sobs. “I don’t wanna go! Don’t wanna! Don’t wanna!” and he flung himself against her belly as the tears poured out.
Dropping to her knees, her arms closing protectively, Ann gathered the small boy as she assured. “It’s only a short trip. It is not the plane that frightens you?”
He shook his head side to side as he sobbed. “I wanna stay with Mike. Why can’t I stay here with you?”
Why indeed, she wondered, why was Michael so determined to send the child away? His sister’s home was more than large enough to accommodate them all. Hugging the child tightly she reminded. “You’re to see after your grandfather.”
“That’s stupid! Mike only said that! Little kids don’t take care of big men.”
She cupped the small chin in her palm, kissed the wet cheeks, and promised. “It will only be a short spell. We have to see to Dede—she’s very ill. But as soon as she can travel we’ll all go home.”
~~~
“Okay, what gives?” Thomas Devlin tossed his coat as he entered. “Thought you’d be dressed and raring to go sprout?”
The tiny male hurled himself at the larger male pounding at his stomach in anger as he screamed. “DON’T WANNA GO! DON’T WANNA GO TO NO OLD UTTER COUNTRY!” Only to be grabbed and swung in the air while the man’s frown warned the woman to silence.
“Cut the crap!” Devlin’s bark turned the howls into snivels. Returning the boy to his feet with a sharp crack on the rump he warned, “Mike’s the boss—now get your butt moving.”
“I’ll dress him.”
“Like hell you will, Ann. Gavin’s old enough to dress himself.” A firm shove followed the order, “Move!” causing the boy to scamper off.
“Why Tom?”
“Ann, Mike says the kid goes with his grandfather.” He shrugged. “He must think it’s for the best. Dede’s in rough shape no sense in him seeing her like that. Besides the boy is already a problem for Mauve.”
“That’s not true!” Mauve’s features were set in an angry scowl as she entered the room. “Even with all the hell that’s been going on I’ve loved having my family here. Gavin’s presence has kept us all sane. He never has been a bother.”
“Maybe not to you? But—”
Charles Comford had entered behind his wife. His kick sent a blood red ball sailing as he stepped into the room. “Blast it!”
“It’s only a toy.” Mauve scooped it up before it could roll back in her husband’s path.
“Does he have to leave everything lying about? One child in this big house shouldn’t cause total disruption.”
Devlin caught Ann’s arm to silence her. Her angry expression was mimicking Mauve’s. He ushered her quickly out of the room as Mauve snapped at her husband, “Gavin’s leaving, Michael is sending him home with Pa.”
~~~
Charles Comford knew a sudden sense of shame. His wife had been content helping tend to her brother’s child. He’d been jealous. As if in apology he offered, “Sorry Mauve, rotten weather—a bad day.”
“Michael is bringing Dede here.” Her tone was pure ice. “If you’d rather he didn’t?”
“Don’t be foolish. You know I love Dede. I’m just not use to a small child’s clutter. Let’s not have a spat over it.”
“I have to see to dinner.” She hurried away still fondling the toy.
Colder now than he had been outside, the burning turf drew him. To let a small lad, like Gavin irritate me, he shook his head in disgust at himself. He sipped the warm brandy Mauve had ready for him. It isn’t the boy, he thought, that aggravates me. It is because he is Michael O’Neill’s son.
Mike O’Neill? He grinned as he remembered, so damn fine looking even the prissy Protestant lasses played up to him. With a gladiator build and a temper to match, not a bloke in school dared to call him out. And ‘Charlie Come’ as they called him then, so skinny he resembled an undernourished tree trunk.
~~~
“Ichabod Crane ‘is self,” Kennedy’s snicker was mimicked by his mates. Charles Comford felt the heat that was rapidly coloring his face. Fighting, not one of his strong points, the teenager moved quickly to escape the jeering.
Then Mike O’Neill was blocking his retreat. He nearly panicked. Surprisingly the bigger lad roared, but it was at the others. “Heroes are yah? Yah looking for some action?”
“Come on Mike.” Kennedy gave a nervous laugh. “Sure, yah ain’t sticking up for the poof?”
“So how yah know? You been holding hands with him?” This caused the group to turn on Kennedy with their giggling accusations while Michael’s hand fell on Charles’ shoulder and he said, “Got me a wicked thirst—you buying?”
“Sure.” Charles could hardly believe his ears. He stepped quickly to keep pace with the larger boy as they headed across the road to O’Donnell’s pub.
Colin was on the bar. Colin O’Donnell, who had never so much as nodded to him in all the years they’d known each other, now bothered to talk to him as he bellied up to the bar beside Michael. “Charley, you up for a pint?”
Not trusting his voice, which he was certain would come out in a squeak, Charles shook his head yes. He’d never tasted beer—his mum wouldn’t allow it in her home. In the first sip, he found an instant liking for the brew.
“You took that shit? You walked away?” Michael said as Colin left to tend to another patron’s request.
“Only thing I can raise my hands for is ta pick my nose.” Charles tried to hide his nervousness with humor.
“Kennedy, that fuck off.” Michael tilted his pint and half emptied it. “You’d spit, he’d collapse.” And he whistled in surprise. “You’ve been taking crap long as I can remember. Why? You ain’t no scrawny wart, yah known.”
“Nature sent me up not out.”
“Hell, man, what do yah go?”
“Maybe ten stone.”
“And you think Kennedy goes better? No way. You got the longer reach; he’s gotta get in close to make ‘em count.”
“I…I…” Charles hid the sputter by gulping the beer and he nearly choked.
“You just never been decked?” Michael decided. “You’re scared ‘cause you never been hit.” And he slammed a fist into the unsuspecting youth’s gut, sending Charles gagging and clutching his belly as he sailed backward to land on his butt.
“Not in here!” Colin yelled. “Take it outside!” He was brought up short by Michael’s laughter.
“Only playing.” Michael was already helping Charles to his feet and he grinned. “You wanna slug me?”
Charles fought back the tears and hissed, “Yes! Damn it!”
And the larger youth roared with pleasure as he hugged his victim. “See that Colin, bet he could wup your ass.”
~~~
England, 1985
Plagued by a deep sorrow for the timid youth he’d once been, the adult male dropped a fresh log on the turf as he thought, took Mike O’Neill to knock me on my ass and teach me I could survive the pain. And he remembered the wonder of those early teen years. After Mike taught him to fight he rarely had to. Just knowing he could defend himself gave him the confidence other boys sensed and they left him alone. If only he hadn’t trusted Mike so much—if only he hadn’t told him about…
Robbie Hahn.
~~~
Northern Ireland, 1961
“Lad’s too old for him.”
“Nonsense.” His mother would contradict his father as she came to the boy’s defense. “Gentle as a lamb, Robbie is, not always rough housing and hurtin’ our Charlie like them other boys. Nothing to worry over—not Robbie…”
Two inches shorter but several pounds heavier, and four years older, Robbie Hahn lay on eleven-year-old Charlie Comford’s bed. “What’s bothering ya?” He wiggled his trousers down around his knees. “Betch never seen bare before? Betch ain’t hairy like me?” He openly fondled his penis until it hardened and pushed upright between his palms. “Don’t mind.” He snickered. “I like chickadees. Come touch it.” He coaxed. “Ya been holding my hand, same thing, only it feels better.”
“My pa ‘ll whip me.” Charlie stammered.
“Sure, your pa ain’t gonna know less you tell him?” The older boy reached out a hand to the younger. “Don’t ya like me? You want I shouldn’t come round no more?”
“Don’t say that.” Charlie worried what would he do without Robbie? The other boys would pick on him without Robbie.
~~~
England, 1985
Charles Comford raised his glass in salute to Michael O’Neill’s portrait hanging among his wife’s rogues gallery. He studied it. It appeared fairly recent. Impossible? Then suddenly he realized Mauve must paint from photographs? Funny, he’d never assumed that.
Years of practice hadn’t improved her; there was still a flat quality to her work. Rather like her marriage, he groaned and remembered how fifteen years ago he’d hollered into the phone, “Mike, Mauve is going to marry me!” He’d expected excitement, pleasure, everything he was feeling himself from his friend.
Instead he said, “The fuck she is!” The anger crackled over the long distance wires. “You bastard! My sister is an innocent kid. She’s not equipped to handle your problem.”
“What?”
“You tell my sister? You tell my pa, you fuckin’ like your pork.”
“Mike, I never—I was a kid.” He started to beg only he couldn’t do it anymore and he yelled in anger, “Hold on damn you. The only thing teeing you off is your pa will lose his built in housekeeper and your daughter her surrogate mother!” Suddenly he remembered Mauve was standing there. Slamming the receiver he turned to sputter an explanation.
Only it wasn’t necessary. Her face was as crimson as if he struck her, but she only said, “It’s all right Charles. What you told him is actually true.”
And though Mike let him sweat for a time, he never did reveal to his father nor his sister what Charles had disclosed to him in confidence.
“Damn O’Neills.” He growled out loud. For years his home has been little better than an English extension of their clan. While Michael rarely set foot in it until lately, he thought nothing of parking his daughter. Just as Gordon felt free to send little Amy whenever it suited him and Liam just came for days and weeks, whenever he chose to, and it was like having a king in residence.
Mauve loved caring for her brothers’ daughters and was heartbroken when they left. She’d mope for days. Now Michael had brought his son. With the boy’s parents at court every day, Mauve was left to care for Michael’s son. Though his wife never condemned him because she had no child of her own, it was his fault.
“You are sterile.” The doctor had been blunt, “Nothing can be done to correct that. Perhaps a donor?”
Never! His wife impregnated by another man’s sperm? The idea was disgusting.
Mauve spoke several times of adopting a child. He tried to explain how every day he was faced with the misfits of humanity in the courtrooms. Fighting his damnedest to receive leniency for killers and thieves, that they might be freed to prey on the helpless again. Adopt, and the little bugger might grow up to be one of those misfits. No, he couldn’t chance that. He wasn’t exactly fond of children anyway.
Strange, the O’Neill girls had never bothered him, in fact he enjoyed their antics, found them a pleasure to have around and Deirdre had been much more obnoxious than her shy little brother. Michael’s son— that had to be it.
And because he was neither a stupid nor a cruel man Charles admitted to himself, it wasn’t Gavin he disliked. It was that the boy was a slap in the face reminding him the O’Neill’s name would continue while his own would die out because he couldn’t reproduce.
~~~
Her paleness yellowed in the sunlight that peeped through the patio doors. He had carried her down to the dayroom, where a fire burned brightly in the hearth. A nervous twitch worked in her jaw below the gruesome scar. “Uncle Charlie,” Deirdre sighed, “it’s all such a bitch.”
“What’s such a bitch?” He grinned as he helped situate her frail body in the soft foam of the lounge.
“Life,” was moaned. “You think about it—it’s too weird.”
“Suppose.” He waited until she finished curling her legs beneath her buttocks, then adjusted the tray over her lap, and warned, “Don’t think about it too much.”
Toying with smooth custard, she then chased bits of shaved beef around the edge of the plate, declaring, “I’m a nobody—a non-person. Not so many years ago they’d have called me and Gavin bastards. We wouldn’t have been allowed to use the O’Neill name.”
“What brought this on?”
“Just thinking.”
“Well stop thinking, girl, and start eating. I promised Mauve, you’d clean that plate.”
“You know, before Dad picked me up at the hospital, Dan Mitchell came to see me. He ridiculed me. Said, ‘Lass you’ve misplaced your common sense, your values, and your loyalties. You’re not Irish, you never were.’ Gulping a spoon of custard, she made a wretched face.
“He was attempting to get information from you Dee. He won’t accept the fact you have nothing of value to give him. The Inspector still has a lot to be concerned with.”
The pink tongue licked the spoon then circled her lips before she said, “He’s right you know. My passport says I’m American. I was born in England.” She admitted then sneered. “But damn if I’ll be British. What are you Uncle Charlie?”
