Chapter 5 Padraig
five
Padraig
Six Months Later
It’s hard to believe Stevie, Liam, and I are home for the summer.
Three days back have felt like a year.
Our house is fucking suffocating.
Compared to our last semester, when the three of us immersed ourselves in the Pullman music scene, it’s a hard dose of reality. With Stevie’s help, we were out every night. Eventually, playing a couple basement gigs. A few open mic nights. One acoustic show in an Irish pub.
For now, we’re playing mostly Irish trad songs. We took Stevie’s advice though and wrote half a set of originals. Irish-rooted. Loud as hell. Sharp enough to cut through anything.
If we stick to the plan, by fall, we’ll have two sets ready.
For now, I’m flipping pancakes to give Connor and Ma a break. The syrup bottle is already warm from the heat coming off the stove. The fan overhead whirs a lazy rhythm, blades wobbling with each turn.
It’s too hot for June.
Too quiet for comfort.
Seamus reads at the counter. Brennan and Cillian are sprawled on the floor, low-key arguing about a comic book. The least I can do is step up and feed them a few meals now and then.
Connor’s already on a job site. Ma’s at the office trying to balance the books.
Liam is upstairs, waiting for me to distract the kids so he can sneak his latest hookup out without detection.
The guy showed up sometime after midnight.
Shaved head. Vintage band tee. Tattoo on his neck.
Liam is likely itching to get the dude gone before Da gets up.
I should worry about him more, but I’ve learned it’s a wasted emotion.
Liam does what he wants without regret. He doesn’t drink.
Or do drugs. Or, as far as I know, put himself in danger.
His vice is sex. Men. Women. Multiple partners.
I’m the only one who knows the half of it.
He hides this part of himself from the rest of the family.
Hopefully not forever. For now, it’s probably best to lay low and stay off Da’s radar.
Speaking of the devil, my phone pings.
WTF? Can you cover for me?
I type back: All good. Coast’s clear if you take the front stairs.
I shut the burner off and start plating the pancakes to keep the boys busy here in the kitchen for a few minutes. The ceiling creaks overhead. His bedroom door slams. Hard. Two sets of heavy boots clomp above us toward the stairwell.
“Who the fuck’s are youse?” Da’s phlegmy voice rages from upstairs, already thick with drink at eight a.m.
Liam roars, “Leave it, Da. It’s my business.”
I freeze.
Seamus drops his fork. Brennan and Cillian stiffen. We all look up the back staircase, even though we can’t see anything from this vantage point.
“This is my feckin’ house, you wee bastard,” Da yells followed by a loud thud. “Your business is my business. Who is he?”
“Stay here.” I hold up my palm toward my younger brothers before slipping out to the living room.
Liam stands at the landing. Shirt half-buttoned. The dude stands behind him, silent, startled. The guy’s trying to zip up a hoodie, shrinking backward at the unfolding scene.
“Jesus, Mary, and feckin’ Joseph, my son’s a feckin’ poof.” Da stumbles toward them, bare-chested. His hair is wild, eyes bloodshot and yellowed from whiskey. A knee brace hangs loose around one leg. The McGloughlin Construction T-shirt is tied around the other leg like a bandage.
Even from here, he reeks. Alcohol. Stale sweat. Something sour I can’t name.
“Leave him be. Let’s go.” Liam turns to the guy and motions to the stairwell.
Hookup Guy bounds down the stairs. “Jesus, is your dad homophobic?”
Da grabs Liam from behind before he has a chance to follow.
“You dirty wee pansy,” he slurs, spitting words like bile. “Is this what you are now, a faggot? Bringin’ men into my house? Under your ma’s roof? Corrupting your wee brothers?”
Liam doesn’t flinch. “Go back to your room and pass out, you useless cunt.”
His voice is low. Cold. Dangerous.
Da takes a step forward.
The house shifts.
“You fuckin’ shame me,” he growls. “I break my back for this family, and you’re in my house suckin’ cock like it’s a badge of pride?”
“Stop.” I move fast, bounding up the stairs and planting myself between them. “Let him leave. You’re drunk. You don’t mean it.”
Da’s eyes land on me. Bloodshot. Glazed. “Don’t you feckin’ defend him.”
“I’m not—”
The slap comes from nowhere. Back of his hand across my cheek. Bone-to-bone. White-hot.
The sound echoes.
My head snaps sideways. Vision blurs. Knees buckle. I’m on the floor.
“Padraig!” Seamus screams from the bottom of the stairs.
Fuck.
Brennan pulls him back into the living room. Cillian stares at us with wide eyes.
Da isn’t finished. He shoves me backward and goes after my twin.
Liam doesn’t back down. Not an inch.
“You gonna hit me too, Da?” he taunts. “Try it.”
Da snarls, “You’re not my son.”
Then he swings without warning. It’s the concerted effort of a former boxer. Survivor of the Troubles in Northern Ireland. Not a father and husband who took pride in building a legacy for his family in America.
I hear it before I see it. His knuckles hit Liam like concrete. A sickening thud. Flesh hitting plaster. Bone cracking against something harder.
Followed by a sound I’ll never forget: Liam tumbling down the stairs. One brutal collision after another. His boots. His elbow. His head.
By the time I turn around, he’s already at the bottom. Twisted. Motionless. Blood blooms at his temple. His eyes flutter, unfocused.
Seamus screams. Sharp and animal-like. Brennan grips the table like he can absorb all of our shock with two hands. Cillian drops to his knees beside Liam, already chanting his name like it’ll heal him.
Although I’m reeling, I manage to get on my feet and bound down the stairs. I hit the floor hard, jarring my knees. My hands tremble in the air above Liam’s body, unsure where to land.
He’s breathing. Barely. Shallow and wet.
“Liam,” I croak. “Hey. Look at me.”
Nothing.
Behind us, Rory lumbers back into his room like nothing happened. Muttering curses. Rifling through his drawers for a bottle. Doesn’t look back. Doesn’t pause.
Doesn’t give two shits he might’ve killed his son.
“Cillian, help me.” I motion to my brother.
“Don’t move him!” Seamus blurts in a panic. “You’re not supposed to if he hit his head. It could mess up his spine.”
I stop cold, crouched beside my twin. “Liam.” I hover over him. “Can you hear me?”
Nothing.
“Come on.” I grip his hand but don’t lift it. “Say something.”
A grunt rattles from deep in his throat. His eyelids twitch. Then flutter. Then open, glassy and dazed.
“There.” Cillian exhales, like he’s been holding it in since Liam hit the floor. “He’s okay, right?”
“I don’t know.” My voice cracks. “Dar. Can you move your arms? Legs?”
He doesn’t answer right away. Then slowly, stubbornly, he wiggles his fingers. Flexes his wrists. Twists his booted foot straight out in front of him.
“Fuck,” he croaks.
I sigh with relief. “You scared the shit out of us.”
“I feel like I got tackled by a truck.” Liam winces when he tries to sit up. “Help me up.”
Seamus protests again. “Not yet! You’re not supposed to—”
“I’m fine,” Liam snaps, but softer than usual.
I look at Seamus. His lower lip quivers. Not convinced.
“Careful.” I slip one arm behind Liam’s back for support. “Tell me if it hurts too much.”
He groans again as Cillian and I lift him together. Slow. Cautious. Shaky. His weight sags against me, one arm looped over my shoulder.
I’m holding it together. If he hadn’t woken up…
“Let’s get downstairs, lads.”
We move as fast as we can. Brennan grabs Seamus and tugs him down to the basement ahead of us. One step at a time, I help my twin into the only space we trust. Our practice room.
Cillian and I ease Liam onto the busted couch. He lets out a hiss. Doesn’t open his eyes. Brennan bounds upstairs and comes back with an ice pack and a wet towel. Hands them over without a word.
I press the towel to Liam’s temple.
“Fuck.” He flinches. “Hurts.”
Seamus curls against the wall, arms locked tight around his knees. Brennan buries himself in his laptop like it’s a shield. Cillian slumps in the corner and stares into space.
I look deep into Liam’s eyes. I’m sorry.
He scrunches his nose. For what?
Not getting there sooner.
You tried.
My twin. Same face as mine. Same build. Same mouth. I can’t stand to see him hurt. Physically. Emotionally. None of it.
“He looked at me like I was filth,” he grits out. “I knew he’d fucking hate me for being fluid…”
I shake my head. “You’re not filth.”
“He thinks I am.” Liam’s face crumples. “Part of me understands. I want to be with women. I want to be with men. How am I supposed to choose? How will I ever have what you and Stevie…”
My chest splinters. He’s never admitted this out loud. Maybe not even to himself.
“He’s doesn’t get to have an opinion about you.” I grip his shoulder. “Never again. You’re allowed to be yourself without worrying about him.”
Liam closes his eyes. The ice slips a little. I hold it steady.
The five of us stay put for a while. A long while.
Each contemplating what occurred in the cool, quiet of the basement.
Brennan and Cillian doze off. Seamus keeps a close watch on the two of us.
I want to text Stevie, but I don’t dare retrieve my phone.
She’ll understand once I’m able to tell her what happened.
After a while, Liam shifts and sits up, wincing. Crosses his arms over his chest. “Fuck this woebegone bullshit. I wanna play.”
“No. You’re concussed.” Seamus is at his side in an instant.
“Ah, I’m grand, wee one.” Liam musses up Seamus’ hair and rises to his feet. “I’ll take it easy.”
He moves across the room and plugs in his guitar. The amp crackles. He strums a chord. Rough. Broken. It mirrors his mood. I ease onto the stool behind the kit. Count us in with the click of my sticks.
Liam’s face is a mess. Black eye. Split lip. Purpling cheekbone. Crusted blood clings to the cut above his eyebrow. We make music because we need a release to survive what happened today. He’s immersed. Guitar slung low. Head down like he’s praying to the strings.
He plays like he’s possessed.
I manage to keep up. Every cymbal crash is like a jolt straight through my soul, but I don’t stop. Not for two solid hours. If he needs this, I’m gonna give it to him.
Finally, Liam lets the guitar fall against his thigh. I set the sticks down.
“Let’s head back up.” I gesture. “We need to feed the lads.”
Nobody speaks as we trudge upstairs. It’s quiet on the top floor, Da’s no doubt passed out cold by now.
Liam turns on the TV and curls around Seamus, who snuggles into his side. Brennan sits at the dining room table muttering to himself, lost in some coding loop. Cillian barely moves. He studies the ceiling like it might collapse on top of him.
All of us jump a little when we hear a key in the door and voices outside. It’s Ma and Connor, of course, home from a long day at work. Oblivious, for the moment, at what went down a few hours ago.
Liam pulls his hoodie up to hide his face. I shake my head and reach for him. He shouldn’t hide what happened. Otherwise, how are we going to get Da help?
“No!” Cillian begs. “She’s gonna see.”
“She needs to know.” I tug the fabric off his face.
Liam doesn’t stop me but warns, “Dar, she won’t be able to unsee it.”
“You shouldn’t protect him by hiding what he did to you.” I cup his shoulder.
Connor enters first, eyes scanning the surroundings instinctively like he’s on a job site. His jeans are crusted in dried mud. A high-vis vest is slung over one shoulder. Ma’s right behind him, mail clutched in her hand, keys dangling from her fingers.
She sees Liam before Connor notices. Her purse hits the floor.
“Holy God above.” She rushes forward. “What happened to you?”
Liam doesn’t answer. He sits. Back ramrod straight.
“Liam, answer her.” Connor’s voice is lethal. “Who did this? Did you lads have a go at each other?”
For all my bravado, I can only utter, “Da.”
Connor’s face contorts. Rage, disbelief, guilt. All of it.
Ma turns to me. Her eyes sweep over the welt on my cheek.
“Padraig.” Her voice cracks. “What—?”
“We’re okay,” I lie.
Ma’s already across the room. She reaches for Liam’s cheek, fingertips trembling.
He flinches. “It’s fine. I can handle it.”
“You shouldn’t have to,” Connor seethes, slamming his phone down hard enough to make Seamus stir. “Was it really Da?”
Nobody answers.
“Stupid fucker.” Connor grits his teeth and looks upstairs.
“Language,” Ma snaps, automatic. Then she sags down next to Liam. “Where is he?”
“Where do you think? Drunk.” I gesture upstairs. “Locked in his room. Passed out. We haven’t heard anything since—”
“I’ll kill him myself.” Connor starts toward the stairs.
“You won’t.” Ma grabs his wrist. “You’ll go to jail.”
“We need to do something,” he roars.
“We will.” She shuts her eyes, defeated. “Right now, I’m cleaning my son up and then making dinner. The kids need to eat. Then the four of us will talk.” She turns back to Liam. “Sit at the table. I’ll get the first-aid kit.”
Liam hesitates.
“Go.” She motions across the room.
Twenty minutes later, we eat microwaved shepherd’s pie in silence. No one says what we’re all thinking.
We didn’t think it could get worse.
Now we know better.