Chapter 3 #2
The glass slips from her fingers and crashes to the floor in a shower of crystal and whiskey. The sound cuts through the pub's chatter like a gunshot.
"Fuck," she whispers, dropping to her knees to clean up the mess.
I come around the bar without asking and help her gather the larger pieces. Our fingers brush when we reach for the same shard, and the contact sends electric static up my arm.
"You alright, love?" Murphy calls from the other end of the bar.
"Grand," she calls back, but her voice shakes. "Just clumsy."
We finish cleaning in silence. When we're done, she disappears into the back room before returning with a mop and bucket. I'm back on my barstool by then, nursing a fresh glass like nothing happened.
"You don't know anything about my father," she says quietly, mopping up the last of the whiskey.
"Killian Gallagher. He was the head of the IRA in New York. He died in Chicago eighteen months ago. Not in a car-jacking. It was in an explosion."
Her face goes white. "How do you—"
"Because I'm here on behalf of your family. The family you don't know exists."
She sets the mop aside then grips the edge of the bar like it's the only thing keeping her upright.
"I don't have family. There’s just me."
"Your father never told you about Henry Gallagher?"
Something flickers in her eyes. Recognition, maybe. Fear, definitely.
"Never heard the name in my life."
She’s lying. I can see it in the way her eyes dart away, and the tension in her jaw. She's heard the name before, but she's not admitting it.
"Henry Gallagher is your grandfather. Your father's dad. You've got an aunt, cousins, an entire clan in Dublin and beyond."
"My father died in a car-jacking."
"Your father died in an explosion at your cousin's house in Chicago."
The color drains from her face completely now. She looks like she might faint, or bolt, or both.
"You're lying."
"Why would I lie about something like that?"
"Because you want something from me. Men like you always want something."
Fair point. I do want something from her. I want her to come with me, back to Dublin. But watching her struggle with the truth, seeing the pain in her eyes, makes me want to burn the whole job.
"What do you want?" she asks.
"To take you home."
"This is my home."
"This?" I gesture around the pub, at the broken men drinking away their sorrows, at the water stains on the ceiling and the smell of desperation. "This isn't a home. It's a hiding place."
Her eyes flash with anger. Good. Anger's better than the hollow despair I saw there a moment ago.
"Don't tell me what my life is like. You don't know me."
"I know you're alone. I know you're scared. I know you're wasting your life in this shithole when you could be somewhere that matters."
"And where's that? With the family that abandoned me? With the grandfather who never bothered to find me until now?"
She's got a point there. Henry's explanation for why they never contacted her was thin. Something about Killian wanting to keep her away from the life, about respecting his wishes. Bullshit, if you ask me.
"They want to make things right," I say.
"Eighteen years too late."
"Better late than never."
"Is it?"
The question hangs between us like smoke. Around us, the pub continues its nightly ritual of slow-motion self-destruction. There’s a man passed out in a corner booth and an old woman staring into her gin like it holds the secrets of the universe.
"Why now?" she asks. "Why after all this time?"
"Because someone’s out there taking out people who are close to your grandfather."
She blinks. "What?"
"He wants you safe and that means you going to Dublin. If you don’t, the arsehole could come here for you..." I let the sentence hang.
"And if I don't care?"
"Then you don't care. But at least you'll know."
She studies my face like she's trying to read tea leaves. Looking for lies, for angles, for the catch that always comes with offers that sound too good to be true.
"Why you?" she asks. "Why send a stranger instead of coming himself?"
Because Henry Gallagher doesn't travel to shitholes like Belfast when he can send expendable assets like me. Because old, powerful men conserve their energy for things that matter, and I'm not sure she matters to him beyond tying up loose ends.
"Because he trusts me to get the job done."
"What job? Kidnapping his granddaughter?"
"Bringing you home."
"Same thing, isn't it?"
Maybe it is. Maybe I'm just a well-dressed kidnapper with a conscience that's starting to inconvenience me.
"You said my father was head of the IRA in New York," she says quietly. “He came home every other week.”
I nod. She's processing, connecting dots. Smart girl. I’m wondering if she thought Killian only worked in Ireland. He could have kept that part from her, wanting to protect her.
"He did. He loved you. He kept you separate from the business because he wanted you safe."
"Safe." She laughs but there's no humor in it. "Right. Safe from what? His own family?"
"Safe from men like me."
The honesty slips out before I can stop it. She looks at me sharply, seeing something in my face that makes her step back slightly.
"What kind of man are you, Freddie?"
The kind who kills for money. The kind who'd burn down Belfast if the price was right. The kind her father died trying to keep away from her.
"The kind your grandfather sends when he needs something done."
"And what needs doing with me?"
"You need protecting. There's a war brewing, and you're caught in the middle whether you know it or not."
"Last call," she announces suddenly, loud enough to cut through the remaining chatter.
I finish my drink while she works, watching her navigate the closing routine with practiced efficiency. The conversation's shaken her. I can see it in the way her hands tremble slightly as she wipes down tables and counts the till.
"Come with me," I say when it's just us and Murphy.
"No."
"One drink. Somewhere that doesn't smell like piss and broken dreams. Let me tell you about your family."
"I said no."
"Why? What's keeping you here?"
She looks around the empty pub, at Murphy counting receipts, at the life she's built from nothing but stubbornness and survival instinct.
"This is mine," she says finally. "It's not much, but it's mine. I won't trade it for pretty lies about a family that never wanted me."
"How do you know they're lies if you won't listen?"
"Because men like you don't come bearing good news. You come with hooks and chains disguised as opportunities."
"Your father talked about you," I say, playing my last card. "Before he died. He had pictures."
Her breath catches. "You're lying."
"There’s a picture of you at sixteen, dancing in some school play. You were wearing a blue dress and had flowers in your hair. He carried it in his wallet wherever he went."
The fight goes out of her like air from a punctured tire. She knows I'm not lying about this. I can't be. I was too specific, too personal.
"Time to go, love," Murphy says, his keys jangling in his hand. "Some of us have homes to get to."
She unties her apron and hangs it on the hook behind the bar. For a moment, I think she might change her mind. That she might walk out that door with me and see what waits beyond Belfast's gray streets.
Instead, she heads for the stairs leading to her flat.
"Think about it," I call after her. "I'll be back tomorrow."
"Don't bother," she says without looking back.
But there's less conviction in her voice now. The mention of her father, and the picture, it's cracked something open. Not enough to break through, but enough to let doubt creep in.
Murphy eyes me as he turns the key in the lock.
“Whatever it is you’re selling, she’s not buying.
Don’t come back.” He pockets the keys and strides off, leaving me alone on the street.
I should head back to my hotel, call Henry, and report that his granddaughter needs more convincing.
I should follow orders like the good little soldier I’m supposed to be.
Instead, I find a doorway across the street and settle in to wait.
The street empties as Belfast settles into its uneasy sleep. A light comes on in the window above Murphy's. Her flat. I can see her shadow moving around, pacing back and forth like a caged animal.
She's thinking. Good. Thinking means doubt, and doubt means possibility.
I light a cigarette and let the smoke burn my lungs while I think about her blue eyes and sharp tongue. I think about fathers who die in explosions and daughters who inherit their stubborn streaks. About jobs that stop feeling like jobs when the target stops feeling like a target.
Henry's orders were clear. Bring her back to Dublin by any means necessary. He didn't say she had to be willing. But watching her shadow move around that tiny flat, and thinking about the way she carries herself like she's been fighting the world alone for too long, I know I can't just take her.
Which leaves me with a problem. Because Henry Gallagher isn't the kind of man who accepts failure gracefully. And I'm not the kind of man who walks away from a job half-finished.
The light in her window goes out. And I'm still here, smoking cigarettes in a doorway, trying to figure out how to do the right thing without getting us both killed.
Tomorrow, I'll try again. I’ll find the right words, and the right pressure points. I’ll make her see that Belfast isn't safe; it's just another kind of prison.
Because whether she admits it or not, Alastríona Gallagher-Grey is coming home with me. The only question is whether she'll walk to the car or be carried.