CHAPTER FOUR
Alastríona
I can't sleep.
I’ve spent the night tossing and turning, Freddie's words spinning round my head like a broken record. All I can think about is a family I never knew existed.
By four in the morning, I give up on sleep and make tea, then I sit at my tiny kitchen table with my laptop open and stare at the search bar like it might bite me.
Gallagher family, Dublin.
The results make my blood run cold.
There are headlines about shootings, arrests, and territory wars, photos of hard-faced men in expensive suits walking out of courthouses. These are the kind of men Dad always told me to avoid. The kind who solve problems with bullets and bury their mistakes in shallow graves.
But there's other stuff too; charity events, legitimate businesses, photos of weddings and christenings that look almost normal. Almost.
I click on a photo from some society magazine. It’s a funeral, by the looks of it. The caption reads: Henry Gallagher at his son Killian's memorial service.
The man in the photo is older, more distinguished. Grief is carved into every line of his face. Behind him stand some other men; younger versions of the same hard features, the same dangerous eyes.
My family, apparently.
I close the laptop before I can see any more. Before I can start wondering what kind of life I might have had if Dad had never taken me away from all this.
* * *
Work feels different tonight. Like I'm seeing Murphy's through someone else's eyes. The broken furniture, the smell of desperation, the way the regulars nurse their drinks like they're medicine.
This isn't a home. It's a hiding place.
Freddie's words echo in my head as I pull pints and dodge wandering hands. Maybe he's right. Maybe I have been hiding. But from what? And why?
"You're distracted tonight, love," Murphy says during a quiet moment. "Everything alright?"
"Grand," I lie. "Just tired."
He gives me a look that says he knows I'm full of shit, but he doesn't push. It’s one of the reasons I like him.
The door opens at half nine, and I don't need to look to know who it is. I feel him before I see him—that electric current in the air that seems to follow him makes my skin prickle.
"Evening," Freddie says, sliding onto his usual stool.
"I thought I told you not to bother coming back."
"You did. I don't listen well."
"Noticed that about you."
I pour his Jameson without being asked. Our fingers brush when he takes the glass, and that same jolt runs up my arm. It’s annoying how my body reacts to him when my brain knows better.
"Sleep well?" he asks.
"Like a baby."
"Liar."
I am lying. I spent half the night Googling his face, trying to figure out what kind of man Henry Gallagher sends to collect wayward granddaughters. I found nothing, which is almost worse than finding something. Men who don't exist on the internet are usually the ones you should run from.
"What makes you so sure?"
"Because you've got that look, like you've been asking yourself questions you don't want to know the answers to."
Perceptive bastard.
"Maybe I have. Maybe I've been wondering why my grandfather would send a stranger to fetch me instead of coming himself."
"Maybe because the last time he tried to make contact with you, your father, Killian, told him to stay away; said you were better off without the family business in your life."
The words hit like a slap. "Dad refused contact?"
"For years. Henry wanted to reach out after your father died and your ma left, but he held back as Killian was adamant when he was alive. He said you deserved a normal life."
"Normal." I laugh but there's no humor in it. "Right. Because working in a Belfast shithole while everyone I love disappears is so bloody normal."
"That's not what he wanted for you."
"What he wanted and what he got are two very different things."
Freddie's quiet for a moment, studying my face like he's trying to read something there.
"Your father loved you," he says finally. "Everything he did was to protect you. But maybe he was wrong about what you needed."
"And what do I need?"
"Family. People who will have your back when the world goes sideways."
"Like you did last night?"
"I was doing my job."
"Which is what, exactly? Babysitting ungrateful granddaughters?"
"Bringing you home."
Home. The word tastes strange. For eighteen years, home was wherever Dad was. Then it was just me and this flat and Murphy's bar. Now this stranger's telling me home is somewhere I've never been, with people I've never met.
"Why now?" I ask. "What's changed?"
"There's trouble coming. The kind your father was trying to protect you from. Henry wants you somewhere safe before it hits."
"What kind of trouble?"
"The kind that gets people killed."
The way he says it makes my blood run cold. So matter-of-fact, like death is just another Tuesday in his world.
"And Dublin's safer?"
"Dublin's got walls. Protection. Family who will die before they let anything happen to you."
"You make it sound like a war."
"It is a war. Has been for months. People have been dying for months. Alastríona, this arsehole doesn’t care who he takes out, and your name is on his list."
My name. Hearing it from him knocks the air out of me, makes everything he’s said suddenly sharper, harder to ignore.
“I need to think,” I manage.
"How long?"
"However long it takes."
He nods, finishes his drink, drops money on the bar and stands to leave.
"Freddie?"
He turns back, eyebrows raised.
"That picture. The one with the blue dress. Where did you see it?"
"Henry's office. Framed on his desk, right next to one of your father. He looks at it every time someone mentions Killian's name."
The words hit me like a physical blow. All these years thinking I was alone, thinking nobody cared whether I lived or died. And somewhere in Dublin, an old man's been keeping my photo on his desk, waiting for the day he could bring me home.
"I'll think about it," I say.
"That's all I'm asking."
* * *
I should have gone to the shop earlier. Should have picked up milk and bread before I started my shift, not waited until half eleven when the streets are empty and every shadow looks like trouble.
But my mind's been elsewhere tonight. Lost in thoughts of families I never knew existed and old men who keep photos of granddaughters they've never met.
The grocery shop is still open, thankfully. The cashier gives me a look when I walk in. Everyone knows you don't wander Belfast’s streets alone this late unless you've got no choice.
"Working late again, love?" she asks.
"Something like that."
I grab what I need, pay quickly, and head back out into the night. The streets are quieter now, just the occasional car and the distant sound of music from pubs that don't close when they should.
I'm two blocks from Murphy's when I hear the footsteps.
Three sets. Keeping pace behind me, trying to be quiet but failing. Dad taught me to listen out for these things. He taught me to trust my instincts when they scream danger.
I speed up slightly. So do they.
Fuck.
The alley next to Murphy's is dark, narrow. It’s the perfect place for an ambush. I should keep walking, find somewhere public, somewhere with witnesses. But my keys are in my bag and my flat's right there and I'm tired of being scared.
I make it halfway down the alley before they catch up.
"Evening, love."
I recognize the voice. It’s definitely Sean Jennings; the little prick from last night. He's only got two friends with him this time, but they are both bigger than him, both looking like they've done this before.
"Sean." I turn to face them, keeping my voice steady. "Bit late for a social call."
"Never too late to finish a conversation."
"We finished it last night."
"Did we? Because I remember being humiliated by some Dublin cunt while you watched. I remember thinking you might have enjoyed that."
His friends spread out, blocking the alley. It’s a standard intimidation tactic; make the target feel trapped, helpless. Dad taught me about this too.
"What do you want, Sean?"
"An apology would be nice. Compensation for the embarrassment."
"How much compensation are we talking?"
"Depends how nice you ask."
The implications are clear. They don't want money. They want payment in flesh, to take back whatever pride they lost last night.
"And if I'm not feeling particularly apologetic?"
Sean grins, showing his bloody and broken teeth. "Then we'll have to extract it from you."
One of his friends produces a knife. Nothing fancy, just a kitchen blade that'll do the job. The other's have brass knuckles, probably thinking they make him look hard, rather than what they can do in a fight.
Amateurs.
"Three against one," I say. "Hardly seems fair."
"Life's not fair, love."
"No," I agree. "It's not."
I drop the shopping bag, letting the milk carton hit the ground with a wet splat, then reach behind my back for the knife Dad made me carry since I was sixteen. Seven inches of tempered steel with a grip worn smooth by years of practice.
"Fuck me," one of them breathes. "She's armed."
"So are we," Sean snarls. "And there are three of us."
"There were three of you last night," I point out. "How'd that work out?"
But they're committed now. They can't back down without losing face, and men like Sean would rather die than look weak in front of their mates.
He comes at me first. I sidestep, let his momentum carry him past me, and open up his forearm with my blade. He screams, drops his knife, and clutches the wound like it's mortal.
One down.
The second one's smarter, more cautious. He circles me like a predator, looking for an opening. The brass knuckles catch the streetlight, throwing shadows on the alley walls.
"Come on then," I say. "Let's get this over with."
He rushes me, swinging wild. I duck under his first punch, drive my knee into his stomach, and bring my elbow down on the back of his neck when he doubles over. He hits the ground hard and stays down.
Two down.