25 - Happy Hardcore
Cordelia
The blaring of a car horn warns me of my impending doom. A quick glance confirms it. The sharp blast spooks the two unsuspecting birds on the driveway. Ironic; on the day of a funeral.
A black Mercedes S-Class sits in my driveway, engine grumbling like some kind of wild beast in waiting.
Logan steps out from the back seat, looking sharp in another pristine, tailored suit.
With his head angled up to the balcony, the light reflects off the Ray-Ban sunglasses shielding his eyes.
He offers me a salute in greeting, grinning to show off his teeth, which even from this distance I can tell are pearly white.
I don’t wave back. Instead, I dart back inside to double-check myself in the mirror.
The black figure-hugging dress is a Ted Baker number.
With long sleeves and a sweetheart neckline that complements the simple string of pearls draped around my neck.
Paired with kitten heels; black with a hint of sparkle, it’s the perfect combination of classy elegance.
As I glide my hands over my hips, I frown at my reflection, turning sideways.
My tummy hasn’t swollen to the size of a balloon yet; nothing glaringly obvious anyway.
Another shriek of the horn jolts me back to reality.
With a frustrated sigh, I grab my jacket, jog down the stairs, and escape out the front door.
Outside, the wind whistles through the trees whilst birds sing sweet morning lullabies.
Logan watches me descend the steps, giving me a once-over with a subtle jerk of his head.
He nods appreciatively when I halt in front of him.
“Morning, vixen,” he flashes me a winning smile.
“Let’s get this over with,” I grumble, staring down at the cobbled stones to hide my blush.
He gestures towards the open car, so with a thwarted sigh I hop inside. A fast-paced, electrifying beat fills the car, bursting through the speakers.
“Morning, Bella,” Ezio’s sing-song voice greets me.
“Cor,” Clarke says simply, dipping his shades in greeting.
“Salut.”
Logan slides into the seat beside me, nose wrinkling at the loud music battering our eardrums.
“What the hell is this?”
Clarke revs the engine, swerves off the drive, and hits the open road. “Don’t look at me,” he grumbles, eyeing us in the mirror. “It’s his music.”
“My car, my rules. Besides, everyone needs a bit of Tiesto in the morning!” Ezio grins at our designated driver, bouncing around in his seat like a kid on crack.
“No one needs your happy hardcore shite at any point in the day,” Clarke snarks back. “My head’s already pounding.”
I sneak a glance at Logan, and he chuckles, leaning forward to plant a soft kiss on the tip of my nose.
His familiar cologne engulfs my senses, like a warm and comforting embrace that subdues the nervous adrenaline rushing through my veins.
Despite spraying my perfume less than five minutes ago, there’s no escaping the smell of man in this car.
“Free entertainment,” he says with a shrug, eyeing his friends bickering in the front.
A natural smile finds its way to my lips, and the tension leaves my body like a spirit moving onto another plane.
I have to admit, when they’re not mutilating and torturing people, their banter makes them easy to be around.
Did I seriously just justify the murder of a student based on their light-hearted repartee and easy smiles? What is wrong with me?
For the next ten minutes, I sit quietly listening to the infectiously catchy songs through the speakers.
My eyes stay glued to the rearview mirror, trailing a dark grey Rolls-Royce.
It shadows every move we make, not to mention keeping a safe but persistent distance to our rear bumper.
My mind reels back to the day the guys pursued me, and a sudden panic clogs my throat.
The driver looks to be middle-aged, bald with ink crawling up his neck.
The lump slides down my throat as I spin to face the front.
“Erm, I think we’re being followed,” I stammer.
Ezio’s green eyes meet mine in the mirror reflection. “Pretty and perceptive,” he says, giving me a boyish wink.
Heat flushes up my neck. I quickly avert my attention elsewhere.
“That’s our muscle,” Logan explains, grabbing my hand to stop it shaking. When he notices the confusion on my face, he adds, “Our bodyguard. Alonzo.”
“Why do we need a bodyguard?”
Clarke scoffs. “Because we’re entering enemy territory.”
The church is an impressive structure. Made from sculpted stone and timber, and housing a colourful stained-glass window at its front.
Two large statues stand on either side of the thick wooden doors, keeping watch on those who enter the sanctuary beyond.
I cast my eyes up high, craning my neck to see the point of the spire breaking through the clouds.
Its beauty is only overshadowed by the copious number of mobsters littering the grounds. Smoking, drinking, shouting. Decked out in their designer suits and fancy shoes. The women in attendance, though few, are dressed to the nines, dripping in gold and decadent gemstones.
“Cordelia, you need to get out,” Logan gives me a prod from behind.
That’s when I realise Ezio’s hovering just outside, holding open the car door, with his hand outstretched in a very gentlemanly gesture. Logan grumbles something to himself as I accept his friend’s offering.
The boys lead us to the far side of the church grounds, ignoring the suspicious stares and whispers directed our way.
Suddenly, I vividly recall my emotions that day in the corridor, when my face was plastered all over the university walls.
Embarrassed. Threatened. Isolated. The same notions I’m going through right now, in the proximity of all these powerful figures.
Logan must sense my unease, because he catches my hand mid swing, and gives it a gentle squeeze. His touch is a calming balm against the threat and danger slowly closing in on us. And his smile is like my own personal ray of sunshine on this dismal grey day.
There’s a clear divide between the two organisations.
The Irish on one side and us on the other.
No one mixes or even makes conversation with the opposition.
Logan, Ezio and Clarke circle me with their domineering forms to the point of being claustrophobic.
The way they’re standing so close only fuels my fear.
Peering through the gaps between their bodies, I spot another couple of females in the same situation as me. A dark-haired girl resembling Ezio stands in the middle of the boy’s fathers. She’s barely sixteen, but already a foot taller than me.
The procession stretches the length of the street.
A pair of stunning Friesian ponies, black as night, with feather plumes jutting from their silky manes, halt outside the churchyard.
Six burly men step forward to carry the casket, sleek black and polished to within an inch of its life.
Probably cost as much as the matching designer suits on their backs.
Such a waste of money for something that will be buried beneath the earth for no one to see.
But it’s obvious no expenses have been spared today.
The tallest of the pallbearers steals a fleeting glance our way.
And in that short period, he catches my eye and sizes me up.
My fingers drop to my tummy in response, with the overwhelming need to keep my babies far away from his menacing aura.
My gaze finds the gravel at my feet, just to escape the hostility of his dark stare.
Logan’s fingers sink further into my shoulder as he says: “That’s Cillian. Stay clear of him.”
I nod, confident I can fulfil that order, and we follow the crowd under the high arched doorway.
Inside, the church is an absolute treasure trove of golden sculptures and intricate wooden carvings.
Beautiful in its depiction, yet hauntingly so.
Every arch soars to the ceiling. Every column stands tall and proud. Spectacular.
And yet, the men flocking into the pews, crowding the entrance, bear no resemblance to the usual congregation of devoted followers.
They’re big, brash, and brutish. Crosses and religious figures adorn the white walls, watching over men who look anything but holy.
Men who would be far more at peace holding guns than bibles.
The thought sends my mind spiralling; just how many of these men are carrying deadly weapons?
Logan slides into one of the wooden pews, patting the space next to him.
With a sigh of resignation, I follow, the wood, hard and unpleasant under my bottom.
I’ve always wondered why they don’t spend a bit more of the church funds on making people comfortable.
If they want to integrate more members of the public into the church, at least give them a cushion to sit on.
Clarke traps me between him and Logan, resting his hand a hair’s breadth from my thigh.
Logan’s eyes snap to attention, and when I slowly raise my gaze, Clarke’s eyes are glowing with a certain mischief.
The beast beside me growls, a low rumble from deep in his throat that makes my head fuzzy with desire, which is more than a little inappropriate for a funeral.
Ezio tuts, grabs his friend’s hand and shoves it in his lap.
Clarke shrugs nonchalantly, not a care in the world.
The service begins with the priest sprinkling holy water on the casket.
Never having been to a Catholic funeral, I have no idea what to expect, but it’s all very elaborate and theatrical.
There are several readings by family members and loved ones.
More holy water than you’d need to fill an Olympic swimming pool and so much incense it’s becoming difficult to see clearly through the fog.
Everyone joins in with the Lord’s Prayer, and then it seems the whole thing is wrapping up when blood relatives stand one by one and say their final goodbyes.
Cillian waits his turn, looking uncharacteristically tense for a man with as much swagger as him.
His fingers tap a rapid rhythm against his thigh whilst his foot follows suit, the heel of his shoe echoing against the hard floor.
The lady seated beside him wraps a comforting arm around his shoulders and pulls him close, stroking her fingers through his hair as if he were five and not a grown adult.
I guess everyone needs compassion at times like these, regardless of age.
The two of them stand as one and move towards the coffin like synchronised dancers, stopping only when they reach the bottom.
The lady bursts into tears, heart-wrenching sobs breaking through the silence.
I dare a glance at Clarke, and he’s just staring ahead, an easy smile spread across his lips.
How can someone be so detached from the world, so dead inside?
He caused this mother’s pain, this family’s grieving, and he doesn’t give a shit.
Cillian bows his head, holding up a hip flask. He trickles a drop of the golden liquid amongst the flower arrangements and presses his lips to the casket. When the farewells are done, a tall, dark-haired gentleman in a suit announces where his son’s wake will take place through bleary eyes.
Cillian’s father.