3. Saoirse
Saoirse
A Crown of Whispers
Another restless night, but this time my persecutor has a name. Finn O’Shea.
A man who is more of a threat and less of a promise.
My fantasies walk on the edge of a razor sharp knife. All it takes for him to bring me to the peak of desire is lick my hand with his rough tongue. He traces my name against the palm using his mouth.
“Saoirse.”
He smells of blood and sweat. Like a wolf defined by hunger and its need to hunt.
I wake gasping. I throw the sheets off me and step out of my nightgown. Moving to the mirror, I glower at the image it shows me.
Hip bones jut out. Lower ribs show on my back. Small pert breasts and high buttocks hold the only excess flesh of which I have to boast.
Between the slender limbs I’m all knobbly knees and poking elbows. Still a foal, not yet a thoroughbred racehorse. That’s what Mam would say.
The dream brought a red flush to my cheeks and lips. When I touch my face, the sensitive parts of my body spasm. Following the sensation to its ultimate conclusion, I pluck a long-stem rose out of the vase and inhale the fragrance.
I drag the bud across my lips and eyelids, down my neck and over my collarbone. The petals flutter across my nipples, sink lower over my belly, and stop when the color red clashes with my black bush.
The rose smells divine, but spells danger.
Why didn’t I tell him that I was promised to another when I saw him again at Mam’s gravesite? Because he’s the door I want to leave open.
Footsteps run upstairs, followed by a loud knock. “Saoirse! Da’s on the war path. You better come.”
“I’m coming.”
A quick splash of cold water on my face washes the dreams away, but not my memories.
There’s not a scrap of lingerie in my top drawer. My underwear is white cotton and functional; tank top and panties. My blue dress buttons up in front and looks more like a housecoat.
My collarbone, knees, and upper arms are hidden. That’s what matters as far as Da is concerned.
Socks, shoes, cardigan. Hair kept off my face with an Alice band.
Done.
I hear Da shouting at Liam before I see them. Ah, feck, they’re doing it at the breakfast table in the kitchen again.
Liam was on guard yesterday. He gave me the nod when I came back from the cemetery. What happened between now and then that warrants Da going to town on him?
Slipping into the kitchen quietly doesn’t protect me from Da’s wrath.
“Get over here, Saoirse!”
He gives Liam a backhanded slap, hard enough to send the poor lad’s head spinning. “I’ll not bruise my knuckles for the likes of you.”
I stand behind Maeve and place a hand on her shoulder. Her hand slides under the table unseen. It snakes around and gives my leg a warning pinch.
Da winds his hand up in the opposite direction and slaps Liam’s head back to where it started.
“It’s an eejit I’m looking at, so help me! Are you to be the judge of what I should and shouldn’t know in my own house?”
Liam’s eyes are already bruising. He shakes his head. “No, Boss.”
He can’t resist bunching his hand into a fist and smashing it into Liam’s face.
Maeve winces. Da shoots her an irritated glance. “The bastard’s thick skull is a weapon all on its own.”
Liam hangs his head so the blood drips on his pants and not the kitchen floor.
I would dare to think the storm has passed, except for the warning pinch Maeve gave me.
Da fixes his eye on me. “It’s now you’ll be telling me about those roses you brought home with you, Saoirse.” He hasn’t taken the leather glove off his right hand.
“I went to visit Ma’s grave yesterday morning, Da. I found them in the trash. Finders keepers, right?”
Da nudges Liam with the toe of his wingtip and jerks his head to the door.
“Now, that’s an answer. Mark it well and don’t let me find you holding back that sort of information again.
If either of my daughters comes back home with a feckin’ four-leaf clover at the bottom of her shoe, I want to know about it. ”
“Yes, Boss.” The words are slurred through swollen lips as Liam lurches out.
Maeve breathes a sigh of relief when Da takes off his glove as he leaves the kitchen.
“How d’you do it?” my sister wants to know. “The minute I see the glove go on, fear freezes the life out of me.”
I ruffle her hair. “Ah, you’re looking grand for all that, Maeve.” I show her the rosary I always keep in my pocket. “Practice.”
The corners of Maeve’s mouth go down. “That was Mam’s. D’you think she did the same with it?”
“Maybe. But there’s nothing like saying the Lord’s Prayer and a couple of Hail Marys to ground you in heaven instead of hell.”
I don’t bother explaining which one we’re in to my sister.
The kitchen reverts to being normal and I put the kettle on.
The framed photo of Galway hanging on the wall shows brightly painted terrace houses facing the river.
A thumbtack holds the pamphlet that was handed out at Mass last Sunday.
The satellite shows a GAA match on the kitchen telly in the corner.
If there wasn’t a sneaky droplet of blood on the tablecloth to give all this domesticity a twist of irony, we could pretend the brutality never happened.
Tea in hand, I sit opposite my sister and push a mug over to her. “Liam didn’t tell Da about the roses. That means he sold the information to Declan first.”
This little nugget of gossip means nothing to Maeve. “Is it too much to ask for none of our boys to be on the take?”
“No. That’s not how we should be looking at this. Information used to flow one way—from the street straight to Patrick Byrne.”
“Which way does it flow now?” Maeve takes a slurping sip of tea and shows her appreciation for the brew by saying, “Ah.”
However much Declan is paying Liam to feed him news, it’s got to be a lot for him to take a couple of slaps and punch in the face from Da.
“It’s flowing to Declan Maguire, first and foremost, and by-passing Da.”
“So, what? It’s obvious that one of the Declan boys brought the news back this side. You should be more careful flashing your love tokens next time.”
I don’t react. Anything more than a blink and a shrug could be taken as confirmation, and the walls have ears. “Da could’ve found out about the flowers by watching video footage.”
The tea cools too quickly. Maeve’s next sip has no “Ah” coming after it. She shrugs. “It’s to be expected. Loyalty is like the shifting sands when money is involved.”
Maeve can be a real poet when the mood takes her. But she’s missing the point. As head of the Byrne family, Da didn’t get to be a boss by coasting on loyalty and money alone.
He’s an oppressive, violent man who prefers transactions in place of favors. He and I both know what Liam’s slip-up means. The operation is shifting gears, getting ready to move from one side to the other.
A power flip. That’s an interesting piece of information for me to know, because information is the only currency I have available to me.
I intend to keep my ears to the ground and my eyes open to gather plenty of it before any grand man decides my future for me.
But that’s not what keeps the conversation going.
“You can’t fool me like you do with Da, Saoirse. None of the men we know use flowers to express their emotion. They put a ring on it, and that’s that.”
“You’ve been inside my bedroom, you whippersnapper!” Where my roses are enshrined in Mam’s crystal vase.
Maeve knows that my outrage is performative. She smiles. “If Da knew those roses are red, he might have more to say on the subject. Is an outsider courting you?”
I experience a shiver that not even the hottest mug of tea could warm. Finn O’Shea is no madcap boy careless with the blood God gave him. He’s careless with other people’s blood. I know he spills it freely—and greedily. So much sin in so few years.
And that athlete’s body of his? Forged in backroom brawls and alley attacks it was. I shouldn’t find him beautiful, but I do, the way dangerous things often are.
An attack dog on a thin leash.
A gun in the holster.
I took his roses and sealed my fate.
Engines roar outside. It’s the usual fanfare announcing a visit from Declan Maguire.
“Jesus. Two vehicles and a motorcycle? Who the feck does he think he is?” My sister is not impressed.
I’ve trained myself not to roll my eyes. “Heavy weighs the crown, Maeve.”
Our lot brought Galway’s bare knuckle fighting and drunken riots with us when we made the crossing. If a man can survive all that to rise to the top, I suppose he deserves a little glitter on his porridge in the mornings.
Maeve whispers. “D’you think he’ll give Da the nod, or kiss the ring?”
“Da’s too old school for a dap.”
My sister snorts with laughter. “What about if Declan gives him a bro hook?”
We break out into fits of giggles as our father commands us to come into the front room. “Come and pay your respects to Declan, girls.” He doesn’t need to shout. Da’s voice carries.
I walk straight into the trap. Declan Maguire stands in the front room—with a large bunch of white orchids in his hand. My father stands by him, waiting for me to bend the knee to his powerful guest.
Declan waits until I’m standing in front of him. “I hear you like flowers, Saoirse.”
It’s not a declaration. It’s a ‘who’s got the biggest and best bouquet’ pissing competition. My heart’s in my mouth. Declan isn’t the sort of man who bears his suspicions lightly.
He pulls me close when I reach to take the flowers. His breath is hot in my ear. “It’s me you’ll be telling next time you want something pretty, yes?”
Eyes down, stare at the carpet. “Yes, Declan. Thank you.”
I turn to leave, but he calls me back. “It’s a restless quality you’re carrying around with you. I’ll be looking to cure that, so I would.”
Declan can see I’m nervous. That’s not good. Not even my Da picks up on my jitters.
“Can I make you a brew, Da? Declan?”
“Aye, why not?”
I jerk my head for Maeve to follow me out of the room. Da shouts after me. “Ask one of the lads to drive you to Damian’s as usual, but be quick about it. Tell him I want sweet buns with my blaas.”
My sister clings to me as I move to the kitchen door. “Saoirse, please don’t get sidetracked. Declan will have you on the clock.”
“Wild horses will drag me there and back, Maeve.” My smile drops the moment I leave.
I discarded the orchids on the kitchen table.
One of the soldiers drives me to the Prospect Avenue bakery. He doesn’t make eye contact with me in the mirror. Staring out the window is my only option; Da doesn’t allow his daughters phones.
The car pulls up outside Damian’s bakery. “I won’t be long. Catch you at the parking lot.”
“But Patrick said—” the driver has Liam’s gruesome bashing uppermost in his mind.
I cut him off. “It’s a red line, Rian! Patrick will be mad as a snake if the cops use your illegal stop to get their mitts on the car. Go on up to the parking lot. I’ll meet you there.”
I breeze inside the bakery as the car drives away.
“Da has a hankering for sweet buns with his blaas today.” But Damian isn’t behind the counter. One of the young bloods is. He looks… stressed.
Which is strange. How stressful can pushing cakes across the counter be?
He leans as close as the glass countertop will allow. “You’re regular like clockwork, Miss Byrne.”
The voice behind me makes me jump. “What the lad’s trying to tell you, Saoirse, is a girl such as yourself shouldn’t have a routine. Word gets around. It’s bound to lead to new acquaintances becoming old friends.”
Finn O’Shea has reached into my private space and found me. His presence here is a declaration. No one dares say no to an O’Shea man.
He holds out his hand to me and I—God help me—accept it.
His touch is electric, making a bit of banter feel in order. “So, it’s old friends you think we are, Finn O’Shea?”
I catch the young lad behind the counter breathe out. He gets busy tonging sugar buns into a brown bag.
Finn leads me to the back of the shop, pushes me into the corner, and keeps me corralled there by placing a hand on either side of my head. The full force of his masculine beauty gets turned on me.
Symmetrical and unblemished. Intensely attractive. But a brutal beast underneath it all.
“It’s not friendship I want from you, Saoirse.”
A customer steps into the bakery, sees me backed into a corner, and reacts.
“You all right there, love?”
Finn only has to turn his head. His storm-gray eyes flash darkly. “Call her your love again and it’s your teeth you’ll be eating, not a fecking bun!”
The man holds up his hands, backs away, backs all the way outside. When he feels the sidewalk beneath his feet, he bolts.
Finn’s reaction was insane. I’m not his to entrap and brand with his dark possession. Ducking under his arms, I head for the door. “I didn’t ask for your protection.”
His voice holds a grin. “It wasn’t an offer.”
The young lad runs to open the door for me and holds it while passing me the bag of buns. I thank him, but he’s not doing it for me.
After this, the whole damn community is going to know what happened. I’ve been marked. Singled out. Made special.
Finn follows me outside. What’s he like? Is he going to hunt me all the way back to the car?
“Quit… so quit… whatever this is.” I huff and cross my arms so he can’t grab me. “I’m not yours, Finn!” People drive past staring at us. Pedestrians mark my words.
“Not yet. You’re not mine yet.”
The stern voice follows me home and into bed that night.
I glance over at the roses and then turn to face them.
I’m going back to the bakery tomorrow… and I know what it means.
I choose him. Finn.
And my choices are already beginning to define me.