8. Saoirse
Saoirse
Docks of Ruin
I’m yawning and listless, too tired to bother pretending anymore. Maeve catches another one of my stifled yawns.
“What are you like, Saoirse? Could you at least try putting on a brave face?”
I’m slumped at the dining table, playing with the salt dish and spoon. “So I should let the great men dine after discussing my future?”
Maeve nods, but her gaze shifts. “You’re not acting like someone who’s about to be married. You’ve been acting… weird lately.”
“I better start acting normal then, shall I?”
Marching to Da’s study, I rap my knuckles on the door. It goes quiet on the other side.
“Yeah?” The old man invites me inside, thinking I’m one of the soldiers. Every man on the estate works for Declan now. His eyes widen when I twist the handle and breeze in.
“It’s money I’ll be needing if I’m to fetch fresh blaas from Damian’s, Da.”
Instead of forking his pocket to bring out his billfold, Da looks at Declan. I don’t trust the silent communication that passes between them.
But it’s Declan who takes charge.
“There will be no more gallivanting to Damian’s bakery for you, Saoirse. You’re off to the Sunnyside compound tomorrow, so your day will be better spent packing.”
I’m already packed, but not for you.
I haven’t learned to hide my expression yet. Declan reads defiance on my face. He ambles across the room and plants his feet half a yard away from me. He folds his arms and makes me feel like he can read me like a book.
“Why are you still here, Saoirse?”
The way he says it rings my alarm bells. Does he know? The terrifying rush of adrenaline makes my head feel light and my fingers go numb.
Relax. He wants to know why you didn’t jump to attention and rush off to do as he says.
“Me packing isn’t going to bring blaas to the table, is it?”
Declan sucks air through his teeth and taps his foot. He looks around the room like he’s searching for inspiration.
He pushes his face closer. I don’t look him in the eye, because I’m too busy looking at his face.
Craggy. Deep-set, penetrating blue eyes under a lowered forehead lined with thick eyebrows. Black scruff masks the lower half of his face even though silver hair decorates the top of it. Tattoos climb up his neck like an infection.
“You’ll learn that I’m a quiet man, Saoirse. I’d like a quiet wife.” He sucks air through gritted teeth again. “You’d be wise to remember that.”
I open my mouth to repeat what I just said, but there’s a light tread behind me and my sister grabs my arm.
“Good morning, Declan. You heard the man, Saoirse. Let’s be getting on with that packing, shall we?”
The fierce pinch she gives me brings me out of the dark mood I’m feeling. I let Maeve lead me out of the room.
At the top of the stairs, she shakes me. “What’s the thinking, you great eejit? If it’s a hiding you’re after, let me give it to you—because at least I’ll know when to stop!”
I want to tell her about my unfinished business. How my body aches with longing for Finn’s touch. If only I could wish myself back to the bakery and let him finish what he started.
I shake her off me. “Leave me alone!”
Running to the garden, I head for the compost heap. The orchids are gone, smothered by grass clippings and fallen leaves.
My mind’s made up. I go to find Liam. He’s back on gate duty. Taking my cue from Finn, I plaster a grin on my face. Inside, I feel nothing.
“Morning, fellas.” They give me the nod. “Liam, Declan says I can’t go to the bakery anymore. It’s packing I must be getting on with, because I’m off to Sunnyside tomorrow. Can you go to Damian’s for me, please? I wouldn’t want Da to sit down to his supper tonight and not have his blaas.”
“I’ll go fetch the boss’s baked goods for you, Saoirse.” Rian steps up and gives me a half-arsed salute.
But it’s Liam who nods. “How many blaas rolls will you be needing?”
I make eye contact. “Eight. Eight should be good.”
It’s the code we organized. I want Finn to meet me at the docks at eight o’clock tonight. I’ve got to leave before the terms of my leaving are decided for me.
***
Goodbye, Maeve. I hang Mam’s rosary over my sister’s bedroom door handle. She’ll be needing it more than me.
My backpack is slung over my shoulders and I walk to the compost heap slowly.
Who am I trying to kid with my pretend nonchalance?
If I’m caught with a change of clothes and my Bible full of pressed roses, and a Claddagh locket nudging the cleft between my breasts, they will know the reason for my running away before I can ever tell them.
They just won’t know the name of the man who’s become my destination.
I haven’t used this escape route since my first bleed announced that I was too old for the foolish tricks of a child. The tree has grown, but I stayed a wee wisp of a girl. I have to jump to catch hold of the lowest branch, but the climbing comes easy.
Over the wall, I land like a cat on all fours. I slink away into the dark like one too.
The waterfront where the boat waits to sail me away to Boston is deep in O’Shea territory. I haven’t prayed or attended chapel since I left my virginity drying on Finn’s rumpled sheets, but I pray now.
Forgive me Mam, for I’ll not visit your grave again. Watch over Maeve for me. Say a word in heaven for me as I leave to seek a better version of paradise for myself. Amen.
The waterfront reeks of diesel and salt. I find the sour scent of briny anchor rope rather appealing. I’ve found my anchor, and know he will always tether me to the dark depths despite the storm surrounding me.
I see the docked boat berthed where it should be. It’s got one of those generic names that was probably sold with it: The Seamew.
The gangplank is fixed in place, inviting me to step aboard. There’s got to be a bedroom below deck. Will Finn want to pick up where we left off? I should’ve prayed for that too.
Being with him, lying with him, letting him fuck me; that’s all I’ve been able to think about lately.
The steps down the hatch lead to darkness. “Finn! I’m here.”
The slapping of water against the hull is the only response I get. Silence where his voice should be.
The sound of a gunshot echoes through the night. It seems distant, but the echoes bring it closer.
He must be late. He would never abandon me. That whining bullet? It has nothing to do with us.
And still, I wait. When the footsteps come, I already know it’s not Finn. He strides when he should walk, head down, looking out for cracks on the sidewalk. My wild, wolfish lover.
This heavy tread is measured, deliberate.
A man’s voice. “It’s disembarking you’ll be doing, Saoirse.” It’s Rian. But I thought he was transferring to the Maguire compound?
“It’s fucking right off you’ll be doing, Rian.” I’m frantic, trying to unlock the door at the bottom of the hatch.
He steps aboard, corners me, bats away my flying fists like I’m a fly at a picnic.
“Settle down, you damn whippet,” Rian orders. “I’m with Declan now. He wants you back alive, but he said nothing about lambasting you to within an inch of it.”
There’s no sign of Da anywhere.
It’s Declan’s men who drag me home and throw me onto the carpet in front of their boss. He’s on the phone, glances down at me, and then finishes the call. “I’ll get back to you, yeah?”
He addresses me like an afterthought. “If it’s humiliation you’re wanting, Saoirse, I’m more than happy to oblige.”
I stay limp, my mind’s already checked out; my heart, lost.
“I’m in a good mood, so I’ll fill you in.” Declan smirks, triumphant. “Finn O’Shea shot your Uncle Seamus. All you ever were to him was a decoy. D’you think a ruthless lad like Finn would want to lay down roots with a proud string bean such as yourself? It’s delusional you are, Saoirse.”
No. Finn loves me.
Declan sucks air through his back teeth. “Throw her into a room. Lock it.”
***
They’ve stripped away everything from me.
Maeve’s gone. But only after my sister got a backhanded slap from Da. I heard it connect with the side of her head three rooms away. I watched them take her away through the upstairs window.
She mouthed something to me, and then she was gone.
I know I said no, but I’m thinking maybe now. Maybe Finn used me as a decoy. Maybe the pursuit, the claiming, and the painful consent he extracted from me had nothing to do with love and everything to do with infiltrating and conquering.
He’s the O’Shea enforcer. I think he enforced me to fall in love with him.
Oh, God. I miss him. I wish I’d stayed and let him tease the ecstasy out of me that day in his bedroom on his tangled, sweaty sheets.
I miss the violence of his hands and the exquisite gentleness that follows. I yearn for his control, and have no way of reacting without it. I miss all those things that should have warned me, reminded me to run.
All I have left is numbness, doubt, and the worst kind of longing. Like an addict, I fling myself onto the floor and brace myself for the pain.