The Ghost
They’re winding me up and pointing me in a direction I have no wish to go. I know how excitement and desire is meant to feel—and this isn’t it.
It’s my wedding day—the beginning of the rest of my life—but it feels like something important is ending.
The contrast between wanting a man to the edge of madness and arranging to marry one for prestige and power is stark.
The physical side of desire should melt and pulse. My emotions should be soaring high, fluttering my heartbeat and clenching my thighs.
But I feel frozen and stiff. My heart’s harder than a lump of ice. My face, blank.
Footsteps keep crossing the site of my grave.
I don’t want to marry Declan Maguire. But I made a deal to get a seat at the table, and now I’ve got to grin and bear it.
There’s not one particular person pushing my buttons, but several.
Dear old Da, Patrick, patriarch of the Byrne family, puts a box in my hand.
“There you go, Saoirse. Enjoy.”
He hasn’t bothered to wrap my first smartphone. I stare at it dully. The sparkle left my eyes a while ago and I haven’t been able to get it back.
The way I look at the device seems to irritate Patrick.
“It’s some life I want to be seeing in your eyes, girl! It’s not the end of the bloody world. The pride of the Irish is rising.”
The humorless cough of laughter bursts out of me before I can swallow it. “Leave it out, Da. We’re Irish Americans, you seem to be forgetting.” It seems like Patrick wants to make my last few minutes as a Byrne miserable.
He sticks his face so close he has to puff bridal bouquet orchid petals out of his mouth.
“This is your chance to sit at the table, Saoirse. Don’t fuck it up.”
It’s difficult to talk around the lump in my throat, but I manage.
“You gave up your seat at the table for me, Da. Aren’t you just the slightest bit concerned that I won’t live up to the terrifying legacy you’re leaving behind?”
That’s me. All sassy and spirited until a slap sets me straight. Only Patrick can’t do that now. Father O’Malley is next door donning his robes and he might hear it.
Patrick steps back, all red in the face. He knows why this is happening. He has no sons to take his place and it twists his manly pride to promote me as his replacement.
He’s never said it out loud, because he loved Mam. Her memory lives in his heart and pays no rent. The only person Patrick has left to keep his empire ticking over is me, and I’m definitely not my sainted mother.
I gave my virginity to the devil himself; handed that thin film of flesh to him on a silver platter and never even got an orgasm in return for it.
And I blackmailed Declan and Patrick for my seat at the table. To say those two men hate me would be close enough to the truth for it not to matter.
My nails are gnawed and ragged. No pearl pink varnish for my fisted hands. Which is a pity, because this marriage needs all the varnish it can get to try and coat the stench of its unwelcome origins.
A random female cousin reaches to hold my bouquet—white orchids and white heather. The Irish know how to read the signs. Everything has meaning.
In a bridal bouquet, white heather symbolizes dreams come true. I guess this is my wake up call.
If my dreams were to come true there’d be no stopping me.
Time drags me over the finish line. I’m married in a haze and driven to the reception in a blur. The reception is chaos.
A reel is being danced and the fiddles are playing. The shouts and laughter are already whiskey-inspired.
Teen boys are grabbing teen girls and kissing them in corners. Adults are acting frisky enough for me to guess there will be a few more Catholic babies born nine months from now.
Declan escorts me to the high table and pulls out the bridal chair for me. I sit, stare, and try to muster up a smile. One of the captain’s wives leans over, sure of her position in the hierarchy of wives to speak freely.
“You got to put that Claddagh ring on the other hand now, Saoirse. S’got to go on the left hand with the heart pointing in.”
Fine droplets of champagne spray on my face when she splutters my name. I pull back a few inches and turn my face to the side.
“It was my mam’s ring.” I will never get tired of explaining. It’s my chance to twist the knife in all the men who put that ring where it is right now—firmly on my right hand pointing in. “I wear it in loving memory of my dear departed mother—Maire Byrne.”
The woman pulls away. “You’re not meant to mention the dead at a wedding, Saoirse. It’s bad luck.”
“Oh, don’t you worry, Róisín. That ship’s already sailed.”
A server stands behind me and offers to top up my untouched flute of champagne. I beckon him closer and he bends so I can whisper in his ear. “Red wine. Large glass.”
He takes his time, so I know he’s run my strange request past Declan first. I can’t see my husband anywhere. No doubt he’s in one of the back rooms making deals.
With Byrne real estate and property developments, plus the Maguire political and business connections in his back pocket, there’s not a single elected official in Brooklyn who won’t lend Declan an ear.
The server returns with a glass and pours a measure of red wine into it.
I beckon him to bend forward again. “Leave the bottle. And bring another.”
A nice buzz of dissociation floods my body. I watch the dancers and diners, an amused smile tilting my mouth. I don’t touch the food, but take a few bites of wedding cake.
All of this—the dancefloor, the DJ, and the delicious cake—is a mask to hide what lies behind.
This is a business function. There might not be managers ogling their PAs or interns getting fucked on top of printers, but it’s very much a merger.
It makes me laugh.
“What’s the joke?” Declan appears at my side. He places a proprietorial hand on my shoulder.
He sits next to me, like it pleases him to oversee the gathering of the clans. As if he’s a great chieftain or warlord who managed to snatch the princess without having to fight the dragon.
My words come out slurred. “S’it’s funny. Everyone’s laughing even though there’s no joy.”
Declan rolls his eyes. “Feck me. It’s the wine bringing out the Irish in you, Saoirse. Quit your gurning, you fecking miserable geebag, I’m asking you.”
I lift my glass and toast him. “Said like the loving husband you are, Declan.”
He makes no attempt to hide his scorn. “Pfft. D’you have any idea how much love someone would give me for a chance to get their feet under my table?”
The buzz helps me get the words out. “S’it’s our table. Byrne and Maguire. Together. Forever.”
My husband pushes his face so close I can feel his warm breath in my ear.
“It’s my table, Saoirse. You’re a Maguire now. And your Da’s out of the picture.”
My imagination feeds me an image of Patrick lying in one of the back rooms with a skean sticking out of his back.
“Out of the picture?” I’m three sheets to the wind, finding it hard to make any sense.
Another scornful grunt. “Patrick’s retired. Connor O’Shea’s all over the shop with his axe man gone.”
It’s a jolt when he sticks his tongue in my ear. It forms a connection between me and the deep chuckle he’s giving.
“So, I’ll say it again, my beautiful blushing bride. It’s. My. Table.”
Declan leaves me. Probably so I can take in what he said. Maybe if I drink some more it will have the power to change my past, present, and future.
The past slips over the guard I’ve put around my heart.
Devil.
My hand jolts, knocking the red wine over the white linen tablecloth. The wine spreads to the bouquet. The sprigs of white heather absorb the blood-colored liquid.
There’s more than a hint of a stagger as I push myself up. I throw the bouquet into the air and it spirals onto the dance floor. “Con-fecking-gratulations.”
***
I was only dimly aware of Declan coming to bed last night. He knows that devil took my maidenhead, so he turned his back to me with a triumphant smirk.
Emotional pain wracks me, adding to the agony of my hangover. The urge to retch is enormous.
Tiptoeing to the bathroom, I’m not sure whether to sit or kneel first. I choose neither and splash my face with water.
That half-human staring out of the mirror turns into the girl I remember. I pull encouragement from my rapid recovery and use it to bolster my confidence.
I’m young, with the spirit of intelligence that finds things out and gets things done. I’ll be okay.
Climbing back into bed wakes up Declan. He sits up and stretches. I’m reminded of lion kings and apex predators as his muscles ripple and pop.
He’s a fine man, but he’s not my man.
Medium height, but how tall he is doesn’t count lying down. His pecs are matted with dark chest hair that narrows and trails down his taut belly. The sides and top of his hair are silver-flecked.
A lowered brow indicates his perpetual grumpy mood and dark lashes droop over shamrock green eyes. His mouth is firm, but the lines framing it underpin the bad temper.
“You’re a pretty ride, Saoirse,” he shifts over to my side of the bed and presses his erection against my thigh. “Take care of this for me, will you?”
Like his body, Declan’s cock is medium length, but muscular and thick. I don’t know how to tell him that I’ve only had sex once. For the life of me, I wouldn’t know how to take care of his achingly stiff erection even if he showed me a tutorial.
“I… I don’t know…”
He sighs and climbs on top of me, like he owns me, like he belongs there. His gaze is long and it lingers over my peaked breasts and black bushy mound.
I cry out when it goes in. All the heat and damp desire I had the first time is long gone. It’s natural to pull away, but Declan pulls me right back where I belong.
“God, you feel good and tight.”
I turn my face away and let him go to town on me. My self-worth hit zero after being dumped in such a public way before this.
A game of chess doesn’t need a pawn to win.
Those are the last words that devil wrote me.
Maybe that’s why I feel as if I’m in hell right now.
***
Six years later
“Let’s be having you.” I crack my neck on both sides and spit. Roll my shoulders. Thumb my nose after shaking the dizziness out of my head.
The octagon smells like blood. Like home.
The man opposite me skirts around the cage with his fists up to protect his face.
How the feck am I meant to land a punch with him prancing like a fecking pony?
This is my chapel and using my fists is how I pray. I decide to go in low, aim for the legs instead.
Crouch, make it look like I’m going to launch upward. He’s all about protecting his face. Shit. I stopped doing that long ago.
Busted nose. Cracked cheekbones. Fractured jaw. All fuel for my fire.
All the scars and breaks don’t stop the ladies from coming to my changing room either.
The crowd calls me an t-anam—The Ghost—because I go through my opponent like he’s not even there.
After I tackle him to the ground, my training kicks in. Arm around his neck. He’s going to think it’s like being strangled by coconuts, but it’s only my bicep choking him out.
Latching my legs around hips, I taunt him. “Whisht, lad. Don’t fight it. It’s a sweet goodnight and lights out with you.”
His fingers scrabble on my skin, trying to loosen my chokehold. Hell, I can do this all night if I have to.
This isn’t the fecking UFC. They play by the rules. I don’t.
Especially not here and now.
He taps out and rolls away from me like I’m toxic on a nuclear level. If only he knew. I’m worse than that.
Cast out. Exiled. Bound to die the moment I cross the bridge and head back to Brooklyn.
The man with the mike sounds triumphant as he lifts my hand to announce my victory. He feels the pride for me, because I sure fecking don’t.
Fighting has been my job since I was twelve. Fifteen fecking years.
Only it’s not the old man winding me up and letting me go anymore. I wind myself up.
In the changing room, I stare at the slick tiles as the showerhead beats the bruises on my scalp. I peel off the tape wrapping on my knuckles, stare at my hands… They have always been my weapons.
These are the hands that spanned Saoirse Byrne’s neck. That time, we both knew that one snap would end her. But she never got to learn that the snap would also end me.
Because I thought that I couldn’t live without her. Not because of love, but because of sheer fecking selfishness.
I can live without her as it turns out, but only as a ghost. My bloody half-life. A revenant doomed to relive memories of her. In my head. Every night.
The last six years haven’t softened my obsession. Like an insect trapped in amber, it’s solidified and hardened.
My job might have removed every trace of tenderness in me, but the need to possess her is as acute today and it was that night I saw her in the chapel.
My trainer, Mickey, hands me two towels when I step out. One gets wrapped around my waist. The other is draped around my shoulders. He hands me my phone.
“Call came through for you. Says it’s urgent.”
Nothing seems urgent after six years, but I answer. “Yeah?”
It’s one of the fighters from the circuit. I gave him my number, but he’s not calling because he wants a rematch. “I got a Pádraig Callahan with me. He’s at the hospital. Says he’s got a message for you.”
Pádraig Callahan. It’s O’Shea loyalist blood he’s got pumping in his veins. “Put him on the line.”
Pádraig sounds like shite. “I’ll not say your name, Boss. But I’ve got a message for you all the same. Connor’s dead.”
The old man finally kicked the bucket. “It’s a bit early in life for him to be doing that?”
“Connor’s passing rushed to meet him. He didn’t go to it willingly.”
Whoever sent that message, I received it loud and clear.
Pádraig elaborates some more. “Maguire has seized power over both families. The city is collapsing under his boot heel. Docks are neglected. Pubs have shut. Union fees unpaid…”
That always happens when the head gets cut off a chicken. It can run along for a fair bit before dying.
But that’s not what I’m thinking about right now. “She said so, and so it must be done.”
Pádraig doesn’t reply. The fighter answers for him. “He’s croaked. The old boy refused pain meds so he could give you that message. I hope it was worth it.”
I disconnect the call and hand my phone back to my trainer.
“Everything all right there?”
Saoirse is mine once more. I’m going back. Not for a reunion, but to collect a debt left unpaid for far too long.
“Everything’s grand.”