54 | All Shaken Up
All Shaken Up
Niall
WHEN WE WERE younger, the lads and I used to shake up minerals until they’d kind of blow up inside their container.
One time, Finn got one to explode. Sprayed Fanta all over Bobby Marshall’s pristine white kitchen cupboards. Bobby went spare. We thought it was brilliant.
That’s how I feel right now. All shaken up. Too full, unable to get all this pent up energy out. There’s a pressure building up behind my eyes, a fizzing in my blood.
I feel like I might explode.
She won’t do anything. I’ve been trying and trying for the rest of the weekend to get her to report him, but she won’t budge. She’s convinced that it will ruin her life.
The thought of the bastard getting out unscathed infuriates me. Meanwhile my girlfriend is riddled with bullet holes of anxiety and intimacy issues.
I have one idea left. And I don’t tell her about it, because she’s not gonna like it. Not one bit.
After he left the pro’s, Patrick Fitzpatrick’s name did not go underwater. He’s still a highly well-respected former footballer—a well-respected former footballer who was best mates with my dead father.
Da always said Uncle Paddy had the sharpest brain he’d ever known, and not just about football. He could’ve been a lawyer or something if he had wanted to. If anyone knows how the leagues work, how the power plays out, it’s him.
Still, I’d never been so nervous to talk to him. I’ve been walking in and out of the houses of my mates all my life, but today I knocked on the Fitzpatrick’s dark green front door, my hands shaking and breath puffing in front of me.
“It’s grand to have you, Niall,” Uncle Paddy says, once he’s gotten us our tea and we’re in the sitting room.
It’s Sunday afternoon, and I wanted to do this today so I could get it out of my mind with Molly’s birthday being tomorrow.
I want tomorrow to be special, and I want to take her mind off of the awfulness.
“Though I have to say I’m a bit surprised to have you visit out of the blue while Joe’s not even home. ”
“I didn’t know he wasn’t home,” I say honestly. “But I really need to talk to you.”
He leans back in his arm chair, the springs groaning in protest. Him and Da are the furthest thing from looking alike—da always had pale skin, the same dark blue eyes as mine, chestnut brown hair. Uncle Paddy is Black Irish, with curly hair and greenish brown eyes.
They’d really only had their name in common, but they’d always been brothers at heart. Same with Bobby Marshall, and I think their friend Johnny before he died. Da used to tell me all these stories about them all growing up, how he was glad I was growing up with mates just like that.
Now, I can see all those stories, withered with age and loss, behind his eyes as he gives me a knowing look. “Alright, lad, let’s hear it. What kind of trouble are you in?”
I paint the picture for him the best I can, in a hypothetical way.
My hands are sweating and I keep wiping them on my trousers.
I tell him about this guy who’s a former pro-player, has connections everywhere around the leagues—in America, as far as I know—and he’s using it against someone.
Someone he hurt. And that I think this man is a dangerous person who uses his position of power to harm young girls.
I keep it vague, but detailed enough so he understands what I’m working against here. I watch his face as I talk, seeing it darken with every word.
“Who are we talking about here, Niall?” Uncle Paddy looks at me, his eyes full of concern. “Because these are some serious accusations, and I have to say I’m not sure what it is you’re asking me to do.”
“I’m not asking you to do anything,” I say, shifting uncomfortably in my chair. “I just wanted to ask you—hypothetically—what would happen if someone like that was reported.”
Uncle Paddy sighs deeply, rubbing his temple. “Well, hypothetically, it depends on who’s reporting it and how much evidence they have.”
“Evidence?” Why did that not cross my mind? I hardly doubt Molly has any evidence at all. It was years ago. She was a kid. “So you're saying it'd be her word against his.”
“Hypothetically, yes,” he confirms, his brows furrowing. “Unless there were others willing to come forward.”
“Others?” I echo, stomach churning.
“There’s usually others, Niall,” he says, his voice low, heavy enough that it feels weighed down by experience. “Men like that... they don’t just stop with one.”
That makes me feel sick.
A cold dread washes over me. I picture Molly, small and fourteen, and then I picture other girls, other lives he’s touched, other wounds he’s left behind. It’s too much. I can’t sit here anymore.
I stand up abruptly, unable to sit still any longer. “Thanks for the tea.”
Uncle Paddy stands too, placing a hand on my shoulder. “Niall—if you’re in trouble—”
“I’m not,” I say quickly, pulling away from his touch.
He studies me for a long moment before nodding. “Alright. If you need anything—anything at all—you know where I am.”
“Thanks,” I mutter, heading for the door.
I don’t know what I expected—some magical solution maybe—but now I just feel worse.
??ˋ ?? ?ˊ?
“NIALL!” LORRAINE LAUNCHES herself at me when she opens the door, her body a blur of pink pyjamas and blonde hair. I just manage to catch her, staggering back a step.
“Hey, Ray. Did you ever come up with that nickname for me?”
No,” she says, sliding off me, and crossing her arms with a pout. “You’re too hard to nickname.”
“Fair enough.” I ruffle her hair as she lets me in, making her squeak and swat at my hand. “Where’s your sister?”
“In her room. It’s her birthday eve, did you know?”
“I did,” I nod, letting her grab my hand and pull me towards the Lockhart’s large staircase.
Five minutes later, I’m in Molly’s room. She greets me with a big hug and a kiss, the over affection making me feel worse somehow instead of better. It’s like she’s trying to convince herself she’s okay.
“You ready for tomorrow?” I ask, her arms looped around my neck and mine around her waist.
She nods. “Yesss. I can’t wait.”
Finn promised last week to throw her a party (at my house, mind you). I want to ask her if she’s still okay with that, if it won’t be too much for her. But I have a feeling that she would tell me she’s okay with it whether she is or not.
My knee throbs as I sit on the bed with her, pain shooting up my leg. Fuck. Just when I thought I was out of the woods with that. Wishful thinking, I suppose.
I shift my weight, trying to ease the pressure, but it’s no use.
“Are you really okay?” I ask her, turning to face her. She lays back on her pastel-bedspread, and I follow. “You don’t have to be. After yesterday...”
“I don’t want to think about yesterday. He’s gone. He’ll stay gone.” She avoids my gaze, picking at a loose thread on the blanket.
“Molly...”
“Niall,” she says, matching my tone, biting her bottom lip. “Please. Just... leave it.”
I look at her. I can tell she’s trying so hard to be brave, but I can see the fear in her eyes. I want to push, to demand that we talk about it, that we do something, but I can’t.
I sit up a bit, taking her face in my hands. “I love you. Okay?”
“I love you too,” she says softly. She leans in, kissing me again. “We’re gonna be okay, yeah?”
“Yeah.” I hope so.
God, I hope so.