THE BONES & THE FLESH 1.1 — Where it all begins…
He’s either drunk, or dead — again.
Either way, the night I find him, after forty years of wondering why he took my life and gave me his… well, here he is. Flat on his back in the gutter in front of an ornate little old Irish church next to modern buildings, on the edge of a river in Dublin.
Mouth wide open. Booted feet spread on the sidewalk, prescription bottles scattered. Empty glass whiskey jug clutched against his crotch, with the remnants of a cigarette burning between tattooed fingers.
Looks like he’s about to set his own goodies on fire, beneath the searchlight of a moon at the wicked hour of three a.m. So here’s the guy who murdered me, I guess.
Sure, I stir at the sting o’ the ember when it burns through me short hairs. But that’s not what I’m cursin’ as damned consciousness returns, with a lit’ral vengeance.
At the same time, roused from a gallon of Jameson and maybe half the pharmaceuticals in Dublin, damned survival instincts tell me she’s here—
“Bloody hell.” Aye, me skull rolls to one side, eyelids flutterin’. And I give a grunt as the auld stone church spire comes into focus.
The Church of the Immaculate Heart o’ Mary, in fact, soarin’ above me stupid head. There’s no missin’ the fair distant Cross lookin’ down on me as it always does, eh?
Aye, a’glow in the trendy rainbow lights from a far newer architectural neighbor, so it is. One of a few remnants of Dublin older’n meself, the wee house o’ God Himself Almighty here, see, snuggled up with the garish blue-glass conventions atrocity built next to it this millennium, on the River Liffey.
“Ahh…” A snarl curls me mouth, more reflex than anythin’. “Well, that’s feckin’ disappointin’.”
Lookit, I’m still off me face, booze-totaled and self-medicated here, mate, so I must not’ve quite died this time, I guess. I do some hackin’ and coughin’ to get me lungs workin’, anyway, and I push meself up on me elbows.
Blinkin’ at her silhouette between meself and the night sky, I says to her, “So… do I know ya, then?”
His thick Irish brogue rumbles like an engine, unperturbed.
I’m not surprised that he’s not surprised. At the same time, I can’t believe he actually exists.
Considering all of the messed-up ways I could answer that question, I decide on the least complicated to start with.
“No.”
Well, a word’s enough to know she’s American, anyway. That don’t bode well for me, does it? Nor the pricklin’ in me senses, the hummin’ under me skin—she and me, maybe we’ve met.
“Short wit’ me already, ya mean-lookin’ twat?” I remark, Irish for well, you seem interesting.
I squint up at her, tiltin’ me heavy skull to one shoulder. There’s somethin’ about her smart dressed, light-framed outline, poised against the stars, that cuts through me haze, all right.
“Sure… that’s grand,” I concede, givin’ her a smirk as I pluck the cigarette from me man parts and flick it away. “Fair play. Not the first nefarious feckin’ figure I’ve had lookin’ at me like I owe ’em money, or blood. Or both.”
I stagger to me feet, wobblin’, makin’ a bit of a production of it. What can I say, the hard ground and meself, we’ve been acquainted a spell tonight.
Upright, I spy the shape of her fair pixie face, the cascade of curls down her shoulders. I give her a blunt once-over, not altogether unawares o’ her foine natural aesthetics. Good for her, those curves; fillin’ her outfit like that, above and below such a bitty waist. I wonder where does she keep her weapon, d’ya think?
Nothin’ too forward here, mate. Just the curiosity of a bloke who’s been around enough to know strangers rarely stay that way.
His smirk follows me as I circle a few slow, casual steps sideways, muscles oiling and flexing with my sensibly heeled stride. Here he is, after all this time, and I’m still deciding what I think of him.
Forty years, and his face, captured by the grin of the moon, has not changed one day from the nightmare snapshot I’ve had seared into my head all this time. Sharp brows, angular features, a shock of dark hair stood up in a greasy tangle. Dark eyes burning, a glint of keen perception through the booze stench he wears like a personal aura…
Those eyes. The ones that watched me die, inches from my face, back in Minneapolis in 1984.
He rolls his shoulders like something just hit a nerve. “So, what’s the story then, love? You here to pray, or to play?”
Kinda hot, for a starving psycho-fiend type.
My turn for a smile. “Not really in the mood either way.”
Well, I key in to her intent, the way her shadow calls to others I keep drownin’ in the sewer of me mind. Wicked black figures bobbin’ in me gammy left eye, me eejit brains rollin’ on waves of Irish whiskey. Veins flooded with an arse-load or so o’ Dublin’s better quality narcotics—
For the love of God, what sort o’ unholy animation’s got a rotty old carcass conscious here, at this rate?
“Right,” I chuckle, rubbin’ a hand through me filthy hair. Real bleedin’ charmin’ like, the way that gets a fella a second glance. “You’re not the sort lookin’ to have some craic at this hour, eh? Not wit’ a pure communicable pox like meself, sure. Don’t seem much like the confessional type, neither.”
She glides closer as I tuck me hands into the pockets of me well-worn fitted brown leather jacket, findin’ a crumpled cigarette pack.
“Hasn’t yerself got that other look about ya,” I figure, givin’ her a nod. “That ‘I’m here to ruin a bloke’s night’ sort of a look.”
I can’t make out the look on her face, truth be told, between the shadows and meself bein’ smashed beyond reckonin’. But what can I say, mate, I’ve an eye for demeanors.
“So, what’re y’at me for, darlin’?” I says to her, figurin’ there’s only a couple o’ ways for this to go, and I might as well get ’em over with. “If you was out fer money, you wouldn’t be talkin’ to a pure scrote on the street here, so. An’ I’m not yer Lyft driver, but if it’s a ride you’re after…”
The woman don’t budge, I take note.
I grin at her, loose in the hips and real suggestive like. “Well, don’t let me pretty face fool ya, doll. You’re barkin’ up the wrong feckin’ dead tree here, then.”
Just watches me, so she does, smirkin’ at me filthy arse, and that’s grand. Most who fancy ’emselves a huntress would be reachin’ for the holy water by now, spoutin’ Latin and throwin’ garlic.
“Aye…” I give a fair intimidating squint, now, tryin’ to see straight. Leanin’ against the auld sign outside the church as if I own the place. “Maybe yer just curious to see if the langered feller wit’ the tattoos’ll go up in flames if he steps inside here, eh?”
Maybe it’s because he’s drunk. Maybe it’s because he’s Irish. I can’t understand half of what he’s saying, a few strides away over there, as he carries on a full dialogue with himself.
But at the same time, I’m reading him loud and clear.
Taut and vibrating in the night air between us, I’m picking up all sorts of messages he’s trying to layer with suave. The weary curiosity, the bored hostility bristling—the edge of something sharper under the performance.
The awareness tightening his lean stance, his body recognizing before he does.
What am I here for? I lift a brow and give him the option.
“Surprise me.”
Well, don’t that put me a bit arseways, so it does. Aye, and the starvin’ in this stupid body, for a second here, it grays me out. Near swoonin’ a dolt on me feet…
“All right.” I’m hammered enough to absorb the impact, at least, fists clenched in me pockets.
Huffin’ a laugh, as me vision’s clearin’.
“It’s a surprise yer fancyin’, eh? Ahh, darlin’, y’don’t know what yer askin’ for…”
But I push off the church sign and amble a few steps closer. A bit more curious than’s me custom with women, close enough for a fella’s booze-stink and manky body odor to waft over the both of us. Studyin’ her, yeah, as the teeth sharpen in me grin.
“How about this fer a surprise,” I says to her, keepin’ it casual, playin’ it cool. “You’re the first I’ve met tonight who hasn’t been at me for somethin’. Not a quid, not a light, not a blowjob nor a damned confession. So lookit, now, I’m curious… what ayr ya in the mood for, love?”
I jab a thumb at the sign, the Cross up above I’ve put behind—
“’Cause most don’t hang about at this hour unless they’ve somethin’ to cry over or hide from.”
“Hm.” I circle back the other way, calculating, appraising. Sizing him up against me.
I’m not exactly tall, and I’d carry most of my body mass in my bra, if I wore one. My murderer looks to be a lightweight, too, maybe all of five-eight or nine, with his boots on.
Just a couple of inches on me. Not a big guy. Wiry, scrawny Irishman, haunted and shifty, glaring like I’ve pissed in his Lucky Charms.
Hanging out at three a.m., dead-drunk in front of a church? Like… someone with somethin’ to cry over or hide from, if you ask me.
“Okay.” I decide to give him a first clue: “Fancy meeting you here, in that case.”
I stop mid-sway, the smirk on me face slippin’ into somethin’ wary. It’s not the words—it’s the way she says ’em. Like she knows me number better’n I do, this wan, in a way I haven’t feckin’ advertised.
“Yeah?” I muse, rubbin’ at me scrubby jaw. “Can’t say I’ve much a memory for faces, darlin’, bein’ a fair bit more’n a donkey’s years along. But yerself’s got a way about ya, don’t ya? Like you’ve already decided what sort of a bastard I am.”
I saunter a step closer, liftin’ me chin. There—she turns her face into the warm glow of the street lamps. Aye, she gets a look at me while I get a look at her.
God above, whatever she’s on about, she’s gorgeous. But for all me fine bravado and feckery, a fella’s shoulders’re gettin’ tight here, braced to take whatever hits I’ve got comin’.
’Cause this woman, she’s… somethin’ else, isn’t she? I should know.
“Fancy meetin’ me here,” I muse. “Don’t that sound like there’s a story to it, though.”
Yeah, there’s a story here, all right. A history, anyway. The blood in my body recognizes the blood in his. Night air pops between us like electricity.
Whether he’s going to acknowledge it or not, I can see it in the way he’s side-eyeing me all of a sudden.
Maybe he’s forgotten my face. He’d never know what I look like anyway, from the bloody mess he left me in.
But already it’s clear: our senses would pick each other out a mile away.
Sure, isn’t the swank on me falterin’ here, though. Muscle memory not sure whether to hold or let go. The way she’s lookin’ at me, mate—
Not the sort o’ stare I can brush off with a quip, is it? Nahh, grabbin’ at sins I’ve disremembered, draggin’ me to a place I haven’t been in a long time.
Could it really be…?
Well, I shift me stance, a tatted hand slippin’ from a pocket to brush at the back of me neck. Yeah, I feel it. The crackle between us, spittin’ fire and just as dangerous.
A knot pulls tight in me gut. Through a pure shitestorm o’ chemicals banjaxin’ me system, the starvin’ reaches up to consume me, and I shove it down, same as I always do, now.
“You’re a quiet one,” I observe, countin’ me odds and comin’ off a bit flat. “Means you’re thinkin’, and thinkin’ means trouble.”
I check over me shoulder, a glance up and down the river walkway. Even this city centre realm o’ Dublin’s asleep at this hour, and for the millionth time in o’er a hundred years, I wish I hadn’t feckin’ woke up.
“Right,” I mutter. “Either you’re a ghost, or me ticket’s come due, eh? Maybe both.”
She hears the change in a bloke’s tone. One of her hands goes around to the small of her back.
Ahh, sure. Can’t say what kind o’ weapon she’s packin’—all the same to me. I’ve lived long enough, I expect everythin’s goin’ to hurt at this rate.
He straightens. Dropping the shady Irish charm, slipping into a dark glare.
“Well, have y’somethin’ to tell me, love, or ayr we on fer standin’ here til the sun’s up, an’ one of us gets crispy?” he inquires, snarling and feral. “I’ve nothin’ on me bleedin’ schedule, I’ll give ya that, so y’tell me what it’s goin’ to be, then.”
In fairness, I don’t really know what I expected. I’ve hated him for so long. I’ve waited for him for so long. And now?
Blame it on the Sight, maybe; the “gift” of discerning. As quickly as I reached for it, my hand trails away from the Sig holstered at my spine. I don’t put a nine-mil round in his head.
That’s not like me. This could get interesting.
So, to break the ice, I ask, “What if I said I did just want to bum a smoke?”
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