Chapter 14 Chapter 14: Seamus
Max bolted, as fast as a one-legged man could run, which, believe me, was pretty damn fast. All I saw was his back and the stolen Irish flag, a vibrant splash of green, white, and orange, flapping wildly in his grip like a captured bird. A roar went up. Half the bar, every young, drunk, and patriotic Irishman in the place, charged after him in a tidal wave of fury. They must’ve caught him just outside because even from inside, over the music, I could hear the sickening thud of boots meeting flesh and the raw, ragged screams that were unmistakably Max’s.
The moment the bar emptied of its primary muscle, the two guys by the wall snapped into action. They unfurled a Union Jack and slapped it up over the empty flag mount with a strip of tape, bellowing in unison, “God save the King! God bless England!”
That’s when the third guy made his move. He was already stalking toward the bar, hands hidden under his long trench coat, face pale as death under a flat cap. Never a good sign. I was on my feet, moving to intercept, but he either didn’t see me or didn’t care. His eyes were locked on Seamus, who was polishing a glass, his back momentarily turned.
“Oi, Seamus! A gift from the people!” he snarled, yanking up a sawn-off shotgun.
Protect your ally. Even if they’re not your friend. My body moved before my mind could process. I lunged, my elbow cracking into his jaw just as the blast erupted. BOOM. The sound was deafening, ricocheting off the close walls. Buckshot peppered the ceiling, raining down splinters and dust. The next blow, a hard fist to his kidney, took him down. In one fluid motion, I wrenched the shotgun free from his limp grip. Now he was crumpled on the sticky floor, my boot on his chest, my knife at his throat.
The door burst open, and the Irish mob stormed back in, waving the reclaimed flag, their faces flushed with victory.
“You alright, boss?” one of them shouted, the triumph dying on his lips as he took in the scene.
The main blast had missed Seamus, but a few stray pellets had caught him along the temple, leaving a deep gash that poured a curtain of blood down the side of his face. He was a terrifying sight. Staggering out from behind the bar, he ignored the question and snatched the shotgun from my hand. He looked down at the whimpering Englishman.
“Fuckin’ English, bring a gun into my house, you stupid fuckin’ prick!”
With a grunt of pure rage, he reversed the weapon and began clubbing the man on the floor into a pulp, the stock making a wet, cracking sound against bone. Then, with a final, brutal heave, he grabbed what was left of the man and hurled him through the large porthole window. Glass exploded outward in a spectacular shower, scattering across the street like diamonds. Seamus turned on his men, his voice a guttural roar, blood masking half his face.
“What kind of piss-poor security are you lot? You’ll be shovellin’ shit for the rest of your goddamn lives! Now get that trash off my street!”
He stormed back to the bar, slamming the shotgun down on the counter before pulling out a roll of gaffer tape. The singer from the band, her face pale but determined, stepped in, gently taking the tape from him and starting to patch the weeping wound.
“Now fuck off, the lot of ya! We’re throwin’ a Saint Paddy’s party!” He wiped his face with a bloody sleeve and grinned wildly at me, a manic gleam in his eye. “Play a tune! We’re gettin’ pissed, me and my new friend Tilly!”
The bar gradually buzzed back to a nervous, adrenaline-fueled life around us. Seamus and I sat at a table near the shattered window, the cool night air creeping in, smelling of ozone and spilled beer. My senses were hyper-sharp, booze, stims, and most of all, adrenaline still humming a war song in my veins. As we drank, a crew in neon-orange work gear materialized outside, silently and efficiently cleaning up the glass and measuring the broken pane. They moved with an unnerving, synchronized precision.
Seamus glanced up at them. “You get that fixed by tomorrow night, there’s a bonus in it for the lot of ya.”
“Who are they?” I asked, watching their impersonal efficiency.
“Ajax. Cleaning and maintenance.” He poured me another generous measure of whiskey. “Now, listen, you start tomorrow. New job: my head of bar security. Pay’s good, daily Rads included. But keep those blades tucked away, or you’ll end up swinging from a lamppost like our friend back there. Town rules, no weapons. And when the guard shows, you keep your mouth shut. Don’t mention the knife. Understood?”
“Understood,” I said, the job offer landing without ceremony. “Why’d the cleaners show before the guard?”
He clinked his glass hard against mine. “Sláinte. Ask too many questions like that, and you’ll get yourself killed.” He tapped the side of his nose. “They don’t like getting their hands dirty. Always late to the mess, early to clean it. Folks like us?” He gestured around the bar. “We’re the mess. Worth less than the dirt under their polished boots.”
Right on cue, the guard arrived, led by Guy, a man whose permanent expression was one of profound disappointment.
“Seamus,” Guy said, his eyes locking onto the drink in Seamus’ hand like a parched man in the desert.
Seamus knocked his back and poured another, not offering one. “Guy. What brings the law to our humble celebration?”
“Heard there was some trouble tonight. A window. A body.”
“No trouble. Just a lost Englishman who had a bit too much and took a dive. Clumsy bastard.”
“Also heard there was a gun involved.” Guy’s eyes flicked to me.
Seamus kicked me under the table. “You see a gun, Tilly?”
I drained my glass, fighting to keep my face neutral. “A gun? In here? Didn’t see one. Just a lot of patriotic enthusiasm getting out of hand.”
Guy’s glare sharpened, seeing right through the lie but lacking the evidence, or the energy, to break it. “Careful, Tilly. We’re watching you. Bad company you’re keeping these days, Seamus.”
“Not company. My new head of security.” Seamus clinked my glass hard enough to slosh whiskey onto the table. “Sláinte.”
Guy and his men left without another word, melting back into the night.
The rest of the night became a blurry montage of neon green and amber liquid. I took my last Angel-Kiss, drank the bar dry, and partied till dawn. I remember the rough hands of a man whose face I couldn’t place later, the taste of cheap gin, the sound of the spoon-player finally collapsing. I stumbled back to my bunk as the sun crept over the horizon, my head spinning like a broken gyro, the world a nauseating tilt-a-whirl.
Fumbling for my identity tag, I barely got it near the lock’s scanner before a whisper cut through the haze.
“Tilly.”
Again, sharper, from the shadows: “Tilly.”
I turned, squinting. Max stood there, leaning against the corrugated metal wall. In the bruised morning light, he was a mess. One eye was swollen shut, his lip split, and he held his ribs like they might tumble out of his chest. He looked every bit like August, my old comrade from the pens, that weak little brother I never wanted, but loved. A pang of something, guilt, pity, exhaustion, hit me in the gut.
“What the Blessed Mother did you do, Max?”
He tilted his head, the movement causing him to wince, yet he still managed a weak, bloody smirk. “Got thirty Chids for it. Flag’s back inside, ain’t it? A fair trade.”
“And a good kick in the… well, look at you! They used you for a football!”
He shrugged, then regretted it. “Had worse. Thirty Chids is thirty Chids. Can buy a lot of forgettin’.”
“They almost killed Seamus. Some Brit pulled a shotgun because you caused a diversion.”
The smirk finally vanished. “Didn’t know nothing about that, you gotta believe me, Tilly. Swear on my mum.”
“The Irish won’t care about what you didn’t know, Max. They’ll just know it’s your fault.”
“They’ll be okay. They need me. I’m useful.”
“You’re a fool. A useful fool, but a fool nonetheless.” I sighed, the weight of the entire long, terrible day crashing down on me. “I’ll talk to Seamus. Smooth it over. He owes me one.”
Max’s grin split wide again, a terrifying sight on his battered face. His arms stretched out for a hug. “Thanks, Tilly! I knew you’d- Knew you were the best,”
I shoved him off, gently but firmly. “Don’t touch me, Max. Not ever.” I pointed a shaky finger at him. “Now, I’m broke. You’re buying breakfast. The full works. Eggs, synth-bacon, the black coffee that tastes like fuel. All of it. And you’re going to tell me what other incredibly stupid plans you have so I can talk you out of them.”