Chapter 28 Chapter 28: Pictures
A framed photo of Liam, young and smiling, was wedged between two flickering candles on the mantelpiece, a shrine set up for the guests who had begun to arrive in greater numbers. Everyone wore some form of black, even if it was just a ribbon tied around a bicep or a dark scarf and they drank quietly, sharing subdued stories of the time they’d spent with him, their laughter tinged with sadness.
At ten to six, the room fell into a sudden, profound silence as John and Mary entered the bar with four other Brits in tow. For a moment, it was as if the world had stopped breathing, a thick, electric hush that lasted only seconds but felt like years. The tension shattered when Seamus boomed in his usual, impossibly hearty voice, “John, you old dog! You and your boys are welcome in my house. And Mary, stunning as ever!” He strode over and pulled John into a crushing, back-slapping embrace.
“Seamus, good to see you well,” John replied, his voice low and respectful. “Sorry about the boy. Bad times.” Mary lingered at his side, gripping his arm, her face a mask of polite sorrow, offering only a passive, tight-lipped smile.
At six o’clock precisely, Lacy helped Liam’s mum down the stairs and into the bar. The woman moved like a ghost; her face etched with a grief so deep it was physical. She took a seat of honour beneath her son’s photo, a silent, weeping statue. Family and friends approached one by one, murmuring condolences, pressing her hands, until Benjamin, one of the Brits, stepped forward. He carried a thick stack of cash, which he dropped onto the table in front of her with a dull thud. “Sorry ‘bout your lad, missus.”
Her reaction was instant and visceral, a raw, guttural sound of outrage. She spat, in his face and swung a wild, open-handed slap, but he caught her frail wrist midair with a contemptuous sneer. “Ungrateful bitch,” he snarled.
John moved faster than I thought possible. A short, lead-filled club appeared in his hand and cracked against the back of Benjamin’s skull with a sickening thud. As the man crumpled, insensate, John grabbed him by the collar and dragged him unceremoniously outside into the alley. When he returned a moment later, his voice cut through the shocked murmurs: “My men and I apologise for Benjamin’s behaviour. It will be dealt with.” And that was that, the incident closed. After all, the stack of money he’d left behind was substantial.
The drinks flowed more freely after that, and as the night wore on, the bar grew louder, the initial restraint melting away under the influence of whiskey and shared memory. But another silence fell, this one colder, when Guy walked in with two uniformed security guards flanking him. Seamus greeted them with a wary politeness, and after a hushed, intense exchange at the door, he announced to the room, “Just the law, wanting to pay their respects. Molly, drinks on me for our men in uniform.”
Later, John sidled up to me where I was leaning against the bar. “Tilly,” he said with a curt nod as Mary slipped an arm around my waist in a show of sisterly solidarity.
“Mary, John, good to see you.” The words felt hollow, a performance for anyone watching.
John leaned in, his voice a bare whisper meant only for my ear: “Wagon’s ready for tomorrow. My best man’s driving. Knows the routes.”
“Sunrise by the northeast gate,” I murmured back before raising my voice for the benefit of anyone nearby: “Mary, you look extravagant tonight.” She smiled, a brilliant, false thing, and we exchanged a few meaningless pleasantries about the dress before we all drifted back into the protective throng.
Then Guy cornered me near the empty fireplace, his voice a venomous whisper in my ear. “Heard you’ve been busy. Stirring up trouble with the Brits. Making new friends.”
“Fuck off, Guy. Not tonight.” I tried to move away, but his grip tightened on my arm, his fingers digging into the silk and the bruise beneath. He pressed the cold, hard barrel of a concealed gun into my side.
“I could arrest you right now. Cause a scene. But honestly?” His breath was hot on my cheek. “I’d rather watch Charles tear you apart piece by piece once he finally deciphers that little book of yours. The Eighth Day.”
My blood ran cold, freezing in my veins. They knew. They had a name.
“Yes, we know the name,” he hissed, savouring my panic. “And the first few pages are… interesting. Slow going, but Charles should finish the translation soon. He got held up, busy interrogating another informant who knows you. A talkative one.”
Before he could react, I stomped down hard on his instep and wrenched my arm free, the silk tearing slightly at the seam. “Bastard,” I spat, putting as much distance between us as the crowded room would allow, my heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird.
I moved to the window seat, needing air, and found Lacy now sitting there alone, staring out at the dark street.
“Hi, sweetheart,” she said, her voice surprisingly steady despite her raw, red-rimmed eyes.
“Hey, Lacy. You holding up okay?”
She forced a smile that didn’t reach her eyes. “Yeah. I didn’t really know him, you know? But he died in my arms. Have you ever seen anyone die?”
Had I ever seen anyone die? I was Death’s apprentice, a destroyer of worlds, a reaper of men. A hundred faces, a thousand moments of extinguished life, flashed through my mind in a bloody montage. But I stayed present for her. “Yes, sweetie, I have. It’s… it’s never easy.” I changed the subject, my eyes catching movement outside. “But fuck, is that Nate walking up the street?”
Lacy’s expression tightened. “Yeah, I invited him. Is that a problem? Are you two still bad?”
Yes, it was a problem. A massive one. All the players, Seamus, John, Charles, Guy, now Nate, gathered in one nest. A powder keg wearing a black dress. How the hell was I going to get through this night?
“No, it’s fine, Lacy,” I lied smoothly. “I just… can’t deal with seeing him right now. That’s all.”
The band started playing a slow, mournful air, and the guests were already deep in their cups. This might have been Liam’s farewell, but it was still an Irish wake, they were determined to send him off in style.