His eyes are clear and blue and utterly without remorse.
One of the Connolly men is still alive, a fact he advertises by groaning and clutching at the hole in his thigh.
He tries to pull himself toward the door, leaving a wet trail that would be poetic if anyone cared.
Ruairí glances at him, then looks away.
I see the calculation—leave the survivor, let himcrawl out into the city, tell the story.
A message with more credibility than any body dumped in the canal.
My wrists burn.
I bring them up to my face and see the angry red grooves, the skin broken in places and caked with someone else's blood.
I test my hands—numb, but functional.
The left thumb is dislocated, hanging at an unnatural angle.
I pop it back in without thinking, and the pain wakes up the rest of my body.
The headache is immense, but compared to the rest, almost a relief.
I try to speak, but my throat is raw, and nothing comes out.
Ruairí turns to me then, as if he's been waiting for a cue only I could give.
He kneels; boots slick with blood and puts a hand on my shoulder.
It's gentle, not a gesture I would have expected after what I've just seen him do.
"Up you get," he says, voice low.
There's a tremor in it, but not the kind that comes from fear.
He lifts me by the elbows, careful to avoid the bruised spots.
My legs wobble, then remember their purpose.
I stand, swaying, and catch a glimpse of myself in the reflection of the container wall—face pale and streaked with sweat, hair plastered to my cheek, mouth set in a grim line that doesn't quite belong to me.
When we step outside, the cold comes at me with teeth.
It's colder than I remembered, the night having advanced while I was unconscious.
The sky above the docks is a thick blue, punctuated by the harsh floodlights from the nearby yard.
The ground is gravel, sharp and uneven.
The first breath I take fills my mouth with the stink of diesel and salt.
I make it two steps before I double over and vomit.
It's nothing but bile and acid, but the act is pure and total, an evacuation of everything that refuses to be processed by the mind.
I dry heave until I'm empty, then straighten, wiping my mouth with the back of my sleeve.
Ruairí doesn't flinch.
