Unofficially, and in spite of all her protests, I returned to Ireland because Mum broke her pelvis and needed a little more help than my married sister with a full-time job and a kid could manage by herself.
With a new job, and a new lease of being a local reporter, I needed to quickly prove to myself that I still have my edge in journalism, but without the added risk of, well, you know,bombs and real people really dying. A shudder rolls through me at the reminder.
Going up against the corruption in the rugby world seemed like a good idea at the time, a great idea, even. What a way to put me on the map!
But in doing so, in championing the underdog, raging against the crooked machine, I made myself a target, collected some enemies, and fucked myself in the arse without taking my trousers off or a lick of lube to be seen. In the war zones of Palestine, Syria, and Yemen, nothing was personal, but as soon as I started back in my own stomping grounds, everything felt targeted.
Matt finally gets called on at the bar, his voice pulling me out of a potential walk down memory lane. The steady thumping in my head tells me it’s past time to go home, but I know pain, I’ve lived pain, I’ll be grand for a while yet.
“Another round for the Sanderson sisters, please, Keith.”
Keith snorts, probably at the reference to the cult classic movie. “I’ll have to confiscate their broomsticks after this next round.”
Matt nods, his face somber as he pats his pocket. “Already took their keys. And I’m on the fizzy juice.”
“You’re a good egg, Matthew Murphy.”
“Aye. A regular prince charming, that’s me.” He shakes his head. “At least if I’m here buying them drinks, no one’s out there.” He hooks a thumb over his shoulder. “Committing murder.”
The way he jumps over the implication they may skip drunk driving and go straight to drunk murdering isn’t lost on me. And it also tracks. Those sisters have a reputation: nerves of steel, top-class rugby players, and extreme don’t-fuck-with-us vibes. With the father they have, I do occasionally wonder if those broad shoulders are built for carrying the weight of the world on them, though.
Keith’s face hardens. “Some people deserve it, Matty. That poor girl being made a show of like that, and with her best friend, too. What pricks.” He passes a pint of brown lemonade over the bar, and Matt takes a sip.
“Don’t get me riled up again.” He takes another drink, a muscle in his face twitching. “There’s still time, and I won’t have the excuse of being pissed for having killed them both.”
Keith mutters something about Rhiannon’s former fiancé being a lowlife piece of scum and how it should be her older brother and dad kicking George’s shit in, then reiterates his approval of vigilante justice. Even though I don’t know them personally, my heart goes out to her, while also being in awe.
She could have tried to keep it under wraps, closed ranks around the disgrace, but sooner or later, me or one of my media colleagues would have heard about her getting screwed over, and it would have made the news. Especially Pete. He’d have made it Kardashian level scandal on our tiny island.
The way she’s handled it, she’s controlled the narrative, told the story on her own terms. Kind of. I doubt she expected to go viral the way it did, but one way or the other, it would have come out in the end. It always does in small-town Larne when everyone knows everyone else’s business.
And she would have been made to seem like a weak, broken victim, the subject of gossipy whispers behind her back. This way, she’s anything but. She’s out in front of it: strong, calculated, patient. She’s clearly known for a while now that George was stepping out on her, but she bided her time, waited for the perfect chance to strike. And on her wedding day, too?
Yeah, that took balls. Giant balls. I’d never have had the gall. She’s got gall in spades.
I risk another glance in her direction; she’s hardnotto look at. There’s no doubting the Morrigan sisters are stunners, butI’ve always thought there was something about the oldest that hits like a punch to the solar plexus.
She’s tall, maybe around five-nine. She’s athletic—obviously—with strong shoulders. She’s a fly-half, so she’s a bit leaner than the forwards. To my shame, and more than once, I’ve thought about what those toned and powerful legs might feel like wrapped around my body. And then I’m reminded that she could probably crush me like those videos on social media where people make watermelons explode with their thighs.
That’s Rhiannon Morrigan.
She’s got an oval face, high cheekbones, a slightly bent nose from taking one too many hits on the pitch, long caramel-brown hair, and the most unusual green eyes I’ve ever seen. She’s got a couple of battle scars on her face from the game, but you can really only see those in close-up pictures unless you know her well enough to get in her personal space.
Discomfort prickles up my spine as another half a dozen Larne football fans traipse in off the street and into the growingly uncomfortable bar. I rub at Ghosty, my residual limb. At thirty-two years old, I’ve lived without my lower left leg for almost half my life, but that’s not a rabbit hole I have the luxury of going down right here, right now.
The lights, the noise, the volume of bodies, the thrum of impending all-out headache flickering in my brain… If I was a smarter man, I’d get the fuck out. Except, I can’t help but wait around to see if there’s any further post-wedding scandal.
Wouldn’t it be something if George tracked her back down to the Anchor and begged her to take him back? Matt wouldn’t get a look in before Rhiannon herself, or one of her sisters, beat the ever-living shit out of him right there for everyone to see. The Irish version of a telenovela, soap opera central, right here in the middle of Larne town.
Someone—it sounds like the youngest Morrigan sister—declares it’s time for shots, and the other two sisters groan, waving their hands in protest.
Matt holds his hand up like a stop sign. I wonder if he truly thinks he could stop the sisters from doing anything they put their mind to. By all accounts, they’re a force of nature. He suggests going to find karaoke, which makes two of the three women light up.
It’s not karaoke night here at the Anchor, but I’m sure if they ask Keith nicely enough, he’ll make it happen for them once the football crowd clears out to go to the game. Ten minutes later, it’s already descended into the post-breakup stereotype as the three of them crowd around the microphone singing “Girls Just Wanna Have Fun,” and while they’re not the worst I’ve ever heard, they probably shouldn’t be giving up their day job any time soon.
Another jab of pain flutters in my leg. You’d think after all this time it would stop hurting, and yet, here we are. Some people are lucky enough to get erotic nerve endings after amputation. Not me, no, I got the phantom limb, low pain tolerance, and bad attitude.
I grunt, sliding off my high stool to head to the toilet, figuring the girls can’t get up to anything too scandalous while they’re mid-song. I need to listen to my body and head out. If something happens, or someone hears something, I’m sure it won’t be long before the Larne gossip tree gets to work and I hear about it anyway.
