“I only spoke Russian, but I did pick up some English from whatever was playing. I also dug out old newspapers from bins on the street and would trace the letters. When Mama was sober, or soberer, she taught me to read and write, but only in Russian.
“I can’t be sure, but Mama got worse when I was around four. We moved constantly, sleeping in alleys or under bridges.
“But things changed. Some of Mama’s friends took a liking to me.”
Gray felt bile rise in her throat. “No,” she whispered, but Ciar didn’t hear her, deep in his thoughts.
“Her boyfriends, which I realize now were her customers,” he said, his jaw clenching at the omission, “offered her money or drugs if they could spend time with her son. She only told me she loved me before she left me with them. Her love meant pain. I learned that quick enough.”
Gray stood so fast that the heavy wooden chair flipped backwards, crashing into the floor. “No, Ciar. Stop. You don’t have to.” Her hands covered her mouth in horror. Her eyes begged him to stop.
“It’s okay, Gray. I need you to know who I am and how I became…me. From almost four years old to eight, Mama gave me to her friends to abuse for drugs. They never spoke Russian, so Mama’s words were the only ones that I could understand.
“I love you, she would say before leaving me with a stranger, and while they hurt me, she would take the money and go get high.”
Gray and her mother were sobbing quietly at this point. Ciaran, her father, and brother were stone-faced and furious.
“One night, I think it was my eighth birthday, because Mama filched a cookie from a Dublin open market and gave it to me and said, “Happy eighth birthday, Gavriil.” I remember my body hurt everywhere. My privates were,” he leaned his head back briefly, “sore, and my eyes were swollen, my lips split.
“I remember being so thankful for that stolen cookie, though. I’d seen birthday parties on television, the wrapped presents and the cake and candles. That cookie was as close as I ever got to what I thought a party must be like. I imagined it was like opening a present. I never ate it, just stuffed it in my pocket to take out and look at.
“It was late, and Mama was taking me down busy streets toward one lined with pubs. The music was playing loudly in a few of them. I remember the beat of drums felt heavy against my bony chest.
“Mama stopped outside a pub that was busier than the rest. Through the glass I could see people drinking and dancing and laughing. I couldn’t remember ever laughing like that. Maybe when I was really little.
“Before I turned four.
“Mama kneeled on the pavement outside the packed pub—I know now that it was Murphy’s, Dad’s—and she used a diaper pin to attach a note to the collar of my stained t-shirt. I remember being so ashamed of how dirty I was.
“She kissed my cheek and told me that she loved me. She told me to go inside, that my father was waiting for me. She said she couldn’t take care of me anymore.
“The note had my name, Gavriil Morozova, and that I was Ciaran Murphy’s son. A patron found me wandering through the lively crowd and took me to the kitchen, where my dad was working at the time.”
Gray watched as Ciaran stood and clasped Ciar’s hands to his chest. “The best night of my fucking life, boy.”
“Mine too. I didn’t understand a word you said to me, but I instinctively knew you were good. Safe. Dad took me in, even though he didn’t know if Mama’s claims that he was my father were true. He asked one of his Russian customers to translate, so I knew that Dad wanted to take me to a hospital. That’s when,” he hesitated, “Dad found out about the abuse.”
Gray forced herself not to wail and scream from the pain beating against her chest. If Ciar was brave enough to speak of his abuse, she’d damn well be brave enough to listen.
“He had a DNA test done that proved he was my biological father, though he said he would have kept me regardless.”
“Damn right, I would have,” Ciaran cut in.
Ciar smiled at his father before turning back to Gray. “I never saw my mother again. Police showed up not long after I moved in with Dad to say that Anna Morozova was dead. She was found in someone’s basement with a needle still in her arm. Dad had already spoken to the hospital staff, the police, and a solicitor, so they knew where I was.
“Dad got me tutors to teach me English and everything else I didn’t have a clue about. He got me medical care and counselors—though I suppose they never were able to absolve me of my shame, of feeling emasculated. Less than. Dad gave me a new first name, Ciar, because it was part of his own name, and Gavriil became my middle name.
“I met Daniel and Jonathan when I turned nine, when Dad gave me my first birthday party. They were a few years younger than me, but they became my first friends.” He looked over his shoulder and grinned at his father.
“You and those wee O’Faolain shits snuck some Guinness, and you puked your damn guts all over the floor.”
Gray smiled softly. Ciaran still sounded pissed.
“I met you, Gray, and Mags, Blair, and Bébhinn when you were but little things. But you grew up, and I wanted you to be mine. I think I hesitated because I knew it would eventually come to this. My biggest fear has always been losing you, and even without telling you my history, I managed to do just that.
“I was too much of a coward to tell you about Imogen and why I wouldn’t, or couldn’t, walk away. What if she were given to someone like my mother or the men she sold me to?
“I pictured myself telling you a million or more times why I adopted Imogen, but the words would freeze each time. How could you want a man who had begun his life in such a dirty, filthy way?”
