It always seemed like his tendency to violence was directly tied to the booze. The fact that he’s immersed himself in organized crime since Mom and I left indicates otherwise, but maybe he’s at least stopped beating on his family.
On Tadhg.
Tadhg, who has fucking grown. Which makes sense because it’s been over a decade. But it’s still startling to see. Even unconscious and bleeding out, the strength and power in his body is obvious.
I would take that as another sign Patrick doesn’t lay hands on him anymore, but I’m not that naïve. Pat always held absolute control over my brother’s emotions, and abuse like that—from the day you’re born—isn’t something you outgrow.
Also, there are other ways to abuse someone than with your fists. Even if Patrick stopped laying into his son; even if Tadhg didn’t have to spend more nights hiding in closets after I left, it doesn’t mean he isn’t still hurting him every day. And knowing Tadhg like I used to, he’s probably still convinced he deserves it.
I realize Patrick is staring me down, waiting for a reaction to his posturing. He’s still intimidating, I’ll give him that. The air of menace, the cold glare, the set jaw covered in gray stubble. The large snake tattoo on his neck that matches everyone else in the room except me.
It’s all a vibe. A vibe designed to make me feel small if I let it.
“Are you saying you won’t help him?” he hisses.
Internally, I’m at full fight-or-flight. But I’m very practiced at appearing calm in a crisis, so I don’t think I’m letting anything show.
“Look, I wasn’t expecting this, but I definitely don’t want Tadhg to die. I’ll help however I can. I’m just saying I don’t know how much I can do. I think you need to take him to a hospital. If you’re gonna keep refusing…” I sigh, running a hand through my messy bedhead and weighing exactly how much I’d be risking my nursing license here. As well as my brother’s chances of survival.
His color is fucking terrible, and it’s getting worse by the minute. A gray pallor is setting in, and he’s shivering under the blanket. I touch his forehead, and he feels as feverish as Iimagined. When I feel for a pulse, it’s racing, like his breathing is, despite the fact that he’s unconscious. I press my thumb into his nail bed, and the sluggish way his blood refills tells me all I need to know.
This is more than an infected wound. This is the start of sepsis. If Patrick keeps dithering over this, it’ll be too late for Tadhg no matter what they decide.
Ugh.Fine. But I want the gods of medical ethics to know I’m only doing this because I basically owe Tadhg my life a thousand times over.
“If you can get your hands on some medical supplies—I don’t want to know how—I can help him. But you need to get it here now. IV antibiotics, painkillers if you can, IV fluids, suture shit, and anything else you can get your grubby little paws on.”
Patrick narrows his eyes at me, but I can see him make the conscious decision to let the disrespect slide. I’m young—if we’re not talking in gay years—and because of my girlish figure, I look even younger. I’ve found that people will let you get away with a lot of shit when you’re doe-eyed and boyish.
Hooray for twink privilege.
“Alright. But if he dies…” Patrick trails off, because the rest of the sentence is clear without him needing to say it out loud.
“Yeah, yeah, whatever. Consider me suitably terrified. Go get me what I need.”
I turn to grab whatever medical supplies I do have in the apartment. My voice stays level, thank god, although there’s a hint of a tremor to my hand that I’m trying to hide.
I really, really hope this doesn’t end in my untimely, brutal dismemberment.
When I get back to Tadhg with my bag of mediocre wound care shit, Patrick is arguing with one of his men. The tall one with a dark buzz cut who stands out because he’s the only conscious man in here not vibrating with a threatening, chaoticenergy. I didn’t know they hired people who weren’t savage lunatics for this job, but apparently, I was wrong. I pretend I’m not listening while I set up to clean the wounds as much as I can, but I pick up the gist of the conversation.
“Where’s that blond dumbcunt we recruited from the motorcycle club? Isn’t that the point of hiring locals? So we could be set up to run a proper organization by the time we got here? I didn’t drive all this way to grow fucking corn.”
Patrick’s voice gets louder and louder as he snaps at his underlings, but whichever one responds seems unintimidated.
“Yeah. Eamon. I’ll call him. I’m sure he can sort something out. Give me a second.”
After that, it’s all murmuring interspersed with silences. Which gives me the time to focus on my long-lost stepbrother and assess his medical condition.
My professional medical opinion is that his condition sucks.
They only had him in boxers underneath the blanket, so once I pulled that away, it was easy to see the extent of his injuries. Each wound is covered by bandages that were hastily placed, and they’re all so soaked through with blood and serosanguinous fluid they’re practically peeling themselves off. He has tattoos everywhere. Mostly cheap-looking with the kind of dark, violent imagery and fake-Irish symbolism I expect from a gang like this, but they do nothing to hide how much damage there is.
I’ve got a plastic bag thrown down flat so I can toss everything onto it and easily clean it up later. The more bandages I peel off, the more dread sinks into my bones.
There are at least three entry wounds: one to the shoulder, one to the hip and one to the side that could easily have hit nothing or could have hit a bunch of organs that are slowly killing him. Without imaging, there’s no way for me to know until it’s too late. What’s worse is that none of them are healingwell. They’re covered in tacky, congealed blood and scabbing that I wouldn’t doubt is covering pockets of pus.
Tiny, bright-red little lines spiderweb away from each wound, confirming this shit is infected as fuck. Tadhg needs serious, real-person medicine, and he needs it yesterday. If his dad tries to pawn me off with a bottle of something oral, I don’t know what I’m going to do. Without IV meds and fluids, my instincts right now are screaming at me that my brother doesn’t stand a chance.
