Before I can say anything else, she’s heading up a flight of stairs to the door. Guess we’re done discussing that. I follow after her again. She stops outside the door at the top. “This is your personal space. It has been cleaned, and all of Father Gallagher’s personal things have been removed.” She opens the door but doesn’t go in. I walk into the little apartment that’s on the backside of the church. It’s nothing fancy. A small living room and kitchen greet me. I glance around and see a narrow hall with a door on either side. This is perfect. There’re a lot of windows in the small space as well. Beocca will love the natural sunlight.
I walk back into the bedroom and set down his carrier on the bed, I open the door so he can venture out. I’d bet money he won’t until he’s alone.
Heading back out into the living space I see that Mother Helen is waiting for me. Closing the door, I motion with my hand for her to continue the tour. She leads me to another door that opens to another set of stairs. This set of stairs leads directly into the office connected to the rectory.
It’s a small office connected to the main part of the church. Aged pictures of Bible stories and a fine layer of dust are the first thing I notice. Random stacks of paper are chaotically arranged on every surface. It clearly hasn’t been tended to in a while. I can guess from its state that Father Gallagher didn’t prioritize filing systems. “We didn’t move anything after Father Gallagher passed. Figured you’d want to do it yourself. If not, a couple of the nuns can help.”
She’s right, I’d rather do it myself so I can get everything put away where I can find it. “Thank you for the offer, but I’ll do it. It’ll give me a chance to see how everything was handled.”
Once I’m done looking around a bit, she opens the main doors that lead into the church. I follow her in, absorbing all she has to share. The sacred art pieces that are older than even her, the history this place holds is surreal. I can’t wait until I’m alone and can take the time to get to know my parish.
Our tour is over quickly, Mother Helen showing me everything of importance. Before she leaves she hands me a set of keys and informs me that she’ll be back early with a few other nuns, so they can start the food prep for the soup kitchen the parish runs twice a week.
“Have a great evening Father Grayson. I look forward to seeing you tomorrow.” The nun gives me a small smile, giving me hope we’ll have a great relationship.
I follow her out to the personal lot. She walks over to the only other car and climbs in. She gives a wave and the small smile is back as she drives away. I watch her go before I return to my Jeep to grab my stuff. It’ll only take a few trips to get everything in. I don’t own much—just a couple boxes of books, a box with vinyl records and a record player, Beocca’s stuff, and a large suitcase with my clothes.
After I have it all upstairs, I sit on the couch and Beocca jumps into my lap. “I think we’re going to be here a long time, my friend.”
4
DECLAN
Iwait until Sunday Mass is in full swing before I quietly slide in unnoticed, sitting in the back pew, not in his direct eyesight but where I can see him. I’ve watched him from afar all these years, growing into a true beacon of light. He reigns supreme up on that altar. His eyes sparkle and dance while he recites Bible passages and reflects his thoughts. I feel as if we are the mere mortals while he is truly a fallen angel sent to spread beauty.
He’s still out of my physical reach, but now that I can see him easily, and more frequently, a peace settles inside me. I know I’ll never get the chance to taste him like I did in the alley, but that doesn’t stop me from reliving that precious moment over and over again in my head. His movements, his moans—oh how those moans live rent free in my brain, like they’ve been branded, and are still the greatest sounds I’ve ever heard—coupled with the fear that was in his eyes. I want to go back to that evening all the time. Maybe see exactly how far I could have pushed him. What would he have allowed me to do to him under the guise of being murdered if he didn’t?
Glancing down at my watch, I realize Mass will be ending soon. I need to slide out before he’s free to take in his congregation.
The fear of him recognizing me—and the uncertainty of how he’d react—prevents me from staying. He clearly saw me that fateful night. I have his face—hiseverything—burned into my brain. While I stand by everything I did that night, I have the fear, or doubt, maybe, that he wouldn’t be so thrilled to see me.
Getting out is easy—nobody watches the side kitchen entrance. It’s how I come and go without detection. Once I’ve turned the corner, I pull out a smoke. I usually only smoke after a kill to mellow the chaos in my head. But whenever I see Ewen and can’t touch him, I have the same draw to these cancer sticks.
The cigarette is done by the time I walk in the back door of Murphy’s. I’ve owned this place for a decade now. It’s been the greatest cover for my secret family business, and I get all the gossip from the lower members in the crew.
My uncle, Shamus O’Sullivan, was pretty much raised in the Boston Irish mob. His father ran it before him. My grandfather was a very wise man. He learned everything from the old school mobsters like Whitey Bulger and Patrick Nee. He always said he’d seen things we’d never imagine were real. Gramps never wanted his daughter near the world of violence that he thrived in. So, my mother was sent to New York to live a normal life. When she met an IRA member visiting New York city, they instantly fell in love. My father loved my mother from the moment he laid eyes on her. She used to say the same thing. But their fate wasn’t meant to be long-lasting. They got pregnant with me almost instantly, then had my sister, Fiona, less than a year later. We’re Irish twins, which is even funnier since we’re actually Irish.
My parents were killed when I was four and Fiona was three. Uncle Shamus took us in and raised us as his own. My cousin, Ciaran, is practically my brother. He’s set to take over the family business, which I prefer. Even though Shamus always wanted us to do it together, I’ve never cared about the politics of beinga mobster. However, I do love the role I play as the O’Sullivan crew’s Reaper.
While I know the ins and outs of everything that happens, nobody—except Shamus and Ciaran—know who I am. One thing Shamus did was compartmentalize the crew. After everything that happened in Boston in the 70s and 80s with the Feds infiltrating the crews and taking the majority of members down—and how practically all of them ratted out even their own kin—he saw the light in only allowing a few to have full knowledge while keeping everyone else in the dark.
I ran Murphy’s, a simple Irish pub on the south side of Boston. Irish blood runs through this area. The lower members of the crew love to come here and drink, which helps me keep an eye on what they really do and think of the gang life.
Some of the guys are basic foot soldiers—only a part of the crew to give them either a better life or because they don’t know better. They’ll never rise in ranks or become powerful in our organization.
There are some though—and you can see it in their eyes—who’ll bleed for us. They’ll be the ones to make a career out of being a hooligan. Those are the men I respect.
I know my life will never be the normal one I portray, and I’m okay with that. I love all aspects of these dynamics. My demons are calmed when I get to exterminate the filth of this world. The way their eyes glaze over then go blank soothes me. I’m not haunted by what I’ve done. I will be the Reaper until I’m either dead and in the ground, or just too damn old to do it. My loyalty will always be to Shamus, Ciaran, and our blood.
Fiona pops up from behind the bar. I’m so in my head from watching my Aingeal that I totally missed her on my way in.
Seeing her always makes me think of our mother. Fi is a spitting image of her—red hair, green eyes, with fair skin that burns and never tans. A true classic Irish beauty. The only thingI got from our mother was her eyes. Everything else is my dad, through and through. Even my thirst for death.
“Hey fucker, I need you to place another beer order. We’re running low again.” Fiona helps run this place, and honestly, she’s the hardest worker here. She is aware of what our family does, but we make sure she’s never involved in it. The bar is an easy way to keep her close and safe without coming across as an overbearing brother.
Waving my hand to let her know I heard her, I go into my office to place the order and finish any paperwork. I need to stay busy, otherwise I’ll go seehim. Ewen is constantly on my mind—has been for years.
Something about him calls to my blackened soul.
