“We’ll be all right, Rosie. We’re close to the bus station. It’s just a little farther.”
I feel him kiss the top of my head and wish I could sink deep into his chest. I almost confess to him about my necklace, how it’s probably lying in the dirt with Bianca now, but this is not the time. When we are safe, I will tell him.
“Soon we’ll have nothing to worry about.” He steps back and pats the chest of his coat, over his heart. “I have all the money we’ll need for the bus right here, and we can go where we please. Start fresh. You’ll see. We’ll be grand.” He strokes my cheek. “Better now? There’s my girl. Come on. Nearly there.”
Then we’re outside, and the banging, the shushing rhythm of the trains, is much louder. There’s a long, earsplitting squeal as brakes grind, and somewhere beyond, a car honks. I’ve known the sounds of the city all my life, but right now they terrify me. Damien rushes ahead, sharp-eyed, his mind set on keeping us safe. Well now, my baby decides it has waited long enough, andI stop short to get sick in the dirt. Afterward, I feel hollowed out and weak, but I stand as soon as I can.
“Doing all right?” Damien calls.
He’s a fair distance away now, in the spiderweb of train tracks. A bell is clanging somewhere close. He turns back to help me.
“I’m just sick,” I tell him, “but I’m all right. Stay there.”
But he cannot stop himself. My Damien loves me, and his heart is set on helping me, isn’t it? He will be a grand father, I think.
“I’m coming!” he assures me.
There’s no need, but sure and I am grateful to see him running to me. He will see to it that our little family of three is happy and healthy and successful one day. He’s smart and resourceful, and I’m the luckiest girl who ever drew breath. Sure, we’re murder suspects, and we’ve gangsters on our tail, but I am blessed, for I have his love to keep me warm, and he has mine. I start running toward him, so we’ll meet in between. He’s smiling, seeing me. Isn’t he a grand sight altogether?
Then there’s a short, sharp sound, and I lose sight of him. I call his name, but he does not call back. I feel a rush of panic that maybe he’s been caught. But no. I don’t hear police. I do not hear any men’s voices. There are no sounds at all save the clanging and ringing of the trains.
“Damien! Where are you?”
Why isn’t he answering me? I hurry toward the tracks, but there’s still no sign of him. “Damien?”
No answer.
“I’m coming!” I shout, finally reaching the rails.
And that’s when I see him. He’s lying still, sprawled over the rail.
“Get up, Damien! This isn’t funny!” I cry, but the most horrible feeling swells inside me. “Damien, please! We’ve no time to waste!”
The closer I get, the more I can see, the more dread grips my soul. Damien lies facedown on the long, empty tracks, and he is too still. I crouch at his side, my hand on his warm back, and I lean down to whisper,It’s okay, love. Turn your face and look at me, but then I see all the blood.
I stare at it, but my mind won’t hear the truth.
“It’s all right, Damien. You’ll be all right.”
But he isn’t moving. He isn’t breathing anymore. He willnotbe all right.
I rise slowly, whispering his name as I do, and I stare down at his body, trying to understand. Then I see his empty boot wedged fast under a rail, and the truth comes to me with cruel clarity. He’d been running so quick, wanting to help me, not minding his own feet. He must have jammed his boot hard under the track and gone straight down like a stone, flat on his face.
“No, no, no,” I whimper.
Cruel thoughts spin through my head, wild and vicious, forcing me to imagine what happened, so I see him falling over and over and over until I’m blinded by the sight. I gasp for breath, heaving for air until I see stars float around Damien’s body, then my legs give out. I drop to the ground by his head and reach for his face, needing that smile again. Those eyes on me. He is still warm, his skin soft. I turn his head ever so gently, praying that maybe,maybeI’m wrong and he will be just fine after all. He’ll get a good laugh at my expression, then he’ll wipe his face with his sleeve and take my hand.
But my fingers are sticky with the hot blood that spills from his face onto the earth, forming a puddle beneath the rail. I place my tear-soaked cheek on his back, pouring all I have into listening for the faint thump of his heart. So many nights I have listened to that magical sound: proof that Damien Walsh loves me. That he is mine and I am his. That, together, we are perfect.
But there is no heartbeat anymore. There is no more us.
I don’t know how long I sit there, holding his poor, ruined face, weeping and praying and willing him alive. The thinking part of my brain gave up on the Church long ago, and yet I cry out to God from the depths of my soul. There is no one and nothing in my world but Damien and this moment, and nothing will change the ending. He is gone. I have lost him.Ó, mo chroí.
I long to burrow within his coat, to soak up the last of his existence and wrap myself in what is left of him. I want him to take me with him. Wherever he is, let me go, too, I pray.
A car horn blasts on Front Street, so close to where I am. Farther away, I hear a siren, and the shriek cuts through my trance. I am sharply aware of where I am. Is that siren coming for me?
My Damien is dead. I cannot leave him, but if I stay here, I will be dragged away in handcuffs. I cannot let that happen, not just for my sake, but for our baby’s. But saints above, what am I supposed to do now that I am on my own? Where will I go?
