The interior of St. Finnegan’s is typical of any Catholic church. Lots of dark wooden pews, stained-glass windows, gold filigree, and a ten-foot-high depiction of Christ on the cross at the far end of the building in the apse. The smell hits me like a blast from the past. Dusty books, wood, wax, incense, shirt starch—these are the scents of my childhood.
There aren’t many people sitting in the pews. Guess that explains the ample parking space outside. The front two rows are taken, perhaps twenty or so backs facing us as we walk down the aisle. My modest heels send echoing footsteps up to the high, vaulted ceiling as we try to sneak into the service unnoticed. No one turns around to see who the latecomers are. The priest at the front of the congregation pauses in his words and gives us a tight, inconvenienced smile as Zeth directs me to one of the empty pews on the left, halfway down the length of the church. He only continues once we’re seated.
None of us pay any attention to the service. Of the three of us, I’m perhaps the least subtle as I crane my neck, looking for a flash of familiar blonde curls. I can’t see Lacey anywhere. Zeth’s knee starts to bounce up and down—he can’t see her either.
“Fuck,” he says under his breath. Cursing in church? Even though my faith’s been absent for quite some time now, I still feel my cheeks reddening. “She’s not here.” He leans to whisper in Michael’s ear. Michael does his own job of scanning the paltry collection of people sitting at the front of the church. He shakes his head. Zeth looks like his blood has started to boil in his veins.
“Fucking Charlie isn’t here. None of his boys. Not a single one of them,” he hisses. That doesn’t make any sense.
“But Michael said Charlie posted the obituary? Why wouldn’t he come?”
Zeth clenches his jaw, cracking his knuckles one after the other. “Because he knew we would.”
Someone turns around and shushes us, holding their index finger to their lips—an old woman with her hair coiffed into a urine-yellow beehive. Zeth slips his hand under my arm and gently guides me to my feet. Michael doesn’t need any encouragement. He stands and the three of us slip back out the way we came. Less than a minute. We were at the funeral less than a minute, and it appears the whole thing was a massive waste of time. As soon as the church doors close behind us, Zeth pinches the bridge of his nose and swears. Loudly, this time.
“What the fuck is his game? I’m gonna kill him. I’m gonna fucking kill him.”
“We shouldn’t be hanging around out here,” Michael says. “He could have men ready to pick us off one by one or something.”
Zeth’s sharp eyes flicker from left to right, as though searching out the mystery snipers. “You’re right.” He takes hold of my hand. “Come on. Let’s get out of here.”
My pulse is racing when we reach the car. Paranoia has kicked in, big time. There are no suspicious-looking cars idling on the curb. No dodgy men in suits hiding behind the headstones in the church’s leafy courtyard. But I can’t shake it…I feel like something bad is about to happen. Michael has the keys to the car ready. He’s about to open the car door when Zeth drops my hand and grabs him by the arm. “Wait. Wait a second.”
Boom, boom, boom—my heart banging like a drum. Zeth stares at the car, eyebrows pulled together. Michael does the same thing. “What is it, boss? You see something?”
Zeth shakes his head. “I don’t know. Check the wheel arches.”
Michael drops to his knees and begins checking out the underside of the car, while Zeth forcefully prizes the hood of the car open. It’s Michael that finds the device. “Fuck, Zee.” That’s all he says. That’s all he has time to say. He jumps to his feet, and then Zeth’s grabbing hold of me around the waist and running. I lose my shoes. My ribcage and still-wounded shoulder are gripped with pain. Zeth shouts something, but I don’t hear what he says. My jackhammering pulse drowns everything out. And then it comes.
Strangely, it’s not the sound of the actual explosion that sticks in my memory; it’s the sound of shattering glass. The beautiful stained-glass windows in St. Finnegan’s church splintering as the bomb that was hidden in the wheel arch of our car detonates.
Sky.
Concrete.
Sky.
Concrete.
Sky…
I see the concrete coming for me. I feel the weightlessness in my stomach. I feel a multitude of forces, like grabbing hands, pushing and pulling me in eight different directions. I feel the oxygen being sucked from my lungs.
And then I feel nothing.
“Are you ready, baby? Oh my god, Paul. Watch. Watch.”
A high-pitched whistling sound is piercing my eardrum. I have no idea when I’ve ever felt this bad. My head…my head is killing me. It literally feels like my brain is revolting against the rest of my body, intent on causing me so much pain that I simply expire. Fuck. There’s a lot of thinking involved in trying to move myself into a sitting position. My shoulders, elbows, wrists—every single joint in my body—feel like they’ve been dislocated and roughly forced back into place.