Kyle Michel Sullivan's Blog: https://www.myirishnovel.com/, page 113

Trip to Dublin

Brendan is trying to convince Joanna to attend Trinity College in Dublin instead of Queen's, in Belfast. He's planning to find some way of them moving to a place that isn't spiraling into death and chaos. But neither of them is impressed with the place...until the find a shop that does tattoos...and Brendan gets an idea.

“Joanna, what would you think of me with a tattoo?”

“My father has one from his time in the Navy,” was her absent reply. “Got it in Hong Kong, of a half-naked lady. On his left forearm. It’s begun to fade. Trop mal.”

“Does he have any names on him?”

“Names? Tattooed? No. Why?”

I turned to the girl at the counter and asked, “How much is one?”

“Depends on what you get,” she said.

“A name. Six letters here.” I motioned across my left upper arm.

“Which letterin’?” she asked as she came over.

“Brendan, what’re you doing?” Joanna asked, coming close.

“Dunno yet,” I said, then I pointed to the script.

The girl eyed my upper arm and said, “Three punt.”

“How long would it take?” I asked.

“Just over an hour.”

I had five punt on me and twelve British pounds, which I’ve found they take anywhere in the city, so I said, “Let's do it.”

Joanna’s mouth dropped open. “Brendan...”

“What age are you?” the girl asked, her eyes narrow and wary.

“Seventeen,” I said, without hesitation.

She eyed me, unsure. “You look younger, by far.”

I took my coolest pose and shot back at her, “We’re down from Derry lookin’ at Trinity College. We’re applyin’ to attend, next year, and wanted to see more about it. Isn’t that so, Joanna?”

She looked at me, wary, then nodded and said, “Though I’m not decided. I’m also considering St. Andrew’s.”

The girl shrugged, called into the back, and a man the size of Mrs. McKittrick’s house come out. I actually swallowed in nervousness at seeing him. “He wants a tatt, right here.” She patted her left upper arm. “In letterin’ E-6.”

“Spell it oot,” he said, shoving a slip of paper at me.

I did so.

Joanna was speechless for the first few minutes, then as I was handing over the money she turned me to her and said, “Are you mental? You can’t take these things off.”

“I’ll never want it off,” I replied.

“Brendan, this is foolish. How’ll you explain this to your mother? To anyone?”

“There‘s nothing to explain. Nothing. I love you, Joanna. I will till the day I die. Nothing else matters.”

“You are mad,” she muttered.

“No argument from me.”

She shook her head, still wary, but smiled.

The man and the girl smirked at each other, but I knew how deep my feelings were and no one could have swayed me from this course.

“Ooff wit’ ye shirt,” growled the man.

I removed it and sat beside him. “Does it hurt much?”

He smiled and said, “Put ye arm here, hold this grip an’ do NOT move.”

I did as he said. He copied the script onto my skin with a pen, which tickled giggles from me, to my eternal embarrassment, then started the needle up...and dug in... 

And I bloody near screamed at the sudden pain of it.

“Do not MOVE!”

I didn’t! For if there was anything I did not want, it's the letters to wind up like my own scratchy handwriting. I sat there and locked my eyes on Joanna’s and crushed that grip and she held my other hand and my focus stayed on keeping from crushing hers.

“Brendan, t'es trop folle,” she whispered to me, smiling in admiration. “Wicked mad.”

“Have been since the first day I saw you.”

“When was that?”

“Taxi rank. Remember? I was washing me hands.”

She giggled. “In the gutter, and you had dirt on you and you were so pleased with yourself about something.”

“It was the first time I fixed a car.”

“You like doing that, don’t you?” I nodded. “Well, a degree from university might help you get on with British Leyland. Design cars. Build them.”

“I hadn’t thought of that,” I whispered, and it pleased me no end that she had considered something so fine for my future.

That’s when the words began spilling from me, and I told her of seeing her, again, that day we saw Eamonn off, and of following her down Shipquay to Phillips, and watching her and her friends dance and seeing what record she bought and how I’d bought the same and the phonograph I’d fixed so’s I could listen to it and how I’d seared the words and music into my heart and sung it when I wanted to see her, and this being months before the Liberation Fleadh.

She just sat there, listening to me, looking at me, seeing me and seeming fascinated by my sordid little tales. And her eyes never wavered from my face.

Of course, I said nothing about the nights where I’d conjured her up.

And the girl behind the counter said nothing. And the burly man working on me seemed to grow more gentle so the pain seemed to lessen to the point I could hardly feel it, at all. I recounted how my heart leapt from joy at seeing her every time we met. How I hated parting from her. On and on I babbled, as if the needle was digging a truth drug into me instead of ink as he swiped and outlined and filled in.

I grew hoarse from talking so much. The girl behind the counter brought us cups of tea and never had anything felt so good on my throat or tasted so fine on my tongue.

Finally, I could speak no more, but it was all right, for the burly man did one last wipe of his work and leaned back to smile and say, “Well done, lad. Ye care to gain a look 'fore I cover it? Last chance for ten day.”

“Why?” I asked.

“It grows a scab as it heals, then it’ll peel away and what ye’ll have is as lovely as what ye see now.”

I nodded and he put up a mirror, and I laughed. “It’s backwards.”

He chuckled and angled the mirror then put up another to catch the first one’s reflection. And oh St. Brigit, how lovely it was. Script flowing together in tender darkness, the hint of an outline in red along the top. Dots of blood that he quickly wiped away. I drew in so deep a breath of pride, I could easily have burst, and I turned to show Joanna her new place in my soul.

She touched it, tenderly. “Does it hurt?”

Yes. “Never. I’m yours now, no matter what. You’ve branded me.”

She looked at me with eyes so filled with confusion and wariness, I grew afraid. Thought for an instant I’d made a fool of myself. Gone that one step too far for her or done it too soon or too sudden and now she’d back away from me for being too much a child in matters of the heart, still, and dear God, I thought I’d die if that happened.

But then she leaned in and kissed it. Barely brushed her lips over the raw etching, and relief overwhelmed me. I lay my head in the crook of her neck and let out my breath, finally knowing all would be well.

Then she put her hand to my cheek and whispered, “It’s near six. We’ll be late.”

APoS moves along...

I reworked two chapters, today, and input them and printed them out. 53 pages, total. I'm up to the point where Brendan is 15 and the Troubles are beginning to make life difficult for all in the Bogside part of Derry. Checkpoints to go through just to shop or head for a doctor's appointment. Short supply on some foods and good. Demonstrations that devolve into mini-riots. The British Army paying more and more attention to the Unionists than the Catholics, regarding things. And the media still repeating the government's spin on what's happening instead of paying attention to reality.

I remember when I was living in Houston a columnist for the Houston Post ran an opinion that could have been straight out of the British Media Kit, without a single question. The Troubles were all the IRA's fault and no one wanted to really support them and on and on. If I remember right, it was about 1990, so a lot of the British claims had been debunked. I wrote him a long letter detailing them...and about six weeks later he wrote a three part opinion piece about the situation at the time,  paying much more attention to what was really happening.

In fact, the IRA didn't come into real power in NI until late 1970-early 1971, and even then there was a split between the main IRA (initially geared towards a political solution) and Provisional. (who wanted action). Brendan's brother, Eamonn, has joined with the Provos and is now skulking about with others in the group. Here's what he has Brendan do, for him...

We didn't have a chance to speak again till I was in bed and he came in the room, freshly washed. "What a joy to have hot water in the tap, eh? And a toilet inside," he murmured as he sat beside me in the bed.

“What’re you sayin’?” I asked. “You act like we only just moved here.”

He nodded then cast me a glance, sideways. "My digs in Belfast weren't as modern as this." He cast me a wink. "You mind having the smaller bed?"

“It’s by the window,” I said, shaking my head. Then I looked out the window, at the back of Mr. Payne's. "The view was better on Nailors."

His voice went sing-song as he asked, "Bren-dan...what's the trou-ble?"

I looked at him. He was back to seeming like good old Eamonn, again, and he was one of the few who ever tried to find out what I was truly thinking, so I took in a deep breath and asked, “Didn’t your term end a fortnight ago?”

He grew still. “What if it did?”

"I read the papers," I said, soft and easy so as not to wake Rhuari and Kieran. "Mr. Hennessey clerks at Carroway’s and he lets me for having fixed his bicycle. The bloody thing's older than me and..." My voice trailed off. I coughed.

"And?" whispered from Eamonn.

I took a deep breath. "And sometimes at Colm's I'll see the news. There were fires in the Ardoyne and Short Strand, in Belfast. Catholics burned out. People on both sides shot. Both miles from Queens, but I can smell it deep in your coat. And word is Provos split from the IRA and fought back, killin’ people, and..."

He held up his hand to stop me. Did not look at me. His voice was tight as he said, "I have never known you to be one who spreads gossip or rumor."

"News is not gossip," I shot back, "and I only say this, 'cause...'cause..." My voice trailed off, but he had noticed my words quivered so turned his gaze upon me, wary. I kept on with, "I feel like I did when you were goin' on that long walk and...and I don't want you hurt, again. Seein’ you in hospital, like that...like you were that time...I'm scared for you."

He cast me an odd look, like surprise and confusion, then leaned on one arm and put his hand on my shoulder. "I've always wondered what you really think of the rest of us. You're so quiet. So focused on what you do. Sometimes it felt as if you were looking down on us all."

"Eamonn!" It jolted me that he said such a thing.

"I know better, now. I'm sorry for having ever thought it. I can't tell you anything more than...than I did not return to Queens in January. The IRA's cowardice in the face of what's been happening...it had to be remedied. And so...it will be."

"You're with the Provos?"

"I didn't say that." But his expression confirmed it.

Oh, Jesus... "Can I help you in some way?"

He looked at me, deep in thought. His face took back the expression of someone far older, then he said, "Do you...have you built yourself some hiding spaces? For to keep your money?"

So that's why he was talking to me. I almost felt hurt. I nodded. "It wasn't easy, believe me. Ma kept a sharp eye on me, expectin’ it. She's been pickin' everywhere, now Mai's gone." Then I smiled. "But I can be clever, now and then."

“Hang on.” He slipped back down the stairs, silent as a cat. I looked out to see him enter the hutch, for a moment, then come back out holding a small bag. Moments later, he was up in my room, his back to Rhuari and Kieran, blocking their view, and he showed me a felt bag. "Is one of your hideaways big enough for this?" He opened the felt wrapper.

Inside was a pistol.

I coughed and gulped in air and slapped my hand over my mouth to keep from saying anything.

He knelt by the bed and set it on the covers, his eyes locked on me.

I couldn't look at him as I whispered, "How'd you get it past the checkpoints?" He said nothing, for a moment, so I turned to him. "How?"

A crooked smile crossed his face. "I didn't come home the usual route. And it's not mine; I'm keeping it for a friend."

“Don’t lie to me,” I snapped, picking up the pistol and turning it over. "It's too big for any of my spaces. Have you a match?" He pulled a lighter from his pocket. I fired it up and inspected the pistol, carefully. "It can come apart, easy enough," I murmured. "I could spread it about."

"Could you?"

In answer, I slipped off the bed to get my tools, but Eamonn stopped me and moved the pistol to the window for better light then he ejected the bullet clip...and don't you think for two seconds I didn't notice it was filled. Then he pulled the slide to the rear to make sure it was empty, cocked it, pushed a tiny button on the right side of it, shifted the sliding part back to release a lever...a slide-stop. When he removed that, the pistol nearly exploded apart, across my bed.

He grimaced. "Forgot you have to hold it tight for the spring."

I stared at the pieces, unable to move. This was what the Provos were rumored to be heading for -- armed resistance. Now I knew why he hadn't returned to Queens; he was with them.

He continued with, "You're not supposed to carry it loaded, but there was no time and...well...no place I could do it, till now." He removed the bullets from the clip, slow and careful. "At least there wasn't one in the chamber."

"Jesus, Eamonn, if you'd been caught..." I noticed his hands were quivering. He knew full well he'd risked years at Long Kesh...and now was risking that for me, as well. "Would you rather I take it away?"

"No. No."

He took a section off the main grip then removed the barrel and bushings. In moments, the pistol was in pieces. The grip was still on the large side, so I removed the wood panels on each side, my stomach shaking but my hands steady as granite. I sorted them by size then checked at Ma's door to make sure she was sleeping. I heard her breathe, like a purr, so knew it was safe.

I snuck half the pieces downstairs and used paper from the fish to wrap the slide and stop, coating it with oil from the larder to avoid the juices. The felt bag held the panels, so I put it and the recoil bits in separate spaces behind the top frame of the pantry door. Then I slipped under the sink and pulled away a fake slat by the water pipe to hide the slide and stop. By the time I was done, you couldn't tell they'd been tampered with.

I kept the pistol grip, magazine and sear until the morning, when Ma was downstairs fixing a fry-up in honor of the man in the family. I snuck into her room, found a small groove I'd made, and pulled at it. A corner of the sill dropped down to reveal a hole in the wall. I hid the last of the pistol in there.

Aiden and Jackie came up for Eamonn just before noon and they headed out, being quiet as to where they were going, so I used that time to sneak into the hutch and make sure he didn't have a companion to the pistol...to find half a box of bullets! Those, I hid inside a brace under the settee.

When he returned home, Eamonn took me aside and asked for me to show him where everything was, but I wouldn't. "Better if you don't know," I said. "Then if you're lifted, you can't tell anyone of it."

"I never would," he huffed.

Says the man who can't keep a secret. "It's still safer this way," I snapped back. "And if things to explode and you need it, I...I'll put it back together for you."

Of course, my true intention was never to let him near that thing, again.

Possibility...

I did some running around, today, to catch up and then fell asleep for a few hours, in the middle of the day. Wednesday's move and drive caught up to me, bigtime. Didn't want to get up but I was hungry. Got no writing done because an online friend was having a rough time of it. Now I'm almost human, again, and think I know the best way to get into Carli's Kills.

Carli's got a ratings system for men. It's only fair, since they have one for women. But hers is a bit more intense...more demanding.

1. Eyes. They have to be nice, and while she has a preference for men with sloe eyes, the main deal is...they have to look at her, not through her or up and down her. Glancing at her boobs is a demerit.

2. Lips. Have to be kissable, like Chris Evans. And with a smile, not a smirk or grin. Either of those is another demerit...unless he's really gorgeous. Then maybe she'll use him to scratch an itch. But nothing more.

3. Hands. Lean and strong, not beefy, and with fingernails that are clean but not manicured; that's too indicative of high-maintenance. She even likes to see a nail or two nibbled at, because that suggests he's the feeling sort, with a hint of nervousness. Much easier to have fun with.

4. Flexible. He's not one who always has to set the evening's agenda. If they meet at a bar, he's willing to go to a midnight showing of Rocky Horror Picture Show or a new screening of Singin' in the Rain, just for the hell of it. She's open to some give and take on that, but if he's one who has to run the show, forget it.

5. He better smell good. Not perfumed, but at least a bath, deodorant and maybe a hint of cologne.  Something to show he cares not only about appearance but his effect on other people. Of course, too much of that falls back into the high-maintenance type, and she ain't got time for that.

The rest -- nice body, solid legs, round ass, good dick...those are secondary.

The book's going to start out with her ticking off the whole list as she's hiding in a closet and watching a man named Mikey have sex with a woman named Stasi. Him having those attributes on the positive side, despite him fucking around on his wife, are what keep him alive. Might make use of him, later.

She also has a ratings system for women, and those are what lead to Stasi's death.

Got too tired to think...

The problem with packing a library of books is how much physical exertion there is, not just in getting the books off the shelf but wrapping them and setting them in boxes and packing them and shifting the full boxes out of the way so you can keep working, after getting all the packing materials in and finding space to use them, and on and on. I had help. A guy did the ferrying of the materials inside the house and built boxes for me to use, which took about 40% of the labor off my back, but I still get tired.

Wound up with 146 cartons, and these weren't even being shipped anywhere; they were being transported to a non-profit organization in NYC. So I didn't have to be as careful about them as I normally am, at least. But last night I just plain couldn't put coherent thoughts together...so I sat at my laptop and read through the last 5 chapters of APoS and cringed. Hated how superficial and unreal they seemed. One was dealing with Bloody Sunday, and it was so totally glossed over it might as well have been a Sunday stroll on the promenade.

Half the issue was me being tired and cranky. I couldn't even work up the appetite to go out for fish and chips; I nuked a meal at the hotel. And on top of it, something in the residence's heating system set off my allergies so I was sneezing like an idiot, to the point my sides hurt. I'm better, now that I'm home, but it seemed the fates were conspiring against me. I'll get hard onto APoS tomorrow, after I return the car and drop off the paperwork.

CK is being problematic, and I have no doubt it's because I couldn't focus on it, either. But I got an idea while driving back...and think I may have a way into the story. But I'm finishing this rewrite of APoS before I turn to it, in full awareness.

At least the area was pretty. This is a view of one of the county's lakes...

Probably a mistake...

I read through the last 5 chapters of APoS...and probably shouldn't have. They seem flat and shallow and uninteresting and need a complete overhaul. They aren't bad; they just aren't there, yet. And I'm not sure what to do to get them to the point they work for me.

Part of the issue might be me being tired and cranky. I packed 90 bankers boxes of books and will do another 30 or so, tomorrow. Part of the process with this job is dealing with an elderly man who hasn't decided, completely, what he is and isn't sending. So it's nonstop reworking of what's going and from what part of the house. I hate being nice all day.

So I might return to the hotel, tomorrow, and take a nap and see if that puts me in a better frame of mind.

I started writing Carli's Kills, as well. Just 1400 or so words, but a beginning. I'm opening it with a sex scene between Stasi, a spoiled young woman, and her married lover in her 24th floor condo on the Wilshire Corridor in LA. A high-end area of LA that charges you to breathe the air. She's the bitch who set Carli's daughter up to be raped because a man she was interested in was interested in Carli's daughter. No one comes between Stasi and a man she wants, kind of thing.

It's also her way of paying off a drug debt. Kill two problems with one actions. So she winds up being thrown off her balcony to fall to her death, naked. If I'm going for erotica, this might be on the horror side...but we'll see how it goes.

Sex = death...how original...

Travel day...

Long drive down to New Jersey for a packing and pickup job, but still managed to get through another chapter of APoS, once I go to the hotel. Only 5 chapters left to do, but one of them needs a lot of work, I already know. Still...it's closing in on completion. I hope.

Tomorrow I'm starting on shifting Cari's Kills into a novel. I began it once, with NaNoWriMo, a few years back and didn't get past 14,000 words before I had to stop. Too much was going on with work and life, at the time...and it wasn't making any sense. I also think I was ignoring what the story was really about and too set on keeping it kind of Hollywoodish.

Now? It's a female-based erotic story about guilt and how it causes people to do stupid things that hurt themselves. I don't know how much I'll be able to get worked into the first draft of it, but at least I can lay the foundation.

Carli's guilt stems from abandoning her daughter because she was way too young to raise a child. Hell, she was still basically a child, herself. She kills some of the people involved in her daughter's rape, but finds it does nothing to minimize her self-loathing. Only when she connects with Zeke does she start to feel human, again...but by that point it may be too late.

Zeke feels guilt over not doing anything to stop the rape or help Carli's child deal with it. He's been in jail; he knows what she's going through. It's not until he and Carli get together that he starts to loosen up and face the fact that he didn't know what was going on and was afraid of being rejected by his friends if he did anything about the rape. He has nowhere else to go.

This is not going to be a pretty story, so I don't know if it will ever become more than an exercise in writing reprehensible characters who have their good reasons for what they do. But we'll see how it turns out. I've gotten positive responses about Curt, from How to Rape a Straight Guy, despite him being a double killer and rapist, at the end. Maybe I'll pull it off.

Never hurts to try.

Whispers in my brain...

My books are having a bit of a fight, right now...the ones I want to write. I was thinking of reworking Blood Angel into an erotic horror story for NaNoWriMo, next month, but Carli's Kills is pushing hard to take my attention. It desperately wants to be an erotic tale, with Carli being the kind of woman you just cannot say no to...and I'm kind of thinking I won't...

The inspiration for Carli was Lucy Lawless, who takes crap off nobody. Carli's out to kill the men who raped her daughter and drove her to suicide, but some of her reasoning is seriously flawed. She's feeling guilty because she joined the army, grew to be a deadly sniper in Afghanistan and pretty much abandoned the girl to be cared for by her grandmother. So she's also trying to purge her guilt for not being there when her daughter needed someone.

One of the guys involved with the gang that raped the girl is Zeke, who works the bar of a cantina owned by the biker gang's boss, Dax. Zeke is an ex-Marine who was hit by an IED in Iraq, losing a limb. He was inspired by Alex Minsky, who had that happen in Afghanistan. Alex's tattoos cover the scars left behind by shrapnel from the bomb. Zeke wasn't part of the rape, but the gang is made up of his friends so he did did nothing about it. Now he feels guilty.

It's Zeke Carli pushes into bed, and they get hot and heavy in glorious detail...and decide to get the hell away from everybody. Granted, she killed a couple of his friends, but he doesn't know that...not yet...but Dax is suspicious...

It might be fun, because Zeke's called Hot Tatts by a nearby college crowd due to being so damned gorgeous. And Carli's not above a little molestation, if need be.

I'm feeling good about this because I only have just over 100 pages left to go over with APoS. But it's starting to get pretty dark, so CK might be a good antidote to that.

The beginnings of love...

Brendan begins sneaking meetings with Joanna...

Charlie reported to his parents who and what I was, so no question I’d not be welcome coming to their door to ask her out. But I did not see her around town, after that. I found out her number and called a couple of times, but every time it was her mother answered and I had to bark a gruff, "Sorry." Then ring off.

Finally, I came up with the bright idea of writing her a letter...and even better, putting it in an early Christmas card. But I couldn't use my return address; that would cause all manner of trouble.

For the first time in my life, I wished I had someone I could talk to and confide in, but I knew better than to ask Eamonn, for he could not keep a secret, and none of me Chinas were adult enough to help. Especially since she was Protestant. They would make a full riot over that, alone, not to mention I was after a girl.

But then I overheard Mr. Curran from up the road telling a mate, "I use my work address, not things like that, never home."

"I don't even put one," was the reply. "And I have me sister mail it, from Newry. No tracing me that way.

 Well...that was the answer, and dropped down to me from heaven above. I hurried up to my room and spent the rest of the day writing the letter...over and over and over, must have been a hundred times before I settled on:

Hi, it's Billy Corrie, "as known." I know I'm just a Catholic lad and have no right to ask this, but I wonder if you'd like to have tea with me, some time? Like at the Diplomat? Just to chat. Nothing special. But I did enjoy the day we had, and hope you did, too. Sincerely, Brendan...Kinsella (my real name) PS Here's my real address if you want to reply.

I'd met a couple of lorry drivers so asked one if he'd post the card from Belfast, once he got there. He agreed, but first wanted his fluids checked. "She's been runnin' warm," he growled.

I looked at his engine, right there, and saw he was low on both oil and coolant. "I think there's a leak," I said. "These shouldn't be so far gone."

He nodded, bought me the oil and coolant and I refilled them. I didn't see any other issues, but that doesn't mean anything. Not really.

Two weeks later, I was all but certain she'd laughed off my letter and tossed it in the bin when I got a card from her. It's good I was home when the post came, for Ma noticed it and huffed, "Who's writing to you?"

"It...it's a card, Ma," I said. "Might be from one of the drivers I helped...with his lorry...you know."

She gave me a scowl that said she didn't believe me, but before she could say or do another word, I raced up to my room and opened it.

The card was lovely. A winter scene in an English village, with sparkling sprinkles on it...and inside was a little note.

Dear Brendan, I enjoyed our day, as well, and thought you handled what I now see could have become a difficult situation with maturity and grace. Meeting for tea at The Diplomat sounds lovely. I usually shop in Waterloo the evenings of Tuesdays and Fridays, often with Mother. Saturdays are with Angela and Louise, so I don't think that would be a good day. I hope to see you, soon. Sincerely, Joanna. P.S. Thanks to my childish brother, Charles, it may be best not to be seen with each other, just yet.

Maturity! Grace! I was beyond ecstatic. So after school was done, that Thursday, I made my way past the checkpoint to hang around Wellies, making sure all knew I was merely out to see if I could get a couple repair jobs from a local shopkeeper. When I told the soldiers of my abilities, they tried to test me, with one joking, “Here, me radio keeps dying off.”

I took a look the battery first, and quickly saw it was old and had been wet and was corroded. I used a toothpick to clean much of it and told him, "Get a new battery, and don't get it wet, this time."

His mate laughed and said, "Tol' yer it was cuz yer took in the sho'er, ya nutter."

But it turned out me having Blues on me was what helped most. Nothing like a smoke to make you mates with a lad but five or six years older than yourself.

Then I did my rounds, keeping a close eye for Joanna and her mother. It was close on five when I saw her crossing at the toilet and did what I could to make her see me before her Mother could notice. She smiled her smile for me, not looking my way but obvious enough, so I rushed to the Diplomat and ordered tea and cakes.

"A lady will soon be joining me," I said, grandly.

A few minutes later, there she came, dressed so much like she was the first day I saw her I took in a sharp breath. "I haven't much time," she said as she sat, breathless. "Mum thinks I'm looking at new shoes. She'll be looking for me, soon."

"I'm just glad you could come," I replied, just as breathless.

She fixed her tea with milk, only, and took but a single bite of cake in so fine and delicate a manner, I felt like a lumbering fool.

"Was there much trouble for you, when I was at your house?"

She giggled. "Charles tried, but in no way could he cause trouble for me. I just told my parents you were a fine young man who escorted me home, and I'd hear nothing more about it. Then I made certain Charles learned what real trouble was." She took a sip of tea then added, "He'll never bother me, again."

I chuckled. "I don't think I want to know what trouble you caused him."

"It's better that way." And her eyes twinkled of mischief.

"Is he your only one?"

"Brother? Oh, no. There's Robert, working in Westminster, and John, at some government office in Sheffield. Mum's from Liverpool and wrote a book about workhouses in the UK. It was published."

"Cool. You're the daughter of an author."

"Such as it is."

"Is that what you're going to be?"

"Oh, no. I'm working towards my Eleven-plus and aiming for university. I want to be a doctor." It was like her entire world was a galaxy apart from mine. "So what family do you have? A dozen brothers and sisters?"

"No, just...not half that many."

"You're not living up to that silly stereotype."

"Well...me Da's not around."

"Oh?" Another sip of tea.

"He's...he's dead."

"Oh, I'm sorry." And she placed her hand on mine.

I had to fight a giggle, of all things, and say, "Thanks. But it's been near four years so..."

"Still, it must be hard for you and your mother."

The concern in her voice told me she really meant it, and I near melted. "We...we're doing well enough."

"You seem like you're strong enough to." Then she gasped and said, "Just saw Mum cross the street. She's looking for me." She bolted to her feet and started away then spun back and gripped my hand. "Till next time?"

All I could was nod before she grinned and was gone.

We were able to see each other once a week, that way, if only for a few minutes. I would do my rounds. Return items I’d fixed or pick up new ones. Keep a close eye for her and her Mother. Then make sure she saw me before her Mother could notice and rush to the Diplomat and order tea and cakes. She would give her Ma some excuse and sneak over to where I’d be waiting, and I never stopped taking in a sharp breath at seeing her bolt through the entrance to join me.

I know I sounded a proper fool to her, talking about my mates in careful ways. Bloody telling her how I’d repaired an air nozzle at McClosky’s shop then complaining because his son, Diarmaid, took credit. How Eamonn was at Queens and doing well. How Mairead was back to her job and doing well, since Ma was keeping an eye on Michael Paul, and doing well. How my brothers and sister were doing well. How our new home was doing us well. How I was doing well. How helping the shopkeepers with decimalization was doing well. I didn’t notice my constant repetition of how well we were doing till she made sport of me by repeating it back. I’d laughed, in response, and said I’d take a course in public speaking.

What we never spoke of was how we felt about each other. I’d compliment her clothes, always different, always lovely. She’d say I looked smart, even though I was in the same uniform, every time -- jacket, shirt and bell-bottom trousers, a jumper. She liked the curls in my hair, now I was letting it grow. I loved the light braid she’d sometimes put hers into. It all felt so very right and wonderful.

Then Christmas came and I searched for days to get the right present for her and found it at Sproule’s on Carlisle. A gold heart pendant on a light chain. Cost me six quid, but when I slipped the box to her and saw her eyes light up when she opened it, I knew I’d have been happy to have spent a hundred.

She slipped it around her neck, whispering, “Oh, Brendan, I haven’t anything nearly so fine to give you.”

“You like it, then?” I asked, as if I needed to.

Her smile both chided me and told me without question she did. She dipped into her bag and pulled out a small package. “I had no end of trouble buying this when I saw it,” she said. “Charlie would’ve made a scene, he’s such a brat. I'll be so glad when he's off to RAM.”

"Ram?"

"Royal Academy of Music. Fancies himself the next Bach. Beethoven. Brahms. Maybe even Mozart. Never. I've heard his compositions."

I laughed and opened my present to find a lovely set of wee turnscrews within a small flap. I burst into a grin to hide how much it overwhelmed me.

She watched me, actually wary. “You mentioned trouble you were having with some smaller things you were repairing...”

“This is perfect,” I managed to whisper. “Exactly what I needed. Thank you.”

“Mum’ll be looking for me,” she said as she finished her tea, then added with a wink, “I’d best be in the music section of Wellie’s when she finds me, this time.”

I nodded and rose with her, and she smiled and hesitated then leaned over to let her lips give me the lightest of kisses on my nose before she rushed out, crying “Happy Christmas” as she went.

Oh, yes, it was. It was. The happiest of my life.

Question...

I'm moving right along on APoS...and may be asking for Beta readers to give a it a look, over Christmas holidays. I'm going to do a general call to people on Facebook and Twitter, maybe Instagram. But I know I'm so close to the story, now, I'll never be able to objectively deal with it. Thing is, it is going to be a good-size novel. I'm on the downhill slide, now, and I need to know what's working and what isn't for people before I dig into the next draft.

That said, National Novel Writing Month starts up again, on Monday...and I'm tempted to do some erotica, just to release some inner tensions. Question is, what? I have a vampire script I could turn into a nice erotic tale. Blood Angel. It's a bit hackneyed, however -- an 800 year old vampire queen obsesses with a young Jazz musician in post-Katrina New Orleans. It's got all the usual shit of he's The One she's been seeking since forever in order to take her place as Queen of Vampires...and it's kind of dopey.

So...I could make it just a lustful thing. She's after him because she wants to fuck with him, but in order for her to feel satisfaction...she'd need to kill him as they reach completion. Unless she turns him; then she's bound to him, forever. She isn't sure how she feels about that, even though she feels nothing except the need to have him again and again...

I used this scene from Matador as part of my idea for the story. This woman is a serial killer who seduces then murders men just as they ejaculate inside her.

Another possibility is Carli's Kills, about an ex-Army sniper who's out to avenger her daughter's suicide. She uses sex to get to the bastards who drove the girl to it. Then she falls for one who's not really part of what happened and all but rapes him...but by making him hers, that leads to his death.

Of course, there's also We-come, which would be erotic sci-fi horror. A critter's space ship crash-lands on earth and it uses people to feed on and use for energy as it sends off SOS signals to its fellow beings. Part of what gives it energy is the endorphins that explode when a human orgasms, so it forces both males and females to do so before eating them. Make it goofy and funny. Yum.

Hell, I don't know. I'm in a bizarre mood so I may wind up doing nothing. We'll see how it goes.

Needs more...

I finished another pass on the actual Battle for Bogside, that happened from 12-15 August, 1969 in Derry. I keep feeling like I need to add more, but what I've written is being resistant.  Here's a snippet of what I have:

I looked down at Waterloo...what I could see past the side tower block. I heard distant shouting echo up through the courtyard. Cries of anger. Cries of pain. Cries of laughter. From up here, it was like a living photo of some lost city in some lost civilization, found once again and illustrated with drifts of smoke that whispered by. Some came off the burning vehicles; some from the now ruined buildings; some from petrol bombs being thrown and gas being shot at us, still; some from God only knows where.

I was the only one on the walkways. I caught bits of movement atop the tower to my left. Caught hands whipping stones and petrol bombs over the side and down at the RUC, even though they were hardly about. It was too unreal for me. The space we'd been fighting so hard to preserve for ourselves suddenly looked tiny and meaningless, almost empty. I had not a clue as to how we could keep it.

Yes, we'd heard snippets of how tight the RUC was stretched by fighting in other towns. Word was people had been burned out of house and home in Belfast, by Protestant mobs in a sort of pogrom. That was how one broadcaster put it, but I'd need to look it up; I had no real understanding of the word...

No...no, Aidan had told me it was what was done to Jews in Russia, forcing them to leave their homes for new places. Yes, I remembered, now. And here, it was clear to me that one good push by fresh constables and we would be done the same, lose that little toehold we'd kept in our own city.

I wandered along the walkway. The elevators weren't working, of course. Part of the fight against us to lower our will. Electricity was occasional, at best. But it was only seven flights down...or eight. I couldn't remember, just then. I was too tired. Too unfocused to even think about it.

When I reached the group I was part of, I heard the stories of counterattack had changed. Westminster was sending troops. Sending the bloody army! Soon verified by radio reports. None of us liked the sound of that. Not a one. We didn’t trust they were coming to keep the peace. Too many of us knew how the British had been when dealing with the Irish, far too often in the last four-hundred years. But did we have strength enough left to fight them? No one wished to say the obvious aloud.

Then suddenly I noticed...there was nothing but silence.

Complete stillness.

Too much so.

I started to cough, nervous for the first time.

The smoke cleared, in full, and I could see all the way to Waterloo Place. From down here the street looked like a country gravel road, there were so many rocks and stones across it. But the barricades were holding. Stores that had been ablaze were now carcasses, still smoking. The air stank from the gas and lorries and busses destroyed by flames, some with still-burning tires. Why hadn't I understood much of the smoke I'd seen from above was due to them?

Or had I? My mind was fuzzy, at best.

I couldn’t speak, my throat was so caught by the foul air. I found even the thought of food made my stomach quiver in refusal. My fingers were torn and bloody, and I realized I’d not changed clothes since the beginning, so my trousers were rags and my shirt and parka were ruined. I was bloody exhausted, having caught only bits of sleep and a bite of cheese and bread here and there, between battles. And a sup of milk? Perhaps. I thought for a moment maybe, just maybe, I should go home and wash and get in clean clothes.

But I dared not leave. It was like the calm before a storm, this sudden terrifying silence. Not a word from the constables. No curses from the Prods. Not even calls from lads on our side. Not a whisper.

We were down on the number of bottles and petrol to be used. There were still rocks a-plenty and our own homemade cudgels and bats. We had a fine number of slingshots made from wood scrap. But the truth was, we were close to the end, and a fair portion of the silence was from our side of people not sure what would come next.

That was determined late in the day. First, were the rumbles of lorries approaching. Then came marching feet.

We held ready. Waiting. Fearing this might be the end.

Finally...we saw the Army striding in, proud and sure...and in formation.

Then they stopped and calmly pulled out wire barricades between us and the constables. And stayed there.

Stayed there!

Facing the RUC!

Keeping us apart! They were bloody keeping us apart!

I couldn’t believe it. Some around me began to howl for joy. Some wept from relief. I couldn’t move. I just stood where I was and stared at them for I don’t know how long, letting it settle slowly into my brain that I could finally take a good long wash, have a decent sleep...and finally get around to working on Mrs. O'Connor's wall clock. I'd promised it to her for yesterday.

I wandered through all of those thoughts until I let myself understand and accept...that by all the saints are holy, we had won. The army really had made itself a barrier between us and them. They were holding our right to Derry as fact. They would keep the Proddies from our homes and families, and hold back the worst of their threats. They had come to protect us! 

We. Had. Beaten. The. Fucking. Loyalists.

We had fucking won!