“…wonderful…A fast-paced, tightly written novel…Murphy captures both the corruption and allure of Dublin…”

Danny Boyle was a born angel. At least that’s what his granny used to say. But in the turmoil of 1970’s Ireland, an alienated Danny gets into drugs and is involved in a gangland killing…

A work of vibrant imagination by a masterful storyteller, BORN & BRED is the first of three novels that will chart the course of one star-crossed life. Don’t miss it while it’s 80% off the regular price!

Born & Bred

by Peter Murphy

CHAPTER 1

On the night of August 10, 1977, Daniel Bartholomew Boyle made the biggest mistake of his young life, one that was to have far-reaching consequences for him and those around him. He might have argued that the course of his life had already been determined by happenings that occurred before he was born, but, poor Catholic that he was, riddled with guilt and shame, he believed that he, and he alone, was responsible. He had been dodging the inevitable since Scully got lifted but he knew it was only a matter of time before it caught up with him. Perhaps that was why he paused in front of the old cinema in Terenure after weeks of skulking in the shadows. Perhaps that was why he waited in the drizzle as the passing car turned back and pulled up beside him.

“Get in the car, Boyle.”

Danny wanted to make an excuse—to say that he was waiting for someone—but he knew better.

It wouldn’t do to keep them waiting. They weren’t the patient sort, twitchy and nervous, and single-minded without a shred of compassion. He looked around but the streets were empty. There was no one to help him now, standing like a target in front of the art deco facade of the Classic.

The cinema had been closed for over a year, its lights and projectors darkened, and now lingered in hope of new purpose. He had spent hours in there with Deirdre, exploring each other in the dark while watching the midnight film, stoned out of their minds, back when they first started doing the stuff. He used to do a lot of his dealing there, too, around the back where no one ever looked.

“Come on, Boyle. We haven’t got all fuckin’ night.”

Danny’s bowels Zuttered as he stooped to look inside the wet black car. Anthony Flanagan was sitting in the passenger’s seat, alongside a driver Danny had seen around. He was called “the Driller” and they said he was from Derry and was lying low in Dublin. They said he was an expert at kneecapping and had learned his trade from the best. Danny had no choice; things would only get worse if he didn’t go along with them.

“How are ya?” He tested the mood as he settled into the back seat beside a cowering and battered Scully. He had known Scully since he used to hang around the Dandelion Market. He was still at school then and spent his Saturday afternoons there, down the narrow covered lane that ran from Stephen’s Green into the Wonderland where the hip of Dublin could come together to imitate what was going on in the rest of the world—but in a particularly Dublin way.

Dave, the busker, always took the time to nod to him as he passed. Dave was black and played Dylan in a Hendrix way. He always wore an afghan coat and his guitar was covered with peace symbols. Danny would drop a few coins as he passed and moved on between the stalls as Dylan gave way to Horslips, Rory Gallagher, and Thin Lizzy.

The stalls were stacked with albums and tapes, josh sticks and tie-dyed t-shirts with messages like “Peace” and “Love,” pictures of green plants and yellow happy faces along with posters of Che, whose father’s people had come from Galway.

The stalls were run by hippies from such far-out places as Blackrock and Sandyford, students from Belfield and Trinity, and a select few from Churchtown. They were all so aloof as they tried to mask their involvement in commercialism under a veneer of cool. Danny knew most of them by sight, and some by name. On occasion he’d watch over their stalls when they had to get lunch or relieve themselves. He was becoming a part of the scene.

***

“Hey Boyle!”

Danny had seen Scully around before but they had never spoken. Scully, everyone said, was the guy to see about hash and acid, and, on occasion, some opium.

“You go to school in Churchtown?”

Danny had just nodded, not wanting to seem overawed.

“Wanna make some bread?”

“Sure. What do I have to do?”

“Just deliver some stuff to a friend. He’ll meet up with you around the school and no one will know—if you’re cool?”

Danny had thought about it for a moment but he couldn’t say no. He had been at the edge of everything that happened for so long. Now he was getting a chance to be connected—to be one of those guys that everybody spoke about in whispers. Sure it was a bit risky but he could use the money and, besides, no one would ever suspect him. Most people felt sorry for him and the rest thought he was a bit of a spaz.

“Could be a regular gig—if you don’t fuck it up.” Scully had smiled a shifty smile and melted back into the crowd, checking over each shoulder as he went.

***

As they drove off, Scully didn’t answer and just looked down at his hands. His fingers were bloody and distorted like they had been torn away from whatever he had been clinging onto.

Anto turned around and smiled as the street lights caught in the diamond beads on the windshield behind him. “We’re just fuckin’ fine, Boyle. We’re taking Scully out for a little spin in the mountains.”

His cigarette dangled from his thin lips and the smoke wisped away ambiguously. He reached back and grabbed a handful of Scully’s hair, lifting his bruised and bloodied face. “Scully hasn’t been feeling too good lately and we thought that a bit of fresh air might sort him out, ya know?”

“Cool,” Danny agreed, trying to stay calm, trying not to let his fear show—Anto fed off it. He brieify considered asking them to drop him off when they got to Rathfarnham but there was no point. He knew what was about to go down. Scully had been busted a few weeks before, and, after a few days in custody, had been released.

It was how the cops set them up. They lifted them and held them until they broke and spilled all that they knew. Then they let them back out while they waited for their court date. If they survived until then—well and good. And if they didn’t, it saved everybody a lot of time and bother.

Danny sat back and watched Rathfarnham Road glide by in the night. They crossed the Dodder and headed up the hill toward the quiet, tree-lined streets that he had grown up in. As they passed near his house he thought about it: if the car slowed enough he could risk it—just like they did in the pictures. He could jump out and roll away. He could be up and running before they got the car turned around and by then he would be cutting through the back gardens and could easily lose them.

“You live around here, don’t ya, Boyle?” Anto spoke to the windshield but Danny got the message. “And your girlfriend—she lives down that way?”

Danny thought about correcting him. He hadn’t seen Deirdre since the incident in the church but there was no point. They’d use anybody and anything to get to him. He was better off just going along with them for now.

He briefly thought about asking God to save him but there was no point in that, either. They had given up on each other a long time ago. He turned his head away as they approached the church where he had been confirmed into the Faith, so long ago and far away now.

***

He had dipped his little fingers into the old stone font and made a wet cross on his forehead, his chest and each of his shoulders. His granny had often told him that the font was used in the Penal times when the faithful were banished to the mountains and the English spread their “Enlightenment” with muskets and swords. He had blessed himself like the generations had done before him, entitled by patriotism and Catholicism, rising up from the bogs of hopelessness to shake off the Imperial yoke. And back then he believed every word of it.

“The long arm of the Devil is always reaching out to knock unwary souls from the narrow path that leads to Heaven,” she always warned him. “And the fires of Hell burn brighter every time a soul falls.”

He had been fascinated by that and once held his finger in the flame of a candle to see what it was like. And though he quickly pulled it away, he had a blister. “Let that be a lesson to you,” his granny chided as she smeared butter on it. “Now you can imagine what it’s like to have your whole body burning—for eternity.”

***

Anto lit another cigarette; the bursting match filled the car with sulphur, the red and yellow glare briefly brightening the side of the driver’s impassive face. “You don’t mind if I smoke, do you, Scully?”

Scully didn’t say anything and just shook his downturned head.

“C’mon, Scully. Don’t be like that. We’re all still friends.” Anto handed his cigarette packet back over his shoulder. “Here, give Scully a smoke—and have one yourself. We’re all good mates here. Right? Just a bunch of mates taking a drive in the mountains.”

Danny took the packet and fished two out. He held one toward Scully and when he didn’t raise his head, searched for his mouth. He struck another match and held it out as Scully turned his head. His face was bloody and swollen. His nose, snotty and flattened to one side. He was missing more teeth than usual and he had been crying, probably for his life. He sucked the flame toward the tip of the cigarette and nodded at Danny but his eyes were resigned.

“There’s the old church where we all went to Mass. Isn’t that right, Boyle?” Anto reached over his shoulder and took the pack from Danny. “That was where we made our Confirmation and all that shite?”

Danny just nodded as old memories flooded back.

***

He had blessed himself with deliberate care under the supervision of Mr. Patrick Joseph Muldoon, his National School teacher, who had spent most of 1966 teaching Danny and his classmates how to be really Irish as the country got ready to celebrate the once derided martyrs of the Easter Rising—those who had died so Christ-like. By 1967, Muldoon’s vocation was to ready them for Confirmation, that they might be a credit to their Church, their parents, and, of course, to Patrick Joseph Muldoon, once from a small biteen of a place in the bogs beyond in Mayo.

But when the Confirmation class went to Confession, he caught Danny blessing himself with his left hand and wacked it with a leather strap. “For the love of God, Boyle, what kind of way is that to be blessing yourself and you about to make your Confirmation? What kind of a Catholic are you?” Danny didn’t dare answer, burning as he was with shame, the lingering effects of Original Sin. Muldoon had taught them about that, too. That’s why they had to have the love of God beaten into them.

He was smiling as Danny stepped inside and took his place with his classmates. All the boys were dressed in dark suits with ribboned medals on their lapels, looking for all the world like little gentlemen.

And the girls looked like flowers in A-line coats over lace-trimmed satins and white stockinged feet in black patent-leather shoes. They weren’t women yet, but some of them were beginning to attract attention in the way they stood and eyed the boys who smiled back nervously. Some of the boys even blushed and fidgeted until someone broke the tension by whispering: “I hope the bishop asks you!”

They had all been drilled in the Catechism but when the moment came—when the bishop walked among them and stopped, searching for doubts and unworthiness—none of them wanted to be tested. There was so much riding on the day. It was the day when they took their place in the One, Holy, Catholic and Apostolic Church.

It was also the day when friends and families bestowed their blessings in a much more tangible way. The previous year, some of the boys made over five pounds. Danny knew that he would do better. His father had already promised him a fiver—the next time he came home—to make up for not being able to make it over for the big day. “Things are a bit slow right now,” he had told him when he made his weekly phone call. “But I’m just going down to see a man who knows a man who heard of a fella that might be hiring. Things are going to pick up, you’ll see.”

His father often made promises like that and usually forgot about them, but this time Danny was sure he’d come through. It was his Confirmation, after all, and the Holy Ghost was involved. He’d move his father to do the right thing. Besides, his granny said they would go and visit his mother in the hospital and Danny could show off to all the nurses and the patients. “They all have lots of money,” his granny assured him, “and they’ll be delighted for you, on your big day. Now stop fidgeting and pull up your socks. And make sure you take the pledge.”

***

“I didn’t grass,” Scully suddenly announced to no one in particular, as if the enormity of his plight had finally seeped through all of his pain and nausea. “I swear to ya, I didn’t tell them anything. They tried to make me but I just told them a load of shite, ya know. I just gave them names of people I made up. Ya know I’d never grass. Ya know that, don’t ya?”

The Driller and Anto exchanged glances but said nothing so Danny stayed silent, too. The Devil was coming to collect his due and there was nothing any of them could do about that. Scully was done-for but there might still be some hope for Danny. There had to be. Sure he had strayed from the path, but it wasn’t all his fault.

***

When the Confirmation ceremony reached its apex, Dr. John Charles McQuaid, the archbishop of Dublin, ascended into the elevated pulpit. He rose like an apparition without seeming to move his limbs under his dark robes. He looked to the ceiling and then down on them all for a moment like he was thinking about withholding Confirmation.

Danny had overheard his granny say that he was like that: “Cold and remote but, God love him, he grew up without his mother’s love to soften his world. But it’s a pity that he doesn’t pay more attention to what the Sacred Heart of Jesus used to say about Love and being nice to everyone—especially poor sinners.”

Danny never knew what to say when Granny spoke like that. He just listened and stored it all away to consider when he was alone and his face couldn’t be read. But none of that would get in his way today, not when being a Catholic finally paid off.

The archbishop was talking in a low stern voice: “I promise,” he intoned and paused until they repeated it. Danny joined in and raised his voice above them all, vowing with all of his heart: “to abstain from all intoxicating drinks, except used medically and by order of a medical man, and to discountenance the cause and practice of intemperance.”

When he’d finished, Danny’s heart soared up around the columns, searching for an open window, to fly out, all the way to the Heavens. The small fiery tongue of the Holy Ghost had descended upon him and kindled his soul and he wanted to feel that way forever.

But, by the time they got out of the warm stuffy church, the boys were tugging at their fresh white collars, loosening their stifling ties, while the girls hopped from foot to foot, trying to skip the pinch of new shoes. Muldoon was organizing them for photographs. First the whole class and then a series of each newly-confirmed with attending parents and himself—prominent for all posterity.

“If you don’t mind,” Granny Boyle had asked with polite insistence, “Danny and I would rather it was just the two of us.”

Muldoon smiled like he’d been slapped but stood back without comment. The old principal was retiring that summer and he was next in line for the job. He didn’t want to risk any more complaints reaching the parish priest’s ears. “Not at all Mrs. Boyle, and may I tell you that I’ve never seen Master Daniel looking so well turned out. He’s a real credit to you.”

“He’s a credit to the Sacred Heart of Jesus, that one. A pure angel if ever there was one, no matter what slandering sinners would say about him.” She stared Muldoon down as she arranged herself for the camera. She had never gotten over it—the day Danny came home in tears.

***

“What’s the matter pet?”

Danny was still shaking as he told her about what had happened at school that day.

They had been having a serious discussion about what went on in the local dances. None of them had been to any, of course, but most of them had older brothers and sisters.

Geraldine Wray was talking about “the Lurch”—the latest dance craze. Muldoon listened with growing indignation and puffed himself up a little more. He blamed television, the world’s latest intrusion on Ireland. He had one but he only watched RTE. His students, though, watched the BBC and ITV, watching shows like Top of the Pops and no good could come of that. He had warned them it was a bad influence. “God bless us and save us,” he declared when he had heard enough.

“Everybody’s doing it,” Geraldine assured him.

Muldoon puffed himself up a little more. “I don’t care if the bishop and the reverend mother are doing it.”

“I can just see those two at it,” Danny piped up in a flash. He had a bit of a crush on Geraldine and never missed a chance to be in the same conversation, but it went wrong. Muldoon turned on him with a face like thunder. “May God forgive you for saying such a thing. That’s a mortal sin—that’s what that is—and you just weeks before your Confirmation. I’ve a good mind to call the archbishop myself and . . .”

Granny gritted her teeth as Danny relayed it all.

“Oh, did he now?” she stroked Danny’s face. “You go on up and have a little lie down in your bed while I go and have a word with the parish priest. I’ll not have that bog-amadán talk to my grandson like that. Go on now, and here,” she handed him a small plate of chocolate biscuits. “Just mind you don’t get any on the sheets.”

***

“Big smiles for the camera, now.”

Granny composed herself. This was one of those great moments that would live on long after she had gone to meet her maker. She would have a few bones to pick with Him when she got there but for now she smiled and held Danny close to her. Please God, she whispered through her smile. Look after my Danny when I’m gone.

She had great faith in God but she also had a healthy fear of the Devil and there were, God forgive her, times when she wasn’t certain which one would win out in the end. But she kept her doubts to herself and went along with the current of the times.

Besides, she reminded herself as she shook hands with neighbors and friends, God tests the faithful but doesn’t stint on their rewards. He had given her Danny, the apple of her eye and the only thing the world hadn’t torn from her. She was there for His angel when those who should weren’t. She accepted the job with joy, and dread. She knew far too well that the wickedness in the world would be out to destroy Danny, just like it had done to Jesus—and Padraig Pearse.

***

When they got to Killakee car park, the Driller pulled over and turned the car toward the twinkling lights of the city below and waited for Anto to break the silence.

“It’s nice up here, isn’t it lads? I like to come up here to think, ya know?”

“I think we’d have a nicer view over by the wee wood,” the Driller disagreed and nodded in the direction of Cruagh Wood, off in the darkness.

“What do you think lads? Do you think we should go for a walk in the woods?”

Scully said nothing but pleaded with Danny with his swollen, puffy eyes.

“I’m fine here,” Danny answered, hoping that if they waited in the car park, someone might drive by, maybe even the Garda.

Anto was probably just trying to frighten the shite out of them—and he was doing a great job. Every time Danny let his mind wander into what might happen, he had to clench his arse.

But it was all just for fuckin’ show—it had to be. They weren’t going to whack the two of them. They might just be making a show for Scully’s sake, but Danny had done nothing wrong. Sure he owed them some money, but he was going to pay them, one of these days.

In the back of his mind, Danny had always known that life was out to get him. Despite all the talk about God loving them, and all, he knew better. His God stalked the streets looking to mete out punishment when he could and there was nothing anyone could do about that.

“Always thinking of yourself, Boyle. Didn’t anybody ever teach you to be considerate of other people’s feelings? Like Scully, here. Don’t you think that he might like a walk in the woods?”

“But it’s still fuckin’ pissin’ down with rain. Maybe we should just go back down and come out another time?” It was a long shot but Danny had to try. If he could just get back to the city, he’d change everything. He’d even start going to Mass again. And he’d go to Confession and clear his slate. He prayed silently into the dark desperation that swirled around him. Maybe, if he prayed hard enough?

Anto nodded to the Driller who started the car and took the road that led toward the wood. “Ya, maybe you’re right, Boyle. What do you think, Scully? Do you think we should come back on a nicer day?”

“I didn’t grass anybody. They tried to make me but I just told them a load of shite, ya know? I wouldn’t grass you’se guys. Ya know that, don’t ya? You’se are my mates. I’d never fuck you’se over. You know that, don’t ya?”

Anto seemed to be thinking about it and nodded when he was done. “Of course we do but we just had to hear it from your own lips. You know that we’re just trying to remind you of what would happen if you did.”

“I know that Anto, that’s why I’d never fuckin’ grass you, ya know. I’m not mad, ya know?”

“Ya,” Danny joined in, careful not to implicate himself with his enthusiasm as a rush of forgiveness Zowed through the car. He whispered his thanks to the side window and resisted the urge to bless himself.

“Okay,” Anto turned around and smiled at them both. “But let this be a lesson for you—the both of you’se. We have to stick together. Right?”

Danny and Scully nodded as they drove off, but the Driller pulled over when they got to the woods. “Well now that we‘ve all kissed and made up, I need to take a leak. Anybody else?”

“Ya,” Anto agreed. “We’re all cool now. Right Scully? Boyle? No hard feelings? Let’s all get out. We can have a few hits, too, and put the whole fuckin’ thing behind us. I don’t want to smoke-up in the car, in case we get pulled over on the way back.”

They all got out and stretched in the damp mountain air. Perhaps, Danny wanted to believe, it was all going to be okay; Anto was just sending them a message. He could be like that—very dramatic.

They stood in a row, pissing up against the boles of trees, careful to stand with the wind behind them. Danny stood next to Scully and had almost relaxed when the Driller stepped up behind them and popped two shots into the back of Scully’s head.

Scully fell forward, his own piss still dribbling between his fingers. He twitched a few times and then grew still. Anto approached and nudged him with his foot before looking into Danny’s face. “It wasn’t personal, Boyle, ya know that? It’s just business. We have to maintain loyalty. Scully knew that, ya know?”

Danny didn’t speak and just nodded as he kept one eye on the Driller who still held his gun ready.

“And now we should commit our dear departed friend to the ground,” Anto continued like he was saddened by what had just happened. “And, when all the fuss has died down, we’ll come back and put up a nice little cross, or something. Scully used to be a good mate; it’s the least he deserves. Did you bring the shovel?” he asked the Driller who was still standing over Scully, ready to shoot again if he moved.

“No! Fuck-me. I left it in the car. Here,” the Driller held out the gun, cold and hard in the softness of his damp leather gloves. “Hold this while I get it.”

Danny fingered the cold metal, still reeking of death, and thought about it. He could pop them and get the fuck away without anybody knowing. He’d always wanted to be a hero—just like his grandfather who had fought off the Black and Tans.

***

“He would have been so proud of you, Danny boy,” his granny had reminded him the day he was Confirmed. “I’m sure he’s boasting about you right now with all of his old friends and comrades.”

She had brought him to the Garden of Remembrance because that’s where his spirit lingered. It was where she came to talk with him when the spinning of the world got too fast. He never spoke to her, she wasn’t crazy—like some people—but she always said that she found peace and calm in his silence.

She wanted to share that with Danny but he was too young still.

And too full of wonder, as he stared into the pool, at the mosaic on the bottom, ancient Celtic weapons, forever beyond use.

He watched his granny’s reflection walk to the other side of the cruciform, and, with the sunlight reflecting on the water and the brilliant white fluffy clouds just beyond her shoulders, she looked like a guardian angel. But he could tell that she was tiring. The long bus ride from Rathfarnham and the short one across the river and up to the “Square” had taken their toll.

When he looked up she rearranged herself and beckoned: “Come on now and sit down with your granny and enjoy a little bit of the peace and quiet they all died for.”

The sun was flittering through the fresh green trees and Dublin rumbled by outside without deference as Danny nestled in beside her and stretched his legs in front of him. He admired the sharp crease on his long pants. His shoes were a bit dusty and his socks had rolled down to his ankles. His ribbons fluttered under his nose, tickling as they passed. He was almost a young man now, almost ready to make his own way in the world, still clutching the envelope that Granny had given him on the bus.

“Go on,” she smiled. “You may as well open it now. Only give it back to me afterwards so I can keep it safe until we get home. It’s not much now, but it’s the least you deserve.”

Danny nearly piddled when he saw the two five-pound notes tucked in the folds of a handwritten letter that said how proud she was of him; how he was the reason that she was happy to get up every morning even though everything else she had loved had been taken from her. Her handwriting never varied and flowed until it carried him along to where she reminded him to stay close to God—that the Devil was never far away.

Danny read it slowly and deliberately before putting it back in the envelope which Granny tucked into the folds of her bag and looked at all the memories that swirled around them.

“When I was a girl the English opened their jails and sent their murderers over here to plunder and pillage, and, some say, defile any young girls who might be out at night.”

She fanned herself with her glove before continuing. “They were the Devil’s spawn, all right, but some of the boys weren’t going to let them get away with any more of that. Your grandfather was one of those that stood up to them. Even killed a few of them, too, but he got absolution for that. The priest told him to pray for their souls, every day; for the rest of his life, as his penance.

“Not that he ever talked about it, mind you, but then those that did the most say the least and that’s the way the holy mother of God wants it. Maybe it was Her plan all along—that Bart would kill them and then pray for their souls. That way they could still get to Heaven. Don’t you see?”

Danny nodded in total agreement. His grandfather was his idol. He was going to grow up just like him, too, and become the man that won the North back. Granny often told him that he had it in him—not like the Gombeens down in Leinster House. “Free-Staters,” she called them and almost spat the words. “They were the ones who locked your grandfather up for being too much of an Irish hero—the bunch of scuts, every one of them, God forgive me.

“But your grandfather never held a grudge. ‘We all die for Ireland, someday,’ he always used to say when people got to arguing about it. He wasn’t one for making a hash of the past, especially with those who hadn’t even been a part of it.”

She then fell silent among her memories as the breeze rippled the water and the flags, and the fresh green leaves, as Danny wandered among his own daydreams. After he had done all the patriotic stuff, he’d play football for Ireland and help them win the World Cup. And they would win it fairly, too, not like the English. The parish curate was starting a new team and had asked Granny if Danny could play for them. They must know how good he was, although he had never really played much.

He’d have to get a pair of boots, though. He’d get his father to buy them the next time he was over. Granny wouldn’t know the right ones. He would ask his mother to ask him; she always knew how to get him to do things.

“Can we go see my ma now?”

“Sure of course we can, pet. We can get the bus just down the street and we’ll be there in no time.”

She rose slowly and headed toward the gate, trailing her fingers in the water for a moment before raising them to her lips, her heart, and across her shoulders.

***

“You like that, don’t ya Boyle? A gun gives a man real power.” Anto lit another cigarette and watched Danny’s face. “Why don’t ya keep it? It could come in handy, ya know?”

Danny hesitated. He could get one of them—but which one? Anto was always packing. He had lit his cigarette with his left hand. His right was still in his pocket, facing Danny. And the Driller was coming back.

Danny decided against it. He would have to raise the gun on both of them and he couldn’t be sure that he would actually fire it. He might pause and that would give one of them a chance to pop him. He held the gun in his hands, turning it around before handing it back to Anto.

“Thanks, but I don’t want it.”

“Are you sure, Boyle? It could come in handy.” Anto reached his gloved hand forward and took the gun away. “C’mon then, let’s get the fuck outta here.”

“But what about Scully?”

“Ah, fuck him. We’ll make a call when we get back. The cops can come and pick him up.”

“But won’t they figure out what happened?”

“Don’t worry, Boyle. They’ll never be able to trace it back to us. That’s why we wear gloves. C’mon, let’s get to fuck outta here.”

Danny sat in the back seat and looked at his bare fingers, now imprinted on the gun. Anto had him over a barrel and there was fuck-all he could do about it.

“By the way, Boyle,” Anto turned when they pulled up outside the Yellow House, close to where Danny lived. “Now that Scully is no longer with us, we’ll have a few things for you to do.”

“I don’t know if I can.”

“C’mon, Boyle. You’re perfect for the job. And,” he paused to pull his gloves off, “we know we can trust you. Think about it and we’ll be in touch.”

CHAPTER 2

Danny’s mother listened to the radio as she waited for the kettle to boil. The news was full of the Queen’s visit to the North and Jacinta’s heart grew warm with hope. They were all tired of the fighting, but her heart froze a little when the newscaster went on to report on the finding of a young man’s body up near the Hell Fire Club. He had been shot in the head and left like rubbish among the trees.

Danny had been out late and she couldn’t help but worry. He had become so shifty again, avoiding her eyes and any questions about how he was spending his nights.

“It’s just one less feckin’ drug dealer,” Jerry snorted as he sat down at the kitchen table and waited for his tea.

She had seen that look on his face before. He had worn it for years when she was in the hospital, when he tried to show that he wasn’t afraid. “The sooner they all kill each other the better, as far as I’m concerned. Besides, it’s got feck-all to do with us.”

“Maybe you’re right, but did you ever wonder where Danny is getting all his money from? Every time he goes out, he buys things for himself.”

“He’s probably making it busking.”

“Are you sure? He’s got nearly two hundred under his mattress.”

“Good for him. He’s getting great on the guitar and he has a good voice. If only he’d sing something good, like Buddy Holly. I’m sick of all the punk shite he does.”

“But he can’t be making it all from that.”

“He’s probably got a few fiddles going—down at the Dandelion—you know? Buying and selling shit. Fair play, I say. Anybody who can make any money in this country is a feckin’ genius.”

“You don’t think we should be worried?”

“Not at all. Danny is a good lad at heart. He’d never do anything stupid.”

But Jerry wasn’t so sure. If Danny was anything like him, he’d get himself into more trouble than he could handle. He was probably involved, somehow. It was the only way he could be making money like that. The Ireland that Jerry’s father had fought for had become a hard place and he and Jacinta hadn’t made it any easier for Danny. He knew what was going on. There were drug dealers everywhere like they didn’t fear anybody.

But there were those that the drug dealers feared and Jerry knew someone who knew someone who knew them all. They might be interested in helping—for Bart and Nora’s sake if not for Jerry’s. He’d have to convince them, though. He had blotted his copybook with them before.

***

Danny lay in his bed, listening to them. He had hardly slept. He didn’t dare. He was haunted by Scully’s bruised and swollen face, and that look in his eyes—like he was just resigned. And afterwards, he almost seemed relieved that all the running and hiding was over, lying by the bole of a tree as his blood trickled from his head and mingled with own piss still dribbling off down the hill.

Danny retched again but his stomach was empty but for the bile that churned like a knife. It had all seemed like a game up until now, playing the hard chaw. He wasn’t going to be like his father, catholically bowing and scraping to bishops, priests and all those that carried out their will. Beaten down from the beginning, but, in the back of the car, he had prayed like a sinner and made promises into the dark.

He was ashamed of that. Despite all of his posturing and protestations he was just like the rest of them, a craven Catholic to the core, trapped in the limbo of Purgatory, lost and alone now, betrayed by hubris and delivered to the Devil.

No one was ever going help him—no one ever had. His granny said she was but she was just doing it so everybody could say what a great woman she was, raising a child at her age. His prayers had never been answered and it was stupid of him to think they might. He was cut off from all that.

He wished he could go down and tell his parents what happened but they had never been the type of parents that could make things better. Usually they just made things worse. They had never really been parents to him when he was growing up. His father had been in England and his mother was in St. Patricks’ Mental Hospital, even when he was Confirmed. But his granny had taken him to see her, just like she said she would.

***

“He gave the little wealth he had,” they used to chant in unison as they approached the front door, almost skipping along the path.

To build a house for fools and mad
And showed by one satiric touch
No Nation wanted it so much
That Kingdom he hath left his debtor
I wish it soon may have a better.

Granny had taught him that verse when they first started to visit, when Danny was very young. It made it all a bit more normal and she always said that she loved to hear him laugh and sing. “The great Dean Swift left the money to build it when he died,” she had explained. She had given Danny a copy of Gulliver’s Travels, too. Sometimes he brought it with him and pretended to read while his mother and his granny stared at each in stony silence only broken now and then by banalities.

“Oh, Danny, pet! I thought you’d get here much earlier.” His mother was agitated and lit another cigarette from the lipstick stained butt of the last. “I was even starting to think that you might have fallen under a bus or something.” She wore a skirt and blouse and had her hair brushed out. And she wore makeup. Usually she just wore her worn out robe with curlers in her hair. “But I’m so glad that you’re finally here. Come here to me,” she beckoned, “so that I can hug the life out of you.”

Danny waited for his granny’s nod of approval before nestling into his mother’s arms, feeling her cold cheek against his, and the soft warmth of her tears. He wanted to say something that would make her happy but he was unsure. His granny told him he had to be polite to his mother but she didn’t want him to get too close—for his own sake. She told him that his poor mother was not well, God love her, and that she couldn’t be a real mother to him right now.

“So did you have a nice day?”

“I did, Ma, it was very nice.”

“He took the pledge too,” Granny interjected as she reached out to extract Danny.

“Look what I have for you. Come here and see.” His mother pulled him closer again and reached under her cushion for her beaded purse, one of the items she had made during arts and crafts.

She had made one for Granny too, though she never used it. She also made covers for bottles—to turn them into lamps. Danny had one in his room, a wicker of colored plastics with a soft heart-shaped cushion edged with white lace.

She drew a clean, fresh pound note from her purse and held it up. “This is for you, pet, to celebrate the day. And,” she was enjoying herself and her smile almost chased the furrows from her brow. “Your Uncle Martin sent you this.” She reached back into her purse again and pulled out a bright ten-shilling note. “He wanted to see you today but he couldn’t wait. He was here for over an hour,” she paused for emphasis. “But he said to tell you that you’re to phone him and he’ll take you to the Grafton. You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

His granny reached from behind him and took the money just as Danny’s fingers reached it. “I’ll put it with the other money I’m keeping safe for you. Don’t forget to thank your mother.”

His mother watched and a twinge of annoyance flashed across her face before she swallowed and pushed it back down inside of her. “I wanted to go and see you at the church but they wouldn’t let me. They said I wasn’t up for it.”

Her eyes filled with tears as the flickers of old regrets rose and she struggled like she was trying to avoid sliding back into the darkness inside of herself.

“There’s no need to be upsetting yourself,” Granny soothed. “I was there with him and we’re both here now.”

For a moment, his granny softened and reached out to touch his mother’s hand. “So! Are you feeling any better? I think you’re looking better but you’re very thin. Are they not feeding you at least?”

“Better?” Danny’s mother answered without taking her eyes from his face. “All they do is give me pills and tell me to pray to God.”

“Prayer is the best medicine,” his granny soothed, even as she stiffened.

“Could you not have a word with them?” his mother pleaded. “At least to get them to let me out once in a while? For Danny’s sake.”

“And why would they listen to me; I’m just an old woman. And besides, Danny’s well looked after, now.”

Danny rose and walked to the window like he wasn’t listening and watched their reflections and the breeze running free on the grass outside. It was a nice view when the sun was shining but it could get very damp and grey when it rained and sadness hung in the air.

“Would you mind if we came in?” asked the nurses who had gathered in the doorway. “We just want to say congratulations to Danny on his big day.”

They squeezed into the room crinkling their starched white linens, followed by two nuns draped in flowing black whispers. The nurses took turns squeezing him and slipping coins into his hand but the nuns just patted his cheek and handed him little medals—St. Christopher and the Sacred Heart of Jesus.

“God bless you, Danny!” they all agreed and told him he looked like a saint–or an angel.

“I’m afraid it’s getting late and we should be leaving,” Granny announced when the fuss died down, and while the presence of the nuns would discourage Jacinta from protesting. “I have to get Danny home in time for his tea.”

“But we only just got here,” Danny said, forgetting his manners and his vague understanding of the situation.

“Now Danny,” the nuns admonished.

“But I’ve hardly had a chance to see him.” Jacinta rose to take him in her arms.

“You mustn’t get excited,” the nuns reminded her. “What would the doctor say if he knew?”

The nuns pried them apart, faces stoic beneath their veils, and ushered the nurses out.

Danny’s mother smiled wearily as if there was nothing she could do. Even Danny could see that. He wanted her to say something so he could spend a few minutes with her alone but she had begun to shrivel again.

“Can I just say goodbye to Ma before we go?” He knew if he pleaded just right that he would get his way and Granny and the nuns would withdraw to the hallway outside.

But they left the door open.

“It’s so good to see you, Danny boy. I can’t believe how big you’re getting. Did your daddy call you?”

“He did, last weekend, and he says he’ll be home soon and that he is going to give me a fiver.”

“Ah, that’ll be grand.”

“But I really want him to buy me a pair of football boots, you know, like the ones Johnny Giles wears.”

“We’ll ask him, then. I’m sure he’ll know the right ones.” But she didn’t sound convincing. Her face was sad, almost without hope.

Danny searched for something to change that: “And when he comes I’m going to ask Granny if he and I can come and see you on our own.” It was all he had to offer.

“Ah, that would be lovely. That gives me something to look forward to.” She reached out to take him back into her arms.

“Danny,” his granny called from the doorway. “We have to leave now.”

Danny hesitated but his mother just nodded. “Go on now, Danny boy, and don’t be keeping your granny waiting. There’s a good boy.”

He turned again from the doorway but his mother had her head down, like she might be falling asleep, except her shoulders were shuddering a little. “Bye Ma,” he called as the nuns closed like a curtain between them, muffling any answer she might have made.

***

“When I grow up,” Danny announced when they were back home, as he dipped his chips into the broken yolks of his fried eggs, “after I’m finished being the president and playing football, I’m going to become a doctor. But not the type that just give people pills and lock them up. I’m going to be the type of doctor that actually makes people better.”

“I think you should be a priest, instead,” Granny answered without turning around from her sink of soapy dishes. She said she wanted to tidy up before they had the cake she bought—just for the day that it was. It was yellow and spongy with a soft cream layer in the middle. It had hard, sweet icing with lemon jelly wedges coated in sugar. Granny would even let Danny pick them off her slice. “A priest can do far more good than a doctor.”

“Father Reilly said that only the doctors can help Ma. I asked him at Confession.”

“I’m sure he meant something else. Only God can help your mother and not before she lets Him.”

“Why doesn’t God just mend her now?”

“Ah, Danny, you don’t understand. God works in mysterious ways.”

“Does He not love Ma?”

“Of course He does. Why would you even think such a thing? He loves us all.”

“I pray all the time, for Ma to get better, but sometimes I don’t think He is listening.”

Granny stopped what she was doing and swatted the stray strands that had wisped around her face.

“God is always listening, Danny, and He is always watching us. That’s why we have to be good all the time. But sometimes,” she paused and waited for his frown to lift, “he lets us try to find our own way back to Him. He wants us to have free will so that we come to Him of our own accord.”

“But what about Ma? She doesn’t have free will anymore. She isn’t even allowed to leave the hospital anymore.”

“Ah, Danny, sure you don’t understand yet. When you’re bigger you will but for now you’ll just have to believe me that God knows what is best for all of us, even your mother—God love her.”

The kettle began to whistle and Granny fussed with the teapot. “Come on now and let’s have some cake.”

Danny was easily deflected and devoured his cake with enthusiasm. When he had finished his second slice she ushered him off to brush his teeth and say his prayers. “I’ll be up to tuck you in, in a minute.”

***

But when she got to his room he was fast asleep. He looked like an angel with his fists rolled up beneath his chin, the little medals the nuns had given him peeping out from between his fingers. She gently stroked his hair and fought to keep her heart from bursting.

You will look out for him after I am gone? she whispered into the unanswering dark.

God, who knew what was best for them all, and kept His thoughts to Himself, had given her a great many challenges in life. But He had given her Danny, too, to lighten the burden no matter how dark the days became. He was that small candle that burned when her heart and mind grew dark with sorrow.

And fear and doubt. She’d had conversations with Davies, the solicitor and long-time friend of her dear, departed, Bart. There was nothing else to be done. She’d have to let Danny’s father back into his life. She could make conditions, but she would have to allow it.

And you’ll make sure that no harm will ever come to him?

She didn’t hesitate to make bargains with God, assured as she was in her faith. When she needed something she asked because when He needed her to step in and take care of His little angel, she didn’t hesitate.

Naturally she had confidence in Him, but sometimes she wondered if He wasn’t distracted by the multitude of conflicting prayers and personal requests. Things were allowed to happen that were obviously going to come to a bad end—like Jeremiah and Jacinta, who should never have been brought together. Her son had a weakness for drink and Jacinta had a feeble mind.

But they did, and they gave into temptation and had to be married before she began to show. That, Granny decided, was her role in life—to help to iron out the wrinkles in the Great Plan.

She sat for a while gently stroking Danny’s hair. He had come into the world just after Christmas, a few weeks before he was expected. Jeremiah and Jacinta had been arguing all night. Jacinta had a visit from her sisters. They were on their way home from the dance and brought her fish and chips.

***

“We saw Jerry down in the pub.” They masked their delight in sharing bad news with a veneer of seeming concern. Jacinta had married above her station, showing them all up, even if she had hitched herself to Jerry’s falling star. “He spent the whole evening going around flirting with all of the women there.”

“And him with an expecting wife at home.”

“Not a shred of shame in him either.”

“What was he up to?”

“Maybe we shouldn’t be telling you all of this but it’s better that you know now.”

By the time Jerry got home she had worked herself into a right state.

***

Danny also knew that he had literally fallen into the world, expelled by his mother in a fit of rage.

He had heard the story often, whispered by grown-ups who overlooked his small presence, like he was too young to understand.

The story went that his mother had lifted a heavy skillet to rap his father across the head and the strain of it was too much and she expelled Danny, just seven and a half months after the wedding.

They said he didn’t seem to mind and for the first few months he slept for most of the day.

His granny said it was because he never enjoyed a moment of peace inside of his mother as she was the type of woman that could never be at ease. Even when she was sleeping she fretted and twitched over every little slight, real or imagined. Even carrying Danny, while other women had a glow about them, Jacinta had a scowl.

Danny had also overheard that it wasn’t a planned pregnancy, that it was more of an unfortunate accident in a lane behind the dance hall. He had heard whisperings that his mother had been drunk and eager and his father had been drunk and thoughtless. He had no idea what any of it meant but apparently, “they had been eyeing each other for a few weeks.” He heard that his father thought she was a fine-looking thing and his mother knew that he came from a few “bob”—Danny’s grandfather was a minister in the government at the time, and a veteran of the War of Independence.

His granny said it was what was to be expected. She often said that she knew that Jeremiah was lost the day he came home drunk, at eighteen, with his Confirmation Pledge in tatters around him.

That he should fall prey to Lust was inevitable, and when the news reached her, she chided him for a while and then arranged for a nice, respectable wedding while her future daughter-in-law could still be squeezed into a white dress.

***

“I have had a quiet word with Father Brennan,” she had announced as cordially as she could manage.

She had brought Jerry and Jacinta together over tea at Bewley’s, in a booth where they could keep their business to themselves. “He can fit you in on the third Saturday in May.”

Jerry stirred his tea without looking up while Jacinta devoured sticky buns. Neither of them even offered a word of thanks but Granny Boyle didn’t care. The holy mother of God would grant her all the thanks she needed. “And then you can have a nice weekend on the Isle of Man.”

Jerry lit another Woodbine as Jacinta stared at the empty plate. “Are there any more of those sticky buns?”

Granny Boyle forced a smile as she beckoned a waitress. This was going to take all of her patience so she turned her gaze on her son. “Your father is going to have a word with someone in the Public Works Department, too.”

Jerry looked at her for a moment and shrugged. “I was going to reapply,” he protested softly.

“There’s no time for that anymore,” Granny cut him off. It was still an open sore between them. He had failed in his first year at UCD much to the consternation of his father, causing the poor man to turn purple. “He’s a thundering disgrace to us all,” he had bellowed when he heard about Jerry and Jacinta. “First he drinks himself out of college and now he takes up with the daughter of some common laborer from God-knows-where. We should send the pair of them off to England and be rid of them.”

“Now Bart,” Granny had soothed. “He’s made his bed and we’re not going to turn him out over that.” She folded her arms to let him know the matter was decided and he better just get used to it.

“Very well but don’t expect me to pay for the wedding.”

“You won’t have to,” she reminded him. She had her own means. Her father had left her money when he sold up the old place. She had always kept it separate and apart.

The wedding went well and the weather was fine. Bart behaved himself and even danced with his daughter-in-law and her mother. Granny let him have a few whiskeys in the bar before the reception so that he could put on his public persona. He made a very good speech, too, and only mentioned re-election twice.

And when it was all done, Granny sat back as the young people danced the rest of the evening away. She had done all she could and now it was up to Jeremiah and Jacinta, though she would be there to help them every step of the way—for her unborn grandson’s sake if not for theirs.

But as Granny spent the summer making plans, arranging a nice flat for the newlyweds on the Terenure side of Rathgar and prodding Jacinta in the direction of motherhood, Fate played its own hand and took Bart. He died of a heart attack at the Galway races after a day of longshot winners.

“Fate is fickle,” she reminded her son as they walked along behind his hearse.

***

“They found a young fella named Declan Scully shot dead in the mountains,” his mother told Danny as she poured a cup of tea and placed it in front of him. “Didn’t you know somebody by that name?”

Danny didn’t look up as his parents sat and waited. “I haven’t seen him in a few years. The last I heard he was into drugs.”

His parents said nothing but he could sense them exchanging glances. He knew they wouldn’t force the issue. They couldn’t; he could turn it back on them so easily. “Did they say who did it?”

“No, but the Garda said that it might be linked to the killing down in Rathgar, a few months ago.”

His mother hovered but Danny didn’t answer. Instead, he reached across and took a cigarette from her pack and lit it with one of her matches, filling the kitchen with the acridity of sulphur.

“Whoever it was should be given a feckin’ medal,” his father added as he gulped some tea and raised his newspaper. “We should get rid of all these little feckers, once and for all.”

“Don’t be talkin’ like that. What if it was our Danny?”

“And why would he get caught up in that shite? He’s not that stupid. Isn’t that right, Danny?”

Danny agreed but didn’t raise his head. He couldn’t be sure what his eyes might tell them.

He had to get away from them. He wasn’t a part of their world anymore. He had to get back to where he could hide away until he sorted it all out. He’d go down to the Dandelion while it was still there. His whole world was changing and he needed something to hold onto.

“I’m going out.”

“Where are you off to now?”

“I’m going to busk for a while and then I got to look after a few stalls.”

“Will you be home for your dinner?”

“I don’t know.”

“You won’t be late, will ya?”

“I told ya, I don’t know.”

“Well, I’ll leave something in the oven and you can heat it up when you get home.”

***

His parents watched in silence as he finished his tea and swung his guitar over his shoulder. His jeans were soiled and his denim jacket was tattered and frayed around the collar. His hair was long and greasy and he hadn’t had a bath in over a week.

“I’m worried about him,” Jacinta said after she heard the front door close.

“He’s not going to listen to either of us.”

“What are you saying—that we should just give up on him?”

Jerry lit another cigarette and shrugged. “Why are you asking me? How would I know what to do?”

“’Cos you’re supposed to be his father.”

“Right, like the little bollocks would listen to me, anyway.”

“But we have to try. We can’t just turn our backs on him. He needs us.”

“What he needs,” Jerry paused to stub out his cigarette. Her face was lined with worry so he had to sound reassuring.

He knew what he had to do but he couldn’t tell her. Not until he had it all sorted, anyway. He had let her down so often, but not this time. This time he’d come through for them all. “Is a good, swift kick up the arse.”

***

Jacinta couldn’t let it go at that. She had to do something. She went down to the church to have a chat with Nora. She would know what to do. She always did before.

Jacinta blessed herself at the old stone font and stepped inside. The church was almost empty, just a few old people seeking solace in the shadows, every little noise they made echoing to the wooden beams above.

She made her way through the flickering shadows to the little side altar and lit a tea candle from the sputtering flame of another. She knelt in the first pew and lowered her head and prayed to the statue of Mary, standing forever between them and God, almost shapeless in her long white shift, under the pale blue mantle, her sandaled foot crushing the serpent that slithered around the world.

Jacinta always prayed there; it was where Nora would find her when she came.

Nora would listen to her and the news she brought. She would never speak but Jacinta could always feel her censure. She and Jerry had always been a disappointment to the old woman but she never spoke about that anymore. Instead she would just listen as Jacinta poured out all that troubled her.

And even when Jacinta was finished unloading her burdens, the old woman would not speak. She didn’t have to. Jacinta knew she would intercede on her behalf, interceding with God’s own mother, interceding on behalf of her daughter-in-law who could never be strong enough to bear her own burdens.

Jacinta knew her mother-in-law had never approved of her but she’d still help—for her grandson’s sake if nothing else. That was Jacinta’s one solace: Nora Boyle would never turn her back on them. She would move the powers of Heaven and Earth for her grandson.

“It’s Danny,” Jacinta spoke softly, keeping their business private. “I’m worried sick about him. I think he’s into drugs again and I worry that he’ll end up like the poor Scully boy they found dead this morning.”

Nora didn’t answer so Jacinta continued.

“I know that Jerry and I are to blame. We should have been better parents for him but we’re trying now. Please, Mrs. Boyle. Is there anything you can do to help us?”

Nora didn’t answer and Jacinta waited. Her mother-in-law liked to make her wait. She probably wanted her to know that things took time, that she couldn’t just ask and have everything put to right. She and Jerry would never learn anything if all of their problems were solved whenever they asked.

No. Nora Boyle would make her wait for a little while so Jacinta prayed and dedicated her rosary to the Blessed Virgin, saying each prayer slowly so the words would not get all jumbled together.

“Hail Mary, full of grace. Our Lord is with thee. Blessed art thou among women and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus. Holy Mary, mother of God, pray for us sinners, now and at the hour of our death. Amen.”