‘Six pints there, Paddy, and a red lemonade for John.’

The barman smiled broadly at John and he winced with shame.

Since the break-up with Noreen, John had been working on the site of a new tower block in World’s End. It was a big job. The concrete foundations for the tower block were going down tomorrow and there had been over fifty good, strong Irishmen preparing the site.

John’s brother had been right, John wasn’t ready to go back to Carney and resume life without Noreen again. He didn’t want to stay with his brother in north London because his wife and kids were a reminder of all he had lost, so he had taken up the building labour to clear his head and keep himself busy. Also, north London was miles away from Noreen. He could have got the same work up in Kilburn, but John had wanted to stay close by, so when he saw the site hoardings, he had just called in and been given work. Noreen told him she could look after herself, and she could, but John didn’t believe her. He had not liked the look of that whole set up. Gangster types were in charge of that nightclub where she worked and all those girls running about in short costumes was unseemly and could only lead to trouble.

In truth, there were girls in miniskirts and skittery slips of blouses everywhere you looked in London. John thought they must be frozen. Some of the men would call rude things after them in the street but all John ever wanted to call after them was, ‘please put on a cardigan!’ There was a place for going about in the nude and it was called bed. God, he missed Noreen in that way. He loved the way she’d be all wrapped up, then step out of her skirt, pull her jumper over her head and suddenly, all would be revealed! Sure where was the fun in seeing a woman naked if they were going about half naked all the time anyway? John didn’t see the point in that at all.

John and six of the lads were in the World’s End pub. They came here every day, after they finished work in the afternoon. They drank. And drank. And drank. Then they went back to their digs, worked, and drank some more. John had gained weight and felt as if he was walking around with a large dog strapped to his stomach. John was a proud Irishman and would drink alongside the best of them to join in, but these navvies were a whole other kettle of fish altogether. He drank fifteen pints alongside them last night and crawled through the day’s work in a haze. He simply could not take any more.

‘There now,’ said Gerry, a hod carrier from Mayo with a face as raw as bacon, putting the pint glass of red fizz in front of him. ‘There’s some holy water there for you, Father John.’

They all roared laughing.

John smiled and raised his glass alongside their pints and took the slagging. They were good men and, the drinking aside, he enjoyed their company. But, much as he worked and drank alongside them, this wasn’t the life that he wanted. Some of them would meet a girl, go home to Ireland and start their lives after a stint on the sites. Others would stay locked into a life going from work to pub to digs, spending every penny they earned on drink, living in the day. In his hopeless, hungover state, John was beginning to think he might be one of them. He had no girl. She was gone. He stayed in this area so he could be close by if Noreen got into trouble. But the truth was he had not seen her at all. Some guardian he was. If he was honest with himself, he was just afraid of moving on. There were plenty of girls out there he could marry. A lot of them in London; in the dance halls of north London. Fine girls, too, his brother had told him. ‘The Galtymore is crawling with women, John. Get over yourself, for God’s sake, and move on.’

But he couldn’t. John was stuck in no-man’s-land. He loved Noreen but she wouldn’t marry him and that meant she didn’t really love him. She said she wanted to experience life and he knew what that meant. It meant he wasn’t enough. It meant other men, and the thought of that horrified him. Maybe she was with one right now. Maybe his girl was off experiencing life with some smarmy, English guttyboy.

John drained the red lemonade and lifted the glass to the barman. ‘Send me over a right one, Paddy.’ The men all let out a cheer, visibly relaxing now that the big guard from Cork was back on form, and settled down for a gossip.

‘Did you hear about the priest got an awful beating down around the Kings Road?’ Jamesy started them off with.

‘I heard something – go on.’

‘A young lad, seminarian. The bin men picked him up in an alley down the road here. Left for dead, it seems.’

‘Jesus, Mary and Holy Saint Joseph,’ Gerry said, blessing himself. ‘A priest. That’s shocking.’

‘He was in mufti, mind you. No collar on him.’

‘Why’s that I wonder?’

‘Up to no good in all likelihood. Sure all them miniskirts around here would turn a blind man horny!’

‘Tommy Malone, that’s a terrible thing to say!’

They’re like a bunch of aul’ women, John thought, with all their gossipy carry on. Despite himself, he was grateful when his pint arrived and he gulped it back to drown out some of their nonsense.

‘They didn’t even know the poor man was a priest until he came to and told them who he was.’

‘And how do you know all this – have you been sniffing around the seminary looking for indulgences again Jamesy?’

‘Feck off. The cousin is in St. Stephens Hospital down the road in Fulham. She was working the night shift and was with him when he woke up.’

‘And did he confess his sins to her? A young priest going around the Kings Road in mufti. I’d like to hear what he was up to alright.’

‘I’m sure she looked after him – hey?’

‘You’ll burn in hell Tommy,’ Jamesy said, then nodded at John. ‘He was from around your way, she said. Name of Lyons. Martin? No, Matthew. Father Matthew Lyons.’

John spat out a mouthful of stout.

❊

If John had been looking for an excuse to see Noreen, this was not a good one. He borrowed a van off one of the lads and ran across to the club. That rat Arthur wasn’t at the door and he told the big henchman in his place, ‘I’ve got to see Noreen. It’s urgent,’ he said, pushing him out of the way. ‘Family business.’

The big man knew better than to stand in the way of a big Irishman, and let him through. ‘She’s in the office – second door after the bar.’

When John opened the door he found a Pieta-esque type scene before him. Arthur was lying on the floor and Noreen was wrapping a bandage around his bare foot. Arthur looked very pleased with himself.

When she looked up and saw him, John thought he saw the old love light come into Noreen’s eyes. She was thrilled to see him. Then she said, ‘Arthur’s been shot,’ in a dramatic way that suggested whatever pedestrian business John was there on could not compete.

Her face dropped suddenly when he said, ‘It’s Matthew. He’s in hospital.’

‘What happened? Is he all right?’

‘He’s alive anyway. He was beaten up pretty bad. That’s all I know, Noreen. I came straight over to get you. I have a van outside.’

Noreen stood up and halted.

Arthur said, ‘I’ll be fine. Just go.’

John smarted at his permission.

John got directions from Chevrons’ doorman before he left, so they sat in silence on the way to the hospital, any potential small talk silenced by their haste and worry. John didn’t ask about the shooting, and the fact that Noreen didn’t volunteer anything spoke about how worried she was. They pulled up at the hospital entrance and as Noreen opened the van door John said, ‘I’ll wait for you.’ She looked confused and he added, ‘In reception.’

‘Thanks,’ she said, then paused briefly to say, ‘for everything,’ before running off through the vast, glass doors.

As he drove to find somewhere to park the van, John said the words to himself, again.

‘I’ll wait for you.’

He wondered if it would be worth waiting for Noreen, after all. However long it took.

The nurses told her that Matthew was conscious but it had been touch and go.

‘He was very lucky,’ the nurse said. ‘It seems like his head injury was caused by a fall more than a blow. His injuries are largely external but he was unconscious for a while and we are not entirely sure how his brain is functioning since he woke up.’

She warned her that he was sleeping a lot and found speaking a huge effort.

‘Will he know who I am?’

‘Well he knows who he is so I assume he will know his own sister. He’s just having trouble speaking. His facial injuries are bad and word loss is not uncommon with this type of concussion. You just might find him a bit – quiet.’

‘That’ll make a change,’ Noreen quipped, trying to keep her spirits up not to look too frightened walking in the door.

As Noreen was opening the door the nurse put her hand on her arm and added gravely, ‘Your brother really got an awful beating. If you have any idea who might have done this to him you really should report him. We see a lot of beatings coming in here, and this is not like any I’ve ever seen. It really looks like somebody was trying to literally beat your brother to death.’

Noreen felt sick. What on earth could she mean? Matthew didn’t know anyone in London apart from priests and art academics. For one short, horrible moment, she wondered if the world of gangsters that she inhabited had followed her brother. But how could that be? Nobody knew him. He did not carry much money on him so it seemed unlikely to be a random act of violence. The only person he knew in London apart from her and priests and academics was Annie. And although Noreen still did not know quite how, she knew that Annie was trouble.

Noreen burst into tears when she saw him. Her sweet, gentle brother was nothing more than a lump of bruises and bandages. Unable to move, his arms and legs were bandaged and hoisted up. Whoever had attacked him had broken every bone in Matthew’s body. It looked as if they were trying to kill him.

His face was unrecognisable, with his eyes barely visible beneath swollen mounds. His lips were indistinguishable and when he opened his mouth to speak it was little more than a bloody gash. Noreen cried out when she saw he had lost two of his front teeth. His parents had spent a fortune getting him dental treatment as a child to get his teeth straightened.

‘What the hell happened to you?’

He raised his eyebrows indicating that she was annoying him already. Noreen didn’t care. If he was irritated it meant he was still in charge of his mental faculties. As much as he’d ever been.

He tried to say something and she leaned in to him as he said a single word, ‘Annie.’

Noreen shrugged and folded her arms.

‘I know you’re seeing Annie, and I have to tell you, Matthew, that girl is very bad news. She’s a liar. Her real name is Hanna Black, not Annie. She ran away from home and left her parents heartbroken. I’m afraid she’ll do the same to you. Her father contacted me a few days ago and…’

Everything fell into place. It had not been a demon that attacked him but Hanna’s father. You have something I want but it’s not yours to give – it’s mine to take. He had appeared to Matthew as a demon because he was the devil incarnate.

He had to get up. Every bone in his body was crying out but he could not move. He had to find that man and kill him, if necessary, to protect Annie. How had he ended up here? How had he let himself take such a beating from that terrible man? If he had known who his attacker was, he would have found a way to fight back. He would have killed him to protect Annie. Because she was Annie. His Annie. Not Hanna Black. Annie Austen.

He opened his mouth to speak but nothing came out.

Noreen saw him struggling; something desperate in his eyes relayed that what he had to say was important. She leaned in and took his hands but still the words wouldn’t come.

‘I’m broken,’ Annie had said. She wasn’t broken, but Matthew was and that bastard had done it to him.

‘You’re not broken,’ he had told her, ‘because you have soul.’

So Matthew dug deep. He closed his mouth and found he could breathe through his nose. He had breath. He was still alive. He breathed in deeply then opened the gash that was serving as his mouth and pushed out what he needed Noreen to know.

‘Annie’s father abused her. That’s why she changed her name. He’s dangerous. He did this to me. Help her.’

Matthew shut his eyes tight with the effort of speaking and Noreen watched, helpless, as tears poured out of the side of them.

He was helpless. Useless. He couldn’t even speak any more but he hoped his twin would know what to do. She usually did – even if it wasn’t always the right thing, Noreen always did something.