Stolen Souls

Mama had not raised her to give in so easily. She bared her teeth and showed them the blade again.

“What are we going to do?” Sam asked.

“Get rid him,” the Lithuanian said.

Sam’s eyes brightened. “What, dump him?”

“We say Arturas, you brother come here, take her out of this place, no come back. Arturas ask where go, we say we know nothing.”

“Will he believe us?” Sam asked.

The Lithuanian shrugged. “We say real thing, we dead. Arturas don’t believe, we dead also. What different?”

Sam nodded to the corner. “What about her?”

“What you think?” the Lithuanian said.

Sam blinked and stared at him.

“Go.” The Lithuanian stepped aside. “Take stiklas from her.”

“Take what off her?” Sam asked.

“Stiklas, stiklas.” The Lithuanian searched for the word. “Glass. Take from her.”

Sam approached, hands up. “Easy, love. Take it easy.”

Galya slashed at him, almost caught his forearm.

“Shite!” Sam retreated.

Darius pushed him back. “Take from her.”

“Away and shite, you get it off her.”

The Lithuanian cursed and bulled his way past. Galya swiped the glass blade through the air in front of him, but he caught her wrist in one easy movement. He twisted once, hard, and the blade dropped to the floor. His thick arm snaked around her throat, and she smelled leather and cheap aftershave with her last breath before everything fell away into darkness.

She dreamed of Mama’s coarse hands, and warm bread, and a time when she only knew Belfast as that wretched place they sometimes talked about on the radio.

2

SCREAMS WOKE DETECTIVE Inspector Jack Lennon. He shot upright on the couch. How long ago had he dozed off? Not that long. The film still played on the television.

Another scream and he was on his feet. It had been a week or more since Ellen had last erupted from her sleep, howling at the nightmares that dwelled there.

His daughter had witnessed more suffering than any human ever should. Lennon was constantly surprised that she could function at all, that she had the inner strength to go on. Maybe it was the stubborn streak she had inherited from the mother who died beside her. He had left Marie McKenna’s body to the flames when he carried Ellen unconscious out of that house near Drogheda. She never spoke of what happened there. Perhaps she didn’t remember, or simply didn’t want to recount the events. Either way, Lennon was relieved. He wasn’t sure he could bear to hear it from her lips.

Alert now, Lennon went to her bedroom, opened the door, and flicked on the light. Ellen stared at him from under her twisted duvet, no hint of recognition on her face. She screamed again.

Lennon knelt beside the bed, placed a hand on her small cheek. He had learned not to take the child in his arms when she awoke pursued by night terrors, the shock of it too much for her.

“It’s me,” he said. “Daddy’s here. You’re all right.”

Ellen blinked at him, her face softening. He’d almost forgotten how old she looked when she emerged from her nightmares, a girl of seven carrying centuries of pain behind her eyes.

“You were only dreaming,” Lennon said. “You’re safe.”

Her fingers went to her throat, brushed the skin as if it were tender.

“What did you dream about?” he asked.

Ellen frowned and burrowed into her pillow, pulling the duvet up so he could only see the crown of her head.

“You can tell me,” Lennon said. “Might make you feel better.”

She peeked out. “I was all cold and wet, then I couldn’t breathe. I was choking.”

“Like drowning?”

“Uh-uh. Like something around my neck. Then there was this old lady. She wanted to talk to me, but I ran away.”

“Was she scary?”

“Uh-uh.”

“Then why did you run away?”

“Don’t know,” Ellen said.

“You think you can get back to sleep?”

“Don’t know.”

“Can you try?”

“Okay.”

Lennon stroked her hair. “Good girl,” he said.

He watched her in silence as her eyelids drooped and her breathing steadied. The ring of the telephone in the living room caused her to stir for a moment. He held his breath until she settled, exhaled when it seemed the phone had not woken her, and went to answer it.

“It’s Bernie McKenna here,” the caller said, her voice hard.

They had spoken on the phone and in person more times than he could count over the last few months, but still she introduced herself with that stiff formality.

“How are you?” Lennon asked. His only interest in her well-being was to gauge how the conversation might flow. Their discussions rarely went well.

“I’m fine,” she said. She did not enquire after Lennon’s health. “What about Ellen?” she asked instead.

“What about her?” Lennon regretted the hostility that edged into his voice as soon as he’d spoken.

“No need for that tone,” Bernie said, the words delivered in a staccato rhythm, as if squeezed through tight lips. “She’s my grandniece. I’ve every right to ask after her, more right than you—”

“You didn’t want to know her for six years,” Lennon said. He winced.

“Neither did you,” she said.

Lennon swallowed his anger. “Well, she’s fine. She’s in bed.” “Any more dreams?”

“Some.”

Bernie clucked. “Her eyes were hanging on her last time I saw the cratur.”

“Some nights are better than others,” Lennon said.

“Did you call Dr. Moran for her?”

“My GP has her on the waiting list for the child psych—”

“But she’ll be waiting for months. Dr. Moran can see her straight away.”

Lennon saw the rest of the conversation spreading out in front of him. He closed his eyes. “I can’t afford to go private,” he said.

“I can,” Bernie said. “Michael saw us right. I can spare whatever she needs.”

Lennon had heard rumors of the substantial estate Michael McKenna’s kin had inherited when he got his brains blown out last year. He didn’t doubt Bernie could afford to pass on a few shekels, but the idea of it burned him.

“I don’t want Michael McKenna’s money,” Lennon said.

“And what’s wrong with my brother’s money?”

“I know where it came from.”

He listened to her hard breathing for a few seconds before she said, “I don’t have to take that from the likes of you.”

“Then don’t,” Lennon said. “I’ve things to do, so if—”