Chapter 73

 

London, England, 1984

 

“Not much on fancy speeches,” Rory Hanlon alias Richard Quinn, admitted. “With Jock’s…” Wrong thing to bring up, he mentally chastised himself. He tried again. “Maybe this isn’t the right time?” He hesitated mistaking her silence for displeasure. Then he decided she’s got to know what I’m about? Then he blurted out, “Damnit! Sally, help me.” Calling her, Sally nearly paralyzed his tongue.

Continuing the chore of stacking dinner dishes in the sudsy water, Sandra pretended ignorance as she asked, “What would you have me help you with? I’m a mite tired. Paddy’s been a terror—”

“Leave them be.” He grabbed a pile of crockery from her hands and plunked it on the sideboard.

She yelped. “You’ve broken a bowl.”

“Probably cracked anyway—the stuffs so old. I’ll buy a dozen more.” He captured her wrists. “And one of those damn machines so you’ll not always be washing the bloody things. Now come away from the kitchen.” Hanlon slipped an arm around her waist to urge her towards the parlor. When she didn’t push him away, he let his fingers grow bold and glide down her hip. “You’ve been of the same mind as me?” He laughed softly. “Yet you’d have me on my knees begging.” He gave her bottom a light slap.

She faked surprise. “Don’t know what you’re talking about? What’s gotten into you?”

“It’s not what’s gotten into me, sure, it’s what I’ve neglected to get in to.” He pulled her down with him on the sofa. “You knew I was looking your way, you never let on.”

“And what would you have me do? Come crawling in your bed, your pa in the next room?”

His mouth captured her warm breath. He held her close and felt the passion mount so rapidly, he was suddenly afraid he might instantly climax. Damn! He wasn’t a fucking stallion who dropped his prick at the scent of a filly. He was man—he knew the necessary moves required to seduce a woman. Even if he’d never actually done it, he’d pretended often enough. Forcing himself to picture a huge block of ice sailing around in cold bath water, while his blue flesh shivered in the middle, helped.

This was more like it. He was glad she’d closed her mouth—her lips were so soft. Her cheeks moved against his like wisps of satin cloth. Never could he have imagined how smooth a woman’s skin was. It even had a flavor, he didn’t recognize it but it tasted grand. Her head arched slightly and his mouth moved down her face to sample the flesh of her neck. A subtle scent of flowers pleased his senses while the delicate taste of spice excited them. His control was slipping and his hands began to investigate the feminine curves. As he grew bolder, the woman suddenly shoved him off.

Leaping to her feet, Sandra accused, “It’s your harlot I’m to be!”

“What?” was a grunt of astonishment as he watched her retreat. What had he done wrong? “We’re not children. I’ll wed you. But surely not tonight. What difference can a piece of paper make?”

She let gentle tears flow without screwing up her features, as honest crying would do. She whispered, “To me, a great deal. It will make me a part of you. Something you can’t cast off.”

The idea seemed rather preposterous causing him to laugh sharply. “You think I’d be one to do something like that? If I was? You think to stop me with a piece of parchment?”

“I didn’t mean—oh God!” Her hands covered her mouth as he got to his feet and stalked across the room.

Required to adjust his trousers to hide an uncomfortably committed penis, he uncorked the Jameson’s and sucked from the bottle.

“I love you.” She blurted out. “So very much. I want everything right between us.” Sandra moved again to him and put her palms on his ridged spine. “But?” Her voice was hazy with fresh tears. “I’ll do what you’re of a mind too.” Her wet cheek on his back dampened and warmed his flesh beneath the silk shirt.

“I’ll not be asking.” He found the proposal amusing almost juvenile but controlled his mirth as he promised. “We’ll have a ceremony first—nothing fancy.” Will it be legal? He wondered. I’ll have to call Tom, he realized, and he dreaded that.

~~~

 

“Marry! Are you nuts!” Rory Hanlon was certain Tom Devlin had blown several telephone circuits. “Why can’t you just live with the woman?”

“Not that kind.”

“Might be a damn sight better if she was. How did you explain to your little miss prim, you’ve a criminal record, you’re in hiding—”

“Don’t plan on her finding those things out. Got us a wee boy; wouldn’t be right him knowing that about his pa.”

Devlin sucked deeply on his breath in amazement. “A kid?” he whistled. “You work fast, lad.”

“Got the proper equipment.” Hanlon preferred to lie rather than try to explain what he didn’t understand himself. “Gonna marry her as Richard Quinn. It’s a good name. Didn’t Jock leave everything he owned to his last surviving son?” Hanlon smiled at the memory of the old rebel who even in death had been thinking for him. “Had no legal problems. Signed my name a few times. People round here, even Jock’s solicitor, all know Rick Quinn. Came by the dozens to pay their respects to my pa. Some still remember me from when I was a wean.” He gave a soft laugh.

“Fine. You did your job right.” Devlin’s tone had lost its sharp edge of anger. “Of course you realize that makes you four years older than you are. Hope you act your age?” He warned. “And don’t sire a dozen more kids.”

“This one’s plenty.”

“You going to want out now?”

“Not right away. I’ll see this game through I’ve got debts to pay.”

“So it’s a boy?” Devlin’s pleasanter tone came over the line. “What did you name him?”

“Padrick.”

“You got to be kidding?”

“My own pa’s name.”

“Sorry, lad, I forgot.”

“You didn’t know my pa.”

“Right. Congratulations you old stud. Sorry I can’t make the wedding. Guess I’ll be sending you two gifts.” The tone of Devlin’s voice told Hanlon what he needed to know. There was still a place for him; Tom wasn’t going to drum him out. Someday soon, he’d have to tell Tom the truth about the boy. He might pass for four years older than he was, he grinned to himself, but he’d be hard pressed to explain a three year old new born.

~~~

 

Franco Baumont had taken to occasionally shadowing Rory Hanlon for several weeks now. Attempting to discover something about him. He knew he had to be careful; if the bastard once caught him…the realization made his guts quiver in fear. If he closed his eyes, Baumont knew he could feel that gun pressed into his groin, the sound of the clicks rotating through his memory, and the nausea would come again. At present he was useful, but once the Irish bastard decided his value had become obsolete? He trembled at the thought. The son of bitch would squash him like a worm beneath his heel. But knowing about this child? Hanlon’s son, he didn’t doubt as he watched them.

Confident that Hanlon wouldn’t recognize the borrowed car, Baumont had backed up the block so he could see into the small yard Hanlon and the child had entered. Though deprived of hearing what was taking place, he could imagine and the view caused malevolent ideas to fester. To imagine an evil bastard like Hanlon, acting out this tableau he was witnessing nearly convulsed him with mirth. The idea that the bastard should even have a child, function as a caring parent, was incredible to him.

The pair was unaware they were being observed.

~~~

 

The tiny boy toddled beside the man. A shoebox was clutched in his good arm, while the other was still held uselessly in a sling so it didn’t pull him off balance. “I didn’t ‘queeze ‘em ‘ard, papa.” Paddy Thorn Quinn sniffled in despair.

Hanlon laid a comforting hand on the child’s shoulder as he glanced into the makeshift coffin, wherein lay a tiny brown mouse on a white washcloth. “He was a wild creature.” The man tried to explain. “Hurt, he was terrified of captivity. Sure, it wasn’t your fault, lad. He damaged himself.”

Paddy perched on a step with his shoebox on his lap while Hanlon dug the miniature grave. Then the man took the box so the boy could peek in and say his, “Good bye ‘iddle ‘ouse.”

Hanlon replaced the cover. Setting the paper coffin in its shallow grave, he quickly filled in the dirt. In a final gesture, he broke a twig in half and lashed it together to stick on top of the small mound.

“What’s ‘hat for?” Paddy rubbed a stuffy nose against a sleeve.

“A cross. Little creature deserves a marker.”

Unexpectedly the boy dropped to his knees. His good hand tugged at the man’s pant leg, as he demanded, “p’ay, papa, p’ay.”

Fighting a grin, Hanlon followed his new son to the ground and whispered, “May he rest in peace.”

“‘est in ‘eace,” Paddy mimicked, blessing himself with the wrong hand.

“Damn,” Hanlon grumbled, “but I should see to a proper pet for you,” as his son crawled into his arms to weep against his neck.

Looking over the top of the boy’s head, he spotted the car parked across the way. He couldn’t see inside but a warning light turned on in his brain and his face hardened in an angry frown.

The motor coughed into life and the car leaped forward. Fear pressed down on that gas pedal, and Hanlon sensed it as the car sped off.