ep 5 ~°°

▪ “Family, loyalty, honor, and blood. Tis the only thing that’s true.”

▪  Niall allows me one final moment and then bows his head.

▪  “Come and take a walk with me.”

▪  The cemetery is somber, cloyed with death and the accompanying grief. The grass beneath our shoes, littered with the dying of the Autumn leaves. I myself have no room in my heart for grief. My peace with death was made long ago. A man does not enter this life with expectations of immortality. Carrick would be honored to give his life for the syndicate. As would I.

▪  It will not do to dwell on it now. Later, there will be time for such things. For now, I dutifully follow Niall up the stone steps of St. Marcellina’s. The solid oak doors open without protest. Wooden pews line the aisle, the air laced with the scent of wine and repentance. At the end of the aisle, I kneel and recite a prayer for the departed.

▪  I do not fancy myself a good man. Like any Catholic, the guilt of my sins often weighs heavy on my conscience. Little does it change who I am. As a small boy of eight my mammy told me I should not be like my father. So it stands to reason I’ve wanted this life ever since. My path was chosen, and I would do it again. Our outfit is ruled by loyalty and honor. Family. The thing I respect most. We don’t deal in society’s scheme of respectable business, but we still have morals. If an act of evil is to stain my soul, it will be for one of my own. We look out for each other. Protect each other. If hell is the price to pay for my sins on earth, then so be it.

  This family is the only one I have left now.

▪  After a while, Niall sits beside me and retrieves a flask from his suit jacket. There is no bother with formalities or religion on his part. The man gave up on God long ago. It was only out of respect for Carrick that he prayed today.

▪  He holds the flask towards me, and I take a nip of the good stuff. Niall always has the good stuff. The alter becomes our focal point as silence remains. It’s a quality I appreciate in him. As a leader, Niall’s stoic nature instills more fear than any loud mouthed half-wit ever will.

▪ He reaches into his pocket, and my grand-da’s Saint Anthony medal dangles from his leather glove .

▪ “He’d have wanted ye to have this, son.”

▪  Tracing the etched gold beneath my fingers, an ache I never knew grows inside of me. He could have chosen any Saint, but this is the one he settled on. Carrick never feared death, but rather losing his soul.

▪ “I know ye’re hurting, Lachlan,” Niall says. “Ye didn’t have near enough time with him.”

▪  “No. I didn’t.”

▪ Fifteen years wasn’t enough time to know a man like my grand-da. I don’t reckon it could be accomplished in fifty, stilted as our relationship was. A quiet man, he was. Strong and proud, but always quiet. Never knew much of being a father figure. Didn’t fancy himself one when I turned up on his doorstep at sixteen. He took me in any way.

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