Dark Heart

By McKenna Boyd

Kieron, a mysterious drifter, meets Ailish, a singer who is happily divorced. Ailish is very suspicious of him, but somehow they get close. Raymond is an old flame of Ailish's. She does not recognize him, but she feels like she knows him. Then there is Oisin, whom Ailish has a longing for. A huge event brings them all together. Enjoy figuring it all out.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Page Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Jan 30, 2018
• ISBN: 9781641385756

Book preview

BOOK

OF

KEIRON

The heat shimmered on the road as far as the eye could see. The landscape looked like it was melting into the sky. Trucks approaching the weigh station glimmered in the sunlight, almost blinding anyone who happened to glance at them as the sun hit their windshields. Keiron had never felt heat like this in his life. He felt the sweat trickling down his back. The waistband of his jeans was soaked, and his T-shirt hung limp and damp in his hand. He used it to wipe the sweat from his face. His long black hair clung to the back of his neck, and Keiron, realizing that it was making him hotter, dug deep in his jeans pocket for a rubber band. He quickly snapped it around his hair a few times, creating a ponytail. He wiped the back of his neck and took a swig from a bottle that had been sitting on the ground between his feet. He shuddered as the liquid burned its way down his throat. He drained the bottle and threw it in a trash can close by.

He wished that Fuentes would hurry his ass up. They were checking his rig, and they were taking their sweet time about it. Keiron needed to get going. He’d had the feeling for a few days now that someone was on his tail. Nothing that he had seen or heard, just that feeling that he’d had ever since he was a child. People back home in Ireland called it the sight. People elsewhere called it ESP. Keiron just felt that the shadow of a great bird was closing in on him and he needed to move on. It made him feel claustrophobic, and along with the heat and the buzz from the whiskey, a great sadness was coming over him.

Come on, Fuentes, come on for fuck sake.

A black rucksack that held everything he had with him, laid in the dust. He opened it up and pulled out a clean T-shirt, at the same time stuffing the sweaty T-shirt into a compartment where he kept his dirty clothes.

What a way to live, he muttered to himself. There’s got to be somethin’ better down the line somewhere.

He felt that he’d been deserted by everyone. His family, his country, his soon-to-be ex-wife. God! How he missed his children, especially wee Cathy. He loved all of his five children, but Cathy was really special. He had delivered her himself. Well, a midwife had helped, but he had always felt that he’d done it all himself. His wife Orla had said it was the easiest birth she’d had. He could still feel Cathy in his arms wrapped in a little blanket just minutes after he had caught her in his hands as she made her entrance into the big wide world. That had happened four years ago, and for the first three years of her life, Cathy and Keiron were inseparable. She had black hair like his and huge dark eyes like his, and he could still feel her small body sitting in front of him on his horse as they rode with the wind across Irish meadows and along the beaches of County Antrim. She would sit in front of him, her back against his chest, and lean her head back so that she could look up at his face, and she’d say in her little baby voice, I love you, Daddy, I weally weally do. She couldn’t say her r’s properly yet. He would always answer, I love you too, sweetheart, and he’d squeeze her tightly, and she’d laugh out loud.

The memories brought stinging tears to his eyes and an unbearable ache to his chest. When would he see her again, and all the others? He had talked to his wife Orla on the phone just today, and she had told him that she was going to divorce him. He had expected the news, but it still hurt him terribly. They had been friends since they were six and had run away to get married when they were sixteen. Their first child was born when they were nineteen. Keiron was studying English at the University in Belfast.

They were both very political and very Republican and had lived through years of the troubles. Keiron had lost two brothers and his father to British bullets, and the bitterness and thirst for revenge had driven him to the point he was at now—the leader of a political organization, on the run from the Brits, with a wife who was tired of playing second fiddle to the cause, who had told him that very day that she was tired of lying to her children every time he disappeared without a word. She had tried to understand because she loved her country too, but he had never put anyone or anything above the cause, and she couldn’t take it anymore. She had even made the statement that if anyone ever became more important to him than his country, it would be the end of him. He thought that very funny and had told her that the last thing in the world he wanted was another distraction in his life.

Orla had had to go across the border into the South of Ireland so that he could call her at her aunt’s home because his own home was under surveillance. He felt that she had probably been followed into the south, but she was pretty sure that she was not.

He missed her. She was a beautiful woman with fiery red hair and a temper to match, a wonderful mother and a great wife, but the feelings they had for each other had faded with the years, and in place of the long-forgotten passion there had been a closeness born of true friendship. That’s what he would miss the most besides Cathy.

Fuentes suddenly appeared, and in his slate gray voice, he rumbled at Keiron to get his stuff in the cab and stay quiet. Keiron didn’t like him much, but beggars can’t be choosers, and Fuentes was going to the best place in the United States for Keiron to be. A place where there were as few Catholics as there were Irish. One of the major notches on the Bible belt—Nashville, Tennessee. Keiron got up into the truck, thankful for the air-conditioning. Fuentes was talking to another trucker. Keiron lit a cigarette. The whiskey had hit the spot. He felt more mellowed out. He chuckled to himself.

Shit, he thought, here I am going to Nashville and I despise country music.

Fuentes got in the truck. What the hell are you laughin’ at? he asked.

Nothin’, Keiron replied, still smiling. Is there anything Irish at all in Nashville? he asked, knowing full well that there was a place where he had to make contact.

Nah! Fuentes replied. I don’t think so.

They pulled out of the weigh station and merged onto I-65. It was about four o’clock in the afternoon. They should be in Nashville around seven thirty or eight according to Fuentes.

Keiron put out his cigarette and leaned back in his seat, closing his eyes. The music of an old traditional Irish tune called Carrickfergus wrapped around his mind like a fog, and he drifted off to sleep.

Keiron was one of those men that had a way about him. His grandmother had said many times, Keiron, love, you could charm the birds off the bushes and the knickers off a nun.

He stood about six feet tall, slender, slightly built but wiry and strong. A student of Tai Chi, he was extremely limber. When he wanted to move fast, he ran; otherwise, he strolled languidly like a cat. Had he wanted women he could have had any he chose, a fact that pissed Fuentes off a lot. Women flocked around Keiron like bees around a honey pot. He flirted with them, kissed their hands, recited Shakespeare sonnets to them, and treated them with a tenderness and respect that so many were lacking in their lives, but he didn’t get involved. Besides the fact that he had been married for the past twenty-four years to Orla and totally believed in monogamy, the cause was too important, and any kind of entanglement with a woman would foul things up. He had to admit that he’d been tempted a time or two, but it was usually when he’d had too much to drink, and after a kiss or two, sobriety set in real quick.

He had wide-set, huge brown eyes with long, dark eyelashes. His nose had been broken once, but the slight deviation only served to make him more attractive. His skin was tanned from a lot of exposure to the elements. He walked a lot, hitching rides. He had a full, generous mouth that was framed by a neatly trimmed black beard and moustache. His hair hung to his shoulders, shining like black satin. He washed it every day no matter where he was. Keiron could be aptly described as a completely gorgeous, sexy male. Some people even referred to him as charismatic. He was aware of all this and used his looks and charm to his advantage, making friends quickly, always ending up with a place to stay, but he always paid his way, at least he had up until now. At this point in his life, he was totally broke.

His lawyer in New York had told him that no money had been deposited in his account in the last month, and Orla had informed him today that all his assets were frozen. He had had to make a quick getaway about six months ago. He had been taken in a juggernaut from Calais to Norway, and after being issued false papers, he boarded a Norwegian freighter bound for Nova Scotia. He’d hitched rides across Canada and crossed illegally into the United States at the Michigan border. He had made contact in Lansing and was issued a US driver’s license that matched his other false identity papers. He was supposed to be a construction worker named Colin Terry. He had thought at the time that all of his university education had ended up in a cement mixer. On that day he had also, for the first time, questioned his loyalty to the cause, but only for a second.

The truck coming to a stop woke Keiron. He sat up, blinking his eyes against the bright lights of a truck stop.

Where are we? he inquired.

Just outside Nashville, Fuentes rumbled. Want somethin’ to drink?

Only if you’re buyin’. Keiron laughed. I’m skint.

Okay, come on, you need to stretch your legs anyway.

As they walked into the store, the jukebox was playing a song called The Dance by a country star named Garth Brooks. Although Keiron hated country music, there was something about the song that gave him a twinge. Another one of those weird feelings, he thought as the great voice sang the lines,

I could have missed the pain,

But I’d have had to miss the dance.

Welcome to Nashville, Fuentes growled.

Fuentes bought two Cokes. They tasted great, but Keiron wished he could have had a beer, like a Harp. Not in this place. He looked around at the T-shirts hanging on the walls. Go Big Orange shirts were everywhere. Orange with white letters, white with orange letters. He hated the color orange more than anything in the world. It represented a part of his country that he despised. The Orangemen who marched through the streets of Northern Ireland on the Glorious Twelfth of July celebrating the Battle of the Boyne in 1690 when the Irish Catholic king James was defeated by the Dutch Protestant king William of Orange. These militant Protestants marched from all over the North to Finaghy Field where they spent the day cursing the pope and all Catholics living or dead.

His thoughts were interrupted by a voice asking, Can I get you anything, baby doll?

He looked in the direction of the Southern drawl and was rewarded with a huge smile from a sweet face surrounded by the biggest hair he’d ever seen. She was pretty, petite, wearing shorts and a halter top. Her tan was beautiful.

Fuentes told her to bring them a couple more Cokes, and she turned and swung her hips all the way back to the bar, turning to smile at Keiron a couple of times on the way.

Nice ass, he thought. Her outfit left nothing to the imagination, and as she came swaying back, he noticed how low-cut her halter top was. She noticed him noticing and leaned across him so that he could get a closer look.

Well—he smiled at her—aren’t you a lovely wee thing.

Where are y’all from? she asked coyly. Y’all have an accent.

Oh! From here and there, nowhere special. He winked at her.

I just love your hair, she said, running her hand down his ponytail. Her hand touched the back of his neck, and he turned around, took her hand, and raised it to his lips. She just stood transfixed, and he turned her hand over and gently kissed the upturned palm. She made a small sound, and he squeezed her hand. Fuentes had had enough.

Come on, man, we gotta go. Finish your drink.

Keiron smiled at the girl and slid slowly from his stool, chugged his Coke, and kissed her hand again.

Don’t ever wear one of those T-shirts, he said. They’d only hide your good points, and besides, I hate orange. I’ve always hated orange. Cheerio. It was nice meeting you.

She stood staring after him until he was in the truck and gone into the evening.

Another waitress walked up to her and said, Who the hell was that?

Hell if I know, she replied dreamily, but he sure was the prettiest thing I’ve ever laid eyes on.

Keiron sat in the truck smoking a cigarette and trying to forget the feeling in his crotch as they sped down I-65 to Nashville. He hadn’t been that close to a woman since he’d been with Orla. That had been quite a few months ago and hadn’t been anything more than what a couple did when they had become so used to each other that sex was routine just like the rest of their lives. It had been wonderful and passionate for quite a long time in their marriage, but circumstances surrounding his other passion had driven a wedge between them, and Orla had withdrawn sexually, feeling unimportant and inadequate. Finally, her anger had culminated in a trip to a lawyer, and divorce papers had been filed against him. When he thought of all that she must have gone through making that decision, he felt completely miserable, and not even the memory of the little waitress could cheer him up. All she had done was to prove to him that his equipment still worked, but what the hell for. He slumped down in his seat, suddenly feeling very much alone.

He was so immersed in his misery that he didn’t notice that they were driving through the city of Nashville. He didn’t see the pretty skyline or the reflection of the sunset glowing from a tall mirrored building. Normally sunsets were one of his favorite things to watch, but Keiron was oblivious to everything. He needed a drink, but that was out of the question. You needed money for booze. You needed money for everything, and Keiron had none.

They were now in downtown Nashville. Keiron looked around at all the old buildings. It reminded him of Belfast for some reason. People were everywhere.

Is there something going on? he asked.

Yeah! Fuentes muttered. They have a festival every year called Summer Lights. Music, music, and more music. You’re in the country music capital of the world, you know.

Oh! Is it all country music? Keiron inquired.

Naw! There’s jazz and folk and all that other stuff. There might even be Irish music. Fuentes laughed.

Are you kidding me. Keiron laughed back.

Naw! Maybe we’ll go check later.

They drove for a little while longer, and the sun was a ball of fire about to disappear as Fuentes parked his rig at the back of an apartment complex.

Keiron jumped down from the truck and did a couple of knee bends. He was really stiff and sore. Anxiety and tension had made him feel like a board about to splinter into a thousand pieces.

Deep breaths, that’ll help, he thought. He began to breathe deeply as Fuentes walked around from the other side of the truck.

You’re a basket case, boy, Fuentes growled. What’s your story anyway, or is it none of my business?

Keiron looked at him for a few seconds.

Well! Fuentes—he smiled—I guess since you went to all the trouble of bringing me here, it is your business, but do you really want to know?

Yeah! I want to know. Who are you? Fuentes challenged him. Yeah! Who are you really?

Keiron spoke softly, almost in a whisper, looking around as though he was afraid someone was listening.

My name is Colin Terry, and I’m a terrorist.

Fuentes stared at him for a few minutes. Then he threw his head back and laughed.

You are so full of shit, man. A terrorist! I don’t think so. Jesus! You Irish bastards will say anything. They told me that you were a construction worker that needed a ride to New Orleans to pick up a job but that you needed to stop in Nashville. I told them I’d take you but that you’d have to stay in Nashville for a week unless you find someone else to take you on to New Orleans. A terrorist. He laughed louder. Not! Come on inside, man, I’m starving.

Keiron shrugged. Okay, man, believe what you want, he said as he thought, Works like a charm every time. Tell the damn truth and nobody believes you.

Come on then, if you have food and drink in there, I’m your man.

Keiron had been given the name of a bar to go to on his Nashville stop, and he suggested to Fuentes that they should go there. They found the bar, and to Keiron’s surprise something that closely resembled Irish music, and although the musicians were a far cry from Irishmen, the music was as Celtic as you could get in Nashville. There were evidently more students of Irish traditional music in the area than there were Irish nationals.

Keiron felt better than he had in days. After a good meal and a hot shower and a couple of Jamesons, he was ready for anything. He was totally relaxed, enjoying the atmosphere, when the band announced that they were playing a song for an Irish visitor. They proceeded to play a beautiful melody called My Lagan Love. That song was a signal from his contact. He acknowledged the band, and almost immediately a tall redheaded man walked by his table nodding at him.

Slainte, he said quietly, walking toward the men’s room.

Keiron waited almost five minutes before he followed him. When he walked through the door of the men’s room, the redheaded man was washing his hands at the sink. There was another guy taking a leak at one of the stalls. Keiron went to a stall and relieved himself. The redhead was drying his hands under a hot air blower and already had made it run three times. The other man left without washing his hands, and Keiron moved to the sink.

How did you know I was here? Keiron whispered. I only came to check the place out. We weren’t supposed to meet until tomorrow.

We always know where you are, man, the redhead replied.

Jesus Christ, I have a life, you know, Keiron hissed. What if I hadn’t got a ride?

Oh! That was all arranged, and we know that you have a life, or you think you do—the redhead smiled—but it belongs to us, and don’t you forget it. Here’s the new shippin’ information. Memorize it. There’ll be more information for you in New Orleans. You have to be there next Saturday night, so enjoy your week in Nashville.

The door swung open, and three men came in swaying a little and singing along with the music. The band was playing a song called The Wild Rover. The men roared in drunken unison,

And it’s no nay never, no nay never no more,

Will I play the Wild Rover,

No never no more.

The redhead continued in a quick sentence, Fuentes will take you on to New Orleans Friday night or Saturday morning. He just knows that you need a ride. Nothin’ else. Cheerio. He swung out the door, and Keiron stuffed the envelope deep into his jeans pocket as he returned to his seat.

Fuentes had bought him another shot of Jameson, and he downed it in one gulp, gritting his teeth as it burned its way to his stomach. The envelope was sticking in his groin, and he stuck his hand in his pocket to adjust it. He pulled it out of his pocket a little and noticed the corner of what looked like a dollar bill sticking out. He put his hand over it to hide the envelope and pulled the bill. As he pulled, he realized that there was more than one bill. Fuentes was looking at him strangely. Keiron grinned at him.

Would you believe it, I just found some money in my jeans. I must have put it in my pocket and forgot it. You know the way you do. He laughed.

He finally got a good hold on one of the bills and pulled it out, making sure that nothing else came out of the envelope. He had the bill crumpled in his hand and pushed everything back into his pocket with the other hand. He sneaked a look at the bill and hoped that Fuentes wouldn’t notice the expression on his face.

It’s a twenty-dollar bill, he said. Now I can buy you a beer.

He got up and went to the bar and quietly asked the barman if he could change the bill he had. The barman looked at it and said he could but that it might clean him out.

Why don’t you run a tab, he said. I’ll be able to change it later on, I’m sure. I don’t get too many customers with thousand-dollar bills.

Keiron agreed, hoping that nobody had heard the barman. He didn’t want to attract attention. He bought two beers and two Jamesons to start his tab and went back to his seat.

Fuentes started talking about getting back to the apartment, but Keiron wasn’t in any hurry to leave. The music was good, and he was beginning to get a good buzz.

Why don’t you go on, man, if you want to. I’ll catch a cab. I’ve got the address.

Fuentes downed his shot and told Keiron he could have the beer, and he got up to leave. Fuentes was not a people person, and Keiron relaxed even more once he left.

He was humming along with a rebel song called Four Green Fields when he realized that someone was standing at his table. He turned to look at them and looked right into the biggest, greenest eyes he’d ever seen. His immediate reaction was to invite her to sit down, but she declined, just shaking her head. Then she spoke.

Are you really Irish? she asked in a soft voice.

Her accent was definitely Northern Ireland, but it had just the slightest Southern twang, which made it very unique. He still couldn’t break away from her eyes. He could tell that she was suspicious of him, or was she just wary of strangers? She was beautiful in a very sad way. Long black hair fell to her waist and framed her face, accentuating high cheekbones and a pretty mouth. She was older, probably in her forties, but she had captured every bit of Keiron’s attention.

He rose to his feet slowly, answering her question.

Indeed I am, he whispered, reaching for her hand, and where might you be from?

I’m from Derry, she said, but I lived a lot in Belfast too. Are you here on holiday? I heard the band play a song for you.

Please, sit down? he asked her again.

Oh! No, that’s okay. She smiled for the first time, and Keiron immediately felt the need to sit down himself.

She explained that she was with friends and that she needed to go back to her table.

May I join you? It’s nice to meet someone from home, and I’m all by myself. He gave her his please feel sorry for me pout, and it worked.

Oh! Come on, she said, laughing now. I’d hate to be responsible for you having a bad time in Tennessee. My name is Ailish, what’s yours?

Keiron gave her his real name without thinking about it. He thought for a moment that it might be a mistake but figured he’d only be in Nashville for a week, so what the hell.

He picked up his drink and followed her with his eyes fixed on her pretty white jeans that really complemented her shapely behind. Her hair hung like a mane down her back, and she walked with a sensual motion that made him want to grab her and make love to her right there on the floor of the bar. He shook his head and silently admonished himself, Jesus, man, you just met her, what the hell is wrong with you? but two hours later when she was leaving the bar to go home, the feelings hadn’t changed, but the fact that she didn’t seem interested in him other than that he was Irish and that they had lived in the same city made him leery about trying to establish any kind of contact, but he had been listening when she gave her phone number to one of her friends, and he had asked if she minded if he wrote it down, and she had stated that she didn’t mind but had added in a somewhat cynical tone that he’d probably forget it anyway. Boy! he thought to himself. Somebody really messed her over.

When he got back to the apartment, Fuentes was already in bed. Keiron read for a while and finally fell into a restless sleep that was interrupted by strange dreams about a long-haired, sad-eyed lady named Ailish who wouldn’t believe anything he said even when he told her that he loved her and really meant it for the first time in his life.

He awoke really early the next morning and started remembering the events of the night before. He wondered if it was too early to call Ailish and then laughed at his own stupidity. Why would she even want to talk to him? He suddenly remembered the envelope, and he grabbed his jeans and fished in his pocket for it. It was there along with the change from the thousand-dollar bill. He had run up a tab close to two hundred dollars, buying food and drinks for everyone at Ailish’s table. She had refused everything but a cup of coffee, and Keiron had been delighted when she finally ate some of his chicken fingers. He had tried to make his tab big enough so that the barman could make change for him, which hadn’t been a problem when he paid his bill around one thirty in the morning.

Keiron opened the envelope and found three more one-thousand-dollar bills and two numbers. On the other side of