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    Black Irish
    Black Irish
    Black Irish
    Ebook71 pages49 minutes

    Black Irish

    By K.M. Rice

    4/5

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    About this ebook

    His lawlessness was a shield against their expectations.

    "I know what you're t'inking; if you've read one love story, you may as well have read them all. But I can guarantee that you haven't read this one before. And it certainly isn't a tale of traditional love by any means. So for those of you who choose to read on, I will say this one t'ing: if it has to be there at all, it's best that you go and find trouble rather than trouble finding you."

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherWildling Spirit
    Release dateFeb 6, 2019
    ISBN9781386772781
    Black Irish

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      Book preview

      Black Irish - K.M. Rice

      Prologue

      I know what you’re t’inking; if you’ve read one love story, you may as well have read them all. But I can guarantee that you haven’t read this one before. And it certainly isn’t a tale of traditional love by any means.

      So for those of you who choose to read on, I will say this one t’ing: if it has to be there at all, it’s best that you go and find trouble rather than trouble finding you.

      1

      The organ stopped tuning. The big hand only had two more ticks until it was beside the little one on the three. A tremor ran through Jack O’Connor’s chest and he grabbed his suit jacket. There was a knock at the door and his sister Sarah stuck her head into the small side room of the church in Doolin, County Clare.

      I need a fag.

      Jaysus, they’re like a pack of wolves, so they are. I t’ink Orla’s invited half of the county. I’ve never seen so many giant falsies in my life. Tarantulas, like.

      Falsies? he asked as he donned the jacket. Sarah was five years older and the only one of the two who had kept a hint of their parents’ northern accent.

      Sarah leaned her head in further as if that would make him better understand her meaning. As in false eyelashes. The ones I’m wearing have much more class. She turned her head to spy on her reflection over her brother’s shoulder, her coiffed brunette hair pinned in place beneath a hot pink and orange feather fascinator. Unlike Orla and her bridesmaids. They look like a bunch of knackers.

      I told you once and I’ll tell you again, Jack began, pointing at her reflection in the mirror. Our caravan is going to be the finest this side of the Shannon.

      Sarah nearly snorted as she tried to stifle her laughter over the jest.

      Jack’s smile was crooked as he swept a hand through his brown hair that was too long and too unruly for his liking but, in contrast, was quite suited to Orla’s liking.

      Da would be happy for you, Jack. So would mammy. She always wanted you to find yourself a nice girl. Whatever the fock that means.

      He honed his attention on his sister, whose expression grew somber.

      She cocked her head at him. You probably barely remember Da.

      I was nearly six. I remember a lot.

      Mam was always afraid what you’d remember most about him was when she told you he’d been killed.

      Is Frankie here yet?

      Sarah nodded. Snuck a kiss to my lips when I thought he was going for the cheek. She winced. I t’ink I even felt his tongue.

      Belt him one for me.

      You know he isn’t really an uncle.

      I used to picture Da fending off an army like Cú Chulainn, Jack said softly, his eyes somewhat unfocused.

      I t’ink the Troubles were all a bit less glamorous than that.

      "What I remember most is his laugh and his rough hands... how he used to sing when I was meant to be sleeping, telling stories about growing up in Belfast and how families were thrown out of their homes during the Famine and how the Púca lived under the bridge in town."

      Sarah laughed. Used to scare me shiteless. I’d run across that bridge and never look over my shoulder every time I had to cross it. She glanced behind her as a guest pressed past her. She looked back at Jack. They wanted this for you. For us. A peaceful life. She pursed her lips as she studied her brother’s reflection. He wondered if she saw their father in the lines of his cheekbones and the shape of his eyes. If only Da had also wanted that for himself.

      Jack grunted in consent, adjusting his jacket in the mirror.

      Sarah’s face contorted into an ugly scowl. "Why Orla? You two have not’ing in common."

      Why does everyone keep saying that?

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