Page 131 of The Unlikely Spare
“I thought you were committed to justice, yes.”
Justice. There’s that word again.
“Nicholas hasn’t done anything. He doesn’t deserve to be kidnapped.”
“The three million Bengalis who starved during World War II while Britain exported their grain didn’t deserve that either. Nordid the millions sold into slavery, or the thousands massacred at Amritsar. Or the African miners worked to death so some inbred could have another palace.” He takes a breath like he’s loading another clip. “Prince Nicholas lives in castles built on corpses, Eoin, and his relatives continue to refuse any kind of accountability. Spare me the violin about what he deserves.”
Fuck.
“And I don’t get why you’re suddenly playing white knight for him. The prince wouldn’t piss on you if you were on fire.”
The words hit like a punch to my guts. I can’t help glancing at Nicholas, and I see him flinch. He heard that. Of course he heard it.
Because here’s the thing: if I hadn’t gone and caught feelings like some tragic romance novel hero, would I be on Malachy’s side right now?
The question burns worse than that shite whiskey we used to nick from Da’s stash.
That rage Malachy’s spitting is in my DNA too. Inherited like the O’Connell stubborn streak and tendency to hold grudges till death.
Every memory plays like a greatest hits album of aristocratic neglect: our ceiling leaking so badly that we had to keep buckets in the sitting room; Da’s hands cracked and bleeding from construction work while Lord Whatever sunbathed in Monaco; me clawing through rubble with my bare hands, concrete dust coating my lungs, screaming for Malachy. That posh doctor explaining my brother’s legs were fucked forever while our landlord’s lawyers made sure he’d never see consequences.
I’d channeled that rage into becoming a cop. Thought I could fix things from inside, like some naive eejit in a cop drama.
Nicholas didn’t directly hurt anyone. Yet he benefits from the system that did. Sleeps in palaces built with colonial wealth. Wears ceremonial medals commemorating imperial conquests.Represents an institution that has historically crushed people like Malachy and me beneath its jeweled boot.
Without knowing him, without seeing past the crown to the complicated, contradictory man underneath… Would I be helping kidnap him right now? Would he be a symbol worth trading for justice?
My stomach churns like I’ve swallowed battery acid.
But Nicholas has taught me that symbols are also human beings. That systems can trap even those who benefit from them. That collective guilt doesn’t erase individual innocence.
The irony’s thick enough to choke on. Falling for Nicholas hasn’t cured my anger at what his world represents. It’s just shown me that torching a palace with him inside isn’t justice.
It’s just more tragedy.
Nicholas catches my eye, taps his wrist. My time is nearly up. The roundabout is just ahead, and Nicholas pulls the car over.
When our eyes meet, there’s something in his expression I can’t read. Understanding? Resignation?
“Still time to do the right thing, Eoin,” Malachy says, switching tactics. “Hand him over, and we’ll set you up anywhere. New name, new life. And we won’t hurt him, I promise. We just need him for leverage.”
“Leverage?” My voice comes out in a growl. “He’s a person, not a bargaining chip.”
“Jaysus Christ,” Malachy hisses, and I can picture him running a hand through his hair, that gesture we share. “I never thought I’d see the day when an O’Connell would side with the fucking British crown.”
I refuse to react to those words, let them slice me open like he intends.
“And I never thought I’d see you planning to kidnap an innocent person,” I shoot back.
“Innocent? Fuck me sideways, don’t tell me you’ve actually fallen for Prince Charming?” His voice drips scorn like a leaky tap.
I flinch. Can’t help it. Beside me, Nicholas goes very still.
Malachy laughs, but it’s a low noise that contains not a shred of humor. “Oh, now it makes sense. You’re letting your cock overrule your duty to your own people. Da would be fucking ashamed of you.”
I can’t answer my brother. My words sit in my throat in a congealed mess.
“He’ll bin you the second you’re no longer useful,” Malachy continues, his voice dropping to a venomous whisper. “You think he sees you as anything more than hired help with benefits? To him, you’re just a novelty. An exotic bit of rough to pass the time with while he’s slumming it. When this is over, he’ll go back to his palace and his pretty, aristocratic life, and you’ll be left with nothing but the memory of how you betrayed your own blood. You’ll be nothing but an embarrassing story he tells at dinner parties. ‘Oh, you’ll never guess who I had to pretend to fancy to save my royal arse?—’”
