Page 16 of The Unlikely Spare
Besides, there was this naïve, idealistic part of me that couldn’t help hoping that maybe if someone like me was on the inside, the next time someone like Malachy got hurt because the powerful didn’t care, it wouldn’t just disappear.
Malachy understood, even if the neighbors didn’t. “Just remember why you’re doing it,” he’d said. And I had, through every dirty look and “Castle Catholic” whisper.
There’s so much I can’t tell Malachy about my work, which is hard. He’s the person closest to me in the world, but out of necessity, I can’t give him any more than vague details.
“So, job tough at the moment then?” Malachy asks.
“Yeah, I’ve got a new job. It’s in protection. But the VIP I’m protecting isn’t someone I’m warming to.”
Malachy pulls a face. “Poor Eoin, having to bow and scrape to some posh git who probably thinks Ireland is just a quaint little island where leprechauns live.”
“Something like that,” I say.
Our conversation moves on to his physical therapy and the new wheelchair basketball league he’s joined. I try to subtly gauge how he’s doing without being too obvious because Malachy guards his independence fiercely.
I helped him buy his accessible flat, but he insists on paying me back in monthly installments. Pride and stubbornness are O’Connell family traits, just like the cleft in our chins.
We’d had a standoff in stubbornness when I got offered the job at Scotland Yard in London.
“You’d be an eejit to turn it down.” Malachy had practically spat the words at me. “You think watching you give up opportunities is going to make me feel better about being in this chair?”
Luckily, my uncle and aunt are close by in Belfast for Sunday dinners and emergencies, even if Aunt Mary still treats Malachy like he’s made of glass, which annoys him to no end.
Our phone call finally ends, and I sit in the silence that follows. The contrast between the aristocratic world I’m currently part of and the one over the Irish sea, where Mal wheels himself around his cramped Belfast flat, feels like a bloody slap in the face. Here, people fret about which fork to use for the fish course, and over there, my brother has to calculate if he can afford both heating and rent this month.
Anyway, I’ve got to remind myself why I’m here. Ferret out any traitors in the team.
I scroll through the team’s personnel files on my tablet, memorizing service records and looking for gaps. Blake’s file shows a six-month assignment in Cyprus that’s oddly light on details. Singh’s previous posting at Westminster ended abruptly with no explanation. Pieces of a puzzle that I don’t have the picture for yet.
I’m flagging Cavendish’s redacted military records for Pierce to pull when my tablet gives up the ghost. Typical. The charger’s sitting in my bag back at the security office because, apparently, along with being a highly capable undercover agent, I’m also a feckin’ eejit who can’t remember to grab his own gear.
I head down to the office to retrieve it, which takes me past the grand ballroom where the hunting ball is in full swing. Through the half-open doors, I clock Nicholas in the thick of it. His jacket’s undone, bow tie hanging loose around his neck.
He appears to be directing his charm at a blonde in a red dress. Another woman approaches, extending a champagne flute like an offering, and Nicholas accepts it with that smile of his, the one they plaster on tea towels and tourist tat. He says something that makes both women laugh, their heads tilting toward him like flowers seeking light.
I watch him neck his drink and snag another from a passing server. It must be his third or fourth, judging by the color creeping up his neck and the increasingly expansive gestures. Yet even half-cut, there’s still something deliberately calibrated about his charm. He runs a hand through his hair, messing up the careful styling, and somehow the disheveled look only makes him more magnetic, like he’s been thoroughly debauched already.
Officer MacLeod catches my eye from her position near the bar, giving me an eye roll. Better her than me tonight. Dealingwith an intoxicated, entitled royal isn’t in my job description until zero six hundred tomorrow.
I make it to the office and grab my bag, nodding to Malcolm where he’s hunched over security monitors.
It’s a good chance to observe Malcolm doing his job without raising suspicion. His attention seems unusually fixed on the ballroom feed rather than the rotating external views. I watch him track Prince Nicholas’s movements for three full minutes before he remembers to check the parking garage. Hmm. Something to watch out for.
I can’t linger for too long, though, so I head back toward my room.
I don’t get far before a sound stops me. Something that doesn’t belong among the tinkling glasses and orchestral music drifting from the ballroom.
Someone’s crying. Not loud, theatrical sobs, but the quiet, desperate kind of weeping that sounds like it’s being ripped from somewhere deep.
I hesitate, weighing professional distance against basic human decency.
Maybe because I just talked to him earlier, but the sobs remind me of Malachy in the months after the accident, when he thought no one could hear him at night. Those nights when I’d stand outside his door, useless as tits on a bull, not knowing whether to go in or let him have his dignity.
Before I can talk myself out of it, I’m moving toward the crying, following the sound to a small alcove tucked behind a grand staircase. The space is lit by a single wall sconce, and in the dim light, I can make out a woman’s silhouette. Her back faces me, and her shoulders shake with each suppressed sob.
She turns at the sound of my footsteps, revealing a woman in her late forties who is gorgeous in the way posh women often are, with the kind of aristocratic features that time refines ratherthan diminishes. She looks vaguely familiar, but I can’t place her.
“Are you all right, ma’am?” I ask awkwardly. My Belfast accent feels thicker suddenly, like I’m trailing mud across the pristine marble floors.
