Page 4 of The Thief
"Maybe you'll fall in love."
"Maybe I'll grow wings and fly away."
We sit in silence for a moment, both of us thinking about all the things we can't say. How unfair it is. How scared she must be. How much I'm going to miss her when she gets married.
"I have to go," she says finally. "Mam and Dad are setting up engagements for me to meet people."
"Right. Talk soon?"
"Always."
The line goes dead, and I'm alone again. Story of my bloody life.
I roll off the bed and check the time. Half six. Murphy's opens in an hour, which means I need to get my head on straight before dealing with the usual crowd of drunks, gamblers, and men who think buying a girl a drink means they own her for the night.
Dad would've laughed at that. "Any man thinks he owns you, mo stór, you remind him who your father is." Killian Gallagher didn't raise his daughter to back down from anyone. Too bad he's not here to remind me of that anymore.
It’s been eighteen months since he died—a carjacking gone wrong while in America. He was buried there, so I didn’t even get a chance to say goodbye. Mam got a phone call, and it was the day my world crashed down around me.
Not only did Dad die, but Mam packed a bag that very day and fucked off to London without so much as a goodbye. She left me with nothing but memories and a flat above the worst pub in Belfast.
"You're stronger than you know, love," Dad used to tell me when I was small. "You’ve got my stubbornness and your mam's good sense. Nothing in this world can break you if you don't let it."
Easy for him to say. He never had to face the world without him in it.
Things could've turned out worse, I suppose. I could've ended up on the streets or worse. Murphy took pity on me—or maybe he just needed cheap labor—and gave me work pulling pints and dodging wandering hands. It's not much but it keeps the lights on and food in my belly.
Most days, that's enough.
Today's not most days.
I pull on jeans and a black jumper, tie my hair back, and head downstairs. Murphy is already behind the bar, counting last night's till with the concentration of a man who knows every penny matters.
"Alright, love?" he asks without looking up. Murphy's sixty-odd and built like a brick shithouse, with hands that have seen more fights than a boxing referee. He's also one of the few decent men left in Belfast, which is why his pub attracts every scumbag within a ten-mile radius.
"Grand," I say, grabbing my apron from behind the bar. "Quiet night?"
"They're all quiet until they're not."
True enough. Murphy's has seen its share of excitement over the years. Broken bottles, broken noses, the occasional stabbing when the football's on and emotions run high. Nothing I can't handle, though. Dad made sure of that before he died.
"Keep your wits about you, mo stór," he'd always say. "Trust the wrong person and you'll end up face down in the Lagan. Trust the right person and they might just save your life."
Good advice. Shame he didn't follow it himself when it mattered.
"Expecting anyone special tonight?" I ask, checking the whiskey bottles.
"Define special."
"The kind that brings trouble."
Murphy shrugs. "It's Belfast, love. Troubles always expected."
The first punters start filtering in around seven. It’s the usual crowd: dock workers looking to forget another day of backbreaking labor, pensioners nursing half pints because their wives think they're at the library, and young lads with more attitude than sense.
I know them all by name, by drink, and by the particular brand of misery they're trying to drown. Tommy wants whiskey because his wife died and left him with nothing but bills and memories. Mrs. Kelly drinks gin because her son's doing ten years in prison and she blames herself. Mickey orders pints because he's got eight kids and a wife who reminds him of that fact every bloody day.
They're my people, I suppose. The forgotten ones. The ones who slip through the cracks and end up in places like Murphy's, sharing their pain with strangers who understand.
