“He was in the locker room,” I whisper against his shirt. “He—he—”
Niall’s grip tightens. “I'm telling O'Shea. This ends now.”
I shake my head violently, though my hands are gripping tightly onto his shirt. “No. Please. Please don’t, Niall. You promised not to tell anyone.”
Finn shifts uncomfortably beside us, reminding me he’s here to witness my breakdown. Just like Joey and JJ earlier.They’re all gonna know I’m broken. That I’m a mess. “I can give you two a minute—”
“Stay,” Niall says firmly, still holding me. “I'm gonna need you to hold me back. Tell me what happened, Molly.”
54
All Shaken Up
Niall
December, 2007
WHEN WE WEREyounger, the lads and I used to shake up minerals until they’d kind of blow up inside their container.
One time, Finn got one to explode. Sprayed Fanta all over Bobby Marshall’s pristine white kitchen cupboards. Bobby went spare. We thought it was brilliant.
That’s how I feel right now. All shaken up. Too full, unable to get all this pent up energy out. There’s a pressure building up behind my eyes, a fizzing in my blood.
I feel like I might explode.
She won’t do anything. I’ve been trying and trying for the rest of the weekend to get her to report him, but she won’t budge. She’s convinced that it will ruin her life.
The thought of the bastard getting out unscathed infuriates me. Meanwhile my girlfriend is riddled with bullet holes of anxiety and intimacy issues.
I have one idea left. And I don’t tell her about it, because she’s not gonna like it. Not one bit.
After he left the pro’s, Patrick Fitzpatrick’s name did not go underwater. He’s still a highly well-respected former footballer—a well-respected former footballer who was best mates with my dead father.
Da always said Uncle Paddy had the sharpest brain he’d ever known, and not just about football. He could’ve been a lawyer or something if he had wanted to. If anyone knows how the leagues work, how the power plays out, it’s him.
Still, I’d never been so nervous to talk to him. I’ve been walking in and out of the houses of my mates all my life, but today I knocked on the Fitzpatrick’s dark green front door, my hands shaking and breath puffing in front of me.
“It’s grand to have you, Niall,” Uncle Paddy says, once he’s gotten us our tea and we’re in the sitting room. It’s Sunday afternoon, and I wanted to do this today so I could get it out of my mind with Molly’s birthday being tomorrow. I want tomorrow to be special, and I want to take her mind off of the awfulness. “Though I have to say I’m a bit surprised to have you visit out of the blue while Joe’s not even home.”
“I didn’t know he wasn’t home,” I say honestly. “But I really need to talk to you.”
He leans back in his arm chair, the springs groaning in protest. Him and Da are the furthest thing from looking alike—da always had pale skin, the same dark blue eyes as mine, chestnut brown hair. Uncle Paddy is Black Irish, with curly hair and greenish brown eyes.
They’d really only had their name in common, but they’d always been brothers at heart. Same with Bobby Marshall, and I think their friend Johnny before he died. Da used to tell me all these stories about them all growing up, how he was glad I was growing up with mates just like that.
Now, I can see all those stories, withered with age and loss, behind his eyes as he gives me a knowing look. “Alright, lad, let’s hear it. What kind of trouble are you in?”
I paint the picture for him the best I can, in a hypothetical way. My hands are sweating and I keep wiping them on my trousers. I tell him about this guy who’s a former pro-player, has connections everywhere around the leagues—in America, as far as I know—and he’s using it against someone. Someone he hurt. And that I think this man is a dangerous person who uses his position of power to harm young girls.
I keep it vague, but detailed enough so he understands what I’m working against here. I watch his face as I talk, seeing it darken with every word.
“Who are we talking about here, Niall?” Uncle Paddy looks at me, his eyes full of concern. “Because these are some serious accusations, and I have to say I’m not sure what it is you’re asking me to do.”
“I’m not asking you to do anything,” I say, shifting uncomfortably in my chair. “I just wanted to ask you—hypothetically—what would happen if someone like that was reported.”
Uncle Paddy sighs deeply, rubbing his temple. “Well, hypothetically, it depends on who’s reporting it and how much evidence they have.”
“Evidence?” Why did that not cross my mind? I hardly doubt Molly has any evidence at all. It was years ago. She was a kid. “So you're saying it'd be her word against his.”
