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“I don’t think anythin’,” I retort, loosening my tie.
Both Cian and Rory smirk, not convinced, but I don’t care what they think because the moment we cross the border, all I care about is revenge.
We’re all quiet, marveling at this foreign land that’s been forbidden our whole lives, but now that we’re here, it’s made what we’re about to do real. I thought I would come into Dublin with Dad, avenging my ma, but it’s just up to me.
Rory keeps to the speed limit, which is now in kilometers, not wanting to draw any attention to us being here.
I don’t know what I expected Dublin to look like. Being from the north, I never took much interest in the south, but it certainly doesn’t look like the hellhole I thought it to be. I suppose I am biased, as I have no problem with the city itself; it’s the inhabitants who make this place hell on earth.
The map says we’re five minutes away.
“Right, boys,” I say, rolling down the sleeves of my shirt as I don’t want my tattoos to be on show. “Nice and quick, yeah?”
“So, we have a wee drink and a juke?” Rory asks, an excited energy radiating from him.
This is why we’re best friends—all three of us thrive in the darkness, the corrupt, and this right now is probably the most danger we’ve been involved in. Our parents thought we’d forget this vendetta, that Cian and Rory would talk me out of acting in haste if this time ever came.
But they don’t know what true friendship is because these lads have had my back since I can remember. They don’t have to be here, as this is my retribution, not theirs, but they wouldn’t let me do this alone.
“Aye. We won’t be long in there. We’re just three lads out for a wee drink. That’s all.”
They nod.
Rory parks the car a few blocks away, inhaling deeply as he puts on a hat backward to conceal his tousled brown hair. Cian smirks, slipping into his coat to hide the tattoo sleeve on his right arm. I hunt through my backpack and slip on my black-rimmed glasses, then take out my nose and lip piercing.
I don’t know what the Doyles know about us, so to blend in, we have to look like everyone else. Piercings and tattoos can be used to identify us, and we can’t have that. Tugging at the sleeve of my shirt to cover my crucifix tattoo, I know firsthand how disastrous it can be if that information falls into the wrong hands.
We exit the car and slip our masks into place. To onlookers, we’re just three mates out for a good night.
Dublin has a cosmopolitan atmosphere, while Belfast is small and has a country town feeling to it. I can imagine many come to Dublin and get lost as you can be anyone in such a large city. I instantly miss home. But the closer we get to the pub, the more excited I become—excited by the possibility of spilling Doyle blood. When we’re feet away, I look overhead at the glowing green sign.
The Craic’s 90
A classic Irish phrase which means a good time.
The building is painted red with small Irish flags draped along the balcony’s ledge. It’s in a good, busy location, and is modern, but has an aul’ feel to it. It’s jammed full of patrons, which is a blessing as well as a curse.
We can blend in, but as far as earwigging, we won’t be able to hear a thing above the rowdy drunks.
With nothing but confidence, we enter, taking everything in.
It’s everything you’d expect to see inside a traditional Irish pub. The walls are dark brown with green and white accents. Wooden barstools surround the kegs acting as tables, and some tasteful light fixtures help brighten the room.
But the noisy drinkers aren’t here for the décor. They’re here to get plastered.
We walk inside, heading straight for the bar. I take a moment to listen and watch, like a smart predator does. Instantly, I’m drawn to a pretty blonde behind the bar. She’s pouring pints with skill, hinting this isn’t her first night behind the bar.
Cian notices me looking. Standing at six-four, he can clearly see where my attention is. Rory soon catches up to speed. We wait in line, soaking up the atmosphere for an entirely different reason to everyone else here.
“C’mere till I tell ya,” shouts a hammered eejit two patrons in front of us to his friends. “I’m gonna ask Erin to have a drink with me.”
His mates laugh, slapping him on the back as if they don’t believe him. “Yer a real bungalow. A pretty thing like Erin Doyle wouldn’t touch ya.”
Rory makes eye contact with me as he heard what I did.
Looking around the room, I see a pretty girl sitting with a group of friends.
Tapping the man in front of me, I try my best to smile when he turns over his broad shoulder to look at me. He doesn’t hide his disgust that someone like me would dare speak to him.
