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Crank’s dad put them out for us when we were finally old enough to properly tie one on.
It’s just the right amount of brooding, dim light in here, cozy, despite its size. Two stories with a balcony overlooking the large, open dance floor. All stained wood and red leather, the walls covered in thick evergreen paper, textured with emblems of crowns.
The place is packed tonight. Everyone loves Eamon. As they should.
He has, after all, a golden heart.
I favor the gleaming wood bar that stretches over the entire back wall of the first floor, but right now I’m stuck in an uncomfortable, too-small wooden chair, sitting across the booth table from the cushy half-circle red leather bench, the favored seating of the women where they can squeeze in to whisper their gossip.
Like a man on death row facing a sentence, I stare into three pairs of steely eyes, my jury, demanding information.
“The girls and I want to know.” Kitt folds her hands on the top of the table, leaning in as she interrogates me. “What exactly happened with Clive.” Carol Ann with her purple hair and punk-rock dress sits to her right, Fiona in her soft pink to her left.
“We know what happened at the facility,” Carol Ann says. “We happen to have an in with the only witness to the crime. We want to know why the charges were dropped.”
“And what did they say about Clive?” Kitt asks.
I know she’s not told anyone what I told her in bed that night, about Clive using the research facility computer for his dirty deeds. Fiona, the only tame one of their groups in my opinion, sits quietly, hands folded neatly in her lap, giving me a polite look as she awaits my answer.
“DI Collins asked to speak with me, as you all know. He told me any islanders were cleared of the crime. Apparently, evidence was found that the fire was set by a gang from Glasgow.” Their emblem, rings of crop circles in a field, pop into my head. “They call themselves the Hoax.”
Hoax. Like the joke of all those crop circles being made by humans and not aliens. This time, the joke is on them, they’ll be the ones paying for our crimes.
The girls lean in, hanging on my every word. I draw out the story, taking a long, slow sip of my pint. Kitt knows what I’m doing, offering me a look of admonishment.
“Clive was helping them. They wanted to use our waterways to transport people.”
Fiona gasps, a hand to her chest. “Islanders?”
“Aye. Maybe.” We suspected as much but there was no way in hell we were going to wait around to find out. “Could have been one of you girls.”
As the information sinks in, settling into their bellies, their brows go up.
I keep sharing. “They heard that word got out, that Clive was talking, bragging to people in his online hermit world about the money he’d soon be making. He wasn’t discreet though. They didn’t want him involved anymore. He wasn’t quiet enough. They had a problem on their hands, didn’t they?”
Carol Ann nods, a sly smile coming over her face as she catches on. “They had to get rid of him.”
“Four men from the gang, one just happening to own a Toyota truck,” I cut my eyes to Kitt, “as reported by the only witness to the crime, have been detained. They’ll be charged both for the fire and the death of Clive Smith.”
“Detective Collins made it all go away,” Kitt breathes. “Didn’t he?”
“Aye,” I say, lifting a fist in the air, opening and spreading my fingers like fireworks gone off. “Poof.”
Fiona looks near tears. “Thank God you boys stopped him before he could hurt...” She can’t finish her thought, it’s too dark for her sweet nature. Kitt wraps her arm around her for a reassuring hug.
They ask a few more questions. I offer a bit more information, shielding them from the darker details. I sit with them till their mood lightens and they move on to arguing over which pub has the better chips.
I leave the table, letting the girls be for the moment. I head over to the end of the bar, getting a fresh pint. I keep my distance, but I never take my eyes off her.
She’s a good girl. Ignoring the boys. Laughing with her friends.
Callum Burnes struts over, tugging the end of a lock of Fiona’s hair. Her face goes as red as the hair he’s twirling around his thick, tattooed finger. He asks her for a dance, I assume. All she can do is shake her shy head no.
He leaves, a grin plastered to his face.
Carol Ann falls into a fit of laughter at Fiona’s modesty, saying something, and knowing Carol Ann, it’s something cutting. Kitt gives her a look, telling her to stop, then offers a soft word to Fiona with a smile. Kitt must say something funny because now the moment passes, and the girls fall into another round of easy giggles.
The next hour of the night is filled with drinks and cheers and talks of relief. Once everyone has a pretty good buzz on, the boys pull out their instruments. Fiddle, flute, tin whistle, accordion, bagpipes, guitar, and a frame-drum. More people head to the dance floor; it’s turning into a right ceilidh.
