This time, I took a risk, though. Instead of the typical pound, I took a tenner. Goddammit it I couldn’t help myself, though, I’m that close to freedom.
I can’t get a proper job. No one will hire the sister of Dougal Reilly, and even if I got a job, my brother would steal my money.
Holding my hair with one hand, he drags me back in the room and slams the door.
“Show me,” he orders, his eyes narrowed to furious slits. There was a time when he was a handsome man, with my father’s square jaw and even features, but now malice and alcohol have muddied his features. Now he’s nothing but a demon to me.
I shake my head, and without warning, he rears back and backhands me. My jaw snaps and I taste blood. I stand up straight, not bowing to his assault. Not now. Not ever. I run my tongue along my teeth to make sure none have loosened and swallow the blood and bile.
“Where is it?” he says, rearing back to strike me again, but this time I duck his blow and come up swinging myself. I knee him straight between the legs, catching him in the fucking bollox. He howls in rage and lashes out at me, but he’s clumsy, and by the time he tries to hit me again, I’m already halfway down the stairs.
His hands between his legs as he screams at me, “Run, then! You’ll have to come home! And when you do, you’ll fucking regret it.” He’s too lazy to give me chase. But a howl and cry make me almost slow my run. Bailey. He kicked my dog Bailey again. I’d have rather taken his blows myself. I blink, tears rolling down my cheeks. Why do bullies have to abuse those too weak to defend themselves? I should teach that dog of mine to fucking bite him.
I run until I get to the Cathedral. The one place in all of Inverness I feel safe. For a wee while, anyway.
He’s right about one thing. I’ll have to go home eventually, as I’ve no other place to go. I have no friends but Father MacGowen, and the only family I have are back at the house. If I plan it right, though, I’ll get home tonight after my brother’s passed out and I’ll escape his fury. My mother will still be up, but she prefers to pretend I don’t exist. It’s the better of the two options anyway.
I crouch against the stone wall of the church and breathe in deeply. Mmm. Incense. It’s one of my favorite smells on earth, though I’m not sure why. I must have some pleasant memory from my childhood or something, but the imaginative me likes to pretend there’s a bigger reason. Perhaps I was a priestess in a former life, or a cloistered nun in the quiet sanctuary of a monastery. I close my eyes and breathe the incense in, briefly imagining it brings healing properties.
I open my eyes, and realize for the first time how dark it is outside. The incense isn’t from mass, then, but from earlier. A funeral, perhaps? I look over my shoulder and note there’s a light on in the church. I shiver with cold. I ran out of my house with my mobile and shoes but no jacket, and it’s a chilly evening in town. My thin jumper does little to protect me from the icy wind.
I walk to the steps of the Cathedral, and marvel at each one. I like to imagine each step was set in place by an Angel, one of the majestic beings. Perhaps Michael the Archangel himself laid the final stone when the church was built. I can almost see him, with his majestic wings, formidable sword, and terrible, beautiful scowl. I know logically the sword is used to fight for the greater good, to cast demons into hell. But I like to imagine sometimes he’d use that sword to fight in my defense.
I walk carefully up each step, enjoying my brief time of peace and quiet before I have to return back home. The scent of incense grows stronger as I ascend, my worn shoes noiseless on the stone steps. My heart does a little flip in my chest. The door’s ajar.
I nudge the door open so slowly, it doesn’t make a sound. I slip through the open space. I’m small and slight, and used to moving quietly. To being unseen. I imagine I’m a ghost, haunting this church, in search of her long-lost lover. Does he come here to weep for love of me, as he recounts my untimely death? I imagine Father MacGowen, his arms over the shoulder of my lover, speaking words of comfort and peace in his time of loss.
When I was a wee girl, back when I had the gift of speech, my mother would berate me for my imaginative ways. “You’ll accomplish nothing in life pretending everything away,” she’d say, waving her hand at me and sometimes shaking me if she caught me in a daydream when I had a chore to do. Little does she know now how rich my inner life is. She has no power over my silent imaginings. No one does.