“Well?” Aiden pulls out a pack of smokes next and rests one between his lips like a punk. “Even the ATM on Cedar Road would be better crack than this.”
“The CCTV is broken with this one.” I point at the small camera above us. “I wanted to try this out in peace, without the risk of getting famous.”
“How d’ya know it’s broken?” he says, squinting up at it.
“No light. I pay attention.”
“Time to pay some more.” He nods over my shoulder. A couple have entered the street and are walking in our direction.
“Keep cool,” I mutter. “You know what to do.”
“I’m always fucking cool. You’re the hot-headed mofo.”
“Did you hear what I—?”
“Yes. And you’re still a mofo.”
I open my mouth to give him shit, but he’s already standing by the side of the ATM with his phone angled at the keypad, camera rolling. Eyebrows lifted at me, as if I’m the pussy for not giving this gig my full attention.
Gritting my teeth, I position myself a couple of metres away, resting one elbow on top of a red post box as I pretend to scroll through my phone. It’s my job to stand behind the customer and distract them. With the new ‘Lebanese Loop’ device in the card slot, we’ll be able to record their details and double our money later.
I steal a glance as the couple approach. They look like father and daughter, but there’s a strange dynamic about them that keeps me staring longer than I should.
The girl is young, around the same age as Aiden. Her slender body is swamped in a black coat, two sizes too big, and her hands are buried deep in the pockets. I can’t see her face because her head is hung low and disguised by a messy dark fringe, but there’s a line of purple bruises on her neck that give me all the show and tell I need.
Finger marks.
My fists clench.
The man walking beside her is a tall motherfucker in a good suit, with a bad amount of arrogance stinking up his ugly face. He smirks at me as they draw level, like he knows what we’re up to, but he can’t be bothered to demean himself and kick our skinny arses for attempting it.
I shoot Aiden a warning look. This doesn’t feel right. Moments later, I’m breathing out in relief as they bypass the ATM and head towards the old library instead.
They’re nearly at the front door when a gust of wind comes racing down the street, tugging at the girl’s coat to reveal a thin white summer dress underneath.
A memory flutters at the back of my mind. Something precious and pure, dancing in amongst the shadows.
Something dove-like.
Frowning, I watch them climb the concrete steps and disappear inside, the man practically shoving her through the doorway and smirking again as she stumbles.
Bastard.
“What the hell was all that about?” says Aiden, coming over to join me.
“Luck,” I mutter.
Was that her?
Was that O’Sullivan’s daughter?
“Did you see that chick’s neck?” He sounds as pissed about the bruises as I am.
“Wait here,” I order suddenly, launching myself after them.
“Wait—what?”
“I mean it, Aiden,” I snarl over my shoulder as I break into a run. “Stay the fuck out of that building, whatever happens.”
It’s been years since I last stepped inside a library.
My father had one built at our house when I was six—a floor-to-ceiling book explosion with a mezzanine level, a spiral staircase, and brown leather chairs.
I loved it. We all did. He used to tell me that “knowledge is power”, but it proved to be a crap bullet proof vest when O’Sullivan started firing at him.
Is some other kid curled up on one of those chairs now?
Is he taking it for granted like I did?
Crashing through the front door, I find myself in an empty reception area. This place is bigger and darker than my father’s library. Most of the strip lights overhead are coughing out light like a fifty-a-day smoker. Everything stinks of old and tired, as if the books themselves can’t even be bothered anymore.
“Can I help you?”
An elderly lady is peering at me from behind her desk, next to a faded yellow poster advertising a book event from 1973.
When I don’t answer, she goes back to sorting out a stack of books. “Classics are at the end, dear,” she says breezily, waving her arm in that direction. “Help yourself. You can borrow up to eight of them with the right ID.”
Is she having a laugh? With my ripped jeans and black leather jacket, I look ready to case the joint, not read Shakespeare.
The inside of the library is one long path with bookshelves peeling off in all directions like the branches of a tree. I’m five rows from the end, when I finally see her. She’s all alone, running her finger along a line of paperbacks, her head tilted to the side, and her dark hair tumbling over her face. She’s taken off her black coat and tossed it over a nearby chair. She’s a blur of white, and then I’m ducking into the row in front before she spots me.
Is that you, dove girl?
Only an idiot trusts his memories, but there’s something so familiar about her that's spinning all my maybes into certainty.
We’re standing opposite each other now, a single bookshelf separating us. I can hear her breathing softly and clicking her tongue in frustration. I can smell her perfume, too. It’s delicate, like her.
Through the gaps above the books, I watch the top of her dark hair moving up and down as she searches for something, completely oblivious that her whole life is hanging in the balance. In a matter of seconds, I could knock out Jane Austen, reach between the shelves, take her slender neck in my hands, and squeeze the life out of it.
I could finally start taking my revenge on O’Sullivan.
Then, I remember her bruises, and I can’t stop thinking about how angry they make me feel.
Can’t stop thinking about her dancing.
Seconds pass. She’s nearly at the end of the row. I want her to notice me. To meet my gaze above these dusty books before it’s too late.
I see you, dove girl. Now, it’s time for you to see me.
As if willed by my silent plea, her head jerks up, and I find myself staring into a pair of clear green pools, deep enough to find big trouble in.
At first, we don’t speak. We don’t look away from each other either. It’s like the moment is weighted at each corner—tying us down, and then tying us together—just as it did seven years ago when we held each other’s gazes in the darkness.
Slowly, so as not to scare her, I reach up and remove the books hiding the rest of her face from me. Each one reveals another couple of inches of perfection: the small frown of confusion, the upturned nose, more pale skin, those soft red lips, and then the sweet smattering of freckles across both cheeks…
“Hi,” I whisper.
“Hi,” she whispers back, then her eyes widen, as if she’s shocked herself by answering. A beat later, she’s whipping her head to the left in a panic, giving me another close-up of those bruises.
“He’s not here,” I tell her. “The guy in the suit.”
Relief flickers across her face. “Are you sure?”
Her voice is soft, hesitant. She doesn’t sound Irish, but I know in my heart of hearts it’s her.