4.

January 17, 1922


When Bill was fourteen he had worked a summer in his uncle's pub in Glasgow. His father had said it would be a good learning experience—both to see what it was to earn your pay, and to see what fools men could be when they were in their cups. By the end of that summer his father was dead, and the money had bought Bill a new suit of clothes and a train ticket to London. But he had already learned both lessons well.

The Helm and Hammer was filled to capacity, noisy and smoky and practically swaying with the rollicking of its occupants. They sat round every table, laughing and whispering into lasses' ears; and elbowed each other at the bar, sloshing their pints and hollering to be heard. In one corner two lads were going full-force at the fiddle and bodhrán, and the tables had been pushed back to clear out a dancing space. It swirled now in a blur of clapping hands and twirling skirts as a group of young ones stomped and swung through a frantic, sweaty version of "Scarce O' Tatties". The surrounding patrons whistled and catcalled and praised the attributes of the most enthusiastic skirt-twirlers.

Bill watched the scene from the kitchen door. He was still amazed at his unbelievable luck. He'd already heard several familiar names in the course of all the shouted greetings, and this was only the third hour of the first night. Bernard was going full steam, handing out pint after pint and pouring the whisky as well, laughing as heartily as the tipsiest of his clients. Bill smiled and went back to wiping out the next set of clean glasses. He'd found that "fetch and carry" meant "fetch more whisky" and "carry out the empty pints", and he'd already been downstairs twice to change the barrel. Not much was different since the last time he'd been on this side of the bar.

Miranda passed him in a rush, her arms full of dirty towels. She smiled as he held the door open for her.

"Quite a crowd," he said above the din.

"Aye, it's Saturday," she replied. "They've all got to make sure they've something to confess tomorrow or the week's not worth it." She winked at his laugh and hurried into the kitchen, her braid flying out behind her.

The song ended as abruptly as it had begun and the room broke into applause. The dancers fanned themselves and gulped down their drinks, and a fresh wave of flushed faces bellied up to the bar. Bill took a breath, tugged at his apron, and joined Bernard behind the counter. The man was distributing pints as fast as the tap would fill them, pressing glasses into waiting hands and plucking the coins without even turning his head. Bill approached him as he dropped a jingling handful into the box.

"Do you need some help?" he asked.

"What's that?" Bernard said without looking.

"I said do you need some help?" Bill shouted. Several heads turned in his direction.

"Oh, that would be grand, lad," said Bernard. "Can you run a tap?"

Bill slipped in beside Bernard with a smile, forming a two-man pint assembly line. The men at the bar looked at each other over their drinks.

"Who's this then, Bernie?" said one, a brown-haired young man perched rather precariously on the farthest stool. He gave Bill an evaluating look. "Hired new help, have you?"

"Sure I had to, didn't I, to keep up with you drunkards?" replied Bernard. "This is Bill, lads, and make him welcome."

Bill smiled and handed the young man a pint, dropping his coin into the box. "Bill Boyd, nice to know you."

The man's eyebrows shot up. "Jesus, it's a bleedin Prod!"

"Watch your tongue, boy," said Bernard. "This man is a guest under my roof."

At that, several of the men chuckled. "Taken in another stray, have you Bernard?" called one.

"He's helped all the wayward souls in Dublin, so he has, and now he's recruitin from Edinburgh!" said another, to general laughter.

Bill slid them both fresh glasses and picked up their coins. "Glasgow, actually," he said pleasantly.

That sent a few murmurs through the crowd. "Well then, Glasgow," said the first lad, "Tell me something. What brings a fucking Scotch Prod into the center of Dublin?"

The noise at the bar dropped a notch. Several more drinkers craned their necks to get a better look. Bernard glanced at Bill, but Bill was still smiling that small, genial smile. He stuck a glass beneath the tap and poured.

"Why, the warm Irish hospitality, of course."

Several men laughed, and the talk round the bar resumed its former pitch. Bernard poked at the young man's shoulder. "Now you mind your manners, Sean, and don't go besmirching our cultural reputation any further," he said. "Bill's left Glasgow for good, and we of all men know that the past is a man's own and none of our affair." Bill caught the look that was given him, and saw it mirrored in several faces around the bar. He took the cue and dropped his eyes, waiting for the whispers he knew would follow.

"So it is," said the young man, "So it is." He smiled and stuck out a hand. "Sean Astin's my name. Welcome to our side of the Sea."

Bill shook his hand, returning the smile. With his free hand he picked a stray shot of whisky off the bar. "Sláinte," he said, and tossed it back.

The crowd cheered and raised their glasses, shouting a slurred chorus of "Sláinte!" before draining their drinks. The fiddler was plucking at his strings, rosining up for the next tune, and the room settled into a racket of chatter and laughter. Bill saw more than a few glances in his direction, but all were cursory and short-lived. All but one—a dark-haired, dark-eyed man sat in the back corner, drinking straight from a bottle and staring at Bill with hooded eyes. Bill recognized him instantly—it was the triggerman, Urban. Bill noted the man noting him and then turned his attention back to the bar.

He was pouring the box of coin into the drawer when the doorbells clanged violently and the room erupted into shouts of greeting. Bill's knuckles flexed on the wood when he recognized the name they were calling.

"Dom! Dominic!"

"Good evening to all in this house," said a clear voice.

"Dom, ya skiver, you're late as usual!" shouted a drunken reply.

"What kept you, Monaghan?" called another.

"More like who kept him, and where is she now," yelled a third.

More laughter and shouts of welcome, and Bill looked up toward the door. Pushing through the crowd was a bright-eyed young man, several years younger than himself, with his cap cocked too far in one direction and his jaw cocked too far in the other. He was fresh-faced and well-dressed, pale brown hair curling out beneath his cap and clear skin glowing in the smoky light. Several hands clapped him on the back as he approached the bar, and he smiled at each face in turn and dipped his head in greeting. It wasn't until he elbowed himself in next to Sean and looked at Bill with curious and still-sober gray eyes that Bill realized he had stopped moving. The boy looked at him for a moment, smiling politely, and then Sean shoved at him and broke his attention.

"Monaghan, you bastard, you owe me a pint. Pay up, and add another for interest."

"So I do, Sean, so I do," said the boy. "Bernard, a pint for this thirsty gentleman and another for myself, if you please." He pulled a wad of notes from his pocket and dropped one onto the bar.

"Jesus!" cried the man to his right. "You should be buyin us all pints and dinner besides!"

"Well then I wouldn't have any left to donate to the Holy Church, now would I?" replied the boy. The notes disappeared into his pocket.

"Alright, enough of your showing off, you young dosser," said Bernard. They looked at each other across the counter with blatant affection, and the smiles on both their faces grew larger.

At length the boy turned back to Bill. "I don't believe we've met, sir."

Bernard, softened both by the boy's arrival and the amount of whisky he had consumed, grasped Bill around the shoulders and pulled him forward. "This is Bill, Dom. He'll be helping Mandy and me round here from now on. Bill, this is young Dominic Monaghan, a friend of my family since birth."

There was a pause, and then Bill remembered to put out his hand. "Bill Boyd," he said. "Pleasure to meet you, Dominic." The boy's eyes widened in surprise.

"He's a Prod," Sean offered helpfully.

The boy glanced at him, one eyebrow raised, and then turned back to Bill and shook his hand. "Well then he'll not be taking up your time in the confessional tomorrow, will he? Call me Dom, by the way."

Bill smiled back. "Dom it is."

Down the bar someone shouted, "Oi, Glasgow! Can we get a refill down here?"

"Right there," replied Bill, and gave a final nod before he turned away.

From the corner there was a squeak of the fiddle and a voice yelled, "Right, let's have another!"

"What'll you have, then?" called the fiddler, tucking his chin with bow poised. An excited ripple ran through the room. There was a scraping sound as chairs were pushed back and dancing partners selected for the next round. Various requests were shouted one over the other for a second or two, until suddenly a high female voice rose out above the rest.

"'The Limerick Rake'!"

The call was met with instant approval, and the crowd began to whistle and rap their knuckles on the tables. There was a commotion at the end of the bar and Bill turned to see a dozen hands tugging at Dom's shoulders and arms, trying to drag him from his stool.

"Go on then, go on!" they shouted.

Dom clutched his glass, protesting with grand theatrics. "I've not even had my second pint yet! Can a man not drink in peace anymore?"

"Then your pipes are still fresh and untainted," someone yelled. "Now get your arse over there and sing!"

"Sing! Sing!" chanted a score of voices, until Dom drained half his pint in a single swallow and set the glass down in defeat. There were calls of encouragement as he made his way over to the corner where the fiddler stood. Passing the source of the request, he leaned down to the dark-haired girl and said with a threatening gleam, "I'll have my vengeance for this, Hannah Wood."

The girl's blue eyes were sharp and snapping. "I'm counting on it, Dom Monaghan."

He was smiling ear to ear as he found a spot between a table and a post. The crowd jostled in their places for a better view and Bill found himself leaning on the bar to watch. There was a sharp tap-tap-tap from the bodhrán, the fiddler struck his bow, and Dom cleared his throat and began to sing.

I am a young fellow that's easy and bold,
In Castletown Conners I'm very well known,
In Newcastle West I spent many a note
With Kitty and Judy and Mary.
Me parents rebuked me for being a rake
And spending me time in such frolicsome ways,
But I ne'er can forget the good nature of Jane,
Agus fagaimid siud mar ata se.

The crowd whooped with raucous delight, clapping in time and laughing at the occasional shouted suggestion of names to add to the list. Dom soaked up the noise and drew in another breath, planting his thumbs behind his braces and lifting his chin for the second verse.

If I chance for to go to the town of Rathkeal,
All the girls all around me do flock on the square,
Some give me a bottle and others sweet cake
To treat me unknown to their parents.
There's one from Askeaton and one from the pike,
Another from Arda, me heart has beguiled,
Tho' being from the mountains her stockings are white,
Agus fagaimid siud mar ata se.

Bill watched in silent amazement. If he had had any doubts after the display at the bar, they disappeared when Dom seized the bodhrán and leapt up onto the table to beat out the bridge. There could no mistake about it. This was his money-runner. He'd found him on the very first night.

Dom gained his balance on the table as the room rocked with whistles and claps. The music swelled louder, the pulse of the song beating in the tap of his foot and the heave of his chest. He hammered the bodhrán in a perfect frenzy and sang until his face flushed darker than the drunkest man in the room, and Bill forgot his inner congratulations and could only watch him with everyone else.

Now there's some say I'm foolish and more say I'm wise,
To be fond of the women I think is no crime,
For the son of King David had ten thousand wives,
And his wisdom was highly regarded.
I'll take a good garden and live at my ease,
And each woman and child can partake of the same,
If there's war in the cabin, themselves they can blame,
Agus fagaimid siud mar ata se.

And now for the future I mean to be wise,
And I'll marry the women who acted so kind,
I'll marry them all in the morrow by and by,
If the clergy agree to the bargain.
And when I'm on me back and me soul is at peace,
Those women will crowd for to cry at me wake,
And their sons and their daughters will offer a prayer,
To the Lord for the soul of their father.

The pub exploded into cheers. Dom beamed, his eyes shining to blue as he wiped his brow with the back of one hand. He grinned down at the crowd and gave them a grandiose, if somewhat wobbly, bow. Someone took the bodhrán from Dom's hands and replaced it with a fresh pint. His eye fell on Bill, still watching from behind the bar. Dom smiled and raised the glass, licking his lips before tilting his head back to drain it dry. Bill froze in mid-pour.

"Oi Glasgow," said the man in front of him, "Can I have my whisky or what?"

Bill watched as Dom grabbed the girl Hannah for a breathless kiss. He finished filling the tumbler to the brim, and then picked it up and emptied it in one swallow.