Dublin, 1985
Frances tossed and turned in her bed. She tried not to wake Michael who was fast asleep in the twin bed next to her. She looked at her watch and sighed in frustration. He promised her he'd be home by now. She's worried sick. The bastard. Frances thought as she pictured her mother sitting at the kitchen table downstairs, no doubt, with a cup of cold tea placed in front her her and a cigarette in hand. She pitied her mother. Margaret was a beautiful, kind and loving woman and loved her children very much. But she was desperately unhappy. Trapped in an abusive marriage to a horrible, dangerous man who treated her like dirt. She didn't deserve this life.
Frances contemplated going downstairs but she decided against it. There was nothing she could say or do to comfort her mother who was now, Frances realised, becoming a shell of a woman. She had lost so much weight in the last two years and her once fabulous long auburn hair was greying, significantly.
Over those past few years, Frances had become much more aware of the line of work her father is in. Not by choice, mind you. She tried to ignore the hushed whispers from the other girls in her class, the stares of disgust from the nuns that taught her and the fact that the boys from Saint Patrick's school down the road were terrified to talk to or even look at her. She was beginning to learn that her family was different. She hated how secluded it made her feel. She had no friends and was becoming a very angry young woman.
The fights in the school yard were becoming more frequent and her behaviour in the classroom was getting worse. She was constantly getting in trouble, now for fighting, bad language or smoking. Although she hated when the nuns hit her, she felt a buzz from getting into trouble. This worried her.
Frances had plucked up the courage to finally ask her mother about what her father did for a living, one night after Tommy had left in Paul's car but the petrified look in her mother's eyes, made her instantly regret her question. "Your father is a very important man. A very busy man, Frances. His work keeps the roof over our head and the food on the table, that's all you need to know."
There had been several incidents that had led Frances to begin to believe that her father was a criminal. She had overheard a few of his phone conversations with Paul about shipments coming into the docklands and something about drugs and guns. Another conversation involved him mentioning the name of a man who was reported missing on the news and laughing, maliciously. But Frances knew better, now than to ask about it.
It was in the last year, however, that Frances started to wonder if Tommy Ryan was some sort of gangster. The girls at school were now calling her "Frances Corleone" behind her back and the boys from St. Pat's had started to mock shoot each other when she walked by them on the street. Then her father had come home late one night and didn't realise Frances was lying on the couch, pretending to be asleep. She carefully opened one eye as her father removed his leather jacket from his broad shoulders in the hallway and noticed he had a gun in his right hand. His face and neck was splattered with blood. Panic and terror paralyzed Frances as she squeezed her eyes shut and prayed he didn't see her lying there.
As she lay in her bed, watching Michael softly smile and cling to his pillow she let her mind drift back to last Christmas. That's when her suspicions were finally confirmed.
***
Her father, very uncharacteristically, decided to throw a party for some of his friends, much to her mother's nervous protesting. Tommy had never had any of the fellas over to the house, except for Paul. Frances was dreading the party. She had just turned fourteen and her body had matured. She was a very pretty young woman but whenever she was in the company of any of her father's friends, she didn't like the attention she would get from them. She stood in front of the mirror, staring at her body. Her father had instructed her to wear a navy blue dress and a matching ribbon in her hair. He told her that some very important people were going to be in the house and he wanted his daughter to look like a nice young woman, for once and not a miserable bitch. She hated wearing dresses. She preferred jeans and trousers and baggy t-shirts with the name of rock bands on them. She hated showing her off her new well-proportioned and mature body.
As she stood there, she thought about throwing the dress out the window and strutting down the stairs in her pyjamas but she wasn't in the mood to get a beating tonight. Her bruises had just started to finally heal from the last time she had pissed her father off. She sighed, sadly and reluctantly zipped up the navy dress which fell just below her knees. She ran a brush through her wild, long brown curls and fashioned the ribbon into a sickening big bow on top of her head. "You lool pretty," Michael whispered and Frances couldn't help but smile as she walked over and sat beside him on his bed. "Thanks, darling. Now, you make sure you get some sleep, okay? I'll leave the door open so you have some light." Frances rubbed her brother's back as he yawned. loudly. "But I want to go the the party," he whined as another large yawn escaped his mouth. Frances leaned over and kissed Michael's forehead, tucking him in. She was so thankful that her father had never been physically aggressive towards Michael. She wasn't sure why but she had a feeling had something to do with keeping Michael on his side, for now, anyway. "Night, baby," Frances whispered as she walked over to her bedroom door. She slowly grabbed the handle and the overwhelming smell of cigar smoke hit her in the face as it crept up the stairs. She squared her shoulders and made her way down, nervously.
The sitting room was packed. Full of people (mostly men) she didn't know. She did spot some of her father's awful friends; Micka, Tony and Peter but they all looked very drunk so she made a conscious effort to steer clear of them. She walked into the kitchen, pulling down the hem of her dress and was immediately pulled by her wrist. Her mother was alone in the room and looked frantic and exhausted. She had a black dress on that was two sizes too small and had bright blue eye shadow and pink lipstick. Her hair was in big curls and stiff with hairspray. She looked ridiculous. I bet that fucker made her wear this to show her off. "Frances, pet. Thank God. Will you take this tray of food and go offer it to your father's guests please? I can't leave the oven." Her eyes were wide and panicked. "Ma, who are all these people?" Frances asked as she threw one of the small tarts into her mouth and immediately spat it back out into her hand. Her mother was busying herself with drinks so Frances quickly through the mushed up tart into the bin before Margaret noticed. "They're your father's work colleagues. Your da has just been given a big promotion and made me, asked me, to have this party to celebrate." Margaret tried to smile but Frances noticed that her mother lips were shaking.
Frances nodded as she took the tray from her mother and made her way into the sitting room. She turned back to her mother and smiled. "You look really nice, Ma." Frances said and her mother, trying to make her feel a bit more confident. Her mother threw her a knowing smile and turned back to the drinks.
Frances walked around the busy living room holding tray and offering its contents to the guests. Her father was standing by the fireplace, holding court. He had a black suit on and his hair was styled over to one side with gel. He was swirling a tumbler of whiskey in his hand. He rolled his eyes at her before heading into the lounge with two men she had never seen before. He looked tense.
A few of the men grabbed a sandwich while giving her approving looks and smirks. She shook her head and continued around the room. There were a few pretty women, in fancy looking dresses, draped around the medium sized sitting room. They all looked so young and delighted to be there, sipping their drinks and making small talk. Her mother had made sure there were plenty of seats. She was up at five this morning setting the place up and making sure the modest house was sparkling clean. It was. The place looked lovely. Tommy didn't think so, of course. Just before he first guest ha arrived, Margaret was coming down the stairs, unsteadily in her six inch heels, she received the back of Tommy's hand right across her cheek. "I said don't have those fuckin' glasses out! They're old and chipped and make us look poor. Get the other ones from the shed, now! and make sure you hoover up the damn pine needles from that bastard tree!," He roared as Margaret held her cheek and stalked out to the garden shed in the snow.
Frances was just about to head back into the kitchen with a nearly full tray when Paul playfully elbowed her in the side, making her yelp. "Ah, don't you look lovely, you must be delighted to be wearing that." He teased as Frances rolled her eyes. She couldn't stop the smile from forming on her face. Frances really liked Paul but she had ro admit; she didn't know much about him. He was so different to the other men her father was acquainted it. She only thirty-three but looked much older. Frances wondered if Paul knew exactly how horrible her father was and how he treated his family. She guessed not.
There was a part of her that hoped if Paul did know, he would talk to Tommy and make him stop. She wasn't too convinced, though.
"Shut up," She whispered as Paul grabbed a sandwich, chuckling. "Oh Frances, I want you to meet someone. This is Cillian, my son. I don't think you's have met. He's just turned sixteen." Frances followed Paul's gaze as a young man stood up from the couch. Paul has a son? Frances could immediately feel her cheeks turning pink as she looked the boy up and down. He was wearing denim jeans and a white button down shirt. His dark blond hair was slicked back and styled perfectly and he had the brightest blue eyes Frances had ever seen in her life. He smiled and ran his hand through his hair, causing Frances to nearly drop the tray onto the floor. Oh my God! She cursed herself as she tried to recover. Cillian laughed as Paul took the tray from Frances' hands. "Why don't you take a break and have a chat with the only other person under the age of twenty-five in the room." Paul didn't give any time for Frances to argue before he vanished into the kitchen, closing the door behind him.
Frances and Cillian sat in silence for a few minutes while Frances fiddled with her ribbon. She suddenly felt extremely self-conscious. "So..." The two of them both spoke in unison, making them giggle in embarrassment. "Sorry, what were you going to say?" Cillian asked, politely. His accent was a strange mix of Dublin and American. Frances could feel herself blushing again as she gazed at the beautiful boy sitting inches from her. Keep it together, don't make a fool of yourself. She silently warned herself as Cillian leaned his face towards her, to hear her over the loud music. "I was just going to ask you about America. Where abouts do you live?" Frances, asked, genuinely curious. "Boston." Cillian replied, eagerly. "It's in Massachusetts, on the east coast. Have you ever been?" He asked, staring deeply into Frances bright green eyes. "No! Are you joking? I've never even left Dublin." Frances felt herself frown, slightly as she suddenly desired to be far, far away from this place. "Ah, it's okay. I live their with my mam. Her and my da got divorced five years ago and she moved us over there to live near her brother. She just had to get away, you know?" Frances nods, fully understanding that feeling. As she looked around the room she found it hard to hide her sadness. "Are you okay?" Cillian asked, his voice was kind.
Frances turned to him and smiled. She had just opened his mouth to speak when she felt herself being pulled off the couch, forcefully, by the wrist. She crashed into the open arms of Micka, a friend of her fathers she liked the least.
She could smell drink and stale food on his breath. "Frances, you're looking gorgeous tonight. Give us a dance, will ya?" He shouted in her ear as he pressed himself against her. Frances could feel the dread and fear rising in her as she tried to pull away from Micka's grip. "No, thanks, can you let me go, please?" She tried to sound strong but couldn't hide the worry in her voice. Micka laughed and pulled her closer towards him, screaming the lyrics of whatever song was playing into her ear. Frances closed her eyes and tried to control her breath. This isn't the first time that this has happened. Usually, she would tell whatever drunken arsehole it was to fuck off but she knew she couldn't get away with that tonight. She fully expected to just continue with the coerced dance when she suddenly saw a strong hand squeezing Micka's shoulder. Frances's head snapped up in shock. Cillian was increasing his grip on Micka's shoulder and smiling. Frances's face was contorted in fear. This boy is crazy! What the hell is he doing? She silently screamed to herself as her eyes darted, frantically between Cillian's and Micka's.