Black Rose

“Black Rose” Prologue Rose McGill leaned over the kitchen sink, staring at the blood dripping from her trembling hands, asking herself why this man had turned on her so suddenly and without provocation. She poured a shot of whiskey, staining the bottle and glass with her bloody fingertips. Trying to pull herself together, she threw back the shot as a chill ran up her spine. Tying a knot in the belt of her black satin robe, Rose picked up the phone, and called the police. Once she made the call, Rose took her bottle and glass to the living room and sat on the couch awaiting their arrival. Her mind filled with images of family, friends, and strangers, spinning counterclockwise in her head. She leaned her head back, her face throbbing, believing she heard the dance of raindrops falling on the porch steps. Rose listened to the rhythm, recalling tales told to her about her family, wondering how things might have been, regretting none of what she had become, a drift in a deepening gray haze. The September sky stood still. A storm front anchored by thick black clouds hung across the British Isles. From Dunmore Head to the English Channel and north to the Shetlands, thunderheads thrashed and rolled for six straight days. On the seventh, as if heaven sent, a string of light pierced the perpetual gray and bathed the streets of Belfast and into the countryside of county Antrim, and east and south through County Down. Matthew Flannery, as he had each morning, donned his brushed brown storm coat and swung his umbrella across his wrist anticipating the breach in the weather would not last. He made his way through the mud and standing pools of rain, along Springfield Road to the small sundry shop he owned and operated. On this day, however, as he stepped about, trying to avoid the worst of a most unpleasant mess, a woman wrapped in what seemed to be the remains of an Irish chain quilt brushed by him in a rush. Clinging to the edges of what must have been a fine blanket now bathed in mud and tattered, she lash about through the mire, flinging great gobs of clay with each ill-fated step. Matthew hastened his gait at the sound of thunder riding up behind him, knowing this signaled another downpour. The clouds inhaled the rays of sun and gusts of wind bent back the birch and willow. He watched the ragtag woman stumbling in a pond size puddle then slip with a splash that rippled the waters in large unending circles. The rains had just returned as he plodded through the waters, to where the women knelt. Gripping her arm and waistline, he pulled her to her feet and led her to an overhang just beyond the line of trees. He pulled from the deep inside pocket of his overcoat a large white linen handkerchief, dampened it in the rain, and began to wipe the brown muck dripping from the woman’s face. The notion of asking the woman why she was traipsing through the rain soaked streets in such a rush entered Matthews mind. He dismissed the question, not wanting to pry; concentrating more on removing the mud spatters that as he wiped. “Oh, thank you, thank you”, said the woman looking down at her mud-stained clothes. “I must have been quite a sight, rooting around like a sow. I’m such a clumsy oaf. Quite a sight indeed”, she repeated, tossing back the wet heavy quilt and looking up. 2 Matthew had turned away to freshen the hankie in the rain, “its fine now Mum”, he began. Suddenly the words were stolen from his mouth as he gazed into her eyes, deep blue sparkling eyes, eyes like he had never seen before; warm, caring, calming. “May I ask your name, Mum”, he said cautiously. “Nora Burns, good sir”, she answered respectfully, in a sweet subtle wisp of a voice. “Ohhhh”, replied Matthew, introducing himself as he looked down the road. “You have the tailoring shop just past Haggerty’s on the east bend and before Kil Pipers Hill. Mine is the sundries shop down by Pat Clancy’s Pub, along the west side”. Nora did nothing to acknowledge what Matthew said. She, too, found herself staring deep into the soft hazel eyes of a stranger, who, for some reason, felt very familiar to her. A lash of rain invaded their moment, their haven was now getting soaked, and so were they. Matthew raised his umbrella and covered Nora’s head. He was much taller than she was. Putting his arm around her, she snuggled in beneath him and placed her hand over his, as he guided her across a slick mossy incline to the gravel road, keeping her dry until they reached her shop. Nora opened the door as Matthew bid his goodbyes. “Could I see you later, for dinner perhaps?” he asked hopefully. “You are most bold young man”, replied Nora. “Thinkin cuss you pulled me from a puddle, I should be wantin to eat with ya. I must say! And what else would you be thinkin Mr. Flannery?” A crack of thunder rumbled as the rain pelted and splashed about them. It seemed Mother Nature had not finished playing matchmaker, when a flash of lightning and another crash of thunder boomed. Nora shivered and shook, before saying “I’ll be having dinner with me sisters,” and then paused seeing the look of disappointment in Matthew’s eyes, adding, “But you are certainly most welcome to join us”. “That sounds delightful,” exclaimed Matthew, “Around five then?” Nora agreed. The rain played a steady beat upon Matthew’s umbrella as he turned and dashed the distance to his shop. Two blokes in dark brimmed derbies where waiting in the doorway as he arrived. Their coats where soaked and dripping, as they huddled beneath the small Kelly green awning above the entrance, waiting for the shop to open. Matthew shook the excess droplets of water from his umbrella and turned down his collar, while both men stared him down, shivering. “You’re late Mattie me boy”, one of the men said. His sandpaper voice cracking as he spoke. Matthew dug the keys from his coat pocket and nudged past the men, inserting the key and turning it as he leaned his shoulder to the door. The damage to the lock and knob occurred when vandals broken into the store a week or so before. Matthew intended to repair it properly once the weather improved. “Sticks a bit”, he quipped, shoving the stubborn door ajar. The two men scrambled past him and scurried up to the old potbelly stove in the corner of the shop. The embers where barely lit. The first man took hold of the iron poker and stirred up the embers while the second man grabbed four small chunks of wood from the corner stack. He handed them to the first man one at a time, who chucked them in and slammed the door. The dry bark caught fire quickly, soon after the logs were in flame, warming the entire store. Matthew hung his coat on the rack to the right of the stove and sat down on a rickety old chair beside the wood stack. He exchanged his damp shoes and stockings for a dry pair he left behind the counter and placed the wet items near the stove to dry. Matthew dried his feet with an old towel, pulled on the new socks and shoes and went behind the counter. The two men, now warm, stood before him. He recognized them as regular customers and was not bothered that they took it upon themselves to stoke the stove. The two men were brothers, twins in fact, but Matthew did not know their names. They came in twice a week, purchased two cans of tobacco, cigarette papers a box of matches and a copy of the Belfast Newsletter.