Page 18 of The Thief
He nods, finishes his drink, drops money on the bar and stands to leave.
"Freddie?"
He turns back, eyebrows raised.
"That picture. The one with the blue dress. Where did you see it?"
"Henry's office. Framed on his desk, right next to one of your father. He looks at it every time someone mentions Killian's name."
The words hit me like a physical blow. All these years thinking I was alone, thinking nobody cared whether I lived or died. And somewhere in Dublin, an old man's been keeping my photo on his desk, waiting for the day he could bring me home.
"I'll think about it," I say.
"That's all I'm asking."
I should have gone to the shop earlier. Should have picked up milk and bread before I started my shift, not waited until half eleven when the streets are empty and every shadow looks like trouble.
But my mind's been elsewhere tonight. Lost in thoughts of families I never knew existed and old men who keep photos of granddaughters they've never met.
The grocery shop is still open, thankfully. The cashier gives me a look when I walk in. Everyone knows you don't wander Belfast’s streets alone this late unless you've got no choice.
"Working late again, love?" she asks.
"Something like that."
I grab what I need, pay quickly, and head back out into the night. The streets are quieter now, just the occasional car and the distant sound of music from pubs that don't close when they should.
I'm two blocks from Murphy's when I hear the footsteps.
Three sets. Keeping pace behind me, trying to be quiet but failing. Dad taught me to listen out for these things. He taught me to trust my instincts when they scream danger.
I speed up slightly. So do they.
Fuck.
The alley next to Murphy's is dark, narrow. It’s the perfect place for an ambush. I should keep walking, find somewhere public, somewhere with witnesses. But my keys are in my bag and my flat's right there and I'm tired of being scared.
I make it halfway down the alley before they catch up.
"Evening, love."
I recognize the voice. It’s definitely Sean Jennings; the little prick from last night. He's only got two friends with him this time, but they are both bigger than him, both looking like they've done this before.
"Sean." I turn to face them, keeping my voice steady. "Bit late for a social call."
"Never too late to finish a conversation."
"We finished it last night."
"Did we? Because I remember being humiliated by some Dublin cunt while you watched. I remember thinking you might have enjoyed that."
His friends spread out, blocking the alley. It’s a standard intimidation tactic; make the target feel trapped, helpless. Dad taught me about this too.
"What do you want, Sean?"
"An apology would be nice. Compensation for the embarrassment."
"How much compensation are we talking?"
