Page 8 of Dublin's Danger Dancer

“Give me something, Harry. Anything. Absolutely any tiny lead.” I pleaded, remembering how she looked when I’d last seen her.

Her grave was a few metres away but I never visiting her there on the anniversary of her murder. It gave too much credence to the idea that sometimes percolated around my brain that I’d known her longer as a murder case than a sister.

I wanted so desperately to remember Harriet, bouncy and happy. The way she was, but all I could see was the pale yellow label they’d hung over her big toe. The big toe I’d painted lilac.

I never expected to see her body blue and grey, her skin creepy like she’d slept overnight in the bath. Her beautiful hair tinged red with blood. It didn’t look like my Harry, my sister, who’d taught me everything I knew and protected me from everything I didn’t want to know.

From that day on I promised myself I would dedicate my whole life to finding the bastard who did this to her. As the years and the countless false leads rolled by, the facts remained unchanged. She tucked me into bed and kissed me goodnight. She’d told me she was off to a bar called Duncans near the Ha’penny Bridge. She left the bar with Liam O’Shaughnessy and Aaron McMurphy. 14 and 16 respectively. She never made it home. She was found face down in the Liffey River. The back of her head smashed with a rock.

According to witnesses, Lucky didn’t leave the bar until 3:00 am and forensics put her death around 9:00 pm.

I knew Liam O’Shaughnessy knew something. But he was too scared of Lucky to come forward. Now that he was dead, I had a real chance of putting her murderer away.

I pull out my phone and type a message to Lollipops’ manager, Eddie. A man I couldn’t quite believe was still alive, given the eighty-plus cigarettes a day he smoked.

‘I’m back and I’ll be dancing tonight. - Ciara”

“Brilliant news.” Comes the instant reply.

The door of the church opens, making my candle flicker in the wind. I fit my baseball cap over my mass of brown curls and make for the side exit. Lollipops opened soon, and I had work to do.

Chapter Four

Ihadn’t been at the club in over three months. My cover was that I’d been nursing my sick granny in Ballymena.

I had to admit I’d missed dancing. Where some saw exploitation and humiliation, I experienced a surge of warm fizzy appreciation that pulsed like a golden orb.

As a kid I’d been all knees and elbows. Very often my younger foster siblings would haphazardly draw stick figures and say they were me. But now, I was an object of desire. Coveted. Wanted. I was aware enough to realise I only enjoyed it because it was built on a stack of lies. I was educated, progressing up the ranks to one day being Garda Commissioner.

Speeding through Dublin, feeling the night air against my leathers and the helmet against the base of my neck, I mentally rehearse some of the finer details: She was eighty-nine. Died of lung cancer. No, she never smoked a day in her life.

Liam creeps back into my mind. Fergus was right, if I involved myself with him romantically, any evidence I collected would be inadmissible in court, but I didn’t have to present it as evidence collected. I could bring him down with intel in a different way.

Liam only liked me because I treated him mean. I didn’t give him a single glance he didn’t pay for. Sure, during the dance and before I’d massage his ego a little bit by calling him handsome and flirting with him, but outside transactions I was colder than an Alaskan glacier.

I’d read his file. Seen the photos of him beaten half to death by his father. Read the welfare reports that for some unknown reason were never acted upon. Liam O’Shaughnessy wasn’t raised. He was dragged up by Wolves. And his version of love probably involved the pickaxe in the Alaskan glacier.

I park my bike and leap up the stairs to greet Sergei. Who’s guarding the door with a grim expression.

“Ciara!” he says, unfolding his arms and smiling warmly, “I thought I’d never see you again!” He pushes back a bald headed punter to embrace me in a big bear cuddle.

I reciprocate, squeezing Sergei’s massive form. He was one of the people at the club who genuinely seemed to care for others. Eddie, the manager, was a total bastard. All he cared about was getting his dance fees.

I tap Sergei on the back. “I’m delira and excira (delighted and excited) to be back, Serg,” I say.

He grips me by the arms, and leans in to deliver one of his misplaced Irish platitudes. “May those who love us love us. And those that don’t love us, may God turn their hearts. And if he doesn’t turn their hearts, may he turn their ankles, so we’ll know them by their limping! And if you don’t see them limping, I’m here if you need me, Ciara.” He lets me go, returning to his stone faced security demeanour.

I gallop down the steps to the club. The familiar thumping bass rattles my fillings. The smell of stale cologne fills my nostrils. The concourse of the club is a hodgepodge of slightly chubby tech executives.

I wave at Kieran who, upon seeing my face, practically launches over the bar to hug me. Gone is the chrome top bar. Now that Connor had put Eddie in charge, he’d replaced it with a copper indented wraparound that wouldn’t have looked out of place in a hipster pub near the university or on a mug filled with Moscow mule.

Kieran whispers to his bar tending colleague and beckons me over to the side of the bar, where punters aren’t allowed. I’m still in my leathers clutching my helmet.

“Ciara!” he says, “You are finally back. How are you? I missed you so much.” He brings me in for a warm hug and for a moment, I feel guilty that everything I share with Kieran is a lie.

“I’m great. How about yourself?” I ask.

“It hasn’t been the same here without you. There is so much to tell. Have you been okay for money? I can always give you some if you need it?”

---