Page 1 of Dark Ink

Rian

Rian. [Say: REE-an.] Means “King” in Gaelic.

The phone call that changed everything interrupted my song.

It was fate being cruel, of course. If the phone call had never come through, I would have listened to the beautiful lyrics in the warmth of September’s last sunny days. I would have closed my eyes as the breeze rustled the brightly coloured leaves of the Dublin Art School campus. I would have sighed deeply, enjoyed my high as I sat on this park bench. Later, crossed the street, passed through those wrought iron gates, visited the dean, agreed to teach another class that semester, returned to the tattoo parlour I ran with my two best friends, continued on in life happy and healthy and sane. I would have had everything.

Except her.

But the phone call came through just then. It came through and guaranteed that I would see her. Guaranteed that the best thing to ever happen to me would appear in my life.

Guaranteed that I would then destroy it.

I was damned either way: happiness, but without her. Misery, but without her. So it didn’t matter. Didn’t fucking matter at all that the phone call that changed everything interrupted the song that fateful afternoon.

“Who is this?” I answered.

“Raglan Road” was paused on the locked screen of my phone. I could see my reflection in the rest of the black screen. If I’d known it was the last time I would be at peace for a long time, I might have tried to remember it better, my face. To paint it later. To have proof that life could be something other than fucking agonising.

My brother’s voice on the other line was like a freight train to the chest.

“Rian. What’s the craic?”

Such casualness. Such simple words. My name. Something practically the entire Dublin Art School knew. Thousands of students. And a casual greeting. Something someone on the bus says. Something your weed dealer says. No acknowledgement of blood…of blood soured.

“Liam.”

At least I had the decency to say his name with spite. To infuse it with something personal: a unique Merrick family blend of hatred and love, anger and understanding, pain and sadness and futile wishing that things had somehow been different. At least I acted like we were still brothers, even if we were estranged (at best).

“Um, are ye alright?” my older brother asked.

I laughed. Maybe because I was a little high. Or maybe because it was funny. That’s exactly what he’d say to me after my eldest brother, Alan, or my father beat me. Exactly the words he used when he knelt in front of my trembled huddle with a warm washcloth and an apologetic frown. Exactly all he did: not sticking up for me, not interfering, not taking me away. Just blotting at my bleeding lip and saying, “Um, are ye alright?” Maybe it was funny, how so much time can pass and not a goddamn thing at all changes. Or maybe it was just the weed after all.

“Let’s see, Liam,” I answered, “not as alright as I was ten seconds ago.”

“Rian—”

“Ten seconds ago I still had the chance to get hit by a bus instead of answering the phone. Ten seconds ago a tree limb could have fallen on me and I wouldn’t have had to hear whatever you have to say. Ten seconds ago the earth could have literally opened wide and swallowed me whole and I wouldn’t have to be here digging my nails into my palms to keep from hanging up on you.”

“I don’t want to fight.”

I already knew that. There was no need at all for him to say that. I’d known that my whole cursed childhood: Liam did not want to fight. Did not want conflict. Did not want to risk a broken cheekbone himself.

“Look,” he said, “I don’t know how we got off on the wrong foot after I said a handful of words, but—”

“That’s a lot for you,” I said, unable to keep the bitterness from my voice.

The sunshine was suddenly irritating. The blue of the sky harsh and unnatural. I shifted uncomfortably on the park bench as Liam sighed.

“What is that supposed to mean?” he asked.

I didn’t answer. I left it up to him to remember when he ever voiced five whole words to my father. Or to Alan. “Stop” was only one word, and I can’t remember him ever uttering even that. I was the runt, the youngest, the one who reminded everyone too much of Ma. I was the voiceless. But Liam felt he was the kind brother because he didn’t ever hit me. The gentle one because he kept his mouth closed instead of verbally abusing me.

“Rian,” Liam eventually said. I could hear him pacing, could hear the familiar creak of old floorboards of the place we’d grown up.

“He’s sick.”

The urge to throw the phone away from my ear was only slightly less violent than the urge to throw up. I could have imagined Liam anywhere in the world. In the States. In the south of France. In Tahiti. Right across the street from me at the college bus stop. But I never imagined he would be there. That he could ever stand to step foot back onto that godforsaken farm.

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