Artem
One of Ronan’s men is waiting out front with a car to take me anywhere I want to go.
I tell him, “The Free Canary,” then settle back into my seat.
The bartender is nowhere to be found. He must’ve left while I was inside.
Smart man. If I ever see that bastard again, I’ll kill him.
The ride is swift and silent. We stop outside the tavern, which looks just as run down and neglected as Cillian had always described.
True to his word, there’s a foul-looking porn shop on the right side and another pub on the left that looks warmer, brighter, livelier.
The Free Canary squats in the middle. Dank and unloved. The sign overhead shows a yellow bird flapping its way out of a shattered iron cage. Looks like a six-year-old fingerpainted it, to be honest.
I sigh and shake my head.
Of course Cillian would love a shithole like this.
I step out of the car. It speeds off the moment I’m clear of the wheels. The weather outside has gotten colder and greyer since we left Ronan’s mansion.
I pull my jacket closer around me and step through the front doors.
The moment I walk inside, I feel like I’ve walked into a time capsule. Old posters and maps of Ireland from centuries ago dot the walls. The music is Irish through and through, which means it’s equal parts cheerful and mournful.
I go to the bar and flag down the bartender, a skinny blonde with smudged racoon eyes and tits pressed up damn near to her neck.
She eyes me like she’s not sure whether she wants to fuck me or rob me.
As long as she doesn’t pull a gun on me like the last bartender I might, I don’t give a damn.
“What can I get you, handsome?” she asks in a rolling brogue.
“Water.”
“That’s it?”
“That’s it.”
She starts trying to tempt me into barbeque wings. But she falls silent when I hold up a hand to cut her off.
I shake my head. “Just water,” I tell her. “And silence.”
She bites her lip and nods. “Aye, understood.”
A few moments later, she places a glass of water in front of me and disappears down to the opposite end of the bar.
Satisfied, I take the chance to look at the walls of the bar that had built Cillian.
His words, not mine.
“That fucking pub built me.”
“You sound like a country Western song.”
“And you sound like a sourpuss bitch.”
I hear his voice in my head, but the words are all recycled. Ancient history. Ghosts from the past.