Born & Bred Read online

  BORN

  &

  BRED

  A NOVEL BY

  PETER

  MURPHY

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons living or dead, is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of either the author or the publisher.

  The Story Plant

  Studio Digital CT, LLC

  P.O. Box 4331

  Stamford, CT 06907

  Copyright © 2013 by Peter Damien Murphy

  Jacket design by Barbara Aronica Buck

  Print ISBN-13: 978-1-61188-116-5

  E-book ISBN: 978-1-61188-117-2

  Visit our website at www.TheStoryPlant.com

  All rights reserved, which includes the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever except as provided by U.S. Copyright Law. For information, address The Story Plant.

  First Story Plant Printing: March 2014

  Printed in the United States of America

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  Contents

  Praise for Peter Murphy’s Lagan Love

  Also by Peter Murphy

  Epigraph

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Sin a bhfuil

  A Preview of LAGAN LOVE

  Praise for Peter Murphy’s Lagan Love

  Praise for Peter Murphy’s Lagan Love

  “The best books are not forgotten because you can never stop thinking beyond the story. This is true of Lagan Love. Murphy is a natural storyteller. I look forward to reading more.”

  – Examiner.com

  “Lagan Love is more than your ordinary novel and Mr. Murphy is a skilled writer with the ability to tell a story that teaches a life lesson everyone can benefit from.”

  – Simply Stacie

  “Old Ireland myths, a beautifully woven background, a cast of unique and adept characters set the tone for this phenomenal story of love, loss, and hunger…. With twists and turns, erotic scenes and magic, Lagan Love is a fascinating read.”

  – Minding Spot

  “Lagan Love is as complex as love itself, particularly when artists and simply men and women are competing for the affections of the same person — even if only to be in control. Murphy’s style is as complex as his characters, but readers will be absorbed in the forlorn myths and legends created and expounded upon.”

  – Savvy Verse and Wit

  “Peter Murphy spins an exciting story of romance and the problems with it, making Lagan Love a unique novel with plenty of twists and turns underneath it all.”

  – Midwest Book Review

  Also by Peter Murphy

  Lagan Love

  Happy will they be who lend ear to the words of the Dead.

  — Leonardo da Vinci

  For the wayward children of strife, everywhere.

  CHAPTER 1

  On the night of August 10, 1977, Daniel Bartholomew Boyle made the biggest mistake of his young life, one that was to have far-reaching consequences for him and those around him. He might have argued that the course of his life had already been determined by happenings that occurred before he was born, but, poor Catholic that he was, riddled with guilt and shame, he believed that he, and he alone, was responsible. He had been dodging the inevitable since Scully got lifted but he knew it was only a matter of time before it caught up with him. Perhaps that was why he paused in front of the old cinema in Terenure after weeks of skulking in the shadows. Perhaps that was why he waited in the drizzle as the passing car turned back and pulled up beside him.

  “Get in the car, Boyle.”

  Danny wanted to make an excuse—to say that he was waiting for someone—but he knew better.

  It wouldn’t do to keep them waiting. They weren’t the patient sort, twitchy and nervous, and single-minded without a shred of compassion. He looked around but the streets were empty. There was no one to help him now, standing like a target in front of the art deco facade of the Classic.

  The cinema had been closed for over a year, its lights and projectors darkened, and now lingered in hope of new purpose. He had spent hours in there with Deirdre, exploring each other in the dark while watching the midnight film, stoned out of their minds, back when they first started doing the stuff. He used to do a lot of his dealing there, too, around the back where no one ever looked.

  “Come on, Boyle. We haven’t got all fuckin’ night.”

  Danny’s bowels fluttered as he stooped to look inside the wet black car. Anthony Flanagan was sitting in the passenger’s seat, alongside a driver Danny had seen around. He was called “the Driller” and they said he was from Derry and was lying low in Dublin. They said he was an expert at kneecapping and had learned his trade from the best. Danny had no choice; things would only get worse if he didn’t go along with them.

  “How are ya?” He tested the mood as he settled into the back seat beside a cowering and battered Scully. He had known Scully since he used to hang around the Dandelion Market. He was still at school then and spent his Saturday afternoons there, down the narrow covered lane that ran from Stephen’s Green into the Wonderland where the hip of Dublin could come together to imitate what was going on in the rest of the world—but in a particularly Dublin way.

  Dave, the busker, always took the time to nod to him as he passed. Dave was black and played Dylan in a Hendrix way. He always wore an afghan coat and his guitar was covered with peace symbols. Danny would drop a few coins as he passed and moved on between the stalls as Dylan gave way to Horslips, Rory Gallagher, and Thin Lizzy.

  The stalls were stacked with albums and tapes, josh sticks and tie-dyed t-shirts with messages like “Peace” and “Love,” pictures of green plants and yellow happy faces along with posters of Che, whose father’s people had come from Galway.

  The stalls were run by hippies from such far-out places as Blackrock and Sandyford, students from Belfield and Trinity, and a select few from Churchtown. They were all so aloof as they tried to mask their involvement in commercialism under a veneer of cool. Danny knew most of them by sight, and some by name. On occasion he’d watch over their stalls when they had to get lunch or relieve themselves. He was becoming a part of the scene.

  **

  “Hey Boyle!”

  Danny had seen Scully around before but they had never spoken. Scully, everyone said, was the guy to see about hash and acid, and, on occasion, some opium.

  “You go to school in Churchtown?”

  Danny had just nodded, not wanting to seem overawed.

  “Wanna make some bread?”

  “Sure. What do I have to do?”

  “Just deliver some stuff to a friend. He’ll meet up with you around the school and no one will know—if you’re cool?”

  Danny had thought about it for a moment but he couldn’t say no. He had been at the edge of everything that happened for so long. Now he was getting a chance to be connected—to be one of those guys that everybody spoke about in whispers. Sure it was a bit risky but he could use the money and, besides, no one would ever suspect him. Most people felt sorry for him and the rest thought he was a bit of a spaz.

  “Could be a r
egular gig—if you don’t fuck it up.” Scully had smiled a shifty smile and melted back into the crowd, checking over each shoulder as he went.

  ***

  As they drove off, Scully didn’t answer and just looked down at his hands. His fingers were bloody and distorted like they had been torn away from whatever he had been clinging onto.

  Anto turned around and smiled as the street lights caught in the diamond beads on the windshield behind him. “We’re just fuckin’ fine, Boyle. We’re taking Scully out for a little spin in the mountains.”

  His cigarette dangled from his thin lips and the smoke wisped away ambiguously. He reached back and grabbed a handful of Scully’s hair, lifting his bruised and bloodied face. “Scully hasn’t been feeling too good lately and we thought that a bit of fresh air might sort him out, ya know?”

  “Cool,” Danny agreed, trying to stay calm, trying not to let his fear show—Anto fed off it. He briefly considered asking them to drop him off when they got to Rathfarnham but there was no point. He knew what was about to go down. Scully had been busted a few weeks before, and, after a few days in custody, had been released.

  It was how the cops set them up. They lifted them and held them until they broke and spilled all that they knew. Then they let them back out while they waited for their court date. If they survived until then—well and good. And if they didn’t, it saved everybody a lot of time and bother.

  Danny sat back and watched Rathfarnham Road glide by in the night. They crossed the Dodder and headed up the hill toward the quiet, tree-lined streets that he had grown up in. As they passed near his house he thought about it: if the car slowed enough he could risk it—just like they did in the pictures. He could jump out and roll away. He could be up and running before they got the car turned around and by then he would be cutting through the back gardens and could easily lose them.

  “You live around here, don’t ya, Boyle?” Anto spoke to the windshield but Danny got the message. “And your girlfriend—she lives down that way?”

  Danny thought about correcting him. He hadn’t seen Deirdre since the incident in the church but there was no point. They’d use anybody and anything to get to him. He was better off just going along with them for now.

  He briefly thought about asking God to save him but there was no point in that, either. They had given up on each other a long time ago. He turned his head away as they approached the church where he had been confirmed into the Faith, so long ago and far away now.

  **

  He had dipped his little fingers into the old stone font and made a wet cross on his forehead, his chest and each of his shoulders. His granny had often told him that the font was used in the Penal times when the faithful were banished to the mountains and the English spread their “Enlightenment” with muskets and swords. He had blessed himself like the generations had done before him, entitled by patriotism and Catholicism, rising up from the bogs of hopelessness to shake off the Imperial yoke. And back then he believed every word of it.

  “The long arm of the Devil is always reaching out to knock unwary souls from the narrow path that leads to Heaven,” she always warned him. “And the fires of Hell burn brighter every time a soul falls.”

  He had been fascinated by that and once held his finger in the flame of a candle to see what it was like. And though he quickly pulled it away, he had a blister. “Let that be a lesson to you,” his granny chided as she smeared butter on it. “Now you can imagine what it’s like to have your whole body burning—for eternity.”

  ***

  Anto lit another cigarette; the bursting match filled the car with sulphur, the red and yellow glare briefly brightening the side of the driver’s impassive face. “You don’t mind if I smoke, do you, Scully?”

  Scully didn’t say anything and just shook his downturned head.

  “C’mon, Scully. Don’t be like that. We’re all still friends.” Anto handed his cigarette packet back over his shoulder. “Here, give Scully a smoke—and have one yourself. We’re all good mates here. Right? Just a bunch of mates taking a drive in the mountains.”

  Danny took the packet and fished two out. He held one toward Scully and when he didn’t raise his head, searched for his mouth. He struck another match and held it out as Scully turned his head. His face was bloody and swollen. His nose, snotty and flattened to one side. He was missing more teeth than usual and he had been crying, probably for his life. He sucked the flame toward the tip of the cigarette and nodded at Danny but his eyes were resigned.

  “There’s the old church where we all went to Mass. Isn’t that right, Boyle?” Anto reached over his shoulder and took the pack from Danny. “That was where we made our Confirmation and all that shite?”

  Danny just nodded as old memories flooded back.

  **

  He had blessed himself with deliberate care under the supervision of Mr. Patrick Joseph Muldoon, his National School teacher, who had spent most of 1966 teaching Danny and his classmates how to be really Irish as the country got ready to celebrate the once derided martyrs of the Easter Rising—those who had died so Christ-like. By 1967, Muldoon’s vocation was to ready them for Confirmation, that they might be a credit to their Church, their parents, and, of course, to Patrick Joseph Muldoon, once from a small biteen of a place in the bogs beyond in Mayo.

  But when the Confirmation class went to Confession, he caught Danny blessing himself with his left hand and wacked it with a leather strap. “For the love of God, Boyle, what kind of way is that to be blessing yourself and you about to make your Confirmation? What kind of a Catholic are you?” Danny didn’t dare answer, burning as he was with shame, the lingering effects of Original Sin. Muldoon had taught them about that, too. That’s why they had to have the love of God beaten into them.

  He was smiling as Danny stepped inside and took his place with his classmates. All the boys were dressed in dark suits with ribboned medals on their lapels, looking for all the world like little gentlemen.

  And the girls looked like flowers in A-line coats over lace-trimmed satins and white stockinged feet in black patent-leather shoes. They weren’t women yet, but some of them were beginning to attract attention in the way they stood and eyed the boys who smiled back nervously. Some of the boys even blushed and fidgeted until someone broke the tension by whispering: “I hope the bishop asks you!”

  They had all been drilled in the Catechism but when the moment came—when the bishop walked among them and stopped, searching for doubts and unworthiness—none of them wanted to be tested. There was so much riding on the day. It was the day when they took their place in the One, Holy, Catholic and Apostolic Church.

  It was also the day when friends and families bestowed their blessings in a much more tangible way. The previous year, some of the boys made over five pounds. Danny knew that he would do better. His father had already promised him a fiver—the next time he came home—to make up for not being able to make it over for the big day. “Things are a bit slow right now,” he had told him when he made his weekly phone call. “But I’m just going down to see a man who knows a man who heard of a fella that might be hiring. Things are going to pick up, you’ll see.”

  His father often made promises like that and usually forgot about them, but this time Danny was sure he’d come through. It was his Confirmation, after all, and the Holy Ghost was involved. He’d move his father to do the right thing. Besides, his granny said they would go and visit his mother in the hospital and Danny could show off to all the nurses and the patients. “They all have lots of money,” his granny assured him, “and they’ll be delighted for you, on your big day. Now stop fidgeting and pull up your socks. And make sure you take the pledge.”

  ***

  “I didn’t grass,” Scully suddenly announced to no one in particular, as if the enormity of his plight had finally seeped through all of his pain and nausea. “I swear to ya, I didn’t tell them anything. They tried to make me but I just told them a load of shite, ya know. I just gave the
m names of people I made up. Ya know I’d never grass. Ya know that, don’t ya?”

  The Driller and Anto exchanged glances but said nothing so Danny stayed silent, too. The Devil was coming to collect his due and there was nothing any of them could do about that. Scully was done-for but there might still be some hope for Danny. There had to be. Sure he had strayed from the path, but it wasn’t all his fault.

  **

  When the Confirmation ceremony reached its apex, Dr. John Charles McQuaid, the archbishop of Dublin, ascended into the elevated pulpit. He rose like an apparition without seeming to move his limbs under his dark robes. He looked to the ceiling and then down on them all for a moment like he was thinking about withholding Confirmation.

  Danny had overheard his granny say that he was like that: “Cold and remote but, God love him, he grew up without his mother’s love to soften his world. But it’s a pity that he doesn’t pay more attention to what the Sacred Heart of Jesus used to say about Love and being nice to everyone—especially poor sinners.”

  Danny never knew what to say when Granny spoke like that. He just listened and stored it all away to consider when he was alone and his face couldn’t be read. But none of that would get in his way today, not when being a Catholic finally paid off.

  The archbishop was talking in a low stern voice: “I promise,” he intoned and paused until they repeated it. Danny joined in and raised his voice above them all, vowing with all of his heart: “to abstain from all intoxicating drinks, except used medically and by order of a medical man, and to discountenance the cause and practice of intemperance.”

  When he’d finished, Danny’s heart soared up around the columns, searching for an open window, to fly out, all the way to the Heavens. The small fiery tongue of the Holy Ghost had descended upon him and kindled his soul and he wanted to feel that way forever.

  But, by the time they got out of the warm stuffy church, the boys were tugging at their fresh white collars, loosening their stifling ties, while the girls hopped from foot to foot, trying to skip the pinch of new shoes. Muldoon was organizing them for photographs. First the whole class and then a series of each newly-confirmed with attending parents and himself—prominent for all posterity.