“Gardaí have begun a criminal investigation into the discovery of the bodies of two brothers in their late 60s.  The remains of the men were discovered at their house on New Antrim Street, Castlebar, Co Mayo, at 7am. One of the bodies was found inside the house and the other outside the property . . . sources said there was a large amount of blood at the scene and it appears the men died violently.” – The Irish Times, June 10, 2013

Finn Reilly wished he had a gun.  A cracked-open door was never a good sign, and even less so in County Mayo.  Brian would never have left the door open like this.  Was this what that mysterious call was about?

“Finn?  It’s Brian.  Come to my house straightaway, and come alone.  There’s someone here who wants to help you.”

“Help me with what?” Finn had asked.  “Who are you talking about?”  But Brian had hung up without another word.

Now Finn stood outside his brother’s house on New Antrim Street, afraid to go in, of what he might find.  If only he had brought a gun.  He pushed open the door and stepped inside.

The house was a bit sloppy, but orderly enough that Finn could rule out ransacking.  Maybe a robber who knew what he was doing.  Or what if it was an assassin?  After everything they had done during the Troubles, Finn couldn’t rule that out.

And it became even clearer when he walked into his brother’s bedroom and saw the blood.

Brian was propped up against the headboard of his bed, a dagger sticking out of his chest.  The blue sheets had turned dark purple around his body, and on his forearm was carved a list of names: Jimmy, Ashton, Sarah, Percy.

“He remembered every one,” a soft voice cooed from the corner.  “Every innocent life he’s ever taken.  What about you, Finn?”

Finn whirled, hands up and out, as a shadow unfolded itself from the darkness of the room.  Flame red hair, like a mercury-maddened hatter, hanging long and combed back from a high forehead.  Slender, pale face with burning red eyes peering from dark caves and searing into his brain.  Painfully white teeth, through which Finn could catch the briefest glimpse of a pink tongue.  Black suit, red shirt, black tie, black shoes, all custom.  White hands with long fingers ending in red-polished nails.  The accent was definitely British, and the look on his face was the smug smile of a blackmailer about to spill his secrets.

Finn really wished he had a gun.

“Who are you?” he asked.

“Crimson Stayne, at your service,” said the red man.  “Don’t worry; we’ll get to know each other very well over these last few minutes of your life.”

“You’ll kill me like you killed my brother, then?” Finn growled.

“Oh, that?”  Stayne gestured to Brian’s body.  “I didn’t do that.  I just talked to him.  He finished himself off, poor boy.”

“You expect me to believe that he stabbed himself in the heart?”

“When it hurts too much . . .”  Stayne tossed a framed photograph to Finn, who stared at it in shock.

“How did you get this?” he asked, clutching the picture of his granddaughter.

“Sharon Reilly; that’s her name, isn’t it?  Lovely girl.  She’s about to be wed, I believe.  Some strapping young man from Coleraine. You must be so proud.”

Finn’s mind fumbled for an explanation.  “You’re with British Intelligence, aren’t you?”

Stayne just smiled.  “We’re here to talk about you, Finn.  Because you know who else was about to get married that you knew?”

Finn glanced down at the picture in his hand, and his fingers went numb.  Where his granddaughter’s face had been a moment before, a new face smiled up at him, a face that had burned itself into his memory like the shadows of Hiroshima.

The photo slipped from his shaking hand.

“How did you . . .”

“I can do anything,” said Stayne.  “I’d give you the scientific explanation, but we don’t have time.  I’m expecting another guest, and she’s dying to meet you.  Or you’re dying to meet her; I haven’t quite decided which hypothesis to work from.  Whatever the result, it’ll be an enlightening experiment, don’t you think?”

“This is no bloody experiment!” said Finn.  “My brother is dead.”

“Yes, he died,” Stayne replied, crossing to the bed and flopping down beside Brian’s body.  “People die every day.  Especially in your old line of work.”

Finn formed his face into a mask.  “It’s true I was convicted of killing a man.”

“Don’t give me that ‘I can neither confirm nor deny’ runaround,” Stayne snarled.  “You can’t hide your secrets from me.  You killed that man and a dozen others.  In your defense, they were dirty IRA killers, but then you were a dirty UVF killer, so it’s not much of defense.”

“I fought for my country!” Finn shouted.  “Not everything we did was right, but we did what we had to do to put down those rebels.  I wouldn’t take back one moment with the Volunteers.”

“Not one?”  Stayne raised his eyebrows further than Finn thought they ought to have gone.  “What about that day in ‘74?  The bomb in the Shamrock Pub?  Three dead, twelve injured?  You can’t pretend those victims were as guilty as you were.”

Finn clenched his teeth.  “It was a necessary tactic.  We had to wake up the people.”

“By putting them to rest forever.”  Stayne chuckled.  “My, how logic escapes the human mind.  But there’s one victim in particular I’m thinking about.  The one who didn’t die right away.”

Finn’s eyes went back to the broken frame on the floor.

“That’s right.  That poor little girl.  Twenty-four years old, a baby at home, a marriage the next day, and a bright future ahead of her.  Then the bomb filled the side of her head with shrapnel.  You remember, don’t you?  You just had to stay behind to make sure it went off, and there she was, crawling out of the wreckage, blood running down her face and staining her pretty dress—“

“Stop it!” Finn hissed.  “Just stop it!”

“She caught hold of your leg,” Stayne continued, eyes drilling away.  “And when she looked up at you with those blue eyes, all the life and youth and happiness and sorrow draining out of them—“

“NO!” shouted Finn, dashing out of the room, trying to remember how to breathe.  But even in the empty hall, he couldn’t escape the twin pairs of eyes, one red and one blue, one accusing and one pleading, both strangling his soul.

“I did what I had to do for queen and country,” he whispered, doubled over, fists clenched, face screwed up against the cries for justice that pounded in his brain.

“All these years you’ve tried to justify your sins,” Stayne’s whisper slithered over his shoulder and into his ear.  “But no matter how far you run, you can’t escape her face or the verdict it brings.  You always thought your brother was the weak one because he doubted his actions.  But Brian was strong.  He faced the truth.  Why can’t you?”

“Never!”  Finn grabbed a candlestick from the hall table and swung it behind him.  It struck nothing but the wall.  Stayne stood in the bedroom door at the other end of the hall, his smile showing each blinding fang.

Finn stumbled back, then turned and ran out of the house.  He had to get away, had to think, had to live—

Something crashed into the back of his skull.  He hit the ground and rolled over, staring up at his attacker.  There she was, with her blue eyes filled with pain and sorrow and pleading, and something new.

Rage.  A rage that twisted her lovely face into the face of a demon and made the rake in her hand tremble.

With his last thought, Finn wished he had a gun.

But not for her.

Moments later, the girl dropped the blood-soaked rake, tears long held back streaming from her eyes.

“That’s a nice piece of work, Quinn,” said Stayne, draping an arm around her.  “You must feel so much more at peace now that your grandmother is avenged.”

“I thought it would help,” Quinn sobbed, “but it doesn’t.  I just made myself him.”

“Really?” Stayne asked, a smile forming behind his thin lips.  “Let’s talk about that.”