"Look after your brother."
Every morning as they left for school, these were the words their ma said goodbye with. She said it to both of them at once. She didn't care if they made good marks; the things she taught them after school was over were much more important. So what if they got held back a year, as long as they were together. She didn't tell them to stay out of trouble; they knew what they could get away with and what would cause too much attention.
"Look after your brother."
And Connor was good at that. Murphy was too, but Connor liked to think of himself as the older brother; the strong one, the protective one. They were the bane of schoolyard bullies. Where one was, the other wasn't far behind. They might not be very big for their age, but with the way they fought, you always knew where they had been.
"Look after your brother."
Connor tried. With all his little heart, he tried. Fourth grade was the first time they were split up in school. Connor had Ms. Rhodes. Murphy had Mr. Harris.
"Look after your brother."
Murphy's nightmares began in the winter, just after Christmas break was over. He stopped wanting to go out and play. He didn't want to throw snowballs or chase around the back alleys or climb on the fire escapes. He couldn't sleep without a light on.
Connor tried to make it better. He teased and poked and tried to force Murphy to be happy again. He begged, he pleaded, he cajoled. All of it was useless.
And then came the night that Murphy woke in the night and wouldn't stop crying and Connor knew that something was too wrong for him to fix. He woke Ma and together they comforted his brother. It took a long time. Murphy was afraid. Mr. Harris had made him afraid; told him if he wasn't good, that bad things would happen to Connor and Ma.
Connor watched while she took Murphy's clothes off. He saw bruises where there shouldn't be bruises. There was blood in Murphy's underwear. He had failed. Murphy was hurt and it was all his fault. He wanted to cry but he didn't deserve to, so he was strong, and held Murph's hand while Ma cleaned him with a washcloth and his brother cried.
They moved to the tiny apartment's other room, and snuggled into a pile on the couch where Ma usually slept alone.
"Connor," her voice was soft. Murphy slept at last.
"Yeah, Ma?"
"We will make it right. We take care of our own, and what cannot be prevented must be avenged."
Connor cried then, like a baby, like a stupid girl. He hid his face in his mother's dark hair and sobbed his heart out onto her shoulder.
-------------
The gun was cold and heavy in his hands. He had helped Ma clean it and load it. Now he held it for her, knowing that she'd need to have it quick when she needed it.
Mr. Harris' house was quiet, except for the sound of a TV on the other side of the door. Ma had boosted him up to the window, and he had told her the man was sleeping in a chair.
"Ready?" He couldn't understand how she could be so calm, so sure. She had a big hammer in her hands, like the men used on construction sites or something.
He couldn't talk. He thought he might pee himself. But he had never hated a man like he hated Mr. Harris, and he was ready, so he nodded.
The hammer hit the doorknob, and they both turned away as the glass on the door shattered. The gun was taken out of his hands, and Ma was through the door and into the living room before the last glittering bits had hit the sidewalk.
"Make a fuss and I'll blow your bollocks off, I swear to god." Mr. Harris was awake, scrambling back from her and the gun. Connor followed behind her, his eyes wide and his heart pounding.
He had never loved his mother more. She was so strong, so steady. Like when Mrs O'Connell's husband had the drink in him and Ma had to go next door and make him go walk it off.
She tossed Mr. Harris a pair of handcuffs. She pointed with her free hand, not the gun, over to the banister. "Through th' rails. Lock both wrists. Now, if ye want t' keep your anatomy."
When he was all locked in she went up to him and kicked his feet out from under him. Once, twice, he stood again, but the third time he hung by the cuffs and let his feet sprawl on the floor.
"This is the man that hurt your brother?"
Mr. Harris tried to talk, something about Murphy wanting him to do it, but Ma hit him in the mouth with the gun. He spit blood and didn't try to say anything after that.
"He's the man," Connor answered, anger burning in his stomach.
"Bring th' pillow over," Ma told him. He grabbed one off of the chair and brought it. She moved him in front of her, taking the pillow and wrapping his small fingers around the gun. With the cushion in between, she pushed the barrel of the gun against Mr. Harris' chest. One of her hands covered his, holding his finger against the trigger. Her other hand reached up to cover the monster's eyes. The man started to whimper and beg, but neither of them paid him any mind.
He looked up and thought his mother was more beautiful in that moment than she had ever been before.
"Do ye remember the words?"
Connor nodded. Together they spoke; the words of a father he remembered more as a voice than as a man. The words were awkward in his little-boy throat, but Ma spoke them with soft quiet assurance.
"And sheperds we shall be, for thee my Lord for thee, power hath descended forth from thy hand and our feet may carry out thy command so we shall flow a river forth to thee, and teeming with souls shall it ever be. In nomine patri, et fili, et spiritus sancti.
The gun jerked in his hands. Even with the pillow up against the barrel, it was loud. Mr. Harris jumped and then didn't move. Ma turned him away and then lowered her hand from the dead man's eyes. He watched as she took coins from her pocket and placed them over the closed lids.
It was done.
She put the first ink into their skin that night. Words of brotherhood, over their hearts.