Two rooms: Maura
"She never forgave me," he told her.
"For forcing her to give me up." She tried desperately to make it sound like a statement, but the question was still there.
He looked at her steadily for a moment. "For being who I am," he said, finally.
She really needed to stop coming in here, she thought, easing herself down with a wince into the crate sitting in the corner. The room in question was on the second floor of Patrick's house, a room that had been added onto the house, and then forgotten about. The ceiling of the room sloped down to one side.
"Patrick's safe house," she whispered into the stillness. Except that nowhere was safe, she now knew, no matter what he said, no matter how many men he had walking the perimeter of the compound. She glanced down at her arm. The bruises had long since faded, but she knew exactly where that man's fingers had left their mark on her. Even now, she could feel them digging into her flesh, trying to take her away from Patrick.
She didn't know who this house really belonged to, but she'd found this room months ago. And she couldn't stop climbing the creaking stairs every day to sit in it and think.
To brood, Patrick said.
She wasn't exactly a prisoner, she knew. Were she to raise a big enough fuss, Patrick would acquiesce and allow her to think he was giving in. He'd let her leave, make a big show of setting her up somewhere safe by herself, without him. And then, he would watch, she knew, and keep her as safe as he could from the shadows.
If it was just herself, her own life to worry about, she would've left, and allowed him to play whatever games he felt he needed to play in the shadows. She'd wash her hands of Patrick Doyle and all the violence that surrounded his life, and that now surrounded her life. While she would only ever be as free as he allowed, she could tell herself that she had escaped it all, free to live her own life.
But she wasn't free. She passed a hand over her swollen belly, her heart aching for the life within. She and Patrick had made a terrible mistake, creating a life in the midst of all this death and destruction. There was no joy in this, just a creeping feeling of dread as her due date drew nearer. And she was pragmatic enough to know that she would not be able to protect this child on her own, even if they were to disappear to some obscure town as far away from the Irish mob as it was possible to get. Patrick's enemies would find them, and kill them to strike at him.
With a sigh, she leaned back, and surveyed the room for the hundredth time, trying to distract herself from thoughts she'd had a hundred times since the night she'd first set foot in this house. At one time, it had been a nursery. It was empty now, but she could easily see a crib in one corner, a pastel blanket folded neatly on the mattress. The crate on which she sat still had crayon marks on it, as did a few places on the walls and baseboards.
When she'd found out she was pregnant she hadn't really understood who Patrick was, or what he did for a living. He had secrets, of that she was certain, and though she'd pressed, he hadn't been forthcoming. After several months of meeting clandestinely, something she found romantic at first, she'd begun to suspect he was married. The day before she'd decided to confront him about it, she'd found out she was pregnant.
It hadn't occurred to her not to tell him, to be honest, though now she wished she hadn't. She could've born the scandal, the looks and the gossip that would inevitably follow a single mother of her age and social status around. She was wealthy enough that she could've provided very well for both herself and her child without a husband if she'd wanted to. But that hadn't occurred to her at all, because even though she was afraid that Patrick was married, that he'd taken her as his mistress, she was so deeply in love with him at that point that she couldn't see a life without him.
The joy in his eyes when she'd told him had given her the courage to ask him if he was married, the expression on his face as she asked reassured her. He'd held her, and whispered that he was not married, and that she was the only one he had ever loved, ever would love. Her, and now their child. He told her everything would be all right.
It was after that that everything had fallen apart. A month after finding out she was pregnant, they'd gone out to dinner, one of the small cafe's Patrick always took her to. They reminded her of the dark and romantic cafes she'd visited in Munich as a student. Patrick didn't like discussing the baby in public, so they'd talked about mundane things over dinner and coffee, then decided to return to her apartment.
The black car had pulled up with a squeal of tires as they'd walked toward Patrick's car. Out of nowhere, there were men all around her. One grabbed her, tore her from Patrick's grasp, and began dragging her toward a waiting car.
She remembered screaming.
She remembered Patrick's roar of rage.
She remembered being covered in blood as the head of the man who held her abruptly exploded.
Patrick had been at her side instantly, seizing her arm in his own vise-like grip and dragged her back into the cafe. They passed several men with guns, and she heard shooting behind them. He took her into the back of the cafe, then out the service door and into a waiting car, where he sat clutching her in his arms as they were driven from the city. He was shaking even worse than she was.
They'd come here, that very night. And Patrick told her everything. She'd sat there, listened to the story of his life unfold, mute with horror. That night, it was like someone had flipped a switch, turning all her love into regret, all her joy into despair. She couldn't hate Patrick, but she couldn't forgive him either.
After he explained everything, he promised her he'd keep her and the baby safe. She'd stared at him in disbelief. "You just told me that those men who attacked us tonight were the brothers of a man you tortured and killed," she had said, amazed at how calm her voice was. "They're just the beginning, aren't they?"
He'd looked defeated then, as he'd sat at the table across from her. "I will keep you both safe, I promise," he said. "I keep my promises."
"I want an abortion," she said. She hadn't meant to say it, hadn't even thought it until the words left her lips.
Patrick had exploded, putting his fist through the drywall in the kitchen, and for the first time she was afraid of him. "No!" he's shouted at her. "No."
"What kind of life will it have?" she'd asked, still marveling at how calm she sounded. "You want it to have your life?" she'd asked. A horrible thought occurred to her. "You want a successor, a son to take your place." The thought made her feel sick inside.
He'd looked guilty then, and she realized he'd at least thought about it. "No," he said again. He sat down again, and took her hand. It was all she could do not to recoil from him. "I told you I'll keep you safe," he said, gently, all traces of anger draining from him. "I'll find a way. You have the baby and I'll find a way to keep you both safe. I give you my word, I will keep you safe. Nothing else matters but that."
A private adoption, Patrick told her a few days later, and then a new life for her, far away from him and all of this. All the arrangements had been made. The couple would take custody of the baby as soon as it was born, and the adoption records would be sealed, making it impossible for the child to find them. She suspected Patrick knew more about the couple who were adopting the baby than he was saying, but she'd learned the hard way that it was sometimes better not to know Patrick's business.
The baby would grow up safely anonymous.
For the few days after she'd found out she was carrying Patrick's child, she'd entertained happy daydreams of baby showers, picking out names, tiny baby clothes. She'd pictured the two of them painting the nursery together. It had been a cliche, but such a nice image that she'd been unable to stop herself from indulging in it.
Since that night, however, she'd disciplined herself not too think too much about the future. There was no future, not with this baby, and certainly not with Patrick. There would be no first words, no first tooth, no first steps, no first days at school, no firsts at all. Not for her. Another woman would be there to celebrate those milestones, and all the others that would populate her baby's life. They would all pass by and she would be unaware of them.
And there was her constant worry about what this baby would be like. What if it ended up with some of Patrick's decidedly sociopathic tendencies? Would the child's adoptive parents know what to look for? And if they did see the signs of something dark and dangerous lurking in the child, how would they cope with it.
"Such a good baby," she whispered rubbing her belly in an attempt to shake off those worries, at least for a little while. She'd never been pregnant, but she'd heard and read horror stories of expectant mothers whose babies kept them up all hours of the night and day kicking. Not hers, she mused. It was like her baby had put itself on a tight schedule and didn't deviate from that unless absolutely necessary. There were times the inactivity worried her, but the doctor Patrick had brought in had assured her that she was lucky, and that the baby was strong and healthy.
Two more months, and all this, this nightmare would be over.
A/N: Another sequence of stories I'm clearing off my hard drive. These were written either before second season, or shortly into it, I forget which. As always, comments, good or bad are much appreciated. Thank you for reading.