Now.
The haze of cigarette smoke clouds my mind as I toss back another whiskey sour. I cringe even though I know what my usual tastes like. No matter how many times I order them, however, the intense wave of tang always catches me off-guard. Slapping my empty glass onto the counter, I lift my heavy gaze to the old man standing behind the bar. His mouth presses into a thin line of disappointment.
"Just one more," I slur, trying my hardest to keep my head up. "I-I'll call a cab, I swear." I really have no intentions of calling a cab – not when I live only a mile away.
"I'm c-cuttin' ya off, sweetheart," Doc informs me as he takes the glass from my locked fingers. "And I'll call the c-c-cab this ti – Fuck! Ass! – time."
"C'mon, Doc," I moan, my head falling into my folded arms. "I just – One more won't kill me."
The old bartender stutters some sort of backwards piece of advice as he saunters toward the phone, but I can't understand a word he's saying. Dragging my head up, I glower through the mirror behind the mountain of alcohol bottles just beyond the bar. Just one glance at my tired eyes is enough to bury my face in my hands and let out a pitiful groan. God, I look like complete and utter shit in the most literal sense of the word. My hair, usually tied back into a tight ponytail, frames my face like a rat's nest. Bags of exhaustion settle underneath my hazel eyes. A crimson booze blush kisses my cheeks.
"Cab's on its w-w-way," Doc calmly tells me, reaching over the counter to pat my arm. Then, he turns his head, a look of anger flashing across his wrinkled face. "Fuck! Ass! Don't ya be worryin' ab-about yer tab, ya hear me?"
I nod - or at least I think I do - before mumbling a quiet, "Loud and clear." My face smacks hard against the wooden counter. My night comes to a pathetic close.
(-)
As my swollen eyes crack open the next morning, I desperately grab for the cup of water I distinctly remember placing on my bedside table just before I collapsed into my fourposter. My mouth feels as if the sun has sucked every drop of moisture from it. A dull headache sits behind my left eye. My hands hit my books, my alarm clock, my cell phone – but no glass.
"The fuck?" I hiss, lifting an arm to shield my eyes from the light seeping in through my window. I peer over the edge of my bed only to find shattered glass spewed in every direction. Before I have the chance to throw a pity party for myself, my phone begins to vibrate.
"The boys are back! The boys are back! The boys are back! And they're looking for trouble!"
I try to ignore the fact that someone is trying to speak to me for only just a moment. It isn't very often that I hear it, but The Boys Are Back by the Dropkick Murphys is one of my favorite songs, so I try to enjoy it at every chance I get. Finally, after the third repeat of the chorus, I bring the small device to my ear.
"Ridley, where the hell are you?!" Tracey, my boss, shrieks over the phone. I close my eyes and let out a silent sigh. "You do realize you're two hours late for work, right?! Do you know how many times I've tried to call you?!"
"I don't know, four...hundred?" I answer lazily, wrapping a cluster of my greasy midnight black hair around my pointer fingers. I stretch my legs out in front of me, inspecting a series of four cuts on my thigh, caked with dried blood. "Am I hitting the nail on the head?"
I can almost hear her acrylic nails digging into her metal desk. "Do you even want this job anymore?" she hissed lowly.
"Yes, yes," I reply, rolling my eyes so far into the back of my head that I'm worried for a moment that they won't come back. "I'll be there in an hour. Don't have a shit fit. You'd better have my write-up ready." I hang up on her just as I hear her inhale for another scream. Part of me wants Tracey to call back just so I could hear the song once more, but when my phone remains silent, I soon give up and lift myself room my bed with a defeated huff.
As I trudge through my apartment toward my bathroom, I kick aside a dirty pile of clothes that I can never remember to take to the laundry mat. I curl my nose at the horrid smelling kitchen sink, overfilled with dishes that I haven't touched in a good month. I decide against going near it; I can just drink shower water. All in all, I guess you could say I live in a pig sty. Not that I complain about it or anything; the mess is entirely my fault. I just can't bring myself to get around to cleaning.
My bathroom is just the same as the rest of my home: elastic hair ties litter the sink and floor, empty shampoo bottles have been thrown around nonchalantly, and bare toilet paper tubes fill the small trashcan. If I had the money, mind you, I would definitely hire a maid, but that's not the case. Not by a long shot.
After striping myself of the clothes I wore the night before, I slip into the shower and start with my leg first. Whatever happened to me remains a complete mystery. After falling asleep at McGinty's, I have no recollection of my actions or words. As I scrub the dried blood from my skin, I only hope that I'd gotten into a fight with that damned hobo who gets a hard-on by shouting obscenities at me every time I walk his alley. Before I know it, I'm clean and maybe an entirely different woman.
Watch out, world! Ridley Gillespie has showered and is ready to take on the day at two in the afternoon!
I rush from my apartment, nearly forgetting to lock my door on the way out, obsessively checking my watch. I hate the damn thing, but other than my phone – which is stored away in my purse and I have no motivation to dig through my belongings to find it – it's the only source of time that I have. Five minutes. I have five minutes before the city bus takes off from the stop. My pace picks up and suddenly, I'm sprinting down the sidewalk.
"Yeah, girl!" a local construction worker hollers as I run by. "I like the way yer ass looks when you run! Don't go too far! My eyes aren't that good!" His three other buddies break out into a roar of deep laughter. Not having time to turn on my heel and shove my screams down their throats, I lift my middle finger over my shoulder and continue to run.
I arrive just in time to catch the bus. The driver scans my monthly card and I squish myself next to an old woman and her grandson. The boy, who can't be a day older than four, stares at me like I'm some sort of alien. God, I hate kids.
The bus lurches forward. I grab hold of the metal bar above my head so I don't topple over and squish the tiny body next to me. The vehicle is eerily quiet, which is usually normal on Sundays. But on a Tuesday? The place should be filled with what sounds like a million different voices. On my left, a man clears his throat and crinkles the giant newspaper blocking his face. My eyes trail over to the print facing me.
"BOSTON PRIEST FOUND DEAD: WORK OF THE BOONDOCK SAINTS?"
My lungs feel like all the air has leaked from my body and my stomach drops. Inside my gut, bile churns painfully. "Holy fuck," I whisper, but not quietly enough. The old woman next to me makes a sound of offense like I just called her a fat old bitch. "Sorry."
I take deep inhales through my nose and exhales through my mouth. My palms become so sweaty that I release the bar to wipe them on my pants. I can hear my heartbeat in my ears. They sound almost like gunshots. Trying to focus on the streets outside the windows, I remind myself that I'm almost to work and then I can be distracted.
After all, they left for Ireland eight years ago without so much as a goodbye. The odds of them killing that priest are one in a million.