Disclaimer: I own none of the characters presented in this story. Red Dead Redemption and all associated with said property belong to Rockstar Games.
Disclaimer: Strong depictions of violence, murder, and other such heinous and repugnant acts, very harsh language used throughout, and some taboo and offensive material occasionally presented.
Part Ten: Kieran
6:49 PM, July 20th, 1899
"A l-lady's im-imag-imagina-imiga… er… im-im-im…"
"Try sounding each part out. Im-ag-in-a-tion."
"Im… ag… in… a… tion—"
"Great!"
"—is v-very r-rapid; it j-jumps from a-adm-mira-a-a-a—"
"Sound it out. You can do this…"
"—a-ad… mir… a… tion—"
"That's it!"
"—t-to l-love, from love to m-ma-mat-matri-matri-m-money?"
"Close! Matrimony. Ma-tri-mon-ee."
"Oh, what's the use, Mary-Beth?" Kieran asked, slamming the dumb book closed and folding his arms. "I ain't never gonna get this." He looked up to see a dim evening sky taunting him; they'd been practicing since a little past one—when Mr. Pearson had volunteered to take over nursing Abigail.
"I am not going to get this," she corrected, picking Pride and Prejudice back up and opening to the page they were on. "And you will. You're doing great! Y'know, when I was first learning to read, it took me three months to get down anything with three syllables—and even then I stuttered them out!"
"You was like fourteen when you learned. It's not comparable," he grumbled tickling his disheveled beard angrily, not dissimilar to how Cain itched his snout.
"Were," she whispered, before turning her attention to the tome she held, scanning the pages. "Let's try another section… Ooh! This is my favorite part! Okay: read this." She slid the ajar v-shaped book across the wooden table to him.
"C'mon…" he groaned, pushing the book aside.
"Just a little more," she pressed.
"No," he pouted, gazing off to the side where he saw Uncle scratching his ass, causing him to jerk his head a hundred and eighty degrees to the other side, still refusing to look at the book. "It's… it's a stupid book.
"But… but it's my favorite part," she said in a teasing whimper, placing a hand to her chest as though his words had been a saber to the heart. She stretched her eyes melodramatically wide as though they were filled with heartbreak, but of course, they weren't; they were relaxed, serene, and when he looked at those shining green pearls, he felt a current of serenity sweep him off his feet, erasing all the bitter frustrations of not being able to read, reducing them to naught. He became acutely aware of how beautiful she was—not just the appealing nature of her curves in that pretty pink dress, but of how her face was finished with those lovely brown freckles, or how her cheeks and little nose were shaded differently from the rest of her visage, with a touch of rose lightly painted on, making it look like she was constantly blushing. For some reason, he felt a spell of antsiness swell in his hands at the sight of her so unhappy with him—even if he knew she was just goading him. Kieran Duffy was experiencing, for the first time, what happens when a girl has a boy wrapped around her finger.
"Oh, fine," he relented, grumpy at this outcome.
"Yes!" she celebrated, passing the book to him again, placing her finger on the sentence she wanted him to read.
"H-how e-earnest-ly did she then w-wish that her fo-former—"
"Where is he?! Where's that O'Driscoll at?!" came an austere voice, one Kieran instantly identified and jumped to his feet to greet, taking off the hat Charles had lent him—it was too big and severely tattered, but he'd appreciated it nonetheless—and holding it by his side.
"Hello, Miss Grimshaw," he said pleasantly, although in truth he was shaking. Seeing that bossy, rigid woman always put him on edge. She was angry, as usual, wearing a pink bodice like Mary-Beth, inviting him to take note of all the differences between them, in both appearance and personality. If Mary-Beth was spring, with her shimmering smile, benign spirit, and angelic aura, Grimshaw was winter, with her gray hair, dead black eyes, and her cold way of speaking."What can I do ya for?"
"Tilly's been kidnapped," she said, tossing him a Lancaster repeater.
"What?!" Kieran said, aghast, reeling from the impact of the gun hitting his chest as he caught it.
"You heard me, boy," she answered, not looking at him.
She didn't miss a beat in her stride, grabbing his arm and pulling him towards where the gang's horses resided peacefully aside the main house, betwixt the four tall trees engirdling that general area, munching on the arid grass.
"Which one's yours?"
"Uh, Branwen. The white and brown Tennessee Walker." She grabbed the horse by its flopping reins and walked it past Kieran, just to the face of the mansion, where a spare buckboard wagon sat patiently. Kieran shadowed her obediently, still unsure as to what she wanted him to do. She grabbed a horse harness from the back of the wagon and attached it to Branwen, one strap at a time, each popping in with a climactic click.
Click! There goes the noseband. Click! The headpiece. Click went the back band, the girth, and hip strap. Branwen was hooked up to the wagon now; Kieran's blood felt heavier seeing his friend strapped to so many buckles—it was like he was being hogtied. Still, he followed Grimshaw as she led him to the left side of the wagon, before turning around to him, her brown eyes gleaming as though she expected something of him.
"You gonna help me up?" Only it wasn't a question. It was when Kieran tonged her hips with his hands and hoisted her up onto the tall wagon that he noticed her new holster boasting a double-action revolver.
"Ma'am, if there's gonna be smoke involved, shouldn't you get one of the other guys?" he asked, his dry throat barely able to survive the sentence. "I-I ain't exactly much of a rootin' tootin' gunslinger myself."
"Get your ass up here and let's get a move on!"
Kieran hurried around the steed to the right side of the wagon (he didn't even bother asking Grimshaw to scoot over instead) slipping over the tree trunk-thick wheel twice before pulling himself onto the toe board. He looked about the camp as they rode off, hoping to spy someone who'd make this duo more intimidating, yet disappointed by failure; Charles was still hunting, Lenny had disappeared, Javier was out, Micah, Dutch, and Hosea were planning their next move, and Bill had topped the stitches he got in his shoulder with five bottles of whiskey and couldn't get out of bed if the house was on fire.
Kieran felt the heavy weight of the gun strapped around his shoulder and shuddered as they rolled out of camp, before leaning Branwen into a full-blown sprint.
"Keep heading north up the trail," Grimshaw ordered, "we're going to Radley's house—a cottage the Foreman Boys have been sojourning at."
"How do you know this?"
"Tilly had mentioned Radley's was a spot they'd squatted at pretty frequently in the past. Bastard scouts musta gotten lucky, found her while she was out scavenging."
"Oh, man. Poor Tilly," Kieran bemoaned.
"Poor Foreman's. And poor gravediggers They gonna have a haaaard night tonight," Grimshaw growled.
"D-do we have to… kill anyone?"
"Huh?"
"I mean, maybe we could—"
"Baby Jesus' smooth ass! What's this world comin' to when an O'Driscoll has qualms with killing?"
"I ain't an O'Driscoll!" Kieran decried. "I saved Arthur, I-I caught some fish for youse, I been helping. If I wanted to screw you fellas, I had hundreds of chances. How many times I got to prove I'm loyal?"
"How high can ya count?" Grimshaw said dryly. "That reminds me: stay the hell away from Mary-Beth!"
"Wha—"
"She's a good girl, but she's stupid. Reads all that girly twaddle and thinks she knows how the world works. How men work."—she cuddled up closer, whispering in his ear—"But we know better, don't we?"
"You-you are a sick woman, Miss Grimshaw," Kieran stammered out. "Sick!"
"I'm sick and I'm right, and I'm sick because I'm right."
"No. You think you're right because you're sick."
She allowed a scoff, even going so far as to forge an out-of-character smile for a moment. Naturally, it fell in an instant. "Take a right here," she said, pointing to a pathway leading uphill. "Just a little further up this way."
Kieran drove Branwen onward, trying to think of what to say. What combinations of words will make them understand how I feel? He realized there were none. He was an O'Driscoll; he'd always be an O'Driscoll to them. Didn't matter if he had the tongue of Dutch or Hosea or the face of George Washington. It had been the same in the army, the same with Captain Hudson. Didn't matter how many boots he licked, how hard he'd tried to fit in, he was an Irishman. Didn't matter that he wasn't a catholic, didn't matter he'd never stepped foot in Ireland; he wasn't a protestant, and he had a glimmer of green in his eyes. That made him the enemy.
"You… you know…" Grimshaw started, her voice different this time. Less sharp, less awake. "I… I used to be… a real pretty thing once. Had lines of boys outside my house, pressed against the walls, trying to sneak a peak through my window while I changed. Seven men proposed to me, you know that?"
"Uh, n-no—"
"Seven men."—she let out a dreary sigh and whispered—"Sometimes I wish I woulda married one of 'em… God, I used to be so foxy."
"W-well, I'll be… sure to keep that in mind if I find myself… in possession of a ring," Kieran said, not fully sure this wasn't a dream. Those suspicions were washed away in the next few moments.
"There it is," Grimshaw said, back in her aloof, sound state of mind. Her finger extended to a white one-story house just over yonder. It was a cute, quaint little place—the kind Kieran would take a fancy to. Nothing too extravagant, just three or four rooms inside, enough firewood stacked underneath the window on the right to burn the night away, and a homey little well that would eviscerate the need to run into town or a nearby creek to fetch some fresh water. His sole grievance was the nasty-looking Foreman standing guard on the front porch. He was black, shaggy hair, wore a white vest crusty with dried blood, mad as hell, the usual.
"Let me do the talking," Grimshaw whispered to him as she walked closer to the guard, undaunted by his holding a shotgun that could blow her head off on the spot.
"What you want?" he roared. He didn't need to say it: he wanted them gone straightway.
"Kind sir," Grimshaw began, in her valiant, yet ultimately underwhelming attempt at sounding like a normal woman, "we're lost and in need of some help."
"No. Get out of here!" he demanded, either not buying her new thespian persona, or not caring.
"Oh, I see that kindly face of yours…" she continued, not ceasing in her stride. "... and I know, that for the right inducements, a gentleman such as yourself could be mighty kind."
"No. Get out of here." he said again, less menacingly, but with a clear lack of forbearance; his gun was now aimed at her.
"Oh now, you keep saying that, but you don't mean nothing by it," she purred, strutting until she was within arm's reach of the guard, and Kieran began pondering as to what exactly the plan was. Is she trying to flirt a hostage out of the house?
"I said, get—" he began before the knife blocked the remaining words from leaving his throat with an intemperate slash.
"You've said your last words!" Grimshaw shouted with a hateful certainty, removing the silver knife from his neck and spinning to Kieran. "Well, what are you waiting for? Get in there and find our girl!"
"Y-yes, ma'am," Kieran said, at a volume he'd hoped would be a holler, but came off as mutter. He ran up the short steps onto the paltry yet cozy porch and charged at the gray front door, expecting it to be locked, only to have it instantly fold at his weight, causing him to overshoot it and land on his knees inside the keeping room, staring down another Foreman who was eating at the kitchen table ahead. Kieran drew first while the black man was still rising and pulled the trigger.
It went limp in his hand. Shit! he thought, I forgot to cock it!
Bang! Bang! The bullets streamed alongside him as he jumped to the side, barging through the door on the right, landing in a bedroom; a mercifully empty one. The floorboards shrieked with prolonged cries as the Foreman hied closed. Creaaaaaaaaaaak! Kieran shifted his shivering thumb atop the hammer of his repeater, taking steps, one at a time to the door. Creaaaaaaaaaak! His sweat poured onto the trigger, and his finger slipped ere he replaced it. He was at the frame now, knowing the Foreman stood there too. He slowly brought the gun face-first against the black-shaded door, feeling a hot shadow behind him. It nuzzled his hair, causing more salty liquid to drizzle down into his eyes. You can do it. You've killed before, he thought. Just shoot. Shoot. Shoot! Too late. The ebony door went ninety degrees, and the Foreman popped out (peekaboo, peekaboo!) grabbing the barrel of Kieran's repeater, redirecting it downwards, and sticking his own short one right at Kieran's face. Bang! The former O'Driscoll ducked just in time, letting go of his gun and rammed the Foreman into the hard brick wall, grabbing his foe's wrist, trying to wrestle the revolver from his hand.
"Shouldn't have come here, boy," the Foreman howled, and Kieran got a good look at him now. Nothing too special save for the fact that he was bereft of his four centermost teeth, leaving an unmistakable hole in his mouth, one large enough that Kieran could see through to the purple flesh. He shifted Kieran's arms down and forced him backward, trying to yank his gun free. Bang! Another gunshot reverberated around the house somewhere.
"You don't have to do this!" Kieran begged, losing his grip on the weapon. The partially edentated Foreman only laughed in response, the gap in his teeth making the others look bigger, like they were fangs. Then he kneed Kieran in the groan. Hard. He moved his hands higher, shoving all his weight on top of the Irishman's shaking knees. Kieran gave out, collapsing onto the top of his shins, finally letting the gun slip from his fingers with a strained whimper. A whip from the gun brought the (barely) man fully onto his rib. He glanced up with fuzzy sight, seeing three horrible smiles and three sparkling guns fuse into one.
"Adios," the dentist's wet dream said, cocking the pistol—like I shoulda.
The horse whisperer used the last of his strength to think on a very special pair of green eyes before closing his own. Bang! Kieran felt the chunky red solution dress him from head to toe and wedged his foggy turquoise orbs open to see…
Grimshaw standing over him, hand on her hip, her revolver smoking.
"Three Foreman's and you couldn't get one. Knew I shoulda brought me a man along. You go right on ahead and take a while, I'm gonna go grab her."
Although Kieran didn't hear any of that; all he could hear was the incessant throbbing of his own heart, he could feel it too. In his toes, in his ears, in his bruised balls. Then he felt the crimson slime of the Foreman thug all over him and he rushed out of the room, not even caring if Tilly was alive. He arrived at the well, and let the bucket sink down to the bottom before greedily uplifting it, bathing his jittery hands in it, washing the blood and brain from his face, trying to scrub it out of his garb. He was kneeling now, scrubbing against his pants too.
"Kieran?"
It wouldn't come out. He swabbed and swabbed, yet the putrid burgundy stain held fast, as if mocking his efforts. As if saying you can't do nothing, Kieran. Can't read, can't fight, can't even do l-l-laundry like a proper l-l-lady. Don't you worry 'bout the damage downstairs; that Foreman couldn't have hit nothing. Cuz you ain't no kind of man.
"Kieran?!" Kieran revolved around, catching a glimpse of a battered Tilly—her white undergown was tarred and loose at the neck (they'd probably grabbed her by the collar to deliver the beatings), and her typical fine walnut-hued skin was decorated with fuchsia bruises—before his eyes came to the nexus of the shout.
"There's two more riding off," Grimshaw said, pointing to the woods behind the house on the left, where he vaguely made out some apparition coasting off through the tree line. "Anthony Foreman's one of them. Let's go get him."
Kieran didn't even know who the hell that was.
"Well?" she asked, getting closer to him, getting bigger too. She looked down at the still-kneeling man."There's a horse out back, let's get a goddamn move on!"
Out of habit, Kieran motioned to rise for her demands, to take off his hat and keep it by his side—yet found himself still as a statute. He couldn't get up, couldn't move a muscle.
"I-I c-can't." he groveled, keeping his head down, embarrassed to look up—to be seen by anyone.
"You can't?"
He shook his head, feeling nausea bubble in his stomach, floating up to his throat. "I-I a-ain't a killer."
"You ain't a killer?" Grimshaw scoffed. "Coulda fooled me. Ya killed Annabelle."
"I don't even—"
"Ya killed Mr. Adler," she continued. "Ya kidnapped Arthur—"
"Grimshaw!" came a third voice. It was Tilly's and despite her wounds, it was as potent as ever. The pair ceased their gabbling and focused on her. She tried to give a sugary smile, although it stung so bad she wound up dropping the curve on one side of her mouth, making it look like more of a smirk. "It's fine. Let's just go home."
"No!" Grimshaw insisted. "That bastard's gonna keep comin' after you unless we put him down like the mangy scoundrel he is"—she directed her gaze back at Kieran—"So this dumb little boy is gonna get up!"
"I-it wasn't him!" Tilly attempted. "Anthony Foreman, I mean. They slapped me around pretty good, I wasn't seein' straight. Just some other thug, killin' him won't do nothing."
There was a scant pause as Tilly's words set in before the matriarch of the group scoffed again. "I know when you're lyin' to me, girl," Grimshaw snarled. All the same, she retracted her claws, seeing she was outnumbered. "Fine. Let's let him go to come back with a vengeance later. Great work Kieran. Capital job," she said with resentful sarcasm as she put her arm around Tilly's shoulder, walking her to the wagon. "Well, lets us get you back to camp right now—"
"Actually," said Tilly, ducking under Grimshaw's arm, letting it pass her by. "I think I'll ride back with Kieran. But thanks, Grimshaw. Truly."
Grimshaw couldn't hide the hurt in her eyes. "Oh. I see how it is. I'll just be taking the horse 'round back then. You enjoy each other," she finished, storming out of sight.
"I really appreciate you!" Tilly shouted, only receiving a shallow grunt in response.
That's when Kieran threw up, releasing a brew of putrid yellow gunk into the dirt; the ground happily drank it up. A handkerchief slipped into his frame of sight. "You alright?" came the harmonica of Tilly's voice.
"I'm… I'm sorry…" he said, unable to take her handkerchief, unable to look at her.
"For what? Aside a few bumps, I'm an order of apple pie," she smiled, a wince betraying her facade. "C'mon, time to head back." She gingerly stepped around his mess, taking him by the quivering palm and steering him to the wagon. "I'll drive."
He boarded clumsily, stumbling over that infernal wheel again, and Tilly guided Branwen out of dodge. The road was quiet; not a mouse squeaked nor tree rattled. The day was at its death rattle; the maroon sun was waning rathely. Eventually, Kieran worked up the spine to generate a meager slice of gratitude: "Thanks, Tilly. For talking Grimshaw down."
"No trouble," said she. "Gotta get used to it. Bitch is gonna be expecting me to butter her up day and night now. Shit. It's gonna be rough from here on—any time I so much as open my mouth to complain, I'll get an ear-full of…"—she spoke in her best Grimshaw impression (which was just her imitating Baba Yaga)—"'don't you be turning turncoat on me, turncoat Tilly, don't you be forgetting why you're breathing right now.'"
Kieran couldn't refuse himself a chuckle. "Are you really alright, Tilly? I-I mean you gotta be hurting."
"Yeah," she said, "it's absolute misery. Second only to burnin' in hellfire. Thanks for bringing it up."
"O-oh, no. Sorry, I m-mea–"
"I know! God, you're gullible, boy!" she proclaimed.
"Yeah. I know," he mumbled. Been gullible enough to fall in with the O'Driscolls. Been gullible enough to let Jack get swindled. Tilly seemed to sense his melancholy demeanor and tried to enliven him with commendations: "Oh, heaven above, where are my goddamn manners—Momma didn't raise no insolent daughter. Thank you, Kieran. Thank you for saving my stupid hide."
"I didn't do nothing," he said plainly. "Nothing but get damn near blasted to blazes."
"'Course you did! Think Grimshaw coulda done that by herself? She's quick with her tongue (in one regard only, of course) but that's 'bout all. Y'know what I think the problem is?"
"You're trying to cheer me up when I should be cheering you up?"
"No—and please stop reminding me I got clouted up harder than Uncle to a pimp—the problem is you got yourself an irreparably off-target perspective."
They drove deeper into the dying day, passing that nostalgic red barn near Rhodes, and Tilly continued:
"I wasn't this cool and collected when I was younger,"—she giggled—"I remember when I was younger—"
"Fourteen?"
"Fifteen. Don't interrupt."
"I somehow doubt this'll make me feel better."
"The message is celestial; now shut up and have some patience. Anyway… The gang was lying low one time, needed to let some trouble in the nearby town die down, and Arthur—God bless him—brought in some wild game for us to eat. I was hungry, and rushed over… and screamed my lungs empty. It was a fawn; a baby deer. You ever seen one?"
"Yeah."
"Most adorable things in the world. All the angels in God's almighty arsenal had nothing on this guy. I looked deep into his eyes, and I couldn't hurt him. So naturally, Grimshaw held me stiff and forced me to watch as John cut its belly open, spewing its guts out—"
"Christ…"
"Yeah. Like I said: she's a bitch. 'Wanted to teach me a lesson' she said. Anyhow, I was heartbroken, and I ran off into the woods, and I was determined never to go back; never to eat or kill another living thing again. Arthur found me and brought me huntin' with him. Showed me how to mask my scent, how to load, aim, and fire so quietly they never hear ya comin'. Showed me the struggles that came with it, the hardships. I remember my first one. It was a pronghorn—we tracked it halfway up a mountain before I shot it dead. To this day, I've never felt more proud. That's what Arthur did: turned my horror into pride. You get what I'm saying?"
"Not really," Kieran answered, looking down at the specks of dirt the wagon kicked up as they rolled onward. He noticed a tiny rock unfortunately blocking the way, and the front-right wheel (the same stupid one he kept tripping over) bowled over it, shooting it like a comet; Kieran tracked it as it went, and saw it soar to a familiar spot: the manor of Shady Belle. They had returned.
"It's all about perspective. Don't think 'bout how Grimshaw killed a few guys today, think 'bout how she saved me. Don't think 'bout how you got spooked from nearly getting killed, think 'bout how you rode in to save me without a second thought," she smiled at him, this time it was sugary, even with her incredibly tender face. "You're a good man, Kieran Duffy."
"I-I don't know 'bout that, but thanks, Tilly. You're a good girl, and that's a fact."
They parked the wagon where Grimshaw had found it—who, by the way, was also there, although Kieran tried to ignore the daggers she starred at him (he also thought she mouthed something about Mary-Beth, but he couldn't be sure). Kieran jumped down onto the parched grass (which he thought was strange considering they lived right in a damn swamp) and raced around so he could help Tilly down like a gentleman.
"Thank you, sir," she giggled. "And don't worry: I'll be sure to tell Mary-Beth all the details of your daring rescue. Poor girl'll probably faint."
And with that, Miss Tilly entered the mansion where Kieran saw through the windows as she was instantly hounded by Mary-Beth, Javier, and a plethora of other faces. He unhooked very sullen Branwen, who released neighs of delight as Kieran unlatched the cavesson and removed it from his snout. Kieran placed his hand and scratched that spot right between his colt's leaf-shaped ears, caressing the soft, cushy white mane, letting it slide his fingertips. Perspective, he thought. Maybe it'll make more sense if I do what Mary-Beth said: Per… spe… ect… tive. No. Still don't make no sense. Sorry… doesn't make any sense. Yet, he didn't mind; Kieran strolled gayly back to the horse stations with Branwen, knowing he'd figure it out soon enough.
Kieran's another character I hope to do more with. I think he was pretty underutilized in the game, even if his death scene was great. The logic for how he's still alive is hazy but stay with me: I'm saying that in the game, the O'Driscoll's were all holed up north, before they got word of Dutch's gang down by Shady Belle and went to attack. Here, with the Pinkertons making a move Eastward to Saint Denis because of Bronte's death (faster than they did in the game because Bronte didn't die immediately then) the O'Driscoll's don't want to risk heading down south immediately and risk running right into the agents. They know where Dutch is but are biding their time a pinch longer before making a move, hence why Kieran isn't killed off by them. Yet...
Grimshaw is also one of my favorite side characters from the game and you'll see plenty of her as this will go on. The game suggested through some of her conversations with Mary-Beth that she was envious of the women's youth and beauty, which is why she generally cracked down harder on them then the men. I've always loved this as it mirrors the idea of the gang itself: they're out of their prime and desperately don't want to admit it.
Anyway, next time we'll meet one of my favorite original characters I've developed for this story. See you then!