A Galway Epiphany

Connie had a week of near bliss due to Benjamin J.

He wined, dined, and bedded her with élan.

She’d never had such attention before. The only flaw in the gorgeous setup was Brid. Brid who seemed to hate Benjamin with ferocity and glared at him with burning eyes, eyes of naked resentment. He seemed to thrive on her bile, would pat her head and whisper,

“Good dog, you’re such a loyal dope.”

Connie tried to subtly rein him in, suggested,

“Darling, maybe ease up on the teasing.”

He gave that radiant smile that lit her heart, said,

“Ah, it’s because I love her.”

Uh-huh.

Brid fantasized about putting a knife in his black heart, twisting it as she got right in his face, screamed,

“Who’s a dog? Who’s a fucking dog now?”

He scolded her,

“Have you found the children? You can’t just sit on yer ass, welch off my largesse. There’s a limit to even my big heart.”

Then he winked at her.

A Friday evening, he said to Connie,

“My love, I’ve booked a table for us at Milano’s, so dress, like, hot.”

She swooned, went all coy, then saw the disgust on Brid’s face. She took a risk, asked,

“Um, what about Brid? Maybe we should take her along, just this once?”

He looked at Brid with what might actually have seemed like benevolence but was anything but. He said,

“Brid, my not-so-busy little bee, how about I give you some cash, treat yourself to a bottle of Baileys or some other sweet shit you crave?”

Before she could raise enough vigor to spit in his face, he peeled off some euros, seemed to consider, and then dropped a ten note on the floor, said,

“Maybe a few miniatures of Baileys. We need you sharp.”

Brid stormed out, the ten note abandoned like a useless invocation.

That evening, in Milano’s, Connie was dressed in a slinky black number and, to her satisfaction, turned some heads. Benjamin J. was dressed in a well-cut black suit, a white shirt that gleamed, his hair neatly trimmed. They presented a picture of fulfilled ambition.

Connie had the house special, a spaghetti Bolognese that was the best she’d ever tasted and — fuck calories — she had garlic bread to mop up the delicious sauce. She paused mid-bite with the bread, asked Benjamin, because of the garlic,

“Will we be kissing later?”

He gave his demure smile, not a mile from a grimace, said,

“You betcha but the garlic will add a kick.”

He had the sirloin steak, baked potato, demolished the lot with short, sharp-focused bites, ordered a second bottle of wine, and, as they sat back, he raised his glass, said,

“To the flames we engulf.”

A lot of the time, she’d little idea what the fuck he was talking about but it all sounded sexy so who cared? She said,

“Burn, indeed.”

He produced a long match, red top, and the bottom half of the match appeared to be enclosed in silver, said,

“This is our special match, nonsafety of course. It is to commemorate the beginning of your fame and riches.”

She took the match, examined it. He asked,

“What do you want? Shall I tell you?”

She nodded, half blitzed from the wine and the whole gig.

He ordered espressos with a hint of Grenadine to spice them.

He said,

“To be famous, rich, revered, and, best of all, a hero. Sound good?”

Good?

Sounded bloody fantastic to Connie. She took a moment to gather herself, asked,

“What will it take?”

He rose from the table, said in sultry tone,

“Walk with me.”

Nodded to the waitress, to indicate smoke break, got outside, produced a pack of Lucky Strikes, the irony of the title of the cigs a source of added fun to him. He took out two, looked at Connie, and said,

“Woman, what’s the matter? Strike the match.”

She got it on the first flick, fired them up. He said,

“You’re a natural.”

She beamed.

He took a few rapid drags, then ground the cig under his heel with vehemence, said,

“Here’s the deal. To be great, sacrifice is required. Are you prepared to suffer to be magnificent?”

She nodded, already in so deep that she’d have given him a BJ there and then. He continued,

“Here’s the plan. I know where the children are being kept. Brid in her cups told me you said the only feature all the shrines lacked was the death of the visionaries. Well, we’re going to provide that, to set a fire of biblical beauty, and here’s the tough part. You, in attempting to rescue the blessed children, will be burned in your heroics — nothing too serious but enough to muster deep sympathy. You will lose your dearest friend in the attempt, your devoted ally who gives her life to try and rescue those poor mites. You, in burnt clothes, will try for actual smoke still rising from your clothes. You will be on the front pages of all the papers. Your message from the children, their last dying plea, to build a shrine for them and your fallen comrade.”

Connie was shocked. She’d seen or heard just about every callous act on the planet but this took her breath away.

Benjamin read her hesitation, said,

“Or not. Just crawl back into your tiny world of being nobody.”

She heard the steel leak over his tone. She knew if she refused, the very fact of her knowing his plan put her in a lethal position. She tried,

“Brid has been at my side through the bad years. Does she have to, um, go?”

Benjamin sighed, looked to the sky, said,

“Only fire is reliable, the only sure element.”

He walked into the restaurant, laid a stack of bills on the table, then came back out, didn’t even look at Connie, strolled away.

She wasn’t entirely sure but she thought he was whistling.

Connie felt utterly defeated, the feeling of floating, being enchanted as she’d been over the last weeks, evaporated. She got back to the tent. The so-called new convent she’d had such plans for... She sank into a chair, muttered,

“I need a flaming miracle.”

You might say her plea was weirdly heard — if not from above, from someplace way darker, as Brid staggered into the tent very drunk and spoiling for a fight. She saw Connie, snarled,

“The whore of Babylon.”