Luck O' The Irish

CW: Language, Violence

“If yer Irish, ain’t ya supposed t’ be lucky?”

“Oh wow, I’d ne’er thought o’ that. Aren’t ya supposed t’ be the smart one?”

“Now now. No need fer the ‘ostility. I was just makin’ a point.”

“What’s yer name, if you’ll allow me to ask?”

“Rowan. Rowan Mahony. It’s m’ name, but don’t ya be wearin’ it out. Only got the one.”

“Ah. An Irish like m’self. M’ names Maja Hackett. Now what wer ya sayin’ about us Irish bein’ lucky? Cuz my luck o’meter is at about seventy percent.” the woman glances at her watch, a wisp of crimson hair waving loosely in on her forehead.

“Whatcha mean, seventy percent? Every day it resets to a hundred. It’s only half to nine!” Rowan yells out, disrupting the table behind him. Maja takes time to look around, taking in sights of other people eating breakfast, chairs scraping on the hardwood floor. The diner they were in was a seedy little place, but they made a damn good cuppa when you needed it. The pie wasn’t half bad either.

“Well y’see, I happen t’ be terrible at th’ ol’ good luck deal. Little bit a irony from one of th’ peoples that be watchin’ us.”

“That’s outrageous. How’d y’ manage t’ make it here in one piece?” he leans forward, his bulky mass sliding the table forward another inch into Maja’s sternum.

“I’m ‘fraid t’ say it cuz it might ruin th’ rest of th’ day for me. Let’s just order a cuppa and move on, shall we?”

“Right. Don’ ask, don’ tell. I getcha.”

They both order a cup and a slice of pie, Maja getting peanut butter and Rowan a slice of cherry.

“Y’know, those cherries aren’t real.” Maja jests, scooping up half her pie in one bite.

“What are ya talkin’ bout,” he mumbles, cherry juice dripping from his jowls. “‘Course they’re real. Y’ think that peanut butter’s real? Growin’ on a bush an all that?”

“Rowan, you absolute oaf, if I can call y’ that. Peanut butter obviously grows on a vine. It is a legume. Like grapes n’ such. Those there are mariachi cherries. Soak ‘em in sugar and dye ‘em red.”

“Yer the oaf, Maja. It ain’t called a mariachi cherry. They’re called a maraschino cherry. Get yer facts straight.”

“Isn’t that what I said?” she sees the deprecating look on his face, “Eh, close enough. Anyway, movin’ on. I best be gettin’ to work.” She stacks her plate on his and starts towards the door.

“Bad luck t’ not pay yer bill. Don’t want yer meter t’ go down, do ya?” He quirks an eyebrow and she grudgingly walks back, grabbing the receipt. She slams it on the kiosk and forks over a forty, shoving her change in a jacket pocket. Squinting in the sudden morning light, Rowan huffs up behind her.

“Whad’ya want Rowan?” She pulls her hood up and walks faster, hoping to loose the man in the crowd.

“Th’ reason I was askin’ bout you in the diner was b’cause I’m wantin’ t’ hire you for a job. A snatch ‘n grab, if y’will.”

Maja stops mid stride and pulls him into the alley, which is no easy feat.

“Y’ want to hire me? The unluckiest girl n’ all of th’ world? Why me?”

Rowan straightens his dark green suit and smiles with surprisingly straight and white teeth, giving his eating habits.

“That’s exactly why I want you. Your luck, or lack there of, would make it almost impossible to detect. I want this to go wrong.”

“What d’ya want me to do then? Money? Weapons?”

“Money. It’s always money.” He smiles again and hands her a small envelope. “Here is all the information you could possibly need. A phone is in there with a preloaded number. An associate of mine will call you. Do not call them. No matter what goes wrong. After they call you, take out the SIM card and trash it. Burn everything if you can.”

“How much?” she asks, tucking the envelope in her front pocket.

“How much what?”

“Payment. I ain’t doin’ this for free. How much?”

“However much you need. Name a price.”

“I need enough money t’ get me the hell outta here. I’m headin’ over t’ th’ states. United States, that is. What d’ I need fer that?”

“That’s a hard bargain, but I can get you what you need. Wait until I call you.” He starts to walk back on the street, into the hum of the city.

“Now wait a minute. Wha’ happened t’ yer accent?” she calls out, stopping him in his tracks. He turns with an almost sinister sneer.

“Oh. That dumb accent. That was nothing but a ruse to get your attention. Now that we made a deal, I can stop pretending. I suggest you work on yours as well. People with a voice like yours stick out. Not many Irish here in Willesden. Good day now, Ms. Hackett. Be careful in the meantime. Wait for my call.” With that, he straightens his tie and disappears into the rush of people. Maja runs after him, but somehow the giant man fades away.

“Those damned British. Ne’er trustin’ them again.”

Luck levels now at sixty five percent

“Oh great,” she mutters to herself before walking back into the clamor and rumble of everyday life.

Delete Created with Sketch.

Like every day, her job at the bank is a long and boring one. Her job is to gather all the deposits people make and sort them into the proper drawers. It helps keep her mind occupied, but today was different. The small envelope had a shocking weight to it. Every few minutes, Maja checked her pocket to make sure it was still there, expecting a call any minute.

She looks over her desk and sees her boss glaring at her.

“What’s up?” she asks, setting a stack of money to the side.

“I’ve been callin’ your name for five minutes now. Are you almost done with the list I gave you?” The woman’s voice had a rough tone to it, like crushing chalk with a rock.

“Sorry Ms. Tow. I’ve a lot on me mind. I’m ‘bout done. Few minutes left t’ go.”

“Well hurry it up. Only an hour until we close. And don’t ‘What’s up’ me. That is for friends. It’s “yes ma’am” or “Yes?” Is that understood?”

“Yes ma’am.” She grabs another stack and looks back at the list, which in all honesty, wasn’t complete at all. “Don’t have any friends.” she mutters.

“What was that?” Ms. Tow looks back up, glaring like always.

“Nothing Ms. Tow. Just talking to myself.”

“Do that in your head. It’s distracting.” she turns back to the clipboard and signs off on something else.

“No ma’am. Yes ma’am. How about I shove my fist up your-” the phone rings, cutting her off. She scrambles for it and tears open the envelope, knocking over a thick wad of bills.

“Shit,” she answers the phone, wedging it against her ear with her shoulder while she snatches up the money.

“Is this Ms. Hackett?” A woman’s voice says on the other end.

“Yeah. I’m Hackett. Who’re you?”

“That doesn’t matter. In five minutes, a man will walk through the doors and ask to make a deposit in the amount of seven thousand pound sterling. Make sure it goes into the account immediately. Now trash the SIM card, but keep the phone. A second one is in the envelope my friend Rowan gave you. Goodbye.” she says, hanging up with a sharp click.

“Bloody rude, ain’t ya.” she opens the back of the phone and pops out the SIM, snapping it in half and putting it in two separate trash cans. As if on cue, the door alarm dings, signaling someone walking in. Maja heads to the front and the man described to her walks up to the kiosk, setting down an envelope.

“I’m here to make a deposit, ma’am. Seven thousand pound sterling.” His voice was thick like honey, but the honey had been sitting too long and crystallized, like the man could compliment you one second and reveal your deepest secret the next.

“Can I get th’ name of the person holdin’ the account?” she asks, pulling out a pen and piece of paper.

“Should be under the name Wylie. Do I need to spell it out?” he waits for her response, “W-Y-L-I-E.”

“And last name?”

“Just the one name,” he smiles at her, making her shiver, thinking about Rowan’s ape-like grin. Smile means death in their language.

“I’m needin’ a full name. We livin’ in Europe. Can’t say how many Wylies are out there.”

“No one like me. Just look. I have the only box in the whole bank under that name. I’m pretty sure a friend of mine told you no complications, correct?”

“Well those ain’t be exactly what she said, but somethin’ like that. I get what yer sayin’ though. I’ll get this deposited pronto. Thank you sir.”

“No. Thank you. I’ll see you around.”

“Sounds good.”

He walks out the doors and she quickly locks them behind her, closing the shutters. She takes the envelope back and searches for his box, which happens to be the one closest to the top. Grabbing the hook, she snatches the ring on the box and slowly lowers it to the table in the center of the room. She unlocks it and slides the top off. Inside is a single envelope with her name on it. Looking for Ms. Tow, and not seeing the elderly woman, she stashes that under her arm. Quickly setting the money in the tray, she puts everything away. Back at her desk, she pulls out the other SIM and plugs it in the phone, which chirps to life.

“Who came in?”

Maja whips around to see Ms. Tow’s grandson hiding under a desk.

“You can’t be doin’ that Callum. Little bit a warnin’ next time.”

“Sorry Ms. Maja. Who was the man that came in?”

“Man named Wylie, I believe. Just needed to be despositin’ some money. Why’d you ask?”

Callum climbs out from under the desk and into an empty office chair, his toes barely touching the ground.

“He had guns. Two of them. Nasty looking things.”

“How’d you see them? Sneakin’ around like you do?”

“Yes Ms. Maja. I know Nan said not to, but it’s so boring here. It’s fun. Why did the man have guns?” he asks, spinning the chair in circles.

“Don’t know why, Callum. Some peoples just be carryin’ weapons aroun’ like that. Not against any law though. Best be leaving the likes of him alone, y’hear. Dangerous sort, those men. Now lemme finish work then we can talk more. Sound good?”

He nods and slides off the chair, wobbling dizzily to the bathroom. Maja turns back to her desk with a thought on her mind. Why two guns. I get having one, but two. Callum said boxy ones at that. No need for military kind ‘round these parts. She tosses that thought to the side and finishes her list with surprising ease. She packs up, turns off her desk light and walks to the lunch room, searching for Callum.

“Callum, where’d y’ run off to now? I’ve finished me work and I’m ready to chat,” she calls out, but gets worried when she doesn’t get a response.

Luck level is at forty three percent

She runs through the building searching for the little boy, and Ms. Tow for that matter, but neither can be found. Having searched every nook and cranny, she heads out back. The bank backs up to another building, a gym of some sort, but to the right is a narrow alley for the dumpsters. A strange smell hits her nose as she stumbles over the loose cobblestones and shard of glass. A lump appears in the shadows and Maja stops, already connecting the dots of the smell and the shape. She rushes over and finds the ragdolled Ms. Tow, a bullet wound lodged between her eyes.

Well that covers the smell. Blood.

Dragging the body to the side wall, she walks to the end of the alley, the setting sun casting a long shadow over everything. To the right, traffic continues as usual, but to the left is a small park area, roped off with heavy chains. Hopping the chains, she climbs up a light pole, searching for the kid. A flash of blonde hair catches her attention and she sees the man, Wylie, dragging a crying Callum into another alley. She bolts after them, calling Callum’s name, causing a group of women to look at her sharply for disturbing their knitting. She ignores their glares and books it even faster, her footsteps echoing when she reaches the alley. The burner phone rings again and she hesitantly answers it.

“This is all your fault, you know,” a familiar voice sneers.

“Rowan? What’re you doin’ with Callum?” she huffs from the effort of talking and running at the same time.

“So that’s the boy’s name. He wouldn’t tell us anything. Better run faster then girl. We’re almost gone for good.” He laughs and puts the phone on speaker, the sound of Callum’s sobs filling her ear.

“I’m comin’ for ya Callum. Don’t ye worry.”

“Better hurry. Time’s running out.”

“Do y’know how hard it is to run in knee high boots? Do ya? I don’ think ya do.”

A squeal of tires echoes at the far end of the road and Rowan laughs again.

“You shouldn’t have told him anything, Ms. Hackett. That’s the only reason we did what we did. He can’t know. Should have kept your mouth shut. But oh well. Looks like your luck has finally run out.” he hangs up and Maja collapses against the nearest wall, heaving in an effort not to throw up. She doesn’t need to glance at her watch to know what it says.

Luck levels at zero percent. I am sorry.

“Luck o’ the Irish. What a joke.”