She could hear the springs on the creaky old sofa in her dad’s Dublin flat. Paddy O’Neill must be sitting down. He was whistling a jaunty tune. She could just make out the words as Paddy told his hulking bodyguard to wait outside in the hallway. A hinge squeaked, and the front door clicked shut. Perfect. She turned on the water in the tiny shower stall and glanced in the mirror. Her auburn hair was wild and fly-away. The pale skin of her cheek was red with a flowering bruise, and a few drops of blood ran down her throat from a knife slice under her ear. She looked a fright, but she was alive, and Paddy hadn’t forced her into having sex with him to pay off her father’s loan. Not yet, at any rate. Thankfully, Paddy was from a different generation. The former IRA spokesman turned loan shark was willing to play the gentleman when she drew on her acting ability and begged for a few minutes to shower and prepare for their “first time” together. She privately thought Paddy and men like him represented the worst of the former Irish Republican Army, those young hotheads who tried to force their political agenda by blowing up people.
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