The rain was constant, not heavy. It never seemed to pour, but the air was always wet and dark, giving the moisture a feeling of slow torture, depressing and unrelenting. Keiran’s shoes were soaked by the standing puddles on the pavement underfoot. Traffic in West Belfast was sparadic, restricted to the backed up major roads occupied by foreign soldiers carrying guns most children thought Rambo couldn’t handle. Keiran pulled his collar over his ears, sank his head between raised shoulders and stuffed his hands in his pockets to shield himself from the weather.

He approached McKittrick’s Tavern, familiar to him with its imposing tri-color door and reputation of a place most decent Catholics wouldn’t venture. Keiran’s hand trembled a bit as he reached for the door. He shook it a few times to awaken the courage his convictions to family gave him in order to be able to be standing there, alone and unprotected.

Time stopped in the pub as Keiran entered, the way it always did so the men could get their hard stares and judgments on whoever came inside. The intimidation of this was aimed toward outsiders. McKittrick’s felt as though it was built by evil men in search of a lair. Rough old men sat at the bar while tattooed hooligans drank pints of black beer. The air was hazy with cigarette smoke and the dim lighting blurred faces in the darkness. Keiran smelled spilled whiskey and heard a low hum of men whispering things in Gaelic. One would not find themselves here if they didn’t love the Irish flags on the wall and hated the Queen.

Keiran knew where to find the man he was looking for. He knew John Laudry would be in the back left corner of the pub, near the exit in case of any unwanted guests he and his comrades couldn’t handle, and near the weapons under the bar in case they could. Keiran made his way to the table, his nerve fading as he recognized each infamous face in the booth with Laudry. Keiran reached the booth and stood before it, wishing his presence wasn’t necessary, his questions needing no answer.

"Mr. Laudry?" Keiran said, interrupting the quiet murmur of conversation. John stopped what he was saying and paused, before looking up at Keiran with a shade of annoyance, his leveling eyes conveying that this interruption might prove hazardous to Keiran’s health.

"Well, yes, Keiran McVea. How may I be of service?" Laudry said, his Crumlin accent as thick as his curly orange hair.

Keiran paused, wanting to chose his words carefully, and removed his hands from his pockets. "My brother’s gone missin’, couple days now. See, I might thought you had an idea of where he may be?"

"Why would I have a clue where he may be?" Laudry asked, leading Keiran to be more blunt.

"Well, see Mr. Laudry. I knows you been lookin fer him. I knows you are cross with him for--."

"Careful what you be sayin’, lad," Laudry interrupted, the tension among his comrades as obvious as the whitening of their knuckles. "Don’t know who might be listenin’. Don’t know what lies you might be hearin’ and repeatin’." Laudry’s lips curled slightly but deliberately over his bearded face. This was a look Keiran imagined would be his only warning.

The fear in Keiran’s stomach burned and scorched his heart and lungs, but still he needed to have his answers. "Mr. Laudry, I mean no offense, but my brother is missing. My mother can’t sleep she’s so worried. I don’t know where he may be, but I know you may be able to help me."

"To fuck, Keiran. I thought we were all in dis ting together. ‘Til we run those British murdering bastards out of dis place for good. Many families have had their share of…sacrifices." The smoke from the cigarettes on Laudry’s table could have knocked Keiran over as easily as any of the bullets in an IRA rifle. His head swam in the sea of sinster looks and Irish Republican parapharnelia painted on every inch of the pub. Laudry took a long drag of his cigarette and looked away toward his comrades and spoke with a dismissive tone, "I don’t see why your family should be any different."