The Witch Who Wouldn't Burn

Declan watched as his younger brother’s dipped their fingers into the holy water as they entered the church. They paused and did it quickly, a reflex that came so naturally to them, brushing their foreheads without a second thought.

When Declan got to the font, he kept on walking, eyes straight as he entered the nave. As far as he was concerned, the basin was filled with battery acid and he didn’t want it on his skin.

There was a time before Declan had been angry, then there had been a brief interlude when he had been hopeful and naive like a child. But he lived on a ring road with a one way sign and as he sat down in the same pew he’d sat in a thousand times before, he was angry.

For his brother, Ronan, anger had always been simple. If he was mad about something, he let it fire out of him like rounds off a gun. Fast, deliberate, maximum damage. But Declan had never had that luxury. His anger was a quiet, ugly thing, crawling on its belly to stay hidden. He had a handle on it for the most part, as keeping his brothers safe had relied on it for so long, but it wasn’t concise. It was so all consuming that sometimes when Declan looked in the mirror, he didn’t recognise himself.

He rubbed the silky material of his tie between his thumb and forefinger as the church slowly filled with people. It was a new tie in a shade of midnight blue that Jordan had picked out for him and as he sat silently through mass, he pinched it tightly.

He wasn’t listening to the service, he didn’t even pretend to move his lips when they were invited to stand up and sing. His mind was hyper fixated on his childhood, surrounded by this religion that meant nothing and everything to him at the same time. By the end of mass, he didn’t feel like himself and he kept his eyes down as people got to their feet.

Ronan was speaking and seemed to finish the end of a sentence as Declan tuned in finally, eyes flicking over to him. He sat forward and let his tie go as the congregation were getting up to leave. An hour had passed. His stomach hurt.

“What?” He asked, frowning as he tried to recall what Ronan had been saying under his breath. But he hadn’t been paying any attention, his focus wholeheartedly elsewhere as he stared down the saints in the stained glass lining the walls.

There was a time when Declan believed his father, Niall Lynch had been some kind of saint. A holy warrior sent to protect them, to tell stories, sing songs and raise rambunctious boys.

“I said—“ Ronan started but Matthew cut him off, sat between them, wild blonde hair wrestled into a ponytail at the back of his head.

“Ro, don’t,” he said seriously. His voice didn’t sound like his voice and Declan knew he was the reason for that. He hoped Ronan didn’t notice but one look at his face, a deep groove between his eyebrows as he looked at his little brother, then over at Declan both questioning and accusing, was very telling. Declan averted his eyes, getting to his feet.

In the car, he sat in the passenger seat while Matthew sat in the back and Ronan cleared his throat, looking from one of his brothers to the other, before turning the key to start the engine. As they pulled out of St Agnes onto the road, Ronan’s phone began to ring. He slid down in his seat, straightening one long leg to pull it out of his pocket.

“You’re driving,” Declan reminded him and Ronan sat up, glancing at the caller ID and tossing it into Declan’s lap where it fell between his knees and into the footwell.

“Not my Hennessy,” Ronan said and Declan leaned down, retrieving the phone.

JORDAN, the screen informed him. It rang as he watched it. It rang and he let it vibrate in his grip. Ronan slapped his upper arm with the back of his hand and then it stopped.

“Dick move,” Ronan commented.

“Shut up,” Declan snapped.