Post by gvb on Jan 25, 2020 5:39:16 GMT -6
South End Boston, Massachusetts.
It’s been so long since he last walked these streets, the same streets he grew up on. He could still remember their names, Washington Street, Union Park Street, Harrison Avenue, Plympton Street…He saw all the places that marked his childhood: the Cathedral Of The Holy Cross, the Firehouse, the playground in Union Park Street. Memories from ten years and more ago, those carefree days spent playing hockey with the boys. Being the pudgy kid he couldn’t compete with the speed and agility of his friends, but he made a hell of a goalie. And then the first years in Junior High, not many friends but at least he wasn’t getting bullied like the poor Pat.
Even now, years after understanding why the other kids never mocked him, he felt sick in the stomach.
It wasn’t because they liked him, it wasn’t because they enjoyed his company. The only reason why he was accepted was because of who his father was.
And now, he wondered if any of them was down there. How many of these faces looking up at him as he was sitting on the ledge of the Troy Boston Apartments would he recognize?
Of one thing he could be sure, none of them would recognize him.
Hell, he barely recognized himself these days...
Detective Walsh loved the Swing Shift. It was infinitely better than the Graveyard shift, and it didn’t require him to wake up at 5 am to clock in one hour later.
“I deserve it, after a life spent cleaning the scum off the streets.” That’s what he used to say to whoever asked him why he asked, and obtained, to be assigned to the afternoon shift for these last few months before retirement. And nobody could argue with that, Kelly Walsh was a legend here at the C-6 South District. Upright and dutiful, since his rookie days he had been on the frontline against the Irish Mob, making it his mission to clean the name of the Irish immigrants by securing to justice as many of his compatriots as he possibly could. Which, as you can imagine, didn’t sit well with the head of the organized crime. And as often happens with them, their revenge was brutal.
His wife was killed in her car while waiting for his teenage daughter to come out of school. The young girl never got over the trauma, blaming herself for lingering too long with her friends. She ended her own life six months later, jumping in front of a train.
It took him months to get out of the depression, years of investigations to secure the man who pulled the trigger on his wife to justice. But eventually, on March 16 2010, Nolan Brady was arrested, and Kelly was the one reading him his rights.
The swing shift was usually calm, things tended to pick up a bit near the end of it but the first hours would usually go smoothly. The rookie (he had a name, of course, but Kelly never learned it) should have been there soon with his coffee. “Black, real coffee. Not that fancy crap you kids drink.” He grunted, hoping the rookie wouldn’t mess it up. He opened the drawer of his desk, pulling out the little flask he hid there, unscrewing the cap.
Empty.
“Fuck…” He muttered putting it back in the drawer and making a mental note to pick it up at the end of the shift to refill it. “Today can fuck off already.”
And things were about to get worse.
All his colleagues were gathered around the screen, showing the live images of someone standing on the ledge of a building captured by the police helicopter. Someone was already on their way there, and he had no intention to watch another kid trying to end his life, not after what happened to his daughter.
Everything changed when he overheard that name from one of his colleagues. “He looks like that wrestler, Donovan Keane.”
“No…” He whispered, a lump forming in his throat. “It.. It’s not possible…” He stood up from the chair, quickly heading to the screen. He had to see it, he had to be sure it wasn’t him.
Shit. As quickly as he got there, he turned around and grabbed his coat from the coat stand, barking orders to his colleagues. “Whoever is going on the scene, tell them to wait for me.” He yelled, picking up his phone and starting to scroll through the contacts. “And take the goddamn helicopter off his face.” There it was, the name he was looking for. He pressed the screen, sending the call.
“And for Christ’s sake don’t let the press anywhere near him.” He stormed out of the room, bringing the phone to his ear. Come on, pick up you son of a…
“Kelly.” Came the heavy and hollow voice of John Clark, a decorated career as a US Marshal testified by numerous newspaper clippings on full display on the living room wall like trophies. “Kelly Walsh. To what do I owe the pleasure, after all these years?”
“Nothing. This isn’t a social call, John.” In that exact moment, Clark’s heart skipped a beat. Him and Kelly were used to be close friends in his glory days. They worked together on a number of cases, he helped him piecing his life together after the double tragedy that hit him, the loss of his wife and their teenage daughter in a short span. He worked together with him night and day for months to find out the culprit, he was there by his side the day he finally arrested Nolan Brady. Together, they made sure that awful story had its happy ending.
Despite all this, he hadn’t heard from Kelly since then. Brady was the last case of Clark’s honored career, he retired from the US Marshals a week later, moving into a quiet life as a civilian, cutting bridges with all his former colleagues and friends. Why would he call him now? His cop instinct could find only one explanation. Never in his life he hoped he’d be wrong as he did on this wednesday afternoon. Never once he hated to be right as much as he did now. “The kid is back. 55 Traveler Street, bring the priest.”
“Sure.”
The most important rule of the program is that witnesses must not make contact with former associates or unprotected family members. They also must not return to the town from which they were relocated. That was the golden rule of the WITSEC, a rule he repeated to every single person he put in the program. Including the kid. What brought him back? And why there? What was so important about the Troy Apartments?
“Father, I’ll pick you up in five.” He said when, finally, father Michael O’Neil picked up his phone, driving through the traffic. Destination: the Cathedral Of The Holy Cross.
He was tired. The last two weeks had been a downward spiral for him. Career wise, he felt like he was going nowhere. Despite all their efforts, him and Jay only and always got just this close to the titles, only to see them constantly slip through their fingers.
He just ruined another relationship, or potential one. The most beautiful girl he ever met.
Friends? Sure, he had plenty of those. There was Jay, his best friend, pretty much a brother. But lately they haven’t been so close as they used to be, not since him and his brother got together. Rhett? He had a wonderful girlfriend, Qiyara. There was truly something special in that girl, he promised himself that he was going to take on her offer to talk, perhaps she could have helped him. She seemed to understand him better than anyone else.
And of course, his beloved brother, Iggy. Ten years ago, he promised he would always take care of Imogen, that was her name before the transition. It was him, a teenager and his younger sister ready to take the biggest step of their lives. New lives, a new city, a new beginning. Just the two of them against the world. How much he sacrificed, with no regrets, for her happiness, trying to provide her a normal life. A mission their father and their mother failed, for completely different reasons. He was, along with Jay, his biggest supporter in her search for her true nature. He denied his own feelings to stay with her in the moment of need, he encouraged her to become a him. And sure it took him a while to use the right pronoun, he looked at Iggy and still saw his sweet little sister, that young girl that soaked his shirt in tears the day they buried their mother, the young girl that held his hand through all the flight from Boston to Vegas, continuously asking him to reassure her, to tell her that everything will be alright, and that nothing will separate them.
He couldn’t keep his promise. He failed that young girl, he failed Iggy.
He had just woken up, last Monday. It wasn’t his bed, it wasn’t his room. He looked around, trying to remember where he was, and how he got there… Wherever he was. He was wearing his clothes, a pair of jeans and a Nightfall hoodie. On the chair next to the bed, a fancy black dress, but no woman in sight. Not until he stepped in the next room, and saw her sleeping on the couch, his jacket as a blanket. And suddenly, all those memories re-emerged from the ocean of japanese booze he tried to drown them in, how he ruined everything with her, how he decided to come here, to her hotel, to try fix things, in one last, desperate attempt. And how showing up drunk in a hotel in Japan and asking for the room of one of their guest all wasn’t the brilliant idea he thought it would be. He left her a note, apologizing for his actions and thanking her for what she did. He explained how he should be in Portland on tuesday, but he will fly back to Japan right after, and see her there. He left her his jacket too, of course and called a taxi to the airport.
That was when he saw that message from Iggy. Don’t speak to me. That was when he found out that he blocked him, that he cut the ties. That was when his whole world imploded, the last straw, that little push that sent his mind off that edge it had been walking on for weeks now. He never went to Portland, he changed his flight to Boston. For two days he roamed those familiar streets on no sleep, poisoning his already dark thoughts with cheap Irish whiskey.
And that lead him here, on the ledge of the Troy Apartments, 55 Traveler Street in South Side Boston, Massachusetts. Back where it all began.
Firefighters, paramedics, cops… They were all there for him, the whole she-bang. And of course, a crowd of concerned citizens. He chuckled at the thought of how quickly they increased in numbers, driven by a morbid curiosity that brought them here like flies to honey. The police was pushing them back, creating a safety zone around the area of impact, where the firefighters were laying down the safety net. Not that it would be of any help, if he jumped from this height. It was probably just a decoy, a distraction while they devise another way to rescue him.
And soon, he was sure, someone would come to try talk him out of this extreme gesture. He heard the door opening behind him. “Stop right there. Or I swear to God, I’m gonna jump.” His voice came out calm and collected, with a sort of detached opacity.
“Son…”
Ten years. Ten years have passed since he left Boston. But he would never forget that voice, the last voice he heard, the voice of that gentle cop. He put a hand on his shoulder, that day ten years ago at the Logan International Airport. “You’re a man now, you have to take care of your sister. Good luck, son.”
“K-Kelly?” Of all the cops, of all the people in Boston… What were the chances that he’d be the one to take the case?
“Yes, Donnie. It’s me” The policeman took a step forward. His experience with potential suicides was limited, but this wasn’t a ‘jumper’, as his colleagues called him. The old detective and the young wrestler had a deep bond, one only three other people were aware of. And two were on this same roof with them. Donovan was slowly turning around. A slight smile appeared on Kelly’s face, he established a contact, it was a huge step forward.
“John. Father. Great, the gang’s all here.” He said with a nervous chuckle. “I… I broke the golden rule, John.”
“It doesn’t matter, Donovan.” The gruff Marshal said in the softest voice he was capable of. “Come here now, let us help you.”
Clark’s plea fell on deaf ears. Donnie was lost in his own thoughts, a far more dangerous place than the edge of the roof he was now standing on. “I came back, and I shouldn’t have…” He pulled at his own hair, on the verge of a mental breakdown. “I couldn’t take care of her, Kelly… I… I abandoned Iggy… Gen… I failed..”
The three men exchanged a quick look. Who was Iggy? Of course, they weren’t aware of Imogen’s recent change.
“I failed at everything… Career, relationships, family… Everything Donovan Keane has ever done, he always found a way to fuck up.” He wiped a tear from his eyes. “It’s heavy, dude… You have no idea… I can’t do this anymore.”
They watched him turn around, once again to face the abyss. “Bullshit.” Walsh thundered, taking another step forward. “Ten years ago, I left a kid who had just lost everything. He lost his family, he just had to turn and leave all his friends and relative behind for the poor life choices someone else made for him. He was sixteen years old, and he had nothing. He had nothing but a little sister and the biggest set of balls I ever saw in a kid of that age.” Donnie freezed, staring at the void under his feet, the cold Boston wind ruffling his hair. “This life took everything from him. Everything but his incredible strength of character. I saw him growing up, attending school in the morning and washing dishes at nights to make sure his sister had everything a little girl needed. I saw that kid chasing his dream, and making it reality…”
“That kid is long dead, Kelly…” Donnie interrupted him, beaten and resigned.
“No, he’s not. You’re that kid, Donovan.”
They heard him laugh, of that they all were sure. Then why he was crying when he turned around?
“You keep saying that, Kelly.” Tears raining down his cheeks like waterfalls. “But answer me this… If I jump down right now…”
“No…”
“If I jump…”
“Stop it, son.” He begged him.
“...And smush on the street below...”
“Donovan…” Clark added, stepping next to the old detective. The tension was at its peak, time slowed down, seconds seeming like hours.
“Who will you scrape from the sidewalk?”
“Son…”
“STOP CALLING ME SON! ANSWER THE DAMN QUESTION!”
Kelly Walsh felt a twinge in his heart. A physical pain, one like he never felt before. All these emotions were too much for him to bear. This is it, the old clock is striking midnight. He thought to himself, feeling a growing sense of burning spreading on his chest. “D-D…” He stuttered, barely able to stand, let alone talking.
“Who am I, Kelly? Who the fuck am I?” He cried out, desperate. “SAY MY NAME!! SAY IT!!”
He wanted to, but the words wouldn’t come out. The sight became blurry, his knees weak. Kelly grabbed Clark’s arm, holding onto it.
“D-Dylan... Your name is Dylan B-Brady...” Hearing his name, his real name, the name of that kid Kelly had been talking about, Donnie dropped on his knees, abandoning himself in a liberating cry. The weight of his life as Donovan Keane finally falling from his shoulders. There, on the roof of a building in South Side Boston, he was remembered who he really was. He finally stopped living a lie, a life someone else built for him.
Today, Wednesday 22nd February 2020, Dylan Brady took back his life. And doing so, he saved Donovan Keane’s.
“John Clark, former US Marshal. Send the paramedics.” Clark crackled at Kelly’s radio. “No the kid…” He raised his eyes. Donovan Keane was on his knees, a few feet away from the ledge. The priest was there with him. “He’s fine… But Walsh..” Kelly squeezed his hand, John looked down at him. “I think it’s a heart attack. Get your ass up here, quick!”
“J-John…”
“Shut the fuck up Kelly..” He could hear his friend’s heart racing in his chest at a rapid rate.
“T-The kid..” Breathing was difficult enough for the old detective. Pronouncing those six letters felt like a titanic task, leaving him exhausted.
“You saved him…” John Clark couldn’t remember the last time he cried. But today his old, tired eyes were shedding tears as he felt his friend fading away in his arms. Steps, quickly climbing the stairs. Finally the paramedics were here. “Hold on, Kelly. They’re here.”
“You saved him” That was all Kelly Walsh understood, all he cared about in that moment, all he needed. His lips curled into a smile, he could feel John squeezing his hand and saying something. But his voice was coming from too far away, he couldn no longer hear his words.
And then, it was darkness.