Never Never by Susan Kiernan-Lewis Page A

chicken. Behind him, the sound of the other man’s screams echoed off the sides of the alley’s stone walls.
    Chezzie turned back to the soldiers and saved his own life by fainting.
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    T he oblivion didn’t last long. A hard kick to the ribs brought Chezzie back to reality. He fought to breathe against the pain, against his lungs closing down. He was so weak. His ribs hurt so bad. Chezzie’s face pressed against the slimy cold cobblestones of the alley.
    â€œJust shoot ‘im,” a voice said. “We got one of the chickens.”
    â€œCommander Hurley wants the citizenry brought in for the lions,” another voice said. “Not shot in an empty back alley.”
    The soldier’s words didn’t make sense to Chezzie but he knew that name. Somewhere in the back of his hunger-crazed mind, he knew that name.
    â€œOn yer feet, ye gipe!”
    Rough hands yanked him to his feet and he fought to stay standing.
    â€œCor, he smells something rotten.”
    â€œThe lions won’t care.”
    The soldiers looked at him with open disgust. One of them pointed his gun at him.
    â€œDon’t make me touch ye again,” the soldier said. “I ain’t had me shots. Move!”
    â€œI…I know your commander,” Chezzie stuttered, not entirely sure why he said that.
    â€œWhat’s that? What’s he saying?”
    â€œHurley,” Chezzie said. And hadn’t he just been thinking of poor old Bill? Was God giving him a message? With the chicken and now Bill?
    â€œHe says he knows Commander Hurley,” one of the soldiers said.
    â€œGreat. They can talk it over as he fights off Leo and Simba. Let’s move.” The soldier jabbed Chezzie in the ribs with his gun and gestured toward the mouth of the alley.
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    H e fell twice as they walked through the deserted streets of Dublin. Chezzie had come this way not an hour earlier and had spent much of the walk attempting to avoid the thugs and murderers who lined the path.
    Now it was totally devoid of people. Not a soul, not a sound.
    The soldiers strode confidently through the street with Chezzie alternately lumbering and staggering between them. It took all his concentration not to fall.
    Whatever would happen now was out of his hands and there was a relief in that. He didn’t bother looking where they were going. It didn’t matter. These men were in charge. These men would tell him what to do. And if his struggle was finally over, they would tell him that too.
    They walked down Fishamble Street to the front of the Dublin opera house. A line of six soldiers stood out front but they didn’t even look at him as he was led into the main lobby. The odor of blood and shit and fear hit Chezzie like a hammer as he entered. Two of the soldiers flanked him, their hands like iron vices on his arms as they dragged him to an anteroom off the cavernous lobby. He watched their eyes as they silently communicated with one another. Bizarrely, he thought he saw nervousness.
    The muffled roar of a lion rattled the framed photographs on the walls of the anteroom. The fear clawed up Chezzie’s spine like a living thing, grasping for his throat. He made a strangled sound and both soldiers turned to him.
    So it was true. The fecking rumors were true.
    Chezzie struggled against his captors, his eyes wide with terror.
    â€œNo!” he screamed. “You can’t! Please, no!”
    The soldiers weren’t looking at him now. They were watching the door to the anteroom, their faces tense and strained.
    On the rare times he’d shared a night around a burning trashcan with Dublin’s night people, Chezzie had heard the stories. Scare stories that the Garda had created their own lion pit for entertainment and were throwing Dubliners into it. Stories, like all the others, designed to strike terror into the heart by night but by light of day couldn’t be believed.
    â€œI know him, I tell you,”