just vacated, the boy sat down in it. He made a face at Paul.
The other two laughed, but Paul ignored them, whispered to her, “We lived in a country house, is that what you told me? Next to the sea?”
The boy glanced at his friends, then back at Ravenna. “You’re American, aren’t you?” the boy asked congenially. Paul’s hand gripped her tighter, but with the tone of the boy’s voice and the inviting expression on his dirt-smudged face, she found herself nodding in reply.
Instantly, she knew she shouldn’t have.
“Thought as much,” the boy said pleasantly, as if he thought much more than that. “You’ve come t’Ireland t’kiss the Blarney stone, haven’t you? See the Book of Kells? Or are you searchin’ fer yer Irish roots?”
She glanced at Paul nervously. “In a way,” she ventured.
The boy sat back more comfortably, and draping his arms across the seat behind him, he pointed at Paul with a thin finger. “This yer boyfriend?”
Paul scowled at the boy. “What of it?”
The boy raised his hand as if to keep Paul from hearing. “I reckon he’s a poshy, yeah?” He winked at Ravenna. “Y’know he might be from the Southside, but I guarantee he hasn’t got what yer lookin’ fer in those brash American trousers he’s wearin’. You’d do better with a real lad, say, someone like Fintan here, or then maybe you’d—”
“Look,” Paul broke in, “I don’t mean t’give you the impression we’ve not enjoyed your company, but—”
“But piss off?” The boy looked at Paul innocently. “Tell me, Poshy, did you ever think maybe yer girlfriend came t’Ireland just t’get shagged?”
Paul didn’t even grace this with an answer, yet the boy hardly noticed. “American girls’ll shag anything with a willie,” the boy continued gleefully. “Y’know yerself, these girls’ll come over on holiday just t’find some punter t’amuse themselves with, then they’ll go back t’America and slag him off in front o’ their girlfriends.”
Paul regarded the boy placidly. “Sounds like you’re talking from personal experience.”
The boy tipped back his head, laughed under his breath. “No, Poshy, I was talkin’ about you.”
Behind him, the other boys snickered in support.
“Yeah?” Paul asked.
“Yeah,” the boy said. “You’ve not done yer job, I can see it in yer girl’s eyes. It’s not yer company she’s interested in, or are you too daft t’notice? Just look at her. She’s beggin’ t’be shagged. So,” and he stood up, making way for his friend, “are you gonna shag’er, or is Fintan?”
Fintan edged closer. Ravenna felt the muscles in Paul’s shoulder tense as he readied himself, said, “Kind of depends on how much of Fintan is left t’shag, doesn’t it?”
The boy didn’t wait to find out.
Grabbing Ravenna’s arm, he hauled her roughly from her seat before she’d even thought to kick or struggle. Behind her, Fintan blocked Paul’s advance—she knew it because there was a scrambling of feet, something sounding like a punch being thrown. With her arm twisted behind her back, she couldn’t see, but she heard a soft popping noise as Fintan’s hulk lurched suddenly into view. Paul pushed past him in a dig of fists, and Ravenna ducked, for with his well-aimed punch, he’d knocked her abductor back a step.
The thug released her falteringly.
She wasted no time in getting behind Paul.
The train was approaching the station by that time. The third boy stood at the metal doors, ready to open them, and while he cautioned Fintan’s friend to back off, Fintan came to his senses again and dove at Paul from the opposite side.
Paul was amazing in his ferocity. More than she’d hoped or expected, he held his own, for although the boys kicked him with heavy boots and drunken enthusiasm, in just a few short seconds it became all too clear who was really winning. The boys’ punches slowed. Their threats slackened. Even though Paul hadn’t scored as many
The other two laughed, but Paul ignored them, whispered to her, “We lived in a country house, is that what you told me? Next to the sea?”
The boy glanced at his friends, then back at Ravenna. “You’re American, aren’t you?” the boy asked congenially. Paul’s hand gripped her tighter, but with the tone of the boy’s voice and the inviting expression on his dirt-smudged face, she found herself nodding in reply.
Instantly, she knew she shouldn’t have.
“Thought as much,” the boy said pleasantly, as if he thought much more than that. “You’ve come t’Ireland t’kiss the Blarney stone, haven’t you? See the Book of Kells? Or are you searchin’ fer yer Irish roots?”
She glanced at Paul nervously. “In a way,” she ventured.
The boy sat back more comfortably, and draping his arms across the seat behind him, he pointed at Paul with a thin finger. “This yer boyfriend?”
Paul scowled at the boy. “What of it?”
The boy raised his hand as if to keep Paul from hearing. “I reckon he’s a poshy, yeah?” He winked at Ravenna. “Y’know he might be from the Southside, but I guarantee he hasn’t got what yer lookin’ fer in those brash American trousers he’s wearin’. You’d do better with a real lad, say, someone like Fintan here, or then maybe you’d—”
“Look,” Paul broke in, “I don’t mean t’give you the impression we’ve not enjoyed your company, but—”
“But piss off?” The boy looked at Paul innocently. “Tell me, Poshy, did you ever think maybe yer girlfriend came t’Ireland just t’get shagged?”
Paul didn’t even grace this with an answer, yet the boy hardly noticed. “American girls’ll shag anything with a willie,” the boy continued gleefully. “Y’know yerself, these girls’ll come over on holiday just t’find some punter t’amuse themselves with, then they’ll go back t’America and slag him off in front o’ their girlfriends.”
Paul regarded the boy placidly. “Sounds like you’re talking from personal experience.”
The boy tipped back his head, laughed under his breath. “No, Poshy, I was talkin’ about you.”
Behind him, the other boys snickered in support.
“Yeah?” Paul asked.
“Yeah,” the boy said. “You’ve not done yer job, I can see it in yer girl’s eyes. It’s not yer company she’s interested in, or are you too daft t’notice? Just look at her. She’s beggin’ t’be shagged. So,” and he stood up, making way for his friend, “are you gonna shag’er, or is Fintan?”
Fintan edged closer. Ravenna felt the muscles in Paul’s shoulder tense as he readied himself, said, “Kind of depends on how much of Fintan is left t’shag, doesn’t it?”
The boy didn’t wait to find out.
Grabbing Ravenna’s arm, he hauled her roughly from her seat before she’d even thought to kick or struggle. Behind her, Fintan blocked Paul’s advance—she knew it because there was a scrambling of feet, something sounding like a punch being thrown. With her arm twisted behind her back, she couldn’t see, but she heard a soft popping noise as Fintan’s hulk lurched suddenly into view. Paul pushed past him in a dig of fists, and Ravenna ducked, for with his well-aimed punch, he’d knocked her abductor back a step.
The thug released her falteringly.
She wasted no time in getting behind Paul.
The train was approaching the station by that time. The third boy stood at the metal doors, ready to open them, and while he cautioned Fintan’s friend to back off, Fintan came to his senses again and dove at Paul from the opposite side.
Paul was amazing in his ferocity. More than she’d hoped or expected, he held his own, for although the boys kicked him with heavy boots and drunken enthusiasm, in just a few short seconds it became all too clear who was really winning. The boys’ punches slowed. Their threats slackened. Even though Paul hadn’t scored as many
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