Bronwen O'Connor
Explosions Imminent
Part One
 

As she stumbles out of the lighted doorway into the dark street beyond, she knows the three thugs are not going to stand bewildered in her Uncle’s kitchen for long. She looks down the street, no one is in sight. Typical Belfastian behavior—you hear the sounds of a fight, you lock up, darken the windows, vacate the street. Bronwen coughs, spits a gob of blood onto the walk and wipes the rest of the remaining blood off her face with her shirt sleeve as she breaks into a dead run down the street, shoes slapping on the cobblestone as she disappears around the corner.

Uncle had degenerated into madness apparently, in the five years of her absence. His plans to eliminate three standing Protestant churches simultaneously, though admirable in their scale and promised destruction, were sheer lunacy, the planned date of mayhem falling conveniently on the day of Belfast Sabbath. He’d neglected to mention this until he was greeting her in a tight bear hug on the tarmac of the airport. She’d come to refuse, back out of the deal anyways, but quickly realized the stakes were much higher than anything she’d fathomed. Realized that though she had a obscene draw to demolitions and blood, and the talent for it on top of that, that this was too much.

When she was 12, she’d made a pipe bomb on the kitchen table under the careful guidance and coaxing of the relative now stooped over that same wooden table, ordering his thugs to track her down and kill her.  

                “Take care that the fuse is placed just so, Bronwen,” he’d said gently. “Don’t want to be setting it off prematurely, ye know.”

                “Where should we try it out Uncle?” She’d asked, wide eyed and excited, looking up at his kind old face.

                He’d pointed her in the direction of an upright brick house with white shutters at the end of the street. Several people had been seen coming and going, putting notes in the mailbox, not of the bill or pleasant card variety. She’d blown off the fingers of the 15 year old boy who lived there. She’d felt a twinge of guilt, but was assured by Uncle, “he’d have done the same thing to ye, Bronwen. Don’t feel bad.”

She’d believed him. Trusted him all her life, taught by him how to scrap, fight with knives. Thrown stones at British riot guards with his son Liam;  Liam now running full tilt towards her, from a block away, gun drawn, black balaclava pulled over his face crookedly, red curly hair poking out the ragged holes of old battles lost.

She’s been running for what seems like ages, her sides and lungs piercing her with staggering pain from what she can only assume are cracked ribs, when she comes full tilt into the dockyards district.  Bronwen quickly lopes across the narrow street into the first bar she sees. Oddly, it is the same bar that had taken her away from Belfast and the Ireland Republic to begin with, by the fateful hand of Till Rammstein.  She steps over the very patch of sidewalk where he’d scooped her up that night, battered beyond belief and half dead from a ferocious brawl that had gone awry.

 I just never know when to walk away it seems. It might appear, if considering my last fight, that I do indeed know when to walk away, but I assure you, as long as I’m still conscious, I’ve never been able to walk away from an actual match.  I will grab your attention, your throat, your small bit of pride, and rip it apart with my bare hands, as long as I’m still breathing, can feel myself bleeding, can feel the pain of my injuries and can put you in my sights. What I did not make up in substance with Annika, I made up with ferocity, and you can guarantee I will bring that to any match with you, Hunt, anytime. I just hope you know what you’re getting into when you decide you want to step into the ring with someone who doesn’t care about winning. If I had my way, I wouldn’t be fighting a piece of shit like you. I’m pissed about this match, you’re a fucking piss-ant. A kid with a stupid big gun that probably has a recoil that makes you cry every time you shoot bottles with it. A minor on the wrestling scene, who does drugs because he wants to “look cool”. Guess what…? Whether you “disown” your trainer, your old “identity”, all in a bid to scramble for the top…it doesn’t work.  Stop stealing your Momma’s weed, listening to rap, and find something meaningful in your life, like meditation, or philanthropic work. Wrestling just isn’t your gig, face it, and I’m pissed, because I know it, ye pathetic piece of flesh.

The pub was nearly empty, and the middle aged bar wenches were clearing off piles of pint-glasses off the tables. A few customers straggled and staggered around, bumbling their way towards the door in a wide circular path from various points in the dark dingy place, but she doesn’t see him anywhere.

“Where the fuck are you…?” She mutters under her breath. This is where she’d ditched him, so she’d assumed he’d stay there, happily amused by “vintage Irish pub” and drink his face off for the rest of the night with that dimwitted snob of a red head that had been on the plane with them.

She steps back outside and stands in a darkened doorway to survey the street without being seen. No sign of Liam and his two burly friends anywhere, so she lights up a smoke and runs her fingers through her hair restlessly feeling the parts matted with blood, prodding her skull gently to survey the damage.  Knocks gently.  Her head aches, but her skull is apparently not fractured. Bronwen takes another pull of the smoke, wishes she had some weed to dull the pain a bit, but settles for a long warm swallow of whiskey from her flask, miraculously not lost out of the inside pocket of her jacket. As she tilts the flask up to take another swallow, a black boot catches her square in the stomach. Whiskey sprays out of her mouth all over her attacker as she doubles over. She can feel heavy punches bearing down on her back as she scrambles to get back up and face him.

“What the fuck?” She yells, grabbing the nearest body part to her, an arm, and throwing the man to the ground. He scrambles around and looks up at her, grimacing menacingly as he gets back up to his feet. He’s a good foot taller than her, buzz cut, with a nasty skin condition characteristic of methamphetamine abuse. As he gets up, she can see him gearing up to hit her again, but she catches him in the chest with a boot and backs off a minute.

“Who the hell are you?” She roars, as he launches himself back up and reaches a long arm out to catch her in the chin with a fist. He ends up cuffing her as she’s able to maneuver herself just out of reach. Bronwen dances a little to the left, but notices his hand as he pulls it back towards him, and gasps.

“Ye figured it out then, cunt?” the man hisses. “Yer uncle knew I had a score t’settle wit’ ye, so he hired me on. I’m surprised ye didn’t figure it out sooner.”  He flexes his fist, and she can see that his thumb, ring finger and pinky are all that remain of a ghastly scarred ball-shaped stump of a hand.

The two other thugs appear around the corner. Liam pulls off his balaclava and she can see him cast a bewildered look at her as they get closer. She frowns, and reaches into her pocket quickly, pulling out an old army surplus folding combat knife.

“Well let’s take care of the ones I missed then, enh?” She growls, advancing on him before he realizes what’s going on. She is on top of his chest with his wrist clenched in her hand, and he starts to scream as he sees the knife, kicking his legs desperately as he tries to push her away with his remaining hand. She straddles his torso and pins his thighs down with her legs hooked into him. Nothing about the position is femininely sexy as she swiftly slices off the thumb and two remaining fingers of his hand. He screams and his face reddens. She gets up off him and turns to face her two new opponents, blood running down the lapels of her black leather jacket as she pushes her hair back out of her face.

“Who’s next?”   

 Hunt, I want blood. Yours or mine, it has yet to be determined.