Needing 13 - Johnny Kavanagh

THE HARDER THEY FALL

JOHNNY

Today was the day of the funeral. Every hope Shannon and her brothers had clung to about their sister's survival had faded, replaced by the grim acceptance of what they already felt in their bones. The Gardaí had confirmed it publicly, with their grim faces on the telly, detailing the investigation's progress, how every piece of DNA evidence pointed to the body they'd found as belonging to my girlfriend. Hearing it from their mouths made it real in a way I'd tried to deny but couldn't any longer.

They had found her ring only a few steps away from where she'd been. Gareth had brought it back with him, gently laying it in my hands as though he were handing over her spirit itself. He'd asked her siblings—Joey, Shannon, and Tadhg—if they wanted to keep it, but they couldn't bear to. So I did, threading it onto a chain I now wore around my neck.

The house was packed with people. Social workers, Gardaí, family friends, relatives—they kept turning up, offering support, but each face only made the walls feel closer, the air harder to breathe. Even Gibsie noticed, so he called up Hughie and Feely, and together they threw themselves into helping me do up the old treehouse for Tara's brothers. I skipped gym and training, focusing every ounce of myself into fixing something—anything. It was the only way to battle the guilt eating me alive, guilt for giving her siblings false hope, for walking out of that house without her, and most painfully, for not saying "I love you" to her just one last time.

Joey was heading to rehab after the service on Monday. It was supposed to be a ninety-day stint, but I knew it'd depend on how well he managed. He was shattered, a shadow of the brother I'd come to know, and with the upheaval in their family, my parents had been granted custody of the Lynches with barely a question asked. Darren lingered around, but I could tell he was leaning towards returning to Belfast, needing to find his own way to cope with the tragedy.

Tadhg and Ollie were settling slowly, still adjusting to life in a proper home. Mum kept them busy, helping them pick out things for their new rooms, while Joey and Shannon stayed glued to each other like magnets, hiding out in Tara's room. Shannon was too afraid to let him out of her sight, afraid he'd disappear; Joey's pain was unpredictable, his temper volatile. He was barely eating, speaking only in murmurs, sinking further into himself when Aoife had showed up. Ignoring his attempts to push her away, she somehow coaxed him into eating a few bites, something that made Mam's shoulders relax, even if just for a moment.

Of all her siblings, little Sean was quickly becoming my favorite. The chaos was beyond his understanding, and his endless babble brought a strange comfort, a reminder of something innocent in all this darkness. He'd wander up to me with his chubby little hands waving, rambling on in baby talk that I could barely decipher. But his chatter somehow softened the ache, made me feel less hollow.

At night, I'd play her CD on repeat, listening to the part where she whispered, "I love you." I needed to hear her voice, to hold onto that promise. I'd go through every text we'd ever sent, from that very first message she'd shot my way. Sometimes, I'd laugh at a memory, a flicker of her in every word, but mostly, it left me feeling emptier than ever, like the world had lost all meaning.

Yesterday, I'd gone to the Academy, facing every medical test, every drill Coach threw at me with Tara's encouragement echoing in my mind. I was doing this for me, sure, but for her too. She'd been with me from the beginning, fighting for me, standing beside me every step, pushing me to reach for this dream. I knew that without her and without Shannon, Gibsie, and my parents, I wouldn't have made it this far. Right before I stepped out onto the pitch, my phone buzzed with messages from mine and her friends, offering their support. It was strange, but all morning, even with the stands empty, I felt her presence, watching over me.

My guardian angel.

Now, here I was, sitting in a pew in St. Patrick's Church. The Lynch siblings were lined up in the front row, each one dressed in sharp black suits, crisp white shirts, and black ties that Mum had sent over for them before the rosary. Shannon wore a knee-length black dress, a simple cardigan, and small black heels, her face pale but dignified.

At the front, the sight was haunting.

Three coffins lay before us.

One on the right belonged to him.

Hers was in the middle.

And my girlfriend's was on the left, closest to where we all sat.

The siblings sat by age. Darren was on the far end, Joey beside him, looking drained, then Shannon, followed by Tadhg, Ollie, and finally, little Sean, who sat between them, oblivious to the weight of grief surrounding him. His unawareness brought me an unexpected sense of comfort, as if his innocence could somehow shield me, even just for a few minutes.

My father was seated between Ollie and Tadhg, leaning close with his head bent, whispering something only they could hear. Whatever he was saying must've been good, because Tadhg broke into a grin, and Ollie responded with a thumbs-up. Mam was kneeling quietly behind Sean, keeping him entertained by pointing out the painted saints and angels in the stained-glass windows and statues.

Shannon's Aunt Alice sat further down the pew with her husband, Michael, and old Nanny Murphy. Seeing them alone, just the three of them, a pang of sadness hit me. That was all the family Marie had left in her thirty-eight years on this earth.

Across the church, Teddy's family sat huddled together in full performance mode. Their dramatic sobs were loud enough to shake the rafters, each wail scraping the air like a jagged note, demanding attention. Every time one of them let out a particularly piercing cry, I could see Joey tense up in response, his jaw clenching. Darren's hand rested firmly on his knee, while Shannon had wrapped her arms around his, her grip tight as if she could hold him back with sheer will.

The Lynch side of the family had already stirred up enough trouble to last a lifetime, causing scenes over funeral arrangements, arguing about who should be buried where. They'd fought tooth and nail over the family plot, insisting that Teddy and Marie be buried side by side—and, unbelievably, that my girlfriend's coffin should rest beside theirs. The very suggestion made Darren bristle, his face going dark as he demanded Marie be cremated, unwilling to let her near Teddy's grave. Joey, on the other hand, nearly lost it altogether when his paternal grandmother had suggested that Tara should be laid to rest among "her own kin". The outrage in his eyes, the barely contained rage—it was a wonder he hadn't gone for them right then and there.

"Grant him eternal rest, O Lord, and let perpetual light shine upon him; present him to God the Most High," intoned Father McCarthy, turning solemnly toward Teddy's coffin. As he spoke, one of Teddy's sisters let out a high-pitched wail, a sound so sharp it seemed to make even the statues flinch.

Beside him the altar boy stepped forward, holding out the aspersorium—a silver vessel brimming with holy water—and the aspergillum, the little brush he'd use to bless the coffin. Father McCarthy dipped the aspergillum into the holy water, lifting his hand to begin the blessing. But before the first drop could fall, the silence shattered.

With a thunderous bang, the church doors flew open. A second later, a shot rang out, tearing through the air and right through the metal brush in Father McCarthy's hand, splintering it to pieces, as he stumbled back, the broken pieces clattering to the floor.

"I believe I didn't receive an invitation, Father McCarthy," a voice rang out, cool and sharp, slicing through the stunned silence. "Downright rude, don't ya think? Maybe even a touch disrespectful, considering it's my own bloody funeral you're carrying on with."

Everyone in the church whipped around, gasping, searching for the source of the voice. And there she stood, framed by the open doorway, a smirk on her face, gun in hand, looking more alive than any of us dared to hope.

Tara.