The Shamrock Killer

Chapter One: The Calm Before the Storm

"Isle of hope, isle of tears

Isle of freedom, isle of fears

But it's not the isle you left behind

That isle of hunger, isle of pain

Isle you'll never see again

But the isle of home is always on your mind."

As I finished stringing out the last note of the Irish ballad in soft but firm vibrato, I opened my eyes to see my Irish family before me, and my Mum sobbing openly. Called it, I sighed internally and fought the instinct to roll my eyes. The entire time I was singing I was cringing internally at the sappiness of the moment. But outwardly, I appeared composed. I narrowed my eyes at my Dad who quickly sneezed into his handkerchief suspiciously and wiped his eyes. I left my eyes travel to the right and gave my Grandpa a smile as he returned it with one of his own. After all, this song was really for him. 

It didn't help that I had had accompaniment on the piano from my boyfriend, Rory, who gave me a quick smile and a flirtatious wink. I gave him the side eye and a slight smile - Rory was the world's hugest flirt but always knew how to get a reaction out of me. 

I rubbed my hands together to dissipate the unsettling feeling that had settled over my skin at the silence that lingered, while the heaviness of the moment seemed to weigh over everyone in the room.  The atmosphere seemed thick with pressure and the calm that comes before the storm. Or perhaps the weight of the song had just settled too heavily between my shoulder blades and wanted to stay. 

Looking over my family once more, I couldn't help but marvel at just how many of my relatives and distant kin had gathered for my Grandpa's birthday. Granted, you didn't turn 90 every day. There were my Mum and Dad standing arm-in-arm in one corner of the room, in front of them seated in a grand but slightly off-putting pale green armchair sat my white-haired, wizened Grandpa, and who could forget my cousin Declan smirking at me from where he was leaning against the wall in the opposite corner of the room.

I narrowed my eyes at him with a promise of pain while he once again not so subtly pretended to cry and clap his hands. I'm pretty sure I even saw him mouth the words "moving performance." You're up next, I mouthed back, taking delight in seeing his face freeze behind his nonchalant facade. They say the longer you know someone the better you can read them, and well, at this point I could read Declan like an Irish horror story. 

I couldn't even begin to describe everyone else here, there were simply too many people. But that's the Irish.. BIG families. Everyone knew everyone knew everyone.

As for me, there wasn't a lot to my story. It was regular, plain, boring even. But it was mine to make mine. So let me introduce myself formally. My name is Maureen O'Flanigan, third-generation Irish with grandparents from County Cork on the Island. While I was born in the United States I proudly hold dual-citizenship in both countries. And before you ask, no, I don't have a middle name. Not a lot of Irish do, to be honest. Looking at my family now I realized that if we were any more Irish we would probably be sprouting green hair and bleed green. I smiled at the thought and rolled my neck and shoulders back, giving my stiff back muscles some release and straightening my cute blue dress in the front, gazing down at my black flats with impatience. I had to get out of the spotlight soon. The itch was increasing, and I felt a slight headache coming on that would give the perfect excuse to get away for a few moments. 

I moved towards the windows in the room to look at the clouds rolling in, and the blissful compliance of suburban Boston. Nothing even remotely strange happened here.