Our Day Will Come

Inside the tenement they were met by two male fairies, stripped to the waist and their wings unfurled.  They nodded at Creteus, stared for a moment at Peter, then turned and led the way.  They ignored the lift and ascended the stairs behind it.  The stairway was narrow, lit by harsh fluorescent lights with no windows.  Peter’s vertigo barely nagged him in the confined space.  At the third floor they exited onto a landing crowded with fairies.  There was no mistaking Daisy’s door.  It was surrounded by flowers.  Someone pushed open the door and their escort stood aside.  Creteus entered and, after a hesitation, Peter followed.

The living room was dark, the curtains drawn against the stormy sky.  There were no lights in the room, but Peter’s eyes immediately adjusted to the gloom.  Four or five fairies stood around the edge of the room, their wings violet fusing into livid reds, the hues dancing and changing as he looked.

Under the window stood a couch.  Daisy lay there on her stomach, her face buried into the sofa back.  A blanket covered her lower half.  A bandage wrapped around her torso, two red-black smudges stark against the white gauze.  An old fairy knelt by Daisy’s head, mumbling a chant barely audible in a voice cracked with emotion.

Peter edged closer to Creteus, nervous of the anger filling the room.

“Daisy?” said Creteus, his voice hardly more than a murmur.  Daisy didn’t move.  “Daisy?” he repeated.

Daisy lifted her head and turned to see the visitors. 

“Daisy, we will not let this go,” said Creteus.  “We will fight them over this.  Not just your family, but every fae.  We will make them pay.”

Daisy slowly shook her head.  “And will that grow my wings back?” she asked.  “Will that stop the pain?”

“I’m so sorry.  I can’t imagine the pain, but –“

Daisy’s face twisted and she screamed.

Peter had heard nothing like it in his life.  It was all the anger and grief and hatred in the world.  It told of every slight, every injustice and every casual cruelty ever experienced.  In it shrieked the death cry of every murder and the war cry of every vengeance.  It balled unspeakable horror into a tight, livid ball and threw itself at Peter.  He staggered back, hitting the wall behind him.  It filled his ears, his eyes and his consciousness.  He clapped his hands over his ears to no effect.  The scream lasted lifetimes and Peter could do nothing to stop it.

An age later the scream died away, but then the other fairies took it up,   Peter’s knees buckled and he slid down the wall, hands still over his ears, his vision tunnelling even as it filled with tears.  He wanted them to stop, but he couldn’t form the words.  The room disappeared, and his entire being filled with the echoes of that terrible scream.

Some time later he was aware of movement.  He opened his eyes.  They were in hallway of the tenement block.  Two fairies held his arms and were half dragging him, half supporting him across the floor.  He shook them off and stopped, grabbing at the wall for support.  Creteus leant over him.

“Are you all right?” Creteus asked.

“Do I fecking look all right?  Jesus H Christ, didn’t you hear that?  Mother of God and all the saints!”

“Let’s get you out into the fresh air.”

Creteus held out a hand but Peter shoved it away.  He staggered towards the glass doors leading to the street.  As he pushed them open a gust of rain-filled air hit his face.  He stepped forward then turned, dropped to his knees and retched into the narrow strip of grass beside the steps.

When he had emptied his stomach and all but turned it inside out, he sat back on the top step.  He wiped his mouth on his sleeve and prayed harder than any devout priest that God in his mercy would give him a bottle of good Irish whiskey right there and then.  God, even Scotch would do.

Creteus towered over him, turning towards the crowd around the entrance.  Peter studied them.  Fae of all species.  And there was the publican and the hippy at the edge of the crowd, their faces white.

“Fae,” thundered Creteus.  “Brothers and sisters.  Our neighbour, our friend, our sister, Daisy, has been mutilated.  I cannot express the horror of what they did to her.”  He waved a hand at Peter.  “Our brother here is sickened, quite literally.  As am I.  As are all of us.  But that is not the true horror.  Oh, it’s terrible, of course it is, but the real horror is that they think they can do it with impunity.  Would they pull the wings off a fly?  Of course not.  Would they mutilate a pet?  If they did, they’d be put in prison in a moment.  But fae?  They can do what they like.”

“That’s right!” yelled someone in the crowd.  The rest murmured in agreement.

“And tomorrow it could be you!”  Creteus thrust a finger at the crowd.  “Or you,” he shouted, pointing at someone else.  “And don’t think it will be just fairies.  You know this.  To them we are all just animals.  Worse.  There isn’t a Battersea Fae Home, collecting donations for the care of us.  They treat dogs with more humanity than us.  Well, let me tell you this.  It stops now!”  He thrust a finger towards his feet, emphasising each word.  “This minute, in this place, it ends now.”

Peter grabbed at the banister and hauled himself up.  “Tiocfaidh ár lá!” he yelled, recalling shouts from decades ago in the Old Country.  “Our day will come!” he screamed.

“Our day has come!” shouted Creteus.  The crowd roared. 

Creteus was right, thought Peter.  He was a leprechaun, right enough, but in this moment they were all fae.  He looked out over the crowd, and they were all united.  They were fae.

The barman and the hippy were no longer in the crowd.  He could see them walking away, Bob’s hand on Amanda’s elbow.  She looked as though she wanted to stay and argue, but what argument was there?  How could you argue against that dreadful scream?

“That’s right,” he screamed at their backs.  “Feck off.  We don’t want you here.”