"Desmond! Desmond Murphy! Get back here!"

She would say most nights as I bolted out the door. You had to give it to her. She was persistent. Her fiery red hair is what I remember most, even above her constant efforts to keep me at home. I would like to say I was a good kid though. Adventurous, but good. At least I like to think I started that way.

Every night after dinner I was off like a flash. Down to the local. Paddy would give me odd jobs to keep me busy. He knew us, our family. He knew pops had passed away a year earlier. And if it weren't for his generosity me and ma wouldn't have a cent to our names. He kept the bills paid and our stomachs full. But it wasn't without sacrifice.

Pops was always out of work. He would be on, and then off, and then have a job here or there. He seemed to have just enough money to keep us afloat, but not always. Some days we went without food. And these days were when she would have it out with him the worst. I just thought all parents fought like this. So I spent more and more time down the local.

I remember the first day I caught a peak through the window. Paddy and them were just lounging about. They were drinking, laughing, and drinking some more. I sat there for maybe an hour just sucking it all in. They seemed happy. Without a care. You wouldn't have been able to spot a frown in place.

And that's what I wanted. No cares. No worries. Not what I found at home. All they did was argue and the topic was mostly about money. About not having it and about everything that meant. It was a stark contrast to what these guys seemed to have. They seemed to have it all figured out. So I decided there and then what I wanted to be. I wanted to be like Thomas O'Rielly.

Paddy O'Rielly walked through Old Town like he owned the place, and to some degree he did. His influence reached far and wide. But it was the charismatic man himself that caught most people's attention. Even if you didn't like what he did, you had to respect him for what he was. And that was by all accounts, self made.

He wasn't like us. Or anyone we knew, or who they knew. He stuck out like dogs balls. The way he moved through the world with such confidence and ease. He took orders from no-one. He was the guy you went to if you needed something, anything, in Old Town. And he made things happen. His methods weren't always cheered, but the people that came to him were interested in results.

Those that let him into their lives seemed to be better off. They had money. They had some kind of respite. And those that didn't, well for a time that was us. Broke. Hungry. And depressed. But that all changed. After pops passed away, everything changed.

Pops was a good man. Had a heart of gold, people would say. I wouldn't know. He was never around. And when he was he still wasn't there. I'd like to say this didn't have an effect on me. I'd like to tell you it didn't push me to do some of the crazy shit I'd done. But I can't. And I think this is why I just did what Paddy asked of me. Simply because he asked, and he showed that he cared. And although he was using me to his own end, it didn't really matter. I felt accepted. I felt appreciated. I felt like I had a home.

For the next few years I went off the rails. Pops had passed on. At this point I didn't know exactly why, but it was the loss of that stability, as weird as it sounds, that I think I went and did the shit I did. I was twelve and had already been in more than enough scrapes with the law to have learnt some kind of lesson. And in all I learnt many, but not what they probably would've wanted. And definitely not what my mother wanted, or wished. She hated me being around Paddy. And when I look back on those years, she had good reason to.

I did all types of shit. And shit was what it was. It hurt people, and in the scene I was getting into it was the type of jobs you'd do when at the bottom rungs; the bottom of the shit heap. Each act had me feeling like I'd accomplished something. Like I was finding my way. The money I was pulling in had that affect. More and more would be cut off the top of the pile. It felt good. But it wasn't real.

What was real, was the shit itself. And slowly I was learning to build a tolerance to it all. Slowly, but surely, I was becoming more and more of a gangster. And to tell you the God's honest truth, Father, I fuckin' loved it.

"You loved it?"

"Yeah, I really fuckin' did."

"And what exactly were you doing?"

"Really, Father? You've lived here your whole life and you're gonna act like you don't know what goes on and has been going on around here?"

No response. He knew. Father Fitzpatrick knew. He wasn't dumb, and he wasn't an asshole. So I figured he was just trying to have me open up. Let it all out, all the shit I had been holding onto all those years. Not sure why though, cause I wasn't lieing when I said I loved it. They were fond memories.

But if he was willing to listen to me as I took a trip down memory lane, why the fuck wouldn't I tell him. I trusted him. He was like a father to me, has been ever since pops passed away. So I lit up a cigarette and got to reminiscing.

"To start, Father, we have to begin back when I got caught peeking through the window at the local, Paddy's Tavern..."

I was just doing the daily sneak and peak, catching a glimpse of Paddy and his goons when a hand grabbed my shoulder from behind. Little Tony was a big prick. Big in size, big in ego, but small in status. He wanted more than anything to be at the head of the crew.

But Paddy had taken that role with both hands and low swinging balls and he wasn't giving over the reigns for no-one. Tony's insecurities turned jealousy had him in constant fuck you and fuck off mode.

I wasn't but nine at the time and just being nosey. Think Little Tony cared though? He was a mean fuck. The type Paddy kept on a short leash, like an attack dog. Close enough to know if he'd plan to make a move, and readily available to use for some of the more 'specialized' chores like torturing and particularly heavy stand over jobs.

And if it wasn't for Paddy, he probably would've beat me into my next life...

"Let go of me!"

"I'm gonna fuckin' kill ya, ya little shit!"

For weeks after, the bruises reminded me what had happened. Not just that Tony had kicked the living shit out of me, but also what Paddy had done. I don't remember all the details clearly, but what I do remember seeing was Paddy take to Tony with a baseball bat. For the remainder of his life, Little Tony would be reminded of that fateful day too.

I think Paddy really just wanted to put Tony in his place. Dig a hole for his dog and push him right the fuck in, just without the end scene fading to black. But more like, swatting a newspaper on the nose of a wayward puppy then realizing you had just used a two by four. From there on out, Little Tony was known as Big Limp Tony on account of his crippled right leg.

But I only caught a glimpse of it, the finely shaped dark wooden bat hanging over Paddy O'Rielly's right shoulder as he reached his left hand down to help me to my feet.

I remember that part clearly, so fuckin' clear that I remember what he was wearing right down to the sun faded green braces strapped over his shoulders and holding up his overly sized pants; he wasn't even wearing a belt. The knees on his slacks were scuffed and so too his brown boots. The only thing that looked new was the pressed white button down shirt.

He didn't seem to care too much for his appearance and that made the moment even more reassuring for some reason. Like he was just like me. And he wasn't in it for the look of what he was doing, but rather because he really cared to be doing it.

And the blood on the bat. That's what stayed with me beyond anything because months later I pinched it from behind the bar; a memento to forever remember the day I met Thomas 'Paddy' O'Rielly.