Page 44 of The Unlikely Spare

Might as well call Malachy and check in.

At least I don’t have to conceal who I’m protecting from Malachy anymore. After the incident at Sydney airport, I received a message from him with a link to a video clip showing me shielding Prince Nicholas, along with the message:

Well, fuck me sideways, my brother’s babysitting royalty. Does this mean you have to curtsy now?

Initially, it had worried me because I’m used to being deep undercover. But apparently, when you’re guarding a public figure, there’s no way to avoid people finding out your job.

Setting up my personal phone on the desk, I initiate the FaceTime call, absently running a hand through my hair while waiting for the connection.

“Well, if it isn’t my big brother in the Land Down Under,” Malachy says as his face fills the screen. “How’s life guarding the fancy royal arse?”

What the hell do I say to that? “It’s…interesting. Challenging.”

“When do I get myMy Brother Guards Rich ArseholesT-shirt? I want it in green?”

“Very funny.”

“Where are you now?”

“Alice Springs. It’s right in the middle of Australia.” I turn the phone toward the window to capture the expanse of red dirt stretching to the horizon.

“Jaysus, Eoin,” Malachy breathes. “That’s something else.”

“It is.” I turn the camera back to my face. “How are things at home?”

“Same old. Work, physio, trying to beat my personal best at getting up that bloody ramp at the community center.” He shrugs. “Nothing as exciting as your five-star hotels and private jets.”

That old guilt sits in my gut like a stone. It should have been me. That thought has haunted me for twelve years, ever sincethe day the tenement collapsed. If I’d been home instead of Malachy, if I’d been the one caught under the falling debris…

But it wasn’t me. It was my younger brother.

“You still there? Or has all that sunshine fried your brain?” Malachy’s voice pulls me from my thoughts.

“There wasn’t much there to fry in the first place,” I say. “How’s the new basketball league going?”

His face brightens. “It’s going grand. We destroyed the Belfast Tigers last weekend. Should’ve seen me—scored more points than the rest of the team combined.”

“Always were a show off,” I say, smiling despite myself.

“Someone had to make up for your complete lack of personality.” His grin softens to something more serious. “You look tired, Eoin. Everything all right with the job?”

I hesitate. “It’s fine. Complicated.” I angle the phone slightly so he can see the protesters in the distance. “We’re dealing with a lot of anti-monarchy protests on this tour, which makes security more challenging.”

Malachy squints at the screen. “Good for them. Perhaps people are tired of seeing smiling royals while their communities starve.” His voice has that edge it gets when discussing politics.

“Yeah, well, it’s complicated,” I repeat, not wanting to get into it all. Malachy has every right to his anti-establishment views. The system failed us spectacularly, after all.

“Anyway, how’s work going?” I ask.

He rolls his eyes. “Subtle, Eoin. Very subtle.”

The rest of our conversation drifts to safer topics: Aunt Siobhan’s latest attempt to set him up with her book club friend, Malachy’s ongoing feud with his upstairs neighbor, who apparently practices Irish step dancing at midnight. By the time we hang up, the knot in my chest has loosened slightly.

I find myself staring at the blank screen of my phone. Malachy never complains. Not about the pain that still plagueshim, not about the dreams he had to abandon. His lack of complaints just makes my guilt heavier.

I channel that guilt into being the best police officer I can be. Trying to get justice for other people. Trying to hold people who do bad things accountable.

It’s the only thing I can do.