We all knew Charlie was no good from the start. Came out wrong, he did. That's what Mam said. "Born with a black heart," she'd mutter, shaking her head whenever she caught sight of him on the street, hanging about in that tatty old coat, just standing there like he was waiting for something awful to happen. The other lads wouldn't go near him, not after the thing with the dog.
A terrier it was, small and wiry, its tongue lolling out of its mouth. They found it under the railway bridge, the same spot where Charlie liked to go. They said it was a dare, but we all knew he didn't need any coaxing. It wasn't a big deal to him, not like it was to the rest of us. We talked about it for weeks, the way he'd done it without blinking, like he was just skinning a rabbit or gutting a fish down at the butcher's.
He was the butcher's boy, after all.
"Ah, but sure, it's in his blood," old Mrs. O'Donnell said, cackling from her corner in the pub. "Them McNallys always had a bit of the devil in them. His da was the same, rest his soul."
The whole town knew it. His father, Big Tommy McNally, had been rough. Mam used to cross herself whenever his name came up, though she didn't mind the pork chops he sold, the meat wrapped up neat in brown paper. He had a heavy hand with Charlie, everyone said so. "Teaches him a lesson, that's all," Tommy would growl if anyone dared mention the bruises, the black eyes.
But Charlie never said a word. Not once.
We were all scared of him, even when he was a kid, not because he was big or strong, but because he was quiet. Too quiet. You could never tell what he was thinking. He had these eyes, you know? Dark, like stones at the bottom of a river, and you could feel them on you even if he wasn't looking.
I remember one summer—God, it must have been years ago now—we'd all gone down to the riverbank, me, Sean, Tommy Burke, and a few of the lads. It was one of those hot days where the air sticks to your skin and the smell of cut grass is everywhere. We were skimming stones, mucking about, and then Tommy dared Charlie to go swim out to the big rock in the middle of the river.
It wasn't that far, but the current was fierce, and no one had done it before. We all waited, expecting him to laugh it off, maybe punch Tommy in the arm like he usually would. But Charlie didn't say a thing. Just stripped down to his shorts, pale as a ghost, and waded in.
We watched him go, watched him fight the pull of the river. At first, it looked like he wasn't going to make it, his arms flailing a bit, but then he found his rhythm, and before we knew it, he was at the rock, standing there like some kind of demon king, looking back at us. He didn't smile or wave or anything. Just stood there, dripping wet, his eyes dark and hollow.
None of us cheered. It wasn't a victory, not really.
Charlie made it back, of course. Of course he did. He always did.
Years went by, and most of us left the town. Got jobs in Dublin or Galway, places where we didn't have to think about the butcher's boy or the things that happened in the dark corners of old places. But I stayed. I had to, didn't I? Mam was sick, and someone had to take care of her. So I stayed, and I saw it all unfold, bit by bit, like one of those slow train wrecks you can't look away from.
The butcher's shop closed not long after Big Tommy dropped dead behind the counter. Heart attack, they said. But some folk whispered it wasn't the heart that gave out, it was the guilt. The years of what he'd done to Charlie finally catching up with him.
Charlie took over the shop, but it was never the same. He didn't have the knack for it, not like his da. The meat was off, too fatty or too tough. The customers stopped coming, and Charlie spent more time behind the butcher's curtain, sharpening his knives, than he did out front.
Then one day, a girl from town went missing.
She was a quiet thing, Katie Donnelly. Worked at the bakery, sweet as anything. I didn't know her that well, but I saw her sometimes when I went for a loaf of soda bread or a scone for Mam. She always smiled, always had a kind word. So when she vanished, the whole town was up in arms.
They found her three days later.
Under the railway bridge.
I didn't go to the funeral. I couldn't. The whole town turned out, of course. But I stayed at home, staring out the window at the empty street, feeling the weight of something terrible pressing down on me. The whispers were everywhere, louder than ever.
"It was him," Mrs. O'Donnell hissed to anyone who'd listen. "Mark my words, that boy did it. He's always had a black heart, just like his da."
They arrested Charlie a week later. Brought him out in handcuffs, pale as ever, his face blank as a sheet of butcher's paper. He didn't resist, didn't say a word. Just walked with them, quiet as always.
The papers had a field day. The Butcher's Boy, They Called Him. But it was different seeing it all written down in black and white, something about it made it more real, more final.
I left town not long after that. There was nothing left for me there, not after Mam passed. But even now, after all these years, I still see Charlie's face sometimes, still hear the whisper of the river, feel those dark eyes watching me from the other side of the water.
You don't forget a boy like Charlie.
You don't forget what he was.