IRISH LOVESTORY - The Midnight Operation

 

 copyright©2025

The Midnight Operation

One summer, we escaped for a single day to the coast in Waterford, where Jack’s aunts kept a mobile home. In truth, it was little more than a caravan, half-sunken into the sand, but inside it was warm and complete: a tiny living room, a small fridge, and a television that hummed softly in the background. We had Julian with us.

I went through the formal ritual of meeting the aunts, smiling through polite conversation while one of them drew Jack into questions about his life. He introduced me—quite plainly—as his girlfriend. All the while, Julian sat in absolute silence at the table, his small frame still and serious, the weight in his expression far beyond his years.

When Jack’s attention was firmly caught in the aunt’s net of conversation, I turned to him. Something in the boy’s quiet composure tugged at me. By chance, I still had a blown-up balloon in my hand. With no better plan, I tapped it lightly toward his head.

It landed, and in that instant, the air between us shifted—the child erupted into a mischievous, bell-like laughter, each peal as bright and sharp as sunlight on glass. I laughed too, startled and delighted that such a small, silly act could light his face with joy. Across the room, Jack and his aunt exchanged a look, as if they too recognised something rare. I think it was the first time I had heard Julian truly laugh. The entire day blurred in my memory after that—the beach itself fading like an overexposed photograph—while that laughter remained, vivid and alive.

Julian found his way back to me later. We were at Jack’s parents’ table when he leaned across, holding out a massive apple, the skin glistening with the marks of his tiny teeth.

“Want some?” he asked, eyes wide and guileless, spilling over with pure affection.

From the kitchen, Jack paused mid-task and turned toward us.
“You’re going to give her some of your apple? And will you give your dad a bite too?”

Julian’s little face closed like a fist.
“No!” he declared, and bit into the apple again, the juice painting his cheeks in sticky innocence.

One night, Jack brought me to his house again, quietly, as though carrying contraband. We sat watching music videos, speaking in murmurs so as not to wake the others. He told me about a letter he was writing to me—full of things he had never said aloud—but it was not yet finished. I would have it the next day.

Then he led me to his room with the seriousness of a commander, instructing me to keep silent, and—most importantly—not to be seen. I was baffled; his family already knew me.

“I’ll be right back,” he said, stepping out for a cigarette. He left the light on.

Minutes later, footsteps crept toward the door. My chest tightened. Without thinking, I slid beneath the blanket and pulled it over my head, heart hammering.

I heard Loraine’s voice calling for Jack. The door cracked open; a hand reached in, flicked off the light. Darkness folded around me. I couldn’t tell if she had looked in properly, but if she had, surely she’d have seen the tell-tale spill of my hair escaping from under the blanket. My skin burned with the heat of panic. Somewhere in the house, Jack’s voice was calm, unbothered, as if such concealments were part of his daily routine.

By morning, I felt wrung dry. Jack woke me with fresh instructions—sharp, confident. I was to slip out like a fugitive in the early light.

“Run for the road,” he said, “and I’ll pick you up a little later. Don’t stop.”

And so I ran—like a startled bird bursting from cover—never daring to look back. As I reached the gate, I caught, from the corner of my eye, Jack’s mother standing in the doorway, her gaze fixed on me, her expression shaded by the dim morning light. God help me, I thought. It’s over.

Jack’s car slid up beside me seconds later. I flung the door open and tumbled inside, my pulse wild.

“She saw me, Jack!” I gasped.

“She didn’t recognise you,” he replied, his tone as smooth and cold as water over stone.

I stared at him, disbelieving. It was like waking into a dream you can’t escape from—a man so certain of his own invulnerability, so sure the rules bent themselves to him. A dangerous conviction. The sort that lives quietly inside many psychopaths.

 copyright©2025