Killarney, County Kerry, Ireland.
The Garda station was only twenty yards away, but from where Ciarán Doyle sat in Ruairí’s car, it could have been twenty miles.
A light rain pelted against the roof of the car, and both men seemed transfixed by the streaks of water running down the windshield. It was typical weather in Ireland. A day without rain would be like a morning without orange juice. Ciarán could remember better days where he found the sound to be one of the most soothing. Now it was just noise.
He had been sitting in the passenger seat for nearly ten minutes, staring straight ahead, breathing through his nose and trying to gather the courage for what he knew was coming next.
Beside him, Ruairí O’Callaghan sat with both hands on the steering wheel despite the engine having been turned off. On Ruaini’s lap rested a leather folder. Evidence for Ciarán so that hopefully he could walk away today feeling whole once again.
Ruairí looked at him, then back through the windshield and toward the station ahead. “We don’t have to go in right now.” He said quietly. “We can sit here as long as you need.”
Ciarán’s mouth twitched, but the smile held no humor. “Another minute won’t make me any less of a coward.”
Ruairí turned his head at that, looking at his childhood friend whose head was downcast.
“Don’t.” Ruairi warned. “I’m in no mood to let ye lie about yourself.”
Ciarán let out a thin breath and looked down at his hands. He murmured, “I waited a year.”
“You survived a year.” When Ruairi spoke, his voice stayed gentle. “You kept living. Some days that’s all you can do.”
Ciarán stared at the station doors again. People went in and out, conducting their business as if everything was entirely normal.
“I don’t know if I can say it.” Ciarán admitted.
“Ye can, Ci. Ye just start slow.” Ruairi said gently. “That’s all.”
“They’ll ask for details.”
“They will.” Ruairi nodded. “ They'll have to.”
“They’ll ask why I didn’t report it.”
Ruairí looked down at the folder and said, “Then ye tell them the truth.”
Ciarán gave a bitter little laugh. “The truth. Simple as that.”
“Nothing about any of this shite is simple, Ci.” Ruairi said. “But I'm right here. We'll get ye through this.”
That oath of family and brotherhood hung in the air between both men. Ciarán closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and unfastened his seatbelt…
They crossed the short distance to the station without rushing. Ruairí walked close, not touching him, but near enough that Ciarán could feel the reassurance of his presence.
Inside, the station was warm and smelled like rain water and stale coffee. The lobby was small and ordinary, unlike anything one might expect from a TV show or movie. The two men glanced around before they found their eyes fall upon a Garda seated at the front desk, eyes glued to the computer screen in front of him.
It took several moments before Ciarán finally led Ruairi past the waiting people and to the desk where the Garda looked up.
“How’re ye getting on?” He asked.
Ciarán opened his mouth but nothing came out. That was when Ruairí stepped in beside him, not in front of him.
“My name is Ruairí O’Callaghan.” He said. “I’m here with Ciarán Doyle. He needs to report a sexual assault. It happened here in Killarney about a year ago.”
The Garda’s face changed. Not with shock or pity. There was just a careful stillness that settled over him.
“Alright.” He said, his voice lowering. More serious. “Ciarán, is it?”
Ciarán nodded.
“I’m Garda Liam Foley. We’ll get ye somewhere private.”
They were led down a short corridor into a small interview room with a round table and three chairs. Ciarán sat down slowly, keeping his coat on. Ruairí took the chair beside him, the leather folder on the table between his hands.
A few minutes later, a plain clothed woman entered the room. Middle years and eyes that Ciarán would bet noticed everything around her.
“Ciarán?” She said, sitting across from him, Ciarán subconsciously but silently raising a hand. “I’m Detective Sergeant Maeve Ní Shaughnessy. Garda Foley’s told me the basics. Before we begin, do ye want Ruairí to stay with ye?”
“Yes.” Ciarán said immediately.
“Then he stays.” Detective Ní Shaughnessy opened a notebook but did not start writing yet.
She started, “Today, we’ll take an initial complaint. Ye tell us what happened in your own words. Some questions may feel difficult, but that doesn’t mean we doubt ye. It means we need to understand clearly. If ye need to stop, ye say so. Alright?”
Ciarán nodded. “Alright.”
“Start wherever ye can.”
Ciarán stared at the tabletop and for a few seconds, he couldn't speak. He lifted his eyes and stole a sidelong glance at Ruairi who gave him the subtlest nod of encouragement.
“My name is Ciarán Doyle.” He finally said. “I used to work for Celtic Thunder. Male revue work. Hen parties, private events, birthdays, that sort of thing.”
Ciarán closed his eyes and took in a deep breath before he was able to continue.
“About a year ago, I was booked for a hen party at the Muckross Park Hotel. The bride was Aisling Moriarty. At least, that was her name then. I don’t know what her name is now.”
“Aisling Keane.” Ruairi said quietly. “I did some research from her records.”
Ciarán swallowed before continuing, “There were six women. Maybe eight. I’m not sure. They were drinking, but they weren’t falling down drunk. They still had their wits.”
Garda Foley stood near the door, listening without interruption.
“I did the act. At first, it was loud and handsy, but I’d dealt with that before. Then they stopped me from getting dressed. Stopped me from leaving. One of them jumped on me and knocked me onto the bed and then they dog piled me.”
He stopped and rubbed both hands down his thighs, trying to ground himself.
“Part of me wishes I would have fought back, start swinging but…” He shook his head. “I couldn't. Got me mam and little sis. I couldn't hit a woman. Sounds so damn stupid now!”
“It doesn’t.” Detective Ní Shaughnessy said.
He looked up briefly, then back at the table.
“They cuffed my wrists first. Then my ankles. To the posts. It happened fast, like they already had the plan made. Once I was locked up, I started yelling for them to let me go.”
His swallowed hard.
“That’s when they put a ball gag in my mouth.” Ciarán kept going because if he stopped now, he was not sure he would start again. “I couldn’t speak. I could make noise, but not words.They had me wrapped so tight I couldn’t move. That’s when they cut my thong off and…”
Detective Ní Shaughnessy’s pen paused only for a heartbeat. “Sexually assaulted ye?”
“Yes.”
“More than one person?”
“All of them.” He confessed, his voice raw. Ciarán shut his eyes. “Some filmed it. Some took pictures. I remember the bride saying something about proof I was worth the money.”
The room was quiet enough for the rain to be heard faintly against the windows somewhere beyond the door.
“I don’t know how long it lasted,” Ciarán said. “Long enough for all of them to get a turn. Someone unlocked me eventually and threw money at me while the rest of them laughed. I got dressed in the bathroom. I remember the marks on my wrists and ankles. I remember trying not to be sick.”
“Did ye go to hospital?” Garda Foley asked gently.
“No.”
“Did ye tell anyone at the time?”
“No.”
Detective Ní Shaughnessy nodded.
“That’s common. We’ll work with what we have.”
Ciarán let out a sound that was almost a laugh, except there was nothing living in it. He said, “I went back to work eventually. Because if I stopped, people would ask questions. And what was I meant to say? That I’d been raped at a hen party by a group of women?”
Neither Garda answered. To their credit, they seemed to understand what would have been going through his mind at the time.
“I could hear it before anyone said it.” Ciarán continued. “Lucky lad. Some men would pay for that. Must’ve been some night. All that shite.”
Detective Ní Shaughnessy looked at him steadily. “What happened to ye was a crime.” She said. “The fact that they were women doesn’t change that.”
Ciarán stared at her for a moment. His throat worked, but he said nothing.
Garda Foley glanced at his notes, then back at him. “I need to ask ye something.” He started. “Why did ye wait a year to report it?”
Ruairí’s head turned toward him, but Ciarán answered first.
“Would you have reported getting raped by a group of women?” Ciarán leaned back, his voice rougher now. “Would ye? If ye were a man paid to perform at hen parties? If ye knew half the people who heard it would laugh? So no, I didn’t come in the next morning. I buried it. Badly.”
Garda Foley set his pen down.
“I’m sorry.” He said. “The delay has to be asked about and recorded. But I understand.”
Detective Ní Shaughnessy added, “Delayed reporting is very common in sexual offences. Shame, shock, fear of not being believed. We’ll include what ye’ve told us.”
Ciarán nodded once, staring back at the table.
Ruairí slid the folder forward. “These are the records from Celtic Thunder.” He said. “I own the company now. I didn’t at the time, but I have access to the old booking system. I brought everything connected to that night.”
Detective Ní Shaughnessy put on gloves before opening it.
“Tell me what’s inside.”
Ruairi answered, “Booking confirmation. Client name, Aisling Moriarty. Contact number, email, hotel, suite number, payment trail, performer schedule. There are two other names in the email chain, Niamh Buckley and Siobhán Daly.”
She turned the pages carefully.
“Muckross Park Hotel, Suite 307. Fourteenth of May last year. Deposit by card.”
“That’s it.” Ruairí said.
“Did the company keep a list of guests attending?”
“No. Just the client and secondary contacts.” Ruairi answered. “The previous owner was careless.”
The detective looked at Ciarán again and asked, “Do ye remember any other names from the room?”
But Ciarán shook his head, “I wasn’t there to make friends or meet anyone. Just entertain. I remember… one had a tattoo on her shoulder. Swallow I think. Heard the name Fiona, but that’s all.”
“Do ye remember anything else?”
Ciarán leaned forward and rested his elbows on the table’s edge, his eyes all but a blank stare. He finally said, “One said, ‘Don’t let him loose. He’s loving it.’” His voice broke on the last word. “I wasn’t.”
For the next while, they worked through the first account. Not every detail. Not the worst of it in full. But enough to begin. The booking. The hotel. The restraints. The gag. The number of women. The phones. How he left. Why he stayed silent. Why he was here now.
Ruairí answered what he could. He explained how Ciarán had told him, how he found the records, and what Celtic Thunder’s safety standards had been like under the previous owner. No escorts. No check-in protocol. No proper verification beyond payment and a booking name. A business model built on charm, cash, and hoping nothing went wrong.
“I’ve changed all of it.” Ruairí said. “No one goes alone now. No private booking without verified ID, proper contracts and a second person nearby.”
Detective Ní Shaughnessy made a note and said, “We may need a formal statement from ye as well.”
“You’ll have it.”
Garda Foley looked between them and his expression went hard. He said, “Do not contact any of the women yourselves. If there may be evidence on phones or accounts, we don’t want anyone warned.”
Ciarán looked at the folder, then at the detective across from him. “If they filmed it, can ye still find it after a year?”
“We can look.” she said. “We’ll start by preserving record and identifying the women involved. I won’t promise what we don’t know, but a year doesn’t automatically mean nothing can be recovered.”
That was when Ruairi asked, “What happens now?”
“We file the report today.” She said. “Then we arrange a fuller statement from ye. We’ll review the records you provided, seek hotel information, identify suspects and witnesses, and decide the next investigative steps. If there’s enough evidence, a file can go forward for charging decisions.”
“So it doesn’t end today.” Ciarán asked, already knowing the answer.
“No.” She answered with regret. “But it starts today.”
At last, the initial report was completed. Ruairí signed a receipt for the copies he had handed over. Detective Ní Shaughnessy gave Ciarán her card with another number written on the back.
“If ye remember anything else, even if it seems minor, write it down and contact me.” She said. “NaI mean anything. Don’t decide it doesn’t matter before we’ve looked at it.”
Ciarán took the card and said, “Thank ye.”
“And Ciarán?”
He looked up.
“You did the right thing coming in.”
Outside, the rain had not stopped. If anything, it seemed to have picked up.
Ciarán and Ruairí stood under the narrow shelter by the station entrance, both of them quiet as the town continued to move on around them. Ruairí held the now-lighter folder under his arm.
“You did it.” He said at last. “Proud of you man.”
Ciarán choked back a half laugh, saying, “Don’t be. I about half shit myself a dozen times in there.” Causing Ruairi to chuckle and wrap his free arm around his buddy’s shoulder and he led him toward the car.
“Come on.” He said. “I’ll bring ye somewhere quiet. Tea, food … whatever ye can stomach.”
Ciarán slipped Detective Ní Shaughnessy’s card into his coat pocket.
“I can’t.” He answered with regret. “I have to fly back to America.”
“Ciarán.”
“I’ll come back for the full statement.” Ciarán interrupted before Ruairi could start. “I’ll answer whatever they need. But I have work.”
Ruairí’s expression softened, anger and worry turning into something quieter. “How do you feel?”
Ciarán considered that, walking around to the passenger side of the car and he finally answered, “Like I’m still carrying it. But maybe not alone.”
Ruairí nodded once. “You never were.”
“Okay, I’ll admit it. When I saw me name in another ladder match, I near laughed myself into a spiritual crisis.”
“I still don’t understand how climbing a ladder is meant to decide who the better athlete is. I’ve never understood it. Wrestling is meant to be about skill, endurance, technique, and having enough sense not to stand underneath another man who’s holding a steel chair above his head. Not by settling athletic excellence by seeing which one of us can scramble up a ladder like a panicked cat trying to escape a bath!”
“But the King has spoken, hasn’t he? An’ when the King speaks, the rest of us poor souls are left to either obey or get flattened beneath the royal madness of it all. So here we are! Ciarán Doyle versus LJ Kasey versus Logan Hunter in a King’s Ransom Ladder Match, and hanging above that ring is something worth breaking your back for! The winner gets a Roulette Championship opportunity at Summer XXXTReme XIV!”
“That is not some wee pat on the head. That is not a participation medal handed out because everyone tried hard and remembered to bring their boots. It’s bigger than that. That is a direct line to the Roulette Championship, and a direct line to Summer XXXTreme XIV!”
“And I’ll tell ye this much. For all I’ve done in my life, for all the places wrestling has dragged me, for all the countries and arenas and dressing rooms I’ve walked through, I have never been on a cruise. Not once! So if winning this match sends me toward a Roulette title shot on a bloody cruise ship, then I’m taking that as a sign from the universe! A deeply dramatic sign with too many moving parts and likely overpriced drinks. But a sign all the same!”
“And I’d be a fool not to listen.”
“Now, LJ Kasey. I’ll start with you because respect should be given where respect is earned, and whether anyone likes it or not, you’ve earned yours a dozen times over.”
“For a long time, people looked at you and saw Miles Kasey’s little brother. That’s the shadow they put over ye. Miles, the World Champion. Miles, the name everyone knew. Miles, the man people measured ye against before ye’d even had the chance to stand fully on your own. And that’s not fair, but wrestling was never built on a level ground of bein’ fair. Wrestling is built on noise, ego, pain, and people believin’ in their own hype! So there ye were, LJ, trying to make your own name while everyone else kept attaching your brother’s to it like a tag ye couldn’t peel off!”
“But lately, ye’ve been doing the work.”
“Ye beat Brandon Hendrix recently, and that is no small thing. Ye’ve shown growth. Ye’ve shown focus. Ye’ve shown that ye are not content to be introduced as anyone’s little brother. Ye’re becoming your own man in that ring, and I respect that. I’ve also heard the whispers backstage that ye’re advancing your education, and if that’s true, then fair play to ye. Truly. In a business full of lads who think reading a contract counts as literature, seeing someone better himself outside the ring is worth acknowledging.”
“But here’s the thing, LJ. Once that bell rings and we start swingin'? That’s the precise moment when the respect doesn’t stop. It takes a pause. When that bell rings, I’m not looking at a lad building a future, getting better, sharpening himself, or proving people wrong. I’m looking at someone standing between me and a championship opportunity. And if ye’re between me and that ladder, between me and that contract, between me and the Roulette Championship, then ye are not someone I’m giving a kind path through the match.”
“Everything between the opening bell and the end is business. If I have to knock ye off the ladder, I will! If I have to drive ye down hard enough that ye’re left staring at the lights wondering where the last ten minutes of your life went, I will! And when it’s over, when the bell rings and one of us has won, the respect can resume. I’ll shake your hand. I’ll tell ye straight to yer mug that ye fought well.”
“But until then, ye’re in my way.”
“And then there’s Logan Hunter.”
“Now, Logan, I’d say it’s a pleasure, but I’m trying to cut back on the lying. Bad for the skin ye understand.”
“You are one of the most insecure men I have ever seen in this business, and that is saying something, because wrestling is packed wall to wall with lads whose entire personalities are held together by spray tan, theme music, and unresolved childhood trauma! But you? You carry that chip on your shoulder like it’s a championship belt! You walk around like the whole world owes ye something, as if every person in SCW should kneel down and apologize because Logan Hunter hasn’t been handed the respect he thinks he deserves!”
“And maybe, just maybe, the reason people don’t respect ye is because ye don’t act like a man worth respecting. I mean, look at what you’ve done with Carter. Helluva Bottom Carter, a graduate peer of yours. Someone who came through the same system, someone who should have been able to look at ye as a fellow fighter, maybe even could have been a friend or at least a traveling companion. But ye couldn’t even manage that, could ye? Ye couldn’t make nice, could ye? No, ye had to make it ugly. Ye had to actively try to ruin his career! And that tells me plenty about who Logan Hunter is!”
“It speaks badly enough that ye’d go after Carter the way ye have. But what speaks even worse is how ye manage to get through nearly every fight with Brooke sticking her plastic nose where it doesn’t belong!”
“Tell me something, Logan. Where would ye be without her? Where would Logan Hunter be if Brooke Shields wasn’t circling every match like a crow waiting for something to die? Where would ye be if she wasn’t grabbing ankles, causing distractions and making sure the poor wee delicate flower that is Logan Hunter doesn’t have to stand alone in the wind?”
“Maybe without Brooke, ye might actually have to learn how to stand on your own two feet. Maybe without Brooke, ye might have to win a match because ye were better, not because someone else tilted the board while the referee was looking the other way. Maybe without Brooke, ye might have to look in the mirror and realize that all that anger, all that swagger, all that precious wounded pride doesn’t make ye dangerous. It just makes ye loud.”
“This weekend, Brooke can scream, stomp around and make every face she likes at ringside. She can flap about like a seagull that’s spotted an unattended chip bag on O’Connell Street. But she can’t climb that ladder for ye, Logan. She can’t reach up and take that opportunity down for ye. And when the match gets ugly, when that ladder bites into your ribs and the crowd is roaring and LJ is fighting and I’m coming straight at ye, she can’t lend ye a spine!”
“And that’s your problem, lad. You’ve spent so much time hiding behind Brooke’s skirts that if someone handed ye a backbone, ye’d probably ask her where to put it!”
“That’s the difference between us. I know what it means to walk into a room afraid and walk out anyway. I know what it means to have people doubt ye, judge ye an’ laugh at ye. I know what it means to have your name spoken by people who don’t know the first bloody thing about who you are behind the cameras! And I know what it means to keep moving, not because it’s easy, not because it’s pretty, but because stopping would give too much power to people who don’t deserve another inch of your life!”
“So when I walk into Climax Control, when that bell rings, there are no brothers to hide behind. No girlfriend to climb for ye. No excuses worth a damn! There is only the ladder, the contract, the title shot, and the man willing to fight hardest to claim it!”
“I may not like ladder matches. I may not understand why this company keeps trying to turn professional wrestling into a construction accident with ring ropes. But I understand opportunity. And when I reach the top, when my hand closes around that King’s Ransom, there won’t be a question beside my name. There won’t be anyone left to say I didn’t earn it. There’ll only be Ciarán Doyle, standing above the both of ye, with the next shot at the Roulette Championship in my hand!”
“And lads?”
“That’s not luck. That’s not fate.”
“It’s just business.”
