XXI: For My Next Trick, I'll Need a Volunteer
Every time he closed his eyes, he awoke. London didn't make it easy for a man to sleep. Outside of his hotel room, the traffic blasted its way through roads that received four times the traffic of Grafton Street, and sixteen times the crime of Henry Street. Outdoor markets and the ILAC building were nothing compared to the din that permeated here.
Had he not known better, he would have thought that all this noise was supposed to keep him awake, hold his nerves on a precarious wire so that he could not focus and get a good night's sleep before the race. Perhaps it was all a plot by his competitors. Each time he thought that, he dismissed the idea as so much junk, but every time he wanted to take a nap, the supposition seemed increasingly easy to believe.
On the other hand, perhaps it was those vile protein shakes that they had come out with recently. Sure, they were fantastic for your body, or so the bottle proclaimed, but they tasted like sludge, and he figured they had to be loaded with saccharine and all sorts of chemicals. Perhaps some of those chemicals had gone to his brain, or perhaps he was simply on a sugar high and couldn't sleep. If I could have made it through medical school, I would have been able to tell, Desmond thought. Then again, if I had made it through medical school, I wouldn't be getting the chance to sleep at night. Either way, he couldn't win. It was lovely how things like that turned out, absolutely lovely.
–––
London was drowning in signs. Everywhere he looked in Piccadilly, there was a sign, as big as the side of a building and limned in neon, and some small part of him had hoped that they would have some rustic charm, to be for some tea-and-scones shop, but they were nothing useful. All Hollywood movies and globally popular rock bands, stuff about which he could not have cared less. Had Piccadilly ever had any charm of its own? Perhaps it had, but he could not see it now. The signs blocked it. There were always signs, though, everywhere. He didn't need to look to find them.
When he closed his eyes, standing near the fountain, being jostled by some kid about fifteen years too late for the Ramones, he could still see the signs, their electric illumination seeping in through his eyelids. He could never get away from them, and he could never understand them, just like he could never understand London. He could never hope to understand it. Even five years since the move from Wexford, he could not understand the damned place.
"Mr. Cassidy?"
He didn't recognize the name at first. He didn't turn when he should have. It had been a long time since anyone had said his name, and it sounded foreign now, especially in London, where everyone had such Sassenach names. His own was anything but: Desmond Eamonn Cassidy. It sounded like a revolutionary's name, but he liked it – or maybe he liked it for that particular reason.
"Aye?" He made a show of being distracted. It wasn't that much of a stretch, but at least it hid the fact that he had not caught on to the use of his own name. "Pleasure to meet you, sir." He was all smiles, and it felt uncomfortably like fawning. "Good to know you're takin' me seriously. Much obliged." He extended a hand for a shake, sizing up the other fellow. "I hope you won't mind makin' this short though, eh? I've to get to bed tonight. I've a race tomorrow." That, at least, was the truth, even if his name was not.
"Of course, Mr. Cassidy. We appreciate your enthusiasm for the project and, I assure you, we will do our utmost to see that your needs are provided for. Of course, we'll talk briefly and you can run your race." The American accent was smooth, flat. The few American dialect accents Desmond knew, he couldn't place it as. "And our best wishes for that, of course."
Desmond placed both palms together, giving the man a deep nod of thanks. "Much appreciated. But you wanted to meet with me tonight to give me tickets, you'd said?" The American fellow retrieved a small envelope, handing it to him. Desmond could read 'D. Cassidy' on the edge of it, and that pleased him. He'd been chosen; he was Chosen. To make it even better, they had provided his airfare, and as he glanced briefly into the envelope, he saw two tickets, one for coming and one for going. That was a good sign. They were thoughtful enough not to abandon him. "Thanks. Where am I headed?"
"Boston," the American said. He sounded amused, as if because of some private joke. Desmond saw no need to inquire as to the meaning of the joke, simply nodded and took the tickets, sliding them into his pocket. The amusement nagged at him, though, and even if he couldn't ask, he hoped an explanation would be forthcoming. The American continued, "You'll stay there for a week or so. You'll get information about what you're supposed to do there just before you fly out. Slán agat."
"Slán leat," Desmond responded automatically. It occurred to him only a moment or two later: The American knows Irish! He wanted to follow after the fellow, ask him just how he knew the language, pry answers out of him, but he could do nothing of the sort. The American was already walking away. He had nothing more to do but hang out here, maybe get some beer – though if he could find a decent brew in England, he'd be surprised; they knew nothing of Guinness – and then go home drunk in time to almost oversleep the race tomorrow. He ran better that way.
And then he would head to Boston. He had been to the States a few times, and it would be nice to go back. He wondered why they wanted him there, though. For all that he had heard, they wanted him for some sort of scientific thing, and if they wanted someone in Boston for that, they could have found someone in Boston. They could have found a real doctor or scientist there, couldn't they?
He glanced up towards one of the signs. Oceanic Air told him to Fly upon the wings of the wind. He recognized that from something. The Bible? Shakespeare? Whatever it was, he would do that. And he would trust that the wind would land him in the right place after Boston. it would have to. They had told him it would, and they were always right.
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He had flown, but the others had soared. The marathon had not turned out as he had expected, but he had the real race to look forward to. Once he got out of Boston, he would race, and win. This new airport was low and dark, like Heathrow, and sort of disappointing-looking, but they were waiting for him in the Ambassadors' Club lounge of Oceanic to give him further directions. Desmond wondered what there was here in Boston that he was supposed to be searching out, but tried his best not to fixate on it. He would find out. All he needed to do was be patient, and he would be provided with the answers he so desperately wanted.
Terminal E of Logan Airport was the international terminal, and that relieved him somewhat. He didn't have far to walk. His legs had been hurting a bit since the marathon, and though he had done enough conditioning to ensure he wouldn't get shin-splints, he was a bit worried. So he used the moving walkway for the first time in his life, feeling disastrously lazy for so doing, but getting to the door quicker than he might have expected from walking outside of the walkway. Perhaps I've traveled ahead in time, he thought, and then dismissed that as crazy. However insane it might have been had he said it aloud, though, he had to admit that the thought pleased him.
They were there waiting for him, indeed. He could see a file folder, with someone's picture sticking out of it, and what looked like – travel brochures? Australia? Someplace tropical, to be sure – also nearby. At least they would be sending him someplace nicer than Boston. They also had what looked like a contract, and he wondered at the particulars of it before deciding that it didn't matter. They had chosen him, and he could not afford to be particular. Wherever they needed him to go, he would go there, and if it allowed him the opportunity to spend a few days on a tropical island, so much the better. He had always wanted to take a vacation to someplace like that.