BALLYKISSANGEL
It had gone eleven, and Assumpta was getting desperate. Clean and dressed, now, hair straight, and makeup on, her body expected caffeine, maybe even some food. She'd had no meal the night before. Now she was trying to think of a way to break her fast without being caught.
She'd been to her window and back a dozen times. Someone, looked like Donal, had almost spotted her, looking up as he passed by below. She told herself she'd gotten away in time.
Did Kathleen still run the shop these days? Maybe if she'd taken on help, Assumpta would have a chance. She looked out again, this time at the steps of Hendley's.
Closed. Sunday. Right.
It appeared her options were downstairs or Cilldargan. McLogan's, maybe. She scowled. She disliked the notion of driving without a bit of caffeine in her system, just to support the business of a sleazy old man in a turtleneck. She decided she would make up her mind on the way down the stairs, maybe sneak a glance around the pub. If service was quick, she could beat the midday rush.
The pub was empty enough. Only an old mountainy type and a younger man with sandy hair and a cupid's bow were at a corner table, discussing a mechanical issue of some description. They ignored her. Assumpta had a seat at the bar, and soon the presumable Mrs. Dooley appeared behind it. Assumpta couldn't recall having met her in the old days, and she hoped that meant the woman wouldn't recognise her.
"Full breakfast?"
"That'd be grand."
Oonagh looked pleased. "To drink?"
"Coffee, please."
Oonagh poured a cup, too full to lighten, and set it before the guest. Assumpta indulged in a graceless but life-sustaining slurp.
"You know, I never dreamt of running a public house," Oonagh said idly.
Assumpta made a bit more room in the coffee cup. "You don't say."
"When we started, I was half afraid I'd have to become an undertaker as well."
"Lucky then," Assumpta muttered. Please go away, she thought.
Oonagh didn't. "Michael says you've family in town?"
Assumpta clutched the mug handle a bit tighter. "In a manner of speaking."
"Ever meet any of the old Fitzgerald lot?"
Assumpta shook her head, blinking. Would you ever cook my meal?! Evidently not. She glanced up at the television. Some awful hidden-camera show; some pervert dressed as a rabbit.
Oonagh stayed put. "Understand they're all dead now. Place was a mess when we moved in. Neglected the electrics to the point that-"
Assumpta snapped. "Y'mind?!"
Oonagh's mouth and brow sank; her eyes went wide. She turned for the kitchen at last, leaving Assumpta feeling oddly guilty. She tried to forget it, tried to concentrate on the prank on the screen.
Liam savoured the familiar feel of the gearshift in his left hand, of the steering wheel under his right. He'd have preferred something a bit more contemporary on the stereo, but he supposed his companion needed what comfort he could find this morning.
Even now Donal shivered in the passenger seat.
"Would you ever stop it?" Liam offered. "There's no such t'ing as ghosts."
"I know what I saw. She's haunting the pub."
"She's been dead for t'ree years, y'eedjit," Liam reassured him.
They pulled to a stop on the Cilldargan road, and Liam bent down to salvage a potato crisp he'd dropped on the floor mat. Donal took a sharp inhale through his ridiculous nose. Startled, Liam hit his head on the wheel on the way back up.
"What is it?"
Donal pointed to a Vauxhall Astra headed in the direction of Ballykea. "Gard Egan. Gard Egan was riding in that car."
Liam rolled his eyes and rubbed the bump that was already forming on his crown. "Oh, Jayz. Did Doc Ryan give you the last of his bifters?"
Garda Frankie Sullivan snuffed her fag out on the casing of the rearview mirror. Pulling her hand away, she saw an unfamiliar car approaching in the reflection. He was travelling at the speed limit, or just under it, but something about him raised her hackles. There was an odd wobble to his steering, the sort she associated with drivers who weren't presently stoned, but who knew they'd test positive for marijuana if they were caught. It was the steer of someone paranoid, someone trying so hard to drive a straight line that he couldn't even steady his hands. GB number plates, she noticed. Medicinal user, maybe.
Unlike some potheads, this one pulled over without a fight. He obediently lowered his window and handed over the wallet-worn pink document.
"How are you today?" Frankie asked, hoping as always that her suspicions would be proven wrong.
"Fine," said the man at the wheel. He had brown hair cut close, bloodshot green eyes, a Northern English accent. A curly-haired man in the passenger seat was waking up.
"Have you taken any drink today?" the Garda continued.
The driver shook his head.
"No illegal substances?"
He shook his head again. A memory from University made his mouth tick up on one side; he depressed it immediately.
"And you are aware that marijuana is illegal in Ireland? Might be a little different than you're used to in..." Seeing the permanent address, she did a double take. "You live in the old curate's house?"
The driver smiled sheepishly. "That's a bit out of date."
"There's no law that you have to-" the passenger began, then interrupted himself. "Garda...Sullivan, neither of us is on any drugs. We've had a long journey, is all."
"Are you willing to prove it?" she challenged.
The passenger looked incensed. The driver shrugged: "Whatever we have to do."
"We'll submit to nothing of the kind, Father!" shrieked the skinny know-it-all.
This brought Frankie up short. "You were Aidan's predecessor?"
The driver checked with his companion, who nodded. The driver faced Frankie again. "Collar's in me luggage if you want to search it."
"Father!" the other man hissed.
"What're you afraid of?" Frankie asked.
"I know my rights! Section nine, Criminal Justice Public Order Act of '94!"
"Spoken like an expert."
"Ha! Wouldn't you like to know-"
The driver grunted an exasperated interruption. "Look, if you want to test me for something, go ahead. I'd just gone awhile without getting behind the wheel; now I've gone awhile without getting out from behind it."
Frankie bit her lip. "Your sidekick know how to drive?"
The sidekick's blue eyes might've shot flames. "Of course."
"Then let him take over. And get a kip when you get where you're bound."
The two men exchanged looks, then seats. As Skinny was about to pull away, Frankie put up her hand.
"May I see your licence?" she asked.
Ambrose watched the barred door slide closed in front of him. "You can't do this," he muttered.
Frankie matched his scowl with her own. "If you have a licence, why won't you show it?"
"Because I don't have to. I can show it to you within ten days. I know my rights."
"Self-styled legal expert, so! You'll know then that you shouldn't drive in the first place if you aren't carrying it."
"I wasn't driving until you told me to drive! And I am carrying it. I just don't care to show it to you."
"Something to hide?"
"No concern of yours."
"It's on you?"
"You're not going to strip search me?!"
"Only if you insist."
Ambrose balled his fists, and took a lungful of air to project into the next room. "Father!"
"Don't bother. I told your friend not to wait up. He's out for a walk."
Ambrose slumped into the wall of the holding cell. "Look, I know you're only doing your job."
"Oh, spare me. You have no idea what I have to put up with!"
Ambrose's laugh came out in a solitary incredulous blast, like an airhorn.
"Public Order Act, section twenty-four. Any person who fails to give his name and address..."
"If the gard is of the opinion that I've committed a crime. You're on shaky ground."
She circled behind her desk. "You are! Now in case I hadn't made this clear, every additional word out of your mouth - feck," she interrupted herself. The key wasn't cooperating with the drawer.
"It helps to lift up on the handle a bit as you turn it," he said without thinking.
"Thanks," she uttered absently.
"But I don't need the leaflet."
She looked up. "Read enough of them in your past?"
Ambrose tightened his mouth.
She sunk into her chair. "Shall I call over my superintendent?"
Now his jaw dropped open.
Peter couldn't yet bring himself to go into Fitzgerald's, and the thought of St. Joseph's made him uneasy. Hendley's was closed; Padraig's old shop had a new name on it, some Dowling bloke. Ambrose's battle of egos with his successor would last a while, almost certainly.
It was time to visit another old friend. The Aingeal.
The recent rain had swelled the river nicely, darkening the sun-blanched topmost rocks with the promise of more water still. His smooth-soled shoes felt precarious on the slippery stones, but he tried not to slow down.
A familiar silhouette was just across, though perhaps a few pounds heavier and a few hairs greyer up top. He had a line out, for what good it would do him right after a cold downpour. Beside him was a smaller figure, made to waddle by a stiff life jacket and stiffer waders, and with a head like a marigold.
Peter couldn't help himself. "Shall there be a great multitude of fish?" he called out.
He saw Brendan reel in, lay aside his rod, and then kneel beside the child and point across. The little one waved.
Peter gestured to the bridge, an indication he'd take the long way round.
It suddenly seemed he had all the time in the world.
Then another downpour started.
The men at the corner table had finished up their pints and cleared out, and the full breakfast seemed to be taking forever. Assumpta had half a mind to abandon her post before someone else came along.
Too late. The accommodation door swung open, letting in a bit of silver light and a good deal of rain. Assumpta buried her face in her hands.
She heard the percussion of dogs: first shaking the rain off their backs, then their feet on the rug in the lounge, then their nails on the hard floor of the bar. Next were human footsteps, high heels and something noisier. Finally, a voice she'd know anywhere.
"Kieran, hold the leads for a moment."
Assumpta dropped a trembling hand at her side, and felt a wet nose bump into it. She couldn't resist any longer. Temptation screamed in her ear. Turn around. Look.
Niamh was getting impatient. "Hello? Ma'am, have you seen the publican?"
Assumpta twisted on her stool and met the eyes of her old friend. "You might say that," she breathed.
"Jesus, Mary, and Joseph," Niamh whispered.
Fionn licked the hand of his once-and-again mistress. His auburn muzzle was dotted with white hairs now.
Aren't I just awful? I promise reunions, and they're Peter and Brendan/Assumpta and Niamh/Assumpta and Fionn. But there's more on the way. The longer this gets, the longer I fear it might turn out to be...
Let me know you're out there. I noticed today that gmail is sending story alerts straight to my spam folder!