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funkymeihem-fiction · 5 years

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Special Delivery- Chapter 3

Mei lay listlessly upon her mattress, face still bleary with tears as she stared dully at the television screen, not really watching the rugby match still going strong. She was tired from crying, hunger and thirst gnawed her insides, her outside were sore and dirty from the scuffle earlier, and her mind ached with numb fear and despair. She’d had one chance, and it had only led to her nearly getting killed by minefield, roughed up by the pig-masked man, and summarily recaptured. And there might not be any more chances.

She heard the faint k-thump k-thump sound of a familiar peg leg outside, clacking up to the door. She immediately drew back into the corner, covering herself with the blanket. There was the clicking of a series of locks, and then a peg leg slammed the door open and Junkrat was back again. This time he was hauling a bulging burlap sack, which he threw into his makeshift kitchen before starting to empty it. To Mei’s relief, it only seemed to hold cans and containers of food, which he dutifully began stacking on his haphazard shelves.

Eying him warily, Mei remained withdrawn and silent, trying to make herself very small in her corner. But it was only a matter of time before his supplies were stacked, and he dusted off his hands and rounded upon her, placing both hands upon his bony hips. With that crooked smile, he grinned down at her as if they hadn’t been fighting for her life in the dirt just hours earlier.

“Well lookit who’s up yet again!” he said, almost mockingly friendly still. “Just in time for a tucker! Bet you’re hungry, eh love? Haven’t had anything in you since the back of that car, I wager.”

She didn’t answer, merely squinting at him. Back of what car? Perhaps he’d shoved her into the back of a car in order to get her here? She had no memory of anything after getting cornered on that side street. And she was ragingly hungry and thirsty. Not that she’d admit it to him.

“Still pissy, eh?” he grinned at her silence, snickering under his breath with clear glee. “Kinda thought a roll in the dirt might stir up an appetite. Then the whole chain fiasco. Didn’t take you for the slap and tickle sort, but I guess you like it a bit rough.”

Mei turned her head and stared at the floor, tucking her face into her knees. She definitely did not want this Junkrat going down that trail of thought. But he took no notice of her chagrin and kept on talking.

“Heh! Silent treatment! That’s tough tits for you, love, because I jabber on enough for ten people. How about some din-dins?” He paused, but received no answer. “No? Nothing? Guess I’ll just make meself a big Hog-sized plate of eggs and hash all for my lonesome, then!” The junker was already tying on an absolutely filthy grease-stained apron that read KISS THE COOK in much-faded letters, though it looked like he’d purposefully scrubbed away part of an O so it read KISS THE COCK instead. Ugh. Typical. And disgusting.

She remained curled in her corner, watching him balefully as he set up what looked to be a camp stove and pan. Her heart did seize a little when he picked up a rather large knife, but he didn’t even turn her way. She couldn’t see everything the strange man was doing, his beanpole form with his back to her blocking some of whatever he was chopping up on the counter. And throughout it all, just like he said, he talked.

“Now you and I, sweetness, we’re going to have a chat about hospitality. Because I’ll be damned but you’ve gone and pissed all over mine. But you know what, not even that mad at ya. Just scared. Weren’t you, darl? Moved too fast when you woke up, s’my fault really. Probably your head’s all fucked from how I found ya.” He continued chopping, rough enough that she saw flecks of something or other flying into the air. “So I’m gonna be the decent bloke here and let you know that bygones are just bygones! Pretty gallant for someone you just near on ganked with a chain, don’t you think? But really, don’t try to make another attempt at that because Roadie’s in one of his moods, and someone usually dies when he’s in one of his moods. And you’re too cute to get splattered. Oi! How d’you like your eggies!”

Mei stared at him from over the tops of her knees and maintained her shield of silence.

Junkrat sighed wearily. “Nothing? I see how it is. Well guess what, Sullen Sally, you being a little snit about things isn’t improving the situation here. And you just lost dinner fork privileges, by the by! Yeh, I see how you’re looking at me, thinking you’re going to fork ol’ Jamison in the back. Well I’m onto you. It’s spoons for you from here on in.”

He hummed tunelessly to himself as he began piling things into the frying pan, sparking up the camp stove. And soon she recognized the scent of cooking onions and potatoes, the vapors instilling a hunger in her that had only been kept at bay by fear. If Junkrat was right, it really had been days since she’d last eaten, and she was feeling it. And while her junker captor bobbed to some unheard beat and kept cooking, she found herself not really caring what it was that he was making, if he just gave her some.

Unfortunately, her silence earlier (probably combined with trying to kill him before that) had not done much for his good will. As she watched, he piled an enormous portion of hash and eggs onto a plastic tray instead of a plate. Frankly, she was surprised he didn’t eat out of a trough. And instead of offering her any, he took his tray and ambled over to his couch, setting it on his lap as he picked up a fork and promptly began shoveling piles of food into his jaws as he watched her.

Mei glanced up very briefly to his wild golden eyes, then back down to the tray of hash. She was literally salivating now, and swallowed thickly a few times as she tried not to let it drool out of her mouth. Junkrat only smirked even harder when he noticed, and she couldn’t help but wonder if he really did intend to taunt or starve her for her transgressions. He couldn’t be trusted, after all.

He speared a chunk of potato on his fork and pointed it at her. “I can see you’re hungry. Well, I offered you some! S’wrong? S’not poison, see? You don’t like eggs, maybe? What do you like? If you tell me, I’ll get it for you. But you gotta talk to me, pet. How about we start with your name, and then you tell me what you’ll eat.”

She warily bit her lip, but her snarling stomach was too strong to ignore. And he might as well know the name of the lady he had abducted. So she drew herself up a little and kept her eyes on the tray of hash. “Mei-Ling Zhou…Dr. Mei-Ling Zhou.”

His bushy eyebrows shot up. “No foolin’? A doctor! Maybe my luck is changing, I snagged a doctor! Listen, doc, think you could take a look at me? Have enough aches and pains to fill a list. And I got this weird lump on my-”

“Not that kind of doctor!” She held up both hands quickly, warding off any more talk about his lumps. “Not a medical doctor.”

Rat wrinkled his nose in disappointment, then shrugged. “Eh! What use is a doctor who can’t do doctor things? All right, Mei-Ling Zhou. Mei-Ling. Mei. That’s a pretty name.” He turned his crooked smile upon her, clearing his throat and trying a little too hard to be suave. “Pretty name for a pretty lady.”

She half-lidded her eyes at him in reply.

He merely took another huge bite of his dinner, chewing noisily and speaking around a jaw full of food. “Still pissed at you, mind. Gonna have bleedin’ blues and purples all over my neck for a week and my voice is cracking all over, worse than usual. And you trying to kill me in a shithouse? Hell of a location to take someone out. Insult to injury, that is. You know, Miss Mei, I gotta say I rather expected a little more gratitude on your end. ”

Gratitude! He expected gratitude from her! She could feel her hackles rising at the very thought, but she was still very much aware of her situation- chained to a wall and half-naked. She couldn’t risk angering him. So she swallowed and kept her voice soft. “Sorry? I was…scared.”

“Aw, sweetness!” Rat’s gaze softened, going positively gooey in their centers, and his maniac grin almost became a regular one. “See! I knew it! S’not your fault, you just didn’t know what was what, just like I said. Well not to worry. You’re completely safe here with me! I’ve made sure of it. Come on, dry your eyes. Give us a smile!”

She did not give him any sort of smile. “Junkrat? You said your name was Junkrat. Please…you have to let me go.”

He scrunched his face to one side again, spearing another hunk of sausage and shoving it in his gnashing maw. “Sorry, love. I already told you, can’t just let you go off on a lark. Not around here. There’s too much danger around here for wanderin’ guests. And not with folks out looking for you. I shudder t’think of the consequences! You arready saw one of our security measures? Well, they’re for good reason. I know what they’re like. But I’ll keep those louts away from you if it’s the last bleedin’ thing I do.”

“What if…What if you just let them find me? What if you just let me go, and they found me, and I didn’t tell anyone that you took me! Nobody has to get hurt, if you just let them find me safe.” She turned upon him with pleading eyes, pulling her blanket closer around her. It was a long shot, but if the police were searching for her, maybe she could convince the junker to free her in return for clemency.

It didn’t surprise her when he denied her request. What did surprise her was his confusion over it. His brows knitted up and he stared at her as if she was the one who was crazy. “The fuck? Are you bloody mad, love? You want me to let them find you?”

“Of course I do! Why wouldn’t I!”

He set the tray down, still out of her reach. Seemingly baffled, he rose and began pacing uneasily, smoothing back his soot-stiff blond hair. “Well this is…Arright, I see how it is! During our little scuffle, I must have whomped your head a bit. That’s all. Rattled your brains about, and now you’re spitting nonsense. Because you’d have to be mad to want that.”

“There’s nothing mad about it. And I promise you, I won’t tell them that you’re involved. You and your friend, you’ll go completely free. We can just…go our separate ways. Nobody gets hurt, and I can go back with them. Everything can still work out if you just let me go.”

He lunged at her so suddenly that she recoiled, slamming her back into the rough wooden wall. The lanky junker loomed over her, gaze skeptical as he brought his face uncomfortably close to hers. So close that she could smell the eggs and hash he’d just been eating. She almost would have kissed him for a taste of it, if she hadn’t been trying to lean as far away from his person as possible.

Rat stared very intently into her eyes through her glasses, then frowned. “Huh. Was seeing if you got wonky pupils.Ya know. Brain damage. Maybe a little concussion. Don’t fret, lovely, I’ve had plenty of concussions and I turned out just fine! Because that’s what you probably have is brain damage, talkin’ like that.”

“I’m not…concussed. I don’t know what you’re talking about. Now please, just let me go!”

He still looked baffled. Still eying her, he shook his head, doubt clear. “You honestly want me to return you to them? Are you having a go at me, Mei? Or is this…Wait, is this some sort of suit rich-lady sex thing?”

“S-sex thing?!”

“Like…get yourself ‘kidnapped’ by junkers? And then they rough you up a bit? Like you have this bad boy fantasy? Or is this like…a cuckold thing? You and your hubby set this up?”

“Husband? Fantasy? What on earth does that even mean! W-why would anyone, why do you think I would…No! What are you talking about!”

Junkrat merely looked confused and even a bit put out. “Because…Look, if this is just some weird fetish you got, this kind of changes how everything went down. And…wow, fuck am I ever in trouble if that’s the case! But I mean…uh, if you really want some junker action sex fantasy here, I’m just saying, if you want that, I’m always available t- OW!”

***

She’d hit him. The bloody crazy not-doctor lady had just hauled off and slugged him. It didn’t hurt, really, not like when she’d choked him out and had the leverage to do so. From down there, she was just too small and soft and there was no power behind it. But she’d clearly meant it to hurt, so he humored her and yelped a bit, falling back right onto his arse.

This Mei-Ling Zhou, who was a doctor but not the right type of one, was even cuter when she was mad. And lucky him, but she seemed to be constantly mad. Even now she was glaring at him, full offense taken.

“How dare you! How can you treat this as a joke!”

He snorted and scooted away from her. “Touchy, touchy! I’m not the one who wants to go running off into…that kind of particular situation! And they say I’m touched in the head. You? You got problems, darl.”

“You’re the one keeping me chained to a wall! After…After what you tried to do to me!”

He threw up both hands. “For the bloody record, I did not! I was trying to gently persuade you not to go runnin’ off into a fuckin’ minefield! So yes, I had to jump on you, but only a little. You know, after I tried calling out to you, but couldn’t. On account of you stranglin’ me to a half death in a goddamn shithouse! And don’t think I forgot that absolutely spot-on nut shot you gave me. Fockin’ hell, I’m going to be singing soprano for weeks.”

“I was trying to stop you from hurting me! Just let me go!”

“I’m not hurting you! For the last time, I am not the junker what was going to hurt you!” he couldn’t help the snarl creeping into his voice, even if it hurt his throat and made her cower. “I know that you rich doctor lady types think all junkers are the same, but it’s not the case. Here. I know your brain’s rattled, so I’ll make this easy to remember for us both. Me, Junkrat. Me good. Good junker. Junkers out there? Baaaad junkers. Me keep you here for your own safety. Ya bloomin’ nutcase, ya.”

“You’re not funny!” she snapped, though she still shrank away from him.

“I happen t’think I’m hilarious!” he answered primly, putting his nose in the air and placing a hand to his bony chest. “Look, darl. This is all getting off on the wrong foot. And that’s bad news for me, because I only got one! Ha!” He shrieked a laugh, but she merely looked unimpressed. Tough crowd. “But look. I promise you, even though I dunno what your weird deal is, I’m not gonna let you come to harm. Never. I tried to tell you, the only reason I put on your cuff there was to keep you from wandering out into danger. And right the damn moment I took it off you, you wandered out into danger…Well, it’s clearly going to stay on a little longer until we hash a few things out. Oh, right, I still got that hash left…”

She eyed him carefully, clearly distrustful. “But…You can take it off me soon, right? And you don’t want to hurt me? Or do…anything bad, to me?”

“Swear it! Upon my very life.” He straightened up to his massive height, slapping a hand over his heart. “I won’t hurt ya, and you and me, we can figure this out. And I’ll make it comfy for you as long as you’re here, until we figure what’s what. Promise.”

Mei was silent for a long while, rubbing up and down her arm and not looking at him. He offered her his best smile, the constrained one that looked a little less boom-crazy. She didn’t smile back, but she did finally look back at him. Even though he knew his promise still wasn’t worth too much to a scared and clearly confused woman, she seemed a bit less outright terrified of him.

“Can I…please have something to eat?” she finally asked, wrapping her arms around her stomach rather meekly. “And drink? Please?”

He brightened, holding up a finger for her to wait before he went scrambling back to the sofa, with its tray of eggs and hash. He didn’t have the fine china she was probably used to eating off of, being a fake doctor and all, but it would have to do. Heaving the coffee table over in front of her mattress with a screech against the wood floor, he juggled the food tray up in one hand and brought it slamming down in front of her.

She swallowed hungrily, but was still looking up at him in a very expectant manner. Oh right! Ladies didn’t eat with their hands like he usually did. Holding up two fingers, trying to signal her to wait even longer, he went limping back into his kitchen, sorting through his cabinets and completely forgetting where everything was in the process. She’d lost sharp cutlery privileges, but he still needed to find a spoon, after he’d used the last batch of metal spoons as connecting rods for that one bomb one time back in-

He slammed open a cupboard and found it crammed full of cans of preserved peaches, the shelf below crowded with beans. Ah, two of his favorite things. Maybe she would want some, but later. He did manage to find a wooden stirring spoon in with a collection of tinfoil and rubber bands. And he’d have to try and remember where those were, for the next time he needed them. He probably wouldn’t remember. What was he going to remember, again?

Hobbling back the few steps across his humble home, he set down the too-large spoon and a new mug of water on the table before her, then reeled back, clasping his hands and waiting expectantly. And lucky him, but the lady did still have her manners. She looked a bit confused at the gigantic spoon, but picked it up anyway as she shuffled herself closer to her meal, looking up at him with a little “…Thanks.”

“Any time! Any time, love! You just have a bite to eat, and then we’ll talk about…everything else, I guess? I mean, you can’t honestly expect me to just let you go wandering off to…ugh. The others. I’d be an irresponsible host. Can’t have that.”

“What others? You mean that masked man?” She had an awkward time with her oversized utensil, but after a few wary bites, she became a whirling dervish of spoons and eggs and potato bits, shoveling it into her jaws almost as eagerly and rudely as he had. Poor thing.

He smiled dreamily as he watched her stuff her face, bits of egg falling out of her lip. She really was a cutie. “Roadhog? Nah. Look, I know he’s pretty fearsome. But underneath that gruff, blood-spattered exterior is…” His eyes drifted apart slightly, trailing off. “Huh. No, I guess he’s pretty much himself. Well they don’t call him the one-man apocalypse for nothing. But he’s my best mate and one hell of a standover man in these parts. I didn’t hire him on for nothing, you know. He won’t be hurting you, so long as you just don’t get in his way. And while you’re safe in here, you won’t! Easy peasy!”

His eyes swerved away from her meal, easily distracted as ever, to the television still playing off to the side. The sports had finished a while ago, and now it was some sort of news show. A skirt-clad woman with large breasts and a larger smile was showing off the weather for the next week. Not surprisingly it was hot, hot, and more hot.

Mei spooned up the last of the eggs, though she seemed strangely hesitant about the sausage. She looked at it with a knitted brow, bit her lip, looked at it again…and then finally scooped it up and ate it too. Junkrat tilted his head at her.

“Not to your liking, darl? I can make ‘em even crispier next time. Got a nice new blowtorch, even, can put it to good use!”

“Erm…No thank you. I normally don’t eat meat, is all. But…I was really hungry. Thank you?”

He practically wiggled at even the most basic gratitude. “Yeah yeah yeah! Whatever you need, darl! I’ll get it for you!”

“But shouldn’t we talk about me going home? You said you’re not going to hurt me but…I don’t belong here. Why did you even bring me to this place?” She hugged herself, and he couldn’t help it as his eyes darted to the way the thin jersey clung to the sudden bulge of her chest.

No no no. Eyes up, Junkrat. Eyes up. He cleared his throat and forced his gaze back up. “Because it’s the safest place in the Outback, love. Not like I could take you back to wherever it is you came from until I know where that is! And even then, you’re a long travel from any of the coastal cities.” His eyes darted again when he saw his words only upset her further. “But we’ll get you there! We just got to lay low for a bit while they’re combing around for you. The one you were meant for, he is not happy. Went through a lot of trouble to rescue you, after all.”

She gave him a strange look. “Rescue me?”

“Yeah! When I rescued you from those other junkers!”

“…Other junkers? What do you mean-”

He didn’t hear the rest of what she said, because suddenly there were two of her. For a moment he thought maybe his brain had crossed wires again. That happened sometimes. But no, there were definitely two Meis. The jersey-clad Mei in front of him, who still had a bit of egg stuck on her chin…and another Mei on the television behind her.

“Hold up! Hold the phone! Shhh! Shut!” He snapped his fingers loudly, then made a zipping motion near her mouth, which seemed to startle her into silence. Blindly groping around him, he grasped her spoon and pointed it at the tv, before throwing it away and replacing it with the remote, slamming the audio on. Mei turned to follow his gaze, both of them looking to the news program.

A female voice was narrating. “-environmentalist expert from Xi’an, China, visiting for the Australian Environment Efforts summit in Sydney. Dr. Mei-Ling Zhou was reported as a missing persons by her summit cohorts nearly four days ago. Foul play is suspected, and the police are currently following up on several leads. If anyone has any information on Dr. Zhou’s whereabouts-” More pictures of Mei flashed across the scene. “They are encouraged to bring it to the attention of the authorities. A substantial reward has been offered for-”

The words ‘reward’ and a series of numbers popped up at the bottom of Mei’s last known photo. A very nice set of numbers. A very generous set of numbers. All for rescuing someone that he had already rescued. This little not-doctor sitting half-nude on top of the mattress beside him was apparently worth serious coin. Enough coin to get a man’s attention, for sure.

The missing persons report ended and the news went on. Mei herself seemed rather dumbfounded, slowly turning to give Junkrat another very wary look. Her apprehension was back, posture tense as if she was not entirely certain how he was going to react.

Junkrat was already grinning back at her.

#meihem #junkmei #meirat #iceboom #mei #mei-ling zhou #junkrat #jamison fawkes #overwatch #fanfiction #writing

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paulhudd · 5 years

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Spindlefreck Book Two: Pt. Four: Ha! Ha! Said the Clown

Odin’s Inn, Brodir, Co. Wicklow; Sunday, May 2nd 1991

Malky gave the big chauffeur a sideways look, crossed his arms, casually leant on the door post and refused to shake the extended hand.

Gorringe wasn’t offended, just mildly surprised. He looked at his unshaken hand and frowned. He ummed & ahhed, looked left and right and spoke hesitantly, rubbing his neck as if about to ask a contention question, “Erm... see, the boss sent me ‘ere wiv a proposition... ‘E instructed me to... that is...” he paused, stepped up so that they were face-to-face and pleaded for relief with beseeching eyes, “Lissen mate, can I use your lavvy? I’ve been on the road fer ovah-an-hour ‘n that last cuppa I ‘ad before I left the ‘ahse is abaht to bust me bladdah!”

It was an old salesman’s ploy and Malky knew it, and the chauffeur knew he knew it, nevertheless he cringed and gritted his teeth, “No messin’ guv - I’m this close to pissin’ me strides!” He seemed genuinely stricken, so after a second or two’s deliberation, Malky decided to give him the benefit of the doubt and stood aside, issuing a caution as he dashed by, “Straight in-and-out, mind. And don’t use the urinals – they’re not plumbed-in yet – use one of the stalls! OK?”

Gorringe already halfway there, “I don’t care if it’s a bucket -- I gotta go!”

Just as the door to the gents closed, Zindy walked through from the kitchen, “Who is it? Sales rep? Reporter?” she asked, wiping her oil-blackened hands with a rag, her elfin face smeared with black smuts. Malky was still at the door, looking out at the darkened windows of the Rolls, “... no, he’s somebody’s chauffeur. You should see the car he’s driving.”

Zindy lifted the waiter hatch and struggled through, “Ooow, I’ve been bent over too long, I’m all stiffened-up!” she groaned, clutching the small of her back with both hands so that her swollen tummy popped out of her denim shirt revealing an oily palm-print on the ivory-white skin of her bump. Malky closed the door, “There’s quite a draught – you can look out through the window.”

“For God’s sake a bit of sea air will do me good!”

Malky tapped her butt, “Aye, because you’re doin’ bloody auto-repairs on the kitchen table and the place stinks to high-heaven of gloss, varnish, engine oil and Swarfega! That child o’ mine must be gettin’ high on the fumes!”

Zindy made yakety-yak signs with her hand and said “I’m trying to save us some money, it’d cost us a bomb to take that van to a mechanic.”

“... because you’ve fallen out with all the local mechanics, haven’t you?” he chided ironically, “There isn’t a garage within a 30-mile-radius who’ll touch it, is there? Anyway, it’s a false economy. It’ll breakdown in the middle of nowhere and you’ll have to ring one of the garages for a tow-truck and the whole shebang will cost us three times as much as it would if we’d gone to a garage in the first place -– that’s not factoring-in the chance of an accident - or you gettin’ stranded high and dry – then whoosh – your waters break!”

“Jeezus Christ! You’re startin’ to scare me!” she cried.

“It’s a possibility -- like what if you breakdown and you fall getting out of the van -- or somebody comes round the corner too fast and hits you or something leaks in the engine and it goes up in a ball of flames...?”

“Why dontcha just swaddle me in bubble-wrap, pack me in polystyrene, stick me in an air-conditioned coffin and feed me through a tube til September! Oh I say, tally-ho, chaps,” she’d seen the stranger’s car, “a Rolls Royce Silver Shadow, no less,” she said, appreciatively, looking out of the window, “who comes to a place like this in a car like that?”

Meanwhile, Brooster was listening at the parlour door, “What’s goin’ on?” a voice whispered behind him, making him jump and almost fall over. It was Sammy, the silver-bearded, blood-spattered ghost of the inn’s elderly barman, crouching behind him with his hands on his knees. Brooster looked him in the eye and asked him with a thought: Why are you creeping about and whispering when only I can see and hear you?

Sammy stood up, stroked his beard and mused aloud, “Aye, I s’pose that’s true... Well then – I’ll just do this!” He walked through the wall, into the occupied cubicle, looked the urinator up-and-down and shouted to the old dog, “It’s a chauffeur. Big bloke. Ex-army – British army – he has a regimental pin. Big dick, if you’re interested in that sort of thing.”

Broo wasn't at all impressed by the resident phantom’s crude behaviour – one of these days the stupid old fool will walk in on a Sensitive and scare the life out of them (actually, that eventuality would be fortuitous – because escape from This Life and Ascent into The Next requires a death within the parameters of the haunting and in the three years since Sammy had been shot and killed by Barry McKee, the only candidate so far had been an elderly deep-sea fisherman suffering with angina and a bad case of hay-fever who died two days later after a particularly violent sneeze –- at home in his own bed. Sammy whined as he opined: “Why couldn't the auld eejit have snuffed-it here?! Some people have no manners at all! At this rate, I’ll have to wait for Malky to croak - and he’s got another ten years in him at least!”).

The chauffeur exited the gents and convened with Zindy and Malky. Zindy was friendly and bright and offered him a cup of tea; Malky was cagey and glum. But that’s Malky. Sammy, reclining on the couch to watch the movie, actually made an insightful comment, “He’s an Englishman and Zindy misses the company of Englishmen. She’ll bend his ear for an hour and then he’ll be off back to whoever he drives for: probably some auld oul’ banker or one of those rich pop stars who've been buying houses over here lately.” He pointed at the remote, “C’mon, turn the sound on. I love the old black and white fillums!”

The old dog was paying him no heed. He was enjoying familiar feelings of excitement and trepidation, that tingle in his pelt that told him the visitor was significant and he should prepare himself for important news. And sure enough, the chauffeur didn’t thank his hosts for the use of the amenities and return to his vehicle, he was taken to the kitchen for a cup of tea and a chat!

Sammy was still harping on, “Dog?! D’ya hear me? Hit the button that turns the sound back on!”

Oblivious, Brooster snuck down the hall, took-up position at the kitchen door and listened.

Sammy shouted from the parlour, “Ach, c’mon, you know I can’t press the buttons...?” Broo ignored him and harkened to the conversation around the kitchen table.

Once Gorringe had completed his ablutions and emerged from the gents refreshed, Zindy introduced herself and took him into the kitchen for a cuppa. They hadn't had much company lately and this was the first Englishman she’d met in ages so she was chatty and vivacious. Malky was characteristically sniffy and suspicious. He wouldn't sit down and slowly paced the floor by the backdoor and let Zindy do all the talking. She began by apologising for the engine parts on the kitchen table, told him to park his arse and have a Mikado. He took a biscuit, but kept well back from the table lest oil, paint or any other petroleum-based-product come into contact with his immaculate whistle, “Is that a Lancashire accent I ‘ear?” he asked, with a wry smile.

Zindy grinned, “Aye - Salford! ‘Ow can you tell?” she said, ironically.

“Heh-heh, two of me best mates is from Salford! Salts of the erf, they is, diamonds to a man. We ‘ad a couple of tours in Cyprus in the late fifties and then they was sent to... umm,” he suddenly stopped talking. He realised he was in the Republic of Ireland talking to a pair of total strangers about old friends serving in an occupying force and quickly changed the subject. He beheld her swollen belly and asked, sheepishly, “Ahem, ‘ow many mumphs ‘ave you got before the big day then, sweet’eart?”

“I’m due in late July or early August,” she replied, she replied, “Just wait til I’m at full-term, I’ll look like a two-legged Space Hopper in a pink-wig!”

Malky lost patience, coughed theatrically, walked forward and put an end to the sparkling repartee, “So, Mr Gorringe, what can we do for you?”

The chauffeur put up a hand and waived the formalities, “Oh, call me ‘Erbie, please, Mr Calvert. Nobody calls me Gorringe ‘cept the boss when ‘e’s in a bad mood. Everybody else calls me ‘Erbie.”

Malky sighed, “Then, what can we do for your boss, H-erbie?”

“Malky! - don’t be so rude!” Zindy snapped.

Herbie shook his head, “Nah, ‘e’s got every right to be wary, sweet’eart. I’m beatin’ arahnd the bush, as it were, I really should explain meself,” his face took on a pained expression of someone who knew that what he was going to say next would either elicit gales of laughter or get him forcibly ejected from the premises forthwith; he carefully set down his teacup, laced his fingers on his lap and spoke without looking at his hosts, “Well, y’see, my boss, see... ‘e’s not a superstitious man by nay-cha but, ‘e’s got it into ‘is ‘ead...” he sighed heavily, looked up at Malky and bit the bullet, “Look – ‘e thinks the ahse ‘as been invaded by ‘a poltergeist’ and ‘e wants a consultation. Y’know, whether you can confirm or deny, that sort of thing.”

Malky’s heart sank. He threw up his hands and whined, “Fer cryin’ out loud! Another crank! A rich crank, but a crank nonetheless!”

[In the aftermath of the Barry McKee case, there had been numerous requests for newspaper interviews, TV documentaries and even a book deal with movie-options that would have set them up for the rest of their lives, but Malky had rejected them all out-of-hand. Zindy was slightly exasperated but mostly impressed by his innate integrity and refusal to exploit his adventures - then sometimes she wished he had his price, just enough to afford a decent refit. But he doggedly kept to his Code and slowly-but-surely, the phone stopped ringing, people stopped arriving at the door and they settled into what was, in Malky’s case, blissful isolation in a place he loved as a child; for Zindy, it represented normality and domesticity, something she needed after years of living in the fast lane.]

She was too taken with their visitor to dismiss the offer out of hand, “Wait til you ‘ear what Herbie ‘as to say before you go on a rant, Mr Sour-Balls!”

Malky leaned against the fridge and crossed his arms, “He can say what he likes but it won’t make a ha’penny’s worth o’ difference. We live by a Code remember?”

“’Code?’” Herbie looked from one to the other.

Zindy harrumphed and rhymed-off Malky’s charter to their bemused visitor, “Malky’s Code: he won’t have anything to do with the supernatural stuff... he won’t have anything to do with the media... he won’t write a book even though he’s been offered a lotta money...”

Malky: “-- and with good reason! Once you make contact -– you let them in! They’ll be writing begging letters, making pilgrimages to our door!”

Herbie, slightly embarrassed that he’d caused trouble in paradise, assured them, “You come very ‘ighly recommended, y’know – by the Gardai commissioner ‘isself, no less...”

Malky’s jaw dropped, “What?!” he gasped.

“Oh gawd, I knew this would be a nightmare...” Herbie muttered under his breath, grimacing like a man tiptoeing through a minefield wearing a blindfold; he elaborated in an apologetic tone, “... a couple o’ weeks ago, the boss was at one of them grand-banquet dos they ‘ave in Dublin City where the top-nobs can ‘obnob -- y’know the sort o’ fing, VIPs, the politicians an’-all-that-lot. Well, the commissioner was seated next to the boss and they got talkin’ about strange cases and your name came up, an’ when ‘e mentioned that Barry McKee business a few years ago, the boss wuz all ears 'n ‘e got the commissioner to get your address...?”

Malky was furious, “The Barry McKee case was as weird as they come, but it wasn't anythin’ to do with the supernatural -- it was to do with the fact that he’s a schizo who liked to kill little girls.”

Herbie raised his eyebrows, “So all that tawk abaht ‘im bein’ possessed is just bollocks?”

“Well, he thought he was possessed, he heard voices...” Zindy was about to elaborate when Malky shot her a what-the-hell-look. She took umbrage, “So what did happen, Malcolm? Why don’t you explain it?”

“You should know -- you were there -– we nearly died!” Malky snapped back.

“Yeah -- but who ‘elped us?! ‘Ow did the dog find them bodies in the woods? Who told 'im where to go?!”

Sensing trouble in paradise, Herbie reached into his inside-pocket and took out a large brown leather wallet, “Look, I tell you wot, if it makes it any easier,” he pulled out a folded slip of paper and set it on the table so that it stood like a little greetings-card, “the boss gimme this blank cheque ‘n awforised me to offer ya 7 grand to come up to the ‘ahse and ‘ave-a-butcher’s. If you can get rid of the spook, he’ll give you anovver free grand. That’s 10 grand! More, if ‘e’s really pleased! ‘Is pockets are deep, believe me.”

“Something strange in your neighbourhood? Who you gonna call...?” Malky sang.

“I don’t think even the Ghostbusters would get 10 grand for one night’s work?!” gasped Zindy, £-signs in her eyes.

Heartened that the hostess seemed keen, Herbie went for the hard-sell, “7 grand just to ‘ave a shufti, 10 grand if you get rid of it. What would money like that mean to you two?” he said, looking at Zindy’s bump.

Malky saw his better-half look around the kitchen, read her mind and reminded her with a wagging finger, “Don’t start...!”

Zindy wagged straight back, “The Code of Silence made sense in the beginnin’ when we wuz inundated with whackos, weirdoes ‘n’ wankers of every stripe – before we ‘ad money trouble and baby on t’way!”

Malky pointed and laughed sardonically, “Did you just say that? Who the hell are you?!”

The chauffeur turned to Malky and spoke softly, “Lissen Mr C -- I fink the old man’s barkin’ up the wrong tree too, but ‘e’s at his wit’s end – ‘e finks there’s an ‘evil spirit’ out to get ‘im! Now, I ain't seen anythin’ myself, just the aftermaff - but ‘e says fings fly across the room, y’know, ornaments ‘itting the wall, books falling from shelves, that sort of fing. E’s afraid to go rahnd the ‘ouse on ‘is own. If it goes on for much longer, ‘e’s likely to ‘ave a stroke or ‘eart attack, the poor old git.”

“Who is 'e?” Zindy and Malky asked, in perfect harmony.

Herbie paused for a second then said: “Oliver Laphen.”

“Ollie Laphen?! ‘The Quare Geg’?!” cried Malky; amazed and delighted, he duly eschewed his standoffishness, pulled out a chair and sat down at the table.

“The old movie star? The hellraiser?” asked Zindy, only slightly impressed.

“Yip, that Ollie Laphen,” said Herbie, sheepishly, as if confessing a cardinal sin.

“My God. Ollie Laphen! That takes me back a-ways...” Malky enthused, whimsically, looking up, as if viewing the memory in a thought balloon hovering just above his head, “...in Belfast in the late 50s when me ‘n me younger brother Dessie were kids, we used to see his films at the Roy Rogers’ Movie Club at the Curzon on Saturday mornings and we loved the ‘Laffin Boy’ shorts he made in the early 30s when he was still called ‘Ollie Laffin’. Jeez, we must’ve seen them all at least 10 times each...!”

Zindy left Malky to wander down Memory Lane and got down to business, “And ‘’e’s willing to pay Malky 7 grand just to look round ‘is ‘aunted ‘ouse?!”

Herbie smiled and nodded.

Although mightily tempted, Malky still wasn't moved, “Nah – it smacks of exploitation. I’m not goin’ to take advantage of an old man who’s probably in the primary stages of senility... Oh, sorry, Herbie...”

The chauffeur shrugged and nodded, “You’re singin’ to the choir guv. That’s what us lot reckoned, too - but in every ovver respect he’s fine. ‘E’s cantankerous and narky like ‘e always is, but ‘is memory’s fine - e’s workin’ on a one-man-show and ‘e don’t even ‘ave to look at the book. ‘E reads all ‘is contracts – even the small print - ‘e writes ‘is memoirs... If it is senility, then this poltergeist fing is the only symptom.” He winked, “Tell-you-wot -- why dontcha meet ‘im ‘n’ see for y’self.”

Malky had to smile. It was like being coerced by an aging Artful Dodger. He now knew how the big chauffeur had kept a job for so many years: Herbert Gorringe has made a career out of getting the boss exactly what he wants, by hook or by crook.

“Lissen, if you fink it’s all a loada ol’ cobblahs, you can tell ‘im so - take the money - and I’ll drive you ‘ome. No ‘assle. No one will ever know. Mr Laphen certainly won’t be tellin’. You know ‘ow much ‘e ‘ates the press.”

Zindy looked at Malky and batted her eyelids, “No one will ever know and you’ll have a great story to tell our kids.”

“Oh – you’re not coming?” said Malky, with a raised eyebrow.

Zindy indicated the engine parts on the table, “No time, lover –- we need the van back on the road by mornin’ cos I ‘ave to go to Arklow and pick-up the grocery order and fetch more paint from the DIY store. Incidentally, I’ll be ‘using’ t’credit card - you know the one I mean -– the one we owe £3,400 on?”

“My God woman, have you no shame?!” said Malky, semi-seriously, shaking his head with exasperation.

Herbie held up the cheque and flicked it with a finger, “A lotta lolly for a few hours’ work, my friends.”

“C’mon, Malk. Like ‘Erbie says, the ol' boy’s loaded and it’s only one night...?”

Malky stared at his paint-spattered hands and had a rethink: you’ll to get away from the smell of varnish and gloss, meet the great Ollie Laphen and have a look round his house... “Well... I suppose one night wouldn't be so bad... ?”

Deal sealed, Herbie sighed with relief, got to his feet and shook Malky’s hand. Malky looked at Zindy and shook his head, “You know you’ll never hear the end of this, dontcha?”

Zindy grinned, “Careful Ollie Laphen’s poltergeist don’t drop summat ‘eavy on yer ‘ead, chook!”

Malky held his sides and pretended to cry tears of laughter.

“Oh yeah - one other fing,” said Herbie, looking around, “The commissioner-bloke told us that you usually work wiv a free-legged German shepherd...?”

Right on cue, the beast in question nosed the door open and sauntered into the room, someone call?

[Broo and Malky had a semi-telepathic link; they couldn't communicate directly, but over the years following the Barry McKee saga, they’d developed an intuitive sense of what the other was thinking.]

Malky glared, you heard all that didn’t you?

The old dog grunted, I can hear the rats building a nest three-doors-down, you twit - of course I heard. And I must say, it’s about time we had a case...

“It’ll be a bit of a lark, won’t it?” chirped Zindy, putting Malky’s toothbrush and shaving kit into his overnight bag. She gave the once over and shook her head, “you’re a walkin’ disaster. Things wrinkled as soon as you put them on.” She lifted the comb and tried to do something with his hair.

Her other-half still hadn't warmed to the idea, “Lark? It’ll be no laughing matter for me, wandering around some creaky, chilly stately-home all night with that grumpy hound at me heel.”

Broo growled back.

She stooped slightly and pointed the comb at the old dog, “Now listen – Broo – you be patient w’ ‘im and remember that ‘e ‘ates all this kinda spooky stuff,” she turned back to her man, “and Mal, you remember that Broo is old and crotchety and prone to snarkiness.”

How dare you madam! I’ll have you know my intellectual capacity is at its peak! The father of your child is the one with questionable mental faculties, not me!

Standing on tiptoe, Zindy cupped Malky’s cheeks and gave him one of her pep-talks, “Listen, chook... take a look round, if you don’t find anythin’ or it looks like a set up, or it don’t feel right -- whatever -- I’ll understand if you don’t take the money, OK?”

Malky was confused, “Then why....?”

She put a finger on his lips, “I’d appreciate a little time on me own, OK? Nothing sinister, just some time to meself. We've been in each other’s pockets day-and-night for 2 year now, so tonight -- for one night only -- I’m gonna finish workin’ on the soddin’ van, ‘ave a bath, write a coupla letters and get an early night. Meanwhile, you get to spend the night in a luxurious mansion in the company of yer boyhood hero.”

She wants a break from you, and who can blame her.

Malky shot the dog a reproachful glance, then smiled when he turned back to his better-half, “You don’t need to explain, Zin. You've got what’s commonly known as Calvert Fatigue.”

She pushed him out onto the landing, “Now fook off. I’ll be here when you get back.”

Broo surveyed the stray cats lined long the parapet of the old burned-out cinema. They had gathered to watch the Rolls roll by, just like they had at the time of the McKee affair: further confirmation, to him at least, that this journey was significant. He resolved to pay attention to every detail and use all his powers... to get to the bottom... of (yawn)... whatever....zzzzzzz He was asleep within 10 minutes. Malky looked over his shoulder and scowled. Lazy sod.

Herbie took the scenic route and drove slowly. The hedgerows bustled-by lackadaisically, the dry-stone-walls refused to become a grey-white blur as £400,000 worth of Rolls Royce shook ‘n’ shimmied along bumpy country lanes and pot-holey side-roads at a leisurely 32mph. He was enjoying the view of the misty Wicklow mountains, and despite the nip in the breeze and the baleful skies, he wound down his window and leaned out to take the air -- which reeked of compost and slurry, but which was entirely to his taste -- “Aaaaah! Smell that?! Laaave this cahntryside, I do! Y’know, at least once a day, I stop what I’m doin’ ‘n give fanks that we landed back ‘ere and not blahdy Swizzer-land. Swizzer-land,” he sneered. “I ‘ate blahdy Swizzer-land. The boss wuz a tax-exile for a while y’see...” He went on to list the many shortcomings of the Swiss in his bouncy cockney twang. Malky repressed the overwhelming urge to shout for Christ’s sake shut-up and step on it! and tuned him out. There he was, on his way to do something he didn’t want to do for people he didn’t want to know in a place he didn’t want to be, and the longer it took to get there the more the prospect bothered him. Bloody cheek, that Gardai Commissioner handing my name & number out to all-and-sundry – I should sue! ... Bloody hocus-pocus and hoodoo-voodoo... but as usual, money talks and principles go out the window... money, money, money... she’ll be setting up a Supernatural Detective Agency next... She’ll be advertising it in the paper...

Seemingly oblivious to the ennui emanating from the fidgety heap of grumpiness beside him, Herbie continued to natter away about getting acclimatised to the snail’s-pace of pastoral Irish life after so many years spent in the fraught, hustle-&-bustle of Hollywood: “They’re as nice-as-ninepence to ya just so long as yer putting bums on seats and bags of lolly in the bank – if not - they’ll drop ya like ‘ot potatah! Fankfully, the boss is always bankable – you put ‘is name on a marquee and you’s guaranteed a profit! ‘E still ‘as a core fanbase of millions who’ll come to everyfink ‘e’s in!”

Malky grunted a hollow, listless “Oh really?”

Unfazed, Herbie whispered in Malky’s ear: “Lissen, mate, if you wanna take the edge-off - ‘ave a drop of Irish. The boss keeps a flask in the glove-compartment for emergencies.”

Malky was caught off-guard and answered in an embarrassed stutter, “Er, no thanks, I don’t drink...”

“‘Recovering alcoholic’, are ya?” Herbie asked.

Although wholly nonplussed by the man’s audacity, Malky replied without raising his voice, “Let’s just say I had a problem at one time and leave it at that, shall we?”

But Herbie continued to pry, “Don’t take this the wrong way, pal, but you have the look of a man who’s no stranger to --”

“Oi! Enough!” Malky barked (Brooster woke up with a start), “Keep yer eyes on the road, Jeeves! Just cuz yer boss is willin’ to pay 7 grand for my services doesn’t give ye the right to dig into me personal life!”

Herbie was visibly taken aback by this unexpected tirade; he pulled down the peak of his cap so that it covered his eyes, straightened up in his seat, took the car up to a steady 40, and after a brief pause, spoke in a more professional tone, “I wuz only makin’ conversation, sir. If I’ve offended you in any way, I ‘umbly apologise and beg yer pardon, sir.”

“Forget it.” Malky turned away and looked out of the window.

A minute or two passed, and as the little surge of adrenalin dissipated, so the embarrassment sank in and he decided to restart the conversation, “Did I hear you tell Zindy you were in the army?”

Still somewhat narked, the chauffeur kept his eyes on the road and gave his name rank and number with the clipped diction of a well-drilled soldier, “Queen’s Royal Irish Fusiliers, 17 years: Corporal Herbert Valentino Gorringe 2063 reporting for duty, sah.”

Malky smiled, “Valentino?”

Herbie made a face, “It was that or Rudolph. My ol’ mum was a big fan. She was in-con-sole-able when ‘e died, grieved fer days, apparently.”

Where was another protracted pause, until Malky said, “I used to meet a lot of Tommies in Belfast in the early days of the Troubles. Seen a good few murdered, too. Bad times.”

The chauffeur turned slightly so that he could look Malky in the eye, “You wasn't chucking the ol’ Molotovs, was ya? You ain’t an ex-IRA man or anyfink like that, ‘is ya?!” Au contraire. Malky told him he was an ex-RUC policeman. Herbie was very interested, visibly relieved and wholly amazed, “Really? If you don’t mind me saying so - you don’t strike me as the type...?”

“My ambition was to be a detective, but I never made it out of uniform. I quit after my partner was gunned down right beside me and I went off the rails a bit and... Well, y’know...” Malky’s voice trailed off.

Herbie shook his head, “Gunned down right beside you? That’s rough that is.”

“But surely you’ve had near-death experiences yourself, Herbie, especially after 17 years in the army...?”

“Well, I wuz too young to serve in the war. I turned 17 the day after VE day. I didn’t join-up til the September of 46. And I never did no tour of duty in Norvern Ireland neevah, I was mostly overseas in Cyprus and the Middle East. We was part of a UN peace-keeping force tryin’ to keep the tribes apart: Jews, Muslims, Christians – not to mention the Greeks and the Turks! Bit like Belfast, but wiv loadsa sun, sand and bearded blokes in pyjamas wiv machine guns. Mind you, I saw the aftermaff of a lotta bombs, I saw fousands killed in genocides... terrible, ‘orrible it was... But I never really saw battle, just ‘minor skirmishes’. Luck, I suppose. It was during a tour of Norf Africa in 64 when I first met the boss!”

“Really,” asked Malky, suddenly interested, “you met oul’ Ollie while you were still in the army? You've been with him that long?”

Herbie was back on his favourite subject and relishing the opportunity to impart his favourite anecdote to a captive audience: “Oh yeah, it was me firtiefth birthday and I was on a day’s leave, so me and a couple of the lads went to Casablanca to paint the tahn several shades of crimson... and after a bit of a pub crawl rahnd the Kasbahs, I got separated from me mates, and while I was lookin’ fer ‘em, I strolls into this dark little tavern and sittin’ there in a corner was Oliver Laphen! Would you Adam ‘n’ Eve it?! ‘E was supposed to shootin’ an adventure movie wiv David Niven about archaeologists in World War Two called Diamonds in the Dust –- but he was skivin’-off cuz he’d ‘ad a row with the director and ‘e was layin’-low -- he didn’t wanna ‘ang round the ‘otel, so ‘e’s ‘iding-out in this dark little Kasbah, trying to be inconspicuous – wearin’ a black wig, big black shades, a kaftan and a fez - but I knew ‘im the minute I set eyes on ‘im! See, our CO was a big fan. He ‘ad all the reels of the comic shawts from the late 30s and some of the feature films the boss made for Paramahnt in the 40s – he used to get ‘em sent ovah and screen ‘em for the lads on a Satur’ay night! Anyway - there ‘e is, in the flesh, so-to-speak! Oliver Laphen! Jolly Ollie! So I go over an’ I say, ‘Can I ‘ave your autograwph Mr Laphen, sah?’ and at first ‘e‘s fumin’ – ‘e goes-off-on-one! Then ‘e calms dahn and says to me – ‘’ow the eff did you know it was me?!’ and I say ‘It’s the way you’re ‘olding your drink!’ Cuz ‘e’s always had this way of curling back ‘is little finger as if ‘e’s drinkin’ from the finest choy-nah. E ‘as these delicate li’l ‘ands, see...”

As he watched the chauffeur get more-and-more animated, Malky came to understand how a sensible, seemingly-well-balanced ex-squaddie like Herbert Valentino Gorringe could forsake marriage, family and blissful conformity just to spend his life at the beck-and-call of -- if popular opinion had it right -- a detestable, despotic, volatile, cranky little egomaniac like Oliver Laphen. Well, now he knew. Herbie wasn't just a fan – he was in love with the man. The pair’s long-term relationship had outlasted all of ‘The Quare Geg’s’ marriages put together. No wonder the story was related with such gusto and attention to detail, it was, after all, an epic romance.

“.... any’ow, at 400 hours, I ‘ad to get back to base, but before I go ‘e takes me to one side an’ ‘e says – ‘’Erbie, if you quit the army ‘n become my chauffeur and personal bodyguard, I’ll guarantee you a 50 knicker a week for starters, bed-‘n’-board - all the skirt you can ‘andle – plus -- you’ll get to see the world without ‘avin’ to worry abaht gettin’ yer ‘ead blown orf!’ So I laugh ‘n’ say I’ll fink about it. I fanked him for the best night of my life and we say ta-ra. I go back to camp finking it wuz all the blustah and idle boasts of a booze-‘ahnd and forgot abaht it. But it didn’t stop ‘im. When ‘e asked for the fird and final time, I quit and I’ve been at ‘is beck-‘n’-call ever since.”

“Was it worth it, Herbie?” Malky asked.

The chauffeur thought long and hard about the question before answering. When he did, his voice was more mature and thoughtful, “E can be an ‘andful sometimes, but artistic people is prone to temperament, it’s ‘ow they’s able to do the fings they do. But I’ve learned ‘ow to balance it aht. I’ve been all over the world, visited all the major cities ‘n’ ‘istorical places... I’ve met a lotta Very Important People – besides movie stars an’ showbiz folk, there’s been world leaders, presidents, kings and queens, writers, top sportsmen – so whenever people awsk ‘’ow do you put up wiv ‘im?’ I say ‘take a look at me passport, me photos and me bank accahnt, moosh - there’s ‘ow!’” He turned to Malky and told him earnestly, “See, I’ve gotta lotta great memories. I’ve seen ‘istory bein’ made. I’ve supped Earl Grey wiv Picasso and knocked back bourbon wiv Dean ‘n’ Frank. I’ve made an omelette fer Einstein an’ cocktails for Noel Coward. I’ve played cards wiv Kate Hepburn for two straight days - and lost. No matter what the ol’ boy gets up to, I wouldn't trade those memories for the world.... Umm...” Something crossed his mind. When he spoke again, it was in a more tentative tone, “Look, before we get to the ‘ahse, I’d better mention the incident on Friday night wot started ‘im off.”

“Why? What happened on Friday night?” asked Malky, a little disconcerted.

“I was away visitin’ a lady-friend in Dublin, an’ apparently all the lights went aht and the ‘uge grandfavver clock in the lobby fell over and smashed on the floor -– the boss was frightened outta his wits -- fought it was burglars – so ‘e pressed one of the panic buttons and Charlie, our ‘ead of security, drove up to the ’ahse right away. But the power-cut musta shorted-aht the alarm system cuz ‘is swipe-card wouldn't work and the master key wouldn't turn in the lock! So, finkin’ ‘e’s under siege, the ol’ man pressed the button that calls the Old Bill, but by the time they got there, Charlie ‘ad managed to get in ‘n’ calm the old man down. Then the lights come on again – not just the lights that wuz on when the power went aht – but every single light in the ‘ole ahse including the bedrooms, bathrooms, the ballroom -- everywhere. By this stage, the boss is goin’ mental. Really, really scared.

“When I got back I got a right bollockin’ as if it was all my fault – like I ‘ad the temerity to ‘ave a night off! Any'ow, me ‘n’ Charlie searched that ahse from top to bottom; the cops ‘n’ the security lads looked round the grounds, but we come up empty... there wuz nothin’ up iv the fuse-box, no sign of tamperin’ or anyfink dodgy.”

“Would the grandfather clock be easy to topple?” said Malky.

“Well, it’s set into the wall ‘n’ it’s solid, antique Bavarian pine, 9 foot tall wiv a ruddy great bell in it; it’s got a solid gold pendulum and it weighs around a two-and-an-‘alf ton, I couldn’t pull it dahn on me own.” Gorringe coughed then said, “And that’s the ovver fing... the boss’ been back on the bottle ever since, and if you know anyfink about the boss, you’ll know that ‘e’s a bit... volatile when ‘e’s on the sawse. So, ignore any strange behaviour, if y’know what I mean.”

Malky was a trifle miffed at being apprised of these tidings so late in the day; he was about to ask if there was anything else he should know when Herbie suddenly brightened and declared, “And ‘ere we are, my beauties! My little ‘ome-from-‘ome!”

Herbie slowed the limo to a funereal crawl as they entered a particularly picturesque little village, “Ahhh, ‘ave you ever been a little place like this before?” he asked, with a little smirk that hinted at a rhetorical question.

Malky honestly confessed, “No. I’m sure I’d remember if I had.”

“You wouldn’t ‘ave. This ‘ere is a protected community, see. Only a few people know about it.”

It was beautiful, rows of whitewashed thatched cottages with black gloss doors, all flowers beds and hanging baskets with a little square with a little roundabout in the centre, bedecked with a floral clock depicting the flag of St George (?); aside from the copious vegetation, there was very little sign of life and almost no sign of the 20th century. “What’s it called?”

“Bogmire. Pretty lousy name for such a laavly little ‘amlet, innit?”

If it wasn't for the faded & peeling Coca Cola sign stuck to the inside of the window of the post office-cum-newsagent and an old bicycle leaning against the bench outside a ramshackle little country pub (the Black Water Rat), they could be back in Tudor England. Malky made appreciative noises.

“It’s like a little oasis from bygone days, innit? You feel as if you’ve slipped frew a time-warp – eh?! But the funny thing is – it ain't Irish! See, most of the people ‘oo live ‘ere are descended from English peasant stock! Most of ‘em is originally from the wilds o’ Cornwall! The Duke of Roxborough brought ‘em ovah to build Pagham ‘Ahse ‘n ‘e built these ‘ere cottages for ‘em – and believe it or not, they lasted through the rebellion cos of a pact between the Irish rebels and the Roxborough family ‘n they’ve been ‘ere ever since. When ‘e bought the ahse the only proviso wuz that we keep the staff and let the Supplicants – that’s their religion, that is – live ‘n’ work on the estate.” Herbie went on to tell of the locals’ strange customs and bizarre lifestyle in a disbelieving tone, “... and they've been doin’ it fer 200 years straight!”

Malky looked around, “And this is all part of the estate?”

“Yep, it came with the ahse!”

This didn’t surprise Malky one bit. For an Irish ex-pat, the old man wasn't renowned for his patriotism; in fact, he was a close friend of Princess Margaret and during the height of the Troubles in the 70s he was renowned for making disparaging noises about the Republican movement in Ireland from the safety of his Bel Air mansion (when Lord Mountbatten was murdered by the IRA he told a NBC TV news reporter that the terrorists in question were ‘like a bunch of weasels attacking a lion’ and that Britain should ‘string ‘em up’), he was frequent visitor to the Whitehouse when the Republicans were in office, and was often mooted to be an anonymous sponsor of various right-of-centre US politicos -- he backed Nixon over Kennedy, was close to Ronnie Reagan since his days as chairman of Screen Actors Guild, and was a frequent house guest of George Bush senior -- all of which made him a potential target for disgruntled boyos on both sides of the pond. It made sense that he’d want to live out his twilight years in a little slice of England transplanted into the heart of the Irish countryside, it suited his style: contrary to the end.

Herbie pulled-up outside a dainty little general store called The Peppermint Poke. The window was full of candy jars and pastries neatly arranged on little lacy paper doilies, “Dora oo runs the Poke is an Outsider, meanin’ she’s married to one of the Supplicants so she’s allowed to run a shop. None of ‘em is allowed to ‘ave a shop or make profit from their work, so the outsiders tend to do them fings, like business transactions and that. The local garda sergeant is an outsider, too -- he lives in that li’l cottage ovah there.” he pointed to one of the gleaming residences across the square...” Herbie opened the door, “I’m just gonna go in and get the Sunday papers ‘n’ a tube of Polos... I’ll only be a sec.”

Malky wound down his window to inhale the compliment of delicious odours to accompany the view: flowers, mown lawns and more flowers, “very restful. Then he heard a rumble outside the car -- a motorcycle had pulled up alongside and its rider, wearing a helmet with a dark visor, was looking through the driver’s-side-window. What’s this? Malky shrank back in his seat....The rider casually unzipped his black leather jacket and reached inside – for a second Malky flinched -- but instead of a weapon, he produced a video camera. Malky knew a maverick paparazzo when he saw one and immediately flew into a rage – he lunged out of the open widow, shook his fist and yelled, “Piss-off ya bastard! Get that f**kin’ thing outta my face or I’ll put my foot in yer arse!”

The shouting roused Broo from his slumbers. He saw the motorcyclist, heard Malky screaming and instinctively barked loudly and forcefully -- until he sensed that the stranger posed no threat and Malky appeared to be overreacting. He stopped barking, gave himself a shake and tried to get his bearings. The cameraman was quite small, dressed in biker’s leathers like Zindy’s biker chums, but these were more expensive and unsullied by general wear-&-tear. Then, as the bleariness subsided and his eyes refocused, Broo saw something that both startled and alarmed him. At first he thought it was the motorcycle’s exhaust fumes, then he realised the figure was shrouded in what he could only describe as a purplish-halo -- whatever it was, it was unlike any aura he’d ever seen before.

Malky was fit to be tied, “I’m not gonna tell you again, friend! If you don’t fuck aff immediately I’m gonna come out there and stick that camera where the sun don’t shine!!”

“That’s a take!” The biker cried, packing away his camera, “Thank you sir! Have a nice day!” he said and roared off, leaving a cloud of blue smoke in his wake. “Bloody paps – see – this is what happens when you do somebody a favour,” grumbled Malky.

Broo was still drinking in the atmosphere and looking for anomalies. Having been in places like this all over Ireland, the old dog had noted that each dainty village and township they visited had its own peculiar little ripples of the past shining through the present. On his travels he’d heard the echoes of ancient battles in the silence of the first light of dawn; he’d seen the children of ancient tribes playing on a busy motorway at noon; he’d seen 16th century Spanish galleons off the coast at Cork -– but Bogmire was a spiritual desert: there was absolutely nothing to sense or feel beyond the here and now. It was clearly old, spotless and brightly painted, but utterly devoid of soul. And that smell... beneath the floral scents and peat smoke, lay an ever-present stench that marred the otherwise wholesomeness of the place. Even for a dog that usually salivated at the stink of putrid flesh, it was hard to stomach. Most unusual...

Just then they heard the little tinkle of a bell and Herbie emerged from the shop with a bundle of newspapers under his arm and a Polo mint in his cheek; he got back in and offered one to Malky, “Did I ‘ear a mo’orbike?” he asked, “I was chattin' to Dora and I could've swawn I ‘eard a rumblin’ sahnd...?”

“Just a guy askin’ for directions,” said Malky, “so I told him where to go...”

At that very moment, 3000 miles away, in the kitchen of a townhouse in North York, Toronto, Canada, the man of the house appeared in the kitchen doorway, barefoot in his pyjama bottoms, unshaven, hands deep in the pockets of his bedraggled dressing gown.

“Emil! What the f**k?! Go get dressed – we’re late as it is!” shouted Fran, ever the fiery redhead, dressed to the nines in her Sunday-best, rifling through her purse in search of her car keys, “I told you to get ready an hour ago!” They were supposed to be going to her niece’s christening and they were running 10 minutes late. She looked under the cushions in the lounge; she looked in and under the couch; she checked every pocket in the coat rack. “Where the f**k are they?!!”

Emil watched her, his arms hanging by his sides, and said, “I’m not going. I have the shits.”

Did I just say that? What the f**k?!

Fran, currently poking through the trash in the pedal-bin with the salad-tongs, threw her head back and mocked him in an ironic voice, “Hah! I knew it! Mom warned me – ‘he won’t go – he doesn’t even own a suit’! Well, it suits me – I don’t have to watch you get drunk and throw up in the swimming pool or make a pass at a waitress... Owww-ouch!” she’d cut her knuckle on the edge of a jagged tuna can, “F**k this!” she kicked the bin and ran to the sink to rinse it, screaming, “F**K! F**K! WHERE THE F**K ARE MY F**KING KEYS!!”

He knew exactly where they were. They were in his pocket. He was holding them in the palm of his hand; but for some strange reason he didn’t hand them over. It wasn't that he didn’t want to, it was because he couldn't. And no matter how hard he tried to communicate, his body wouldn't respond; he let her go on searching and said nothing.

She went to the knick-knack drawer in the welsh-dresser, rummaged around in the back and eventually emerged triumphant, “Ah - hah! The spare! I knew I’d put it somewhere!!” She had one last look in the mirror to check her mascara and top-up her lip gloss, “... If you go out make sure you turn on the alarm.... and if you go back to bed - don’t f**king smoke! That’s a new quilt and I don’t want it looking like somebody’s used it for target practice!” She strode down the hall to the front door; a few seconds later she came stomping back, madder than ever “You f**king asshole! You've done it again!! You've boxed me in! I can’t get my car out!”

Emil remained silent.

“Emil!” She approached him and looked up into his dull, blue eyes, “EMIL! You have to move your car! Are you listening to me?!

He stood and stared.

“Emil!”

“See you later, legislator,” he said, without smiling. It was a catchphrase he used when they said goodbye on the doorstep in those early days when they first moved in together; but here & now it just sounded weird. She gave him a sideways look, “Are you stoned?”

“Take my car.” He dangled his keys on his pinkie.

She grimaced at the smell of his breath, glowered and said, “Listen... I don’t know what the hell you’re on or what you are trying to pull, but my mother will be frothing at the mouth -– I was supposed to pick her 15 minutes ago -– this is a crisis!”

He dangled his keys.

She drew herself up and bawled in his face, “GET OUT THERE AND MOVE YOUR F**KING CAR!”

He jangled his keys.

She slammed her key down on the table and snatched his in one frighteningly limber move, “RIGHT! – I’m calling your bluff, asshole – I’m taking your beloved Porsche! You can take my Volvo -- I wonder what all those cutesy little students of yours will think when they see the delectable Dr Labatt driving through campus in a busted-up soccer-mom-mobile?!”

Emil stared back, unblinking and blank, and said, “I’ll miss you, Fran. You’re alright.”

“F**k you, asshole!” She thrust the finger in his face and stormed out.

The slamming door was the last thing Emil heard before the darkness descended...

A few miles from Bogmire, along a road that was little more than a narrow lane, they arrived at a long, narrow lane lined on one side by yew trees concealing a tall, ivy-covered, red-brick wall that contained the entrance to Pagham House (or Paggum Ahse, as Herbie called it, making it sound like a particularly nasty proctological affliction), the stately-home of Oliver Laphen. Herbie reached into the inside pocket of his tunic and produced a small remote-control which he used to open a pair of inconspicuous but heavily fortified, solid iron gates, “As you can imagine, the boss is fanatical about security,” he pointed to the CCTV cameras perched atop the pillars either side of the gate, “this place ‘as got more cameras than Fort Knox.”

Inside of course, it was different story entirely: acres of well-tended lawns as smooth as billiard-table-baizes; vast flower beds moistened by a huge sprinkler system; topiary styled to resemble the figures in the Ascent of Man leading to the entrance of an extensive privet-maze; an enormous, ornate white-marble fountain with alabaster cherubs pissing into the air. It was all very tastefully ostentatious.

Like most of the world, his knowledge of Oliver Laphen was based on sensational gossip-columns he’d read in tatty magazines in various waiting-rooms over the years and the odd interview on Parkinson. Because Laphen was such an intensely private man, there were no official biographies and he used the services of an extremely litigious LA law firm to stymie any scandalous tomes that might shed light on the mystery he’d carefully nurtured over the years – a tantalising question: where did this fiery, working class, comic genius come from? The more reclusive he became, the more public interest increased, the more speculative the press became about his private life, the more outrageous the rumours -– the more tickets he sold. His career was indestructible. Not that everything was rosy on the home front. Enigmas, especially rich, volatile enigmas, are pap magnets; a good picture will fetch upwards of $10,000 so he was tabloid fodder from the day he stepped into the limelight. Editors from LA to Tokyo dispatched an army of dedicated investigative journalists to Dublin where they pored over thousands of files in public records offices in an attempt to trace the Laphen family line, but they always drew a blank: Jolly Ollie’s pedigree remained a tantalising mystery. He was certainly an Irishman by birth but refused to say anything about his childhood other than he was ‘educated by sadistic nuns’; he never talked about any parents or siblings and nobody knew where in Ireland he was from -- his accent was hard to pinpoint and changed as often as his anecdotes, the most famous of which was the story of his emigration to America when he allegedly stowed-away on a liner bound for New York at the age of 13 in 1929. After evading processing at Ellis Island he hitched his way across the States east to west and landed in Hollywood, where, according to (his) legend, he slept on the beach and did whatever work he could find during the day. At night he’d ‘hone his art’ performing slapstick in vaudeville, readying himself for stardom; two years later, at the age of 16, he was discovered by the celebrated ‘King Of Comedy’ Max Sennett. The talkies were the new big thing, and at a time when most silent stars were finding it impossible to ‘sound funny’, Ollie’s cartoonish Irish accent was a godsend and Sennett gave him his own series of 15 minute shorts. As Laphen retold this story over the subsequent decades, the narrative was wont to evolve until the embellishments rendered it wholly unreliable.

In the mid-30s when he traded under the moniker Ollie Laffin, he was happy to mug and gurn for the downmarket rags and Pathé News presentations; then, when he got ‘serious’ in the late-40s/early-50s, he stopped playing the fool and became a semi-reclusive thesp. The post-war world was a different place: screwball comedy and slapstick was old hat and Ollie was too canny to go down with the ship. When he returned to movies in ‘46 he went under the name of Oliver Laphen, stopped doing interviews and avoided all ‘that red carpet bollox’, preferring to leave the PR to his co-stars and directors who’d either guardedly sing his praises or proffer equivocal comments that were actually thinly-veiled digs, such as: ‘[working with] Mr Laphen was an experience I’ll never forget... but I’m trying.’ (Lauren Bacall) ‘He brings a piece of himself to every role and playing the villain comes so naturally [to him]...’ (David Niven), but one vox-pop in particular had stuck in in Malky’s mind: "He kept us mere mortals waiting for 4 hours before gracing us with His Presence, we went $4 million over-budget, 4 producers suffered a collective nervous breakdown and 2 of the crew died from heatstroke, but when you hire [Oliver Laphen], you get the best and some studios are prepared to set aside a few million to ‘feed the beast’.” Regardless of what his fellow-travellers thought of him, and how big a pain in the arse he was, Ollie Laphen = Box Office Gold.

“There she is!” cried Herbie, like an enthusiastic tour guide. The Rolls had rounded a bend in the driveway and Malky got his first glimpse of Pagham House.

“Jeez –- house is too small a word, Herbie! This makes Windsor Castle look like a B&B!” said Malky, when confronted by the huge, sandstone edifice of palatial proportions, with rows of latticed gothic windows, draped with thick beards of ivy.

The chauffeur chuckled, “Impressive, eh? It used to belong to the 10th Duke of Roxborough til ‘e fell on ‘ard-times ‘n the boss made him an offer he couldn’t refuse. We rent it aht when we’re ahtta town. It’s very popular wiv the Arabs ‘n the Chinese. It’s got 30 rooms, swimming pool, gym, ballroom, sauna -- it even has its own church -- the works!” They pulled into a gravel forecourt and parked at the foot of a huge white marble staircase leading up to a tastefully-weathered, balustrade-lined terrace. But Malky’s attention was drawn to another vehicle parked to the right of the steps: namely, the same Harley-Davison touring bike he’d seen in the village, and sitting on the steps was the mysterious rider/cameraman filming them as they drew up!

Malky was furious all over again, “What’s he doing here?”

“More to the point, ‘ow the ‘ell did ‘e get in?!” said Herbie, slowly unclipping his seat belt and opening his door, “I’ll ‘andle this...” Herbie got out, straightened his cap and walked toward the diminutive figure, “Can I ‘elp you, mate...?” Malky heard him ask, and then he and Broo watched as the biker promptly stopped filming, jumped down and met the burly chauffeur head-on -- he took off his helmet, grinned, opened his arms and the two embraced like they were very pleased to see each other.

“Uncle Herb – you look great!” trilled a cherub-cheeked, heavily-freckled, copper-headed American kid in his mid-20s, brimming with childlike-enthusiasm, speaking quickly and excitedly, “Listen - we’re gonna be shooting in July! I’m here to scout for locations and do the final negotiations...!” The lad stopped short when he noticed Malky trudging across the gravel.

“Sorry, Mr Calvert sir, I got a bit distracted then,” said Herbie, putting a hand on the young man’s shoulder, “This ‘ere’s Kristof Katz, Mr Laphen’s grandson. Kris – this-‘ere is Mr Malcolm Calvert ‘oo’s come to... erm... sort out a little... plumbing problem...”

The young Master Katz took off a leather gauntlet, shook Malky’s hand, chattering incessantly, “Very pleased to meet you sir, I’m very sorry for the candid camera incident, but when I saw the car I thought my grandfather was inside and I wanted to catch him unawares but I caught you unawares and once you started to rant I couldn’t resist capturing that intense anger! I guess it’s the habit of lifetime -- Herb here will tell ya -- I’ve hadda movie-camera in my mitt since I was old enough to lift one – isn’t that right Uncle Herb? I’m a total geek!”

Malky gaped at him as if he’d arrived from another planet.

“Yer caffeinated up-to the-eyeballs again!” said Herbie, playfully clipping him round the ear and scolding him like a naughty schoolboy, “jet-lagged, ridin’ rahnd windin’ cahntry roads on a bleedin’ two-wheeled deff-trap?! Are y’ off your trolley, boy?! You coulda been killed -- there’s farm vehicles on these-‘ere roads, you coulda turned an ‘airpin bend an’ wahnd-up in the blades of a combine ‘arvester or summink!!”

Kris apologised for his over-enthusiasm and slowed down, “... anyhow, pleased to make your acquaintance, Mr Calvert,” he turned and pointed behind him, “welcome to Ollie Towers, The Laphen House -- Xanadu -- whatever you wanna call it.”

Now that he was up close, Malky saw the family resemblance; the lad was short, around 5’ 5”, the same steely-blue peepers and winsome dimples that had graced millions-upon-millions of magazine covers since 1930. Malky felt compelled to comment, “I must say, you are the spitting image of your granddad.”

Herbie was gushing again, “Not only that -- but he’s in’erited his talent too! Kris is a movie director!” he tweaked the lad’s cheek and pretended to punch his jaw.

Kris went all aw-shucks and kicked at the gravel with the toe of a leather boot, “Well, I’m about to direct my first full-length feature. I’m very excited. It’s been in development hell for 3 or 4 years and now it’s finally in pre-production.”

“’E’s like a son to me!” Herbie put an arm around Kris’ shoulders, tweaked his cheek again and beamed, “when he was a nipper ‘is mum used to leave ‘im wif me on those days when she was... erm... uvverwise occupied...”

Kris, utterly unfazed, merrily took up the slack and filled in the blanks, “What Herb won’t tell you is my mom – Annelise Katz, née Laphen - had a lotta ‘substance abuse issues’ at the time, Mr Calvert. She used to unload me onto Herbie for weeks on end when she went on a jag [Now that the lad had mentioned it, Malky recalled reading something about one of Laphen’s daughters getting arrested for possession in the late 60s. In fact, from what he could remember, all 8 of the Quare Geg’s children had ‘issues’ of one kind or another]. Thankfully she’s been clean and sober for the past 6 years and now she’s counselling other women with similar issues...” he squeezed the hand dangling on his shoulder, “So I have this man to thank for givin’ me a relatively normal childhood! We used to play on the film sets in the studios when gramps was making a movie - that’s where I got my training!”

Herbie blushed, “Ach, it wasn't ideal, but where else was I gonna take ya? You know your granddad always ‘as to ‘ave me arahnd to fetch and carry for ‘im. And watchin’ a film get made is like watchin’ paint dry, if you awsk me - it’s a wonder it didn’t put you off movies for life!”

They were distracted by the sound of paws hitting gravel. The old dog had finally exited the Rolls but didn’t join them; he kept close to the car and watched from a distance. “Whassup wiv the pooch, ‘e’s gawn a bit shy, ‘in ‘e?” asked Herbie.

Malky called out to him: “What’s the matter with you, Hopalong? What has you all cagey, huh? Come over here and say hello!”

“Aww, look, he’s only got three legs,” crooned Kris, in a childishly sympathetic voice. Broo whimpered as he watched the glowing boy walk toward him, stooped and spoke softly as if addressing a bashful toddler, “You don’t have to be afraid of me, boy, I wouldn't hurt a fly! No I wouldn't...” he reached out

Broo recoiled and whimpered: Get off me, you idiot... you’re killing me!

But Kris carried on, unaware of the old dog’s distress, “Easy, boy, I won’t hurt you...”

AARGH!!

Kris cuddled him, stroked his back and made silly noises, “Eh? Who’s a handsome fella, then? You must quite the VIP, huh? A German Shepherd who’s so important he gets to ride around in the back of a limousine...?”

Mercifully, he was rudely interrupted by a loud voice from above, “Where the f**k have you been, Gorringe?!”

The boy stopped petting and turned away – Broo (unseen) wobbled for a second then keeled over.

There was an elderly man in a gaping, black silk kimono, electric-blue satin boxer-shorts, and bright green unlaced baseball boots standing at the top of steps; he pointed at Kris with an accusing finger, “and what-the-f**k’s that wee ginger gobshite doing on my property?!”

Malky looked up and regarded their prospective client. His collar length grey hair was thinning and unruly as if he’d just got out of bed, his heavily lined face clenched in distaste; but underneath the grizzled exterior and the bizarre attire, was none other the Quare Geg Himself: the fun-loving Ollie Laphen, former Crown Prince of Comedy! Looking at him now, though, it seemed there was little to laugh about, but you wouldn't know it to hear his grandson.

“Gramps! How-the-hell are you?! It’s me, Kris!” The boy put the helmet on the seat of the Harley and joyfully bounded-up the steps two-at-a-time, “so goo-ood to see you, dude...” he embraced the frail, bristly figure - who immediately pushed him away. “Gitcher filthy hands affa me, ye wee shite!! I’m not senile yet -- I know damn-well who you are!” Laphen put his fists on his hips and sneered in a high-pitched whine, “Whaddya want from me this time? Money, is it? Well, you can feck-off back to La-La Land - this bank is closed! Go and ask that crooked auld kike of a father o’ yours – oh yeah, I forgot – he’s back in the bankruptcy courts -- yet-again -- after yet-another one of his half-assed business-deals went tits-up in the water – still - why break the habit of a lifetime, huh? Once a loser, always a loser!” he stuck his little pug nose in the air, stuck out his chin and tied the belt of his silk kimono, like a superannuated prize-fighter squaring-up at a weigh-in.

Doing his best to suppress a fit of giggles, Kris reassured him in a sober tone, “S’OK gramps, don’t have a cow, man. I don’t need any of your filthy lucre, after all -- we've got a backer! And for the record –- I’ve never asked you for anything in my life, you old goat -- and you know it!”

Laphen stepped closer, “Why are you here then?”

“To see you you...” said Kris, smirking.

Laphen went nose-to-nose with his grandson and growled, “So, you don’t need me?! Well! You've seen me! Now piss off!”

Kris put a hand on the old man’s shoulder and smiled, warmly, “C'mon, we’d better get you inside, it’s quite chilly out here and we wouldn't want you catching cold, now, would we?”

The old man swatted the hand away like a particularly stubborn piece of lint, “Stop treatin’ me like a feckin’ invalid! I’m perfectly capable of walkin’ unaided – I’m not in a feckin’ wheelchair yet!” in the same breath, he broke away, looked down at Herbie, pointed at Malky and barked, “Is this the guy?”

“Yessah!” Herbie replied, standing to attention, as if addressed by a superior officer, “this is Mr Malcolm Calvert, the, erm... consultant from Brodir.”

“Well – don’t just stand there like a spare cock at a hen-night! Bring him in!”

With that, Laphen stomped back to the house with Kris walking alongside him, chatting incessantly despite the cold shoulder.

As Herbie fetched his overnight bag from the trunk of the Rolls, Malky watched them walk off and commented, “Chirpy little git, isn't he?”

Herbie slammed the lid shut and explained in a low voice, “Don’t let the ol’ Scrooge act give ya the wrong impression, Mr C. Kris is the apple of the old man’s eye - ‘e dotes on that boy. This is the way they speak to each uvvah. There’s no real malice intended so it’s best if you just let ‘em get on wiv it. Neevah wants to admit that it’s all a big contest to see who’ll crack first –- it usually ends in ‘uge laughs all-round. Only fing is the old man’s been ‘ittin’ the bottle again. I’m afraid ‘e’ll end-up sayin’ somefink really ‘urtful to the boy and ‘e might never come back. Kris is the only grandchild ‘oo ever comes to visit, see -- so for all of our sakes -- I ‘ope they chill-aht 'n have a civilised conversation.”

“Uh-huh,” Malky grunted, distractedly. The more he heard, the stronger the temptation to hand back the cheque and book a taxi back to Brodir, but he was so hungry now he had no choice but to reserve judgement until after dinner.

As they climbed the steps he suddenly realised they’d forgotten someone; he looked back and saw that his trusty companion was finding it hard to drag himself up, “Och, c’mon Broo, they’re not as steep as the stairs at the inn -- and you manage to climb those when you fancy a drink from the bog!” said Malky, turning away.

Broo could barely stand, let alone climb a flight of steps. When the young leatherman approached to indulge in a spot of light-petting and the strange, purplish halo enveloped him, Broo was instantly numbed -- he felt a sensation akin to sinking into a vat of virulent, viscous quicksand; a toxic vapour overwhelmed his senses -– and when the boy eventually let go, the dread feeling went with him. Alas, the men were too busy to notice him collapse in a heap, having been distracted by the sudden appearance of an angry old man who smelled of cigarettes, alcohol and bathsalts. Then something strange happened: when the younger man climbed the steps -- the aura around him grew more transparent –- by the time he embraced the old man - it had evaporated completely! One second it was there, the next – nothing. This was most perplexing. And if his senses were to be believed, aside from a few passing crows, there were none of the usual creatures one would find on an estate as big as this. Just like the village, there was no livestock or wildlife in the vicinity at all. Not only that, but as his head cleared, he realised that something else was missing: there’s no sign of anything Other in the ether either, and that bothered him most of all. The sky was darkening for dusk, the shadows were lengthening and the sun was low, so why are there no apparitions in the Golden Hour? Where was the shimmering residual energy of past events that can only be glimpsed through the rays of twilight? In a land such as this, historically ravaged by epidemics, tribal violence, famine and murderous invaders, there should be at least a few ghostly children playing in the fields... And yet, there’s nothing. If the Barry McKee case had taught him anything at all, it was to Beware Spiritual Vacuums. Bad things happen in Spiritual Vacuums.

... at that very moment (12:56 US Eastern Time), approximately 3600 miles away, at a checkpoint at the Canadian/United States’ border, on the Peace Bridge at Fort Erie, between Ontario and Buffalo, New York State...

“Sir? Sir... hello...

“Sir?!

“Wind down the window, sir!”

Somewhere... off in the distance Emil heard a man’s voice and a clicking sound. Metal on glass...

It wasn't like waking up, more like someone switching on a light. He was sitting in Fran’s Volvo, at what appeared to be the US/Canadian border!

“Sir, would you please wind down your window?” the muffled voice barked “SIR?!”

In his peripheral vision, Emil discerned a uniformed figure peering through the window. A US border patrol guard?! Holy shit?! What the f**k is going on?!

But the inner-turmoil, dislocation and downright terror didn’t register on his face: on the outside, he was deadpan, ice-cool and composed. The inner-Emil watched his own hand reach out and push the button that wound down the window; he felt the crisp breeze buffet his face and arms as the glass descended. If this is a dream, it’s very vivid. The guard stooped, leaned-in and sniffed the inside of the car. The outer-Emil remained unfazed, but when he caught a glimpse of himself in the wing-mirror, he soon realised why the guard was so suspicious.

He appeared to be wearing an unbelted towelling bathrobe, pyjama pants and his XXL Jimi Hendrix tee-shirt -- the ensemble he wore when he was slouching around the apartment... Shit -- you gotta be kidding me -- no briefs?! He desperately wanted to grab the hem of the gown and tuck the tails between his legs, but his arms refused to budge!

The certainties: it was daylight; he was at the border. I’m driving my wife’s 1979 Volvo estate dressed like an extra from One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest! This has to be a dream! I’m gonna wake up at any minute...

Meanwhile, somewhat surprised that he couldn't smell any liquor, the guard returned to the business in hand, “May I see your passport, sir?!” he asked, acidly, in a thick New England accent. He was leaning on the roof now, the midday-sun gleaming off the chrome-plated badge on his cap; despite the dazzling flashes, Emil’s eyes refused to blink. The Inner-Emil wanted to grab his tie and shout: Stop me! I’m out of my mind! but his lips remained firmly zipped; his body remained still. For all-intents-and-purposes, he was a puppet with no mind of his own.

So who’s pulling the strings?

The guard was getting impatient; he pointed at the passenger seat, and snapped, “Your passport, sir!!

Emil’s outer voice said “Passport?”

The guard pointed, “It’s there. Right beside you, sir.”

His head turned to the right and he found himself looking down at the passenger seat; sure-enough, sitting atop an array of various official papers, was his passport. He saw his hand reach out, pick it up and hand it over. Maintaining eye-contact, the guard took the little booklet, ceremoniously shook it open and read it with a disdainful look. Emil had taken many acid trips and tried every psychedelic he could get his mitts on, but this was unlike anything he’d ever experienced in his voyages through the Doors of Perception. So what does that leave? Sleepwalking? He tried to make the fingers of his left hand pinch his thigh... but nothing.

“What brings you to the US, Mr Labatt?”

Emil heard himself say, “Doctor Labatt. I’m on my way to visit an elderly relative, if you must know. She’s very ill. Dying. It’s an emergency.”

What?!

“... Are you planning to drive all the way, Dr Labatt?” the guard asked, doubtfully.

The inner-Emil wanted to cry out: I don’t wanna drive anywhere! I don’t know why I’m here or what I’m doing! Please call my wife, Frances – she’ll come and get me!! In fact – arrest me! Take me into custody right now!!

Instead he heard his outer voice reply, dryly, “Yes, officer. Driving all the way.”

The guard handed back the passport, sighed heavily and asked pointedly, “Dr Labatt, have you been imbibing today? Narcotics, alcohol, have you taken any prescription drugs that might affect your ability to drive?”

This could work to his advantage: if I’m cheeky enough they might arrest me on suspicion of DUI! Alas, the invisible ventriloquist kept the voice calm and answered succinctly, “I most certainly have not been imbibing, officer. I’m a well-respected forensic scientist and a senior lecturer at the University of Toronto. I’m on my way to Baltimore to see an elderly relative with a terminal illness. It’s matter of some urgency. I need to get on.”

Baltimore?!

The guard handed back the passport and enquired, brusquely, “Carrying any foodstuffs, livestock including pets, liquor or sundries that may be considered contraband by the United States of America?”

“No, sir.”

“Then, would you mind popping the trunk, sir?”

Emil didn’t stir.

“Sir... pop the trunk?”

“This is my wife’s car and I don’t know where the trunk popper is.”

‘Trunk popper’?! Listen to me! Arrest me, you fool! I’m frickin’ nuts!!

Shaking his head, the guard reached in and groped under the wheel; “There she is,” and tugged the lever.

While the guard searched the trunk, the Inner-Emil tried to think logically: Could I have been inadvertently poisoned at the lab? Unlikely, he was very careful about sterilisation and wore a mask at all times... Have I ingested something in the course of my work... a fungus...? A spoor that causes one to act out in some way...? But he was ignoring the obvious: there was a taste in his mouth -- a taste that was as familiar as it was bitter and earthy that usually preceded the bouts of sickness. In fact, it had been happening ever since he’d got back from the dig in Kildare 2 years ago when they discovered the bog mummies (he’d abandoned the annual expeditions after his little fling with Niamh). Lately, he’d been prone to intermittent lapses in consciousness and bouts of short-term memory-loss. He’d find himself staring at his reflection in the bathroom mirror for hours on end. Fran thought he was smoking too much weed, but not even strongest strain of mary jane could induce blackouts like this, and nothing would leave a taste in his mouth this bad.

The trunk slammed shut. The guard returned, “Everything seems to be in order, Dr Labatt...” he leaned on the roof and spoke close, “Listen doc, if I was you I’d stop at the first motel I came to and I’d get myself a couple of hours sleep. Then I’d have a shower and a change of clothes and I’d drive the rest of the way feeling wide awake ‘n refreshed. I wouldn't want to fall asleep at the wheel and maybe kill myself or some innocent folk who were unlucky enough to be travellin’ the same road. Whaddya say to that, doc?”

An uneasy silence followed. The inner-Emil waited for his body to respond but nothing came: his eyes remained unblinking, his mouth stayed shut. He prayed that this was a turning point -- that he’d do something so outrageous they’d have to take him in -- but it never came. Finally, the guard sighed and patted the roof with the flat of his hand, “Welcome to the United States, doctor.”

Before the lights went out, Emil heard his voice reply with a curt, “Thank you. Have a nice day.” He felt his right hand release the handbrake; he felt his foot gently depress the accelerator. He watched as the Volvo taxied through the checkpoint; he paid the toll and ventured onto the open road... that was the last thing he remembered before the darkness descended again...

Malahide, Dublin: The Somerville family were going to Mass.

“Put on yer seat-belt, Cate, luv. You don’t have to sit in the baby-seat but you still have to strap yerself in,” said Somerville, getting into the driver’s seat.

In the back, Cate turned to her younger sister, “See, Cathy – he called it a ‘baby’ seat!’”

“Mommeeeeeeee!” Cathy wailed.

Pat got into the passenger seat and took control: “Ssshhhh, Cathy.... Cate don’t tease Cathy! You’ll start her off -- then baby Clare will start!” She playfully slapped her husband’s shoulder, “That’s your fault, daddy! It’s a CAR seat not a BABY seat, silly -– it even says so on the little label ‘Car Seat’ –- so-there, Miss smarty-pants-Caitlin -- you were wrong!”

“Daddy said it not me.”

“It was a slip of the tongue, Pat.”

“He didn’t mean to say it, Cathy. I’ll never hear the feckin end of this... will you be more careful what you say!”

“I’m not a baby I’m 4 and 4 months! I have to sit in it cuz I’m too wee for the seat belt!”

“That’s right! You tell ‘em Cathy! It’s a seat for small people, not babies! Cathy’s very sensitive and unassertive and I’m trying to build her confidence!”

“Daddy, what’s ‘police brutality’?” asked Cate, apropos of nothing.

“Where did you hear about ‘police brutality’?” said Somerville, looking at her in the rear-view mirror.

“One of the older girls shouted it when Sister Marie dragged her into the bogs to wash her face.”

“Toilets, Ladies, loo or lavatory, please, Cate, dear. What are bogs?” said Pat, sternly.

“Sorry mommy: ‘Bogs are Irish swamps...’” Cate sang, rolling her eyes.

Herbie led the way through the huge front door into a huge, cavernous sandstone vestibule lit by a quartet of gothic, arched windows, not unlike the narthex of a Christian church, but cluttered with precisely the sort of tone-lowering kitschy bric-a-brac that one would expect a working-class-boy-made-good to put on display -- as much a screw you to visiting nobs & snobs as it was a totem to his wealth and wilful nature, to wit: a suit of armour wearing an American Indian headdress, a deep-sea diving-suit with a stuffed monkey’s head in the helmet; a pair of large Persian vases filled with strange umbrellas. One item in particular gave Malky cause for pause: standing to the left of the adjoining Gothic archway, stood a life-sized waxwork of the Master of Mirth himself, fashioned and dressed to represent his ‘hey-day’ in the 30s; this waxen Laphen was the youthful, joyful Jolly Ollie Laffin, grinning that trademark squidgy-grin, complete with pinchable dimples, the rash of freckles across the bridge of his little pug-nose, the glassy sky-blue eyes gleaming like sapphires – you couldn't help but smile. Malky couldn't help but remark, “Whatever happened to that sweet li’l guy, eh?”

The burly chauffeur didn’t take the bait and doggedly maintained his chummy, sunny disposition, providing information with the patter of a well-informed tour-guide, “That used to reside in the foy-yer at Madame Toussauds in Lahndahn! They replaced it wiv a more recent model in the 70s an’ the boss brought the originals back ‘ere when he bought the ahse. This one was done in ’38, just after his first full-length feature: Ollie and Molly Strike Oil!” Herbie moved to the right of the connecting archway and unconsciously adopted an almost identical pose to the grinning effigy on the left, “This way, Mr Calvert. I’ll take you to yer room and you can freshen up ‘n that ‘n we can tawk about the ‘situation’ over dinnah.”

As they walked through a slate-floored lobby lit by muted spotlights, it was more of the same: a veritable Ollie Laphen museum exhibit; an autobiography laid out chronologically -- from glass-cases containing newspaper columns, magazine covers and PR stills from the slapstick days of the 1930s -- to the chin-stroking thesp (a framed headline in The Irish News: ‘Laphen’s Lear is a masterclass!’). The dark, wood-panelled walls were lined with framed photographs of Ollie pressing flesh and embracing some of the greatest movie-makers, movers-and-shakers of the past 60 years: FDR, Bogart, Monroe, Gable, Jackie O, Bing, Hope, Groucho, Einstein, Fidel, Vidal, Hitchcock, Wayne, JFK, Johnson, Nixon, Kissinger, Elvis, the Dalai Lama, the Beatles, the Queen of England and various royals – as far as the 20th century is concerned, Ollie is the OED definition of ubiquitous. As they passed through the connecting archway, Malky got quite a jolt - enough to stop him dead in his tracks. Dead being the appropriate word, for in the shadows of the dimly lit reception hall stood a menagerie of dead things ready to attack -- lions, bears, tigers, panthers -- feral, snarling, glassy-eyed, posed in a stance of attack; ugly birds-of-prey hung on wires from the rafters, talons bared, poised to swoop; and to be certain that arachnophobes didn’t feel excluded, there were a few tarantulas strategically attached to various pillars and posts.

Malky gaped and gasped, “Wow! Did Ollie kill all these himself?!”

This time Herbie did seem a wee bit uncomfortable, “Nah, ‘e commissioned ‘em from a taxi-dermist’s in Sarf Africa where they can get you anything...” He sniffed and shook his head, “I ‘ate it too, to tell the troof – I never come frew ‘ere if I can avoid it. It’s the old man’s sense off ooma, see – he likes to lull visi’ors into a false sense of security then - aargh! They get the shock of their lives,” he reached behind a curtain and threw a switch -- the animals’ eyes shone bright red and and roared in their respective voices. “The boss ‘ates animals, see –- he got rid of all the livestock ‘cept for stables when ‘e bought the ahse. ‘E ‘ates ‘orses most of all. ‘E got thrown by a donkey when ‘e was doin’ a cameo in Around the World in Eighty Days in ’55 or ’56 –- ‘e walked orf the set and refused to ‘ave anyfink to do with animals evah again! Animals and kids. If he could get ridda the crows he’d be ‘appy.”

Broo found the menagerie obscene and growled accordingly.

Their attention was briefly diverted by shouting in a room somewhere further in: “... Will you quit naggin’ me – ye’re worse than a feckin wife!”

“NO! I won’t stop til you see sense! If I don’t say it – who will!?! You’re cracking up!! You’re a delusional... egomaniacal narcissist! You’re like Stalin without the people-skills...!”

Herbie quickly ushered his guests into the lobby and closed a connecting door turning the voices into incoherent murmurs, but Malky had heard enough. Herbie’s stoic exterior slipped, he got jittery and muttered something about an ‘Inquisition’ under his breath. Malky was about to ask what he meant when he quickened his step and led the way through another archway that led to a lobby at the foot of a huge white marble staircase cleft with a dark scarlet runner. On the bottom step stood the other waxwork of Ollie dressed as a tramp holding the Oscar statuette for his role as a shady boxing promoter in the movie Knuckledusters. In an alcove in the rear wall to the left of the staircase stood an imposing, but badly-damaged grandfather clock; the glass insets covering the face and pendulum case were smashed, the hour-hand hung limp on the wheel and part of the ornate, intricately hand-carved casing was cracked down one side.

Herbie stood next to his guest, looked up at it and said, “Big f**ker, innit?”

Malky was inclined to agree that it was highly unlikely that such a huge piece of solid timber could be toppled so easily by a man as old and small as Ollie.

The bickering voices were making Herbie very uncomfortable, there was a pained expression on his big, weather-beaten face. As they climbed the staircase, he said, “Look, Mr Calvert... I don’t know ’ow to say this... what I mean to say is.... you might ‘ear certain fings whilst you is ‘ere... and I don’t like ‘avin’ to ask... but we’d be grateful if you would sign, for the want of a better phrase, a gag order.”

Malky shook his head, “Like I said, Herbie, I hate the press as much as ‘oul Ollie, but I don’t feel comfortable signing that sort of thing. Cuz if there is anythin’ iffy goin’ on – I’m not sayin’ there is – but should we detect signs of chicanery or skulduggery in the course of our ‘investigation’ -- like, say, we uncover a plot to get the ol’ bugger certified and bleed him dry or rewrite his will -- a gagging order could severely hinder an official investigation, and, when all’s said and done, I’m on the side of law and order.” He held up his right hand, “But if it makes you feel any better – as far as petty gossip and scandal-mongering is concerned -- my lips are sealed,” he turned, looked down at Broo and added, glumly, “... can’t speak for the dog, though...”

Broo grunted, still too stupefied to take anything in.

In light of such an earnest assurance, Herbie relaxed a little and explained, “Um well, the ‘Inquisition’ I mentioned refers to some recent sackin’s in the last week or two. ‘E’s fired a coupla security guards, the assistant gardener and the young gal who ‘elps out wiv the ‘ahsework on Tuesdays ‘n Fursdays!”

“Why did he sack them?”

“Cos somebody leaked some gossip to an American tabloid ‘n it could only ‘ave come from the staff, so ‘e hadda clear-aht.” Herbie took a deep breath and spoke in a half-whisper, “So you can see how bad it is ‘ere. It’s got to the point where the only people ‘e trusts is me and the ‘ahsekeeper, Mrs Sparkes - and ‘e only trusts ‘er cuz she’s from the village and they believes all this ’aunted ‘ouse bollox.”

Again they were distracted; this time it was the jingle of unbuckled buckles and the stomp of motorcycle-boot-heels on the chequered tiles below, “Uncle Herb! Is it true? He’s sacked Scanlon?!” Kris shouted from the hall, clearly incensed. The three turned and looked down; Herbie maintained eye contact but didn’t answer; his uneasy silence said it all. “He has?! Shit! Where did he go?”

Herbie lowered his head, looked at his shoes and said, “Nobody knows. He packed up ‘n walked aht wivvaht a word ‘n we’ve ‘eard nuffink since.”

The lad stamped his foot and punched his thighs with his fists in a sudden fit of anger and disbelief, pacing back and forth at the bottom of the stairs, as the implications hit him one by one, “This is such bullshit, Uncle Herb -- I was working with Scanlon -- he was helping me with the movie -- what did he do?!”

Herbie’s head dropped, “Look Kris, yer grandpaw’s been ‘avin’ a bit of bovver lately and...”

“And where’s the cat? Don’t tell me he’s fired him too?!”

“He ran away.”

“Huh?! Fey Ray ran away? I not friggin’ surprised! The entire estate is a no go area for anything with more than two legs!” yelled Kris, without realising how odd it sounded, and stomped off in a huff; a few seconds later they heard him shouting at the old man in another room.

“Do ever stop and think: ‘hey, maybe I’m the problem?’ – cuz unless you straighten-out you’re gonna die a very lonely old man...” “Ach, blow it out yer arse, ye ginger shite-hawk...!”

A door slammed and the squabbling voices became muffled and unintelligible again. Herbie put a hand to his brow and groaned to himself, “Kris, son, you couldn't-a picked a worse time to pay us a surprise visit...”

“Who was Scanlon? The butler?” asked Malky.

“No, groundskeeper, but he might as well’ve been,” Herbie replied, unhappily, “’E did all the odd-jobs arahnd the ahse. Lifetime’s service – gone - jus-like-that - phfft! Kris an’ ‘im wuz thick as thieves too. ‘E knew all the stories about this place. Kris used to sit up for hours on end listenin’ to ‘im but Scanlon and the boss never really got along – Scanlon came wiv the ahse, see, just like all the servants – but ‘e wuz a bit of a law onto ‘isself. When we checked, we found ‘irregularities’ in our finances. The boss confronted him, he couldn’t answer, ‘n that was that.”

They reached the second landing and the old retainer ushered them along a long corridor with row-upon-row of sky-blue doors with ornate brass name plates, the panelling in-between bedecked with gold and silver discs, “Were all these recorded by Ollie?” asked Malky, genuinely impressed.

Herbie, pleased to have a diversion, nodded and cheerfully slipped back into tour-guide mode, “Oh, people forget ‘e was a great crooner. In the 50s he recorded loadsa LPs and they wuz big ‘its all ovah the world - not-so-much in the US or Britain - but ‘ere in Ireland ‘n France ‘n’ Germany. Can’t walk dahn the street in Japan. We go over to Tokyo every now-‘n’-then and ‘e records all these TV commercials for ‘em. Liquor, potato chips, candy bars, mostly. ‘Big bucks for a load of ol’ bollox!’ ‘e says.”

“I know how that feels,” muttered Malky, thumbing the cheque in his pocket.

Herbie opened a door with an engraved plate bearing the legend The Wonderland Suite and put the case on an ottoman by the door. The room was weirdly magnificent, in an oversized, child’s playbox type-way. The floor was a chessboard, there were huge cushions in the shape of chess pieces scattered around the floor; the walls were decorated with blow ups of Tenniel’s drawings of Alice in Wonderland characters; an emperor-sized four-poster swathed in white satin sheets patterned with black diamonds; and a large, white tallboy with outsized, bright red knobs and drawers that were shaped to look warped and uneven, like a prop from a kids’ cartoon. “’Ere’s the TV,” he said, opening the doors of a huge white sideboard to reveal a 38” screen, “If you wanna take a walk round before dinnah -– go ‘ead, nowhere’s off limits -– oh, part of the east-wing’s locked-up, but I can get the keys from the safe and take you down later. There’s some PJs ‘n wot-not in the dresser drawer and fresh towels in the en suite. There’s the phone,” he pointed at an ornate, art deco phone, “just dial 9 for an outside line.”

Astonished by his surroundings, Malky could only gaze and nod his head.

Herbie clicked his heels and stood to attention, “There’s plenty of ‘ot-wa’ah if you wanna ‘ave a showah and a shave or wot-evah. Dinnah will be served at 8pm sharp (it was presently 5:50pm), I’ll bang the gong. In the meantime, make yerself at ‘ome 'n I’ll see you at 8,” said Herbie, brightly, closing the door behind him.

Malky sat down on the edge of the bed and examined a brass plated console next to the headboard; he pressed the first button: the curtains closed; he pressed the second: the curtains opened; he pressed a third and the lights either side of the bed came on; he pressed the fourth and the drape across the canopy over the bed rolled back to reveal a full-size, horizontal mirror. “Bit sordid for a room that looks like a nursery,” Malky opined, flopping down and looking up at his reflection, “God, I’m getting old. Remind me to close that curtain before I go to bed – if I wake up and see meself in the morning I’m likely to scare meself to death.” He kicked off his shoes and writhed in the welcoming sea of satiny-softness, like a Labrador pup in an unfurled toilet roll, “Oh, I just wanna sleeeeep... wake me up in September when the baby’s born...”

Broo growled quietly, that’s right, you have a nice relaxing catnap while your tiny, put-upon wife labours over a hot engine just so that she can get that wretched old banger of a van back on the road in order to buy provisions and decorating materials to build a nest for you and your unborn progeny.

Malky sat up, “Hmm. maybe I should ring her. This is our first night apart since we moved in together. I’d better give her a progress report.” He rolled over, picked up the art-deco phone and called the inn.

“Well, what’s Ollie’s house like?! Is it dead grand or what? I wanna know everything!”

He gave her a detailed description of the house so far, right up to and including the mirror in the canopy over the bed, “... the stories are true, though -- Jolly Ollie is one grouchy oul’ shite. I don’t think I’ve ever met such an obnoxious old git in all me life.” he said, shaking his head. “Zindy, what the hell am I doing here? This isn't me.”

Zindy had obviously been thinking about it too, “Listen luvver, this ain’t a justification or an excuse, but both of us know that there’s certain things we can’t explain away with logic. I mean, look what ‘appened with Barry McKee? Just put yer Sherlock hat on and look at it from a detective’s perspective; treat it as a sorta murder-mystery weekend. What about Broo? He should be able to let you know if there’s anything spooky about the place?”

“I dunno, he seems a bit drowsy, like he’s half-asleep,” said Malky, giving the old dog a cursory glance.

Of course I’m sluggish, you oaf -- this place is sucking the life out of me! Can’t you tell?!

But the semi-telepathic link remained infuriatingly out of order, “It was a long drive. He’s probably knackered.” Then, much to Broo’s chagrin, they forgot about him and exchanged love yous, miss yous and take cares before hanging up.

“Have you noticed somethin’?” said Malky, rhetorically, going to the en-suite and turning on the light; he looked around, “Hmmm,” he opened the bathroom cabinet: the mirror was on the inside of the door. “Whilst me ‘n Zindy were talking, it suddenly occurred to me -– there isn't a mirror to be seen around the house -- even the one above this bed is covered by a curtain.” Malky nodded, “It’s ironic, isn't it: the big Alice in Wonderland freak who doesn’t have Looking Glass –- an egotist who treats you to a personalised autobiographical stroll through his glory days but doesn’t like to look at his own reflection? I find that somewhat strange...”

5 minutes ago: Zindy put the receiver back in its cradle, sat back and winced, “Settle down, kiddo,” she said, patting the elongated face of Jimi Hendrix stretched across her bump, “I still have a gearbox to sort out before we ‘ave a nice bath ‘n go to bed.” She sat at the kitchen table, radio tuned to a classic rock station (Malky listened to nothing but BBC Radio 4) and sang along to Deep Purple’s Child in Time, wailing like a banshee as she screwed and unscrewed oily nuts and rusty bolts: très cathartic. She felt a little guilty, but surely she was entitled to a night on her own. She looked down at the bump: I mean the two of us. I’ll never be alone again

Zara ‘Zindy’ Lindsay, you see, was an accident; everybody told her so.

Ever since she could understand rudimentary English, her aunts and her mother would mention it regularly - usually after something burned down or yet another little boy’s mother had arrived at the door complaining that she was demanding dinner-money with menaces. When she was old enough to understand the mechanics of human reproduction (hard not to when you live on a farm), they’d tell her she was the result of a drunken one-night-stand with a Spanish scout master (visiting Burnley on an exchange-visit) that no one had seen or heard from since. Fortunately for Dory, the Lindsays were/are a well-to-do family with links to the cotton trade that go as far back as the 17th century, so they had the wealth and power to cover it up. After a secret birth, mother Dory and baby Zara were spirited away to a remote farmhouse in the heart of the Lancashire countryside under the care of a pair of huge, lumbering maiden-aunts. Unlike the petite and genteel Dory, Maggie and Lottie were tall, mannish land-girls with no time for molly-coddles and sentimentality -- what’s more they didn’t care what their niece got up to so long as she didn’t burn the place down or leave a gate open (she could drive a tractor by the age of 6). When she was 7, Dory married and moved out, but Zindy didn’t like her new stepdad and he didn’t like her (a snooty, middle-aged bank manager who read the FT and went to Mass twice a week). She preferred Dory’s long-term boyfriend Tam Horsham who drove the Mother’s Pride bread van; but he was too common, apparently, “He eats his dinner off a tray and smokes in the bath!” said Dory, tartly, when asked if Zindy should start calling him dad. So, after numerous tantrums, she was allowed to stay at the farm and enjoy the relative freedom of life with the ‘Looney Lindsay Sisters’ (as the locals called them). Then puberty hit, so did a lifelong passion: motorbikes. She found a broken down old ‘39 Triumph Tiger in the barn and with some help from Lottie (“It belonged to an old boyfriend who left it here in ’42 when he went to war... but he never came back for it so I assumed the worst.”) she cleaned it up and replaced the missing parts. It took 8 months of scouring scrapyards and hard labour, but she managed to restore it to its former glory. She was in the Gazette! ‘Tearaway Tomboy Triumphs!!’ Consequently, she met dozens of motorcycle enthusiasts and a lot of them just happened to be Hell’s Angels. That’s when she first got that weakness in her knees. Big, fat, hairy men. Her pals were aghast. It could've been a father-daddy complex or just a weird perversion, but she could get enough of grizzled, over-weight geezers most girls would cross the road to avoid.

In spite of her aggressive side, she was quite the artist and spent hours quietly painting and sketching the scenery behind her great-aunts’ farm. According to her second year teacher in her annual report (Zindy refused to go to boarding school and went to the local comprehensive): ‘She has shown a flair for art and is very intelligent – when she wants to work, which isn't often ... for the most part she is headstrong, opinionated, brusque and quick to temper; a girl who sees life as a big adventure ... it may be a symptom of her diminutive stature that she feels she has to be brash and contrary, but if she continues in this fashion she may face expulsion....’

Zindy just couldn't be tamed. She was up before the magistrate on a regular basis, mostly for driving without a licence or brawling with boys twice her size. On her 18th she stood on a table in the Flat Iron pub in front of her closest friends and allies and vowed never to settle down to a life of domesticity, to forsake motherhood and be a free spirit for the rest of her life. Three weeks later, she moved in with a recently divorced woodwork teacher 17 years her senior. He proposed (‘wanna shack-up?’) and she couldn't say no. So began her lifelong ‘thing’ for older men – the daddy syndrome, probably.

The cohabitation with the woodwork teacher was as passionate as it was incendiary – he turned out to be a secret drinker – there were vodka bottles hidden all over the flat; she tried to keep up for a while, but all they did was fight. Things came to a head with the couple spending a night in the cells of Bottle Street nick. The desk sergeant told her he was a lost cause – “He’s dried-out 3 times -– and he’s still the same mess he was when I first started in here 15 years ago! My advice lady – run as fast as them wee legs can take ya – find a fit young man with a good job!” She took this advice to heart, and a in a few months she met a recently widowed sculptor at a Henry Moore exhibition –- this time 40 years her senior; tall, with long grey hair who dressed like Tom Wolfe -– and got swept up in a whirlwind romance. ‘Whirlwind’ in the sense that the trail of destruction they left behind: various foodstuffs were hurled, crockery was smashed, household utensils took flight and embedded themselves in walls. Zindy loved it. She loved him. Alas, his kids, two of which were older than her, did not approve and weren’t shy about letting her know. It was grist for Zindy’s mill; it only strengthened her resolve. She thrived in adversity; she lived to Fight the Good Fight and persevered with the relationship without a thought for the toll it was taking on the poor man’s heart. Of course, like most Spring/Winter love affairs it ended with a lonely vigil in a draughty hospital corridor listening to the impassive beep of medical machinery whilst his own flesh & blood hold his hand as he drifts over. Previously estranged siblings now united in their grief against a common enemy: “The stupid bitch is still sitting out in t’corridor.” “She’s only after ‘is money.” “She looks about 9, makes you wonder...?” She heard every word, approached and told them in no uncertain terms she didn’t want or need his money – all she wanted was to organise the funeral in accordance with his last wishes. They told her his last wishes were enshrined in his last will & testament, not word of mouth, and while they were on the subject, he hadn't left her anything. They told her he was never done talking trash about her behind her back, telling them how he didn’t trust her; that she was a little gold-digger. Meanwhile he was telling Zindy how ungrateful and spiteful his children were and how they’d never done a day’s work in their lives! She had to stand there and listen as they sneered and talked about the stranger with whom she’d spent the last 2 years. It turned out he was a compulsive liar. His wives were all basket-cases by the time he’d finished messing with their minds. All told, the heart condition came as a result of the stress of numerous love affairs and having to remember what lie he told to whom.

Zindy swore to herself that she’d never have anything to do with men ever again! She cut her hair short, dyed it blue and foreswore make-up, skirts and blouses, bought a motorbike and toured Europe with a chapter of Hell’s Angels who treated her like one of the boys. The vow was broken 5 years later when she accompanied her new pals to the Isle of Man for the TT and met a biker from Wicklow. Robert ‘Raspo’ Canning was a built like a brick-shithouse with a long plaited (usually purple, sometimes blue) beard and intense stare (hence the moniker; Raspo: short for Rasputin). He was a nightmare in a studded leather jacket but Zindy was besotted with him. Despite his hulking size, expanding waistline and intimidating manner, he was smarter than the average bear. He read science fiction and knew a lot about astronomy. They used to ride up to Donegal, sit on the cliffs and he would teach her the consolations. She was hooked.

While she was there, one of her great-aunts died and Raspo took her back to Salford for the funeral. She inherited £30,000. Then Barry McKee, one of the gang of bikers from Brodir, happened to mention that his father was selling a seaside pub and she was very interested. She could run a business - she used to do the sculptor’s book-keeping and worked behind a bar in Germany for a few weeks; plus, Brodir might’ve been a rundown town, but it was a Mecca for bikers from all over Europe -- trade would be brisk –- she couldn't see what could possibly go wrong!

But you don’t know anybody until you live with them for a while.

At first, Raspo enjoyed playing host and worked behind the bar, but he had other business interests and that was OK – she preferred running things on her own – it was her name on the licence, her responsibility. She never asked about his business, she didn’t want to know, but she assumed he was a small time dealer: grass and tabs. Then one day he said, “Oh Zin, I’m off to Dublin to do bouncer for a boxin’ match at the National Stadium!” he kissed her goodbye, got on his trusty Triumph and off he went to bounce in Dublin. She found out later that he was off to collect a sizeable debt owed to him for a delivery of coke. When the debtor wasn't forthcoming, Raspo lost his temper and took it out of his hide with a crowbar. This information came courtesy of DS Phil Somerville, who also informed her that her beloved Raspo wasn't just peddling grass, he was dealing in all the a-listed narcotics, not to mention a little sideline in video piracy. She had to sit and listen while Somerville listed her lover’s shady dealings with various Dublin-based organised crime syndicates and proscribed terrorist militias when he tried to coerce her into turning tout and aid in the apprehension Raspo’s subordinates/associates/friends etc. She flatly refused. Raspo was sent down for 7 years, but 8 months later, to shave a few years off his sentence, he did what she refused to do: he shopped most of his former associates including some regulars, and - boom – the bulk of her clientele has declared her persona non grata and boycotted the inn. Somerville told her it was her own fault; she knew what Raspo was and chose to ignore it. He was right. A psychologist would say that it was indicative of a subconscious desire not to commit to a long-term relationship... Whatever, she was alone again, naturally.

Then along came Malky and his spooky three-legged German shepherd and their notorious pursuit of the evil Barry McKee. It was a thrill-a-minute-life-or-death roller coaster ride but it nearly killed them. She took a bullet to the shoulder; Malky had a heart attack and almost bled to death (the irony: Somerville saved Malky’s life after destroying hers). And here she was, back in another hospital corridor listening to bleeping machines. Just when she thought history was repeating itself, his old broken heart kept beating, “and it’s been beating for you ever since,” he said, in an uncharacteristic show of mawkish affection.

Good ol’ Malky. He made her laugh. He was a good man and he made her feel good. They had conversations that lasted all night. OK, so he has a psychic three-legged dog who complains about the noise when I play me records, but that only makes it more fun. To put it simply, life was good. She was painting again; he’d made her a studio in the attic. (He never told what he was doing up there and she didn’t ask; he just hammered and sawed and cursed whilst she went about her business. In the end he’d put a ribbon across the door for the grand unveiling. He’d widened the skylight to let in more light and built a little podium for her still-life subjects. She accepted the keys like a gushing thesp before bursting into real tears. And although , he was hard work at times - he was sometimes taciturn and prone to moodiness – he was a good, kind man.

Then, wonder-of-wonders, she gets pregnant and her instinct, much to her surprise, is to keep it. Malky acted as if he wasn't overly keen, but she knew that deep-down he was delighted; he just felt unworthy and old.

And here we are. 2 years later and things couldn't be better. We’re broke but we ain't bust. We’re just about keepin’ our heads above water...

She went to the bar and looked out of the big window at the dirty, litter laden, windswept promenade. The council were meeting on Thursday; word on the wind had it that property developers were looking at the town with a view to redevelopment, so things were looking up. That’s good, ain't it? Lots of meetings with property developers and councilmen: all very ‘establishment’.

So 22 years later, what would she say to the silly girl standing on the table telling the world she’ll be a wild-child forever? Is she where she wants to be, where she has to be, or where she needs to be...?

Sammy couldn't read her mind but felt her doubts as if they were his own. It must be something to do with Malky. He hoped that it wasn't anything serious. Malky had grown on him. The old dog was a godsend, somebody to talk to who can see you, hear you... not that he ever feckin’ listens! But what if the auld dog died? Sammy shuddered at the thought: There would be no watching TV until 4 in the morning for a start. It was tough being a ghost. And although he knew Zindy couldn't see him, he still felt a little self-conscious about his appearance; as the old dog says: “the bloody-bullet-hole-ridden-apron makes you look like a psychopath (ghosts are stuck with what they wore when they died -- the last image The Light captures before their Soul passes), so he was discreet. He sat on the bin in the dark corner by the stove and watched from what he considered to be a reasonable distance. He’d been a bachelor all his life, he’d never met a woman he could live with, but Zindy was closest thing he’d ever had to a daughter – this, despite the fact that she was a headstrong, blue-haired English girl who dressed like a boy and swore like a docker. When she bought the inn, he thought she’d only last a few weeks, and yet, thank God, here we are.

There were very few advantages in existing between Worlds, besides the walking through walls and not having to eat or sleep or all that malarkey, his senses were heightened and attuned to the Oneness of All Living Things (well, that’s how the dog put it) –- which meant he was able to see the little glow in Zindy’s belly. It was nothing more than an amber glimmer throbbing with the minute pulsebeat of a budding Soul, but it radiated an energy that brought a ripple of warmth to his Essence. Sometimes, when she was sleeping he’d stand close – not too close – and look into her womb. Oh, but it was a joyous sight to behold, “Look at the miracle begin again,” he whispered, to no one in particular.

Zindy climbed up onto the draining board to close the window above the sink -– Sammy was jumping up and down, pulling at his silver beard, “Are ye mad woman?! Get down o’ that w’ ye!” Thankfully she performed the exercise without incident, but he still hadn't settled; as she went about preparing her evening meal, he paced the floor behind her, fussing, wagging his finger, “Look at that floor! There’s engine oil down there! Ye’ll slip ‘n’ go on yer hoop! You’d better buck-up yer ideas, lady – that’s a chile in there – not a bag o’ chips!”

“Oh, I’d love a bag o’ chips,” she said, apropos of nothing.

Sammy stood by the cooker as she toiled over the sizzling pan and talked to her unborn baby, “Your silly daddy doesn’t know what to do with himself. He hates all this spooky stuff... He hates anything that brings the world to his door -- God knows what he’ll be like when the inn’s open for business...” Whether she was consoling a restless foetus or trying to convince herself, she didn’t know. She stopped stirring and stared as she contemplated her certain future.

The old ghost saw the doubt in her eyes and fought Malky’s case from his corner, “He’s a decent sort who won’t let you down –- you have to grow up sometime, missy! Stop moonin’ about and think like a mammy!”

No, let’s make no bones about, she was getting bored. It isn't good when life gets too predictable, when routine becomes rut. She needn't worry; things were about to get very strange indeed...

St Cedric’s Institution for the Criminally Insane (SCICI): Rossington watched the sundown from his office window, a very large brandy in one hand, a cigarette in the other. It had been a bad day. The news from the board had been direct with no room for interpretation. His time had run out. The victims’ families’ petitions and writing campaigns had fulfilled their purpose, the pressure to do something had forced their hand. He had to give up Barry McKee to the authorities so an independent assessment of his condition could be made. He’d explored every legal avenue to keep him at SCICI, but there was nothing more he could do. The mob has spoken.

He was angry and frustrated, but mostly angry. He finished his brandy, carelessly stubbed out the cigarette, left his office and made for the sick bay in the high security wing. He walked quickly and purposely, collected the swipe cards from the nurses’ station and marched on, swiping through the sophisticated system of doors, along the corridors and across the walkway that led to the security ward and the room of SCICI’s most infamous inmate. Then, just as he swiped the lock, he had a moment of inspiration. He turned and walked to the staff toilet at the end of the corridor, to the mirror above the wash-hand basin; using his penknife to unscrew the frame, he carefully prised the hexagonal glass from the wall, put it under his arm and took it to McKee’s room.

“Hello, Barry,” he said, quietly closing the door behind him and turning on the lights. The sudden blaze of brightness didn’t faze McKee. Hooked up to the machines that kept him alive, long haired and bearded, he continued to stare unblinkingly at the ceiling, like a stricken biblical prophet transfixed by a vision of hell.

“I must apologise, it’s been quite a while since I visited. I’ve been busy with other patients and projects, not to mention running this establishment, you know how it is. I’ve kept abreast of your progress, though... what there is of it.” Rossington slowly crossed the floor, talking in a casual manner as he approached the bed, “Anyway, I’ll get straight to the point: I’ve received some bad news regarding your case and I thought you should to be the first to hear it.” He sat in the chair by the bed and put the mirror on his lap, “They've decided to take you off my hands, Barry. They say I’ve had enough time to prove you’re worth keeping alive. They say it would be mercy: ‘it’s cruelty not to let nature take its course’. No doubt they’re under pressure from the families of the victims, not to mention that bastard Somerville. Whatever, you’re doomed, and there’s nothing I can do to save you.”

As always, McKee remained silent and seemingly insensible.

“You've shown no significant progress since that business with Niamh and Oona 2 years ago.” He tore off the latest print-out from the EEG and indicated the flat lines across the graph, “See, nothing like the flurry of activity we recorded during those instances in 1989. Why’s that, eh?” He scrunched the page into a ball and threw it into the corner. “It all stopped when I took away the mirrors and had you moved you to this room, didn’t it? Niamh and Oona lost their connection and have exhibited no psychic abilities since. It’s no coincidence, is it, Barry?”

He stood up and held the mirror over McKee’s face, “I know you use mirrors to reach out other telepaths and psychics,” he said, looking deep into McKee’s unseeing eyes, “so I’m having them re-installed, and you can do whatever is you do. Good or evil, I don’t care anymore. I just need results, Barry. I need something to show for my work. If not, I’ll hand you over to the authorities and they’ll perform what will be, for all intents and purposes, a public execution...”

To Be Continued Next Month...

#Spindlefreck #fantasy #witchcraft #witches #psychics #irish fiction #demon #ghosts #mysticism #mystics #fantasy fiction

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agoddamnbeautifulidiot · 6 years

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Flicker of Hope

Chapter Ten: The Holiday Part 2

A/N: You guys are not ready. Sorry lol

The next morning, you’re up ridiculously early. You’d tossed and turned most of the night after your call with Niall. After hanging up, Niall had immediately tried to call you back. After several ignored calls, he’d taken to messaging you over and over in an attempt to apologize.

You hadn’t read a single message before making the decision to turn your phone off. It wasn’t something you’d normally do, least of all to Niall, but the way he’d spoken to you was something you’d never expected.

After a nice long shower and a good cup of tea, you’re much more awake and alert than you were before. Sitting in your chair in front of the window, you take a deep breathe before turning your phone back on.

Almost immediately, it begins to buzz in your hand. Messages and voicemails from Niall pop up at an incredible pace.

It’s at least a minute before the vibrations stop completely. You knew Niall was traveling at the moment, so you weren’t shocked when the last thing you’d received was a voicemail at 6:30 that morning.

Sighing deeply, you click on it and bring the phone up to your ear.

“Y/N,” Niall sighs into the phone, voice deep and sad. “Ya gotta know how sorry I am. I don’t know what I was thinking sayin’ all that shit to ya. You’re not desperate. ‘M kickin’ meself over here for being just a fuckin’ idiot.” He sighs again, and you can here the rustle as you assume he wipes his hand down his face. “Just...I wanna see ya when I get in tonight, but I—I’ll understand if ya want some time. Call me. Whenever you’re ready.”

The voicemail ends and you don’t realize you’ve shed several tears until one lands on your arm. Quickly wiping them away, you settle back into your chair and bring your knees up to your chest.

The sun is shining, for once, outside your window, but today you definitely wish it would rain.

Being the cautious woman you are, you decide to meet Robert at the restaurant for your extremely late brunch.

He’s not there when you arrive, so you decide on a table outside, an opportunity to enjoy the rare sunny London weather.

Taking in the gorgeous air and all of the people milling about the restaurant and shops, you pull out your phone and open a new message. Typing quickly, you send Niall just a little bit of hope for when he can check his phone.

*I’ll see you tonight.*

“Well hello there,” The British accent makes you look up and you stow your phone away as you get up to accept the cheek kiss Robert offers you. “Thank goodness you’re just as gorgeous in the day time as you were last night.”

Blushing, you glance down at your menu. “And I see you’re still full of sweet talk.” He laughs as the waiter comes over and you both order a good day drink and some greasy food.

You’re not sure if this is a date, but you decide to ignore the lingering question in your mind and have a good time. It’s probably because you’re so used to hanging out with Niall, someone you’ve known for years, but it’s a little weird to have to get to know someone. Honestly, you can’t even remember the last date you’d been on. Every night out or evening in holds a memory of Niall or your girlfriends.

“So,” Robert says, taking a sip of his drink. “What exactly do you do, Ms. Y/N?”

“I work for an online magazine. Mostly just writing articles. Boring stuff really.” He nods and smiles, glancing around the patio area thoughtfully. “What about you?”

Smirking slightly, he answers. “I actually work for a magazine as well. Paper unfortunately, not digital.”

Laughing, you bite your lip before responding. “What a crazy coincidence!” Robert simply nods and takes another sip of his drink before moving the conversation along.

The rest of the “date” goes quickly and smoothly. Before you know it, it’s almost four o’clock and you’ve got to get home to meet Niall soon.

“Well, I hope I can see you again,” Robert says as if finishes paying the check.

“I’m here for another week or so. Then I’ll be in America with—“ Something stops you before you can talk about Niall. “With a good friend of mine. Doing some traveling.”

Robert definitely notices your slip, but chooses not to say anything. “Ah, then maybe we can make plans for dinner this week? You can even bring along some of your friends if you want. Make it a group thing.” He winks and you almost burst out into laughter.

“Yeah, that sounds like fun.”

You go back to your flat and take a little time to yourself before heading over to Niall’s. Despite him being your best friend and all the nonsense the two of you have endured, this was gonna be a tough one to fix.

The time by yourself gives you time to compose yourself and when you’re locking your front door and walking towards the elevator, you decide that you have to get finally get to the bottom of this tension in your and Niall’s relationship.

Now, you’re standing at his front door, jiggling the spare key in your hand. In a move that you hope won’t be an indication of the night to come, you tuck it back into your purse and knock on a door you haven’t had to knock on in years.

Niall answers a minute later, looking tired and a little surprised when he sees you standing there.

“Did ya forget your key?” He asks, voice a little rough from all the travel.

Shaking your head, you follow him inside. “No. Just...just thought it would be better if I knocked.”

He doesn’t respond, just stares at you for a moment before waving you further inside towards the kitchen.

There’s a moment of silence before he reaches into the fridge to grab two bottles of water. He sets one in front of before pulling the cap off of his and taking a long gulp.

Niall sets the bottle down and watches you simply fiddle with yours. “So, how was your date?”

“Niall,” You say, your tone giving a slight warning.

“I’m being curious.” He lifts his hands in defense. “I promise. Really, I wanna know.”

With a sigh, you settle yourself onto one of the stools at the counter. “It wasn’t a date. But it was fine. It’s also not what we’re supposed to be talking about.”

Niall pulls his lips into his mouth, releasing them with a pop and a heavy sigh.

“Alright, alright,” He plops down on the stool next to you. “I was stupid. Such a fuckin’ idiot for what I said to ya.” He runs his hand through his hair several times. “The second the words came out of me mouth, I just...I would’ve done anything to take ‘em back.”

“Then,” It comes out in a frustrated huff and you clear your throat. “Then why would you even say it?”

Niall’s eyes meet yours and for a second everything stops. He looks so raw, blue eyes shining with all the emotions he’s feeling. “I’m just—not sure what ‘m feeling anymore. ‘M so confused.”

“But what are you confused about?” Suddenly, you’re just as confused.

“Us!” Niall is up and off his chair, pacing the kitchen. “I’m so confused by this.” He gestures between the two of you and you’re sure the shock shows on your face. “I honestly have no idea what’s going on in my head when it comes to you and me.”

He stands there, in front of you, arms crossed as if to protect himself.

And all you are is terrified. Terrified of what all of this could mean. The damage that all of this could do.

And yet all of that disappears in an instant.

Suddenly, you’re out of your chair, hands finding Niall’s cheeks, lips meeting his firmly.

“Oh!” When Niall is still against your body, your hands drop as if you’ve been burned. Gathering your stuff quickly, you’re out the door as fast as possible.

Niall is there, still standing in the kitchen, wide eyes staring at the empty space you’d left.

#niall horan #niall horan fluff #niall horan fic #Niall horan fan fiction #niall horan fanfiction #niall blurb #niall fic #niall fanfiction #niall angst #niall fluff #one direction #one direction imagine #one direction fic #one direction fanfiction #one direction blurb #flicker of hope #my writing

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010111110 · 5 years

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flore

God, what a mess this night’s been. I’m out here still pacing, trying to figure out what to do. Could use a drink but I’m all out of juice, and I don’t mean the booze, although I’m all out of that too. The nearest open bottle shop’s a mile off from here, but fuck me if I’m buying that cheap goony shit off them bugs. That shit won’t fly unless I’m real proper desperate, but I might here be speaking just a bit too soon. I’ll try and relay the events to you as clear as crystal blow, but I’m warning you now – it ain’t too pretty to hear.

Right, so I’m out on the town with this French lass Flore, good mate of mine, known her about a year or so now. We met in one of me old share houses and hit it off almost right away, which is strange for me, I don’t normally hit it off with no one. Don’t speak too much English the poor girl, not that I mind of course, the less talk the better is what me mum always says. Anywhos, it’s her birthday tonight and she’s got a great fat hankering for Indian of all things, so I take her to this one pub I heard of from one of me younger cousins, don’t remember the name exact, some Mukka or bloody Dukka, but it’s got this hideously grim statue of a blue monkey-man near the door, and that’s how you can tell that it’s real class and proper.

So we go in and grab a couple of cold jugs before the main event, and everything’s going down all soft and easy and fluid-like, and I’m telling Flore bout work and my piece of shit boss who keeps calling them godawful staff meetings in between each and every meal break. Warren Blythe, the old white horse, mangy little fucker with hot mustard teeth, even thinking about him makes me blood simmer, always yabbering on about how exotic he thinks I look, exotic, yes exotic, what a cunt of a word, men must be drooling all over me wherever I go, and how is it that I haven’t got a boyfriend yet? You see, I’m the only dark girl he’s ever known, the carrot that he dangles in front of all the rest of ‘em, hell, I’d punch him in the nuts if I could pay me bills otherwise, I mean the money’s decent enough, so I suppose something’s gotta give.

Putain de merde, a right bastard, Flore agrees.

Now, this is round the time I begin to notice that Flore’s been touching me a whole lot. And I don’t mean the friendly kinda touching neither, the I-sincerely-treasure-your-companionship kind, see I wouldn’t make a fuss if that were it, no, I mean almost straight up mauling, the I-wanna-slam-you-against-the-fridge-and-cum-all-over-your-tits kind. I don’t know, it’s odd I think, that she’d pull a stunt like this after a year of us being mates and that, the beer’s getting to me head I think, and ain’t she straight anywhos, and gah it’s probably nothing. I lay off it and knock back some more till I’m all lukewarm and careless again.

Next thing I know, food’s gone before it even touches the table, practically snuffed it in one go, guess we didn’t realize how starved we really were. Flore says she wants to go dancing, and dancing now, at some place that plays that bloody reggaeton, sometimes I wonder why we’re even friends really, but fuck it, tonight’s her night and I’m not about to complain, say goodbye to the blue monkey-man, swear it winked at us when we left. We follow the thumps of second-rate music into a club not too far off, the glitziest of city shindigs, take a good look round the joint, everybody’s a lot better dressed than we are, or at least better than I am, Flore’s got on a nice whitish dress, the kind that swoops down like a bird and drags dirt across the linoleum.

By the bar, Flore’s going on about her mum who’s getting divorced, or separated, whatever the term is these days. Consciously uncoupled perhaps, as Paltrow likes to put it. Now she’s off traveling the world, trekking the mountains in Tibet, or was it China I dunno, might very well have been, but she’s living her young adult dreams in her early 50s, what gallantry, what bravoure! How come they split up in the first place I ask, an unassuming girl with unassuming questions. Well, ‘parently Flore’s dad got caught up in some dirty gambling business, lost ‘em a lot of foolish money, bet he’s lying in the gutters cursing, wishing he could take it all back and then some, ah, well, no point in wallowing in your sorries, better things to be spending your precious time on.

C’est la vie, and life fucks us all.

I decide I need another beer, can’t dance to this shit without it, get a nice pint of lager for meself, sweet pear cider for the lady. With our drinks guzzled down, we push our way through the crowd to the eye of the storm, to where the action’s going on, all sweat and glitter and the skunk of modern pretension, Flore’s busting out a jig, can’t lie to you, I’m grooving a bit meself. There’s a group of girls dancing next to us, the kind that’s got on too much makeup and not nearly enough fabric, but one of them’s real beautiful I think, one of them catches me eye.

Little Miss Mystery, dressed in either yellow or green, it’s hard to tell with the goddamn neon lights that keep flickering on and off, but she’s got a face that’s bound to have broken some hearts, maybe even some skulls. Now I’m getting real red and she’s looking right at me, I’m thinking should I go say hello, but who the fuck says hello in the middle of the dancefloor? Before I can make up me mind, Miss Mystery’s suddenly in front of me, her lips pucker as she speaks, can barely hear her over the music.

Are you here with someone?

Bugger me, gotta act cool. I point at Flore and say we’re together, but not together together, no, of course not. Miss Mystery flashes a smile, and it all happens so bloody fast, as these things always do, hands on hips, tongues in mouths, she tastes like rum and those tiny mint lollies you get at hotel restrooms, what a strange combination I think. But it’s real hot and heavy, by now I’ve sunk too many to give a shit really. I see Flore walk away, presumably to get another drink.

Time rolls on, and most of it’s a blur, that is, until I hear some commotion at the bar. From the faint sound of it, some fucker’s getting antsy, yelling obscenities and such, I feel bad for the staff really, having to put up with so many obnoxious drunks gathered in one small venue.

Nique ta mere!

Shit, why am I hearing French? I recognize the voice and snap out of me daze, take Mystery’s hands off – shit! There she is in her swooping white dress, Flore, she’s full on arguing with the bouncer, threatening to take another swing at him with one of them empty beer jugs, I go try and calm her down, but she can hardly keep up standing. Things escalate from there, dunno how we end up at the gas station, but we’re there somehow, and Flore’s puking her guts out by the pavement.

Why would you kiss her?

You were supposed to kiss me!

Salope!

You slut!

Can’t you see that I’m in love…

I ended up paying for her taxi home, though she din’ even look at me as she got in. Don’t know too much of what went on with Miss Mystery after the whole fiasco either, she must’ve left with her mates at one point, didn’t even get her name, let alone her number. God, it sickens me, it does. What a waste of a bloody good night. Wonder if Flore’ll call me tomorrow, telling me how awful sorry she is, or maybe she’ll leave me hanging dry with no explanation, who knows, and who gives a fuck? Either way, I’m still in need of a drink, I appreciate you listenin’ thus far, but it’s getting on dark and I gotta hurry off to that bottle shop now.

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punkscowardschampions · 5 years

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Janis & Grace & Jimmy

Janis: Fucking Phones! *Janis shouts, her frustration kicked into overdrive, phone shotput at the nearest wall before she can think about it. If it wasn't broken before, like. Paces over to the shattered remains, not to cradle with regret, but to put the boot in further, stomping heavily on the useless hunk of junk 'til she's satisfied. Deep breaths were saved for AFTER the storm, not some pathetic vain attempt to stop the inevitable. She was well past that stage. Had she EVER been so naive to be at that stage? Had she ever tried to stop herself? What was the point? She knew how strong she was, how strong IT was, knew better than to get in her own way, like. As she was pondering what the fuck to do now, someone who had NEVER learnt to get out of the oncoming tide's way walked through the door. Oh, Gracie. How many times have you been left shattered on the floor? Stung to think about. Not just 'cos she'd got glass in her feet that needed dealing with. But first- Despite agreeing with Jim earlier, Janis knew her twin better, knew there was more to it. What she did not know was what to do about it. Whatever it was. Gulp. An olive branch disguised as you'd be doing me a favour. That'd have to do it.* Grace? Can I borrow your phone quick, like. *She gestured to the crime scene below her feet.* Grace: *She's a liar, concerned with only the promise that today the gym would be packed, and it was. Every lad who flexed to get girls had eyes for the ones they ranked before Grace walked in, and the girls that were above it, or faking that they were, locked onto their camera roll as they did their work out, looking at themselves, 'done with anyone else, honestly'. She took selfies herself, because without being focused on the insta numbers what did she have, a playlist that preached empowerment without giving her any? Tragic. Pathetic was all she felt next to them, solidarity wiped off her radar by the invisibility she needed and hated. Fuck the sisterhood. Mother nature's turned her back and over it without a 'thank you, next. There's more space at home for her than here. Beyond tragic. Still she goes there minus any juice or coffee stops, there's no craving that can touch how much she doesn't want to run into the growing list of people who she'd die if she had to deal with being around. Obviously she near collides with one of the first immediately because OH MY GOD she can't get a break right now. Coping with only being wanted for her phone is easier than expected though. Grace unlocks and hands it over wordlessly, keeping her attention on what is gestured and so #relatable.* Janis: *Janis nods her thanks, doing her level-best to pretend her sister, silent, wasn't a total headfuck; Wished for many a time but she'd never professed to being careful, had she? The tapping out of a quick text the only sound allowed to occupy the vast space between them. Allowing the awkwardness to grow, as if it could bridge the gap, Janis read his reply (received in record time, by the way) and made huge effort not to smile smugly because she REFUSED to be one of those girls, even though that had had the potential to unite her with her twin in the past, it felt like a bad move now. She wasn't one of those girls either. Not really Not deep down. And she certainly did not seem it nowadays. Oh how we have changed, my friend. She handed the phone back as silently as it had been given, intent on leaving it at that but, for some reason, words tumbling as thoughtless as the rain of violence had upon her own phone just moments ago, she just asked her.* Do you want to come out with us? We're not doing anything exciting, like. So you don't have to...But if a bit of normality sounds good, though; gotta walk the dogs and his brother and sister, run some errands up town. *She finishes lamely with a casual shrug, as if that took nothing, as if they always did this kinda thing. Before they did, but the past was a different place, a town they didn't occupy any more. Whether you thought that a tragedy (and Janis did think it that, too) or otherwise, it was what it was.* Grace: *This headfuck adds itself to the pile, leaving her again, clueless as to who the fuck she is. Grace had long been thinking it of her twin, before barista boy had moved in and got her shaken off from her sister totally, but it's pushed away whenever it enters her head and tries to shake up her own persona. No way and no time like. Until now that it had run out for her anyway. It doesn't matter what her mum said, over and over, she feels broken. And ashamed. And somehow, Janis knew that without knowing, offering her a pity hang to keep the vibe from leaving her alone. Obviously she could go off, hard, in the moment and get everyone else to leave her but what was the point if that's her only power? A pity party is the only one that'll be thrown for her these days, there's no choice but to cope with that. Later. After she's called Janis out in gestures and expressions that scream UGH and AS IF because too much has changed to let go of that. Even as she realises she's accepting, all 'thank god I showered and changed at the gym' crossing her mind and face.* Okay, Jan, no need to beg babes. *Grace fluffs her hair, smiling wide enough to hurt. Later too.* Gotta change my bag first like OMG, a dog that cute has just gotta come home with me. Unfair that your feed gets all of her when mine's the most poppin'. She's welcome. Janis: *Janis rolls her eyes but that action, so overused it went way beyond practiced into straight up muscle memory, was accompanied by a less usual smile. Small but conveying the too-big-and-awkward-to-mention idea that today, just this once, she would let shit slide. Still, it'd feel to alien for both if she let her twin get away with EVERYTHING, like. Sympathies SHOULD only stretch so far, otherwise who even were they?* Sure she'll be buzzin' for the fame, Grace. Just be quick about it, alright? I've already left 'em hanging long enough meself with the fecking phone dramas... *And the shower. And the actually taking longer than ten seconds to pick out somethin' decent to wear, somethin' he might like. Push that feeling down, along with the bile it caused. Don't think about it. Deal with it later. She busied herself in the kitchen, NOT like the proper little housewife the stupidity of giving a shit was mockingly making her feel, but by fishing out the promised leftovers for Twix, finding the sparklers, and chucking in some leftovers for the kids too, Holiday food still coming out their earholes here. Again she ignored the mocking voice from within, trying to be rational about it. It weren't like she gave a fuck like THAT, and not about Jim but if their dad was AWOL it was probably microwave meals and takeaway grub, the kiddos may as well have something decent to line their bellies, Lord knows her fam didn't need it. No sense wasting it. So there. Fuck you. Janis grabbed her house keys and chucked her new cropped hoodie over her outfit, untucking her curls and waiting by the door, foot tapping from impatience, nothing more, alright?* Grace: *Grace moves fast, not because she's feeling it herself but she knows Janis is and can't handle the fight, impatience so blatant to cause it that even without a twin connection that Jimmy would see it himself as quick. Her stomach twists painfully, the idea that no man will ever want her again resurfacing before it can be pushed back down. Her body flops down on her bed staying separate from her, face pressed into the tear-stained pillow until she has a reason for not being able to breathe. A small sound comes out, nothing else. The other girl will be charging up the stairs if she doesn't hurry so she forces herself up and does the switch, grabbing stuff she might need blindly. The 'who am I?' question throws itself out again but it's better than any Janis will ask otherwise. Grace reassures herself its her reasoning for no mirror check before walking away. * Janis: *The 'okay, let's do this' doesn't need to be vocalized (need or want? they're two very different beasts but let's both pretend we don't know otherwise), so it isn't. Quickly jostling out the door, matching pace on the short walk to the Grandparent's, like this was a two-step or a tango another dance that required two to- somehow keeping rhythm, keeping time, so well and so naturally between them it was like they'd never stopped being a double act. Now with Killer in tow, the truth that they had stopped being Graceandjanis, presented itself readily in the hugs and love she received and the awkward hellos and suspicious barks Grace did when they made their date. Janis couldn't very well push the kiddos away, no need to be that much of a cunt on anyone's behalf, her sister especially wouldn't thank her for it- but she converted Jim's into a one-arm handshake type hug affair; 'accidentally (who knew?) pushing her extended fist into his stomach with a 'whoops'. She withdrew, choosing to do what she knew how before anything else could be said or done or even thought.* Race ya to the swings! *It was a challenge for the entire group, fuck it, the dogs could get in on the action if they liked, just give a fucking distraction. Bobby hung back Grace too. Janis looked back, wondering if she should run back too, not leave her sister so soon but she found her legs continuing regardless, beyond her control. That was just how it was these days.* Grace: *She can breathe again, easily, of course she can, when they are walking side by side. Grace forgets until the park's in sight, reminding her hard enough to bring tears to her eyes. She blinks them away, refusing to be that girl, but the buggy's still there, being pushed in time with her own steps so close she can't help but remember how far away any of that is for her. Frantically she clutches her phone, acting out living a life where what the screen is showing her is something she cares deeply about knowing. The distraction can't last and doesn't. There they are, Jimmy and his brother, his sister keeping pace with a sniffing puppy, kicking her own toes against the ground. 'I feel you girl' she thinks, automatically despite having no idea what the girl's deal is and barely a grip on her own either. They all smile, waves and everything, but hers doesn't hurt now and won't tonight. None of this is real. She might as well not be here, that's not news anymore than Janis being gone again is, so why react to it? It's hard enough pretending to give them her usual vibes. The boy doesn't run when the rest do, sticking with her. What the fuck is she meant to do or say to that? She blinks again, breathing deep and he mirrors it. Too relatable. Horrible. If he starts sobbing she can't just stand there. No way. Janis would kill her. It'd look suss af even if she handled it well, a kid crying with nobody but her around to blame. Oh god. She can't do this. He's looking at her like she trod on his dog with her heels on, and hasn't stopped. Grace bends down to his level with another whispered 'hey, cutie', cussing herself for packing her bag on autopilot because she couldn't guarantee having anything he might like. At a loss she falls into old habits, asking him quietly if he wants to take a selfie. He shakes his head no first, until she pulls up all the best features her phone can offer, filters making him smile wider and wider as he skips through. He almost loses it when she makes herself into a singing dog emoji thing and insists loudly that she send it to his big sister's phone. She tells him to go ahead, all it takes to secure a friend for the afternoon apparently. Grace shakes her head, smiling without realizing it. He hasn't even found her games yet. Just you wait boy.* Jimmy: *It's been a headache getting them sorted, but the fresh air eventually clears it before it turns into more than a heaviness behind his eyes. Janis not having a phone, and the thought of him having to text Grace's more than once had him picking up the pace and the kids followed eagerly despite dragging their feet when he first told 'em to get a move on. Cass has no choice unless she was about Twix wrecking her Christmas trackies in all the excitement of her true love appearing and Bobby makes up his mind just as fast when he catches on too. The park or the cramped four walls of their living room, no contest, like. He was with them both there. #Buzzing he thinks with a smirk that's a grin until it's nothing. She pushes him away, forcing him to push himself to catch back up. He touches the chain of the swing just after she does, dogs at his heels, only moving aside so his sister can jump on (and off as soon probably, but go for it, Cass). No prizes for coming second. He looks over his shoulder for bobby, seeking him out, relaxing when he sees Grace with him. He's alright. Wish he could say the same, having lost.* Janis: *Janis took as much internal pleasure from the victory as she could get- not much, nothing if we're being real (we aren't). Empty as she felt, plenty of room, like; still, she found the silly little 'win' just as hollow. Still, could fake that that wasn't the case, throwing up loser signs as she raised her arms in 'triumph'. Being an arrogant cunt was a surefire way to keep people at a safe distance, that method beyond tried and tested now. 'Let's get this whole situation back to fakery, yeah?' Her every sane impulse urges, terror white hot, cornered animal scared, ready to lash out for her survival, (and his). 'Please, no. I'm not ready to stop this!' The part of her that burns with wanting him, loving- this, whatever 'this' was, begs, thick with need. Need was not allowed. Needing things just meant hurt and disappointment, every time. And Janis felt she had enough stacked already. Call her weak or a pussy for knowing she wasn't super-human, (not even human), for knowing her limits (Weak. Pussy.) Enough was enough, do what you do best already, and run; run so far ahead of him that all he's left with is your dust, not even memories, good or otherwise, to remember you by. Forget about it, kid. Ignoring Jim might be a task she was up for the challenge of but ignoring Twix proved near impossible, Janis patted the pup's head absent-mindedly, just to get her to calm down a bit, like. Working out what was wrong when she was met with manic sniffing, she dug around in her pockets and produced a bone. She tossed it lazily but it still flew a great distance through the air out into the open field. She then had the perfect excuse to casually follow after the running dog. So chill. So natural.* Jimmy: *He pushes Cass on the swing a few times, helping her get the speed up she needs to make the jump, but hard as he goes for it, it doesn't help. The only thing that's gonna is to sort out why Janis is being off with him. He asks himself first, thinking that since Grace was being uncharacteristically quiet too that was the answer. Being mad that Gracie has invited herself to tag along made sense but taking it out on him was a dickhead move like. Shrugging to convince any watching sisters that he didn't give a shit, he jogs over to where the two of them are, bending to annoy Twix 'cause that'll get to her most.* Gracie coming too town too? I see how it is, getting coffee when she knows her real faves on shift. None taken.* It's bollocks but going off for a smoke'll go down like a lead balloon with Bobby when he notices which means Cass getting pissed off at him when Janis already is. Instead he nods over to where his little brother is, still beside Grace. *We should get in on that, bet our selfie game's well stronger and you'd make a gorgeous bunny mate it has to be said. Janis: *Janis nudges him away from Twix as if the daft thing were hers and not at least part his, making a 'leave off' sound too.* Don't blame me if she goes for your ankles, like. I didn't teach her how to do that or nowt but you know, s'a bitch's prerogative. *She nods, not looking at him, eyes kept on the horizon, as if he were a stranger she was having a meaningless chat to about the weather whilst keeping an eye out for the bus still.* Yeah. Anything to get out the house though, init. *Said as if Grace was driving her as mad as two hyper kids, which usually wouldn't be a lie but currently her sister had about as much life in her as the Christmas tree they'd just chucked. She did her best to ignore the joke about the other baristas, 'cos at the end of the day it was one, it just didn't feel like it when her twin was in such a way. But even Janis couldn't pin that on the boy stood with her now, she had enough pride to not appear entirely irrational, like. She could, however, lower herself to an eye-roll at the equally as jokey suggestion.* Nah. Bobby's cuter. Besides, I'm so fucking sick of selfies. Jimmy: *He shakes his head exaggeratedly, smirking.* No chance. She's soft as. Lot of that going about.* Jimmy nudges Janis playfully. *Like trainer, like dog, don't they say? *Anything to get a reaction out of her that isn't this. 'Cause fucking hell he doesn't get it. They'd had a good day before, only better if he'd beat her at paintball too, and a decent night despite the actually mad amount of family she had for him to meet. This morning she'd been alright with him. Their normal. Until now. What the fuck had gone wrong? Panic makes his palms slick and he uses her nan's husky as means to destroy the evidence before she twigs it to be, patting the dog's head affectionately.* This one on the other hand, #savage. Twix, get taking those notes, hun. *He laughs, hating what it sounds like when it lands, but preserving. Why the fuck not. Might as well go one further he thinks, and does, acting like he'd been shot down by what's actually true as he raises his hands to demand a ceasefire before making a show of putting the phone away and patting his pocket. * You'll change your tune once that new model's in your hand. Janis: Fuck off! *She says, indignant, voice raised. Couldn't even help it, correct button pressed; well done, mate. Nail on head, the ease in which he could do it sickening, a punch in the guts. A warning sign. No, it wasn't. She just got angry, she was an angry person, that was all, nothing more to it. Now calm down. Calm the fuck down before you embarrass yourself further. 1 2 3- Fuck it. Janis snorts, again words out before she can help it. Before she can censor the shit he doesn't need to know. The shit she doesn't talk about. Ever. With anyone.* Yeah well, that's what happens when you're not raised- *Stopping herself before its too late, 'cos nope not going there, not today, not with him. She let him distract the both of them with his amateur dramatics, looking him up and down skeptically.* Not too late to join the drama club, you know. You need an outlet, mate. About as much as I need the newest iPhone and all its megapixels, like. *She does her own mime act, clicking an invisible camera at him.* Grace: *They are playing some brightly coloured tapping game together when his shyness of her wears off. The questions are easy at first, listing off the cats names as far back as she can remember when she tells him regretfully about not having a dog, counting on her fingers and using his when they run out. They are both laughing at the end of it and she continues after hearing his mum was allergic to dogs so they couldn't get Twix 'til she went. Way to own and finalise that separation Mr Taylor, Grace thinks. Such a mood. Janis would 100% approve. She looks over at her sister but her gaze won't linger long enough to be felt. Not now. It just can't. She can't go there. She asks him more about her, this mum who he insists is 'far away', letting him talk. He deserves to say anything he wants, in whatever sense her absence means to him. None of her family do and look at them all. There's a huge part of her desperate to join in, just have the words 'my sister Edie is gone too' come out, but she can't go there either. It isn't right. Not when she means dead and this kid is what, like 5? If her twin's ever shared that info with her she can't find it in the moment, like it matters. She's not gonna offload that on him. No way. Better to keep smiling and encouraging, at least he's thriving off it.* Jimmy: Calm it down! *His own tone stays playful, matching the smirk he doesn't dare to drop. Fuck him for forgetting his shades the one time he needs them for something that isn't posing, if anything in his face gives him away to her they aren't gonna make it to town, making him a peak dickhead. He nods at the next bit, letting her know how 'so relatable he finds it, like' as he looks over at Cass and Bobby both, wearing the 'don't I know it' on his face wearily. Joke's over there. Call it a raw nerve, or too much truth to shrug through.* Yeah. *Before his weariness can piss them both off he takes the out his given to keep this banter jokey. Hip Hip Hooray!* Countin' on it. Shame you've missed the deadline for being one of us art pricks. You'll always have the 'gram though. #blessed. Janis: *'Great' Janis thinks to herself, sinking further into the regret consuming her every thought and action today as she realizes, (or at least presumes), he picked up on the dead sister vibes and now feels awkward as arse. Well done, dickhead. It wasn't as if she could plead ignorance, four years gone had taught them all that other people were crap with dealing with the death conversation. No one wanted the reminder. Least of all them, to be honest. Had to seep into everything, didn't she? Never any good at staying gone. Fuck you, Edie. Janis swallowed following his gaze to Cass and Bobby, taking the time to check up on her sibling too. Nothing, she tells herself, she feels nothing. Fuck them all. Its the blisteringly cold wind making her eyes water, that's all. She grunts in response, hardly worth it but it was all she had to give, not sorry about it. Sorry. She walks on in silence, throwing things for the dogs, shouting out commands, doing her best to disguise the cracks in her voice as a sore throat and nowt else. In the spirit of throwing a bone, she attempts to say something real, give him anything to work with. Purely 'cos this was boring, like. If they were gonna be wasting their afternoon regardless, yeah?* Let's play a game. You have to answer every question truthfully and straight away, like, if you don't you lose your chance to ask a question back. Meaning I get to go again or you pussy-out fully and call game over then you lose. Got it? I'll even let you go first, gracious victor that I am. Jimmy: *He doesn't know what to do when he sees it in her eyes any more than when he does in his sister's. The fight. He knows what he wants to do, every damn time, but he knows what it'll earn him from Janis. Same as Cass near enough. A smack or a strop off. He's had plenty of the first, naturally, but the second has him frozen in place. He sees it in his head, Janis stepping back as he moves forward and can't bear the maybe like. He breathes out hard, forcing it until he coughs. By the time he has his shit together, it's done. Chance missed for him to go for asking 'why are you being so off with me?' Thank fuck, 'cause honestly he knows the answer, doesn't he? She's fed up now they aren't faking it. He shouldn't hold blame, state of him, but it's there. For himself mostly, thinking she'd be any different. Nobody stays. Give her a few years and Cass'd be off to, looking for better. Bobby after some more. Still, he trails along, trying to be wrong. Needing to be. He feels it when he kisses her, more than his desperation, and if it exists, he can keep on to it. So he gets a grip now, sorts himself enough to be properly back next to her. Grins when he is, 'cause there it is. A new chance. Fucking hell. Jimmy nods. * Yeah okay. *He catches her eye, challenging her to back down already but bricking it that she might. What would he do then? He nudges her, the contact meaning more to him than the casual gesture lets anyone else know. He tries, ready to lose if needs be. * What's up with you then? Janis: *Janis resists the urge to pull a face, an 'of all the questions' kind of look, 'cos obviously that's the entire point of the game and she was the one who started it so- man up, like. She opts for the classic 'is that it?' look instead, faking out on her answer not being an option (she wouldn't do that to him) but she could at least front some bravado before answering truthfully. She leaned into his nudge as if to prove to herself otherwise as she said-* I'm scared. *A shrug, again, as if to counteract her words. She also fought the urge to ask what was wrong with him too, settling on an easier question, but one she'd still care to know the answer to.* How many girls have you slept with? Jimmy: *There's so many questions that come to mind when she gives her answer but it isn't his turn and honestly, if it was, he's scared too. More than a bit. Probably more than she is, truthfully. 'Cause the feeling is too strong to be alone in, he's about to let her know she isn't, by reaching for her hand and squeezing but there's no time for that. She takes her go, digging at him less than expected. Jim hides his surprise with a snort, shaking his head. 'What are you like?' that gesture implies, but he's bothered more about the state of himself, hiding behind all this bollocks again. He returns the shrug she gave him, easy as. She already knows about Skerries. There's no mystery despite what they all seemed to believe when he arrived as a newbie * 2. I had a girlfriend at home before. Ages go. * He shoots her a look, hopefully unreadable.* That scare you more or less? Janis: *She nods. Honestly, pleased, just a hint of a smile gracing her face. Yeah, yeah, yeah that shit shouldn't matter and it didn't, like; when you were on level-pegging, her bitterness told her, even if Jim's number was low, hers was always gonna be lower, wasn't it? Still, there was only one honest answer to his question. Didn't even compare, like.* Less. *Janis was tempted to ask him why he was wasting questions but she would be doing the same in-turn so, nah. She let herself think for slightly longer than last time, working out how best to play this. Interesting enough to keep him playing but not coming out with the real scary shit 'cos that'd have him quitting even faster if she went there with no warming him up, like.* Why'd you not wait to find a real girlfriend here? Jimmy: *He laughs, it's her directness that does it. Yeah that's the point of the game but she's there shamelessly #buzzing by his 'revelation.' It's the first time he's done something right since they got here and he can't help smiling himself. Finally not a smirk. Cheers, mate. He stops himself shrugging yet again, in case that feels like a step back, though for real, he could care less about this question. He'd never lied about his lack of interest or any of that. Still wasn't. * I didn't want one. *Until he did. And here they are. Scary shit. It's better to focus on the game, something he can ask while still playing safe enough to keep going. What then? Come on, dickhead. There's a part of him, also from ages ago apparently, that wants to blurt out something about that cunt Harry she kept kissing, the jealousy existing, making him feel shitty. Reminding him he is, like. His smile fades. Can't keep anything, can he? *Why me when you could've just told your haters about other school Harry and left it at that? He loved boasting about the two of you, he'd have been enough. Janis: *Janis stuck her middle finger up but she joined in the laughter all the same, 'cos not would give her away more than she already had and she couldn't have that. Just let him think she was a jealous girl or whatever had him cracking up. 'Cos surely she hadn't let him close enough that he could actually know what was up, had she? She considered his answer as she stressed over her own. Guess he hadn't...But why now? What had changed? Was they really still just mates, but with benefits, like? Was that all he waiting for? Oh wait, stupid bitch, YOU have to answer first. And that is way more than your allotted one question per turn. And just much too much in general. Calm it. And answer before you look any weirder.* 'Cos he weren't my boyfriend. Ever. Anyone can get a lad like that to get off with them, didn't really prove anything. Besides, I wanted to help you, like. I dunna why. Sue me. *She pokes her tongue out, turning to face him, walking backward as she asks her next. Changing tact, 'cos she's not sure if she can actually handle knowing the answers to all the questions she'd posed in her head.* Do you really hate it here? Jimmy: *It doesn't seem like she's gonna answer at first, but instead of feeling good about another victory to his name, it just lets in all the shit waiting there in his own head to fill in the blanks. He's heard and told a load to piss off before she gives hers. It's nowt he didn't proper know by himself but there's comfort in how she says 'ever' as a fuck you. Fuck off Harry you prick. The feeling only builds when she gets walking like that, reminding him of Jaden's party. He'd never wanted to stop kissing her that night. Still didn't. Same finality. 'Cause yeah, right now he didn't ever. There it was. So when he shakes his head it's no pisstake. Banter's the furthest thing from the gesture and he let's his face show it. Just for now, like. * Nah, I hate that them two do, but not me. *He looks over at his siblings, Bobbin's taken Cass' place on the swings now but she's stayed nearby, phone out, snapping him. Do it for the 'gram, he can't help thinking, an affectionate smile lingering as he looks back at his girlfriend. *You? Wish you'd kept running when you did one from school and me like? Janis: *Back to nodding again, following the direction of his gaze and topic of conversation, 'cos she gets it. Without second-guessing and stopping herself with 'well their situation is probably worse' type of thoughts, she just lets it come out. The first thing she's ever said to him about Edie. The first time she's spoken about her in a long time, except to tell Grace she's glad she's dead, and that she wished she were too, of course. Standard.* We haven't always lived here, either...Lived lots of places for Mum's job and just 'cos. Ireland was barely Home for the older lot; when we came back my sister Edie hated it so fucking much. Not exciting enough, I guess. Or she liked people not knowing us the rest of the places, unlike here... *She trails off red-faced. Shrugging for cover as always.* What I mean is, probably the exact opposite for them two. Not enough people know 'em. We could change that. Introduce them to the unwashed mass of my lot. They will get more comfortable, you know... *Again the trail-off 'cos why the fuck was she offering up useless platitudes like he was a total idiot? Jesus. Distract with your answer time, bitch. As if that would diffuse the tension any. HA.* Kind of...but nah, not really, 'cos its just the people and their talk and the good and bad memories and all the ghosts, init? No matter the destination, all that shit follows so- It ain't really Dublin's fault. Just nice to take a break sometimes. *She smiles, hoping it'll just be taken as a reference to always having Skerries or some shit, and not the fact that being with him felt like a break, wherever they were. Don't need to scare him off THAT hard. And not yet. Fuck a good decision. For now.* What about you, why'd your Da move yous here? Jimmy: *It's his turn to nod dumbly then, 'cause he gets it, Edie's (supposed) feeling. It's what he likes best about this city, that even when his (supposed) new boy shine wears off, there's still much none of them know about him. Won't. He can breathe here for that, a bit, and does until he's reminded of the limits by Janis says after. She isn't wrong. Here he isn't the lad whose mum vanished, but he still is. Always will be, unless she does some magic fucking reappearing act, and how likely is that? It isn't doable, he tells himself so every damn night and for good reason. But Janis isn't wrong about what Cass and Bob need either. It isn't fair for him to keep them shut in this tight circle knowing that they can't keep their mouths shut. Why should they? They're just kids and its their normal, bound to feel like the kind of shit chatted about over the school lunch table. His hands shove themselves deep in his pockets not knowing what else to do. He wants a smoke bad but isn't far enough away from the park yet. Won't get to be. This is why they're here like. Shit. * Yeah. *It's all he has to say, barely able to look at her as is. Lifting his head back to her level is a bigger challenge than he can rise to now. Loser. Fuck. More than anything else he wants to ask her for a break, demand it, but he can't. Janis hit right on how there's no escaping this. He sighs, pulling his hood up. If she thinks he's only keeping the cold out then he'll take that, if not, he'll handle it when. Fuck it. There's only so much trying Jimmy can do today. * He got fired. Wanted a fresh start then.* He shrugs. All true. He doesn't believe if lying by omission or any of that bollocks. She didn't ask why he was sacked. Why a fresh start had to be so drastic. Those are other questions, ones he's not about to answer come to that.* We goin' down town or what? Janis: *That was it. Game over. Before she even had tie to register his answer he was sick of giving it. His hood and guard back up. Sighing with it too. Oh, how Janis wished it made HER mad. What she wouldn't give to feel that familiar friend close to her right now, to take comfort in its arms when he was shutting her out. But of course not, of course fucking not. Couldn't even have that, could she? All she felt was desperation, desperate to be let back in, to know what she did wrong so she could avoid doing it again, and it made her feel fucking sick. At least the nausea gave her valid reason to spit on the ground.* Can't be bothered now, don't matter, you lot still go if you wanna. *She fumbled in her hoodie pocket for Killer's lead, whistling him over so she could get the fuck out of here, NOW. Of course, Twix came bounding and the oblivious husky didn't. Great.* Good girl, Twix... *She mumbled, giving her some love and a treat, wishing the ground could swallow her whole.* Jimmy: *He starts walking back toward the swings, knowing it'll take ages to get both of them ready to go, longer than Janis is gonna stick around for definitely. Jimmy keeps his gaze there, Twix'll move when Cass does and there and then, if she didn't he didn't give a shit. There's no room for it. He's only filled up with how badly he's fucked this when the answer comes and a question won't follow. His sister starts mouthing off when he makes it clear they're off home but a look sorts it. Gotta leave before he's left, sorry. Cass gets Bobby and Twix with her, which should make him feel worse but there's no room for that either. Not yet. One for later like. The two them say their goodbyes, Bobby gives hugs to both twins. He doesn't. Can't if it's the last. There's nowt to do but this.* Probs text you, Gracie. *He's aiming for a joke, without waiting for it to land. Any answers. It's too much, being fake again. Especially like this.* Janis: *Even though she's the one who said it, AND she was the one who started to pack up first, when he just walks away, without so much as a glance back, nevermind a goodbye, it's like a punch in the face. (Don't you know by now I don't mean it? Dickhead)* Oi! *She pushes past him, letting the shout sail over his head like it wasn't even a little bit aimed at him, rushing up to Cass to give her the bag of goodies she'd foraged.* Enjoy, yeah? *Saying her Goodbyes to both kid's as if her and Jim already had, nothing to see here. Janis grits her teeth, poor excuse for a good-humored smile to match his worse attempt at a joke. Have her, if that's what you really want, just cut me off 'cos I can't keep hanging on your every word, Jimmy Taylor. She says nothing, figuring she can let her twin, like she used to. Feeling that unnecessary and unwanted again.* Grace: *Grace has no idea what's happening, beyond the obvious. The tragic. She was in her own world until Jimmy came through, a world where she could deal with being around these kids 'cause they're older and Cass reminds her of Gus which hurts, but in the old way, one she's learned to cope with. This new pain is too new to try and deal. It takes everything not to cry when she hears a newborn doing that. She's hates it, being back to being this lost, a hopeless saddo again, so obviously latches onto the tension surrounding her twin and the barista. She can't fix it, can't even really put her finger on the vibe, but it's enough that it isn't hers. A distraction she can sit in. Drama that can never be as deep as the one her body's done on her.* Oh, you're going. Cool. Laters then, babes. Hope I'll see you around, cutie. * She smiles wide at Bobby, a better fake than Janis can ever be. *No offense, Jimmy.* The laugh sounds real. Only the kids give her something back, but it's for them she does it, not wanting what her sister is gonna dish out in this mood. And if looks could kill, the boyfriend's could have them all in the ground. No fucking thanks. Off you go, boy, bye.* Jimmy: *He waves both twins off as if they're on equal footing suddenly like. Funny fucker he is. Even more of a twat. He keeps going, lighting up as he does, every word Cass might say about it blocked out before it gets out. Enough. It's this or worse, sorry. The kids start bickering as they round the corner, taking out the bullshit he'd started and let seep out on each other when they can't reach him. Jimmy feels like handling it like he's younger than Bobby's age, throwing himself to the floor and sobbing for a bit. There's no getting rid that easily though. Not for him. Janis was the lucky one there. Shame she didn't feel it, but it was too late for him to do anything about that. She wasn't even in sight anymore. Fuck knows when she next would be. He couldn't think of school starting when tomorrow was too far. Too much. He rubs his eyes, ready to call it tiredness but nobody was there to issue a challenge. Fuck.* Janis: *Janis turns on her heel, without acknowledging him again (not hard when all she can think to do is knock him out or beg at his feet, neither of those an option she could live with), but its cheapened by the fact he did it first, and meant it. She prays the walk Home can be as shrouded in sweet silence as the walk here was. For her sake this time. But as they walk on, further and further away from him, she starts to wish Grace would say something, ANYTHING! She needed the distraction from her own thoughts, the ones that had got her in this mess in the fucking first place! Differences aside, even her twin was better company.* Did you wanna go up-town, like? We still can... *She shrugs. What else does she have to say or offer right now?* Grace: *The walk back doesn't feel anything like the one going, they are in step, yeah, but it means nothing 'cause they're both so in their own 'drama'. She nearly tells her sister, at least part of it, as an excuse for why she's being this 'ugh' (none of these stupid, basic words fit, but they are what she automatically reaches for), feeling she owes her that, knowing Janis would be down for her being a bitch over giving her nothing to kick back against. None of the words will come out though. Of course. Only more of her usual kinda convo stuff will. She's that bitch now. Shadowing her former self. God, it's even more pathetic than anything she'd tried to pull on her twin. But it fits, and she flips her hair, turning to the other with a smile which doesn't come as easy but she forces herself to wear anyway. *Well, girl, you still need a phone. Even if just to tell him to fuck off when he tries blowing mine up. Janis: *She's looking down at their feet; looking anywhere else, a risk. She nods, allowing a small 'true' chuckle to follow too. Janis raises her head, straightening her back and standing up taller. She groans as she cracks her bones and stretches out her arms and legs like she's warming up for something. Too little too late, perhaps? God damn.* Fuck this shit, Gracie. Fuck.This.Shit. *She doesn't even know fully what her sister's shit is yet but she feels confident in sending it to Hell with her own.* What are we gonna do, eh? Grace: *She whispers it herself, 'fuck it' so soft, but so 'fire'. (Another word than couldn't touch how things were) It felt good to have it out of her. More than that, feeling connected to her twin again (bad as she felt for thinking it under these conditions, god she was such a bitch.) was even better. A more genuine smile is offered up while she thinks of what she can say, tapping her nails against denim. *We're going to town, sister, and owning the rest of this day. New phone, new clothes, whatever we want. Fuck it. Janis: *Janis smiles back, as genuine.* Fuck it. Let's do this.

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