by Eoghan Egan
‘Okay.’
‘I’ve to get back, Hugh. Sorry.’
‘I’ll call a taxi.’
‘They wouldn’t let me into the ambulance; I drove behind.’
‘Thanks for staying—’
‘God, it’s the least … Keep us updated.’
‘Sure.’
Hugh held the icepack against the mottled swelling. ‘Ma? Are you in pain?’
Kathleen didn’t answer.
He dialled Eilish’s mobile. It diverted to voicemail and he left a message while watching a nurse assess and reassign critical and non-critical cases to various zones in the emergency department. He’d never witnessed his mother not in control. She was a master at pretending to experience a flutter of helplessness, and always had a cheery smile as she performed the administrative equivalent of the loaves and fishes, stretching inadequate charity funds to breaking point. For years, their home doubled as a mini-dispensary; bandages, plasters, kisses and soothing words got supplied to children who’d hurt themselves. If she noticed bullying or victimisation, there was no hesitation in getting involved. She’d bristle like an irritable hedgehog and ensure everybody made up before moving on, all smiles again. Love and justice got doled out in equal measures.
Kathleen gripped Hugh’s arm. ‘Peter tried to kill me.’
‘You had a fall, Ma. That’s all. A doctor will check—’
‘Peter pushed me downstairs.’
‘Shhh. You tripped in the hostel. We’ll—’
‘Healthcare details?’ A harried nurse materialised, hands on hips, a folder clutched in her left hand. She stooped and studied Kathleen’s face. The top half of a dog-eared internal medical handbook protruded from a white coat pocket.
‘Pardon? Um, no. Didn’t think of it,’ Hugh said.
‘Has this lady been a patient before?’
‘Not that I know of.’
‘Have you filled in the admittance form?’
‘Not yet.’
‘What’s your relationship with—?’
‘I’m her son.’
The nurse opened the file and fired off more questions: ‘Name and address. How did your mother fall? Were you present when it happened?’
Hugh sensed the nurse held him responsible. ‘Kathleen Fallon. No, I wasn’t there when—’
‘Kathleen Fallon?’ The nurse straightened and looked at him. ‘Hugh?’
‘Yes?’
‘You don’t remember me.’
Hugh’s eyes searched for the nurse’s name badge. ‘I don’t …’
‘Tsk, tsk. Guess I’m getting old. I see you’ve still got those baby brown eyes every girl in school wanted. It’s Ruth Lamero.’
‘Ruth Lamero? Now I recognise your face.’
‘At two o’clock in the morning? I don’t think so.’
‘Your accent put me astray.’
‘Must’ve picked up a twang on my travels. I’ve worked abroad for a few years.’
‘God, it’s been, what? Ten, twelve years? I didn’t know you’d come back.’
‘Since November.’ Ruth shut the file with an elasticated snap. ‘Right. We’ll sort out the details later. Let’s get Mrs Fallon examined and admitted. If you wait in the canteen, I’ll find you.’
‘Thanks, Ruth. Ma’s okay, isn’t she?’
‘Don’t worry, she’ll get the best care. I’ve only been here a few months, but staff speak with affection about Matron Fallon. Nursed most of them at one stage or another.’ Ruth took the ice pack from Hugh. ‘Go get a coffee. Let us do our job.’
Hugh sipped lukewarm coffee and skimmed a newspaper supplement, but couldn’t absorb any details.
Ruth found him after an hour that felt like a year. ‘Kathleen’s calm now, but confused after the fall. She’s had an x-ray. A doctor stitched the wound, and she’s comfortable. On her way to St Joseph’s ward. Room 24.’
‘That’s a relief, Ruth. I appreciate your help.’ Hugh noticed Ruth’s green eyes still sparkled and shone like wet grass. She looked even more attractive now with her long-layered brunette hair pulled into a ponytail, and the dusky beauty inherited from Italian ancestors ensured a permanent suntan complexion.
‘You haven’t changed,’ Hugh said. ‘Still look terrific.’
‘Hmm. Older and wiser. You settled here?’
‘Yep, I’ve kept Ganestown as my base.’
Ruth’s pager bleeped.
‘You’re busy.’ Hugh stood.
‘Should’ve left ages ago, but twelve-hour shifts, with no overtime, get stretched to fourteen, even sixteen. Depends on staffing. So, did you become a detective?’
‘A detective? No.’
‘Priest?’
‘God, no. Why?’
‘Oh, back in the day we’d write in our diaries what jobs we wanted, who we’d marry, you know, girly stuff, and we’d figure out the guy most likely to become … whatever. We reckoned you’d be a detective or a priest. You were a good listener.’
‘I still want to hear both sides of an argument before making a decision,’ Hugh said. ‘That taught me I’d a flair for dealing with and managing people.’
‘I bet you’re good at it too. Still hang out with the school gang?’
‘Not so much. Recession pushed most of them—’
The pager summoned Ruth again. She checked the flashing number. ‘Gotta go, Hugh. Chances are I’ll bump into you during the week.’
‘Great, but I hope Ma gets discharged later, and—’
‘Kathleen is being kept in for observation until Doctor Abbott decides.’
‘When will that be?’
‘Does his rounds before lunch, but if he’s called away to an emergency …’
‘I’ve to go to Mullingar in a few hours. If I hang around—’
‘No point waiting. Go home and rest. By lunchtime, they’ll have blood test results.’
‘Okay. What room did you—?’
‘24. Can you bring in some of Kathleen’s clothes? Oh, and the health insurance details. No rush. Leave them at the nurse station on the ward.’
Morning
Hugh texted Eilish another update.
He found the accordion file containing medical records, and then sat in his mother’s armchair. He dozed for a few hours and woke with a crick in his neck. After a shower, he finger-combed his hair, bundled a variety of his mother’s clothes and toiletries into a suitcase, pocketed the insurance details and grabbed a Starbucks on his way to McGuire’s.
-----
Jana Trofimiack chewed a thumbnail and dialled a number once more.
‘Cóż?’
At last.
‘Tomasz, I must return the McKelvey.’
‘I can’t back out of this deal. Co jest problem?’
‘Mrs Ridgeway missed the painting already. I did everything you asked. It’s your fault the replacement wasn’t prepared. You and Günther … If I’m caught for this, I’ll—’
‘That a threat, Jana?’
‘Now she’s bringing in konsultanci.’ Jana’s voice rose. ‘I’ve heard the old kurwa might phone policja. I won’t take the rap. I’ll—’
‘You’ll keep your mouth shut if you know what’s good for you. You and your son.’
‘Don’t you dare threaten Lech. He’s got nothing to do with … It’s Günther you should be threatening. You know his work isn’t autentyezny. I’ve told you he isn’t capturing the detail. You—’
‘Shut up Jana.’
‘—and Günther are causing this shit mess—’
‘Shut up.’
‘Günther’s forever behind schedule,’ Jana babbled. ‘Had the replacement been ready last week like you promised, I’d have switched it, even though I know if the old woman puts it up for auction, it’ll get spotted as a fake. A child could see—’
‘I said, shut. The fuck. Up.’
Jana shut up.
‘Let me think.’ The man’s wheeze sounded like static hiss. ‘I got your voicemails yesterday. Günther’s putting the fin
ishing touches to the replacement. It’ll be ready in a few days—’
‘A few—?’
‘It’s up to you to place it in the house. Put it under a bed, or on top of a wardrobe—’
‘I have to get it sooner. My boss is on the case. I’ve told you what he’s like. He won’t let up. And the konsultanci? I don’t have a few days. You must get me the painting today.’
‘I’ll ask, but tell me my business, Jana. You want it autentyezny. You want it today. You want, you want. You want everything.’
Jana took a deep breath. ‘Tomasz, I’m begging you. Send me the real McKelvey and I’ll put it back.’
‘You don’t listen, Jana. It’s already sold. Günther will do this one right.’
‘Please Tomasz. Mrs Ridgeway—’
‘Won’t know the difference. You’ll bury it, and then, like magic, find it.’
‘Well, the house is full of—’
‘Günther knows it’s a rush job. The price comes out of your end. Where’s the Yeats you promised? Günther’s already got that replacement ready.’
‘I didn’t get a chance—’
‘Get it. I’ve a client lined up. Cash deal. Rozumiesz?’
‘Tak.’
‘Do widzenia. I’ll be in touch.’
Jana mopped her forehead. This scam is out of control, she thought. How can I get away from these people? Play dumb until Günther’s reproduction gets me out of trouble, but after that? Perhaps the old suka will die before she puts the painting up for auction, or I’m back in Polska.
-----
McGuire’s premises was still abandoned at half-eight.
A fresh blanket of snow glistened in the cold sunshine. A Land Cruiser skidded into the parking area, but with no sign of activity, the driver circled and exited. Next, a rigid-bodied truck turned in, gearbox grinding as cogs meshed. It laboured towards the rear of the building. Hugh heard the muffled whump of a bass beat before the next vehicle appeared; an Audi A5 coupé. The high-end sound system pounded out hard rock. The music faded and a man hopped out.
Malcolm McGuire wore khaki jeans and a lavender shirt. Early twenties, standard build, brown hair and a wan, delicate face, he shrugged into a jacket, gave an apologetic hand wave to Hugh’s car, and inserted a key into a metal box on the side of the wall. Roller shutters wrapped up underneath an awning. Fluorescents flickered, soaking the interior in silver light. McGuire’s was open for business.
The double entrance doors swished, and Hugh walked in. Malcolm was examining a display of electric heaters.
‘Malcolm? Haven’t seen you for a while.’
‘Oh, hi, Hugh. Dad told me you were replacing Jozef. Apologies for the delay.’ They shook hands.
‘How’s Charlie?’ Hugh asked. ‘I got a call last night—’
‘Ferdia, I bet. They wouldn’t let him into ICU, and he kicked up hassle.’
‘That’s Ferdia.’
‘Dad was kept in a drug-induced coma overnight. To let the brain settle. His face …’ Malcolm looked away. ‘All those tubes. When you see hospital scenes in films, you’re detached from the pain, but up close, watching your father reliant on a machine to breathe …’
‘Has he said what happened?’
‘Mugged.’
More employees arrived and piped music carried through the store’s hidden speakers.
‘He won’t be back for a while,’ Malcolm added.
‘You’re in charge so,’ Hugh said. ‘I’m supposed to meet Brendan.’
‘I’ll take you.’
They walked half the length of the shop floor in silence.
‘Didn’t know you’re a metal head,’ Hugh said. ‘Was that Avenged Sevenfold or Alter Bridge you were listening—?’
‘Alter Bridge. Cry of Achilles.’ Malcolm led Hugh to a storage area door.
‘I’m a Myles Kennedy fan too,’ Hugh said.
‘Yeah?’ Hugh felt Malcolm’s eyes study him.
A rotund red-faced man, wearing a hard hat, came around a central bay unit, a batch of printouts under an arm.
‘Brendan? Hugh Fallon.’
‘Oh, right. Van’s loaded. Delivery for the Ganestown branch.’ Brendan eyeballed Hugh’s frame. ‘Jozef’s boiler suit should fit. I’ll find you a Hi-Vis jacket.’ He handed Hugh a sheet of dockets. ‘Get somebody in the back store to sign these.’
‘Okay. I’ll grab a suitcase from my car. Have to take it into my mother in Ganestown hospital.’
‘Nothing serious, I hope.’
‘She fell. They’re doing tests. Should be out later today or tomorrow.’
‘Well, no panic back. And don’t push the Hiace too hard. The engine … she’s a bit feeble.’
-----
The art dealer wanted to check if his website profile had lured in BachtoBasie, but wouldn’t use his own laptop in case it ever got traced. He’d wait, savouring the expectation until he got to an internet café or a hotel. Switching between news apps, he was disappointed Roberta Lord’s disappearance hadn’t attracted national media coverage. He rejected the tie Madeline had left out, and picked another. She’d returned to Paris. Just the way he liked it.
When I take control of the company, there’ll be significant changes. Changes that don’t include the Hattinger clan.
He packed an overnight case for his Belfast trip, and sat into his car, letting the heater clear the rim of frost from around the windows.
His mobile buzzed.
The secretary had forwarded Ambrose’s article from Country Life and Garden, and he read through Amanda Curran’s treacly prose:
When Oliver Cromwell reached Ireland in 1649, Ainsley Hattinger was a Lieutenant Colonel in the invading army …
Jesus.
As a reward for valour in battle during the Siege of Drogheda, Cromwell granted him a swathe of land in the Shannon Basin that stretched from Lough Owel to the Shannon harbour in County Offaly. Hattinger built a big house outside Kilbeggan and became landlord to seventy thousand confiscated acres of arable land, forcing farmers to become peasants and pay rent to work their own plots. Agitators got evicted or killed …
Read up on your history, Miss Curran. They got driven like cattle to the river Shannon and given two choices: Hell or Connacht. And Ambrose thinks his ancestor standing shoulder to shoulder with Cromwell will win friends and influence people?
For two centuries, the Hattinger reign prospered …
While their tenants starved.
… and in the 1890s William Hattinger and his four sons began manufacturing bespoke furniture from a site in Tullamore …
Only because after the famine Hattinger evicted the tenants who couldn’t pay rent, Miss Curran, which caused the oppressed to band together and form a political party that aimed to reduce landlords’ power and allow leaseholders to reclaim their properties. When the Irish Land Commission got established, it dismantled the Hattinger estate and reduced it to a hundred acres. Why isn’t this included? Hmm? That’s why William began the furniture business, to ensure retention of the ‘big house,’ his physical symbol of prestige.
The art dealer scrolled past three more paragraphs.
By 1890, Hattinger’s furniture gained a reputation among the gentry for top quality products. Demand multiplied. When he’d died in 1916, the company’s client list read like a Who’s Who of Ireland’s rich and famous …
Until the rot set in during the 1980s because of internal squabbles. Ambrose’s grandfather and father grew fat on the fruits of their ancestors’ labour and became complacent. Sales dwindled. Decreased profits intensified infighting. With no consensus on a practical way forward, the board of directors dithered, disagreed and fell out. The minority voices calling for change and investment in external expertise got overruled by the stubborn majority who upheld a laissez-faire policy. For your information, Miss Curran, laissez-faire means minimum interference. Something you should take on board.
By luck, the company’s woes turned after Madeline Hattinger married “a commo
ner…”
Luck? Me? A commoner? I knew it. Bitch wouldn’t profile me because I don’t have “pedigree.”
The art dealer dialled his secretary. ‘Cancel Amanda Curran’s piece. It won’t go to print. Not now. Not ever.’
Mid-Morning
Hugh’s Hiace chugged to Ganestown.
The van’s body rattled. Its steering was loose, the suspension worn, and it dipped on its axles when he applied the brakes, which meant the shock absorbers had passed their sell-by date. The odometer read 229,000 kilometres, and neither the heater nor radio worked, but the engine sounded good. He rang Ferdia, held the mobile to his ear and hoped no traffic cops were prowling. ‘Did you see Charlie?’
‘Won’t let me in for fear I’d give him MRSA. If he didn’t pick it up stretched out near Parnell Square, there’s a fair chance he won’t get it off me. They’ve taken him off the ventilator, so I’ll shoot in later. I’m due in a meeting now. Some Health and Safety lark.’
‘And I’m on my way to Ganestown with two pallets of timber, cement and copper piping.’
‘Good man. Wanna visit Chas tonight?’
‘Depends. Ma’s in hospital—’
‘Aww, Jaysus. Never rains, eh? What happened to Kathleen?’
‘Nothing serious. She slipped in the hospice. I’m meeting the doctor around lunchtime. If she’s discharged, I won’t be able to go.’
‘Text me if you can make it, and I’ll pick you up at Ganestown Hotel around eight. Give Kathleen my regards.’
Ganestown kept its small-town ambience because it had consistently been by-passed and passed over for structural government funds. The new motorway, decreed as a lifeline, was relegating the town to an exit sign, and the lingering effects of the recent recession, coupled with the epidemic of emigration, threatened to turn Ganestown into a ghost town—something legions of plunderers over centuries couldn’t achieve. Main Street was an embarrassment of weathered shop fronts awaiting commercial revival, and patchy Wi-Fi access prevented tourists from lingering. Hugh drove by a derelict factory, its concrete carcass a constant reminder of what once was, the adjoining car park now used by teenagers as a tyre-shredding doughnut practice arena.
The lead up to Christmas had generated a frenzy of activity. Council works that kicked off years earlier, then stalled, were being revived—a ploy to sway floating voters in the upcoming local and European Parliament elections. Side streets were being dug up, repaved and pedestrianised. Enterprise development officers hoped that cable upgrades and a new sewage system would incentivise entrepreneurs to pick Ganestown as a business base, increase consumer confidence and kick-start a renewed lease of life for the area. There was still a way to go before the town caught up with its more politically astute neighbours, but politicians kept repeating the mantra that rural Ireland had weathered recession and was ‘open for business’. Time would tell.
