by Eoghan Egan
Hugh jangled the Hiace keys. ‘Returning these. You alright?’
Malcolm straightened and pressed a button on the laptop. ‘Yeah.’
‘Any word on Charlie?’
‘Brain swelling’s reduced, so he’s off the critical list. Still in intensive care, though.’
‘Ferdia and I are calling in later.’ Hugh waved the dockets. ‘Can I leave these with you? Milo Brady signed them.’
‘Leave them on the accountant’s desk. The office two doors down.’ Malcolm twisted in the chair. ‘Um … when Dad told me you were starting here, he said to call you if I needed advice.’
‘Did he? Oh, sure.’
‘I’m supposed to let Milo go.’
‘Really? Okay.’
‘Dad took him on a few months ago ’cos he’s family.’
‘Oh?’
‘He’s my cousin. But the role isn’t working out.’
‘Milo told me he’s in line for a management role in Ganestown.’
‘No chance.’
‘So what’s the issue?’ Hugh asked. ‘You’ve got a problem telling him?’
‘No. Well, yes. Milo’s got an attitude, but he’s family. I think Dad’s using this as a test, to see if I’m able to … I dunno.’
‘When have you planned to tell him?’
‘Today, but …’ Malcolm pushed up his jacket to check his watch. The wrist was bare. ‘Too late now. He’ll have left. Tomorrow. What’ll I say to him? How do I start the conversation?’
‘That’s a face-to-face talk,’ Hugh said. ‘Say you’ve reviewed the entire business. Restructures are necessary, and he’s surplus to requirements.’
‘Sounds frosty.’
‘It’s purely a business decision, Malcolm, nothing personal. Milo’s still on probation. Charlie tried to help him and it didn’t work out. Move on.’
‘Okay.’ Malcolm doodled on a notepad. ‘Um, Staff’s asking what’ll happen, now that Dad’s out of commission. What our plans are.’
‘Yeah. I sensed the worry when I came in.’
‘Word is, you’re here to close the place. A hitman.’
‘Where’d they get that idea? That’s mad. I’m a part-time van driver.’
Malcolm glanced at the laptop screen. ‘I suppose they view anybody new as an angel of death. I can’t stop rumours.’
‘No. I suppose it’s only natural that staff want to know. So, did you divulge your plans?’
‘Me? What plans? I’m not long out of college. I’ve no practical experience,’ Malcolm rubbed his forehead, ‘or plans. There’s a massive difference between academic theory and actual business. Caught up in a family concern is the worst thing. Nothing’s ever right. More’s always expected. Ciara was smart to leave and make her own path. I should get out too.’ Malcolm clicked the mouse and studied the screen. ‘Jesus.’
‘Hmm?’
‘Nothing.’ Malcolm closed the lid.
‘I’ve to sign on at the dole office in Ganestown tomorrow,’ Hugh said. ‘If you want me to meet Milo with you, I’ll—’
‘Thanks. I’ll do it.’ Malcolm wrote on the notepad. ‘So, we’ve reviewed the business, and he’s what?
‘Surplus to requirements. And don’t forget restructures are necessary.’
‘Oh, yeah. Got it. That’s good enough.’
‘Good enough is never good enough, Malcolm,’ Hugh’s tone sharpened. ‘Pretend I’m Milo. Go through it again …’
Night
‘How’d the Health and Safety meeting go?’
Ferdia burped, perfuming the interior of the jeep with a whiff of curry. His right wrist rested on the apex of the steering wheel, left fist curled around the gear-stick. ‘A young lad asked me what steps I’d take if a fire broke out on the premises. Got the impression feckin’ quick ones wasn’t the right answer. Still, the fat manual he handed out will be handy for killing wasps next summer.’
They listened to the tail end of a news bulletin and the weather forecast: “More snow. Hazardous driving conditions.” Ferdia tuned into Radio Nova, and Gary Numan’s “Are Friends Electric?” neutralised the snap of hailstones hitting the jeep’s roof.
‘Hope we’ll make it before visiting hours are over,’ Hugh said. ‘What time do the wards close?’
‘No idea.’ Ferdia yawned. ‘We’ll relieve Ciara and Mal of sentry duty. Chas won’t want a gang of us ’round the bed.’
They swung into the multi-storey car park, both scanning for a free space. Nothing. Ferdia spun into an area reserved for hospital staff and slotted the jeep between an Insignia and a Jag.
‘You’ll get a Denver boot if you park here.’
‘Nah. Clampers won’t risk it. What if it belongs to a consultant who forgot his tag? Consultants raise a feckin’ stink if they get clamped.’
‘You sure?’
‘Positive.’
Inside, a security man pointed them to Saint Anne’s ward.
‘Least he’s out of the Richmond ICU unit,’ Ferdia said. ‘Must be off the critical list.’
Halfway along the corridor, Hugh spotted Ciara in one of the four-bedded rooms. Curtains enclosed the hospital cots, cocooning patients for the night. She moved aside, waved them forward, trying to smile.
Charlie looked a mess.
Wires protruded like coloured tentacles from under the crepe bandage wrapped around his head. His face, mottled and lacerated, the right eye swollen shut. Stitches crisscrossed a five-centimetre incision over an eyebrow. A bruised lump the size of a golf ball bulged from his forehead. Two splints kept Charlie’s nose in place; both nostrils packed with gauze, and the stitched top lip was puffed up to three times its regular size. The total facial area, coated in Betadine, gave the exposed skin an eerie orange glow. A drip-feed hooked into an arm. More tubes snaked out beneath the bed sheets and ran to electronic monitors that beeped in rhythm, counting heartbeats and pulse rates.
Malcolm sat at the head of the bed, scrolling through his smartphone.
‘Things people do to get feckin’ attention,’ Ferdia said.
Charlie’s left eye snapped open. He tried to smile, lifted a hand. ‘You shouldn’t have come in this weather.’ The words were a croaked whisper. ‘Sorry I couldn’t make it in to show you the ropes, Hugh.’
‘Malcolm took charge,’ Hugh said. ‘You concentrate on getting better.’
Ferdia pointed a thumb at the corridor. ‘Ye ought to take off. Drive easy. Roads are slippery as a skating rink. We’ll hang on for a while.’
Ciara leaned on the bed and kissed Charlie’s cheek. ‘See you tomorrow, Dad.’
‘Don’t travel if—’
‘I’ll bring David in, after …’ Ciara waved at Charlie’s face.
‘Remember I’m taking Master David off your hands Sunday and Monday?’ Ferdia said. ‘If it’s any addition, bounce him over to me earlier.’
Ciara picked up her coat. ‘Might take you up on that.’
‘Don’t worry, Dad.’ Malcolm’s voice was high-pitched with contrived cheerfulness. ‘We’ll cope.’
Hugh followed them out. ‘Any idea how long he’ll be here?’
Ciara sagged against a radiator. ‘Doctor says there are no major injuries, well, except for the pounding his brain took. They’re concerned the head kicks might trigger an intracranial haematoma. They were monitoring a clot; the neurosurgeon was ready to operate, but it dissolved.’ She dabbed her eyes. ‘It’ll take weeks for the broken nose to heal, and the bruises and puffiness to disappear. They said he could experience blurred vision for months, and it’s not unusual to have short-term memory loss. Recovery after post-concussion syndrome varies; anything from three months to a year. And there’s a possibility psychological problems could develop.’
Malcolm put a supporting arm on Ciara’s shoulder.
‘I’ll be in Mullingar by lunchtime,’ Hugh said. ‘Anything I can do to help, just ask.’
‘How’d you end up on Temple Street?’ Ferdia’s voice, low and harsh, rumbled through the ward.
‘Two guys mugged me.’ A phlegmy cough rattled in Charlie’s throat.
‘That tells me what happened, not what you were up to.’
‘How do I look?’
Ferdia’s eyes travelled up Charlie’s arms to his face and back again.
‘Not bad. George Clooney, except more handsome.’
‘Be serious.’
‘As if you got smacked with a frying pan. Reminds me of that time I was in a dust-up with a Charolais bull. Still, once the swelling reduces—’
A nurse opened the curtain, studied the IV bag and line. ‘You sore, Charlie?’
‘Hmm.’
‘I’ll get something to help you sleep.’
Hugh tiptoed in.
Ferdia browsed through the bedside locker, pushing aside the fruit and soft drinks that Malcolm or Ciara had brought. ‘Need clothes?’
‘Ciara brought them.’ Charlie closed his eyes.
‘Grand.’
The men stood in silence until the nurse reappeared, hustled them away and administered an injection. When she returned to the nurse station, Hugh and Ferdia crept back to Charlie’s bedside.
Charlie was asleep.
-----
The art dealer ordered room service.
He switched on his laptop and linked into the international edition of RTÉ Player. The nine o’clock news showed graphic images of the aftermath of a bomb blast in the Middle East. Government ministers denounced the assault on innocent civilians. A stern-faced Garda in full uniform filled the screen, with Roberta Lord’s headshot in the top right-hand corner. The art dealer turned up the volume:
“I appeal to each resident within a two-kilometre radius of Oak View Lane, Ganestown, to inspect farms, outhouses and adjacent woodlands for tracks or traces of Roberta’s disappearance. Roberta is one point five metres tall, with shoulder-length blonde hair. She was wearing blue jeans, a white top and a grey spotted reefer jacket. If you noticed any suspicious person or activity near Oak View on Monday last, or have information that could help us in our inquiries, contact Ganestown Garda Station. We need your assistance in reuniting this family with their gifted daughter.”
The camera panned to a sallow-complexioned woman, body stiff as steel, face seamed with worry, sat behind a conference table. She gazed unblinking into the camera lens:
“These have been the bleakest hours of my life. I fear for my daughter. We’re at our wits’ end. I’m asking you to help us put an end to this heartrending experience. Somebody’s bound to have information. We’re desperate. Roberta’s a wonderful daughter; a mother, whose sole focus is to make the … the best life for herself and her son. He loves and misses her. We all do.” Mrs Lord clasped a handkerchief, using it as a lifeline. The stress bubbled to the surface. Her voice quivered: “Hope gave me the strength to make this appeal. Hope that somebody saw something. Hope that Roberta will show up at our door. I’m appealing, I’m pleading with you. Please help us find Roberta. Please.” The woman placed her head in her hands. Sobs shattered the stillness, and cameras zoomed in, capturing her anguish while the corner of the screen flashed contact numbers.
‘Dreams die first,’ the art dealer murmured. ‘And hope dies last. Time to get acquainted with BachtoBasie.’
-----
Outside the hospital, Ferdia lit a cigarette, coughed, foraged in a jacket pocket, found a bottle of Gaviscon and gulped the liquid. He spotted Hugh’s frown. ‘I’m grand.’ He filtered the words through a fog of smoke. ‘Smoker’s cough.’
‘Did you make that doctor’s appointment?’
‘Yeah. For tomorrow.’
They walked along the footpath leading to the car parks. In the sodium streetlights, Hugh stared at Ferdia’s jaw muscles clamp as he sucked nicotine into his lungs. ‘What did you detect on the search and find mission?’
‘Twigged that, huh? The smell of bullshit, that’s what I detected. Mugged me arse. Watch on his wrist. Mobile and wallet in the locker. Muggers grab what they can. Snatch ’n’ run. They don’t beat a man half to death an’ rob his car. An’ if they do, they hide it for a week, then use it for a raid down the country. Where’s the sense in driving it five miles outside the city to burn it? That’s—’ Ferdia’s head swivelled at the shrill yaps of a dog in agony. ‘Here.’ He tossed keys to Hugh. ‘Wait in the jeep.’
‘Leave it, Ferdia. Don’t get involved. It isn’t your—’
‘Be right behind ya.’
‘Christ, Ferdia, why can’t you—’
Ferdia melted between rows of cars. Hugh held up the fob. The jeep double-beeped, blinkers flashed. He reversed out of the space. On Radio Nova, XTC’s “Making plans for Nigel” segued into The Rah Band’s “The Crunch.”
Hugh tracked Ferdia’s advance.
The big man zigzagged between vehicles, zeroing in on the animal whining in pain and fear. Hugh rounded the parked cars, headlights illuminating the area. Two men stood in the driving lane. One, his back against a dirty white van, stabbed at a phone pad and squinted at the screen. A cigarette dangled from his lips, the tip glowing as he inhaled. The other was Hugh’s size, but broader, and wearing a V-neck pullover, frayed at the collar. One hand gripped a leash attached to a terrified terrier, and he was taking his temper out on the dog, flaying it with a short stumpy stick. The animal yapped in terror, straining to get free.
Hugh braked, stepped out of the jeep, heart pounding.
Ferdia shadow loomed over the scene. ‘All right men?’
‘Mind your business.’ The man pulled the restraint tighter, dragging the dog closer. Tiny paws scrabbled for a foothold, and the noose tightened, choking off the yelps. The man lashed out at the terrier again.
‘Pick someone your own size.’
Dog man looked up, dropped the lead. The dog’s paws found purchase, and it scrabbled for safety under the van. ‘Thought I said to mind yur fuckin’ business. Won’t tell you again.’ He wielded the stick in a wild roundhouse slash. Ferdia glided inside the swipe, ducked a fraction and let the stick whistle over his head. He bunched his right fist and hooked it out. It travelled less than thirty centimetres, the knuckles thudding into dog man’s unprotected floating rib. The man folded, sank and yodelled in agony, sucking air into starved lungs that whistled like a leaky accordion bellows. The second man gawped, reversed and his heel snagged the dog leash entangled under a wheel. His head bounced off the van’s side panel.
Ferdia slackened the lead, and enveloped the terrier in a ham-sized fist. ‘I’m commandeering this little fella, lads. I’ll find a place for him. Safe home.’ He held out his free hand to Hugh for the jeep keys. ‘What?’
‘Nothing. Wondered if you need back-up. Not that I’d be much addition. You okay?’
Ferdia tapped away cigarette ash. ‘Spot on. There’s a special place in hell reserved for people who’re cruel to animals.’
The terrier licked Ferdia’s face.
‘Way you hit that guy, I thought you’d kill him.’
‘Nah. I pulled the punch. No point crippling the man.’
‘You’ll teach me a few boxing moves, Ferdia.’
‘You’re too old to start. What age are you now? Thirty? Thirty-two?’
‘Twenty-eight.’
‘Huh. Anyway, getting into scraps isn’t your style. Street fighting rules are simple; there are no rules. Any boxing skills you’ve got go out the window. If you’re ever in trouble, forget the fancy stuff. Kick the other person’s knee. Hard. It’ll give you a chance to run like hell.’
‘Running from physical confrontation is my go-to strategy,’ Hugh said. ‘I don’t aim to be a boxer, just want to get in shape.’
‘Grand. Meet me at the gym anytime.’ Ferdia swung out of the car park. The terrier curled up in his lap, half asleep. Hugh’s mobile beeped. A text from Eilish:
Mum’s sick. I’m staying over for a nite or 2.
‘Your mother’s sick,’ Hugh said.
‘Mustn’t be serious or I’d have got word.’
Hugh
texted back:
Give her my regards. See you
tomorrow or Saturday.
Nite nite. Xx
He looked across at Ferdia. ‘What’s on your mind?’
Ferdia scratched the terrier’s head. The contented dog’s ears twitched, as she chased rabbits in her dreams. ‘Funny how they concentrated on Chas’s face,’ Ferdia said. ‘Like ’twas a warning.’
‘About what?’
‘Good question.’ Ferdia’s fingertips drummed the dashboard. ‘Charlie’s a decent skin. But at times, bad things happen to good people.’
-----
The art dealer followed signs pointing to an area off the foyer where residents could browse the web or print boarding passes. He logged into the dating site, re-read BachtoBasie’s mail and considered his response. It required a subtle balance between realism and credibility, without revealing his background.
From: [email protected]
Sent: Thurs., 21:48
To: [email protected]
Subject: Good Night
Hi, yourself.
I’m delighted you replied, and your photos are amazing. I love
your username! Now there’s a broad musical taste!
Well, I’m stuck in Cork airport (walked its length six times).
No idea when we’ll take off – I trust I’ll make it to Dublin in
one piece. Nothing special planned – except take clients to the
Gaiety Theatre Saturday night, if I get back! Oh, and loads of
domestic chores to organise, if I set my mind to it, and I’ve
got a pile of books to read. Odds are, they’ll take precedence. I
live in Dublin but often pass through Ganestown. I’m also a
novice at this online dating—took ages to download my
picture! I’m cautious at having my personal information for
everyone to view, but needs must.
I hope you’ll have a relaxed, chilled-out (snowman building)
weekend, that doesn’t include road trips. More snowfalls
predicted, so at least your son will be thrilled.
Have you found this site a reliable location to make new
friends?
Keep in touch.
