Hiding in Plain Sight

by Eoghan Egan

  Eilish burrowed through her bag, found her phone and left the kitchen, closing the door behind her.

  ‘There’s no milk,’ Hugh said.

  ‘No problem.’ Ferdia batted cigarette smoke away with hand flicks. ‘Inhuman Resources booked a slot for you next Wednesday.’

  ‘Time?’

  ‘I dunno. Around lunchtime.’

  Hugh handed him the coffee mug. ‘Depends on Ma.’

  ‘How’s Kathleen?’

  ‘She’s home.’

  ‘Good.’

  ‘Doctor diagnosed her with Alzheimer’s.’

  ‘Aww, Jaysus. That’s feckin’—’

  ‘I’m still not certain. There’s no way Ma—’

  ‘Hope you’re right. Man, that’s a planet I never want to visit. If there’s anything I can do—’

  ‘Thanks. She’s fine for the moment. Barring another mishap, I’ll be in McGuire’s, so I can pop across for my slot, whatever the hell that means. Good job I opted to buy my car instead of plumping for a company vehicle, or I’d be rightly screwed now. Cigarettes will kill you, Ferdia.’

  ‘I’ll be grand.’ Ferdia slurped a hefty gulp of coffee. ‘I’m relying on medical advances to save me.’

  ‘How’d your check-up go?’ Hugh asked.

  ‘Fit as a butcher’s dog. Doc took enough feckin’ blood to keep Dracula supplied for a month. Said he’ll phone when the results come back.’

  ‘What’s the latest at Pharma-Continental?’

  ‘Had a three-hour meeting with Denis this morning that he could’ve summed up in an email. Sales down. Overheads up. He’s decided micromanaging is the only way. He’s like a neighbour’s feckin’ goat; always stuck in someone else’s garden, mithering everyone. The problems are piling high. And why wouldn’t they, when we’ve damn all salespeople? Boots on the ground win battles, I say. Sales don’t just happen. Pounding pavements is the only way to generate—’

  ‘And what’s Denis’s solution?’

  ‘Full of technical information and not a gram of feckin’ empathy in his body.’ Ferdia pawed the air to disperse persistent smoke before he slammed the patio door shut and put his backside against a radiator. ‘This thing not on?’

  ‘Need to order oil.’

  ‘Huh. If brains were bird droppings, Denis’s cage would be spotless. Companies never learn. I’ve seen it umpteen times. No loyalty to employees. Numbers on a chart.’

  ‘Higher-ups are telling him what to do.’

  ‘Yeah, two of them arrived yesterday. Seagull managers.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Seagull managers? They fly in, shit on everything and fly off, leaving someone else to clean up the mess.’

  Hugh laughed. ‘It’s written in the rules. Arrange meeting. Set low expectations. Do nothing. Claim success.’

  ‘That’s it. Rinse, repeat over and over. White noise.’

  ‘Procedures, Ferdia.’

  ‘Huh. Useless if they don’t work. Bureaucratic bullshit. Measure what matters, I say, and ignore the rest.’

  Hugh shrugged. ‘I think Denis finds it hard to decide. I found him reasonable. He grows on you.’

  ‘So does moss. Hope to Christ that’s the end of bad news for this year. It comes in threes, you know.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Bad news. It comes—’

  ‘Jesus, redundancy is enough.’

  Ferdia drew a tin of biscuits closer, inspected the contents, saw nothing he fancied and removed the plastic wrap and delved into the bottom layer. ‘Anything new at McGuire’s?’ He pulled out two chocolate treats, pressed them together, dunked them, shovelled the drippy mess into his mouth, and chomped.

  ‘I’ve told you, I’m a van driver, not the CEO.’

  ‘Aye, but,’ Ferdia pointed two fingers at his eyes, then at Hugh’s face, ‘you notice things. How’s Mal?’

  ‘Spends most of the time on a laptop.’

  ‘You might need to give him a leg up.’

  ‘I’ll help if I can. He’s in town today meeting Milo Brady. Milo’s getting his P60.’

  ‘Good. Haven’t seen that lad for a while, but I believe he’s a regional version of the village idiot. Hope Malcolm asked Ciara how to say the right lingo, else he could make a dog’s dinner out of it.’

  ‘He asked me.’

  ‘Ahh.’ Ferdia got another coffee-soaked biscuit halfway to his mouth before it broke, splashed into the mug and spattered his tie. ‘Any news on that Lord woman?’

  ‘Haven’t heard. How’s Charlie?’

  ‘Chatted to him earlier. He’s in fine fettle.’

  ‘Anyone arrested yet?’

  Ferdia used his tongue to dislodge a biscuit crumb, taking his time answering. ‘No. And there won’t be. Chas got into debt with dodgy people. They roughed him up.’

  ‘No way.’

  ‘Yes, way. Wouldn’t pass up the chance to lay my hands on them. I’d soften their coughs.’

  ‘Whose coughs?’

  ‘Gombeen men. Loan sharks. From the Irish word gaimbín, money grabber. Coined during famine times to describe greedy shopkeepers who jacked up food prices.’

  ‘What, pay up or starve?’

  ‘More or less. Anyhow, I’ll meet them and sort out a repayment plan.’

  ‘Isn’t your fight Ferdia.’

  ‘I promised Chas.’

  ‘You’ll land yourself in trouble.’

  ‘Nah. My wallet an’ willy is all that ever gets me in trouble.’

  ‘You’re mad.’

  ‘You know me.’

  ‘As a rule, there’s method in your madness, Ferdia, but that’s pure madness, no method.’

  ‘Ah, sure you’ve gotta swing leather, bite on the gum shield and plough on.’

  ‘When have you planned to meet them?’

  Ferdia scraped a thumbnail on the coffee stain on his tie. ‘Chas’ll set it up after he gets back on his feet.’

  ‘Tell me when and I’ll tag along,’ Hugh said.

  ‘Grand.’ Ferdia stood, hitched up his trousers and tucked the stained tie into the waistband. ‘I’m heading to Dublin for the weekend. Gotta pick up the Merc in the morning. Oh,’ he delved into an inside pocket and pulled out an envelope. ‘There’s a fancy gig tomorrow—’

  ‘Yeah. Herbert Park Hotel. Charlie mentioned—’

  ‘See? You miss nothing.’ Ferdia took a ticket from the envelope. ‘Here. Person I’d planned to bring can’t make it—’

  ‘So I’m your second choice?’

  ‘Third, actually. It’ll be good craic. After the week you’ve had, a little downtime will do you good. Eilish won’t mind.’

  ‘Eilish couldn’t care less if—’

  ‘You can bunk in my hotel room. Loads of space.’

  ‘Well … okay. I need a night out. What happened to the terrier?’

  ‘Passed him on to a friend. He’s got a good home. Oh, wear a dickie bow tomorrow night. I’ll get them to leave a room key at reception.’ Ferdia scooped up his car keys and pin-wheeled the keyring on his index finger. ‘So long, sis,’ he shouted.

  No answer.

  Ferdia jerked his head at the closed door. ‘Someone in a mood?’

  Hugh made a face. ‘I’m in the dog house. I’m pissing everyone off today.’

  Ferdia saluted. ‘Happens to us all. Pass no heed. ‘Slán.’

  Eilish came back into the kitchen, coat buttoned, tote bag slung from her shoulder.

  ‘Won’t be able to meet you for drinks tomorrow,’ Hugh said. ‘Ferdia’s invited me to—’

  ‘Fine. By the way, nobody made you rip out the old kitchen.’

  ‘I pay the mortgage, Eilish, and the other domestic bills. When I’ve got money, I don’t ask you to contribute. For now, can we pool our funds? House insurance is due in two weeks. Car tax first week in March. We—’

  ‘I work too hard to scrimp. I didn’t expect this scenario. It’s—’ Eilish’s mobile rang, a muffled chirp. She delved into her bag and powered it off.

>   ‘What can I say?’ Hugh said, hoping for a smile. ‘It’s called life.’

  Eilish’s frown deepened. ‘Life, not Lough Derg. I don’t intend to survive on black tea and dry toast for the rest of my life.’

  ‘Ouch, there’s the red-head temper. No one’s asked you to go hungry, although I’ve expanded several inches over Christmas.’ Hugh patted his stomach. ‘Must start exercising.’

  ‘You implying I’m fat? And stop copying Ferdia’s routine of using humour to defuse a situation.’

  ‘I’m not, and you aren’t … God almighty, Eilish, don’t twist my words. Can we tighten our belts a notch? Wear items out? Make them go further? That’s all I’m asking.’

  ‘Well then, stay here tomorrow night. Tell Ferdia you can’t go. Wrap a blanket around yourself and sit in the cold. That way, you won’t have to spend money.’

  ‘That’s harsh, Eilish. Life’s trials should bond couples, not drive them—’

  ‘Stop, Hugh.’ Eilish exhaled and held up her hand. ‘I’m sick of your logic.’ She spun on her high heels and tramped upstairs.

  ‘And I’m tired of your high maintenance.’ Hugh walked out.

  Night

  Staff at The Chubby Cherub restaurant in Belfast’s Arthur Street prepared for the Friday rush.

  Office workers socialised, unwinding after their week’s slog. A designer-stubbled waiter, dressed in tight black Tom Ford and with the flamboyant, exaggerated mannerisms of a dancer, hustled the art dealer to a table beside a mixed group of suited professionals. Solicitors or bankers, the art dealer thought, listening to their conversations that centred on odious co-workers and abhorrent bosses.

  A small thin man and a tanked up, argumentative woman with dyed white-blonde hair, got seated alongside the art dealer. The woman continued to rant, her piercing accent setting the art dealer’s teeth on edge. The weak-chinned, gormless male stared at the menu and took the verbal abuse. Halfway through their main course, he knocked over a glass of wine. No apology.

  The art dealer dabbed at the wine stain on his jacket sleeve, his lips stretching into a thin line. A waitress wiped up. When the man reeled to the bathroom, the art dealer slid from his seat and followed. Gormless man swayed as he faced the urinal, unzipped his trousers and placed a hand on the wall to brace himself. Another customer dipped his hands into a Dyson dryer. The art dealer rinsed his hands, removed the stun gun, connected the battery and pressed the switch. Moved forward.

  The outer door opened.

  The art dealer stepped back to the wash-hand basins.

  A teenager entered and made a beeline for a cubicle.

  Clear.

  The art dealer wadded up tissues, threw them into a bin, inched behind the gormless man and touched the immobiliser against the side of his neck. The short, sharp shock, jerked him sideways. He slipped on the wet floor and fell face-first into the porcelain urinal. A flusher gurgled. The sprinkler drizzled water on the crumpled figure, sluicing blood and urine down the plughole. Satisfied, the art dealer returned to the restaurant, resumed his seat, called for the bill and kept his facial expression neutral, while commotion rained around him. Staff members escorted the woman into a back room.

  An ambulance screeched to a halt.

  The art dealer stepped aside, let the paramedics pass, and then strolled to his hotel. He picked up his room key from the receptionist, went to the internet room and logged online.

  One new mail.

  From: BachToBasie@datingvista.ie

  Sent: Fri. 16:39

  To: thejewellerycollector@datingvista.ie

  Subject: Good Evening

  Hi, again,

  It’s nice to get a chatty email! I hope you’re home safe, and

  yes, as predicted, we’ve built a new, improved snowman.

  We’re in beside the fire now. It’s freezing outside! I’d prefer to

  spend ’til bedtime curled up here, but I’m sure my son has

  other ideas. If this weather continues, I might qualify for a

  master’s degree in snowman making!

  Yes, I’ve had a hectic week, but I enjoy my work too much to

  whinge. I settled here in Ganestown five years ago. Before

  that, I travelled.

  As I mentioned in my last mail, I’m new to this site, so I

  haven’t made friends with anybody yet. I’m convinced we’re

  here for a reason: to find a person we can connect and enjoy

  life with. I’ve got a diverse group of friends, and we inspire

  each other to be the best we can.

  The one absence in my life is a soul mate. As a hopeless

  romantic, I can dream that there’s a special man out there. I’d

  love to meet someone who isn’t afraid to share who they are

  and is open to learning. Together.

  I enjoy a ‘balanced’ healthy lifestyle, and occasional

  Spontaneity – dancing the night away! I admire honesty,

  integrity, intelligence, independence, respect, oh, and

  compassion. ‘Kindness is a language which the deaf can hear

  and the blind can see.’

  But enough of me and my ‘wants’. This is a silly question:

  What does a jewellery collector collect?

  Oh, not sure if this is appropriate, but my mobile no. is 086-

  0494919. Feel free to phone, if you’d prefer to chat in person

  rather than mailing. No pressure!

  Hope you enjoy your weekend.

  BachtoBasie (Ciara)

  The art dealer re-read the second last line.

  He memorised the phone number, erased his online history, double checked he’d logged out.

  In-depth conversations I’ve no control over are not part of my plan.

  ‘Ciara.’ He wrapped his tongue around the name, liked the way it sounded.

  Honesty, integrity, intelligence. You’ve fed me the information I need. This will be easier than I imagined. Oh, where’s the challenge, Ciara? Eh?

  He walked to his bedroom, thinking.

  Is the mobile number a test? An experiment to see if I’ll call? If I don’t phone, will she assume there’s a problem, and break contact? I can’t allow that. I’m too close.

  He took out his iPhone and punched in:

  0860494 …

  Stopped.

  Tracks and traces.

  He deleted the number, and another thought struck him.

  Is Ciara your name? Did you make it up? You’ll expect me to respond in kind. Must create my own pseudonym. I need to be careful, but you’re in my sights, Ciara. Hah. Lol to you too.

  The art dealer lay back, marinating in expectation.

  Let her wait. I’ll buy a cheap phone tomorrow and call her then. Jana, you crabby bat, you’ll have to wait a little longer.

  -----

  Hugh watched his mother’s demeanour change.

  The happy-to-be-home-in-familiar-surrounds character became guarded, and Kathleen measured Hugh with wary, distrustful sideways glances.

  ‘You peckish, Ma? Thirsty?’

  Kathleen refused to talk, recoiled and pushed him away when he plumped cushions around her. Then, like a lightbulb flash, she reverted to standard. ‘I’m fine, Hugh. Go home. Don’t take time off work on my behalf. I won’t be a burden on anybody.’

  ‘You’re not a burden, Ma.’

  ‘I can look after myself.’

  ‘I want to spend time with you.’

  ‘You’re under my feet. I prefer to potter around on my own.’

  ‘I won’t get in your way, Ma.’

  Kathleen snoozed. Hugh disregarded Ruth’s advice, logged onto the internet, and gorged on Alzheimer’s articles. Absentmindedness, comprehension and interpretation difficulties, items turning up in bizarre places, impaired judgement, analytical issues, mood swings and personality changes could soon be part of everyday life. Ma has none of these symptoms, he thought. It’s bullshit. She tripped, banged her head a
nd is confused. That’s all. Impossible for a youngish, fit person, full of vitality, to wind up with this disease. It’s a mistake. Ma would never surrender to that.

  Kathleen seemed uncomfortable now, head lolling as she napped. At eleven o’clock she said she was ready for bed.

  ‘Hold on a second, you need to take tablets.’ Hugh passed over the drugs, expecting resistance, but Kathleen took them without comment. He stayed in the hallway, ears tuned until the bed creaked. After, he phoned the Homeless Hostel and told the volunteers about Kathleen’s diagnosis, then resumed the internet search, combing for evidence to refute the doctor’s medical opinion. He read dozens of cases, scrolled through articles and skimmed discussion posts, determined to validate his rationale and disprove Doctor Abbott. Nothing seemed to agree entirely with the doctor or gave clear proof to support his own theory. Yes, there were signs, but … Boggle-eyed and bleary, Hugh continued to seek holes in the doctor’s assessment, gorging on information. No concrete validation emerged. Maybe she’s a little senile, he supposed. But Alzheimer’s? No way.

  Before going to sleep, Hugh pressed Eilish’s number, remembered they’d had a row and punched ‘End Call’. Old habits die hard.

  Chapter 6

  Saturday, 12 January

  Morning

  ‘Got a call last night. They’ve added another five thousand,’ Charlie told Ferdia.

  When he talked, a row of black stitches moved in unison across his swollen top lip. The lump on his forehead had reduced.

  ‘Told ya.’ Ferdia sat back. The armchair creaked under his weight. ‘So, fifteen K?’

  ‘Yes. I—’

  ‘Still on for nine o’clock Wednesday?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Grand. How long ’til you get out?’

  ‘Doctor said midweek.’ Charlie gestured at a newspaper. ‘If I stay here for a month or two, the economy might improve. Business okay?’

  ‘Doors are open, but this weather …’ Ferdia shrugged. ‘Was Malcolm in last night?’

  ‘He rang from the office. He’s had a talk with Milo. Told him the role wasn’t working out as we’d hoped, that we have to let him go. Tricky conversation, but the fact Mal’s prepared to take on those discussions gives me confidence. I told him to develop a thicker skin, so that’s a good start. I’m convinced he’s on track.’