by Eoghan Egan
Afternoon
Hugh listened to Radio Nova’s ‘battle of the bands’ on the journey back to Ganestown. Greenday versus Blink 182. Greenday won the phone-in vote by a ten to one majority.
A strong wind had risen by the time he reached the outskirts of the town. Despite the sleety squall, children roamed the slushy ground in Ganestown Park, using their bodies to anchor kites. Hugh circled the square and found a parking spot. Dozens of people milled inside the social welfare office. Different faces, but the stench of subdued hopelessness prevailed. Two staff, barricaded behind their pexiglassed partitions, fought to deal with the job seekers and keep the queue winding forward. Hugh punched out a ticket and glanced at Ronan Lambe hunched over a hatch. When Ronan moved away, Hugh caught his eye and waved.
Ronan held up a single pamphlet. ‘Research, dude, for courses I can enrol in.’
Hugh lifted his envelope. ‘Dole forms.’
‘Yeah. I’ve given in mine. Any news on the jobs front?’
‘Got turned down for a job interview.’
‘Bummer, dude. I feel your pain.’
‘507,’ a voice roared behind them.
‘That’s me,’ Hugh said. ‘If you get wind of any vacant sales management positions …’
‘Ditto, dude.’
‘5.0.7.’ Annoyed now.
‘God, we never get a break. You’ve got the sour one, dude.’
‘Thanks. See ya.’
The sour one glared. ‘This isn’t a club. If you wanna socialise, find a bar.’
‘Sorry.’ Hugh fed the documents into a bowl-shaped space at the bottom of the glass partition and tried to ignore the conversation at the next hatch. People lifted their heads; a reprieve from their own misery.
‘Where do I go now?’ The man’s voice grew in volume. ‘I’m blue in the face askin’ what ’n’ hell I’ve to do next. Dear God, is there no one who’ll tell me where I am in the system? Six weeks ago, I came in an’ asked ’bout money for courses. You said you didn’t know, go to FÁS. I went to FÁS. They told me to come back here an’ get a form to show them I’m eligible. I came back here. No forms; you were waitin’ for a new batch. In the end, I got it an’ brought it to FÁS. “Bring it back to the dole office,” they said, “an’ get it stamped.” I brought it back here. “Take it back to FÁS,” you said. They stamped it as well. Now they’ve sent me back to you. I’m mithered from all this over and back. Me head’s meltin’. I need dizziness tablets after all this up and down like a … a—’
‘Language.’
‘—fucken yo-yo.’
‘Tsk. It isn’t FÁS anymore, it’s Solas. Anyhow,’ the administrator smiled with the professional insincerity of a politician, ‘you don’t qualify.’
‘What?’
‘You don’t qualify.’
‘Why?’
‘You’re between Jobseekers Benefit and Jobseekers Allowance.’
‘What the fu …? You. Cannot. Be serious. You mean, all that weeks of shite? Jezz … sus.’
‘You’ll hafta fill out this form, and sign …’
The man howled at the injustice of the system.
Hugh watched the woman pore over his signed forms and key the information into a mainframe computer. She typed with her left forefinger and saved the data by banging the heel of her right hand on the “Enter” key.
‘What’s next in the process?’ he asked.
‘Dunno. Depends if they need more information.’
‘What information?’
‘Dunno,’ the woman said.
‘Any idea when—?’
‘Dunno.’
Hugh gave up.
‘And turn up on your sign-on days. Or else.’
‘When are sign-on days?’
‘Dunno.’
‘Is it the same day each week?’
‘Dunno. Take this to the post office, Wednesday.’ The woman pushed out a postcard-sized sheet. ‘You’ll get your money there. This’s a provisional form. We’ll post you out another.’
‘I hope this is a short-term solution,’ Hugh said.
The woman snorted. ‘Next.’
-----
Invalid person search. Please search again.
Adam Styne growled in frustration.
Bitch. You won’t beat me. Facebook. Are you on Facebook, Miss Waters?
Sharona’s Facebook page showed her leaning against a red door. He zoomed in. House number 29.
Where is that in Ganestown?
His eyes skimmed photos for clues.
None.
Have you registered to vote, Miss Waters?
Styne typed “register of elections,” and got directed to “CHECK THE ELECTORAL REGISTER.” He tapped on Province and County Council and typed in Sharona Waters. In the box marked Town/Street he inputted Ganestown, and in House Number he added 29. The drop-down menu gave him a list of nine locations.
Selected the first.
Your details could not be found…
Reasons your details could not be located…
Click here to fill in form RFA2 …
He pressed “undo” and clicked the next location.
And the next.
And the next.
Three-quarter ways along the list, the screen revealed:
Sharona Waters.
Click on name to view details.
29 Mountain View …
‘See? There are always choices, Miss Waters. All one has to do, is search until you find the most appropriate.’
Styne rang the solicitor. ‘I’ve another matter to deal with tonight. We’ll meet tomorrow afternoon to discuss tactics.’
‘I’ve already left, Adam. As I said earlier, we should build defence walls. I’ve cleared my diary to make myself available—’
‘Good. Book yourself into Tullamore Court Hotel and start work. I’ll meet you tomorrow afternoon.’ Styne disconnected and phoned a local mechanic. ‘Adam Styne here. A tube has burst on my Hitachi. It’s essential my machine gets fixed today. Cattle need feeding.’
‘It’ll work if you split the bale—’
‘Today.’
The migraine was a force ten, but Styne embraced the pain, relishing the release later. Unable to concentrate on business, he withdrew to the farm. Gusts of northerly winds buffeted the barns. He plugged the stun gun into a socket and toiled for three hours. The strenuous manual work exhausted him, made arm and shoulder muscles weak as water. He checked the Taser was working by pressing it against a cow’s rump. The docile bovine bellowed in surprise as the current flooded her system. She lashed out and galloped across the shed, lowing in pain.
Styne’s smiled.
Preparation complete. I’ll go to the farmhouse and rest, before revisiting Ganestown.
Evening
After spending an hour at the hospital, Hugh returned to his own home, switched on the heating, and remembered the oil was low.
Another bill.
He cranked up the volume on Rammstein’s VOLKERbALL and let the Teutonic titans dislodge lingering money concerns, while he gathered Eilish’s leftover clothes and placed them in boxes for donation to a charity shop. He thought her scent was still on the bedsheets but knew it was more a memory than an actual presence. The only physical reminders were a shallow dent in her pillow and a single strand of red hair. He swallowed the thickness in his throat, bundling bed linen into the washing machine; the simple action more a challenge than he’d thought possible. The dream had disappeared. Banished forever. Finis.
He made a coffee and strolled outside. Till Lindemann’s guttural vocals, along with the band’s blend of industrial keyboards, synthesisers and grinding guitar sounds, followed him. January’s sun sank low over the horizon, while long shadows fought to retain their grip on the carpet of snow. A shower of hailstones signalling hard frost later sent him indoors, and he sorted through photo albums that evoked memories of their time together. Sharona rang and broke the trance. ‘Did you watch me on telly? How’d I sound?’
‘Didn’t ge
t any news today, Sharona. I’ll tune in at nine o’clock and give you my verdict.’
‘Hope I came across okay. God, what a crazy day, but in a good way. I’m heading home. Past the Boyne Valley Bridge now.’
‘I’d say you’re exhausted.’
‘Wrecked. My kingdom for a long soak in a hot bath. Haven’t slept since last Thursday. Dorothy’s a dynamo. She’s generating massive publicity for her art auction. Woman’s a born marketeer. Oh, the media circus has decamped, and moved their tents to Hattinger’s headquarters on Belfast’s Ann Street. Tomorrow is their turn in the spotlight. Let them cope with being the focus of interest.’ Sharona yawned. ‘Can’t wait for my own bed and a twenty-four-hour deep sleep.’
‘Me too. Safe journey.’
‘Phone me after the news. I want your feedback on how I came across.’
‘Will do.’
Hugh browsed, threw most of the photos into a box for disposal, but kept a few dozen, and a flash drive with GIF’s and JPEG’s. Some memories he couldn’t consign to a rubbish bin. Part of Eilish would always remain.
After the nine o’clock news, Hugh rang Sharona.
‘You home yet?’
‘An hour ago. Checked my emails. Listen, can we meet tomorrow? I’ve noticed something weird in my email account.’
‘Sure.’
‘Great. How’d I come across?’
‘In a word? Professional. As if you’d been in front of a camera forever. Your face is everywhere. An all-channel global launch because of Hattinger’s international reputation, and Dorothy’s praise. You’re the heroine of the hour.’
‘Still hasn’t sunk in,’ Sharona said. ‘Everything that’s happened in the past few days, I mean. It’s—’
Through the phone, Hugh heard a door buzzer peal.
‘Oh, dammit,’ Sharona said. ‘Who’s that?’
‘Probably an early election canvasser. Or Jehovah’s Witnesses’.’
‘God. One sec, Hugh. I’ll get rid of them.’
Hugh rinsed his empty coffee mug, half-listening to Sharona’s steps on the stairs, the tinny rattle of a safety chain unlatching. ‘Mr Sty—?’
Her surprised tone made him straighten. ‘Sharona? You okay? Sharona?’ Hugh grabbed car keys. ‘Sharona?’ He was outside when Sharona’s mobile clattered, and the call disconnected. He turned the ignition key. Symbols that routinely lit up the dashboard remained blank.
‘Start. Start this one time. Start.’
Hugh pumped the clutch, twisted the key again. The engine coughed once and died. He gritted his teeth, tried again, ramming the clutch pedal. Nothing.
‘Fuck.’
He leapt from the car and kicked the front tyre, forgetting he was wearing tennis shoes. An arrow of pain pierced his toe.
‘Fuck.’
Hugh limped down the driveway, stared through trees at his neighbour’s house. Dark. Nobody home. He pressed Sharona’s number. Went straight to message minder. Punched Ferdia’s speed dial button. Engaged. Dialled Ganestown Garda Station. No answer. He scrolled through P. Q. R…
Ruth.
He stabbed her number and shambled along the road, hopping on the heel of his sore foot. The tennis shoes slipped and slid on the icy surface. Ruth’s phone rang. He prayed she’d answer.
‘Hugh?’
‘Ruth. I’ve an emergency—’
‘Is it Kathleen? How can I help?’
‘She’s fine. Can you collect me?’
‘Where are you?’
Battling for breath, Hugh gasped the quickest route. Each red-hot rasp burned as if a blunt blade had carved his chest. He’d covered a kilometre before Ruth caught up. Winded, panting, soaked with sweat, lungs burning, leg muscles searing, foot throbbing, he buckled himself into Ruth’s Corsa and pointed towards Ganestown. ‘Totally … out of shape. Head for Mountain View. Trouble, I think. Need to join a gym.’
‘I knew you wouldn’t wait a week to contact me,’ Ruth teased. ‘What’s happening?’
‘Problem at Sharona Waters’ house.’
Ruth zipped through an orange traffic light.
Hugh dialled Ganestown Garda Station.
The desk sergeant remembered Hugh. ‘We spoke yesterday. Garda Flanagan. Your mother—’
Hugh cut in: ‘I’ve another problem now in Mountain View. 29. Sharona Waters. A friend of mine. Someone’s broken into her house—’
‘Mountain View you said? There’s a cruiser on patrol out that direction. A meet ’n’ greet for the boyos doing doughnuts on icy roads. I’ll get the lads to swing by and see what the story is.’
Hugh directed Ruth into Mountain View estate.
Oncoming full headlights blinded them. Ruth braked and pulled in to let the car pass, then swung by the parked vehicles and stopped at 29.
Hugh jumped out, groaned in pain when his foot hit the ground.
Sharona’s car was in her driveway, the house in darkness. His eyes skimmed the area, saw where a vehicle had reversed in, and driven out, its tyre tracks preserved in crusted ice. He rang Sharona’s mobile again.
Nothing.
Hugh hobbled to the front door, the streetlight picking up footprints in the snow. He avoided a scuffed area that looked as if something had got dragged from the house, and banged on the door. ‘Sharona?’
No answer.
He peered in the letterbox, eyes searching the dark hallway. He pounded the door again.
‘There’s no one there,’ Ruth said. ‘Are you sure she was at home?’
‘She was here five minutes ago, checking emails, and … that car …’
‘Which car?’
‘The car we met. The lights that nearly blinded us?’
‘Yeah?’
‘An Offaly reg Beemer.’
‘Was it? I didn’t notice. So?’
‘I know that car. Adam Styne.’
‘Who’s Adam Styne?’
‘An art dealer. I heard Sharona say a name, “Mr Sty”, before … Let’s go.’ Hugh hopped back into Ruth’s Corsa.
‘Wait. Go where?’
‘We need to follow that Beemer and stall him.’
‘What?’
‘I’ll fill you in on the way.’
Ruth reversed and sped out of the estate. ‘What in hell’s happening? Where are we going? That car’s miles away by now.’
In the side mirror, Hugh glimpsed a squad car, blue lights spinning, turn into Mountain View.
‘Phone the cops again,’ Ruth said.
Hugh did. No signal. ‘Shit. I was on the phone to Sharona. Her doorbell rang. I’m sure she said Mr Styne, or was trying to—’
‘Where now?’ Ruth slowed coming up to a roundabout.
‘Motorway,’ Hugh said. ‘No, take the Tullamore exit.’
The car see-sawed over a speed bump and onto the ramp.
‘Styne lives outside Tullamore. Kilcormac. That’s our best shot.’
‘God, that’s … ring the Garda station again.’
Hugh dialled. Engaged. ‘I’m almost positive I heard her say Styne’s name.’
‘You were sure a second ago.’
‘Sty. Styne. I know only one person with the surname Styne. S-T-Y-N-E. I met him briefly Saturday night. Adam Styne. Detectives are investigating the company he works with, for art fraud. Sharona Waters helped break the case.’
‘Hattinger’s.’ Ruth snapped her fingers. ‘That’s where I recognised her name from. I got the tail end of her interview on RTÉ—’
‘If it’s the same Styne. It must be. Hasn’t it? It’s an unusual surname. And the car—’
‘She might know fifty people with a similar sounding name, but how’d she disappear so fast? Did she go with him?’
‘Not willingly.’
‘How do you know?’
‘That, I’m positive of.’
‘Well then, he must’ve taken her. Kidnapped her. God. Why?’
‘Maybe it’s to do with the art racket.’ Hugh massaged the pain from his leg.
‘How—?’
‘Two, two something.’ Hugh said. ‘That car number plate was two, two … God, it won’t come to me.’
‘How’d you manage to spot that?’ Ruth passed an artic lorry; Richard West International Haulage.
‘I saw it leaving a hotel car park yesterday morning. Two, two … Jesus.’ Hugh redialled the Garda station. ‘If we don’t catch up with him between here and Kilcormac—’
‘If he’s gone that direction. He could be—’
‘It’s the only lead we’ve … It’s ringing. Why won’t somebody answer?’ Hugh strained to see beyond the headlights burning through the darkness. ‘There.’ He pointed at distant fog lights. ‘That’s him.’
The phone rang out.
Desperate now, Hugh pressed Ferdia’s number. “The customer you are calling is not reachable at present. Please try again later.” Aww, Jesus wept.’
Ruth changed into fourth gear. The speedometer gauge climbed to seventy.
A kilometre further.
The gauge hit eighty.
Another kilometre closed the distance.
An Audi A4.
‘Shit.’
Ruth sped on, odometer needle now in the red. ‘So, at least we can assume this Styne guy can tell us where Sharona is. If he was at the house, he’s the last person with her.’
‘He was. He abducted her.’ Hugh nodded, convincing himself.
‘You can’t be certain,’ Ruth said. She held the steering wheel in a death grip, concentrating with the intensity of an F1 driver. ‘God, I hate that word, abducted. Anybody you know who’d have his address? Street? House number?’
‘Styne’s brother-in-law told us he lives in Kilcormac,’ Hugh said. ‘A house on the Kinnitty road. His wife is Madeline. Madeline Hattinger.’
‘Anything else?’
‘Two, two … shit, why can’t I remember? Two, two, five … I think. That’s all I’ve got.’
‘I could call a colleague in Tullamore hospital and get the Records department to find his details.’
‘Can you do that?’
‘Not sure it’s legal, but yeah. This’s an emergency. Here.’ Ruth tossed Hugh her mobile. ‘Zero-five-zero—’
‘You’ve no reception.’ Hugh checked his phone screen. ‘Jesus, I’ve no signal either.’
‘Crap.’ Ruth slapped the wheel.
Four more kilometres.
They tore through a bend. The Corsa’s frame juddered, and Tullamore lit up the horizon.
