My brain raced to come up with an excuse. ‘As a hard copy. I mean – duh. In case the computer system goes down.’
‘Uh huh,’ he said, sounding about as convinced as he ought to be. ‘So what’s with the notes in the margins, then? “Madra Lane – could this be an illegal puppy farm?” What the ...?’
I ran across the room and snatched the notebook from his hands. ‘You’re a terrible boss, do you know that?’
He sniggered. ‘Oh, don’t say that. You’re breaking my heart.’ He crossed back to my desk and made himself uncomfortable in my chair, then began to paw through all of my paperwork. ‘I knew you were up to something down here. I just knew it. You couldn’t just work out your probationary period like a normal person, could you? You’re back to your old conspiracy theory nonsense again.’
I looked away from him. As editors go, I really wished he would – go somewhere, anywhere else, as long as it was far away from me. ‘It’s not conspiracy nonsense,’ I said testily, crossing my arms. ‘It was never conspiracy nonsense. I’m making notes of place names in our classifieds section. Places that don’t actually exist. I think it could be code used by criminal gangs. Madra is Irish for dog, which is what made me think that Madra Lane could refer to an illegal puppy farm.’
‘Criminal gangs!’ he said with a sneer. ‘Criminal gangs! Ash, there are new housing developments going up all over Dublin, all the time. Just because you haven’t heard of a place doesn’t mean it doesn’t exist.’
He sat back, looking smug. He seemed to think he’d just said the smartest thing in the world.
‘I don’t assume that because I’ve never heard of a place it doesn’t exist,’ I said. ‘I know these places don’t exist because I’ve looked into it. Extensively. These addresses are not registered. These addresses do not exist.’
He kicked his chubby little legs up on my desk. ‘You know what went through my mind when I woke up this morning? I lay there in my bed, and I thought – I’m going to go and check on Ash today. Gonna take a trip downstairs and see how well she’s doing with her probation. If she’s being a model employee, I thought, then I might let her write some stories again. Within certain parameters, obviously. But if she’s up to any of her old tricks, I thought – seeing things where there’s nothing to be seen, wasting the newspaper’s time and money on wild goose chases – well then, I’m finally going to do what I’ve dreamt of doing since the day I met Aisling Smith. I’m going to fire her.’
I glared at him. I felt like hacking up some phlegm of my own – preferably in his direction. Not only had he told me he was about to fire me. He’d also slipped the disturbing image of him lying in bed into the mix. The dastardly knave. Now I was going to need to come up with some way of washing that picture out of my brain.
‘Fire me, then,’ I said, with about as much bravado as a rabbit at the end of a farmer’s gun. ‘There are a dozen other papers who’d love to have me on board. And as an investigative journalist, I might add. You know – that thing that I’m actually qualified to do.’
Sure, I thought. There were lots of papers hiring right now. Because print news was doing so well. Still, the Daily Dubliner was selling a decent amount of copies, so maybe John thought all papers were the same. He did seem like the self-involved sort.
He sniggered for a few minutes. Then he picked up my unicorn pen again, and used it to scratch his armpit. As he finished off, and moved the pen across his chest, I gasped. ‘You ... you … you put my pen down right now. Do not scratch your other armpit!’
He looked straight at me, and scratched.
Oh, the humanity. Or … the unicornity. Whatever it was called, it was a travesty.
‘Here,’ he said with a grin, holding the pen towards me. ‘I’m finished with it now. You can have it back.’
Oh, how I wanted to take that poor pen out of his hands and give it a decent burial. But much as I loved it, it was tainted now. And possibly carrying a few communicable diseases, as well.
‘You can keep it,’ I said, grabbing my bag and stalking across the floor.
For a moment he didn’t react – probably because he was too busy using the poor pen to scratch the inside of one of his ears. But once he’d waxed it up good and proper, he wobbled out of the chair and raced after me. ‘Hey!’ he called out. ‘Where do you think you’re going?’
I paused at the staircase. ‘Oh, I don’t know,’ I said. ‘Maybe for an early lunch. I mean, I can do what I like now, can’t I? Seeing as you’ve fired the best journalist you’ve ever had.’
His eyes bulged, and he clapped a hand over his mouth, struggling to hold his laughter inside. ‘Okay, let’s set your incredible ego aside for a moment. I didn’t say you were fired. I said I was going to fire you. And as much as I’d still like to do that, I don’t own this newspaper.’
I felt my nose scrunch up. Partially because he had just begun to chew my wax-covered, disease-ridden pen, and partially because I was confused. ‘Wait … what are you saying? I’m not fired?’
He shrugged. ‘I mean, if you’ve got better job offers – which I highly doubt – then you’re free to go. But no, unfortunately you’re not fired. The old man wants to have lunch with you today. And for reasons I will never understand, he actually wants to offer you a trial position that could lead to a promotion and a pay rise.’
My lashes were going a bit fluttery, what with all of the shock. I did my best to compose myself, and tossed my hair. ‘Oh. Well, of course he does. Why wouldn’t he?’
2. Let’s Go Round the Bend
As I walked to Capel Street, I tried to recall what little I knew of Arnold Albright. I’d only met him twice – once, when he bought the newspaper last July, and again when he briefly attended the staff Christmas party. He had white hair, pale blue eyes, and carried a cane everywhere he went. He seemed like your average sweet old man. But your average sweet old man didn’t own a newspaper – many newspapers, according to John. Behind that innocent smile he’d worn, I’d sensed something shrewd.
As I neared the café, one of my migraines began to come on. I say migraines because that’s what the doctor called them. There was no headache, just an odd blurring of my vision, like I was looking at the world through a hazy kaleidoscope. Ten separate tests told me I had perfect eyesight, so I had no choice but to accept my doc’s diagnosis.
The thing about these migraines, though, was that they were oddly specific. Take that very moment, for instance. The café, called Let’s Go Round the Bend, looked perfectly normal to me. As did the shop next door to it – an antique place called Times of Yore. But the drainpipe between the two exteriors. Now, that was shimmering.
I shook my head and looked again. Yep, the drainpipe was still shimmering. Not only was it shimmering, but I could have sworn a guy just walked out through the drainpipe.
‘Get it together, Ash,’ I muttered. ‘It’s nerves, that’s all it is. You need to believe in yourself. You deserve a better job.’
I wasn’t so sure John would agree.
I took a deep breath, crossed the road, and entered Let’s Go Round the Bend. Although I was early, Arnold was already there, sitting at a table by the window. I took a seat across from him, taking him in – he was wearing gold, round-rimmed eyeglasses. He had his usual cane with him – it looked hand-carved, with a golden spiral running along the wood. He had been reading from a small, spiral-bound notebook, but he closed it as soon as I entered and smiled up at me.
‘Miss Smith,’ he said warmly. ‘Forgive me for not standing up to greet you. I have age-appropriate hips.’
I laughed a little, and sat down across from him.
‘I took the liberty of ordering,’ he went on. ‘I hope you don’t mind. But I did make sure it was your favourite – minestrone soup.’ He pushed a cup of coffee towards me. ‘And I got you a drink, too.’
‘Thank you,’ I said. ‘But how did you know I liked minestrone?’
He patted his nose. ‘I’ve been a newspaperman all my life, Mis
s Smith. I make it my business to know everything about the people who work for me. After all, it’s a serious business, a newspaper. Say a group of armed men took over some government or other right now. Why, one paper could report that they were rebels, fighting for their freedom. Another could paint them as terrorists, and a scourge to be destroyed. I like to know if my writers have agendas.’
The waitress arrived with our food. Arnold seemed to have ordered the minestrone for himself as well. I waited until it was all laid out before replying. ‘Sure,’ I said. ‘I agree that it’s important to know who’s working for you. Although it’s usually the owners of media companies who get to spin the narrative, not the lowly journalists. And also – I doubt my taste in soup tells you an awful lot about me other than the fact that I like smoked paprika.’
He paused, his spoon halfway to his mouth. ‘You’d be surprised, Miss Smith. It tells me a lot, in fact. It tells me that you have the same favourite soup as me. It was my daughter’s favourite, too.’
‘Oh. Well … that’s good to know,’ I said, beginning to eat. I mean, I suppose it wasn’t the strangest conversation I’d had that week. It definitely wasn’t the strangest conversation I’d had that day. But just because it wasn’t the strangest didn’t mean it wasn’t strange.
We ate in silence for a few minutes. The soup was delicious, nicer than any minestrone I’d ever had. As I scraped the last of it from my bowl, I said, ‘The food’s great here. You chose a good place.’
‘Oh?’ His brows shot up to his hairline. ‘You like it? You feel … comfortable … here?’
‘Of course I do. Who wouldn’t? I’m going to add it to my list of great places to eat.’
‘Oh, that does make me happy.’ He smiled, sitting back as the waitress collected our bowls. ‘I’ve ordered Mississippi mud pie for dessert.’
Wow, he really had been doing his research. Favourite soup. Favourite dessert. Any moment now he was going to start listing off David Bowie songs. As nice as it was that he’d made an effort to find out about me, I was wondering when he was going to start talking about the job.
‘You grew up in the system, I believe,’ he said, sipping his coffee. ‘And you were placed with quite a lot of foster families over the years.’
It took me a moment to calm my thoughts down, let alone even think about replying. ‘So is that why you’re considering me for this mysterious new job, then?’ I asked. ‘It’s a charity thing? Because I have to tell you, Mr Albright, I don’t need anyone’s charity. I’ve managed quite all right on my own for the past twenty-nine years.’
My voice was shaking, and my hands too, so I can see why you might be thinking I have a few unresolved childhood issues.
‘Forgive me. I didn’t mean to be insensitive,’ he said. ‘It’s the reporter in me, you see. I always found the human interest aspect the most worthwhile to write about. Something the readers can relate to. And your story is particularly fascinating. You were left in front of a hospital, I believe. You were almost two at the time – although that’s only an educated guess on the doctors’ behalves. You could be twenty-nine. It seems like the safest estimate. But you could also be twenty-eight, or thirty … I wonder, have you ever tried to trace the woman who abandoned you?’
I pulled the sugar and milk towards me, spilling a liberal amount of each into my coffee. I didn’t actually like sugar or milk in my coffee, but I didn’t need to drink it, I just needed something to do while I tried to keep my cool. ‘No. I’ve never tried to trace her.’
His head tilted to the side and he looked intently at me. ‘Really? How fascinating. I’ve read your work, Miss Smith. Your journalistic instinct is clearly strong, and yet you’ve resisted solving this mystery. Why, you don’t even know your real date of birth. Nor your actual name.’
Was I really going to keep sitting here, I wondered? Either this man wanted a pet project, or he was seriously sadistic. Either way, I didn’t think he was a man I wanted to know. ‘I do know my name. My mother – or whoever abandoned me – left a note around my neck. It said, “This is my little girl. Her name is Aisling. Please make sure she knows I love her very much.”’ As I spoke, I kept my voice as steady as I could.
‘Ah, yes.’ He nodded. ‘Aisling. The name means vision. A beautiful name. I couldn’t have chosen better myself, given the chance.’
I took a sip of the sweet, milky coffee, trying not to gag. ‘John said it ought to mean visions of the impending apocalypse.’
‘Yes. John does seem to have taken a bit of a dislike to you. He has you working in the basement, I believe. Arranging the classified ads, the death notices, that sort of thing.’
I took another sip. ‘Oh. You know about that. Well then …’
He smiled up at the waitress for a moment, as she set our desserts down. ‘Could you bring us some more coffee, my dear? My guest has accidentally poured milk and sugar into hers, and she’s having a bit of trouble keeping it down.’ He turned back to me. ‘Why am I offering you a chance at this promotion? Well, it’s quite simple. I’ve been following your work.’ He opened the notebook, and pulled out some folded-up news articles. ‘Read this one out to me, would you?’ He passed the first article my way.
As I looked down at it, I gulped. Yes, it was one of mine all right. The last one, in fact, that John had let me write.
Dublin: City of Vice or City of Vampires?
Last night, while taking a shortcut through an alley off Bachelors Walk, a young woman was viciously attacked. Luckily, the attacker was disturbed by a crowd of people journeying down the same alley. She has yet to be caught.
Yes, you read that right, folks. Alison Shannon was attacked by another young woman, a woman who Alison described as, ‘Stunningly beautiful, in a Transylvanian sort of way. Wearing a lot of eyeliner and dark lipstick.’
Alison is now recovering at home, feeling very weak. She told this reporter, ‘I swear she was trying to take a bite out of my neck. I think she might have been a vampire.’
I read the article aloud, keeping my eyes on the page, terrified to see Arnold’s reaction. John had laughed his socks off when I submitted this one. Well, actually, he hadn’t been wearing socks that day (I guess he felt like stinking his shoes out even more than usual) but if he had been wearing them, he would have laughed them off.
When I finished reading, Arnold passed me the second article. ‘And this,’ he said, ‘is the same article with John’s edits. Would you please read it aloud?’
Holding back a sigh, I read John’s version.
Last night, while taking a shortcut through an alley off Bachelors Walk, a young woman was almost mugged. Luckily, the would-be mugger was disturbed by a crowd of people journeying down the same alley.
The mugger was most likely a drug-addict, looking for money for the next fix. The suspect has not yet been caught.
I finally looked at Arnold. His expression was completely blank. ‘Are you going to say the same as John, then? That my story was ridiculous? Because as much as I want to impress you today, I’m not going to agree with John’s opinion. My story was not ridiculous. My story was exactly what journalism should be. It was the full, unbiased truth.’
He didn’t say anything for a moment. He was quickly leafing through the little notebook, his lips moving slightly as he read. ‘John gave you ten written warnings before he moved you to the basement, I believe,’ he said eventually. ‘There was the time when you reported that a woman saw a wolf in her front garden. John asked you to change wolf into big dog, you argued your point, and he issued you with a warning. There was another instance where you reported that a security guard on his way home through the Phoenix Park had seen a Golden Labrador change into a man. Again, John felt the need to edit your article.’ He laughed. ‘I believe that in one of his reports to me, John suggested you might be better off writing fantasy novels.’
I felt my face redden as he listed off more of the stories I’d submitted to John. ‘Well, when you read them all out like that, I can se
e why it appears there’s a bit of a pattern,’ I said. ‘But I stand by what I said to you a moment ago. I was reporting the facts. I was doing my job.’
He closed the notebook, crossing his palms and placing them on top, his eyes looking steadily at mine. ‘It’s clear that you’ve been reporting nothing other than what you’ve been told,’ he said. ‘But … do you ever see these kinds of things? Vampires, werewolves and the like?’
My second cup of coffee had arrived, and I picked the sugar up and began to pour. Stuff him, anyway. He didn’t know everything about me. I could grow to like sugar in my coffee. In fact, I was going to make myself like sugar in my coffee just to spite him.
‘I see what this is now,’ I said. ‘You’re a rich old man, and you want to make some sort of a difference before you die. You want to help people – people you think are pathetic, like me.’ I furiously stirred the coffee, the spoon clanging loudly against the cup. ‘Well, I’m not pathetic, thank you very much,’ I said, standing up and gathering up my things. ‘I don’t need you to offer me a new position in your empire just because you feel sorry for me. Or because you think I have mental health issues. Which I do not. I don’t see vampires, or werewolves, or whatever else you said. I’ve told you before and I’ll tell you again. I’m a reporter. Therefore, I report.’
Okay, so I had been convinced I saw a vampire at the spa that one time. But like I told John, I was doing a cleanse. I’d had nothing but cucumber water for that entire day.
‘Please,’ Arnold said, reaching out for my hand. ‘This is nothing like that. I apologise once again. I never should have brought your past into things. Will you sit back down?’
I eyed him warily. I still couldn’t shake the feeling that I was this man’s pet project, but dignity didn’t pay the rent. Reluctantly, I sat back down.
A Magical Trio Page 17
