‘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 see 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.
‘Look, I do have a promotion available at the moment, and I really would like you to try out for the position. It was my daughter’s job, you see.’ He opened his wallet, showing me a photograph. Inside there was a woman with strawberry blonde hair and pale blue eyes. ‘You remind me a little
of her,’ he said. ‘And I don’t mean the hair or the eyes – although yours are very similar. It’s the forthrightness in your manner. And the way you strive to get to the truth of the matter at all times. I think you could do very well in this role.’
I pulled my eyes away from the picture. My hair hadn’t got quite so much strawberry mixed in with the blonde, but I could see why he thought there were similarities. ‘Why has your daughter left the job?’ I wondered. ‘Has she been promoted? Or moved to another of your papers?’
He shook his head. ‘She’s writing crime novels now,’ he said. ‘And she’s loving every minute of it. She’s tried to juggle the Daily Riddler and her own writing career, but it’s no longer feasible.’ He closed his wallet and put it in his breast pocket. ‘I need to be upfront, though, Miss Smith. Other journalists have tried out for the position, and none have been successful. The Daily Riddler isn’t your everyday paper. We need a certain sort of person there. I’m hoping you’ll be that person, but I’ve hoped the same before. So there’ll be a trial period involved. One week is the amount of time I’ve allotted for this. All of your travel expenses will be paid, along with your room and board.’ He took a spoonful of his mud pie, a smile of satisfaction on his face as he tasted the dessert. ‘So you see,’ he said once he’d swallowed. ‘This is not an act of charity on my part. Not at all. If it doesn’t work out, you’ll go back to the Daily Dubliner.’
I tried to eat some of my own dessert, but the coffee had made me sick to my stomach. Instead I moved it around the bowl, digesting everything he’d said. ‘I’ve never heard of the Daily Riddler. And you mentioned travel and room and board. Where exactly is this job based?’
He stopped eating and looked hopefully my way. ‘Are you saying you’ll take part in the trial?’
‘Maybe,’ I replied with a shrug. ‘Even though you have just made it sound like doctors in white coats are about to experiment on me. But … where is this job? And could I see a copy of the Daily Riddler?’
He pushed his empty bowl away and looked through his notebook once again. ‘It’s in Riddler’s Edge,’ he said. ‘A lovely coastal town on the west of Ireland. You’ll love it, I’m sure. And no, I don’t have a copy of the Daily Riddler to hand at the moment, but you’ll find it quite the interesting little paper. Or at least I hope so.’ He pulled a page from his notebook and passed it my way. ‘Everything you need to know is written down,’ he said, opening his wallet again and throwing a wad of notes onto the table. ‘Now, I’ve really got to be elsewhere. It was truly fascinating to meet you, Miss Smith. I hope to see you again.’
Before I could ask anything more, he picked up his cane and strode out of the café. I spun in my seat, looking out the window. But he sure moved fast for a guy with age-appropriate hips, because he was already gone.
3. Life Is But A Dream
The thing about growing up in the care system, is that you don’t tend to accrue much stuff. Sure, you want stuff. You covet stuff. You might well drool at shelves full of books, wardrobes stuffed with clothes, and beds covered with cushions and cuddly toys galore. But you know that when the latest foster family have decided you’re a bit strange, you won’t get to take much more than one suitcase to the next family – who are also going to think you’re a bit strange.
And old habits die hard, as the cliché goes. I’d gone through my adulthood in much the same way as my formative years. So when I arrived on the platform at Heuston Station the following Monday, I had one suitcase, a laptop bag, and a handbag. It was all that I’d need for a one-week stay, but it also happened to be everything I owned in the world.
I had checked and re-checked the timetable, oh, about a hundred times since Arnold Albright gave me my instructions. Much as I wished I was wrong, there was only one train going to Riddler’s Edge that day, and it was leaving at five a.m. – so if I wanted to be on time for my meeting with the paper’s editor, then getting up at crazy o’clock was a bit of a necessity.
The train was already there when I arrived. A stout man with a moustache and a whistle was marching up and down, saying, ‘Last call for Riddler’s Edge! Last Call for the Riddler’s Express!’
Last Call? I glanced at my wristwatch, then at the clock on my phone just to be sure. It was ten minutes to five.
I looked at the train. It had a definite air of impatience about it, but I wish I could say that was the most remarkable quality. The train was old. Verging on antique. It sure wasn’t expecting a lot of passengers, either. There were only two carriages.
‘This is the train for Riddler’s Edge?’ I asked. ‘It looks … well … it looks …’ I paused, trying to think of a polite way to say that it looked like an exhibit from an old-timey museum. ‘It looks … I mean, it’s a long journey, isn’t it? Is this train up to the job?’
The man looked me up and down and said, ‘You getting on or what? Train’s about to leave the station.’
I readjusted my stance, preparing to ask him why he was being so rude – I mean, it would have been fine for him to be ornery if I was actually late, but not when I was ten minutes early. He blew the whistle right in my face before I could work up a decent amount of bluster, then moved even closer to me and shouted, ‘Doors are about to close on the Riddler’s Express!’
I’m not usually one to stand down from an argument. Foster-mother number three, in fact, described me as a stubborn little goat. I found it a bit unfair at the time, I’ve got to say. I mean sure, a lot of kids think they want to run away with the circus. But I doubted a single one of those kids would have wanted to be in her circus. She was an elephant trainer. We disagreed about her methods, and I might have set some of the elephants free – and taken some footage of her training methods so that she’d never get to work with elephants again.
But I digress. Yeah, I was never one to stand down from an argument, and I really wanted to argue with this whistle-blower. And if the doors hadn’t actually been closing, I might have told him precisely where he could stick his whistle. I settled for glowering in his general direction and picked up my suitcase, running onto the train. I was barely on board before the door shut behind me with a clang.
I looked around, feeling a tad wobbly after the exchange. I appeared to be in the train’s dining car. A dining car that had a distinctly Poirot-esque quality. The tables were laid with white linen, and sparkling glasses and silverware were ready and waiting. For what, though? There was only one other woman in the carriage, and whilst I could imagine some passengers from the other carriage might fancy a snack sooner or later, did they really want silver service with their doughnuts and coffee?
I glanced at the other passenger. She was all wrapped up in black and wearing a pair of designer sunglasses. She waved over at me and patted the seat next to her. ‘You must be the new reporter,’ she said. ‘Come and sit next to me.’
Seeing as the train had begun to lurch beneath me, I was going to need to sit somewhere, so it might as well be there. Although I couldn’t see her face (her scarf and hat covered everything the sunglasses had left behind) her voice sounded old. I lugged my bags across and sat down. ‘I’m Ash,’ I said, extending a hand.
Her own gloved hands wrapped warmly around mine, and she said, ‘I’m Bathsheba, my dear. It’s very nice to meet you.’
She pulled a Thermos from her bag. ‘Don’t worry, I don’t drink this early,’ she said, laughing. ‘It’s just coffee. My husband makes me three flasks every time I have to go to Dublin for my medical treatment. One for the journey there, one to have in the hospital, and one for the journey back. He’d much rather come along with me, but I won’t let him. He knows how much I hate my condition, and that I’d rather go through the treatment on my own, so he does the only nice thing that I’ll let him do. He gives me a lovely kiss, then sends me on my way with the best coffee in the world. I’d offer you some, but I take quite a lot of sugar.’
‘That’s okay,’ I said as I watched her slowly sip the drink. I wasn’t about to ask her what she
was doing in hospital, or the fact that I couldn’t see even an inch of her skin, so I decided to ask her something less personal instead. ‘It must be a very fancy Thermos,’ I said. ‘How long does it keep drinks warm?’
‘Oh, at least two days,’ she replied. ‘Now, don’t go getting disappointed when you get off the train. Riddler’s Edge isn’t a big town, but it’s a good place to live. I don’t actually live there myself – my house is in another town close by. But I’m staying there at the moment, and it really isn’t as boring as it looks, so give it a chance. I’d love to see you stay longer than the last three journalists Arnold hired.’
I bit my lip. So she knew Arnold? I’d better tread carefully, then. ‘Um, yeah. He mentioned he’d trialled a few people for the position before me. I guess his daughter’s shoes are kind of big to fill.’
‘Big?’ She shook her head. ‘Try enormous. But you have a nice look about you. I think you’ll fit right in.’
I was just about to reply when the most surly-looking guy I’d ever seen arrived at the table. He was about eighteen or nineteen, with pale skin and red-rimmed eyes, and an expression that said he’d rather be anywhere but here. He was wearing a short-sleeved shirt that seemed to be made entirely of stains, and he had a silk scarf wrapped around his neck. ‘I suppose you’ll be needing a red smoothie soon,’ he said to Bathsheba.
I heard the old woman gulp, and her voice was shaky when she spoke. ‘Yes, Gunnar. That would be lovely.’
He grunted, jotted her order down and turned to me. ‘What’ll you have?’
‘Is there a menu?’ I asked.
As the train jerked on the tracks, his silk scarf slipped from his neck. He tied it in place almost immediately, but not before I’d managed to see an enormous tattoo, wrapping its way all around his neck. ‘Vlad’s Boys?’ I read. ‘Is that a band?’
A Little Bit Witchy (A Riddler's Edge Cozy Mystery #1) Page 2
