by G D Sheehen
“You fuck me on this, things will end very badly for you and ‘little miss save the world charity shop girl’. You understand?”
“Yes.”
“Now, tell me exactly where it is?”
He left him raise his head, never turning the gun from facing him. Philip pointed straight ahead, relieved that there was a hydrant in the same location as on the third floor.
“It’s behind the red firebox over there. You’ll have to shimmy it out a little. It’s stuffed in a little crevice behind it.”
“You don’t even think about moving from here. I’m not finished with you.”
At that moment he wasn’t afraid of getting cut up by Ray’s razor. He was fearful, however, that Ray had something worse planned for him that would prevent him from finding the answers he needed, for reasons that were becoming blurred.
Ray got out of the car nimbly and locked the central locking before taking a single step. He stuffed the gun into the back of his jeans and headed towards the hydrant.
Philip formed a plan to unlock the door, open it and dash for the shopping centre all in a single breath. Doubt smothered him that he could pull it off, but it was his only chance.
Ray glanced back just before he reached the hydrant and put his index finger to his lips in a shushing gesture. He turned and shoved his hand down the back of the red box.
Philip made his move. He put one hand on the lock, the other on the handle. A long, deep breath, then heaved.
Ray turned as soon as the car door swung open and shouted, “Hey, get the fuck back in there.”
Philip was at the door within two seconds. He barged in, dazzled by the bright lights, and ran down the hall towards the escalator. Ray bounced out the door shortly after him. When he was halfway down the escalator he looked up to see Ray still at the door, scanning the shopping centre below, between keeping an eye on Philip.
Philip crossed the hall until he was standing directly under him. He knew Ray wouldn’t be stupid enough to fire a shot in a crowded shopping centre or make any kind of scene.
“Ray, I promise I’ll give it to you tomorrow, but I have to do what I came here to do first. I can’t let you stop that. Please don’t go near her. You can do what you want with me tomorrow. I’ll meet you back at the bus station at five.”
Without hesitation, Philip raced for the third-floor entrance to the car park, luckily finding it to be devoid of people. He reached the fire hydrant within seconds and stuffed the package into his pocket. Then he was confronted with his next predicament. Should he go back through the shopping centre and risk bumping straight into Ray, or should he take his chances heading down the fire exit staircase of the carpark and be a sitting duck if he happened to reach the street level at the same time as Ray was exiting the car park in the Mercedes.
He decided the shopping centre would be the best option, more doorways to make a break for if Ray spotted him.
“You’ll never escape this,” came the voice, now taking on a new reality after his conversation with Walsh.
He slipped out the door he came in and had a quick look around, but saw no sign of Ray. He briskly went down the escalators and made his way to the ground floor, always wary that Ray could apprehend him at any moment.
On the ground floor, he took the back entrance to where he recalled taxis usually waited to pick up a fare. He jumped in a golden Nissan and asked the driver to take him to Ferrybank. The driver asked him where in Ferrybank to which he replied to cross the bridge and he’d know where to go once he saw the street.
The obese driver was clearly unnerved by Philip’s dishevelled look and frantic demeanour but started driving regardless. After half an hour of crawling along rush hour traffic, they crossed the bridge and Philip was easily able to direct him to where they’d left the van that morning.
The keys were gladly in the right place and he got in and started driving without thinking, only stalling a few times until he regained enough composure to tentatively navigate the heavy traffic. It took another forty minutes to get back across the city and on to the main road that would take him fifteen kilometres to the turn-off to Dunmahon at Carroll’s Cross.
Although in full darkness now, he took in all the fields along the way, nostalgic for the days when this whole area was his playground.
30
A few smokers sat at wooden benches outside Kully’s Pub in the village of Kill, and as he slowly went through in the van he wondered if he knew any of them. Were any of them his old classmates or friends he used to hang out with in the summer? Would they recognise him if they saw him now? Would they be shocked at his appearance?
Kill passed by him in a matter of seconds and he crept down the road leading into Dunmahon, the road canopied by high hedge grows on either side. He turned at the bend known as Fruit Tree’s Corner to locals, and the field with the ‘Devil’s Grave’ came into view. The van swerved and he barely managed to avoid crashing into the ditch when he saw a dark figure looming over the mound, looking in his direction, eyes red and glowing in the otherwise pitch-black evening.
A screeching sound emanated from the brakes as he stopped the van to regain his composure. He lowered his head and took a few deep breaths, telling himself it was only his sick mind playing tricks. He looked up and there it was, stood at the passenger side window staring in at him, the eyes now black, skin-crawling and pale.
“Leave me alone,” he shouted, frothing at the mouth, tears of anguish and defeat welling up.
The creature remained, unmoved and expressionless.
“Who are you? What do you want from me?” he balled.
It moved around to the front of the van, turned and drifted down the road towards the village. Philip pressed his foot down, shouting for it to die and be gone. The van went through it. He looked in the side mirror and saw it still standing at the same spot on the road, eyes again red, penetrating and vile.
He took the bend unsteadily and nearly crashed into the corner of Mrs Cooney’s thatched cottage which was built right on the inner corner and stood there for well over a hundred years.
The next property he came to was Rodge’s farm. He slowed down outside the house to see if there were any signs of life there but the old farmhouse almost looked abandoned. It sat in complete darkness, no cars or tractor parked in the front as he always remembered it to be.
His own house was just another few hundred metres down the road. The anticipation of seeing Julie and Rodge mixed up a surge of anxiety in him and he began to shake, the same kind of shaking that occurred in the onset of cold turkey from the smack.
Overcome with unnameable emotions, and not wanting to give Julie and Rodge a dreadful first impression, he decided to drive past his house and head for the beach where he could go for a short walk and clear his head.
As he approached his old family home he noticed it was well lit up and seemed teeming with life. Two cars were parked in the driveway. A Waterford registration hatchback and a Volkswagen saloon with Dublin plates. He smiled considering that Rodge must be doing well for himself with such an expensive car.
He drove on and parked in the car park by the beach and observed that the once grassy bumpy surface was now tarmacked and smooth. Floodlights lit up the whole place and he could see back to the village, the church, the pub and the local supermarket that he and Rodge used to frequent.
He looked down the opposite direction and saw the foreboding tree line of the Richards’ place. The influx of emotion and memories became almost too much to bear. The package in his pocket called out to him to take the edge off and gain the sort of perspective that could only be attained by the comforting embrace of sinking into a heroin-induced slumber.
But he fought hard to resist. Instead, he hid the package in the back of the van, under a board on the floor. He got out of the van and headed for the cliffs and the beach where he couldn’t remember the last time he had visited. Strolling down the road, the sound of his crushing footsteps of the gravel was a sound unlike any
other in his aural memory bank.
The stone slab he and Rodge had placed at the entrance to the cliff walk was still in its place. They had convinced themselves that it had the magical powers to keep away the demons of Mr Richards’ and Philip’s stories. Rodge became increasingly uneasy in the days and months following the visits to the Richards’ house that summer.
Philip walked out towards the cliff’s edge, the spot where he’d spent countless hours dreaming and writing stories, a place that now seemed full of ghosts and dreadful feelings. The crashing waves echoing up the cliff wall drew him closer yet pushed his sense of wellbeing further away. Something terrible had happened here, something buried deep in the annals of childhood, but he couldn’t remember what it was.
The ground where he sat was cold. The soil had the familiar scent of everything he imagined occurred in these parts long before his existence. He closed his eyes and invited the arrival of what he knew must be coming. It was lurking in the shadows, poised for his return, for a chance to catch him off-guard, but now he was ready, willing it on.
The sea beneath him roared and shrieked its cry of sadness and loss, of coming and going, neither breaking on the shore nor regressing back to the depths, but rather exploding on the spot, kicking up a foamy skin. He looked out expecting the wandering cloud of souls to appear at any moment. Nothing came. He waited for the long cold fingers to touch his shoulder and drag him into the frightful sight of a thousand-year-old death. Again nothing. The red-eyed horse figure was nowhere in sight as he scanned the surrounding fields. Even the Dearg Due declined his invitation. Could the stone slab be really working? Or were his delusions finally coming under control now that he knew why they were happening?
31
The school bell rang but nobody dared budge. This was the discipline and order Mr Richards had instilled in his new charges just one week into their final year of primary school. He finished his passion-filled story of how the Vikings chose the banks along the mouth of the River Suir, for its strategic and trading advantages, to build their city, Ireland’s first. The fort along the water or Waterford as it later became known as. The children felt exhilarated to hear about their county’s largest town, spoken of with such importance in the opus of medieval Ireland and the Viking invasions.
“Many of you sitting here today have the blood of those first settlers coursing through your veins.”
The sound of the word blood made Philip’s heart flutter. He barely took in any of the story as he was too preoccupied with the next instalment of his own story. It had been agreed that he a Rodge would go to the Richards’ place after dinner that day when he would continue his story and take part in the next stage of their ritual. He and Rodge had barely spoken a word to each other all week. His thoughts were filled with a constant barrage of warnings and encouragement, transmitted through him in voices varying from sweet and soothing to the most sinister and hideous of tones.
On their first day back at school, he sat beside Rachel Riordan in the back desk, leaving Rodge with no chance to sit next to him as they’d done since junior infants. In his confounded state, Rodge looked around and decided on the desk behind and to the left of Eve, who, of course, sat front and centre, as near to her father as possible. Astonished by her sense of enthusiasm and mirth, Philip glanced at her at every possible chance to try to spot a chink in her armour but her reticence would be all of their undoing.
“That’s why the name of the Deise fills us with so much pride, even if we’re only aware of its use for our county hurling heroes. Its true meaning resonates deep within us all.”
Several children were wriggling in their chairs, almost breaking into applause as his story came to its climax, only holding back for fear of schoolyard reprisal for sucking up to their new teacher. But as the year went on and Mr Richards brought them further under his spell, this fear would be replaced by an unmitigated adoration of their chief storyteller-at-arms.
Class was dismissed and Richards gave Philip and Rodge a complicit nod, shadowed each time by a convivial smile, almost breaking into a wink, from Eve. Rodge awkwardly returned the nod and smile, and after doing so, turned to see Philip’s back vanish out the door.
Rodge tried to catch up with him on the walk home but each time he got close Philip broke into a quick stride that left Rodge feeling confused and hurt.
After dinner that evening, Philip waited anxiously near the entrance of the cliff walk. Summarising his story in his mind, he began to wonder if Rodge was going to show up, or had he got sense and stayed away. Twenty minutes or so after his arrival and Rodge came into view, jogging down the road with a spring of innocent exuberance in his stride. Had he accepted what had happened in the ritual or did he simply not understand its implications? Philip pleaded for the latter and hoped to be released from Mr Richards hold after tonight’s offering.
Rodge’s childlike enthusiasm turned morose on reaching Philip.
“I don’t know what I did to make you stop talking to me?”
“I’m sorry. I’ve felt very nervous about our visit to Richards’ place all week.”
“You shouldn’t worry. I told you so many times, your stories are great.”
“It’s not just the story… Do you feel alright about what happened last week?”
Rodge put his hands in his pockets and looked down as he kicked and grazed the sole of his shoe over the warm tarmac.
“It was nothing. He’s putting on a show for us, like everything he does. It’s part of his story.”
“It doesn’t seem right. I don’t know why.”
“You saw Eve all week in school? She looked like the happiest person in the whole class. She even smiled at me and talked to me a little every day. This is the first year she’s ever given me the time of day. And I know she wants to talk to you too, but you’re acting all moody broody.”
“I suppose you’re right,” said Philip struggling to show a half-smile. “His class feels like being in the twilight zone or something.”
Rodge laughs, “Yeah. It’s mad. You don’t know what he’s gonna come out with next.”
“I don’t think my story is gonna live up to his expectations. Maybe he’ll stop asking us to come if I tell a bad story.”
“Nah, that’s nonsense. Your stories are brilliant. You’ll be a huge writer one day, I just know it.”
“Let’s go. We don’t want to keep him waiting.”
The journey that felt so familiar a thousand times before, became a path into the Otherworld as they briskly walked towards Richards’ place, barely uttering a word. Philip thought he saw the canopy of trees on either side of them curl down and try to grab them. Years later he believed it to be a warning from deep inside his own mind to turn around and take his best friend with him to safety.
The trees along the wall of the manor swayed gently in the building breeze and Philip felt the first sign of the changing season with a sheer chill bracing him as they arrived at the gate. Rodge reached for the doorbell but before he could press it an unfamiliar male voice came over the intercom.
“Boys! We’ve been expecting you. Do come in and make your way to the drawing room.”
They pushed the gate open and set course along the curved approach to the house. The pebbles crushed against one another in a high pitched abrasive screech, like a hundred jagged nails scraping across a dusty blackboard, causing Philip to involuntarily block his ears until Rodge gave him a look of confusion.
Rodge rapped the door knocker off the massive red door and took a step back. Philip was stuck to a spot on the path in front of the house several metres back.
“What’s wrong with you? You’re acting awfully strange.”
Philip said nothing and walked towards Rodge at the door. They waited for what was an unusually long time for someone to come. The first signs of dusk were pouring fractured luminescence through the mangled branches on the west side trees and the dark sides of the leaves seemed to disappear altogether.
Rodge took another
few steps back, almost trampling the flowerbed, in an attempt to look in the upstairs windows for any sign of life.
“What’s happening? It never takes them this long to answer.”
“Maybe they aren’t up to it tonight.”
“Don’t be daft. Someone just welcomed us over the speaker. Who was that anyway?”
“I have no idea. I hope-”
The boys were interrupted by a call from behind them, at the corner of the house. They turned quickly to see who was there, only catching the back of a dark figure around the corner towards the back. They looked at each other, a sense of bewilderment and arousal passing over them.
Philip didn’t need to speak to know they were both having the same thought, that this was another of Mr Richards’ games, a game they were willing to play. They went along the front of the house, looking in the unlit vacant rooms as they went. On rounding the corner they found a similar scene to the front. Emptiness.
Philip looked down the back garden while Rodge sidled the back of the house, looking in more darkened rooms.
“Whoa,” said Philip with an elongated utterance of surprise.
Rodge turned to look down the garden and was stunned by the scene. Symbols and small structures made from branches and twigs were set in a large circle. Various other shapes were set in purposeful patterns inside the circle. Strips of coloured fabric and shards of mirrors hung from some of the larger structures. Some swayed in the breeze whilst others laid stationary, stubbornly reflecting fractured segments of themselves and the house to the back at them.
They were yanked out of their trance by the sound of the back door creaking open. A quick knowing glance was exchanged, Rodge flickering a faint smile, and they proceeded to the open door, captivated by the intrigue of the setting. Mr Richards’ had really outdone himself this time.
The kitchen was covered in white tiles with intricate blue designs threaded throughout. A large blackened stove sat coldly against the wall, surrounded by a worn red brick cased wall. The odour was stale and damp as though the kitchen hadn’t been used in decades. Philip imagined scenes of bustling activity that must have happened a century before as maids and cooks prepared huge banquets for gatherings of the local gentry.
