by Paddy Kelly
Debbie stood and, with a sigh, sat on a corner of the bed, to the soft creak of springs. I settled beside her. "I can't believe someone would kill her," Debbie said. "What for?"
I shook my head, as Tommy stepped into the bedroom, holding a clear bottle.
"Found this." He held the bottle up. "In the back of a shelf. Like someone hid it."
I grabbed the bottle and read the hand-written label. "Uisce beatha?" The Irish for whiskey. I opened it and sniffed. It did certainly smell like whiskey, with an herbal edge.
"So she was making her own booze." I closed the bottle. "Now we know."
"That's not just booze, it's an urge," Tommy said. "Sure of it."
"If you say so," I said. "What else did you find?"
"This." He held up a container of pills. "Only a couple left. Hard-core painkillers, those. My uncle had the same ones when the cancer was gettin' right bad."
"Oh hell," I said. She had looked kind of terrible. Besides the death.
"Cancer," Debbie said. "God. Why didn't she tell me? I could have helped."
"How?" I said. "There's no urge for cancer, last time I checked. So what now?"
"You mean with the … remains?" Tommy said. I nodded.
"Shouldn't we call the guards and say we found her here?" Debbie said.
"You're not seriously getting the cops involved," I said.
"Fuckin' right," Tommy said. "Those bastards. But if we leave her here, someone's going to find her. She had family, didn't she? They're bound to come looking."
"A brother, somewhere up north," Debbie said. "She didn't like him much."
"Then we wrap her up, like, shove her in the car, pretend we weren't here."
"And then what, bury her?" I said. "Think about all the questions if someone digs her up—"
"Didn't say that, did I? We bury her, but on the other side."
"Ah," I said. "Okay. But how do we get her over? She's too big to carry across."
Debbie stood. "I'm sorry," she muttered. "But I can't listen. I'll go out, and … keep a watch, or something. I'm sorry." She stumbled into the hall and, I assumed, out the front door.
"Just the two of us, then," Tommy said. "Think you can carry a body?"
I nodded. I'd carried plenty bodies, but all pigs and sheep destined for the chopping block in my father's butchers. And Vesta, was she stiff, or floppy, or leaking, and what would the smell be like, and how would we get her into the boot, and what would need to be broken—
"Grab blankets," Tommy said. "We'll wrap her. Go on. Faster we do it, the sooner we can find the shits who did it. And start breakin' some fuckin' fingers."
We stood in Debbie's portal oak garden, on Stephen's Day night, with two black plastic sacks on the ground before us. The larger one contained Vesta's body. The smaller one, her head.
"You so fucking better be right about this," I hissed at Gernaud, still shaking.
"I have tested it many times," he whispered back. "One third of the body weight can be carried across, give or take a kilo. So now it should work. You did what had to be done."
The portal oak garden was a square enclosure seven metres on a side, with a four-metre high stone wall and a solid metal door. The tree itself, a massive trunk with fat upper branches, occupied the middle. Black wires across the walls betrayed the motion sensors that kept a permanent watch.
But all that rolled through my head as I stared at the old oak were what I'd seen and heard when I'd removed Vesta's head. The seeping interior of the neck, the rubbery thump of the first two axe blows, the crack as vertebrate separated.
And the smell, despite the face mask, the deep heat rubbed under my nose, the not breathing. That stink of shit and spoilage, every awful smell in one tight fist.
"Let's do it," Tommy said. Wearing shorts and a t-shirt with no shoes, to minimize what he carried, he ducked inside the hole in the tree. Reaching out, he snatched the smaller black bag and pulled it in. The face he made showed how bad it smelled. Pressing the bag against his bare leg, he reached for the fur ball of his anchor, which hung from its chord about his wrist. A millisecond skewing, and he folded inwards, and was gone.
Dead people, or parts of them, couldn't cross over on their own, not even with an anchor. Anything non-living had to be carried, as cargo. Meaning first Vesta's head, and then, in a slightly more complex manner, her body.
Now before us gaped an empty opening, visible in the light of the battery lantern we'd hung in the tree. We watched nervously, Debbie holding her shotgun, Gernaud shivering in a pair of old pyjama bottoms and a white tank-top. He was fairly muscular, and, together with Tommy, more than three times the mass of Vesta's headless body. But only just.
The portal flickered and Tommy was there again, panting for breath as he scrambled out and stood. He glowered at Gernaud. "Fuckin' come on, then, let's get it done."
It took a minute of squirming and swearing for the two men to squeeze into the tree, with the body in its bag between them. The legs we'd bent back against the chest, and the knees we'd probably broken. A few rounds of silver tape kept it all compact.
"Right," Tommy said in a strained voice. "Grab the anchors on three, you hear me, Jean Paul? And I mean not after three, but on bloody three. Okay. One. Two. Three."
The skewing again, a sigh of air, and the space in the tree was empty. I exhaled in a long shudder. If it hadn't worked, I'd be going back to Debbie's workshop, this time to remove the legs.
Debbie stood beside me, cheek trembling. I wanted to grab her hand. But didn't.
Gernaud returned first and clawed his way out of the hole in the tree. "Awful," he said, standing. "God damn shitting awful, that smell. She is your friend, I know, but—"
"Shhh," I said, and he did. Gernaud stepped to the wall, where his coat hung. He pulled it on, muttering in French. Tommy appeared, and climbed out in an equally big hurry.
"She's there," he said. "And it looks quiet. Should get back and start digging—"
"No," Debbie said with a terse shake of her head. "The lepps would only dig her up. Just drag her into a clear space, away from trees. And open up the bags."
"Just leave her there?" Tommy said, then nodded. "Ah, you mean—"
"A sun burial. That's the way she would have wanted it."
I imagined the rising sun on her dead flesh, igniting it in rolls of flame. Anything organic from Earth burned in the Taran sun, even things already dead. Which was why we didn't trade wool or cotton or leather with the small folk, only objects made from plastic or metal or stone. And craft items from the other side you had to keep in careful darkness until used.
"I'll go across and bury the remains," Debbie said. "Soon. Tommy, can you…?"
He nodded and back into the tree he slipped. Branches creaked above as we waited. I whispered a prayer to the goddess, and glanced at Debbie. Guilt sat thickly on her face. For not calling Vesta, and now for dumping her in the fairy woods, leaving her to burn.
It took five minutes for Tommy to return. He shook his head as he stood. "Never fucking doing that again. I need to go wash these hands now. Scrub them red."
"And I," Gernaud said, "need one hell of a shower."
Me too. But the thought of removing clothes, getting wet, all that wiping … it felt like so much work, for so little effect. Clean was so temporary. Our natural state was always filth.
"And I need a drink," Debbie said. "A big one. Then something to shoot at."
"First one's easy to fix," Tommy said. "And the other, we'll get workin' on."
It wasn't a very cheery day-after-Christmas dinner. But we had mash and gravy, peas and turkey, and then there was the wine. Most everybody started with the wine.
"He did it," Tommy said, shovelling sliced turkey onto his plate. "Fella with the sunglasses. So we find him. And maybe Seamus Cavan knows. Right, McCullough?"
I swallowed a mouthful of mash. "Called him before dinner. No answer, so I left a message. I said we wanted to see him, fast as fuck. So he should call back."
>
Gernaud reached for the bottle and topped up our wine, topping up his own the most. "The urges you found," he said, putting the bottle down. "In the house. I want to see them."
My coat hung on the back of my chair, and from its pocket I pulled a clear plastic bag. It clinked as I handed it over. Gernaud held it up, in the dim light of the scones and the oil lamp further down the table, and examined the stickers. "Can somebody read these glyphs?'"
Debbie leaned over to look. "I'm not sure," she slurred. She'd had a lot of wine. So had I, although it wasn't having much effect. I'd assumed it just wasn't very strong. But maybe it was, because the food was tasting weird — the turkey crumbly, the gravy like warmed-up spit.
Tommy grabbed the bag and peered through the plastic. "Two vitality. Pretty sure that one's focus. And the two with the circle are lust." He handed it back.
"Wonder who ordered them," I said. "Maybe we can track them down."
"How do you suggest that will be done?" Gernaud said. "And why?"
"Might give us some leads." Gernaud gave a dismissive shrug. And maybe he was right. The urges were just for some customer, who'd now never get them. Maybe they'd turn up to collect, find the burned house, and call the Garda. So it was good we'd taken them.
"Thing I'm wondering," Tommy said, cutting up turkey as he spoke, "is how the fuck you two got into Dublin. There's no portal oak in the Iveagh Gardens. I'd know if there was."
"Course there is," I said. "It was just … inactive, and we, sort of…"
Tommy paused in his cutting to stare at me. "Sort of what?"
I set my knife and fork down and did some throat-clearing. "Fine. There's … um, a thing we haven't told you. A few things. In that room full of bones, with the pool. You remember. Well, we found something in the water there. Something that … got into our heads."
Tommy and Gernaud were staring, Tommy's knife hovering over his plate.
"A thing?" Gernaud said, leaning in. "What sort of thing?"
"Something … invisible. It lived in the water. Shit, this all sounds mad. But Debbie felt it too. She can vouch for me. Look, I'll just tell you the whole thing. So listen up."
I told them. From finding Debbie at the well, to the visions it used to fool us, to the tree and how I'd pulped it with her power, widening the tiny portal. I left nothing out. Well, except for the scraped-out feeling after she'd vacated me. I left that out.
After I was done, the staring went on so long it made me twitchy. It ended when Tommy shoved his chair back with a scrape and a bang. He strode across to the stove, where he stood, his broad back to us.
"Tommy?" Debbie said carefully. "Is … everything okay?"
"No it fuckin' isn't." A sudden turn. "You've been touched." He was staring at me. "It's fuckin' all over you. Not sure by what, but doesn't matter, does it? Something bad."
"It touched me, too," Debbie pointed out. "So I'm just as tainted."
"Yeah, sure, but she—"
"He," I said, mouse-trap fast.
"Fucking whatever. Bren carried it. It got into him, like."
I crossed my arms. "And what the fuck does that matter? It's out now."
"Bad shit," Tommy said. "We don't mess with stuff like that. Bloody evil, is what—"
"Tommy," Debbie said. "We don't need this. Bren did what he had to. And it worked, didn't it? We're alive. So for God's sake sit down and let's just decide what to do next."
Tommy gave a sniff and sat himself at the table, but one place further up from us, just to make a point. He reached over and noisily dragged across his plate and glass.
Food was passed around, in a chilly silence. Water glasses refilled. And although Tommy's glances across the table weren't getting any less cutting, he was, at least, shutting up.
"If I may," Gernaud said. "I think I know what you found. Or I can make a guess."
I looked at him, a chill blooming in my gut. "Go on then. What was it?"
"There is a creature from your myth called fuath. A spirit of the water and the lakes. Usually seen as a bad creature. And the things it does not like are steel and sunlight. Your spirit, hiding in a dark well, repulsed by a steel knife … it fits the description well."
"Fuath," Debbie said, having looked it up on her phone. "The word means hate."
A flash of memory came to me — Debbie's shotgun, raised, about to crush my head.
"It says they intermarry with humans. Which is what she tried to do with us, sort of. Right?"
Tommy shifted his chair a bit further away, narrowed blue eyes watching me.
"A fuath." I was breathing a little too hard, and I made myself slow down, trying to not get too freaked out. "Okay. So now we know. And what do they … want, exactly?"
Gernaud said, "What creatures of myth usually want. To make trouble."
Debbie's finger slid across her mobile screen. "He's right. There's nothing specific. They're just malev … malav … bad." She set the phone down and reached, carefully, for her wine.
"This is very exciting," Gernaud said. "A water spirit, a thing of the legends! You must take me to where it is. And these ruins you found, this pit, I must take a closer look."
"No-one's going back there," I said. "That place isn't safe."
"But it is important," Gernaud insisted. "And I helped you, I drove you to—"
"I know," I said, "but for now, we stay here. There's a growing number of things out to kill us, and we need to plan. I assume that's okay with everyone, staying alive?"
My replies were Gernaud's wordless frown, and Tommy's suspicious glare. I ignored both, drained my wine, grabbed the bottle. Maybe a little more, and the effects would kick in.
"So searching for nuns is our plan," Gernaud said. "And a man with sunglasses."
"And fast," Debbie said. "Maybe someone saw our car at Vesta's place. And if the Garda come here with questions, I don't think we should be around."
"We cannot just leave this house," Gernaud said. "Without protection."
"Noel," Debbie said. "My gardener. He'll watch it. And we're four, so we can spilt up. Two to a car. It'll go faster. Tommy, you've that cousin of yours, Martin. Can he help too?"
Tommy stared down at the table for a second, then shook his head. "Look," he said. "I'm not really sure I can help that much. I've … business, like. Out west."
Debbie straightened up with a jerk. "You've what? Tommy … maybe you missed this, but there's killers out there. We need to find them, or they might come for us next."
Tommy shuffled in his chair, looking like he had sand in his underwear. He shot me a glance, long enough to explain a few things. He was worried about the fuath, that its touch had made me unclean. That it might taint him too if he hung around me.
"What do you want me to do about it?" I said to him. "Tell me and I'll do it. Holy water, swim in a moonlight pool, sacrifice a goat, what?"
"It's not that fuckin' simple. There's … powers. Things you don't mess with—"
"Now listen here." Debbie stood, red-faced. "That tree out there, it's still mine. So keep that in mind, Mister Quinn. I decide who uses it. And who doesn't."
"Couple of days," Tommy said, stiffly. "Alright? But then I've stuff to do."
"A couple of days," Debbie said. "Great. A day per decade we've know each other."
"Fuck it," Tommy said. He shoved his chair back and stomped out to the hall, where we heard some fumbling, then the back door closing with a wall-shaking bang.
"Idiot," Debbie said. "He can never admit when he's wrong." She planted both hands on the table, and stared down at the plates and glasses. "You know, I might be a little drunk."
"Go and sleep," Gernaud said. "We will put all of this away. Go."
She looked at me, a look I didn't get the meaning of, and then back at Gernaud. "Good plan. And thanks. I'll go drink a gallon of water. Tomorrow, we'll sort this out."
Debbie made for the door. A minute later came the slow stomp of her footsteps, heading upstairs. Leaving, in the heat of the stove and th
e flicker of the oil lamp, just me, Gernaud and the dog.
"These friends of yours," Gernaud said, "do enjoy shouting at each other."
"Someone just died. So let them shout. It'll pass."
But would it? I wasn't entirely sure, as Tommy was now convinced I was unclean. And superstition, especially about the other place, ran deep among his people.
I turned to my plate, speared some turkey, forced it down with a grimace.
"Did you find a bad-tasting piece?" Gernaud asked.
"I'm just not in the mood for eating. Or much else."
"Perhaps we should sleep. Or, we could also drink more wine."
I weighed both options. Sleep was needed. But wine was closer.
"Okay, but just the one." I slid the glass across. "Then we clean up this mess. Deal?"
"Of course," he said, topping up my glass. His grin told me he didn't quite believe me about the one glass. And, as I lifted it, I realised that was fine, as I didn't believe it either.
Quarter to two in the morning, and sleep wasn't happening. A wind rattled my window, and the house creaked and ticked around me, as if made from bargain-bin clockwork.
I had ciggs on the bedside table, but I couldn’t be bothered to open the window and light one. The wine had already worn off. A slight buzz lingered, but mostly I was just numb.
The fuath, I was sure of it. Some damage it had done while inside my head, making so I couldn't enjoy things anymore. It had flattened my joy like a boot on an egg-carton.
And how could I fix that? Go back, find it, beg it to undo the damage. Which might well have been the thing's plan all along. To bring me back. To keep me.
I lay back, seeking a distraction, anything, and allowed my hand to slide inside the waistband of my borrowed pyjamas. Past the hair and … oh, yes, there.
The female genitalia had never stopped weirding me out. But they were wired into the excitable parts of my brain, parts that tended to snap on and take over. So I imagined other things, other forms, as I tried to tease myself from my joyless stupor.
