by Finn Óg
Anyway … we were handy at it, the boats and that. We competed and did ok, and then people asked us to race their big fancy boats for them and we did that and we got about the place, seeing and sailing and getting a few quid in the pocket. And we were sent to a school with a great reputation that cost the folks a fortune, but that’s the way they were – all about giving us the best opportunities and options and letting us think for ourselves, but guiding us, gently and almost imperceptibly at times, to just do the right thing and let the rest of it look after itself. They were workers too – the most decent people. Spent their lives working for other people when, in all honesty, they could have done anything and been anything, but that’s what they chose. We were really proud of that. It was good, all that time, as a youngster. It was better than good. Sometimes I look back on it now and fail to think of how it could have been any better.
I’m just checking your letter, and it was fair enough – in case you’re worried. I got the message from the other one, that you didn’t send it and hadn’t meant to, but maybe it’s what I needed to realise. I was being thick and I’m sorry.
Right – middle name. I’ll tell you that and my age when all is sorted. It just never occurred to me, not once, that you didn’t know. But I don’t think that was the point, was it? Or am I being thick again? I’m probably being thick again. I can see you-know-who looking at me sometimes, shaking her head as if mine has wandered off. I’m read like a book, my failings all laid bare in one look from her.
College, you asked about college. I didn’t go to university. I was meant to, alright, but then something happened. It wasn’t great and I’ll go into more detail another time. Please understand I will tell you about it (if you want to hear it, of course) when it’s more, kind of, appropriate (you understand what I mean?) to get into the weeds with all that. But it happened at school and it was ugly, and even though you were very kind in throwing me a bone over some of the stuff I’ve been involved in, this might test you. So, there you have it, or don’t, but I promise you will.
That’s what led to the ultimatum I got. It was one way or the other, and although I would never have considered the track I took otherwise, there was really no other sensible option. You broadly know where that ended up, and I have to be honest, there are very likely to be cans of worms I will never open here. I don’t know how much of an issue that will be for you – and I know I’m making assumptions here cos maybe it won’t be an issue because maybe you won’t want there to be more conversations or letters or anything and I’d understand – I really would, but since I left the quay I know that’s not what I want.
I don’t really know where to go next. I feel kind of hamstrung until these checks come back – not that I don’t trust the other one, just that for obvious reasons I have to be sure.
I’m nervous about saying this next bit, but you had the courage to put down some stuff that needed to be said, so I ought to too. I know I haven’t asked that much about your past. Agh, how to explain this? I know that we both have stuff in the locker. I knew from the first time we met and you flinched when I was making sure you weren’t injured. I don’t want to upset you. I’m a blunt enough instrument at times, and I’m not sure you will ever want to go to wherever that leads. I don’t even know how to say this, but if you ever did – want to go there – I’ll go with you.
I hope that came out the way I mean it.
Sinead smiled and a tear ran down her face. She traced her finger down the page, turned it over, and lifted her phone.
Thank you, sis.
Then she flicked the mouse, woke the screen, and began.
13
Some of the stuff I said was harsh and you were never meant to hear it (she’s a bitch for sending it), but it has made me think. It was unfair, in a way, because I just assumed that my past maybe wasn’t that important, that maybe you don’t really care about anything from before. To be honest, I’m not sure you care about it still, but maybe that’s not a bad thing. I’ve been confused, I said that last time, but gradually I’m coming out of it – at least I think I will, after I got your letter.
I have no idea how this is working, by the way. How your letters just turn up and everything. And it strikes me now that I don’t even know who is writing my name on the front because I don’t know your handwriting. But that seems inconsequential now, in light of what you said. But you’re right – we have befores that either need excised or not. There I am again – talking like a fecking lawyer.
Which is probably as good a place as any to explain that part, at least. I was a lawyer, half a lifetime ago now. Me and that wee bitch grew up in Dublin, not far from the beach, as it happens. I wish we still had that house now – it’d be worth a fortune. It was small and only one part of it was really ours, but it looked fantastic and we could be down on the long sand in ten minutes. We used to walk to Lansdowne Road on match days and sell Mars Bars and Twixes, three for a pound, well, punts they were then, long before the euro arrived. Mum caught us at it once and took the money, but she gave it back when we went on holidays. Do you want to know this stuff? I’m just writing away because I asked you and you answered, but maybe you don’t? There were other things, to be honest, that you didn’t answer from that letter I never meant to send – just by the way.
I’ve been taking a leaf out of your book, kind of, and it’s paying off. I’m being more hard-ass. I kicked a one out yesterday – she was being a pain in the hole – and I used your approach. It’s quite fun, to be honest. I think I might keep it up. And I’m swearing a lot more now too. I blame you.
It’s almost easier to talk to you in a letter. I don’t know why. Sometimes I find you so silent. Not that that’s a bad thing, but I do wonder what’s going on in there. I do think that for me it will be important to know more, even if it isn’t for you. I have a kind of … not sure about this, a sort of need at this stage for reassurance. That probably doesn’t make sense, but, you’re right, there has been stuff, and I’d maybe get into it only for fear of it giving too much away about who we are and spooking something or making you take off. But you did go into some detail yourself – and why is it that talking to you in a letter makes me waffle? Is it waffle or whaffle? I don’t care, but I’m definitely doing it right now and you’re however many miles away and making me feel like a schoolgirl.
And, yeah, I was a convent girl. I don’t even know if you’re Catholic. I’m guessing not if you were allowed to teach British soldiers how to sail. Maybe that was permissible – I have no idea. That was all so alien to us down here – the Troubles. It was just stuff on TV. Not real. It was … black and white, I want to say. Black-and-white TV, it reminds me of. Those women and their bin lids and green army everywhere, even in black and white. It’s like it was all camouflage and really long, long rifles and checking driving licences. I was never in the north before we met. Not once. Mad, really. Before we met is weird too. Feels like I’m somehow going too far. Did we have a “Where did you meet?” Sort of feels like you only have that if, you know, agh … whaffle, waffle, maple syrup.
My father worked all over the country – still does, to be honest. Does really well, and they have loads of friends. Every corner. They’re popular, well regarded – even though people don’t know the half of what they do for folks. Like your oul ones, they’re kind people, and I’m really proud of them. Our mother has brains pouring out the side of her head. There’s probably nothing she couldn’t do if she set herself about it, but all she’s interested in is grandchildren. I’ll maybe talk about that another time.
We were both convent girls, like half the country. Unremarkable, really, school. The other one was always a handling, but brilliant – as you know, even before her trade was a thing there was very little she couldn’t do, but there was very little she would do, if you know what I mean. She wouldn’t lead nor drive for anyone, until it suited her, and then she could turn failure into triumph overnight. She was always saucy, though.
I went off to Trin
ity. I loved it. It was mad and interesting and kind of sophisticated and grown-up. The first three years were amazing, then I qualified the first hurdle and went on my placement year and things changed. But maybe that’s as much as you can take for this instalment given that you didn’t ask for it, and maybe that’s all I want to write for now.
So what do I do now? Throw it in the bin? That’s what I tried to do last time, lol. Feck it, new, sweary me. Caution to the wind. Who knows? Take care and a massive hug where it is more deserved. Make sure they get it.
Sinead debated whether to sign it. Her name had been attached to the front of the envelopes she had received, but it occurred to her that Sam may not have been the one to write it. She left the letter blank.
14
Áine read the text message and very nearly wept. She never cried in front of anyone, yet still she forced herself to wise up and hold it all back even though she was alone.
Thank you, sis.
Sis made all the difference. Had it just been thank you, she could have interpreted that as a cold enough acknowledgement of receipt. She debated whether and what to reply. Responses were unusual enough for her unless a specific question had been posed. She was not prosaic, gushing, ebullient or particularly friendly; she knew that, and was reconciled to the fact that at forty years old she was unlikely to change.
Shrugging hope away she set back to work, wondering aimlessly whether she might meet the mini marine again at any stage, and how she would feel about that. He was different to Sam – more open, curiously, for an intelligence expert. He didn’t give the impression of carrying a bag full of black memories either, despite having served alongside Sam. She found herself thinking about the night they had chugged whiskey – him complaining that Irish was for cooking while Scotch was for savouring. Didn’t prevent him licking half a bottle into him, she smiled at the thought. She’d matched him drop for drop, which he seemed to appreciate. But, then again, she didn’t go for a jog the next morning.
Yep, remember he’s a psycho.
It was a nice feeling, all the same. One that she hadn’t had in … how long? Since that time when Sinead came back. Before that, even. She knew she couldn’t blame her reclusiveness on Sinead, but it helped to do so, and in it there was a grain of truth.
Áine had a pile of work to do resolving issues set out by some junior business analyst and product manager at a major multinational. The development sprint was already a week old and she hadn’t done a tap, but the fixes would be easy if she set her mind to it for the week she had left to louse the bugs. She had, thus far, managed to avoid the Zoom meetings about her team’s progress by simply not logging in. Her reputation was good enough to get a pass, but she knew she was taking the piss.
Yet instead of getting stuck into the fixes and code, she found herself drifting over the website for Min’s commando unit, the images, the pretence at openness hiding a dearth of real information. She cautioned herself against meddling with the back end and records. Fooling around with MOD frames was a silly, dangerous business and should be reserved only for emergencies.
The door knocked and for a moment her heart lifted wondering if it was Sinead – then realised Sinead wouldn’t knock. Her mind flitted again to Min and in that split second she wasn’t sure who she would prefer to see standing outside. She rose and sprang merrily to the door without wondering how someone had managed to knock the actual timber rather than buzzing for entry from the foyer below. She pulled the tall oak back and was punched hard in the face.
Áine scrambled backwards on the marble floor. A man and woman walked in and the man reached down to grab her but she flipped onto her front and crawled at speed away from him, trying to regain her feet and lashing round as he grappled her upper arms and shoulders. She knew if she got as far as her control room she could lock herself in securely and call the Guards, but he hammered down hard on the side of her head, swivelling her round and punching her again with a brutal uppercut. She felt her tongue mangle between her teeth and saw blood fly upwards, then she fell back further – in slow motion, her head cracking on the tiles.
She lay still and panted, a blackness veiling her sight, shaken by heavy blows to her exposed ribs and trunk – her elbows raised, instinctively, to protect her head. There was noise, but she couldn’t make out what it was – voices, perhaps, then a stinging ring in her ears. Her hair was torn as her head was lifted upwards, and she was treated to two livid faces, both shouting – yet she still couldn’t hear what was being said. Her head was dropped again, and their feet moved away. She rolled her head to find furniture crashing to her eye level, feet moving backwards and forwards, the ringing growing fainter as the movement continued.
Where is the concierge? Where are our neighbours?
She saw the man put his shoulder to the control room door, again and again. Somewhere in her head she almost smiled, knowing he would fail. Then someone stood on her hand and from the other side a woman’s face appeared.
“How do we get into that room?” Áine’s own phone was held up to her face. “Where is it? We know you had it!” The woman screamed so loudly that Áine couldn’t help but suddenly grasp what they wanted.
She suddenly realised how complacent she’d been. The screaming continued but Áine couldn’t find the ability to respond, which encouraged the blow that flicked her lights out.
“Don’t panic. I’m ok.”
“Why are you talking like that?” Sinead panicked, as predicted.
“Bit my tongue,” Áine said.
“First time for everything.”
“Sinead,” Áine slurred. “Sinead, I need to see you.”
“Look, Áine, I’m glad you sent the letter on but—”
“It’s not that. I know you don’t want to, but something’s happened.”
“What’s happened?” Sinead’s voice rose in range. “I can barely make you out. Have you got it – Corona?”
“No,” Áine muttered, exhausted, the pain leaking into her voice. “Just come when you can.”
She hung up, knowing she was barely intelligible, pleading quietly that her sister wouldn’t fall foul of the same people who had beaten her purple.
“How in the hell is this your fault?” Sinead asked, once she’d Dettoled and Savloned the cuts and applied an ageing tube’s worth of arnica gel to the bruising.
Some innate sense in Sinead had clicked when she’d opened the apartment door and found her sister bleeding gently on the long couch. She’d not asked many questions, just checked her over, performed all the correct tests – concussion, dilation, bleeding on the brain, and insisted that she go to hospital.
But collectively they’d agreed on observation at home – because of Covid, Áine had claimed, but Sinead knew there was more to it than that. She waited as long as she could and then pressed her sister to explain.
“Nobody can bring this on themselves, Áine.”
“I dropped the ball.” Áine struggled to speak through her jarred jaw and swollen tongue. “I was ditching that bloody phone and should have wiped it and powered all tracking off.”
“What phone?” Sinead shot back, but in her heart she knew the phone her sister was talking about.
“The one from the woman who ran away from your place.”
“The madam,” Sinead said. “Was it her who did this to you?”
“I dunno,” Sinead said, barely able to form the words, “but you need to listen to me.”
“I am fucking listening!” Sinead exploded.
Áine looked stunned. “I’m ok, sis, I’ll be ok.”
Sinead exhaled deeply, upset and angry and worried. “Listen to what? Why would they do this?”
“I was thick,” Áine started. “I took the phone into town and sent a message saying it was me who posted the letter to Sam.”
“A message to whom?”
“Joseph,” she said. “I mean Daniel – Daniel Joseph.”
“So what?”
“So I switched everything on ag
ain – Wi-Fi and that, to send the message, cos it didn’t really matter when I was gonna dump the phone anyway, and I was a distance from here – Merrion Square, so another reason it didn’t matter.”
“So why does it matter?”
“Cos like a thicko, I then sent a message from my phone to you.”
“So what?”
“From the same spot.”
“Yeah – so what!”
“So they’re not just ordinary bloody criminals. They must have been looking for the phone.”
“Áine, I’m lost here.”
“You brought that phone here ages ago – well over a month ago, right?”
“Yes, but you said this is a big city block and they wouldn’t be able to narrow it down.”
“That’s right, and they still managed it, so they must have used other information.”
“Like what?”
“The only time GPS and location services were used again on that phone was when I took it to Merrion Square. Then I dumped it and used my own phone from the exact same spot seconds after.” Áine was struggling to explain. “Look, they must have pinged their phone and the time, then my phone and the time, talking to your phone, and drawn a triangle of links. Their phone to mine, mine to yours, yours to the convent. That’s how they tracked us here.”
“That’s … that’s mad. That’s totally mad.”
“Yeah. They’re well resourced, or they’re not just running girls.”
“How do you mean?”
“This is sophisticated.” Áine slurred the word with saliva dripping from her torn lip. “This is smart. Having the tech is one thing, but thinking to search for it this way is more worrying.”
