The Last Killiney

by J. Jay Kamp

  Chapter Ten

  Four and a half years without Fiona! Paul trudged down the stairs, in shock at what was happening around him. Wasn’t it bad enough he found himself trapped in this place, but now he had to die here, as well? Not in Belfast, not on my drawing room sofa at home with the nurses an’ that sticking needles in my arm, but on a river somewhere in America, no less? And Fiona would never know, that was the worst part. He’d not be mourned, missed, nor even buried if what Ravenna had said were true. All Fiona would ever see was a husband who’d become much more adamant about sexual favors on the drawing room floor.

  And all while I’m risking my life, he thought grimly. In the darkness, feeling for the bottommost step before he turned into the passageway, he indulged that mantle of fear settling over him, those demons he’d kept for fifteen years. He’d have to go on this voyage, wouldn’t he? He was being coerced, set up in a big way. God knew he couldn’t live four years without Fiona. That he’d never reach her, that Belfast was catching up with him and God wouldn’t mess about this time around, these things meant little. Paul had to go and God knew it. That was the joke.

  OK, he thought. All right. So I’m the guy in the gilt-framed painting on the wall at home, the one who snuffs it on the river bank. I don’t like it, mind you, but I suppose if you’ll promise it’s me who gets killed and nobody else, then I’ve no choice, do I?

  He knew he didn’t, and still he was grumbling, four and a half years…

  Making his way toward the light he saw at the furthest door, he tried to think rationally about his predicament. What were his options? If he had to be shot, how best to meet his fate? How to get back home to Fiona, that was the real issue, and if he meant to reach that river bank at all, not to mention the potion, he’d have to make certain the ship got there safely. James and this Captain Vancouver had better know what they’re doin’, yeah?

  And wondering if they did, Paul stepped into the candlelit room. Music room, he thought to himself, for James sat with his boots propped up on an antique piano. When the guy saw Paul, instead of giving out about Killiney’s strange behavior, instead of insulting him, James merely smiled; he put his feet down in a swift, sudden movement, though he didn’t bother to sit up from his slouch. “My friend,” James said.

  That was all he said.

  Paul was suspicious, because he knew what sort of grin James sported, and he didn’t like it—it made Paul nervous. Yet no matter how obvious and knowing James’s expression, however apparent that he knew about his sister’s and this fellah Killiney’s love affair, still James said nothing. He pointed to the stack of papers on the piano. “Shall we?”

  When Paul approached, he saw they were charts. On the ship that day, he’d watched James studying them, and in witnessing the guy’s ignorance about the simplest facts such as whether there was a waterway through America or not, Paul had forced himself to bite his tongue. Of course there wasn’t a waterway…unless you counted the Panama Canal.

  Now, as the man gestured toward the charts, Paul got an idea. “You’re wanting to discuss the voyage, I’m guessin’?”

  “Is there something you’d rather we talked about?” James regarded him with blatant amusement. “Because I am open to a change of subject. Women, perhaps.”

  “No,” Paul said, picking up a chart, “no, let’s talk about the voyage. Let’s talk about…Somalia, maybe the coast of Kenya, I’m not sure which. I think it should be said I know more about these places than I’ve let on in the past. Maybe I ought t’be telling you? Would that help Vancouver get us where we’re goin’?”

  James frowned a little. “What have you been reading?”

  “I’ve not been reading, I’ve been there,” he said. “I can see you won’t believe me. You’ve been slaggin’ me all day about bein’ daft and losing m’mind or whatever, so I’m just gonna tell you: I’ve been to Africa. Now if Vancouver’s going anywhere near the place, it’s best if you ask me what I know.”

  James’s brows quirked in amazement.

  “Well?” Paul demanded.

  “Africa is not the problem.”

  “What is, then?” Setting the chart back down, Paul picked up another from the top of the stack. “No, I don’t recognize this one. Where’s this? West Africa?”

  Handing the paper over to James, Paul saw the man peruse the sketch with only half of his intimidating attention; the other half he kept firmly on Paul. “San Diego,” James said at last.

  “California? That’s the problem?” Paul stepped closer, peered over his shoulder. “Because I’ve been there as well. Not for a few years now, but I wouldn’t be surprised if I knew something a bit helpful, even if it’s not directly related to sailing as such—”

  And throwing himself into pointing out whatever he could about the California coast, soon Paul found himself completely consumed in geographical issues. Gone was that nagging voice in his head, the one that spoke only of the girl upstairs who so obviously, generously cared for him. Four and half years without Fiona. How would he resist her? How could he ignore Ravenna’s sensitivity for his feelings, the artless way her eyes revealed everything and how she couldn’t keep her hands off him, no matter how hard he pushed her away?

  But in James’s company, he forgot these things. He lost himself in nautical charts, and so the hours passed.