Static Cling (The Irish Lottery Series Book 5)

by Gerald Hansen

  But Fionnuala didn't have Paddy. Not any more. The words were like a smack across the face.

  “Ye see you, wee girl? Ye're nothing but a spiteful, hateful cunt, so ye are!” Fionnuala spun on her clogs and trotted into the parish center without a look back. As her cigarette was done, Bridie followed her in.

  They seemed to be the first to arrive. There was no sign of Father Steele. Twelve or so chairs were arranged in a circle in the middle of the room. There was a section of the circle with no chairs, and Fionnuala supposed this was where Father Steele would stand. There was a wooden table there, and a cardboard box was on it. Bridie peered inside the box. It was the priest's portable therapy games kit. She picked up the Roll A Role foam cube, and the I Can Cope ball, and a few doll bodies of bears, with attachable heads in a variety of emotions. Bridie supposed you were supposed to choose the head you felt like at the moment and attach it to the body.

  “Dear God!” she said. “What age does yer man the priest think we are?”

  She couldn't know that Father Steele was somehow under the impression, due to the spotty coverage of his mobile service provider, that it had been a day care center and not a dry cleaners that had been held up.

  Fionnuala bristled.

  “I'm sure the father knows what he be's doing,” she said, though why she was sticking up for Father Steele after he had just betrayed her, she didn't know.

  Fionnuala tried to figure out which chair would seat her in a front-row manner, but there didn't seem to be any. If she sat directly opposite the table, she'd be furthest away from Father Steele, and if she sat next to the table, she would have to crane her neck to look up at him. Then she decided to wait and see where Bridie sat, and then sit as far away from her as she could. But then again she encountered a problem. If she sat as far as she could from the girl, she'd have to stare directly at her fat face. And if she didn't want to see her, she'd have to sit beside her. She was just staring to pull the chairs out of the circle and into rows when Bridie called out, “Biscuits! And tea! And coffee!”

  Fionnuala was at her side on the far wall of the parish center in seconds, shoveling as many of the biscuits into her mouth as space would allow. Since she'd moved into the caravan, she was in a constant state of hunger. It seemed like Bridie was also.

  The rest started to show up: the cleaning woman Agnieszka, Siofra, the part-timer Anne Marie, Nurse Scadden, the Mings, who were still in wake mode, if their bloodshot eyes were anything to go by. They seemed to have left the little girl at home, so there was only Bill, his wife Greta, Bill's son Nollaig, Nollaig's wife Viona and Mrs. Ming's spinster sister Keeva. Only Zoë was not there.

  “Sorry for yer loss,” Fionnuala and Bridie chorused as the Mings lunged for the biscuits and poured their teas and coffees.

  There was mumbled thanks. Fionnuala was narked. Why did she have to ingratiate herself to people she didn't really know or like, just because somebody in their family had died? Considering the impolite way they were treating her at the moment, and her standing there like a gack with a sorrowful look on her face for their benefit, they didn't deserve her sympathy.

  They began to take seats in the circle, and once Bridie had sat down, Fionnuala found a seat three-quarters of the circle away from her, which put her, thankfully, between her daughter Siofra and Anne Marie, who she didn't have a bad word to say about. There was one empty seat left. Zoë's.

  They sat there sipping their hot drinks and nibbling on biscuits (when the others had arrived, Fionnuala and Bridie had switched to much more dainty eating habits). They all looked at each other nervously, and a bit embarrassed.

  Nurse Scadden broke the ice. She heaved a labored sigh, then spoke out, “Och, the shifts I've had to work! Now that we're all gathered together like this,” she looked eagerly around at the faces in the circle, “could one of youse tell me what's been going on in Corrie lately?” Coronation Street, the popular soap.

  Faces lit up with glee. Greta, Keeva and Viona went on and on in great detail and much animation about Gail Platt and her son David arguing about this, and Eileen Grimshaw finding out about that and Carla from the knicker factory discovering the other, and Fionnuala wasn't far behind in the fascinated stakes. She hadn't glanced at a telly in months. She was just leaning forward, about to ask a question about Audrey and the hair salon, and after she found that out, she would add how she thought the sudden influx of gay and lesbian characters in all soaps an over-representation of their actual percentage in society (though she wouldn't have worded it that way), and how she felt it ought to be zero in both soaps and the real world, and go on at length about that, when she was rudely interrupted before she had even begun.

  Father Steele had entered the circle.

  “Shush! It's about to begin!” said Nollaig.

  Nurse Scadden, who had never attended mass at St. Fintan's, gave a start when she laid eyes on the priest.

  “Sure, don't I know ye from—?” she said quite loudly.

  “Aye,” Father Steele said curtly, which startled them all, as he was usually so charming, and then they all peered curiously, and one (Fionnuala) jealously, at Nurse Scadden, seeing her suddenly revealed as a dark horse, and then their heads turned back and examined Father Steele in a new and wondering light as well.

  Father Steele wasn't about to let them in on the fact he and Nurse Scadden had met at a Gamblers Anonymous meeting two months earlier, and that was for two reasons. First, it was anonymous. Second, they had both quit after one meeting because the lure of the slot machines and scratch cards was too great.

  Fionnuala was pointing her elbow accusingly at Keeva for Father Steele's benefit, mouthing, “The witch! The witch!” and her eyes were imploring him for an excommunication on the spot when the door to the center opened and Zoë hurried in. Fashionably late.

  “Sorry I'm tardy,” she said. She looked shell-shocked. Her face was flush. She was shoving something down the front of her top. Nobody knew it was the Star of David. There were some places it wouldn't do to show it off.

  “Thank youse all for showing up,” Father Steele said. He seemed slightly confused at the demographic, and pointed at his box of therapy games. “I've a feeling these will be of no use to us.”

  “Thank the Lord for that!” Bridie put in.

  “I know youse all have had a terrible shock. And for the Mings here,” he nodded around the circle at them, “my deepest sympathies for your loss. I can only hope the police will release your loved one's body soon, so that youse can put an end to the wake and begin the grieving process. But I'm here to help youse all. Perhaps youse are confused, anxious, perhaps there have been some nightmares. To start off with, have youse any thoughts to share?”

  “Show them!” Keeva barked out. Chairs jerked back. “Show them, Bill, what came in the post the day she died! Ye've got it with ye, haven't ye?”

  “A-aye,” Bill said, patting his jacket. “Close to me heart. Where it'll stay forever...”

  “Pull it out and show everyone.”

  “Sure, it's only—” Bill reached into his jacket and pulled out two envelopes. One was the large brown envelope the courier had dropped off the first night of the wake (which, incidentally, was still going on without them back at the house). The second was a business-sized envelope. It was white. “I don't know if youse know, but me mammy had one dream in her life. She wanted to travel abroad. All her life, that's the only thing she wanted to do. Two weeks in a special place. I don't know when she got this idea into her head, surely long, long ago. But about ten years back, she decided to put her plan into action. All she needed was the money. For ten years, she scrimped and saved, placed a £5 note in an unused flour container on the top shelf of the cupboard in the scullery over the washing machine. It was wile difficult for her, but she did it. Until, finally, she had £2,600. Enough for the air fare, the passport, the hotel. To make her lifelong dream come true. Only two weeks ago, two weeks ago...” Scattered throughout the chairs, the various Mings were sniffli
ng into tissues and wiping tears from their cheeks. “...she finally booked the ticket and got an express passport ordered. We all pitched in together and bought her a camera for the trip. And...and...!” The sobs almost drowned out his voice, and then he himself was all choked up, and the others who weren't Mings had to wait on the edges of their uncomfortable metal chairs as he located a napkin from the refreshments table and blew his nose so that he could continue the story.

  All the while, Fionnuala was trying to catch the eye of either Father Steele or Zoë, trying to share a secret look with either of them, but they were behaving, in Father Steele's case, as if he hadn't just seen her hours before, and in Zoë's case, as if they weren't really friends-in-private, part of a family. It annoyed Fionnuala. It was like that time Paddy took her to Belfast for the Celine Dion concert on their 15th anniversary. Fionnuala had always thought Celine existed for her and her alone, but standing there amongst all the shrieking fans (and, yes, Celine Dion fans did shriek), she had felt like one of ten thousand. Which she had been, lost in the crowd. And it was the same thing here. It was as if Father Steele were Celine Dion. Here she was sat in her chair, though it was part of a circle, not the row of a concert venue, and there he was standing before them all. Untouchable, out of reach. Not hers. A traitor. All eyes on him. None on her. And, just like Celine, Zoë seemed to be actively avoiding looking at her. Fionnuala shouldn't have burst into tears of hysteria at the concert and tried to claw the hem of Celine’s dress. Security had been called.

  Though, Fionnuala considered, lately, she'd been listening to Celine less and less as time went on. She'd been turning more and more to Adele. Which annoyed her immensely, as Adele was British, so, really, Fionnuala should hate her. But Adele had lovely songs. Being British was the only black point against her. Well, that and her weight. Fionnuala wasn't sure what country Celine came from, but between songs at the Belfast concert, the singer had spoken into the microphone, and Fionnuala couldn't understand half of what she'd been trying to say. She wondered if the fat Brit cow would deign to grace a concert venue in Belfast with her presence. Fionnuala would be first in line for a ticket.

  Bill could finally speak again. He opened the envelopes, and held up the sacred objects for all to feast their eyes on. “Would youse look at what arrived the day she died! Her first passport! And her ticket! Together with one of them itineraries and all. To Kenya, India!”

  “Where this Kenya?” Agniezska asked.

  “Of all places!” called out Nurse Scadden.

  “But,” Siofra piped up, “Kenya doesn't be in—” Somebody nudged her silent.

  “God bless us and save us!” Bridie called out “Why the flimmin hell did she want to go there her whole life long?”

  Bill shrugged.

  “She loved curry.” As if Kenya were in India, and as if that explained it in full. No other words were necessary.

  But Fionnuala's mind suddenly jolted with a bolt of understanding. She did her best to hide a sudden gasp of shock. It had just come back to her now. Where Mrs. Ming's finger had landed all those years ago, there before the spitting embers of the fireplace, that song playing on the wireless atop the black and white telly. Kenya. While it had been lost in the mists of time in Fionnuala's mind, the dream of a lifetime had apparently incubated, grown and flourished in Mrs. Ming's mind. And what of Fionnuala's own dream that day? Had she ever made it to Greece? Had she heck!

  Fionnuala felt a tear well in her eye; she didn't know if it was for herself, for little Fionnuala, or for Mrs. Ming. But she wouldn't be caught dead in that group crying. She thought of several scenes from Charlie Chaplin movies to keep the tears at bay. It seemed to work.

  Anne Marie had leaned forward and gently pried the folder containing the tickets and itinerary from Bill's hand. She was inspecting them now. Then, she straightened up and, her nose wrinkled with disdain, said, “That doesn't be real. Not a real ticket, nor a real itinerary.” There was a collective gasp. “Sure, there's no ABTA letterhead! All real travel agents belongs to the ABTA,” she turned to face the group, her neck swiveling as she tried to include them all, “The ABTA be's the Association of British Travel Agents. I only know as, after I left school, I trained with me older sister at that travel agent's down on the Strand. An intern, so I was. Didn't get paid a penny. And then they caught me, well...” She eyed Father Steele. “Sure, I've already said it in confession years ago and the Lord has forgiven me, so I don't mind saying...they caught me stealing travel vouchers for to give to me fella at the time.”

  “Dear God!” D'Arcy hissed to McLaughlin inside the storage closet. “They could have at least talked about EastEnders.” The rival soap. “And how do they not know Kenya's in Africa, not India?”

  “D-D'Arcy...” The detective inspector's voice was strangled with excitement.

  D'Arcy, unable to turn around in alarm to face McLaughlin, stiffened before him.

  “Clues, D'Arcy,” McLaughlin whispered into her startled ear. “The clues be's starting to trickle in now. Soon, they're gonny be pouring unhindered outta there mouths.”

  McLaughlin had been spot on. They were spilling out detail after detail. His fingers flew over the notebook.

  “Easier,” he said, “to understand them all in the Lord's English rather than French, aye?”

  The light from her phone 'suddenly' went out.

  “Oh!” she said in a voice as surprised as she could muster. “My battery must have died, sir. Sorry about that.”

  Two seconds of silence.

  “Hmm.”

  McLaughlin kept scribbling away in the dark.

  The itinerary was being passed around from hand to hand. Anne Marie had inspected the passport, also, but declared it genuine. She had given it back to Bill.

  In the circle, Fionnuala was a bit surprised Anne Marie was of some actual use. She had been thinking the girl was merely there to make up the numbers.

  “Sure, that's not even how ye spell Nairobi!” Siofra said. She passed it on along the circle. Fionnuala hadn't bothered to look. She'd been deep in thought.

  So Anne Marie, the part-time employee who hadn't even been there on the day, had performed a function, unlike the Mings, who were just mewling and caterwauling like Jews at the Wailing Wall. They annoyed Fionnuala every time she saw a documentary about them. Why she bothered watching, she didn't know. To know her enemy, she supposed. What use were the Mings to this therapy session? It was meant to make everyone feel better. She had been happy enough going in, but they were putting her off wanting to live longer, making her want to slit her wrists before them all there and now. Useless, the entire pack of them, from the youngest to the oldest! Fionnuala hadn't even cried when her father and uncle Kevin had died. And although she had fond memories of Mrs. Ming, it wasn't as if the woman hadn't lived a long, fruitful life.

  “I'm glad ye, er, shared,” was all Father Steele had to say about it. He looked perplexed, however. What did this fake ticket mean? Bill got the fake travel agent folder back, and then Father Steele startled them by handing out pieces of blank paper and colored pencils they were meant to select a few of, then pass on.

  “Please don't tell me we're meant to draw our fecking feelings?” Bridie moaned as she reluctantly chose an orange one and a pink one.

  “Is this the States?” asked Nurse Scadden, outraged.

  “Let us call him The Enemy,” Father Steele said. “What does the Enemy look like? I'd like those of youse what was there to draw a picture.”

  He hadn't given the Mings any paper or pencils.

  “Aye,” Bill implored. “Help us out, would youse? We need to find the men responsible!”

  Fionnuala tried to draw for a moment, then threw down her colored pencil. It was purple. “Och, this be's terrible daft, sure. When there's so much more important things we could be doing with our time.” She eyed Father Steele meaningfully. Or tried to, in any event. “I'm shite at drawing.” She peered over at a few scribbles Siofra had begun. “Looks like we all are.
”

  “In that case...” Father Steele thought for a moment, then cleared his throat, and said authoritatively, though kindly, “For those of ye who was there on the day, I've a special, er, therapy for youse now. Can youse cast yer minds back to the afternoon in question and conjure up any sights or smells of them what caused youse all grief? The mind works sometimes in odd ways. Ye might be going about yer business as usual, shopping in the Top-Yer-Trolley, for example, and suddenly ye sees the same sight or smells the same smell. It'll be unexpected and shocking. Ye'll have what we call a flashback, and yer mind'll be like it wants to explode. Ye might be overcome with panic, shrieking outta ye like a nutter and pushing aside the other shoppers in yer haste to clear outta the shop. Ye won't really be running from the shop, but. Ye'll be running away from the memory.” The entire circle, Zoë included, looked horrified, though perhaps Zoë for a different reason. “If youse now point out all the sights and sounds of the hold up and the passing of Mrs. Ming...” Here he bowed at the Mings in their corner, and all heads turned to them and bowed also. A few hands were folded in prayer. And then Father Steele continued. “...pointing them out now here in this safe place, yer safe place, will help youse know which sights and sounds you'd do best to, er, avoid. It'll help youse all in the healing process. So...? Anybody?”

  “C'mere, does he want us to draw these sights and smells and all?” Fionnuala whispered to Siofra.

  “Naw, I think he wants us to say them.”

  “Thank bloody feck, as I kyanny imagine how I'd draw a smell.”

  “Smell, yes!” Agnieszka called out. “I clean up. After coppers. Nasty smell. Nasty!”

  “Is it the smell of death ye're on about?” Father Steele asked.

  This didn't sit well with the Ming contingent. Their arms snapped around their chests. How dare the priest imply that their mother's body had a 'nasty smell.' True, as she had gotten older, Mrs. Ming seemed to have developed an aversion to water, and even before that, for many years there had always been a faint whiff of urine in her wake wherever she went. One shared by her mate Mrs. McLaughlin. Two singers had even quit going to karaoke because they couldn't stick it any more. But, even as a man of the cloth, they weren't prepared to forgive Father Steele for this question, asked in front of everyone like that.