“I kyanny say stranger things have happened in me fifteen years on the force; only equally strange things. But there youse have it; the facts speak for themselves. More disturbing, but, be’s the recent intelligence from wer flash new satellite-detection-and-tracking system that this ‘common housewife’ be’s now on the move, planning to flee the country with it in her possession. Without that technology, we wouldn’t even have a clue where on God’s green earth it be’s.”
The door opened and an officer raced in, breathless. “I’ve checked with the Foyle Travel agency, and the granny has them booked on a ferry to Liverpool, a bus to London, and from there the EuroStar to France.”
McLaughlin stared.
“What sort of bloody shenanigans does themmuns be up to?” he sputtered, as behind him a door opened, and the Armed Response unit clamored in.
“Should we not get the Secret Service, MI6, or maybe even Interpol involved, sir?” an officer chanced, gnawing on a fingernail.
Murmurs of insubordination rippled through the troops, and McLaughlin trembled with irritation, though he had briefly considered this himself. He wanted the glory of the arrest all for himself, however.
“Och, catch yerself on, ye daft cunt! It’s serious, aye, as if the media get their filthy paws on this and the threat to National Security it be’s, right enough...Are ye clueless, but, to the outrage it’s sure generate throughout the international community, let alone the shame it’ll bring upon wer precinct for letting something of such magnitude slip through wer fingers? Set yer tiny brain at rest, but, as I’ve called in a helicopter to transport me and the Armed Response unit over to Liverpool in the unlikely event themmuns evade us at the ferry terminal in Belfast.”
Someone marched in and handed the inspector what they all, save Lynch and Briggs, had been waiting for.
“About bleedin fecking time,” Inspector McLaughlin said, search warrant clutched in his fingers. “Right, men, on wer way!”
They burst out of the precinct and into the ARVs, McLaughlin hauling along a computer equipped with the satellite images of the family’s whereabouts. McLaughlin and his second in command handed out copies of Fionnuala Flood’s likeness to the unit, but that meant the ARU would be scanning the crowds at the ferry for the bleached ponytails burned on their retinas. The new helicopter would have to be put to use.
CHAPTER 65
THE PLANE DRONED OVER the Atlantic Ocean, ETA at Belfast International Airport in five hours. In the dark calm of the cabin, Ursula sat under the lone shining reading light and nibbled at the free peanuts, wondering why the bag was so small and replaying the differing scenarios in her mind as to what she was going to say to Fionnuala and the entire Flood clan once she set eyes on them. There was the angry scenario, the compassionate scenario, the violent scenario...Och, I haven’t a clue if I be’s going there to wrap me arms around them or claw their eyes out.
Jed snored boozily at her side, Counting Cards...The Math to Blackjack Success rising and falling on his chest, drained mini-bottles from the drinks cart vibrating on his tray, his plastic glass empty save melting ice cubes. Ursula knew the prospect of entering the Flood battlefield was driving him momentarily to drink again; she couldn’t complain, as he had been collateral damage before. She thanked him in her heart for approaching the firing line with her.
Ursula crumpled the peanut bag and groaned as she contorted her body to locate the carry-on bag shoved under the seat before her. She tugged out the skeins of yellow and green yarn, and the crocheting hook that had given her so much grief at security. She needed to complete the onesie for Keanu before they landed.
The crocheting hook attacked the yarn, and her left fingers leading the yarn started to strangle it as they curled into a fist, as if the gift were being made not with love but in anger.
A hometown was meant to be a hometown, especially Derry, where those who had fled to find jobs abroad were always welcomed back with open arms and a thousand smiles, regardless if some of those smiles curled with disgust the moment a back was turned and those arms ended in fists with accusing fingers attached.
Ursula never thought she would return to her hometown a refugee. Scrabbling for a place to stay, she had called her life-long friend Francine, her hairdresser at Xpressions, Molly, and even Father Hogan from St. Molaug’s. She had received three answering machines. Ursula was mortified of being seen walking down the steps of a hotel in her hometown, and such a posh one at that; the need to rent a room showed she had failed as a family member, could only be coming home in shame, and the price tag of a night’s stay a clue to the reason: too much money, a lady of luxury looking down her nose at others. Like a Protestant, the town would treat her. Her brow bowed in shame, Ursula held up the onesie in the beam of the reading light. She hoped the child had three arms.
A person of great mass lumbered down the aisle, and Ursula flinched as something sharp sliced the air an inch from her ear. She rotated her head slowly to the left. Foot-long fingernails scraped down the darkness of the aisle. The plane plunged into turbulence, all in Ursula’s panicked head. Casino Woman! Heading to the restroom!
Jed sputtered awake as Ursula dug her claws into his arm.
“Jed! Jed!” she hissed, eyes crazed with fear. “She be’s on wer plane! She be’s here to attack and kill me! Och, Jed, Jed, I’m heart-scared!”
“But...?” Jed’s eyes were heavy with drink and doubt.
Ursula brandished the crocheting hook as a weapon and frantically jabbed the call button. Then, to Jed’s horror, Ursula opened her mouth. Wide.
“Stewardess! Stewardesssss!”
Around them passengers woke angrily, and one of the cabin crew materialized above her in the gloom.
“We are now called flight attendants,” he said stiffly.
“There be’s a madwoman in the loo!” Ursula screamed. He looked at her as if there were another in her seat.
“What is a loo?” he asked.
“Och, ye eejit! A toilet, sure! She be’s trying to murder me!”
He looked at her doubtfully.
Ursula stood up, clutched the headrest before her and wailed down the length of the plane: “Does there be a marshal on board? I need a marshal to break down that loo door and arrest the madwoman within!”
“Ma’am—”
She threw the restraining hand to the side.
“Don’t ye ‘ma’am’ me! Get her! Get that lunatic woman before she gets me!”
“My wife,” Jed said weakly, “has been going through a bad patch, but she was viciously attacked by a crazy woman recently. Maybe you really should check the passenger out.”
The flight attendant nibbled his lower lip in indecision.
“I’ll help you,” Jed offered, trying to get up from his seat.
“Jed, naw!” Ursula begged, shoving him back down. “She’ll claw the eyes outta ye with them fingernails of hers!”
“She’s never met me.”
“Aye, but, Jed, if I lost ye—Help us! Help us someone else!”
As babies through the cabin erupted into fearful screams at Ursula’s voice, and pockets of passengers trembled with irritation, the marshal finally decided to reveal himself. He pried himself from his seat, flashing his badge and brandishing his gun.
“I’ll deal with this,” he promised.
The flight attendant rolled his eyes without rolling them. The marshal crept through the rows of goggle-eyed passengers, muting their headphones at the in-flight entertainment for all. The marshal rapped on the door of the bathroom. Ursula wrung her hands, Jed caressed her shuddering shoulders.
“US Marshall! Out with your hands up! Out now!”
“Dear God in Heaven above, save us,” Ursula whimpered, crossing herself as the handle of the door rattled.
The door opened and the woman stuck an angry head out, the roar of the toilet in her wake. She raised her hands, the nails like skyscrapers, and took a step out. The marshal threw her, screaming, against the handle of the emergency do
or, one of her nails popping off, and he clanked the cuffs on.
“Fucking motherfucker fucker!” the woman screamed. “Can’t I take a crap in peace?”
The marshal manhandled her up the aisle, rows of eyes boring up at the struggling, expletive-screaming woman with suspicion and excitement.
Ursula cringed, tears trailing down her cheeks, as the woman approached. It wasn’t Casino Woman. She was too old, her eyes too large, her fingernails the wrong color, the designs rainbows.
“I-I’ve made a mistake,” Ursula admitted.
Jed, the marshal, the flight attendant and ninety-seven passengers stared in disbelief. The babies kept crying. Glaring at Ursula as if she were next for the handcuffs, the marshal released the passenger.
“I’m terribly sorry, ma’am, but, you know, post 9/11...”
“Post 9/11 my ass!” spat the woman. “I’ll be suing! Suing!”
“Please forgive me,” Ursula said. “Ye looked like someone who’s made me every waking moment a misery. Och, please, I’m begging for forgiveness!”
The woman looked her up and down, her anger subsiding.
“Damn crazy white bitch,” she finally said, then marched to her seat and landed on it with a thump. The man beside her moved his laptop closer to him.
“Make sure that doesn’t happen again,” the marshal said. “We are here for serious incidents only.”
Ursula nodded weakly, and soon the flight was back to normal. Crisis over, Jed adjusted his neck pillow and collapsed into sleep against the curvature of the window again.
As Ursula sat alone in the one beam of light, the neurons of her brain were alive. She had only met Casino Woman for two...three? minutes, but it equaled a lifetime of change. She now knew what it was like to see her life ending. Being on death’s doorstep was trauma best shared with the support of a loving family behind her. But she had none. And perhaps it was her own fault. Fionnuala maxing out her credit cards from afar paled in comparison to death.
Ursula’s lips softened as she now saw it clearly: her mission to Derry had started as one of retribution, but it should be one of reconciliation. And the only language the Floods spoke was money.
When the Barnetts thought the security of Ursula’s identity had been compromised by Casino Woman, they had withdrawn all the money from Ursula’s account and placed it in a new one under Jed’s name. As Jed muttered in his sleep, Ursula slipped her hand into his jacket pocket. She tugged out his checkbook. She briefly considered asking the flight attendant for the loan of a pen, but thought better of it. Her fingers slipped again into Jed’s pocket and found one. Leaning the checkbook against the flimsy eating tray, Ursula pressed the tip of the pen on check 234, filled it out, then wrapped it inside Keanu’s onesie.
Three and a half more hours, and she’d be back in Derry to see the Floods.
CHAPTER 66
FIVE MINUTES TO DEPARTURE, Padraig’s eyes danced with glee at the rats jumping to and from the ferry, his little hands clapping. Siofra vomited into the water at his side. Rain attacked them both. Fifteen feet down the deck, it seemed every adult passenger was squeezed into the tiny sheltered smoking section, elbows gouging into stomachs, knees into thighs, hordes of smoke billowing. Wiping lager from a chin smeared with cigarette ash, Fionnuala yelped at something attacking her arse.
“The torture we’re meant to endure for the God-given right to have a fag,” Maureen harrumphed behind her, wondering what mass her cane had just come up against.
So many were bunched on the bow to smoke, Maureen feared the boat would capsize before they pulled out. If they didn’t get arrested first.
But the horns rang out, the gangplank rose, and the ferry pushed off through the filthy water as cigarette-accessorized hands clapped. Paddy, Fionnuala and Maureen felt relief in their alcohol-addled brains, but they couldn’t pull their eyes from the shore. Half a mile out, they heard sirens over the babbling voices of the smokers pressed against them, could see the flashing lights through the pelting rain as the ARVs invaded the pier.
“Dear God, there they are!” Paddy said.
Fionnuala clutched his arm.
“The Filth can’t make the ferry turn round, can they?” she hissed in his ear.
“It’s happened before,” Paddy said.
Maureen gulped the last of her cider, then reached for one of their beers. The three puffed away in suspense for a few knots, but the ferry continued churning through the billowing sea, foam spraying up and meeting the pelting rain. Fionnuala flipped the police off over the waves, and she would’ve flashed them as well, but knew the state of her knickers.
“We’re free! We beat the Filth!” Fionnuala rejoiced.
Paddy and Maureen seemed less joyful.
“Och, wipe them looks of gloom offa yer faces. What is the Filth gonny do?” Fionnuala spat scornfully. “Jump into a helicopter and meet us on the other side, hi?”
This seemed unlikely, so the worry disappeared from their brows.
“Could someone finally please tell me what the Filth be’s after us for, but?” Paddy slurred.
Fionnuala placed her fingers on her lips. “Me lips be’s sealed. I’ve got a secret, and I’m gonny keep it!” she sang, tapping the side of her nose, the excitement and booze filling her.
“Shall we not make wer way inside?” Maureen asked. “And see how the invalid and her infant be’s faring in the lounge?”
“Aye,” Paddy said. “I’m soaked to the bone and can feel the death forming in me lungs from all this fag smoke.”
“I suppose we should have a wee gander inside,” Fionnuala said, eyes goggled with drink. “I’ll have youse know, but, me heart sank as we approached this floating rubbish dump. It doesn’t resemble the Titanic in the least. Gather you up the wanes, Paddy.”
“Has anybody seen Seamus, hi?” Paddy wondered.
They found him gnawing off the lead-based paint from a railing halfway down the deck.
The ferry pitched and rolled in the tumultuous sea like a drunk trying to make her way up Shipquay Street. Paddy, Fionnuala, Maureen were the drunks grappling at the walls as they wobbled through the corridor, trails of beer and cider in their wake. The children’s bright young eyes (even Siofra’s in a brief stint of wellness) devoured all the new things around them during their first trip out of Derry.
“C’mon, wanes,” Fionnuala urged. “The ferry be’s wer own private disco, so it does. I’ve got the key, I’ve got the secret, ah, ah, ah, ah-ah-ha! Sing along, youse! I’ve got the key, I’ve got the secret...!”
She banged on the wall, a drumbeat accompanying the decades-old dance tune, her shouting a drunken version of singing. Paddy and Maureen didn’t know the song, but they beat the walls and attempted to sing as they staggered along, Maureen banging her cane, Seamus squealing with joy and clapping like one mentally unhinged. A fire extinguisher popped off the wall at the force of their collective blows. Maureen knocked it to the side with her cane.
“Hand ups, baby, hands up!” Fionnuala sang. “Give me your heart, give me give me your heart!”
“Me stomach feels wile strange again,” Siofra sobbed, the greenish tinge reappearing on her face. She made a sharp left down a corridor.
“Where are ye away off to, wane?” Fionnuala demanded. “To cry in a corner about that piggin talent show again?”
“To the loo to boke again.”
“Would ye all look at Little Miss Dainty Stomach, la-de-dah!” Fionnuala threw her hand out, limp wrist. “I thought ye was made of sterner stuff, wee girl.”
“I’m desperate for to take a slash and all,” Padraig said. “I’ll go with wer Siofra.”
“Fine,” Fionnuala said. “Mind youse—”
“Och, we know, sure,” Padraig cut her off angrily. “Nick two loo rolls when we be’s inside and bring em back to ye.”
“The evil in that wane has moved from his eyes to his mouth, so it has,” Fionnuala said, nudging Paddy’s lager-bloated stomach. “Sarky wee cunt! Och, I clear for
got, but...”
She unshackled her handbag and pulled out a five pound bill.
Padraig and even Siofra’s eyes shone with joy.
“I’m feeling wile peckish,” their mother said. “I want youse to go to visit the snack bar or on-board mini-mart or some such.”
As if they were at Wimbledon, both children’s heads moved back and forth, following the trail of the money in their mother’s hand. Vacation Mammy be’s nicer than Home Mammy! they thought as a team.
“Padraig, I’m putting ye in charge of this fiver,” Vacation Mammy continued, “and I want this back in me fingers, untouched. One of youse is to wave it at the man behind the counter at the till, pretending ye’ve money, like, and distracting him while the other nicks as much as ye can from the shelves. Ye’ve seven mouths to feed, mind. And an infant. Take Seamus with youse. He has two empty hands that can be filled and all. Cheerio.”
The children stomped glumly off, the sheen gone from their eyes. Fionnuala clapped her hands and banged on the wall again.
“C’mon, Mammy, c’mon Paddy, She is D, desirable, She is I, irresistible, She is S, super sexy...”
This one Paddy and Maureen knew, and they banged along as they sang: “D-I-S-C-O, she is D-I-S-C-O...!”
Dymphna had been deposited in the passenger seating area; it was non-smoking and a ghost-town. Apparently, the Floods were the only family that hadn’t splurged on a cabin.
Dymphna was clutching a can of beer and guzzling down, the wheelchair (they had discovered it also had no brakes) clanking from one table of the passenger seating area to the other. The family had used her wheelchair as their mobile coat check and left luggage, handbags and outerwear swinging from one handle, plastic bags with more booze from the other. Keanu’s stroller hadn’t fared much better, the handles also straining. The sole non-smoking passenger had long since vacated his tattered plastic seat due to Keanu’s shrieks and the stench from his diaper.
Dymphna drained the dregs of the beer from the can and tossed it on the stained carpet. She kept leaning over in her seat, her body straining, her feet two useless lumps in plaster, her fingers clawing the air to snatch a handle of the stroller to change the dirty diaper. Keanu rolled to one end of the lounge, Dymphna to the other. Whimpering from grief and the physical strain and the ever-increasing stench, Dymphna wondered if she should make an abortion pit-stop during the trip; it was legal across the water.
The Irish Lottery Series Box Set (1-3) Page 61
