Right Girl

by Ellie O'Neill

  The guards must have come through again: there were piles of books overturned; they looked as though they had been flicked through, or held upside down, waiting for something to fall out. What? What were they looking for? Some books had been taken off shelves, leaving empty spaces filled with ghostly fingerprints. But overall the place was not particularly messy.

  I busied myself. I turned the lights on and retreated to the kitchen and started to wash some cups turned higgledy piggledy in the sink. Granddad’s doing, nothing to do with the guards. I ran a damp cloth around the kitchen and found a brush – the floor was thick with dust.

  I sat down at his desk, picking things up and putting them down again: his ashtray, pens, a paper weight, a pile of books. His ledger was still there. Either the guards missed it or it was of no interest to them. I wondered if there was something in it; maybe it was a starting point. I flicked through the pages of the large brown leather ledger. The history of each book was meticulously recorded, who took it out, when it was lodged. It was all here. The names of all of his customers. I ran my finger down the list to see if anyone would pop out at me: John Smith, Pauline Glynn, Mary Chapman; names, just names. No one sounded familiar, or suspicious, or at all like a terrorist. If only he kept their details on a computer there’d be photographs linked to their BBest accounts and I’d know more about these people than the fact that Mary Chapman clearly had a penchant for historical fiction, given that she had taken out three Philippa Gregory books in the last month. I nearly laughed out loud, because I knew if Granddad was here now I would launch into a massive argument with him about the benefits of technology and streamlining his accounts. He would tell me to shut up and that he knew more than enough about Mary Chapman from her lending history, and if there was more to learn, he would have a conversation with her, not spy on her. I could see it all playing out in my head, him blowing smoke in my face and enjoying watching me get annoyed.

  I opened the desk drawers and flicked through the disorganised papers. Everything seemed to have a coat of cigarette ash on it. There were two other ledgers from the past two years. I put them with the first one and decided to go. I didn’t want to be here, digging through Granddad’s private stuff. It felt very invasive. I should leave. I got what I came for. Hopefully it would be of some use in getting him out, to figuring out what was going on.

  I clutched the books tightly to my chest as I left, hoping and praying that they might be a piece in this puzzling game.

  20

  Prison was nothing like I thought it would be. It was raining when I pulled in off the motorway and arrived at the one-storey brick building on the outskirts of Dublin. The weather was appropriate: grey and bleak, with large unsettling drops of water splashing onto my windscreen. It was cold too, and I had blasted the heat in the van for the forty-minute drive. Granddad had phoned me last night, as chirpy as a canary down a gas-free mine. He asked that I didn’t mention anything to Mam because he suspected he was in more trouble with her than the guards. He’d had me cleared for visitation and booked me in for two o’clock. Just like that.

  What surprised me most about the prison was how unprison like it was. There were no jangling keys or guns. There was no one slamming fists on tables. It was all disarmingly civilised. The reception area was cheerfully lit, and had soft chairs and paintings of seascapes adorning the walls. The receptionist was a middle-aged woman in a navy suit with bright pink lipstick and glossy auburn hair. As I approached the desk I knew that she was going to smell of a deep perfume. I scanned in and was redirected to the Autumn Wing. I moved down a beige corridor with doors on either side, running through every prison TV show I had ever seen in my mind and wondering if TV had lied to me. Dare I say it, this all seemed quite nice.

  A cheery lady in a floral shirt popped her head through the double doors at the end of the corridor. She held one open for me and almost apologetically explained that she needed to frisk me and go through my bag.

  ‘No problems,’ I laughed and then inappropriately said, ‘Sure, I thought I’d be strip-searched, coming in here.’

  She smiled a little while patting me down. ‘No need, these are not high-security prisoners. Look for yourself.’ She gestured towards a window, and I peered into what was to all intents and purposes a lounge room in an old folks’ home. There were white-haired men and women kicking back on easy chairs, watching TV. Some were huddled around boardgames, and a few were chatting around a tea station. Not an orange jumpsuit in sight.

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘Your grandfather is through here.’

  Granddad started to rise up from the beige tub chair he was sitting on. He had a big grin on his face and swung his arms open for a hug. We embraced and I sat in a chair opposite to his. It was a small meeting room. The woman in the floral shirt stood at the door.

  ‘I’ll leave you to it. Shout if you need anything. Half an hour, okay?’

  I nodded at her and watched as she closed the door behind her.

  ‘Bloody screws,’ Granddad sneered, like he was a character in an old Clint Eastwood prison break movie. He squinted his eyes at the window and nodded quietly to himself.

  ‘Her?’ I did a double-take at the door. ‘She’s lovely.’

  He shifted in his seat and exhaled loudly.

  ‘You look really well.’ I sounded surprised, because I was. He had a healthy glow and his cheeks looked like they had filled out a little. He looked relaxed and maybe even a little bit happy.

  ‘They feed us up here, we sleep on special orthopedic beds, there’s exercise classes . . .’

  ‘But this is prison. Isn’t it?’

  He flipped his hands up to the ceiling. ‘Oh, it’s prison alright. They’ve got me slammed up.’ He sliced the air for effect, and then, almost whispering, added, ‘But it’s a geriatric prison for non-violent offenders. They’re more scared that we’re going to die here under the care of the government and our families will sue than of any crime we may or may not have committed.’ He shouted out the last few words, and then dramatically cleared his throat, and at the top of his lungs exclaimed, ‘I am an innocent man wrongfully incarcerated!’ He glowed with pride.

  ‘So, what happened? Why are you here?’

  ‘I can’t talk about it.’ He leaned forward and whispered to me, ‘The cameras, they’re listening to everything.’

  ‘Okay, well, is there anything we can do to help? You know we hired a legal team to get you out.’

  He nodded enthusiastically. ‘Good, good. Now, me and some of the lads in here have a petition going, and maybe they can help.’ He rested his hands on his knees. ‘They won’t let us smoke.’

  ‘That’s why you look so good, Granddad. No cigarettes. That’s the best news.’

  ‘No, it’s not.’

  ‘Do you want to get Amnesty International involved or something?’ I joked.

  He raised his hand and the cuff of his jumper slipped back, exposing his wrist and a definite marking. I grabbed his arm and studied it intently. The mark was a very badly inked tattoo of a butterfly, or maybe it was a bird, or a thumbprint.

  ‘You got a tattoo.’

  He smashed his teeth together and hardened his face into that Eastwood-style squint again. ‘One of the other crims picked up a few tricks doing time a few years back. Now I can look at the butterfly and remember what it feels like to be free.’

  I stifled a giggle. ‘You’ve only been in here three days.’

  ‘I’m incarcerated, Freya.’

  ‘Well, I’m not disputing that, but it’s hardly like you’re on the chain gang now, is it?’ I teased him. ‘You’re in big trouble with Mam, she’s going to kill you when you get out.’

  ‘I thought as much.’ For the first time he sounded sheepish.

  ‘Like kill you for real,’ I repeated for emphasis.

  ‘Hmm. I’ll deal with that when I’m out.’ He looked nervous.

  ‘So, is there anything I can do to help at all, with anything?’

  He roll
ed his eyes and spun his fingers in the air, which I thought was to signify that people were listening but I couldn’t be sure.

  ‘The bookshop is closed, is that okay?’

  ‘Well, I’ve no time for books at the minute, I’ve got bigger fish to fry than books right now.’ He rubbed his hands together pensively.

  Oh God, he’s embraced this lifestyle so much who knows what he’s capable of?

  ‘Don’t go trying to escape or anything, Granddad.’

  I watched as the blood rose up his neck like water on a dipped paintbrush. He responded loudly for the benefit of the cameras that may or may not be everywhere. ‘I’m an old man, Freya, I’m not capable of anything like that.’

  I wondered if the prison knew exactly what it had got itself in for.

  ‘Granddad,’ I uttered in a warning tone.

  He peered back at me over the rim of his glasses. ‘Don’t you worry about me. Go on, go make us some tea. You make the best cup of tea around.’

  I stood up and walked over to a small tea station, marvelling at the array of herbal teas on offer, and set us up with two steaming mugs of English Breakfast. I placed one in Granddad’s hand and sat down opposite him.

  ‘What’s going on with you, love?’ There was a kindness to his voice that was nearly disarming.

  ‘Well, you being arrested is pretty big news.’

  He batted the air with his hand dismissively. ‘Ah, I’m tomorrow’s fish and chip wrapping.’ His eyes narrowed slightly. ‘How’s that fiancé of yours?’

  I shifted a little in my seat and deliberately didn’t meet his gaze. ‘He’s in London on work.’

  ‘And how are you enjoying the break from him?’

  ‘I miss him, of course, but I’ve always been good on my own and I’ve enjoyed reading in the evenings and not having to think of someone else. It’s nice to have a little break.’

  Granddad furrowed his eyebrows and stared at me, a look of confusion across his face.

  ‘I suppose we’re a bit complicated.’ I continued, ‘because of the ninety-three per cent and the certainty that that brings.’ I watched him flinch when I said the number. ‘Which is also why it’s so strange that I’ve had these wedding jitters. I know – hand on heart – he’s the right person for me. But I suppose how do you ever know if you’re with the right person anyway, I mean, really know?’ I asked almost flippantly, like I was making a joke. I didn’t expect a response.

  Granddad shook his head slightly. ‘You just do.’ His voice sounded gravelly, and serious. ‘There’s a feeling you get. All the chatter in your head dies out, you don’t need to talk yourself into it, it just . . . is. When you meet your soul mate, it’s like you breathe out for the first time, the rattling inside you stops and you just know. It’s as if your soul has been searching for them the whole time you’ve been on earth. You’ve been looking for each other and then there’s the moment where you recognise them and give in. It’s like a sigh from the heavens. Finally you can say, “There you are.”’ He paused and looked at me seriously, then took a sip from his mug and placed it on the table between us. ‘That’s how it was with your grandmother and me. And I’ll find her in the next life, because I will look for her and I won’t rest until I find her again.’

  I felt a lump in my throat. Granddad had just put into words what my heart knew was true.

  ‘That’s beautiful, Granddad.’

  ‘It’s the truth, and never accept anything less than that. You’re too precious, Freya, not to have it all.’

  I pulled the collar of my jacket up over my mouth and mumbled into it. ‘You’re going to make me cry.’

  ‘Trust your own heart, Freya. If that’s what you have with Mason, go for it, but if he doesn’t do all that for you, get rid of him.’

  I nodded slightly and wondered if it could be that simple. ‘Prison is making you sentimental.’

  He laughed. ‘I’ll bring out a line of greeting cards before I leave.’

  On the car journey home I rang Mam and Colin and told them that Granddad was not just fine, he was thriving. Prison suited him, but I was none the wiser as to why he was in there.

  Mam asked me to go take a look in his fridge; she had been up half the night thinking there was probably gone-off milk in there. It was as good a place as any to start.

  21

  ‘There’s nothing here.’ Fidelma looked disappointed. She shook her head in genuine dismay. She had excitedly taken the ledgers from me, insisting that there would be some clue, a paper trail between the pages. But twenty-four hours later, I was in her spacious, light-filled office, sitting on a comfortable off-pink couch.

  ‘The same names reoccur, he obviously has loyal customers, and I’ve run them through police records for any kind of individual who may be known to the guards, but there’s nothing. There isn’t one person here who has had any brush with the law.’

  Having spent yesterday afternoon with Granddad, I was embarrassed to be here. I’d tried to cancel the meeting but Fidelma was so keen to help and had sounded so determined that there would be an answer to his arrest somewhere; she seemed genuinely intrigued, and I was genuinely mortified. Granddad was up to something, but now I suspected it was more devilment than criminal.

  ‘You would visit his bookstore regularly?’ Fidelma asked.

  I hummed in response. I just wanted to leave her kind voice and concerned face behind me.

  ‘If you think back, was there any individual there who may have looked a bit different, or acted in a peculiar fashion?’

  I couldn’t help myself – I laughed. ‘Peculiar? Granddad’s friends are the most peculiar bunch of people – they’re all odd. It would stand out more if there was a regular person there.’

  Fidelma was not laughing. ‘Well, maybe that’s a starting point: a person you noticed who didn’t quite fit with that group?’

  I felt like she was grasping at straws, but she had been so helpful I feigned enthusiasm for her suggestion. ‘I’ll have a think. Is there anything else I could do?’

  ‘Go back through the bookstore. It’s very possible the guards have missed something, or that there’s a clue that only you might pick up, being so close to your granddad.’

  ‘Okay.’ I was planning on going to the bookstore anyway, to go through his fridge and empty it out, to stop Mam’s curdled-milk nightmares.

  ‘If you do find something, bring it back here immediately. We don’t have time to waste. We’ll get to the bottom of this as soon as possible.’

  Some off milk, maybe some rock-hard cheese, nothing that would justify your five million euro an hour fee or whatever it is you normally charged your worthwhile clients.

  ‘I can’t thank you enough, you’re going over and above to help me. I really appreciate it.’

  ‘Nonsense, you’re a part of the BBest family. We look after each other.’

  I thanked her again, not wanting to sound hysterical, but I really did appreciate her time. It wasn’t like I was paying her, and her advice was good and she had been really helpful.

  After four hours of pulling books off shelves, flicking through them and scrolling down through pages of text, I was exhausted. I was sitting cross-legged on the carpeted floor, which I was sure was filthy, surrounded by towers of books wobbling threateningly at me. I traced my finger across spine after spine, reading the names, looking for something unusual. I pulled some out, sifting through the pages. Words, just words, nothing more. The problem was that I didn’t know what I was looking for. A clue? A clue to what? If I had any inkling of what Granddad had been arrested for I might be able to dig in that general area. Instead I was flailing, lost in a sea of books that I kept getting distracted by, starting to read passages. Granddad really did keep the most wonderful novels here.

  I got up off the floor feeling a niggle in my calf muscle. I was sure BBest would recommend some stretches later in the evening to combat it. I moved to the kitchen to make another cup of tea, my third of the evening. I sat at Granddad’s des
k again and ran my fingers over the ledgers. I supposed if Granddad was up to something he wouldn’t be stupid enough to write it down and leave it lying around for everyone to see.

  I opened and closed the drawers in the desk. They were a mess of papers, bills going back five years, some lovely old well-worn family photographs. None of my granny, I noticed. Mam told me before that after Granny died, Granddad burned all her pictures. He couldn’t bear to look at her again. It was too painful.

  I leafed through some books that he must have been reading when he was arrested. Granddad always liked photography books. There was one on the Canadian Rockies with the most breathtaking photographs. I took a few moments and flicked through. I could almost feel the crisp, cold air.

  I pushed on the back of the bookshelves, imagining that there might be a trapdoor, a hidden key to a secret space where I would find gold bars or antique books that were worth a fortune, but so far, no trapdoor. Up high, down low, there was nothing different, nothing unusual, just row after row of books, organised into their separate sections: history, fiction, romance, sci fi, adventure, travel.

  I stopped at the travel section, tapping my fingers along the edges of the shelves. Of all the books in the store, these were the most redundant – the guides were years out of date: recommendations for cafes in Thailand that had long since shut down, backpackers’ hostels that were now supermarkets, timetables for trains that didn’t run anymore. Granddad told me once he kept them for nostalgia, that people liked to remember how things used to be, but now I wondered. I remembered that woman who’d been here, who’d placed a book into the travel section. Granddad never logged it. He religiously logged everything and yet he’d practically ignored that woman, but he knew her: she’d called him Maurice. She’d been here before.

  My heart raced as I returned to his desk and flicked open the ledger to that day a few weeks ago, my eyes racing down the page, frantically looking for an entry under travel. Nothing. And yet that day, there were five other entries: time, date and customer names. I slammed the book shut and stood in front of the travel section. My adrenaline had kicked in so much I was scared I was going to miss something. I would go through every book if I needed to. There was something here, I could feel it. I pulled all the books from the first shelf and sat cross-legged on the floor. I flicked, I scanned, I read. I didn’t know what I was looking for. I piled up the books after I had gone through them, stacking them in the same order in case that was relevant. Time ticked by, dusk came and went and I saw the glow of the moon through the window. My tiredness had long passed.