Tolstoy. My hands started to shake. What was a Tolstoy novel doing in the travel section? Granddad never misfiled a book. Granddad, who had quoted Tolstoy to me when he was being led out by the guards. Hiding in plain sight. I swear I had stopped breathing. I held the book in one hand and watched where it fell open, and there it was. There were handwritten notes on every page, different handwriting, different coloured pens. These were messages. The book was well worn, many hands had passed over these pages. But the notes didn’t make sense, they were shapes and numbers, little matchstick men drawings. They looked impossible to decipher. I studied them intently.
I may have found what I was looking for. I grabbed the Tolstoy and ran to the door. Maybe, just maybe, I had found a clue.
22
There was a navy glow to the street as I stepped out, locking the door to the bookstore behind me. A light film of rain dusted the cobblestones giving them a sheen like they were made of vinyl. I was glad I had my gloves on even if they were fingerless as I grabbed the collar of my jacket tightly around my neck and started to walk to my van, grateful that at least some of the street lamps were working. I had never been in this area this late at night. It was eerily quiet and I was uncomfortable. My phone buzzed and I jumped out of my skin. Mason. I watched it ring and ring and ring. The noise echoed along the street. I didn’t answer. A text came through immediately.
Just calling to say hi. I’ll try you later. No news here, looks like I’ll have to stay at least another week.
I locked eyes on my van and quickened my pace towards it, already slipping my hand into my handbag to fish out my keys, which were, as always, somewhere near the chewing gum, under a notebook, beside the Tampax, no, not there, that’s the lipstick, and that was some crushed-up nut bars. I got to the van and cursed my giant bag, which I now had practically both shoulders in. I rested my knee against the side of the van and plonked my bag on top of it, angling towards the street light.
It wasn’t the way he said my name that caused me to scream, it was the tap on my shoulder. Instinctively I spun around, angling my elbows to hit out. I dropped my bag and used the heels of my palms to force him away. He took a step back. It was then that I noticed just how huge he was, and how his shadowy shape seemed familiar.
‘Oh gosh, I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you. Freya?’ he whisper-shouted at me just as I was about to unleash an almighty roar. He knew my name? He was standing two feet back from me now, his hands held high in the air, palms out, like I was the one attacking him.
I squinted at him. He was moodily lit by the shadows of the street lamps. But it was him. His long rangy limbs and slim physique, his pale skin, dark hair, wide eyes. His mouth hung open slightly in shock.
‘Patrick? Is it Patrick?’
He started talking at a million miles an hour. ‘Yes, yes. Patrick Rockford. I am so sorry, I didn’t mean to . . . I was driving by and I saw the light on in the store, and thought, “Maurice is working late, I might call in and say hello.” And then I saw the yellow tape on the door, and I saw you leave.’
I suppressed a smile, I couldn’t help it. There was something about his expression that looked so guilty. His eyes were almost pleading for forgiveness. He grinned haplessly and raised his eyebrows and I knew that accosting girls on dark streets was not something he normally did. I smiled back, embarrassed now, and felt my cheeks blush.
He pulled his dark jacket closer and continued to talk nervously. ‘What was I thinking? I should have called your name, but you were there and I just reached out. I’m so sorry.’ His apology was heartfelt and his hands were running through his dark hair. I got the impression that he was an impulsive person, someone who acted on instinct. ‘That’s okay.’
He laughed a little, and said, finally, ‘Hello, I suppose.’
We smiled shyly at each other. And then I had a full-on flashback of that tremendous sex dream I’d had about him, and how he had grabbed me, and how we had ripped each other’s clothes off hungrily, the erotic smell of his body, the feel of his skin. I cleared my throat and shifted my gaze to my feet. This was awkward.
‘Is Maurice there?’ He gestured to the house.
Somewhere behind me I heard a siren break through the night air. ‘Oh no, you mustn’t have heard? He’s been arrested.’
I watched Patrick’s face crumple in alarm. He crossed his arms and his voice dropped in concern. ‘What happened? Is he okay? Are you okay?’
Was it wrong that with everything that was going on I loved that he asked if I was okay? Inside I released a little ‘Bingo!’ call and did a granny-slipper shuffle dance around a Zimmer frame.
‘Yes, yes.’ And then playing just a little to the audience, I opened my eyes doe-like and said, ‘I mean, obviously it’s been terribly traumatic not just for me, but for my family.’
He rubbed my shoulder gently, with great sympathy. ‘You poor things.’
I made a noise at his touch that was just a tad inappropriate and started to talk quickly: ‘I mean, it seems serious, but actually I went to visit him the other day and he’s doing really well.’
‘He is a strong character.’ Patrick exhaled loudly and I could see his chest collapse. He looked upset. ‘I’m so sorry. I’m so fond of him. But he’s okay, you say?’
I nodded my head emphatically. ‘I mean, it’s surprising for someone of his age, but he’s kind of loving the drama, and the prison is nice. I never thought I’d say those words, but it is. But he is still in prison, he’s still locked up. It’s awful.’
‘Awful.’ He looked a little distracted and peered down the street. ‘What has he been arrested for?’
‘Well, he’s been arrested under the Terrorism Act. We don’t actually–’
‘Terrorism,’ he interrupted me, and moved even closer to me, his eyes still scanning the street.
‘Yes,’ I said, enjoying the nearness of him, and the very size of him. ‘I literally have no idea what he’s been up to. That’s why I was digging around in the shop – I think it would help his release and his case if I at least knew something.’
He looked genuinely confused. ‘You have no idea?’
I shrugged. ‘No. And he told me nothing at the prison either. I gave his ledger to a lawyer at BBest, I thought she might be able to help, but I wasn’t much help to her. I mean, she was great and everything . . .’
He dipped his head slightly, his nose inches from mine, but his eyes flicked cautiously around me. I liked this unexpected closeness, but I was surprised at what he said next.
‘You should stay away from BBest. Those people won’t help him, in fact, they’ll probably use whatever you give them against him,’ he said quietly and firmly.
‘What are you talking about?’
He paused, and I could see that he was struggling. ‘He’s a Luddite, Freya.’
I felt my neck jolt back like a stretched elastic band. ‘What? No.’
Patrick’s voice was now almost a whisper. ‘He’s heavily involved.’
I let what he had just said sink in. Then I said, ‘The Luddites? The anti-technology people? That’s ridiculous! He doesn’t like computers but he’s not completely anti-technology. Granddad never, ever talked about the Luddites.’
Patrick looked almost solemn. ‘He is, he’s quite instrumental with them. I am so sorry to be the one to tell you this.’
Seriously? Granddad was part of the Luddite movement? That seemed outrageous. How would he even get involved? Why? I supposed it would explain his arrest but what would that mean? That he was leading a double life all this time?
‘Why? What? I don’t understand.’
‘Maybe we should go and get a coffee and talk some more, it’s probably not the best conversation to have on an open street. There’s a nice little pub around the corner, it’s quiet. It’s local.’
‘O’Brien’s? Granddad’s favourite. He always goes in there for a pint.’
‘It’s a safe spot, we’ll be able to talk.’ Patrick stepped back and
allowed me to walk first, falling in by my side. Under other circumstances this might have felt nice and a bit exciting, but I was worried and my stomach had tightened. I felt edgy. Why did he call it a safe spot? Why did we need a safe spot to talk?
23
‘Come on, let’s have a pint.’ Patrick looked giddy and had an amused glint in his eye.
His enthusiasm was infectious, I felt myself grinning back at him stupidly. ‘I suppose we should.’
‘Rude not to, Freya. Sure, the barman will throw us to the wolves if we don’t get a pint in soon. The time is now.’
We had already emptied a teapot and a coffee pot, and polished off a toasted cheese sandwich and a few bourbon biscuits. The conversation had been so easy and relaxed, now was the perfect time to introduce alcohol.
‘That it is. Make mine a Guinness,’ I nearly shouted at him with excitement.
He sprang off his stool and marched purposefully to the bar, which was populated by old men resting their bellies on their knees, peacefully sipping creamy-headed pints.
We were sitting in a quiet corner away from the bar on high stools. While Patrick’s back was to me, I fixed my hair in the mirror, my face appearing between a Jameson sign and one for loose tobacco. I smoothed down my fringe and brushed back my eyebrows. My cheeks were glowing from the warmth of the fire, my skin looked luminescent and there was something else in my complexion, particularly in my eyes. I looked giddy, like I was about to bubble over with excitement, to literally pop.
I watched as Patrick rocked patiently onto his heels, standing tall above the barman, waiting calmly for the smooth head of the Guinness to rise to the top of the glass and settle, before being topped up to the lip of the glass. A two-minute religious act that cannot be rushed, and which caused even the thirstiest of drunks to pause and reflect. I noticed that Patrick had a long back, that the collar on his blue shirt revealed a flash of white skin that contrasted with his dark hairline. He glanced over his shoulder at me, signalling that he wouldn’t be much longer. He smiled, and his mouth stretched broadly. I felt the whole room light up. He had a warmth emanating from him, a joy, a wonderful purity that made me like him very, very much. That and his dimpled cheek and the fact that being near him sent delightful shivers down my spine and the word ‘phwoar’ bouncing around my head.
Beaming with delight, Patrick placed the two pints on top of beer mats as he sat down. We paused to watch the remaining creamy bubbles dissolve and the blackness take over. I dipped my hand into my wallet.
He looked at me, offended. ‘Would you go on.’
‘Thanks.’ And I knew a pint didn’t cost that much but it was the gesture, it was the way he shut down any hint of discussion. It was nice. He was nice.
‘Sure, you’re up next.’
‘It’ll be a long night.’ I smiled at him. ‘So, I never asked you, how do you know Granddad? Did you just wander into the shop one day?’
We picked up our glasses. Patrick never commented on the fact that I was still wearing my fingerless gloves, in an Oliver Twist chic way. I just hadn’t bothered to take them off and it was a bit cold in the pub. We clinked our glasses together and drank simultaneously.
He leaned excitedly over the table to me. ‘Well, you may not know this, but a lot of great early eighteenth-century books on botany are out of print.’
‘I can’t say that I did know that. No.’ And we laughed.
‘I found a mention of the Book Man on a website and thought it was worth a look. I couldn’t believe it. I mean, the books he has are better than the university library.’
‘I can believe it, he takes great pride in his collection, but sorry, can we backtrack here for a second . . . eighteenth- century botany?’ I narrowed my eyes at him as if I was stuck on a sudoku puzzle.
‘My PhD – I’m doing a doctorate on botany. It’s all the rage, you know. Botany is the new black.’ He paused, waiting for my reaction.
‘Bad joke.’
‘Sorry, it’s not even my joke, I stole it from one of my colleagues. That’s even worse, isn’t it?’ He squished his face up. I’d forgotten about his lisp, and the soft trail that hung on to certain words.
‘Well, you know I’m a florist, I have more than a passing interest in plants,’ I said quietly.
He almost fell off his stool. ‘I didn’t know that. Normally I don’t talk about botany, I can see people falling asleep when I start on about trees or plants, but you, I could bore you all night.’
‘I could bore you too.’
We locked eyes, and I felt my skin flush and had to look away.
‘What’s your favourite flower?’ he asked, elbows on the table, inching closer to me.
‘No one’s ever asked me that before! It’s a daisy. Such an underrated flower, but it’s perfection. It’s simple and I love that it grows in the wild.’
‘It’s not an elitist flower.’
‘Not in the slightest. Do you have one?’
‘I do love a daisy too, I probably like a rose for the scent alone but, honestly, I’m more of a tree man. They really get me passionate, a big old magnificent oak, one that could tell a story, that has seen it all.’ His whole body was talking – his face contorted into a series of happy expressions, he waved his hands and he slowly edged off the bar stool.
‘A bit like Granddad,’ I said.
‘Exactly like him. I’d say he has some stories.’ He took a long sip of Guinness. ‘He’s hands down the most learned man I’ve ever met.’
I nodded, knowing that this was true.
‘Contrary old bugger, though.’ And we both exploded into giggles.
‘Do you work outside a lot?’ I asked him. He looked the outdoors type, a little bit rugged.
‘Not as much as I’d like. I hope to eventually, I want my job to be hands-on, not in a lab or studying. I’m kind of sick of studying now, but I’m nearly there.’
‘I like being hands-on too.’ And then I felt the heat in me rise as though I’d said something full of innuendo. ‘As a florist, I mean. Hands-on as a florist. There’s a lot of lifting and knitting together, I like all that stuff. I hate the admin and the finance.’ I took an imaginary gun to my head and fired.
‘We all have our crosses to bear. As much as I like being outside, it’s a nightmare in the summer, because I hate wasps. Like, I’m really scared of them. I’m six foot five, but if a tiny wasp comes near me, I’ll scream like a toddler.’
‘That’s pretty funny.’
‘For you, and for everyone else who’s watching me, it’s funny, but it’s not so funny for me and my high-pitched shrieks and arms flapping around.’
We sipped happily.
‘Where do you live?’ he asked. And I don’t know why this question felt awkward but it did. I wanted to crack a joke about him planning his bus route for the morning, but it would have seemed inappropriate.
‘Just off Merrion Square. You?’
‘I’m on Bachelors Walk. A bachelor on Bachelors Walk. I rent the smallest and most expensive apartment in Dublin. I should be on one of those TV shows about what not to do when renting. I’ve made every mistake in the book.’ He laughed, but I noticed his colour rise slightly. ‘And what about you, Freya, would you be a bachelorette?’
So this was it. This was the moment I had to come clean, and tell him that I had a very nice and responsible fiancé, and he was my soul mate because BBest had told us so and at ninety-three per cent, it was next to impossible to deny it. But I didn’t, did I?
I lied.
‘I’m single.’
Bare-faced liar, that was me. I couldn’t look at him. I searched the walls, the sticky carpet, the table, seeking anywhere to rest my gaze and briefly calm my deceitful mind. I felt my throat constrict and wondered if I would keel over and die on the spot, a torturous painful death, because that was what happened to liars.
‘That’s great, great, I just wanted to, you know, good to get these things out in the open . . .’ Patrick was babbling, almost embarra
ssed. And I realised he wasn’t questioning my lie. He just accepted it. He thought I was single, and my ring was hidden by my gloves. Had I subconsciously left them on? Oh God, what had I done?
Our glasses were empty. He jumped up again.
I rose from my seat. ‘It’s my round.’
‘Sit. I’m pretty sure they don’t serve women here.’
‘Is Tony the barman an old-school chauvinist?’
‘He told you? I thought he was keeping that on the down low.’ And with that he was gone, shouting for two more pints.
I felt my stomach crumple at the thought of Mason. My fiancé. My teeth ground themselves shut with stress. I couldn’t think about him now. Anyway, it wasn’t like I was doing anything wrong. I told a little, tiny, teeny, insignificant white lie. It wasn’t like I was cheating or anything. I wasn’t on a date, I was having a drink with a friend of my granddad’s. This was totally above board.
I decided to quickly change the subject when Patrick returned. I needed to try to keep breathing.
‘I’m not sure how we’ve managed to talk like this for the last hour and a half but we still haven’t broached the subject of the Luddites and Granddad.’
It was probably the least romantic thing I could think of, but I wasn’t likely to tell another lie. Although who knew with me? They seemed to be just slipping out.
Right Girl Page 14
