As Jeremy came into the Showdown Arena and addressed the losing tribe, who were all sitting on top of a log next to each other, Damien was snickering at Bridie's side. He always snickered, and it annoyed her slightly, but this snicker seemed almost...sinister?
“Okay,” Jeremy said. “It's time for you all to walk to the Voting Machine, and pull a level to choose who you want to vote out of your tribe. Jacqui, you go first.”
Jacqui jumped up. She walked through the curtain of vines that hid the Voting Machine, and the camera closed in on her face as she grappled a lever and said, “You have your head so far up your own arsehole, you'll never see this coming!”
One by one they went in, though it didn't show what each person said as they voted. As Damien pulled the lever, a fly the size of a baseball zoomed into his face. He screamed and ran through the vines into the safety of the Showdown Arena.
Jeremy spoke,“I'll get the printout from the Voting Machine.”
Bridie had bitten all her fingernails, and didn't know what to bite next. Her heart was racing, though she didn't know why. Of course Damien wouldn't get voted out the very first show! In fact, he didn't get voted out at all. He had told her. Or...had he? Had she just assumed it...?
Jeremy started to read out the votes.
“First vote...Jacqui. Next, Damien.”
Bridie felt anger swell in her. Who voted for her Damien? Slag? Bitch? Whore? Certainly not Paki.
“Damien.”
Bridie stared in shock at the screen. A second vote? But then...breathe deeply, she told herself. The next vote was sure to be for Jacqui Slag. And the next. And the one after that.
Damien whipped around and she couldn't read the bizarre expression on his face. Triumph? Excitement? He said to her, “Here it comes, girl. Here...it...comes!”
Bridie should have been relieved. He was telling her there was some secret alliance they hadn't shown on the screen. So...he had hooked up with Paki and...who else...? She sat there with a silly grin plastered on her face. But deep inside, she was starting to get anxious.
“Damien.”
Bridie gasped. Was it almost a tie, then? She looked at Damien for support. He was staring at the screen, puffing away, tea cup gripped in his hand, his knuckles white. They always did this, Bridie thought, arranged the reading of the votes so viewers wouldn't have a clue who would be voted out. You always thought it was going to be somebody, but then it turned out to be a surprise. Somebody else. Bridie squared her shoulders. That slag Jacqui, then. There must have been secret whisperings going on that they had left on the editing room floor. To mislead the viewers.
“Damien.”
Bridie had never been good at math, but...how many did that make now? How many tribe mates were there? Wasn't this...?
“Damien. No need to read the last vote. The first person voted out of this season's Safari Millionaire. Damien. Damien, leave immediately.”
Damien on the screen was getting up, face stretched with rage, screaming things that were bleeped out, flipping all the girls off as he stormed out of the Showdown Arena. He tripped down the stairs and landed in a mud pit.
Bridie turned to Damien. “H-how do ye get back on, but?”
Now the show was over, and it showed each of the tribe mates voting, and what they said as they pulled the lever of the Voting Machine. First up was Damien.
Jacqui! She's a bitch! She got all the others to gang up against me!
Damien? As if the bugs and the heat and the hunger and torrential downpours weren't enough? Well, they'll all be a bit more pleasant now with him gone?
“Do they vote ye back in, like?” Bridie asked in a strangled, confused whisper.
Damien? Another day with Desperate Damien? Where's an anaconda? Eat me now, please?
“Is there a recount next week?” Bridie wondered, a bit more forcefully.
...Does he have no mother? Has he no shame?
“Naw, ye daft cunt.” Damien said, screaming with unhinged laughter. “That's it!”
Damien? Yes, I was sitting there smiling at Jeremy Trellis? But I wanted to strangle him? Why did he put that bastard in our tribe?
“Cheerio!”
Damien? If I had the misfortune to be going out with that arsehole, I'd kill him? No, I'd kill myself?
Bridie was shocked to see Damien race from the room
Damien? Helpful, friendly, athletic, a real asset to the girls' tribe....
She half-turned to the TV, hope on her face. Finally! Somebody who thought like she did—
...These are all the things that bastard definitely was not? The girl spat into the camera. Good riddance, fuckwad? They bleeped out her final word, but Bridie could read her lips.
Bridie ran to the hallway. Damien had already packed his bags. He grabbed them and ran out the door.
He had taken the last bottle of champagne with him. And overflowed the toilet. Deliberately. Shoved three rolls of toilet paper down the hole.
Where was the Virgin Mary? Bridie wondered as she sobbed at the kitchen table alone. Why hadn't She been looking over her? How had She let this happen? Was Bridie no longer special to Her?
Or...
Somewhere within her tortured, sobbing brain, Bridie realized...ye were like a bad friend. When things were bad, Mary appeared to ye. When ye met Damien, ye forgot all about Her. Took Her for granted.
Bridie grabbed her phone and quickly dialed Fionnuala's number. She had it from when she had been Dymphna's best mate. The woman's voice was groggy, as if Bridie had woken her up, or as if she were in the midst of a massive depression, or as if she had downed a few pills. “I'm with ye, now, Mrs. Flood! I'll be right by yer side there tomorrow!”
Fionnuala seemed to brighten up. They made their plans. Bridie scribbled down how to get to the caravan. Two jilted women, united.
Bridie packed an overnight bag. Fionnuala hadn't explained if they would immediately begin the journey to Dublin, and from there to whatever counties and cities they had to pass through to finally end up in Jerusalem. But Bridie wanted to be prepared. She wanted her own toothbrush and nightgown with her.
The next morning, on her way to the bus stop, Bridie stopped at an ATM. She was shocked when she looked at the balance of her bank account. Some might say she shouldn't have been.
* * *
CHAPTER 29
The tractor trundled and lurched over the cobblestones. Fionnuala and Bridie ignored the taunts, the pointed fingers and cruel laughter from the teens as they rolled past them. Fionnuala shook her head sadly. She couldn't help them. They were all drug addicts and worse. They needed to be pitied. And possibly saved, but that was a task she must take on at a later stage. First, she had this crusade to embark upon.
The first part of their journey was almost at an end. The fields and farm houses had eventually turned to yards and houses, and then the houses were smaller and closer together, and there was less and less grass, more and more concrete.
Their bags jostled against each other in the back of the tractor. Bridie had been relieved to see Fionnuala had packed as well. Next to their overnight bags were the maps and travel guides, the sawn-off traffic-cone-as-megaphone, the gin bottle filled with holy water, and the flags and banners. They weren't as magnificent as Fionnuala had envisioned in her mind, but they would do the job. Fionnuala had dispensed with Simba and the dinosaur, and even thoughts of fancy Continental crosses. Sure, she had thought to herself, a cross was a cross, so she had just sewn two strips of red felt to each of the banners and flags. Some might mistake them for the Red Cross or the flag of Sweden, Fionnuala thought, but once they heard her call to arms, there would be no doubt. They were symbols of the holy battle, the crusades. Fionnuala's crusade. The eighth.
Tied to the back of the tractor clip-clopped the two least ancient horses. They were wheezing to keep up from behind. Now that Bridie had joined Fionnuala, there was a horse for each of them. They had had to stop the tractor now and again during the long journey from the caravan site t
o Derry proper to let the horses rest, and to untie them and let them graze a bit, and slurp up puddles of water.
“C'mere, do ye think these horses be's up for the whole of the trip to Jerusalem?” Bridie asked over the roar of the engine.
“Aye, they are,” Fionnuala said.
“And...how are we and all our followers—”
“Brothers and sisters in arms!”
“Aye, them and all...how are we all meant to make the journey across the water and Europe, and over the Alps and I don't know what, and then into the desert-y areas and then on to Jerusalem?”
“The Lord will help us. He's been helping me with everything,” Fionnuala explained. Her eyes were shining brightly.
“I mean, I understand our journey to Dublin. It's a straight line, sure, from the North to the South, and there doesn't be any ocean or whatever to cross. But even then...we're the only two with horses. Are all our...our brothers and sisters in arms meant to walk all the way from Derry to Dublin? Knackered, they're all gonny be.”
Fionnuala shrugged. “In my mind, there's gonny be some farmers what want to join in, and they're gonny offer horses to everyone. I've enough banners and flags for seven. I think them flags and banners should be carried only by people what's riding horses. So at the most we'll need only five more horses. Easy enough, here in Ireland. All the others can trail behind. Ye can see yerself, them horses kyanny walk so quick, after all. I'm sure everyone will be able to keep up. And as for getting from Dublin over to England, sure, I've seen plenty of trailers with horses on ferries. And as for crossing the borders of all them European countries—”
“Nutters!” yelled a child from the street.
“Lunatics!” yelled another.
They ducked as an old boot flew through the air and almost knocked Fionnuala's hat off her head. She was wearing her Sunday best, and that included the Jackie-O type hat with the veil-y bit, and to this she had added one of the peacock feathers from the hat she always wore for weddings and christenings.
“The wanes today!” Fionnuala sniped. “No manners! Nor respect for their elders! It's as I've been telling ye, Bridie, the States and all them pop videos and video games and the internet and all, it's been leading today's youth down the path to damnation. Perdition. And I've a feeling the wanes down South be's much worse. Imagine, not going to mass on a Sunday!”
Bridie nodded solemnly. “Aye. I've a feeling we're doing the right thing, Mrs. Flood.”
“Here we are. This is us now.”
Fionnuala turned off the motor of the tractor. They were before the bus depot just around the corner from the city center. A crowd was starting to form, phones being whipped out for photos, and actual cameras also. Those gathering were unlike the little terrors who had accosted them while traveling to the city. This seemed to be some sort of promotion for a new musical, maybe they were thinking, perhaps a revival of Camelot?
Fionnuala and Bridie, trembling with excitement, dismounted the tractor and marched purposefully to the horses at the back. Fionnuala and Bridie had sneaked into the barn and taken two saddles and, after many mishaps, had succeeded in placing them on the horses. Their big brown eyes caked with crumbly bits of sleep had stared at the two women mournfully.
Fionnuala had felt no guilt about taking the saddles, the horses and the tractor from the farmer and his family. She would remember to say a prayer for them when she got to Jerusalem, and this would ensure they got a place in Heaven. She wanted that place to be next to her own, though slightly behind it. She didn't want to take all these people with her to Heaven, only to find out it was like a packed movie theater, where she couldn't see the Lord's face because of all the people in front of her. She'd say the prayer from the Seuplcher-thingy in Jerusalem, or whatever the name of that first church was. She imagined, as it was the holiest place on Earth, praying there was like those express lanes in the supermarket, though instead of getting you more quickly to the till, this one got your prayers more quickly to Heaven.
When they got to the horses, Bridie stood uncertainly before their neighing and whinnying heads, then asked, “How are we meant to do this? Should we unpack all our belongings from the tractor, hi? Our bags and the maps and holy water and all that? Where should we put it all? It won't fit on the horses. And we've to carry a flag each and all.”
Fionnuala was untying the knots.
“We'll be carrying a banner each. They're grander than the flags.” Fionnuala considered, her brain cells turning. “We'll just have leave the bags, maps and holy water and the extra banner and flags in the tractor. The Lord will ensure nobody makes off with them.”
Bridie looked doubtfully at the crowd. More than one alkie stood there, and a few junkies as well, if Bridie wasn't mistaken, hacking and weaving unsteadily and eying the back of the tractor eagerly.
“I dunno,” she said. “I've got me wee bottle of Calvin Klein's One in me bag. It's unisex, ye know, so anybody can nick it and wear it, lad or lass. Should I unpack it and bring it along with me?”
Again, Fionnuala's eyes were shining strangely. “Leave it there, Bridie. Have faith.” She touched the girl's arm. “And won't the Virgin Mary help ye in yer hour of need? Now, but, help me with these ropes, would ye? I kyanny get this knot undone.”
“I don't know where She was last night,” Bridie said. “When I needed Her most.” But she helped with the knot.
Fionnuala didn't know what Bridie's words meant. She hadn't asked Bridie why she had decided to join her. It had always seemed obvious to Fionnuala the girl would.
After they had untied the horses from the tractor, Fionnuala reached into the back and pulled out two of the banners. They unfurled and fluttered in the slight breeze. Around them, the crowd was getting excited. More photos were snapped.
“C'mere!” Fionnuala called out. “Could two of youse help get us on these here horses?”
They propped the banners against the tractor wheels as two men jumped forward. Then, as if they had only just seen the size of Fionnuala and Bridie, two more came forward, then two more. They heaved and panted and grabbed arms and legs and Bridie squealed and Fionnuala cursed and finally they were atop the horses. The animals moaned. Just sitting there from on high, looking down at the crowd, the musculature, if slack, of the horse between her legs, Fionnuala felt the power surge through her. This was going to be a marvelous crusade! A success! They would grab Jerusalem from the vulgarians who had it in their grasp. Perhaps she and Bridie would even be crowned saints.
“Can one of youse reach into that tractor and pull out me megaphone?” Fionnuala asked. “And give us our banners and all.”
“Aye, surely,” said one man.
“When's the play start?” asked another.
Fionnuala didn't know what this was meant to mean. What play was he on about?
“Soon,” she said, taking the traffic cone she was handed.
Bridie had already been given her banner. Fionnuala looked over and nodded her approval. She looked striking. But when a man handed Fionnuala her banner, she was confronted with a problem. How was she meant to hold it, the megaphone and the reins of the horse at the same time? Though she thought of the reins in her mind as the 'strappy bits.'
She looked down at the man.
“Do ye want to help us with the play?” she asked. “There's a tenner in it for ye.”
While the man seemed to be making up his mind, three alkies shoved through the crowd.
“For a tenner,” one said, “we'll help ye with anything.”
Fionnuala's eyes lit up. She looked to Heaven. “Thank ye, Lord,” she whispered. “It's all coming together. I see what ye're doing now...”
To the three alkies staring hungrily up at her, she said, “Grab three more of yer mates, and I want youse all to take one of them flags or banners with ye and march around the corner with us. Past the Guildhall. To the Top-Yer-Trolley. March with us, and at the end youse'll all get yer ten pounds.”
There was some shuffling in the c
rowd, and five more of the unwashed shoved themselves forward. Fionnuala could smell them even from atop the horse. These seemed more like drug addicts than alkies, but they were people in the eyes of the Lord, Fionnuala supposed, so they would have to do. You couldn't choose your fans. Or fans of your ten pound notes, in any event.
“That's grand! Now, each of youse grab one of them banners and flags. There's not enough to go around, so the rest of youse can carry our bags and maps and whatnot. Och! And there be's a bottle there and all. Handle it with care. It's not gin, but, even though it says it on the label. It be's holy water. Whoever gets that one, I want ye to open it, and sprinkle it on the masses, on the crowds what's sure to form around us.”
Some seemed barely able to hold their bodies upright, let alone a flag, but they scuffled amongst themselves at the back of the tractor until all the flags and banners were flying proudly in the breeze.
“Onward!” Fionnuala intoned. She pointed in the direction of the city center. She felt like Joan of Arc. She made a clicking noise and smacked the reins on her horse. The geriatric being clomped slowly forward. Bridie's horse did the same. “Look lively, lads!”
There was a smattering of uncertain applause from the crowd as the procession lurched down the street. They rounded the Guildhall, Fionnuala and Bridie atop their horses, three alkies and three druggies staggering in their wake, brandishing the flags, one druggie sprinkling the water, one a porter, struggling with their bags. They reached the paved area of the city center, and Fionnuala brought the megaphone up to her mouth, ready to roar out whatever came to mind. She faltered for a second, then turned to Bridie.
“What's all them throngs of people outside the Top-Yer-Trolley for?” she asked. “And what's them signs they're carrying?”
She peered ahead. Wasn't that...Mrs. Mulholland? And all her cronies? Was this what Bridie had been talking about? As her horse clip-clopped forward, Fionnuala heard chants of “Out! Out! Out!” And again, “Out! Out! Out!”
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