Best Served Frozen (The Irish Lottery Series Book 4)

by Gerald Hansen

  “If I may continue. The color scheme can even be incorporated into the bride's hairstyle, perhaps woven in. Might I suggest this selection of spring flowers?” Fionnuala jumped as Zoë tugged out a magazine from the pile and jabbed her finger at a page she had marked with a little pink piece of sticky paper. “Artfully arranged on the left side of the head, and with a matching echo here on the corresponding shoulder. You see? And depending on the flowers we choose, they can echo the color of the wedding.”

  “God bless us and save us! Some of them roses still has the leaves on. It looks like a garden exploded on top of yer woman's skull!”

  Zoë plowed on. “And also, the wedding car, the rings—”

  “The...wedding car?”

  “Yes, the car that will deliver them to the cathedral, then take them off to their honeymoon.”

  “I never said anything about a cathedral.”

  “Ah, yes, we've also to discuss,” Zoë took a deep breath. It seemed she knew this would be a point of contention. To say the least. “...the venue.”

  “Eh? What are ye on about? Speak the Lord's English, for the love of Christ.”

  “The place. Where.”

  Fionnuala tensed. Catholic or Protestant church?

  “Not to fear, Mrs. Flood, I'm willing to concede defeat even before the battle and allow you to choose. It's immaterial to me, and, if I'm not mistaken, I think it matters quite a bit to you.”

  Fionnuala deflated with relief. Now that this hurdle had been passed, this battle swiftly won, everything seemed to click in her mind. She was surprised to feel sweat trickle from her armpits. She took a victorious sip of tea and arranged her lips into a smile.

  “You'd think me local, St. Moluag's, would be the obvious choice. I was wed there, but, and I think someplace else might be more exciting. I was thinking of St. Fintan's, smack dab in the middle of the city center, so's it's easier for everyone to find. Ye know the one, between the betting office and that new homeless shelter they just put up? One of me husband's fishing mates works there, the caretaker, like, and it's wile easy for him to make the reservation. I'll arrange for the priest. Me own priest be's Father Hogan, but I don't want him. Not flash enough. Me cousin Charlotte told me about their new priest, Father Steele. Dreamy, even sexy, like Johnny Depp, so he is. I'll see what strings I can pull to make sure he's available for the day. And I think...we should have a different color for each thing. Pink for the flowers, red for the cake, purple for them invite thingies, yellow for the bride, blue for the party, the only color I don't want to see on the day be's orange.” She stared pointedly at Zoë, daring the Protestant woman to confront her.

  Zoë rolled her eyes up at the ceiling, to her alien Protestant God, no doubt.

  “There needs to be one main color so the senses aren't attacked the moment the guests walk into the reception hall. I think perhaps you've missed the point.”

  Fionnuala fought to urge to slap her. Gone was the restraint taught by How To Be A Lady.

  “And I think ye're a jumped-up intellectual twat with more money than sense. I've told ye want I want. All the colors of the rainbow, like ye've said. And...do ye know ye're not sitting the right way? C'mere, how much is all this gonny set us back?”

  It was as if Zoë had expected an insult or two to fly from Fionnuala's mouth. She ignored what she said, though seemed perplexed about the sitting comment, and, looking kind and concerned, she bent forward. She placed a hand, silky and smooth, on Fionnuala's bloated claw.

  “I know that traditionally the bride's family pays for the wedding, but considering our differing economic circumstances, I'm happy to foot the bill. More than happy, actually. One could say delighted.” She didn't seem too delighted as she said it.

  “Are ye saying we kyanny afford it?!”

  “No, I'm sure you could. But I only have the one son, and I don't mind. I'm looking forward to paying whatever needs to be paid. Though...your daughter has told me you've been recently...let go...from your place of employment. And this brings up something totally unrelated I wanted to discuss with you. Only accept if you truly, truly want to, but I think, Mrs. Flood, now that we are going to be related, part of the same family, so to speak, I want to help you any way I can. If you'd like...”

  She reached behind again and pulled out a brochure. She seemed to know exactly where everything she wanted was. Exactly when she wanted it. Fionnuala couldn't imagine such a thing. She looked down, startled, at a black and white photo of a female aviator posing before the propeller of an old-fashioned plane, goggles on her head, smiling out at her with high cheekbones and freckles. She couldn't have been more surprised if Zoë had shown her a pamphlet on intrauterine devices.

  “What the bleedin hell is this?”

  “I don't know if you realize, but I recently opened up that new Amelia Earhart interactive center on Shipquay Street. Amelia's Exploreworld.”

  “Ye mean...that place run by the Historical Society? I thought that closed down...?”

  Fionnuala knew well what she meant, but she didn't want to give Zoë the satisfaction of knowing the woman had been involved in something all Derry had talked about, and all tourists raced to see.

  “No, that's a smaller one located elsewhere. I'm not sure if it's still open or not. But I've opened a different one. And I've been having some staffing issues.”

  “Plain English, woman.”

  “Problems with the people who work there. I wondered if you would like to work there? You'd be helping me out greatly. I'll give you a competitively-priced wage, of course, and the hours aren't too long.”

  “As if I was a Chink planting tea in shite, ye mean?”

  “Then you'll have some disposable income, wedding or not, and I'm sure there are things you'd like to buy to pamper yourself. Now you'll have the chance.”

  Fionnuala's eyes glinted with suspicion. “What would I be doing, like?”

  “No hard graft, I can assure you. All you have to do is open up and sell tickets. Perhaps some light dusting now and again, when the mood hits you. There's one girl I trust and who I'd quite like to keep on, Una, and you two can arrange between yourselves your days off and so on.”

  “Sundays?”

  “Are a day of rest.”

  There was silence. Paddy had warned her about this: Derry's runner-up for Businesswoman of the Year snatching them all up, slave labor for her various enterprises, Dymphna already ensconced in the fish and chip van she owned. He and Lorcan would never, ever give up their jobs at the fish packing plant, he had vowed.

  “It's your decision, Mrs. Flood. I asked your daughter if you might like it, and she said she thought so.”

  “Talking about me behind me back, were youse?”

  “No, I can assure you bla bla bla...”

  Steamrolling over us all, Thy will be done, ye smarmy, hateful Proddy geebag, Fionnuala thought even as she gave the woman a halting nod.

  Zoë clapped her little claps again.

  “Marvelous! That's that sorted. We can sign the contract later. You can start next week.” Seeing Fionnuala's look, she added, “Or whenever you feel fit. And now back to the wedding. With this additional income, perhaps you can choose a wedding item and pitch in. The last thing I want is for you to feel that I'm steamrolling over you all as far as the wedding is concerned.” Fionnuala froze. X-ray vision and telepathy? How she hated this woman! “But it is the coming together of our two families, so as much as I'd like to foot the bill, I'd also like you to feel comfortable. So, perhaps an item of some importance, then you might feel more in control of things. Shall I suggest...hmm...the cake?”

  “Aye,” Fionnuala was warming to the idea. She loved cake.

  “Here's a magazine.”

  Fionnuala eyed the pound signs and the alarming numbers that followed them. She blanched.

  “Or perhaps I can take care of that as well. Even with your new employment opportunity?”

  The look she gave Fionnuala implied there was no choice.


  “I don't want yer charity!” Fionnuala seethed, quoting from many movies and telly programs she had seen. “I'll buy the flimmin cake on me own!”

  “As you wish. Shall we move on to the...?”

  Fionnuala still sat on the settee with the practiced look of offense plastered on her face, but inwardly she reeled. The chrome and glass she was surrounded by, Zoë too, seemed to recede. She hadn't realized Zoë would withdraw the offer of money from one sentence to the next. It was as if the bank had told her she had to pay a £5000 debt before the end of closing that day. Her heart plummeted.

  “That tea's gone straight through me. I'm bursting for a wee. Where's the loo in this palace of yers?”

  Zoë gave her directions, and, unraveling her legs and walking as she had been instructed, Fionnuala grabbed her satchel, “I've to powder me nose,” she said, per the book. She made her way out of the room and up the stairs. Her heart pounded in her breastplate, and her head spun. Why had she said it? Why had she agreed to pay for something as daft, silly, stupid as Dymphna's wedding cake? The daughter she couldn't stomach! She had a surprise new source of income, certainly, but now it seemed precious little would be put towards 'pampering' herself, all the household bills pressing down upon the family taken into account. She was especially troubled by Zoë's comment about light dusting. What did that really mean? As she hauled her poundage up the plushly-carpeted stairs, she envisioned hours and hours, weeks! of her life wasted, toiling away like a slave just so she could unveil some wondrous creation, an upmarket, money-bleeding slab of dough and icing that people she didn't like and didn't know—half of them Protestant!—would shovel down their throats and make disappear. There had to be a better way. If she—

  She yelped as she rammed into Dymphna on the landing, the stench of stewed plums and infant detritus wafting up from her.

  “Ye daft geebag!”Fionnuala hissed with all the force of anger she could muster in a whisper. “Why did ye tell that smarmy bitch about me being made redundant?”

  “Mammy, I—”

  “It's no odds, but. I'll take her flimmin job. And as for yer wedding, Mrs. Moneybags is gonny be footing the bill. I'm to pay for yer wedding cake, but.”

  Fionnuala was enraged at the flicker of disappointment in Dymphna's eyes.

  “Mammy, why—?”

  “Ye're a selfish bitch, so ye are, Dymphna! Always have been! Only thinking of yerself! Ye think a wedding cake from me's gonny be any less spectacular than from yer woman down there? I volunteered so that it won't be making me...beholden to that Orange creature!”

  And off she raced down the hall. The bathroom door slammed. Once she was done, she looked down with marvel at the loo roll the woman had. Grand and fancy, she thought, them little flowers pressed into the paper like that. Two ply, it be's and all.

  She tried to make a show of using the sink, just in case Zoë had wandered upstairs for some reason and might be listening in, but she couldn't figure out how to turn on the space age taps. She pried open the door to the cabinet underneath and peered inside. She took six rolls of toilet paper—there was a month's supply in there—and shoved them into her satchel. That at least would be the wages from a few minutes' work she wouldn't be wasting on loo roll.

  Nobody but over-privileged gits with more money than sense, Protestants, she thought, wasted good money on toilet paper when it was available everywhere for free. It was easy to pry from the dispensers of public lavatory stalls in pubs and fast food restaurants and health clinic waiting rooms. Her trusty Celine Dion/Titanic satchel never left one empty. And this luxurious toilet tissue was the best she had come across so far.

  She opened the door, thinking how exciting it was going to be to make use of the posh paper in her own drab home. Perhaps this wedding would move her up in the world after all.

  CHAPTER THREE—THREE MONTHS LATER/FOUR DAYS BEFORE THE WEDDING

  The doorbell was broken, but Fionnuala wouldn't have pressed it in any event. Bells were rung only by the Filth when they came to haul someone off to the cop shop. And bill collectors. She stooped and clanked the letter box to announce their arrival.

  Under the Jackie-O-type pillbox mourning hat with veil, her hardened features were stretched with misery, and it had little to do with the strain of configuring her middle-aged spread to bang the letter box. Her meaty, dishwater-worn fingers reached under the latticework, and she daubed at her eyes with the strand of 2-ply toilet paper she was using as a tissue.

  Nobody was racing to the door, so before she banged the letter box again, Fionnuala took a quick look around to see if everyone looked suitably distressed. Below her left elbow, tears carved tracks through the usual filth on 9-year-old Siofra's face. Her matted black hair with the purple butterfly barrette was splatting against her neck like a wet mop from the force of her sobs. Fionnuala nodded in her mind, though she was alarmed the little girl was so traumatized. But this might not be because of the family tragedy, more the black corduroy dress with white lace at the neck and arms, a size too small, and the white tights with ladders she had forced the girl, screaming, into that morning.

  At Fionnuala's right, 13-year-old Padraig, though he looked 8, squirmed stroppily in his bargain bin trainers, track suit bottoms and the tattered soccer jersey that hadn't seen the inside of the washing machine since the night before his birthday, and that had been seven weeks ago. At least it was black. What sounded like rap music was streaming from his headphones, and he seemed more interested in the cat pawing through the innards of the burnt-out refrigerator dumped in the overgrown weeds of the McDaid's front garden. He eyed the charred pipes and whatnot inside, and seemed to be debating when to close the door and lock the cat inside. There was not a trace of grief to be seen on his face, only evil malice. That wouldn't do.

  Fionnuala trailed off his headphones. Her hand hand shot out and slapped the mania off his face. Siofra started, the hand print throbbed on Padraig's cheek, but he was unmoved. The wee devil was imperious to her smacks as of late. So, just because Fionnuala couldn't stomach the sight of the rage he glared up at her with, nor the orange hair and invisible eyelashes behind those urine-colored specs of his, her hand shot out and cracked against his cheekbone again.

  “Ow! What the flimmin hell's that for, Mammy?”

  “We're after having a death in the family, ye mindless eejit! Don't forget that! The tears are meant to be streaming outta yer eyes and cascading down yer face, and the good Lord alone knows when I have the misfortune to glance at that awful thing propped atop yer neck, crying be's what me eyes want to do, pig-ugly as it is. I know ye're of the age where ye think ye're meant to be a right hard man, that boys kyanny cry. That only be's in front of yer mates, but. And do ye see any of yer mates round here? Can ye not shed a tear, can ye not grieve for yer poor dead sister?” Her fists of fury rained down on his little skull. It shot from side to side. “Cry! Cry, ye daft cunt, ye! Cry for yer beloved sister's cold, dead body!”

  “Mammy! Naw!” Siofra squealed, her twiglet arms trying in vain to grab at her mother's flailing wrists, her sobs more wrenching. “Leave him be!”

  “Ye want a taste of yer brother's medicine yerself, wee girl?” Fionnuala's elbow knocked her aside, and her fists flew until Padraig howled like the beast Fionnuala thought he was, and his eyes brimmed with tears. Of pain rather than sorrow, but the McDaid family wouldn't know the difference.

  “About time!” Fionnuala muttered. She glanced down at the stroller before her. “What's up with them wanes? Slumbering as if they'd not a care in the world while their dear mammy's body is meant to be spread out on a slab in the morgue!” How Dymphna's babies could sleep peacefully, Fionnuala couldn't imagine, crammed together like that as the stroller should only fit one. “...and this when every hour God sends they usually be's shrieking bloody murder! Bleedin piggin typical!”

  She gave the wheels a swift kick. Screams erupted from both infants, little limbs flailed. A pacifier popped onto the cracks of the front path. Fionnuala smiled. Their
shrieks would pull the heartstrings of even a cold-hearted cow, and that's what Mrs. McDaid was. The woman had reared her hooligan sons, Caoilte, Fergal and Eamonn, and lorded over their drug dealing empire, a modern Ma Barker.

  With Siofra sobbing to her left, Padraig crying to her right, the infants squealing at her knees, all were now an appropriate tableau of grief, a nativity scene of darkness on the doorstep. Fionnuala snickered under the veil and turned to herself. Inside the cavern of her mouth, she chomped down on her tongue; it was difficult with the outward configuration of her front teeth, but real tears were summoned to her eyes. She banged the letter box again.

  She clacked her teeth impatiently and tried to peer through the window on the door for some movement down the hallway towards them, but not only was the glass beveled, it was also thick with grime.

  “Och, for the love of God, woman! What's keeping ye?”

  Fionnuala hoped the door would be answered before the tears dried. Or she'd have to beat them out of the children again. She froze as there was a rattling at the knob, and the clink of chains being drawn. Fionnuala pressed the toilet paper to the corner of her eye, squeezed out another tear, pried open her maw, and the moan of a tortured forest animal rose through the air. With the scrape of wood against linoleum, the door to the druggie lair was pried open.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  “Fight! Fight! Fight!” they chanted.

  “Knock the bastard's head offa his neck, Brian!” roared one.

  “Rip that fecking Flood to shreds, boyo!” yelled another.

  They jeered and catcalled, their whistles and raucous laughter piercing the frigid packing plant air. Their oversized gloves clapped as they chanted in a semi-circle, bawdy taunts ringing out, necks craned towards the catwalk. They urged Brian Sheeney on, goggling in rapture at the flying fists above. On the sidelines, some of the men joined in too, urging Sheeney on to beat the crap out of Lorcan Flood.

  The women had been working on the conveyor belt of the mixing and grinding machines when the scuffle broke out two stories above them. Now it was a bloody brawl, and their conveyor belt trundled on unattended. Cigarettes had been lit, and they bellowed away, happy spectators of any bloodsport.