“Would I have to pay you for that too?” the father asked, an edge to his voice.
Fionnuala kept smiling, though under the counter her upper thighs twisted inwards towards each other.
“That I'd be happy to do free of charge, like.”
“Don't bother, Dad. Let's just get our stuff back and clear outta here,” said the son, and the mother seemed relieved her boy had spoken up and turned to her husband as if to say she agreed, but Fionnuala had already snatched the money from his hand and locked it in the till. She was happy to see he had included the the photo-taking fee, or maybe he hadn't but she wasn't about to give him any change. The man was looking down at his yawning wallet, and he seemed to be wondering how and when the money had been taken from it. One moment it was there, the next it was in the till. The boy continued, “This place looks crappy. Lame. And I don't know what that thing about fags was, but I wanna steer clear.”
Cheeky wee bastard, Fionnuala thought as she pressed the tickets into the father's hand.
“Fags be's cigarettes.”
“I don't wanna go in there either, Daddy, it smells strange,” whined the girl.
Cheeky wee cunt.
“Maybe it's better if we just leave, Richard,” whispered the mother.
“Youse've already paid, but. And there be's no returns.”
That's why Fionnuala always turned on the heat first thing. After already paying £20 for a service they assumed was free, very few fathers demanded their coats back and shepherded their families out. They were going to enjoy the center if it killed them. The look on the father's face said just that.
“Oh, it's not so bad. Now that we know homosexuals aren't involved, ho ho! It'll be fun. We get to climb inside her plane. It's the chance of a lifetime! Where else can you do it but here? Come on, guys, lets go in.”
The girl was staring at the corridor which led to the center—there was a flashing neon sign that said This Way to Exploreworld!—with the same contempt she would give an old person. She flipped her hair and folded her arms.
“Amelia Earhart sucks,” she said. “This music sucks.”
“This whole town sucks,” said the boy. “And the people are freaks.”
The lone eye visible through the mess of gelled hair glared at Fionnuala defiantly, and her hand twitched uncontrollably beside the till. She forgot all about her frequent, sudden urge. Here she almost did the mother/step-mother's job for her; she had read on the Internet somewhere that Yanks were forbidden by Yank law from touching their children. She didn't know if it were true, but she would be happy to smack the entitlement off their whinging, whiny faces. How dare this ugly, over-nourished, entitled bag of shite insult her beloved hometown! And the wee slag-in-the-making with the pout she wanted to kick off her face Amelia Earhart and the Andrews Sisters!
“They're still suffering from jet lag,” the mother said by way of explanation, and a weak one it was, but it was no excuse, and Fionnuala couldn't stomach the affectionate way she took her daughter's shoulder and shoved her towards the entrance. She wondered if that counted as touching and she could get the woman arrested by the Yank authorities. There was a consulate over in Belfast. The boy loped after them, and the father took up the protective stance in the rear. He turned around and gave Fionnuala a thunderous look, then followed them in.
She leaned across the counter and, she knew she was pressing it but there was no harm in trying, who dares wins and all that, she called out in a singsong voice over Chattanooga Choo Choo, “We've personal guided tours and all if youse are interested. Twenty-five quid. Quite a bargain, so it is.” She nodded and smiled and gave half a wink but it was all to the father's back.
“We'll pass on the tour,” he said in a clipped tone, not even turning around. Fionnuala was taken aback as he flipped her off, and not the two-fingered V she was used to, and used often, but the horrible American one she had seen in films with the middle finger pointing up. What a shocking way for a father to behave! But Fionnuala wasn't bothered. She'd be out £25, but would have more time to go through their things if she weren't conducting the tour. And that would be worth far more than £25, if the past few weeks while Una was on holiday were anything to go by. As excited as she was, she was still angered by the teens' terrible remarks. Taking this family for all they were worth would give her a great and special pleasure.
The city and Amelia's record-breaking solo flight across the Atlantic in 1932 were inextricably linked. There was a special affinity, a bond between her and many of the people of Derry, especially the older ones. The aviation heroine held a special place in their hearts. Although Amelia had planned to land in Paris as the first woman to fly transatlantic, she had somehow ended up in a pasture in Culmore, a few miles north of Derry. Fionnuala still didn't understand it. There must have been something wrong with their maps back then, she always thought. Paris and Derry couldn't be more different.
Paddy's father or his grandfather, or maybe a great uncle, Fionnuala hadn't been told exactly who, but one of the many Patrick Floods, had been there in Culmore as she touched down, a teenager guzzling down the drink in an adjacent pub, but in the vicinity nevertheless. There was a photo of him leaning against the plane for support as proof. The photo still had pride of place on the mantelpiece of their home, though it was difficult to make out, not because it was black and white and blurry or almost a century old, though it was all three, but because Fionnuala had never gotten around to dusting its frame.
The Floods had taken a bus to see the famous site a few years before. A bus with no shock absorbers and blaring rave music carted them over the moors, through marauding packs of pigs and sheep, and onto the clearing where, a century before, Amelia Earhart and her plane had landed.
The field used to house an Amelia Earhart museum, but it had closed due to lack of funding during some economic downturn. And, indeed, the paltry number of visitors its remote location afforded it. The Floods themselves, when they had gone, had spent more time in the neighboring penny arcade and the pub than in the actual field itself. They had lasted three minutes in the museum, and had only entered anyway because it was free. They weren't ones for museums.
In a move that had made her a shoe-in for the short list of Derry Businesswoman of the Year, Zoë Riddell had decided to expand her portfolio and open a new, more interactive shrine to the great lady—she apparently admired Amelia Earhart dearly—but this time in Derry itself, where it would have a higher profile and attract more visitors. It had opened to great fanfare the year before, when Derry had been the UK's City of Culture, and many marveled at its sleek, modern design. The clean lines of the design were still there a year on, marred only by the inch of dust that clung to every surface except the buttons of the till.
As Fionnuala carried the bags into the office, she knew time was of the essence. There wasn't much in the center to keep the horrid little family entertained, and though she still had to wee, she couldn't without rereading the instructions Dr. Chandrapore had given her. They were very confusing. And the act itself seemed like it would be a production of sorts. She had to go through their belongings while she knew she had the time. She pressed the sudden urge to the back of her mind as, with hands shuddering both with excitement and the urge to relieve herself, she perched herself delicately on the revolving chair at the desk and pawed through the teens' backpacks.
There was nothing of use nor ornament to her. More bottles of water in both—why did they always cart them around?—in the girl's, strawberry and kiwi lip glosses, a tampon and hair accessories, in the boy's, a violent fantasy graphic novel, an iPod, an iPad, strange American gum and what seemed like crusty socks. Her fingers twitched as they wound first round the iPod and then his iPad, but she had to let them go. She knew she would be a fool to take both, or even one. He would notice immediately.
It was only when she sprung open the mother's purse that she offered up a quick prayer of thanks to the Lord. She pawed through the packs of tissues and bottles of hand san
itizer—another clue to a Yank—and finally rested her claws on the wallet. It looked like crocodile leather, purple yet real. She pried it open, and her eyes drank in the seven credit cards lined up in their neat little slots. Only an amateur would take them all. But it would take the mother a while to realize one small card was missing. So not the Black Amex. She faltered a second, then chose a lowly-looking Visa. She pinched it with eager fingernails and eased it out of its slot, then slipped it into her satchel, which was propped against the desk. She didn't want it on her person until she reached a ready till. Who knew what body searches the PSNI might subject her to on a whim; she was Catholic, after all.
As she slipped the wallet back in, she noticed she was nestling it next to some Kleenex Moist Wipes, and these reminded her of the harsh barks for service from her bladder. She realized suddenly sweat was trickling down her face, and it had nothing to do with the unbearable heat. Her hands and legs shuddered. The feelings of accomplishment and excitement were now tempered by the pain in her nether regions. She'd have to forgo their pockets.
Grieving, she picked up her satchel and made her way to the counter on weak legs twisted at the knees. She tiptoed toward the entrance of the center, and over the strains of Boogie Woogie Bugle Boy, she heard the beeps and blings of the video game, the boy's unhinged laughter, and the splat! splat! splat! of one bird after another being murdered by the plane. The deranged creature was losing on purpose. He reminded Fionnuala of her Padraig, except she could always see both of Padraig's eyes. She heard the father's laughter, the girl's squeals of delight, and the mother's coos. They seemed to be amused. She should have time for that bathroom break after all.
There was no staff loo, so she'd have to use the customers'' opposite the entrance. She opened the bathroom door and realized with a sinking heart the lock was always broken. Zoë had never gotten around to sending someone in to fix it. If that Yank girl or her mother came in and saw her while she was in the middle of... Fionnuala shuddered at the thought.
She looked around the little cubicle, but found nothing to prop the door shut with. She would have to use her hand. She pulled the jug out of the satchel, placed it between the door and the toilet, and took out the instructions.
No, there had not been a team of experts specially called in for her at Altnagalvin. She had only said that to cause her family alarm. The first test to come back while she was still in with Dr. Chandrapore had shown there was, he said, a extremely large amount of protein leaking from her kidneys into her bloodstream. He seemed alarmed, so so was she. And she had asked what might cause that. There were various likely causes, he had said. She had asked and asked again, but the doctor wouldn't commit to what these 'various causes,' nor their eventual outcome for her health and life expectancy, might be. They would have to wait for more test results. And anyway, this was a surprise new find. It couldn't have anything to do with her fainting spell.
What was protein, anyroad? Fionnuala asked herself. It sounded like it should be good, so one would think extra protein in her system should be making her healthier. But Dr. Chandrapore seemed to disagree, and he was the expert so he ought to know. Maybe, thought Fionnuala, the problem was that is was leaking from her kidneys. Anyway, she would have to collect a 24-hour urine sample and deliver it to the hospital within two days.
The instructions were written in large capital letters, as if problems with her kidneys somehow affected her eyesight. She read:
FIRST, EMPTY YOUR BLADDER UPON RISING IN THE MORNING AND DISCARD THE URINE. When she had first read that the day before, she had almost rung the hospital to tell them they hadn't given her a bladder with her kit, but then she realized they must mean a bladder inside her own body, and that it meant doing a wee. She had already risen and already emptied her bladder, but then this morning she had faltered, as 'discarding the urine' sounded like she had to throw it in the garbage. But then she realized if she just flushed, that was discarding.
SECOND, FROM THAT TIME FORWARD, COLLECT ALL URINE DURING THE DAY AND NIGHT, AND ADD IT TO THE COLLECTION CONTAINER. She had been confused about this step as well, because she couldn't understand why, where or how she could 'collect' her urine and then, at some later stage, add it to the container (which she guessed was the jug). But now she realized she'd have to forgo the 'collection' step and just move on to going to the bathroom in it, regardless of the complicated instructions. That was where her wee was supposed to wind up, after all.
FROM THAT TIME FORWARD, COLLECT ALL URINE DURING THE DAY AND NIGHT, AND ADD IT TO THE CONTAINER. So she would have to do it for 24 hours. Regardless of where she was. Which meant the jug would have to stay at her side, ready for action.
THE FINAL COLLECTION WILL BE THE NEXT MORNING SPECIMEN. EMPTY YOUR BLADDER AND ADD TO THE COLLECTION CONTAINER.
FINALLY, KEEP THE COLLECTED URINE REFRIGERATED AND RETURN TO THE LABORATORY AS SOON AS POSSIBLE.
She couldn't even think of that step until it was necessary. The amount of times Paddy, Lorcan, Padraig, Siofra and even her mother pried open the fridge door and stared at the items on the shelves as if they might break into song or maybe a wee dance didn't bear thinking about. And sometimes wee Seamus, when he expended all his effort, could tug open the door and have a look inside as well. What would they make of her special jug next to the milk and Lucozade? It didn't bear thinking about.
She faced away from the door and hiked up her skirt. She tugged down her panties. Then, with as much dignity as she could muster, one hand keeping the door shut behind her, she hovered, wavered on the clunky heels of her clog-like shoes a bit, then squat over the jug. She looked down and aimed at the hole and fired away. Three full teacups, and then a lot more, if the streams spewing from her were anything to go by. Fionnuala felt relief ooze into her as the waste spilled out. Her ponytails swayed. She thought of all the proteins that must be swimming around in her urine and wondered what they might look like and where they might come from. And then it was over. She stood up, twisted on the top, and shoved the jug back into her satchel. She would inspect it later. Doctor Chandrapore had said something about foam. She draped a scarf across the top so it wouldn't be seen.
That wasn't so bad after all! It was certainly a peculiar thing to have to do, but now she'd done it once she was sure she'd be able to repeat the process all day long. Most loos would have locks.
Just as she was pulling the door shut behind her, the family trooped down the corridor and into the lobby. There must have been some argument at the video machine, because they didn't look how they had sounded before.
“Where's our stuff?” barked the father.
Fionnuala knew well enough not to push them any more. She wouldn't offer them any of the 'souvenirs' she had on sale, stones she had plucked from her back garden, next to the rhubarb patch, placed in little plastic cases, tied in a bow, and painted May 21, 1932 on them with her own hand at the kitchen table back home, which she claimed were stones from the original pasture Amelia and the Friendship had landed in on that very date. £50 each. She had fleeced them enough, when she took into account the cloakroom fees and the fact that admission was really only £5. And she had the credit card. She hurried into the office and came back with their gear.
“Here youse go,” she said, the smile on her face and a dance in her fingertips as she handed over their things. “I hope youse have enjoyed yer stay here at Amelia's Exploreworld.”
The girl rolled her eyes, the mother looked away, the father glared still and the boy muttered 'bucktoothed old bitch.'
Fionnuala didn't care. She didn't want an international incident, and life seemed brighter and happier now that she had 'collected' both urine and easy cash.
It was only when they were outside, after the boy had kicked the trash can next to the door, that Fionnuala noticed through the window—the front was all glass—the look in the mother's eyes. Fionnuala knew that look; it glinted often enough in her own eyes: suspicion. She couldn't hear what the woman was saying, but her lips were flappi
ng and flapping and flapping at the family, her face was flush, and her finger was jabbing in Fionnuala's direction again and again. And—Fionnuala froze. The father cast her a furtive look through the glass, the teens nodded, and then the boy and girl took off their backpacks and the mother opened her purse. Their hands reached into them and rooted around. The father was turning all the pockets of his jacket inside out.
She knew! The fat Yank bitch somehow knew! It was only a matter of time before the mother discovered a credit card was missing. Oh, they had no proof, Fionnuala knew that. And the PSNI, as horrible as they were, would be on her side rather than some alien heathen tourists from the land of everything. She had seen it happen time and again: tourists being robbed and the circling of the Derry wagons, including the police. But...
She grabbed her satchel and flung it over her shoulder. She strode to the entrance, flipped over the sign so that it read CLOSED FOR LUNCH, it was only 10 AM, and wrenched open the door. As she was stabbing the key at the lock the husband called out, “Hey, wait a minute, did you—”
Fionnuala elbowed him in the stomach. “Och, sorry, love, it's me poor wee Dymphna. A car crash, ye understand. The hospital's just after ringing.”
Off she raced.
“Hey! Hey!” he called after her.
“Cheerio!” she trilled.
The slosh from the jug was an unexpected sound in her ears as she sped on her clogs down the steep slope of Shipquay Street toward the city center. She was going to have to run, run to some retail establishment to max out that card. Before the woman dialed an international number and turned it into a useless piece of plastic. She was so concentrated on the slosh and the clack of her clogs she didn't hear their footsteps fast behind her.
Best Served Frozen (The Irish Lottery Series Book 4) Page 16
