Best Served Frozen (The Irish Lottery Series Book 4)

by Gerald Hansen

  “And if there's any teabags left, youse'll find em next to the kettle over there.”

  “Coffee?” Jed asked, hope springing eternal.

  The woman snorted. She peered over the shelf that divided them as if seeing them for the first time.

  “Are youse Yanks?” she asked. “Aye, youse are. I can tell. It's the clothes. What are youse doing here? Aren't all Yanks minted?”

  “I...I gamb—”

  Ursula nudged Jed to silence, and they trudged without a skip in their steps towards the slice of bread and the vague promise of a teabag that awaited them. The porridge sloshed in their bowls.

  “While I appreciate ye wanting to own up about yer foolishness, I don't want ye spreading it all over Derry, like.” Ursula said, as they sat at the long wooden table and some back part of her brain wondered, if the building were so new, why they had outfitted it with Dickensian furniture. She dipped the teabag into her cup. “Ye've no idea who that woman knows, who she'll run off to spread the news about us, and before ye know it, I'll have Francine calling me to tell me she heard all about it. Or Molly from Ibiza.”

  “They can't call us,” Jed reminded her. “Our batteries have died. And I forgot my charger.”

  “Aye, I forgot mine and all. I figured I could just buy one when we got here. More fool me, thinking I'd have money to buy things with. Och, Jed! What are we gonny do?”

  She dipped the teabag into his cup and eyed the door in alarm.

  “The others are starting to rise. We'd better shovel this down wer bakes and head for them showers before themmuns finishes eating.” She shuddered at the thought of a group shower, though, thankfully, there seemed to be very few female patrons, and she assumed the showers weren't unisex. She hoped. “And then we've to suss out where the funeral is. If need be, we'll have to traipse to the Moorside and knock on Paddy's door, and just hope Fionnuala doesn't open it. We really must hurry, Jed. Doesn't funerals normally be held in the morning, like?”

  “Yeah,” Jed said. He slipped the spoon between his lips, chewed for a moment, struggled to swallow, then dropped the spoon into the bowl. “I'm gonna take my shower now. Quick. Before the soap runs out.”

  “Ye kyanny leave me here on me own!” But then Ursula took a bite and understood. She wiped her lips and stood up. The room swam. It was that mystery liquor from the night before, still in her veins. “Aye, off we go, then, so's we get a clean towel. First in the queue, and all that.”

  “And then we'll find out where they're laying Dymphna to rest.” Jed sighed as he got up. “Oh, honey, I'm so sorr—”

  “Don't say that to me again. Ever,” Ursula warned. They approached the showers and what horrors might await them. All mod cons, Father Hogan had said, but who knew. She turned to Jed and hissed, “Ye're lucky I'm not flinging divorce papers under yer nose. I know why ye did it, but. It be's the thought of making wer lives better with piles of dosh. Jed, look what money did to us before, but. All I need to say be's the word 'lottery.'”

  Jed walked behind her, his head hidden under his cowboy hat.

  An hour and a half later, 8:37 AM, Fionnuala dragged herself out of bed while Paddy snored into his pillow. She crept into the kitchen to make Lorcan his breakfast. porridge with raisins again, with a generous portion of cinnamon and furniture polish. She turned on the oven to 450º, reached into the spud bag, chose a big one, and shoved the potato in the oven. She would bring it along in her handbag and find a way to slip it onto his plate that evening. She knew jacket potatoes were on the menu at the reception, and she didn't want him eating an untainted meal. The polish didn't seem to affect him the way the hairspray had. When she had taken the wanes to the church to light a candle for him the evening before, she felt horrible kneeling there on the pew before the flickering flame as the wanes either side of her prayed to the Lord for Lorcan to get better and she prayed for him to get worse, to keep him by her side. Had Fionnuala bothered to read the warning on the can, she would have realized the furniture polish was actually less effective than the hairspray for her purpose. May Cause Mild Abdominal Discomfort was all it said.

  As she carried the bowl of porridge upstairs, and the cans of beer, she wondered if she should experiment, try something else in his food. She'd see how this meal made him feel first.

  She knocked on the door.

  “Aye, Mam?”

  He sounded like health incarnate. She scowled, then plastered a smile on her face as she opened the door.

  “Yer breakfast, dote,” she said. He looked a bit hungover, his hair in need of a wash, but other than that, he seemed fine to her. Too fine.

  “Ta, Mam. There's no need, but. Really. I feel fine.”

  Just what Fionnuala had been fearing. She sat beside him, felt his forehead, plumped his pillow and placed it behind his head.

  “Do ye feel up to going to the wedding, dear? I'll understand if ye have to back out.”

  “With that cake, I wouldn't miss it for the world!” He sniggered with laughter.

  Fionnuala touched him on the arm.

  “That's one of the things what I love about ye, son. So selfless. Putting the pleasure of yer sister, no matter how undeserving she may be, before yer own health. Are ye sure ye're well enough to put the spoon up to yer mouth yerself?”

  “No need, Mam. I can do it meself.”

  She rubbed his arm again, then stood up.

  “And I've ironed yer suit for ye and all. And added a wee flower from the garden and pinned it on the front, like. And as ye see, I've brought some beers up for ye and all. I won't be long in throwing the drink down me own throat, if truth be told. It's gonny be a long day.”

  “Och, I love ye, Mam. Ta, like,” She stood there clutching the door handle, wondering if she should rush over and smack that spoon out of his hand. But she just smiled and closed the door, then went downstairs and into the kitchen.

  She shook the furniture polish, wondered why it wasn't giving her the desired results, and had her mind made up for her when she sprayed it and only a little bit fizzled out of the nozzle. It, too, was empty, though how that was possible Fionnuala didn't understand as she had rarely used it all the time it had sat in the house. She scrabbled under the sink again, in the metal bucket that had decades ago held coal but now held rarely-used cleaning products. Her fingers clutched a can and tugged it out. Heavy Duty Yeuch-B-Gone. The oven cleaner Dymphna had raved about and brought over from Zoë's. Fionnuala had yet to put it to use on the oven. But she had a use for it now. She was tired of reading the cleaning products' nonsensical ingredients, and didn't even bother to read these, or the warnings. But if she had, she would have seen the warnings were screaming out at her from the side of the can, the rows of skulls and crossbones telling her how fatal to the human body its ingredients were, demanding she desist with this madness, not introduce the virulent toxins and noxious acids into the innards of her son, a son she claimed to love.

  She opened the oven and prodded the jacket potato with a fork. Still raw. She didn't know how much longer the others would be sleeping; surely they were excited about the wedding, and would be up soon, regardless of their hangovers, those that might have them. She removed the potato with one oven mitt and a dirty dishrag, placed it on the counter, sliced open the potato, shook the can and spayed. She closed up the jacket, and popped it back into the oven for another twenty minutes.

  Mrs. Dinh, Mrs. Feeney, Mrs. Gee, Mrs. Ming all arrived at Mrs. Mulholland's. They rolled their tartan shopping carts before and behind them though the hallway and into the kitchen, which was now the operating center of the day's attack. The carts bulged with the ammunition.

  Mrs. Leech, Mrs. O'Bryan and Mrs. Stokes were already there, putting the finishing touches on the bedspread banners and affixing the placards on the poles taken from mops and brooms others had brought over, and those others, drinking tea and nibbling biscuits, rosaries clanking, crucifixes swinging, milled around Bridie, who sat next to the washing machine and was trying to channel the Bles
sed Virgin again. These others seemed to be wearing larger crosses than usual; perhaps they thought the Virgin Mary's eyesight wasn't too good, and wanted to be sure She saw their piety.

  “Can ye see Her, Bridie?”

  “Can ye hear Her, love?”

  “What's She saying to ye?”

  But, no, Bridie couldn't see the Virgin Mary, and God knows she had been searching for her everywhere. In the dark clouds on the way over, in the grass of her aunt's front garden, in the pattern of the cheese melted on the unwashed plate in the sink. She hadn't seen Her since the wallpaper incident. Where She had told her the pairing of Dymphna Flood and Rory Riddell, of a Catholic and a Protestant, of an Orange slapper and a Green bastard, was blasphemous, heretical, unchristian, ungodly, a sin!

  “Bridie...Bridie...!” Bridie was certain she had heard the Virgin Mary say on that occasion, “Ye kyanny let this wedding take place! It's an affront to the heavenly Father! I want ye to gather together some troops, some onward Christian soldiers, for to show up at the church the day after tomorrow...and shame them sinners into ceasing and desisting this madness, this affront to the Father, the Son and the Holy Ghost, and Me and all.”

  Without pondering why the Blessed Virgin would use a Derry accent to speak to her, nor the remarkable serendipity that Her first instructions, what she demanded Bridie do, were exactly what would make Bridie's world better, allowing Rory Riddell, her one true love, to be a free man so Bridie could pursue him herself, Bridie had burst into her auntie Bernadette's sitting room and told the gathered masses her new instructions. No, She still hadn't given her any signs, Bridie had answered in response to their excited questions, but maybe that would come later on, and if they joined in, if they joined the battle against sin and depravity that was the Riddell-Flood wedding, perhaps Mary would soon appear to one of them also, if not all of them. But, Bridie had hastened to add, this was simply her opinion; the Blessed Virgin hadn't explicitly laid this out.

  Now Bridie shrieked and her body jerked atop the chair as if it were one of those electrical ones in Florida. Her arm knocked the washing powder to the floor, and it splattered on the linoleum at her feet like the skirt of a Christmas tree. The women gasped and huddled around, their eyes shining with as much excitement as much as their age would allow.

  “Aye,” Bridie croaked breathlessly, eyes darting around everywhere to let them know Her presence in the kitchen was everywhere, “I hear her now! She spoke to me just then!”

  She did no such thing, Mrs. Mulholland thought; Her niece was no Joan of Arc, she wasn't even Joan Crawford; Mrs. Mulholland now understood well why Bridie had never played anything but a bush in the school's dramatic productions. But the woman gathered around with the others, who were covering Bridie with coos and gnashing their dentures with excitement and almost tearing at her clothes at one point, and Mrs. Mulholland feared they were being revved up into a wave of hysteria. Who was she kidding? She didn't fear that at all. It was what she had been hoping for. Giving that Protestant bitch the shock of her life she deserved.

  Three years before, Mrs. Mulholland had applied for a job at Dreams and Wishes, the card store down on Rossville Street, to supplement her meager pension, and the owner herself, Zoë Riddell, had interviewed her. But Mrs. Riddell had turned her down, saying she 'wasn't right' for the position. Mrs. Mulholland didn't know if that meant she was too old or too Catholic, and had wandered home in a right state, the bills that needed to be paid pressing down. Three miserable months dragged by, and they were the winter ones, so she shivered in the cold and damp, caught pneumonia and almost succumbed to a lung infection. But then, summoning the courage to face rejection again, she had applied for a job at as a bagger at the Top Yer Trolly and been immediately hired. So she realized there was nothing wrong with her. Zoë, the Orange bitch, was the problem. This revenge would be sweet. So sweet. Mrs. Mulholland felt her lungs thanking her for avenging them.

  “What did she say?!” Mrs. Gee asked.

  “Tell us, Bridie, tell us!”

  “Aye! Tell us!”

  “She said...”

  You could hear the water drop from the tap.

  “She said, off youse go now! For to save Derry! For to save Northern Ireland! Save the country from the clutches of depravity and sin! Off youse go! To St. Fintan's! Onward Christian soldiers! I'll be there with youse and all, leading the way! Look up for me in the sky!”

  They roared there in the kitchen under the patches of damp and rattled their rosaries and fiddled with their crosses. Mrs. Mulholland rolled her eyes. They grabbed the poles with the signs attached and tried to wave them in the air, but one of them knocked the kitchen light and sent it flying, fringes sailing through the air, and she had to yell at them to stop.

  “Ladies! Ladies! There's time enough for all that to come! Only another half hour, and youse can muster up all the aggro ye can on the streets of Derry so all's the world can see youse! And the Blessed Virgin and all!”

  They put down the signs, Bridie asked one of her congregation to sweep up the detergent for her, three fought to reach for the dustpan in the corner, two for the brush, and a smile danced on Mrs. Mulholland's lips.

  Dymphna gripped the railing for support. Her head under the sleek white veil was still swimming from the night before, and her eyes were trying to find her mother's somewhere down on the hallway and see what she could read in them. She had no reason to fear, as Fionnuala had hung up on her the moment she had slurred, “Right! Home truths!”

  She took a step, then another step, then another down the stairs. The flowers of the bouquet seemed to twinkle. Necks craned upwards in the front hall, Fionnuala clicked away with the disposable camera, enchanted by the pearls and diamonds jangling, the bows and hearts and crosses sparkling, the beauty of her creation as it sailed down the primroses of the carpeted stairs, Seamus and Siofra clapped, Paddy's eyes filled with tears, Lorcan and Padraig smirked at each other, Maureen rolled her eyes and they all jumped as the letterbox behind them clanked. And clanked again. And kept on clanking. Fionnuala felt the blood drain from her face. Had the Filth finally caught up to her? But she had to keep up her front.

  “Of all the times!” Fionnuala said with a practiced snarl. “Who the bloody feck be's that? Ruining the moment I've waited all me life for!” But if this was the bride or the gown nobody knew.

  Lorcan opened the door. It was the caterers, coming for the cake. Fionnuala deflated with relief. Lorcan ushered them into the kitchen. Dymphna took another step down the stairs, and froze at the roars of laughter from the kitchen.

  “Mammy! Why does they be laughing?” She must have realized somewhere in her still-pickled mind she had yet to see the cake herself. The horror rose in her eyes as she saw what was being carted out the door, what it took three men to carry. One tower for each of them.

  “But...Mammy!” she gasped, the color rising to her cheeks. “It be's...obscene!”

  “Mammy!” Siofra wailed. “Why was them men laughing at me princess cake? What does 'scene mean?”

  “Out, youse wanes! Outside now!” Fionnuala screamed at Padraig, Siofra and Seamus. They rushed outside after the caterers.

  Fionnuala reached up the five stairs left and trailed Dymphna down them.

  “Self-centered bitch!” The veil flew as Fionnuala smacked her.

  “Mam!” “Dear!” “Fionnuala love!” Lorcan, Paddy and Maureen all called out, taking steps forward. “It's her wedding day, sure!” Paddy yelled.

  “The hours yer sister and yer wee brother and yer granny toiled away for yer special day, while ye sat in that chip van and poured the drink down yer gullet! And now—”

  “I was working!”

  “And now ye've the brass necked cheek, the flimmin nerve, to hurl insults at all their hard work. Ye've not a clue how—”

  “Mammy! Dymphna!” Padraig squealed with glee.

  All heads whipped towards the front door, even Dymphna's. Padraig and 'glee' never went together if the body of a small ani
mal wasn't involved.

  “C'mon out now! The car's come! Ye're never gonny believe the size of it!”

  Paddy looked at his watch even as he raced to the door.

  “God bless us and save us!” Maureen said, cane tapping towards the door. “They're wile early! There's an hour to the wedding, still.”

  Still pressing a hand to her burning cheek, Dymphna picked up the hem of her gown, the fringes jostling through the air, and followed them all out.

  There it stood in their shabby street in all its glory, a sleek and shiny black Rolls Royce Phantom stretch limousine. As Paddy, Lorcan and the boys raced towards it and ran their hands over it, Fionnuala shot her head up and down the length of the street, hoping for the sign of twitching curtains. She was not disappointed. She slowed her pace—she had almost forgotten herself there for a moment!—and contorted herself into the pose of Chapter 12, How to Walk At Ascot. The peacock feathers of her hat barely moved as she glided through the broken gate with its peeling paint and broken lock and made her way across the pavement towards luxury. Then she ran back, almost knocking Dymphna to the floor, and snatched her handbag. She shoved past her daughter and made her way back towards the limousine like a Lady.

  After Dymphna locked the front door, and as she walked through the jungle of a front garden and made her way towards the opened limousine door, a momentary space cleared in the clouds over towards the northeast, and a ray of sunshine burst through. The heart buckle shone. The itsy-bitsy child beyond it slept soundly.

  Fairy lights twinkled on the ceiling, music crooned from hidden speakers, Fionnuala, Paddy, Maureen, Dymphna, Lorcan, Padraig, Siofra and Seamus lounged on the hand-stitched leather seats, marveling more at the bar and the flat screen TV within than the exotic fiber optic mood lighting or the plush navy carpeting. As the driver had come so early, Fionnuala had asked him if he could take them on a tour of the city. He had agreed, and Fionnuala had spent the first ten minutes with the window rolled down, waving at the gawping faces they passed with that stiff-palm wave of the Queen.