This Eden

by Ed O’Loughlin

  Go ahead, said her father, and opened the living-room door.

  She stepped inside, saw her mother in her armchair, and then the door clicked shut behind her.

  Her mother wasn’t alone. There was a woman sitting on the couch with her back to the balcony, her face obscured by the daylight behind her. Aoife sensed someone else too, in the corner, behind the door, hidden from her as she entered the room.

  Her eyes found the mirror over the hearth. It was the Scotsman, Fess’s enforcer, from London and Uganda. He was dressed in a plain dark suit and tie, smiling unctuously, an undertaker who’s turned up a little too soon. He wasn’t looking at Aoife but at her mother, his face full of sympathy. Then his eyes flicked to the mirror, saw Aoife watching him. He winked.

  The woman stood up from the couch. Aoife saw a business skirt and blazer, a blouse fastened to the throat, round owlish glasses, the smile of a HR manager who’s just popped by your desk. She’d last seen that face in a London hotel room.

  Hello, Aoife, said Irene. We’re here to help.

  Aoife’s mother, still sitting, folded her arms and looked at her daughter, sad, disappointed.

  There’s no point being angry at us, Aoife. And there’s no point denying things. We already know.

  Aoife took a step into the room, buying herself another arm’s length from the thug in the corner. The room was full of potential weapons –

  ornamental pokers, her mother’s old showjumping trophies, brass shell cases from Kildare’s old artillery barracks – but she knew what men like the Scotsman could do. For now, it was better to talk.

  Know what, Mum?

  Sit down, dear. Ronan – her mother raised her voice – where’s that tea?

  Her father’s voice carried from the kitchen.

  Coming, Fiona. Do you want biscuits too?

  Yes, said Aoife’s mother. I think biscuits are called for. If we have any left. We’ve been waiting for you for days . . .

  And she gave her only daughter another sad look.

  Aoife sat on the couch, her back to the balcony. How long would it take her to open the catch on its door? How far was the drop to the bushes below?

  She mirrored her mother’s unhappy expression. It was, she realised, depressingly easy for her to do. Will I grow to be like her?

  Dad wasn’t sick at all, she said. You lied to me.

  It was for your own good. We had to bring you back here. So you can get the help you need.

  Irene stepped over to the fireplace, behind Aoife’s mother. The Scotsman left his corner and also stood behind Fiona. Oblivious, Aoife’s mother kept talking.

  These people told us everything, Aoife. And we checked it for ourselves. We called the Home Office in London. They’ve never even heard of you. You’ve been living a lie.

  Aoife, looking past her mother, watched as the Scotsman lifted the hem of his jacket. The grip of a pistol showed over his belt. He patted the pistol with his free hand. Irene extended her right arm, thumb cocked, two fingers pointing at the back of Fiona’s head. Her thumb shot forward. Pow, she mouthed silently. Then she raised a finger to her lips, mimed shush.

  Aoife nodded. Her mother, seeing Aoife nod, relaxed into her chair.

  I’m so glad you see it our way, Aoife. We love you very much. We had to do whatever we could to save you.

  Save me?

  From the cult.

  The cult?

  Irene contacted us a week ago. She told us all about it. She said you were in one of those fake religions where everyone . . . where they all . . . Well, you don’t need me to tell you what you all get up to. Irene and Mr Stewart here are professional cult busters. They rescue people from fake religions, deprogramme them and return them to their families. We had to play a trick on you to get you to come back to us.

  You told me Dad was dying. That’s some trick, Mum.

  We had to hope that you still had some human feelings for us, that the cult hadn’t totally brainwashed you yet. I’m sorry, Aoife. But we’d do it again, if we had to.

  Her mother stood, held out her arms, inviting a hug. There were tears in her eyes.

  Because it worked! Here you are!

  Aoife stayed in her seat. I should be screaming, she thought, looking up at her mother. Instead, I’m sulking. It never goes away.

  There was a clatter in the hall. The Scotsman went over and opened the door, letting Aoife’s father in. He set his tray on the coffee table, looked at his wife.

  You’ve had that little chat with her?

  Yes, said his wife, looking away from him.

  About that whole . . . ?

  Yes.

  He looked relieved.

  Well, that’s good then. I’m glad that’s all settled.

  He turned away, poured tea into cups.

  Milk and one sugar for you, Andrew . . . Milk no sugar for you, Irene. Usual for you, Fiona, darling . . . And you, Aoife? How do you take your tea?

  Milk no sugar. Like always.

  The Scotsman sat beside Aoife on the couch. Irene continued to stand by the fireplace; she took a sip from her tea, put it down again.

  I think, she said, looking around the room, that this intervention can begin?

  She turned to Aoife, face serious and kind.

  The first thing you have to understand, Aoife – and it may be hard for you to believe, after the depths you’ve sunk to – is that it’s still possible for other people to love you, and for you to love them. I think this intervention is already helping you to see that. You still have some love for your father, otherwise you wouldn’t have come back here. You’ve already felt the pain of thinking you might lose him. You know how that would feel for real. You understand?

  I get you, said Aoife.

  She took a sip of tea. It was warm but not hot. Her father was a city boy, who had never learned to scald the pot before putting the tea in. No point hurling this slop into somebody’s eyes . . .

  Irene put on a sad face.

  And imagine, Aoife, how your parents might feel if they lost you. Imagine them – for instance – watching their only daughter dying in front of them. No parent should have to see their child die. It’s against the natural order. Imagine your parents seeing you pass, knowing that they were soon about to pass too, perhaps in considerable pain.

  Aoife’s mother looked into her teacup. She sniffed, long and loud. Irene put a hand on her shoulder, squeezed.

  Don’t worry, Fiona. I’m only saying these things to establish a connection with Aoife. An understanding . . . You do understand what I’m saying to you, don’t you, Aoife?

  Yep.

  Good. We need to know that you’re going to work with us. For your own sake. And for theirs.

  They have nothing to do with it.

  Fiona sniffed again, less loudly, and shot another sad glance at her daughter.

  I don’t know where we went wrong, she said.

  Don’t blame yourself, Fiona, said Irene. Now, if you don’t mind, we need a quick chat with Aoife alone, to establish some ground rules. Would you mind waiting here, while we talk in the hall?

  Be our guests, said Aoife’s father.

  Irene went first, with Aoife following. She didn’t have to look around to know that the Scotsman was close behind her. They had her snookered. The door clicked shut. The hallway was dark. Aoife turned and faced them.

  You don’t have to hurt them. I haven’t told anyone about that banker in London. It’s none of my business.

  Irene shook her head in mock disbelief.

  You want to pretend that this is about London? We know you’re in a lot deeper than that, my girl. You were snooping around in that lab, in Uganda.

  Keep bluffing, thought Aoife.

  No I wasn’t.

  You forgot to shut down the computer. Those Berkeley scientists knew
straight away that someone had been snooping in there. And those guys are geneticists. After you took off in that jeep, they took DNA samples from the bags in your room. We got no match at all for your friend – he’s like a ghost. But your name came up straight away. Your mum’s been sending her spit to the free genealogy sites.

  She thinks she’s descended from Mary Queen of Scots.

  We got quite the shock, seeing your name pop out of the database. We didn’t realise you were a plant, when we’d hired you for that job in London.

  I didn’t know either. But that doesn’t matter now. What do you want?

  Irene looked at the Scotsman.

  She’s a good girl, she said. She knows when she’s beaten. You can’t always count on that, with the Irish . . . The first thing you need to understand, dear, is that we don’t care about you. It’s not you that we want. It’s your boss.

  And Aoife, looking meek, thought, I can’t believe she said that to me. What an insult to my professionalism. Does she think I haven’t heard that before? I know it’s not me that you really want. But I also know that you’re going to do me anyway.

  We only want your boss, Aoife. Where is he?

  Towse. Where was Towse? Did she have any right to give him up? What would he do, in her position?

  He’s right here, Aoife said. He’s in Ireland.

  She saw the way Irene looked at the Scotsman, and then she understood. They hadn’t known that Towse was in the same country. They must have come to Ireland just for me, she thought, having set a trap for me, their only real lead. Now, they’re getting Towse as well.

  Take us to him and we’ll let you go. You and your parents. It’s him we want, not you.

  I don’t know where he is.

  You understand that we won’t start by hurting you, Aoife? We’ll start with your mother and father.

  Aoife could hear voices, canned music, beyond the door to the living room. Her parents had turned up the sound on the television. Maybe they wanted to show that they were too polite to eavesdrop. Or maybe they really didn’t want to hear what was said in the hall. They hoped that someone else could solve their Aoife problem.

  I honestly don’t know where he is.

  Irene studied Aoife’s face.

  OK, she said slowly.

  She looked at the Scotsman.

  Search her.

  Aoife felt his hands pass round her waist, under and along her arms, across her chest. He reached into her jacket, took out her fake passport, her thick wad of euros. Then he knelt, brushed down her legs, between her thighs to her ankles, groped the tops of her socks.

  No phone, he said, moving away again. Just this cash and this fake Irish passport. Excellent work – probably an Israeli job, foolproof. Name of Rosemary Scallon. Apart from that, no wallet, no plastic.

  No phone, Aoife? Then how is your boss supposed to find you? . . . You must have some other arrangement.

  Her eyes looked around the hallway, settled at the end of it. And Aoife knew, without looking, what Irene was seeing. There, under the big mirror, on the Victorian credenza, was an old Bakelite telephone, condemned, like a tradesman who has come to the wrong entrance, to wait in the hallway, alone in the cold.

  He could phone you here, couldn’t he, Aoife?

  *

  Towse was incredulous.

  No Aoife? Just you?

  Distracted, he still held the fence up, giving Michael a glimpse of a liminal waste between canal and railway: a couple of cheap nylon tents, nettles, wet ash from a fire, gravel, briars, empty cans.

  Just me, said Michael.

  Three men in tracksuits crawled through the gap, one after the other, then stood by the towpath, staring at Michael. They were scrappy, unshaven, with a menacing look.

  Who are these guys? Shouldn’t we talk in private?

  Don’t worry about them. They don’t speak much English. And when they do, no one listens. This is Wojciech, Stanislaw and Steve.

  The three men appeared to be drunk. Towse said something in Polish and, one by one, they crawled back under the fence.

  Those guys are hobos, Towse.

  They’re very nice people. They’ve been putting me up here, last couple of days. I ran into some problems. Where’s Aoife?

  Not here. But she is in Ireland. She’s gone to see her parents.

  Great. That’s great . . . Is there by any chance any way at all that we can get hold of her? I was kind of hoping to draw on her skills. Like, today. Like, right about now.

  I’m alone. You wanted me here, now you’ve got me.

  Well, to be honest, Michael, I want you, but I need Aoife. For obvious reasons.

  Michael stared at him, disbelieving.

  If you don’t need me, why did you get Aoife to bring me to Ireland?

  Towse, looking up and down the towpath as if still hoping to see Aoife, turned back to Michael.

  I didn’t. It was the other way around. I was thinking that you’d want to come, because of what I told you about your parents, and maybe for Alice, and then Aoife would have to come too, because you’re in love.

  What?

  You’re in love with each other, aren’t you? If you’re not, you should be by now.

  That’s none of your goddamn business . . .

  Michael thought, Am I in love with Aoife? He dismissed the idea, went on:

  Aoife’s father is sick. She had to come back to see him.

  Towse leered at him.

  And you had to come too, eh?

  I said, that’s none of your business.

  Have it your way . . . So it’s just dumb luck that you’re here . . . I don’t like that one bit . . .

  Towse squinted all around them, as if trying to spot the ambush, or the cracks in the graphics where the level respawned.

  Michael persisted:

  If you don’t need me, why did you bother to bring me with you, all the way from Palo Alto?

  Jesus Christ, Michael. Why does no one believe me when I tell them the truth? . . . On the day that she died, I promised Alice I’d look after you. Keeping you with me was the only way I could do that. That’s also why I ratted Alice out to Fess.

  You did what?

  He was about to find out about her anyway. So I dropped a dime on her, and I made it look like you did it. That way, Fess would hire you. I could keep an eye on you, and have an inside guy too. Two birds with one stone.

  It made sense to Michael, now. Fess’s strange words in his office: I know I can trust you, because of what you’ve already done for me . . . You should never feel guilt, Mike. You did the right thing.

  You’re evil, Towse. You ruined my life.

  Hey – I wasn’t running a crèche, you know. Plus, I figured that if you had Aoife to take care of you, you’d probably come through this all right. I can’t drag you around with me forever.

  And now, at last, Michael got it.

  You pushed us together! You planned our thing!

  If it’s any consolation, Aoife fell for it too.

  Michael couldn’t speak. Towse gave up on his quest for a phantom Aoife, turned back to face him.

  Anyway, since you’re here now, and she isn’t, you’ll have to do it.

  When Michael found his voice it sounded quite dangerous, even to him.

  Fuck off, Towse.

  But I haven’t even told you what I want you for! Having come all this way, don’t you want to know?

  You’re just going to try to play me again. I’m not having it, this time. I’m out.

  Towse took a ruminative pull on his cider, studying Michael over the rim of the can. When he spoke again, he wasn’t smiling.

  Michael, can you honestly look back on everything that’s happened to you, in the last couple of months, all the things you’ve seen and done, and tell me you’ve got nothin
g back from playing this game?

  There was a name hanging between them. But neither of them said it. Michael took out a pack of cigarettes, gave one to Towse.

  I’ll listen. I’ll give you that much.

  They both lit up. Towse started to pace.

  OK . . . Today is Friday the 13th. This afternoon at two thirty p.m. Irish time, which is nine thirty a.m. in New York, OmniCent goes live, though only a few people know that. Fess deliberately picked this date because he thinks there’s no such thing as luck for people like him. He’s giving OmniCent a cold opening so his people can build up their positions before the rest of the world is invited on board. But once it’s operational, OmniCent will progressively absorb all the money on earth. By the end of the year, national governments will have lost what few powers they still have. After that, they won’t be able to raise taxes, or spend money, or look after their people, assuming they still want to. There will be nothing left to protect our planet from the new feral money, working through stooges like Fess and their enablers. And they won’t know until it’s too late that they’re not in charge either, that the money rules them too. So once OmniCent launches, there’ll be no going back. But it’s vulnerable now, at birth. That’s when we have to hit it. This afternoon. Here.

  Why here?

  Towse pointed back towards the bridge.

  If you follow this canal a couple of miles east, it takes you to what used to be the docklands. It’s a tax shelter now, where corporations hide their profits from hospitals and schools. The usual financial things. So Inscape has an office here too – its Irish front company. It nominally holds more than two thirds of Inscape’s global worth, which is a half-trillion dollars, to avoid paying taxes. That office happens to be the weakest point in Inscape’s online global security system. So that’s where I need you to go. Now.

  Why?

  That thing that your father didn’t do in Iran, when they set him up as a patsy – I need you to do it in Ireland, for real.

  Behind the bindweed and elders, voices were raised. A beer can, thrown with force, sailed over the fence, landed in the canal. It sank a way, then steadied itself, with only a sliver of freeboard between the hole in the top and the wind-driven ripples. Michael watched it. There was no scenario in which the can wouldn’t sink. It was only a matter of time, really.