This Eden

by Ed O’Loughlin

  Write?

  I’m trying to finish a novel. But I’m a bit stuck.

  They stopped at a traffic light, waited behind other cars, went through it, crossed a bridge. A high stone wall hid a railway cutting. They were getting close.

  What kind of novel?

  A novel of ideas. I think. But I’m losing my grip on the plot. Too many coincidences. I try to avoid them, but they keep popping up.

  Maybe someone’s trying to tell you something.

  The driver pulled over at the furniture shop.

  We’re here, he said.

  Michael handed the driver a bank note.

  I can’t change that. That’s five hundred euros.

  Keep the change.

  It’s far too much.

  Is it? You might think that it’s valuable now, but by the time you try to spend it, it could be worth nothing.

  Is that, like, a parable, or something? Is that Ford Maddox Ford?

  It’s a statement of fact.

  Well, I like the sound of it. I should use it in my book.

  The taxi drove off. Michael was back where he’d started, beside the Cross Guns Bridge. Sooner or later, we all have to cross it . . .

  It was late afternoon. People stood outside the pub across the road, smoking and laughing. They didn’t look worried about anything much. A fisherman sat on the edge of the canal, bathing his feet in it, watching his float. Cyclists rode home on the towpath, finished work for the weekend.

  He walked a little way up the canal. There was no sign of Towse. The beer can bobbed in the middle of the basin. It still hadn’t sunk.

  Aoife. Did he have any right to try to call her? He felt in his pocket, and then remembered that he’d used their only coin that last time he’d called . . . Was that even an hour ago?

  He wondered if she’d really been out that time. Or had she been standing beside her mother, who’d answered the call, while Aoife’s father lay in the next room, dying or dead. He’s just someone I travelled with. I can’t deal with him now, at a time like this. He wasn’t fair to me. I don’t want to see him again. Please, fob him off for me. Take a message.

  He didn’t know her address. You only gave me your number. You never gave me your situation. Aoife was smart.

  Michael watched the lone fisherman, mesmerised by his red plastic float. It bobbed in the ripples. Michael had never done any fishing. How would you know a ripple from the first gentle tug on the bait? At what point did the fish realise it was hooked? He’d heard that if you caught them and freed them, they would come back for more.

  Beyond Aoife, really, there was Alice. It was Alice who had brought him here, one way or another. He still didn’t feel that his debt was discharged. Far from it. He saw Alice in all the grains of his memory. He saw her watching him from the bed, that first morning in Vancouver. Was she watching him now? He ached with the thought. If only she could.

  He should spend some time alone with Alice, now. If she wanted to leave him, she could go when she was ready. Never again would he push her away.

  Hey you.

  He turned, startled.

  There was a young woman behind him, straddling a bicycle. The bike was covered in bubblegum stickers, hiding the rust. It had blue and purple tassels hanging from its handle bars. The tassels matched her hair. She wore torn leggings, Dr. Martens, a T-shirt. The Cult, it said, with the band’s logo, and she had written underneath, in heavy black marker, She Steals Stationery.

  Michael?

  She wore a lot of black eyeliner, smudged in the corners.

  Why do you ask?

  I said, are you Michael?

  Who wants to know?

  Yoyodime.

  Yoyodime?

  Yeah. I’m from Yoyodime, bud. I have something for you.

  Yoyodime doesn’t exist. It never got started.

  It did in Dublin. We’re doing the beta test. Now, do you want your change or not? I have to get back to the ‘Batter.

  Change?

  Here.

  She tossed him a cylinder wrapped in brown paper. This time, he managed to catch it. He cracked it open. It was a roll of fifty-cent coins.

  What’s this for?

  They told me you might need some coins for a phone call.

  What phone call?

  That would be your business.

  Who’s ‘they’?

  This is Yoyodime, bud. You should know how it works.

  She got on her bike and rode off.

  Michael walked down the street, past the warehouse, to the Brian Boru pub and the phone box outside it.

  The telephone was ringing. He waited. It didn’t stop.

  He opened the door, lifted the receiver.

  Hello Alice, he said.

  *

  Aoife used the stairs instead of the lift, going up slowly, one hand on the banister, the other holding her pistol concealed inside her sleeve.

  When she reached the top landing she flattened herself against the wall, away from the peep hole in her parents’ door.

  She listened. Nothing.

  She slid down the wall, peeked under the door. If someone was standing there, she’d see the shadows of their feet.

  Nothing.

  Aoife gave the door a push. Unlocked, it swung open.

  The hallway was dark.

  She listened.

  No sound from the living room. The worst sound of all. The TV should be on. It never went off here, in daylight hours.

  Dead horses watched as she inched down the hallway, the gun held out in front of her.

  She knew she should clear the other rooms first, the closed doors that she was passing. Irene could be lurking behind one, ready to pop out and shoot her in the back. But Aoife’s world was all ahead of her, behind that living-room door. It was there that she had left her parents, watching television.

  She reached the door, closed her eyes, listened again.

  Still nothing.

  She pushed the door.

  Towse sat alone on the sofa by the window. He was reading something on her mother’s tablet, the one she used for online shopping, and for checking TV schedules, and the names of dead actors on IMDb.

  He looked up, smiled.

  Aoife. There you are.

  She swung her body from the waist, probing each corner of the room with the muzzle of her pistol. When she turned back to Towse, it was aimed at him.

  Where are my parents?

  They’ve gone for a walk by the river. We had a nice chat, and I pointed out that it’s a lovely afternoon. They spend way too much time indoors, you know.

  What happened to Irene?

  She’ll be halfway to the border by now. You won’t see her again.

  Aoife took another step towards him, gun aimed at his chest. Something had changed about him, she couldn’t think what.

  You should put the gun down, Aoife. It’s not your thing.

  She saw it, now. Either he had changed his suit or it had been dry-cleaned, pressed, restored. His shoes had been polished. Even his face was how it had been when she’d first met him, in the foyer of her safe house in London. Clean, more or less shaven, the bruises gone.

  She thumbed on the safety, put the pistol in her pocket.

  How did you get rid of Irene, Towse?

  I showed her this.

  He handed her the tablet. She looked at its screen. It was open on the Irish Times website.

  Breaking news:

  Woman detained after fatal shooting in Dublin.

  By Owen Simmons.

  Gardai have arrested a female suspect after a man was shot dead in a central Dublin office building.

  A Garda spokesperson said that firefighters found the woman semi-conscious, after a fire alarm at the Spencer Dock office of Inscape Te
chnologies. The body of the man was found in the same room, with multiple gunshot wounds. Both he and the suspect appear to have been armed.

  Inscape Technologies said in a statement that there is no connection between this incident and the collapse of international financial markets earlier this afternoon. The crash, triggered by uncontrolled computer trading, has been linked to the unofficial roll-out today of a new global cryptocurrency, OmniCent, designed by Inscape Technologies. The new currency has now been withdrawn.

  More to follow . . .

  When Irene saw that, Towse said, she knew she wasn’t getting paid. She walked out the door without saying goodbye. Your mother was rather hurt by that. She’d taken a liking to Irene.

  Where’s Michael?

  He’s not mentioned in that news report. I guess he must have got away. Do you want to go back and look for him?

  Did she have any right? She could have done more for him.

  It had all been a farce, her thinking that she was the protector, while – behind her back – doors opened and shut. They’d travelled together, they’d done what they’d done out of boredom or loneliness, but now it was over. He couldn’t stay here, and neither could she. But it didn’t make sense that they’d stay together. He was never going to be able to trust her. Once a mark, always a mark.

  He’s a nice guy, she told herself. He’ll find someone to look after him. Someone who hadn’t seen what she’d seen, or been where she’d gone.

  Out in the hallway, the telephone rang.

  I’ll meet you in the Botanic Gardens, she’d told him on the phone. You can walk there from the canal. It’s a straight road, no turning. Less than a mile.

  She chose a section of the gardens, near the gate, that cultivates the flora of Ireland’s postglacial landscape – hazels, elders, willows and ash, lush grass and devil’s parsley, the flowers of spring. There is also a hawthorn tree, covered in ribbons and rags and trinkets – a fairy tree, explains a sign, to which country people, in an ancient Irish custom, tie keepsakes and ribbons in hope of good luck.

  Aoife didn’t know that custom. Maybe they did it out west, where people were given to whimsy. In the east, where she came from, you left the fairy trees alone. They couldn’t bring you good luck, but if you interfered with them they’d curse you. Even college-trained farmers still ploughed carefully around them.

  You never knew, though. She could do with some luck. This particular hawthorn had a hollow in its roots. Aoife hid the gun there, scraped dirt over the top.

  She heard footsteps behind her, uncertain, in the loose stones of the path.

  Come on, she said, straightening. Let’s walk.

  They followed the wall that hides the graveyard from the gardens, through the oak grove, past the crematorium chimney on the far side of the wall. Two little girls jumped down from a yew tree, looking guilty, then climbed back into it after they’d gone. She took him to the furthest corner of the gardens, to the long grass and violets under the hornbeams. They sat on a bench there, facing a bandstand.

  Crows cawed. A squirrel ran towards them, stopped, eyed them hopefully, looking to be fed.

  We need some privacy, squirrel, said Aoife. Fuck off.

  It did.

  It’s quiet here, said Michael.

  It wasn’t, really. They could hear traffic noise behind them, from the New Finglas Road, beyond Glasnevin Cemetery, hidden behind its high wall.

  It is, said Aoife.

  She looked in her pockets for cigarettes. She didn’t have any. He took out a packet. They smoked. After a while, he spoke.

  I know something even Towse doesn’t know.

  Really? . . . What?

  I know who he really works for. But I’m not allowed to tell him.

  OK . . . Who’s that, then?

  Alice.

  Alice . . . Seriously? . . . She’s alive?

  She is . . . Or at least, that’s what she said on the phone.

  There you are! said Towse, appearing behind them.

  Aoife jumped up, backed away. Michael shut his mouth.

  Where the hell did you come from, Towse? Don’t sneak up on us like that.

  Don’t be hard on me, Aoife. I need cheering up.

  Towse took Aoife’s place on the bench, leaving her standing. He looked glum.

  Nice place, I guess, he said. Though those cars over there are a bit fucking loud.

  What’s wrong with you?

  I’m out of smokes. Have you got one?

  Michael lit one for him. Towse took a long, morose drag, blew a ragged ring, looked sad.

  It’s not working, he said.

  What?

  Have you both forgotten why we came to Ireland?

  I came for my dad, Aoife said. I thought he was dying.

  She wondered what reason Michael might give, but he said nothing.

  My virus didn’t work, said Towse. It was just another flash crash, that’s all. It did shut down OmniCent – for now, at least – but the markets have already recovered. The money took my best shot and bounced back.

  What about Fess, then?

  Fess? . . . He’s finished. The markets have rallied, but some of his people have lost a lot of money. Fess is mixed up in too many things, and they won’t trust him after this. He’ll probably fall off his yacht, or auto-asphyxiate. Something convenient like that.

  That’s something, though, isn’t it? You’ve settled scores with Fess.

  Towse hunched forward, staring gloomily ahead.

  Not really. Get rid of Fess, and others will replace him . . . They’ll want to own everything, just like him, and they’ll need to kill it to own it . . . And the clock hasn’t stopped ticking . . . I have to attack again, while the enemy’s still weak.

  We’re not going with you, said Michael.

  You sure? I’m staying in Ireland for a while. I have some friends who own a castle in Antrim. It’ll be a good place to lie low for a while. There’s a strange time coming. This new bug will be everywhere soon.

  Is that Fess and his pals too?

  Towse pulled a face.

  What do you think?

  He was silent for a while, brooding, then continued:

  You really should come stay with my friends in Antrim. They belong to an old order. Ancient, in fact. They once burned a million pounds, on camera, just to see what would happen. It was like that blood-test scene from The Thing – the whole planet went ape-shit. It would have caused less fuss if they’d burned human babies. That’s when I first began to suspect what we’re dealing with.

  We’re not going with you, said Aoife.

  Oh well . . . I’ll find you when I need you.

  I wouldn’t be so sure.

  Towse got up. So did Michael. They all shook hands. It was, Aoife realised, the first time she’d ever shaken hands with Towse. What bargain had been settled or sealed?

  Towse walked off towards the maples. Aoife stood and watched him go, not daring to sit until she was sure they were free of him.

  Michael had his legs stretched out, crossed at the ankles. His arms were folded on his chest, hugging his secrets.

  You’re saying Alice is alive? Then where is she?

  She wouldn’t say on the phone. She’s with some people, and she’s safe. That’s all I know.

  Does Towse know she’s alive?

  No.

  Aoife glanced around, fearing that Towse might, once again, appear out of nowhere. But he had gone out of sight, much sooner than Aoife would have expected, faded in the gaps between the trees.

  There’s something else he doesn’t know, said Michael. His weapon wasn’t a failure. He just expected too much from it. But it was only the first shot in the war. Or the first secret note in the peace process. Ultimately, it’s the same thing, Alice says. Moves in a game . . . I’m not allowed to tell
Towse that, either.

  But you’re allowed to tell me?

  Sure . . . She says she thinks she likes you.

  Aoife watched the squirrel digging at a tree root, trying to find a lost cache of nuts. She ran a few angles, then spoke again.

  Was it her idea? You know, for us . . . ?

  Michael smiled to himself, some private joke.

  She hadn’t seen it coming. She thinks it was luck.

  Right . . . Good luck or bad luck?

  I didn’t ask her . . . Under the circumstances, she can hardly complain . . . But she did say to warn you: if I tell you any more, then there’s no going back. You have to choose sides now, one way or the other.

  Aoife thought of the lights in the server room, the waves and murmurations that had led her from the maze. Who, or what, had directed them?

  Maybe someone out there likes me, she thought. Or something. Maybe there was such a thing as luck after all, and maybe her own luck had changed. It might be a long shot, but consider the alternative. Maybe some wars were worth fighting. Maybe things didn’t always have to get worse.

  Beyond the maples, the birches, the primeval pines and the cedars of Lebanon, a bell rang brightly from the back of the Great Palm House. Aoife knew what it meant. Fifteen minutes until closing. Soon, the park guards would come in their electric buggies, hunting the stragglers out of the gate. They couldn’t stay on this bench for much longer. She took Michael’s hand.

  Go on then, she said. Tell me everything.

  We know they didn’t leave the gardens by the front gate, which is watched by the guards in the security room, or by the back gate, through the graveyard, which has cameras either side. They might have climbed over the cemetery wall, between the stone towers from which men armed with muskets used to fight off resurrectionists, the thieves who came to rob corpses at night. No one watches there now.

  Possibly, they left by fording the shallow river on the northern boundary of the gardens. We’ve foreshadowed that already. Drainage never lies. Most likely, though, they crossed the footbridge to the Rose Garden, found the hollow place behind the hedge, and sneaked into the back of the neighbouring pub. Aoife would probably have known that secret shortcut, and they could surely have done with a drink.