A Place Called Here

by Cecelia Ahern

  Every once in a while, the bell over the door sounded, and just like the end of my playtime at school, the climax would come to an abrupt end. The majority of shoppers that day had come to the shop with one goal in mind: to have a look at me, the one they had heard about, the one who knew things. People from all nations would lock eyes with me, hoping for recognition, and, when there wasn’t any, would leave, disappointment weighing heavy on their shoulders. Each time the bell rang and another pair of eyes bored into mine, I became more nervous for the evening ahead, and no matter how hard I wanted to prevent the many clocks on the wall from ticking, the hands raged on and the night was suddenly upon me.

  It seemed the entire village had decided to attend the council meeting at the Community Hall. Bobby and I pushed our way through throngs of people slowly filing toward the giant oak door. News of somebody with the capacity to know all about families at home had caused people of all nationalities, races, and creeds to flock by the hundreds to the building. The hot orange sun was disappearing behind the pine trees, giving the effect of strobe lighting as we walked briskly alongside them. Above us, hawks circled low in the sky, dangerously skimming the treetops. Around me, I felt eyes on me, watching, waiting to pounce.

  The carvings of people shoulder to shoulder, upon the giant doors, parted and bodies began to file in. The theater had been transformed from the informal arrangement of rehearsal hours. I felt deceived, realizing it was more than it had originally appeared to be, capable of more than it had shown itself to be, and now here it was, elegantly dressed, standing upright and proud, royalty when I had thought it a servant. Hundreds of rows of seats led from the stage, the red velvet curtains pulled back by a chunky golden twist with tassels bowing, their overturned heads of hair skimming the ground. On stage rows of representatives sat on tiered seating, some wearing their countries’ traditional costumes, others choosing modern dress. There were three-piece suits next to embroidered dish-dasha, sequined jellabahs, silk kimonos, kippas, turbans and jilbab, bead, bone, gold and silver jewelry, women in elaborately patterned khanga, upon them Swahili proverbs offering pearls of wisdom I could not understand, and men in fine hanbok. There was everything from khussa shoes to Jimmy Choos, Thousand Mile sandals and flip-flops to polished leather lace-ups. I spotted Joseph in the second row wrapped in a purple gown with gold trimming. The vision was stunning, the mixture of fine cultured clothes side by side a treat. Despite my feelings on the evening ahead, I lifted the Polaroid camera and took a photo.

  “Hey!” Bobby grabbed the camera from my hands. “Stop wasting the cartridges!”

  “Wasting?” I gasped. “Look at that!” I pointed to the stage of representatives from all nations, sitting grandly overlooking the sea of villagers, who watched them expectantly, desperately awaiting news of the old world they had left behind. We sat in seats halfway up the auditorium to ensure I wasn’t in the first row for the firing line. We spotted Helena toward the front of the room, desperately scouring the crowds with an alarming look of concern or fear, I couldn’t tell which. Assuming it was us she was looking for, Bobby waved at her wildly. I couldn’t move. My body sat frozen in this new fear I was experiencing, in a theater that had very quickly become filled with the noise of hundreds of people becoming louder and louder in my ears. I glanced over my shoulder. Dozens more stood at the back of the hall, blocking the exits, unable to find seats. The banging shut and locking of the gigantic doors reverberated around the room and everybody instantly fell silent. The breathing of the man behind me was loud in my ears, the whispering of the couple in front of me like a loudspeaker. My heart began a drumbeat of its own. I looked at Bobby for reassurance I didn’t get. The harsh lights from above didn’t allow anybody or their reactions to hide. Everyone and everything was revealed.

  Helena had been forced to take her seat when the door had shut and silence had ensued. I tried my best to keep thinking that this was a silly little place, a figment of my imagination. It was all a dream, unimportant, not real life. But no matter how much I pinched myself and tried to zone out, the atmosphere pulled me back in, leaving me with the foreboding sense that this was as real as the beating of my heart.

  A woman walked up the outside aisle with a basket of earphones. They were taken by the person at the end seat and passed along the rows like a church collection. I looked to Bobby questioningly and he demonstrated, plugging the headphone set into a socket in the chair in front. He placed them over his ears as a man stood before the microphone on stage. He began speaking Japanese, not a word of which I could understand, but I was so transfixed by the scene before me I failed to remember to put my earphones on. Bobby elbowed me and I jumped, quickly placing them over my ears. A heavily accented English voice offered the translation. I had missed the beginning of his announcement.

  “…this Sunday evening. It’s rare that so many of us all gather together. Thank you for the wonderful turnout. There are a few reasons why we are here tonight…”

  Bobby elbowed me again and my headphones came off. “That’s Ichiro Takase,” he whispered. “He’s the rep president. It changes person every few months.”

  I nodded and the headphones went back on again.

  “Hans Liveen wishes to speak to you about the plans for the new mill scheme, but before we address that we will deal with the reason why so many of you have attended this meeting. Irish Representative Grace Burns will speak to you about this.”

  A woman who appeared to be in her fifties stood from her seat and made her way to the microphone. She had long wavy red hair, her features were pointed as though chiseled from a rock, and she was dressed in a sharp black business suit.

  I removed my headphones.

  “Good evening, everybody.” Her accent placed her from the north of Ireland, Donegal. Many of the non-Irish English speakers put their headphones back on for the translation. “I’ll make this brief,” she said. “I was approached this week by many people from the Irish community with news that a newcomer from Ireland had information on various villagers’ families. Despite the rumors, this of course isn’t unusual, given Ireland’s size. I was also told that an item belonging to this person, I understand that it’s her watch, has gone missing,” she said in her matter-of-fact tones.

  People who understood English immediately gasped, although the majority of them were surely aware of this rumor already. A few seconds later, there was a second gasp as the interpreters translated. Murmuring began in the hall and the Irish representative held her arms up to silence everyone. “I understand this news has had an effect on the entire village. News like this disrupts our attempts for normal living and we are keen to put the rumors to rest.”

  My heart began to beat a little less dramatically.

  “We’ve called the meeting tonight to assure you that the matter is in hand and it will be dealt with. As soon as it is, we will immediately inform the community, as we always do, as to the outcome. I believe this newcomer is among us tonight,” she announced, “and so I wish to address this person.”

  Instantly my heart began to palpitate again. People around me looked about, murmuring, jabbering excitedly in foreign tones and eyeing one another suspiciously, accusingly. I looked to Bobby in shock. He gaped back at me.

  “What will I do?” I whispered. “How do they know about the watch?”

  The nineteen-year-old in him shrugged, eyes wide.

  “We all think it’s best to deal with this privately and quietly so that the person can remain anonymous—”

  There was a heckling of boos from the crowd, some people laughed, and my skin crawled.

  “I see no cause or need for dramatics,” Grace continued in her official, no-nonsense tone. “If the newcomer could just present us with the alleged missing item, then this will be dropped and forgotten once and for all so that the congregation can get back to spending their valuable time in their usual greatly productive ways.” She smiled cheekily and there were chuckles from around the room. “If the person in question co
uld familiarize themselves with my office tomorrow morning and bring the watch with them, then this can be dealt with swiftly and privately.”

  More boos by members of the audience.

  “I’ll take a few questions on this and then we will move on with the more important matter of the plans to build farther past the wild farm.” I could tell she was being deliberately blasé about the whole thing. An entire village had turned out to hear about me, about how I knew intimate details of people here and their family members. In a few sentences she had brushed it all under the carpet. People looked around at each other unhappily and I sensed a storm brewing.

  Many people raised their hands and the representative nodded to one. A man stood. “Ms. Burns, I don’t think it’s fair that this matter be dealt with privately. I think it’s clear from the turnout tonight that this issue is more important than the manner of how you have chosen to address it, which is a deliberate attempt at playing down the significance.” There were a few claps. “I put forward that the person in question, whom I know to be a woman, show us the watch right now, right here, tonight so that we can see it with our own eyes and therefore allow the matter to be dropped and for our minds to be put at rest.”

  There was a healthy applause to this suggestion.

  The representative looked uncomfortable; she turned to look at her colleagues. Some nodded, some shook their heads, others looked bored; some shrugged and left it up to her.

  “I’m concerned only with the welfare of the person in question, Mr. O’Mara,” she addressed him. “I hardly see it fair that she has arrived here only this week and is also faced with this. Her anonymity is vital. Surely you can appreciate that.”

  This wasn’t so strongly supported by people, but there was a light round of clapping from a few dozen and I silently thanked them and cursed Grace for confirming my sex.

  An elderly woman standing beside the man speaking from the audience shot up out of her seat. “Ms. Burns, our well-being is more important, and the well-being of all the villagers. Isn’t it more important that if once again we have heard rumors of somebody’s belongings going missing we have a right to know if it’s true?”

  There were noises of support from among the crowd. Grace Burns held her hand up to her forehead to block the harsh stage lights in order to see the person belonging to the voice. “But, Catherine, it will be revealed to you tomorrow after the person has come to me. Whatever the outcome, it will be dealt with appropriately.”

  “This doesn’t just affect the Irish community,” a Southern American male voice called out. Everybody looked around. The voice came from a man standing at the back. “Remember what happened the last time there were rumors of things going missing?”

  There were mumbles of agreement, and nods.

  “Everybody here remember a guy called James Ferrett?” he shouted now, addressing the hall.

  There were loud murmurs of yes and heads nodded.

  “A few years ago he told of the very same thing happening to him. The representatives did the same thing then as they are doing now,” he addressed the crowd, who were unfamiliar with the story. “Mr. Ferrett was encouraged to follow the same procedure as our anonymous woman tonight and instead he disappeared. Whether it was to join the rest of his belongings or whether it was the work of the reps, we will never know.”

  There was an uproar at this but he shouted over the noise. “At least let us deal with it now before the person in question has a chance to escape once again without us learning about what is happening. It’s not as though any harm will come to her and it’s our duty to know!”

  There was huge applause to this. The entire community erupted. They didn’t want to lose another opportunity of finding a way back. The rep was quiet for a while as the hall chanted around her. She made a motion for silence and the crowd died down.

  “Very well,” she said loudly into the microphone and those two words bounced around my heart until I thought I would faint or laugh, which one I wasn’t sure.

  I looked to Bobby. “Please pinch me.” I smiled. “Because this is all so ridiculous I feel as though I’m in one of those awful nightmares you laugh about the next day.”

  “It’s not funny, Sandy,” he warned. “Don’t tell them anything.”

  I tried to hide a smile, yet my heart pounded.

  “Sandy Shortt,” the representative announced, “could you please stand up?”

  44

  After Jack had left Sandy Shortt’s family home, he drove to the Leitrim Arms, the local bar in the small village. Despite the early hour, the pub was dark, lit by too few dusty wall lights, natural light blocked out by dark burgundy stained-glass windows. The floor was uneven, flagged with stones, and the wooden benches were covered with paisley cushions with foam spilling from the sides. There were a total of three men in the bar; two at opposite ends of the counter, pints in hand, necks craning to see the horseracing on the small television suspended from a bracket from the ceiling. The barman held court behind the counter, arms resting on the taps, head up, eyes glued to the race. There was anxious expectation painted on each of their faces, a monetary interest in the outcome obvious. The commentator’s thick Cork accent speedily documented a second-by-second account of the race, speaking so fast, everybody couldn’t help but hold his breath, adding to the atmosphere of suspense.

  Catching the barman’s attention, Jack ordered a pint of Guinness and chose to sit in the quiet snug at the far end of the bar, away from everyone. He had something important to do.

  The barman took his gaze away from the television, choosing profession over obsession, and gave his pouring of the perfect pint his complete attention. He held the glass at a forty-five-degree angle close to the spout, preventing large bubbles from forming in the head. He pulled the tap fully open and filled the glass 75 percent full. He placed the pint on the counter, allowing the stout to settle before filling the rest of the glass.

  Jack took Donal’s police file out of his bag and placed it on the table before him, spreading out the pages one last time. This was his good-bye. This was the end, the final glance at all he had studied every day for the past year. The end of the search, the beginning of the rest of his life. He wanted to raise a glass to his brother one final time, one last drink together. He ran his eyes over the police reports, the long hours of dedicated police time. Each page reminding him of the ups and downs, the hopes and disappointments of the previous year. It had been long and hard. He laid out the witness statements in a row, the reports from all of Donal’s friends who had been with him that night. The anguish and tears, lost sleep and despair that had gone into trying to remember every last blurred detail of the night.

  Jack placed Donal’s photograph on the tall stool opposite him. One final pint with his brother. He smiled across at him. I’ve done my best, Donal; I promise you I’ve done my best. For the first time, he believed it. There was no more he could do. With that thought came great relief. He looked down again at the pages before him. Alan O’Connor’s face stared back at him from the passport photo attached at the corner. Another broken man, another life almost destroyed. Alan was far from reaching the point Jack had arrived at that day. Jack had lost his brother, a brother he didn’t know as well as he should have, but Alan had lost his greatest friend. He glanced at the statement he’d read a thousand times, if not more. Alan’s full detailed account of the doomed night matched the accounts of Andrew, Paul, and Gavin, and the three girls they had met at the fast-food restaurant, though they had trouble remembering the beginning of their night, never mind the early hours of the next morning. The language of the report was awkward, stilted, and foreign. It lacked emotion, relayed only the facts of the matter, times and places, who was there and what was said. No feelings to convey the fact that a group of friends had been torn apart by the incident of this one night. The one night that changed a lifetime of nights.

  Andrew, Paul, Gavin, Shane, Donal, and I left Clohessy’s on Howley’s Quay at approximately 12.30 on
Friday night. We went to the nightclub The Sin Bin in the same building… Jack skipped the details of what happened inside the club. Andrew, Paul, Gavin, Donal, and I left the club at approximately 2 A.M. and walked two blocks to SuperMacs on O’Connell Street. Shane had met a girl in the nightclub that none of us knew and went home with her…

  He skipped a few lines.

  All of us sat down in a booth on the right-hand side of the chipper closest to the counter, to eat our burgers and chips. We got talking to three girls who were also in the chipper. We asked them to join us and we all sat in the booth. There were eight of us; me, Andrew, Paul, Gavin, Donal, Collette, Samantha, and Fiona. Donal sat on the outside, on the edge of the seat beside Fiona and opposite me. We made plans to go back to a party at Fiona’s house… Jack skipped to the most important part. I asked Donal if he was going to the party and he said yes and that was the last conversation we had that night. He didn’t tell me he was leaving the chipper. I started talking to Collette and when I turned around Donal was gone. That was at 3 A.M. approximately.

  They had all relayed the same story. It was just a normal lads’ Friday night out. Pub, nightclub, chipper, nothing out of the ordinary for them to remember; just the fact that their best friend went missing. Each of Donal’s friends relayed different final conversations, nobody noticed him leave the chipper apart from the girl named Fiona, who was sitting beside him, and she only noticed that he was not beside her when she turned around and saw him walking out. She said he had fallen against the door frame as he left, and a few girls by the door had seen him and laughed. Later, none of these girls could offer any more information than just that. As the place was full of people all thrown out of nightclubs at the same time, the CCTV did not film the booth that Donal had been seated at. The lines forming at the counter and the pockets of people standing around unable to get a table blocked the booths. Still, there was nothing to see but Donal walking out, bumping his shoulder on the door frame as everyone had witnessed. CCTV filmed him at the nearby ATM where he withdrew €30, he was seen again stumbling down Arthur’s Quay, and then his trace was lost.