by Paddy Kelly
We watched the dot on the map snake its way closer to Dublin.
"But why would they come to here?" Gernaud said. "What did they want?"
"My shed," Debbie said. "Out the back. I keep the gardening tools there, and the charging frames and the things I charge up for Tommy. I just checked it. The door was open and the tools are there … but the craft items aren't."
"They didn't fucking nick it all, did they?" Tommy said.
"Not all, I have some charged items in the house—"
"Did Vesta know where you kept your craft stuff?" I said.
Debbie frowned, and nodded.
"Fuck," Tommy said. "Then that sunglasses fucker knew too. And they came to get them."
"Like they stole mine," I said. "Guess we're lucky they didn't try to burn you down."
"I'll call Noel," Debbie said, stepping away from the table. "I'll tell him to get here right now. He's handy with a gun, too. He can stay here and watch the place."
"So we're leaving now?" I said. "In the middle of the night?"
"Why not?" she said. "If they find that phone, they'll know we're onto them. But if we find before they're aware, maybe we can put a stop to whatever they're doing."
She stepped into the hall, to call Noel, I assumed. We others watched the red dot move deeper into Dublin, and the battery level on the webpage tick closer to zero.
Ten minutes later, Debbie strode back in, looking gaunt and exhausted. Her face reminded me of how little sleep I'm had myself, and how shabby I must be looking and smelling.
She sat down with a relieved oomph. "Noel's not happy, but he's coming. He'll be here in an hour and then we can head to Dublin. So did anything happen?"
"They stopped," Tommy said, and jabbed the screen. "See? That could be where they're holed up. So maybe we fuckin' nailed them already."
A red box with connection lost flashed across the top of the page. I clicked menus but the warning remained and the map dot was no longer blinking.
"Damn it," I said. "Maybe they drove underground."
"Or they found your phone," Gernaud said, "and smashed it under a boot."
We stared at the webpage, but nada. The connection remained lost.
"Oh, I had a message," Debbie said. "From Seamus Cavan. He said he's been trying to return your call, Bren, and you haven't answered."
"Ah, right. Can I borrow your phone?" Debbie unlocked it and handed it over, again wearing an odd expression. Defensive. Avoiding my eyes.
"Thanks." I strode into the dark of the hall. I found the text from Seamus and called the number. Even though it was stupidly early, he answered fast.
"McCullough? God damn it, what have you been doing? I've been calling, and you—"
"I needed to talk to you, it was about a guest I saw—"
"Not over the phone. I need you here. You and the black fella."
"There? Why? I only need information on a guest. He was wearing—"
"No, I said. You want anything, you come here. Both of you."
I sighed. There was already too much to do. But I needed to talk to him.
"Okay, fine. When?"
"Ten tonight. At the hotel. Don't forget the other fellow. Use the back door."
He hung up before I could say any more. I walked back to the scullery, wondering what, exactly, he wanted. And why he couldn't just ask it over the phone. Annoying.
I sat back down at the table and handed Debbie her phone. The adrenaline from earlier was gone, and heaviness had crept back over me like a wet hug.
"So what did he want?" Debbie asked, in a flat voice.
"He wants me and Gernaud to meet him tonight. Didn't say why."
"So are we just sitting around here, or what?" Tommy said. He nodded to the screen. "We know where these fuckers are, and now we need to do something about it."
"I have to stay until Noel turns up," Debbie said. "It won't be too long."
"And I want to get the fuck to Dublin, fast as we can," Tommy said.
"How about this," I said. "Me and Tommy can go. You two stay here."
There was some weird vibe coming from Debbie, and maybe it was better to split up for a while. Tommy replied to my suggestion with a dirty frown. I could see him about to speak, but he bit it back and didn't comment. And no comment from Tommy I took to be a yes.
"But then you are just two, and they are also two," Gernaud said. "Or more."
"So we'll be careful," I said. "We won't do anything until you arrive—"
"Unless we have to," Tommy said. "I'll take that shogun, if I can."
"Noel is bringing his own gun, so do it," Debbie said. "Just don't get caught with it."
"Don't plan to," Tommy said. "So we're ready?" He turned to me, and I nodded, despite the lead bars strapped to my limbs, and the peppery fatigue around the rims of my eyes.
"Let me know where you are the whole time, okay?" She said it mostly to Tommy.
"Give me your phone," I said to him. "I want a screen shot of this map."
He handed it over, and while I was photographing the screen with it, Debbie slipped out. I looked up to see her back receding, and couldn't shake how it had felt under my fingers, just an hour earlier.
"Done." I handed him the phone. "I'll go grab my stuff upstairs."
"Hurry," Tommy said as I strode past him. "I want to get there soon as we fuckin' can."
I walked on, heading for the stairs. And sure, he wanted to get this all over with. Who didn't? But I suspected he mostly wanted to get away from me and my taint.
But at least Tommy could just drive away from whatever the fuath had done. While I was stuck with it, its weight and clingy slowness, with no idea of where the exit ramp was.
At seven in the morning, two days after Christmas, me and Tommy found ourselves at the last known location of my phone, a small car park behind a petrol station in Coolock in north Dublin. We'd walked there from where we'd parked the car, sneaking along in whatever shadows we could find in a mostly empty city. And when we reached the end of the snaking red line, we found, waiting for us, a big fat nothing.
Not just nothing — weeds, a couple of worse-for-wear shopping trollies, scattered rubbish, and two smashed-up street lamps. But no white van, and no mobile phone.
I exhaled a plume of smoke, and had it blown back into my face by wind. I coughed. Tommy didn't react. He was looking around, keeping a few steps away from me.
"Fuck all," he said. "Not even another way out, or even a door."
The petrol station wasn't open, and the only sounds were the muffled drone of cars and a gritty swirl of crisp bags and chocolate wrappers as they performed a dance across the tarmac.
I hugged myself in the wind. "So what's the plan now?"
"We've a name. We've a face, sort of. And we've a white van with two sevens in the number plate. I'm guessing there can't that many Brunos around."
I ground out the cigg. "I know we're in a hurry, but I need to sleep. I'm wrecked."
"I'll drive you to Jean Paul's flat," he said, a little too quickly. "We've the spare keys. You get some kip there and I'll start asking around."
"Where do you plan to start asking around at seven in the morning?"
"Places," he said with a shrug. "People."
I didn't feel like arguing. And, like we'd promised Debbie, Tommy gave her a call and told her what we'd found, which didn't take long, as we'd not found a lot.
"She says they're on the way," he told me as he put the phone away. "Your man Noel's turned up to watch the house. We'll meet them at Jean Paul's gaff."
"Right," I said. Tommy turned on his heel and headed for the car, so I followed him across the tarmac, thinking only of warm sheets, with Debbie tucked in between them.
I woke from clutching dreams, to the sound of voices in the next room. I pushed myself upright, to drain the foulness from my head. But all the pipes were blocked, and I sat there with a hairknot inside my skull that no amount of tilting or shaking would dislodge.
A glance at my
watch. Twelve noon. I'd slept a good six hours. So why did I feel like my eyes had been scraped and every limb had hardened into solid bone?
A full-length mirror hung on the wall of Gernaud's bedroom. I stood, in my underwear, and stared at my skinny frame. Pale arms and shoulders, with some definition from my half-regular gym visits. A mostly hairless torso. And the unsmoothness of that binder across my chest.
Still not a body I felt connected to, although I'd be a step closer once the binder was gone, along with what lay beneath it. But as I studied my form, and saw the long path ahead, I felt lead-weight tired. Crushed by the very thought of it.
I sat on the bed. Everything no longer felt like just an uphill struggle. Now it was more like a vertical wall, smooth as polished glass, rising so far I couldn't see the rim.
Snap out of it, Bren. I poked a finger into my hand, where I'd stabbed myself in the cave, to generate some pain. But nothing, beyond the dull press. I lifted my hand and stared.
There was no wound. Perfectly healed, apart from dried blood. Not even a mark.
A voice echoed in the next room. Gernaud, speaking with a surprised tone. I pulled on as few clothes as I could get away it, and moved in a lead-footed shuffle into the kitchen, where Gernaud and Debbie sat at the small table, before a laptop.
A list of search results flickered on the laptop screen, and the name in the search field was Bruno Burke. I blinked at it for a second. "Wait, is that him?"
"Tommy found it," Debbie said. "Some man in a garage recognised the description and knew his name. He's out looking for more info."
"Well … great!" I said, unable to feel the enthusiasm I was pretending to show. I watched them scan the search results for Bruno Burke. A Gaelic football player, a man with a blog about bees, an American who restored boats. And a slew of images, but none of them showing a broad-shouldered man with a moustache and a cap.
"He is not here," Gernaud said. "Unless he has changed a great deal."
"Tommy said he'll keep looking," Debbie said. "And he'll report back if he finds more."
I looked for a chair to sit on, but there were only two. So I stood. The ache in my foot, I noticed, was gone. Looking down, I saw the bruising had mostly faded.
"The tree that you came out of," Gernaud said. "Show me. Perhaps something interesting is there."
Debbie, her silent back to me, opened a new tab with a map, showing central Dublin. The river Liffey ran left to right across the screen, with the Phoenix Park to the north, and Trinity College and Dame Street to the south. "Down," I said. "Just below — wait!"
I put a hand on hers, to stop it moving. She stiffened and I slid mine away.
"Look." I pointed with the other hand. "See it? By the castle. Zoom in."
Debbie zoomed the map to Dublin Castle, the old fortified centre of the city. Beside it was the circle of green I'd spotted. I read off the name. "The Dubh Linn Gardens."
"Ah!" Gernaud said. "You mean this Dubh Linn, that the fairy told you of?"
"I thought she meant the city. But maybe she meant that. Isn't that the spot of the old Viking settlement? The original Dublin?"
Gernaud had already searched for it on his phone. "The Dubh Linn marks where the Vikings set up their town," he read. "A thousand years ago. A tidal pool, where they could anchor their ships in safety. The actual lake is now filled in."
He turned to me. "Do you think something might be there?"
"I don't know. Maybe." I thought back to Ishbéal's scrying, the kneeling women with the rope of beads, the broken jars, the square well. "We should check."
Gernaud stood and made his way to the bathroom, leaving me and Debbie in his kitchen. She sat stiffly in front of me, staring at a screen where nothing new had happened.
"Listen," I muttered. "Is something … wrong? Did I miss something?"
She spun around. "Did you miss something? Besides sneaking up on me when I was half-drunk, and pulling a lust urge on me? And don't deny it, I saw it on your floor."
"Shit." I swallowed. "Look, that was … an accident. I mean, I'd taken it, sure, but I just wanted to test a thing. I didn't mean for you to smell it. I didn't even know you'd be—"
"And yet you didn't think to warn me, even when you saw it was working?"
"Sorry, I … sorry. I remembered it, sure, but it was too late—"
"Too late?" Her cheeks glowed red. "Listen, I am okay with a lot of things, but I am not okay with being shafted by an urge, without my consent. You understand?"
"I said it was an accident, didn't I?" But she was right. I could have told her, in that hallway, when I'd noticed it working. But I hadn't, because I'd wanted her so bad.
Her jaw quivered as she spoke. "Slipping a lust to somebody isn't an accident. It's … date rape. It means I can't trust you. And I wanted to, but you made it impossible."
I stared at her, mouth half-open but unable to say anything, as numbness climbed my chest like ivy, twining around gut and heart and gently squeezing them.
The toilet flushed, water splashed in a sink. A moment later, the bathroom door opened and Gernaud strode back into the kitchen. We both stared at the screen, Debbie sitting, me standing behind, but not touching each other. Never touching ever again.
"Then we go to this park," Gernaud announced. "And we see what is there. Did something happen?" He was studying our stiff poses. "I heard … talking."
"Nothing," Debbie said, her words sharp as cracked stone. "Nothing happened. At all."
The Dubh Linn Gardens were a big circular field, a hundred metres across, criss-crossed by narrow brick paths laid out in pseudo-Celtic swirls. The tourists were out, even so soon after Christmas, and slabs of sunlight slid across the grass, lurching us from cold to bright and back again.
Behind the park's walls rose modern offices, alongside older stone monstrosities. Beyond that, grey clouds drifted, slipping open like wounds to display slivers of winter blue, and closing just as quickly to swallow them. In the park itself we saw benches, a memorial garden at the back, and exits to other places. But nothing worth the journey, and no square well in sight.
"There is not much to see here," Gernaud observed.
"I think you're right," Debbie said. "Let's go do something useful before we waste a day."
I wasn't looking at them, but across the park, from where I'd caught the word lake. A dozen tourists were being talked at by a guide wearing a tweed skirt and jacket, black boots, and a small hat attached to red hair, looking like a Bloomsday cosplayer out of season.
"What?" I heard Gernaud say. I didn't answer and strode towards the group, positioning myself to the side of them, where I could watch and listen, while pretending not to.
"The Vikings pulled their ships up here at the black pool, the Dubh Linn," the guide was saying, in a soft Donegal accent, "from where they traded. And from where the city got its name. It was a perfect location, with a combination of fresh water and access to—"
"What is it?" Debbie whispered into my ear, having followed me over.
"Shh," I hissed back. The guide was still talking about Vikings and her tourists were lapping it up. She had white strands in her red hair, but didn't look much over thirty.
Gernaud appeared in front of me, and stared at her. I had to step to the side to see.
The guide turned to us. "And hello to the new people. Come over. Don't be shy."
Debbie stepped up but Gernaud didn't move. I prodded him into motion and together we nudged the crowd aside to get near the front. The guide welcomed us with a smile.
"Now, as I was saying, the town became an important trading—"
"Sorry," I said. "If I can butt in … are there any wells around? Maybe a square one?"
"There are plenty wells in Dublin," she said. "But right around here, open to the public … no, I'm not aware of any."
"How about ones that aren't open to the public?"
She shook her head. "Sorry. And if I can just get on with—"
"Maybe caves, then?" I said. Som
e annoyed mutterings from the crowd.
"Caves." She paused a beat. "Not caves, as such. But now I'm going to have to—"
Debbie gave a sigh, pulled out a twenty euro note, and stepped up to her.
"We need a word. Privately. Three minutes." Debbie turned to the crowd. "Unless anyone objects?" Stiffly shaken heads in reply. "Good. Just over there, if that's okay."
Debbie led the guide a few metres across the grass, and I followed. Gernaud came too, walking stiffly, and keeping unusually silent.
"Hi," Debbie said. "I'm Debbie Gregory. Of Brufort House. And this here is Bren."
"Brufort House?" The guide nodded as she took the twenty. "Nice to meet you. And Bren. And who is—"
"Philippe Gernaud," Gernaud said, and quickly stuck out a hand.
She shook it, giving him a nod, and dropped it, and gave him another nod.
"I'm Max Grey. Purveyor of tours. Murders, magic, history, whatever you—"
"Great," Debbie cut in. "Listen, Bren here asked about caves, and you said not as such, which I thought was an odd answer. Does that mean there are caves?"
"Not caves, exactly. But there is the Poddle, and it runs right by here."
"Isn't that the old river?" I said. "The one that's covered over. Floods people's basements."
"Exactly. It fed fresh water to the Dubh Linn. One of the main reasons the settlement started here." Max Grey pointed north, towards the Liffey. "The Poddle passes through a lot of the city — or under it — and comes out through a grating on Wellington Quay. And it runs in tunnels, not caves."
"But you haven't seen it?" I asked her.
She smiled. "No. Of course not. It's closed off. To the public."
I nodded, and a thought hit me. A small river, flowing south-west from the Liffey, cutting across the landscape. The gully I'd followed in Tara had also cut south-west. Were they maybe the same? Was that gully the Tara equivalent of the Poddle, but dried up?
"And there are no wells connected to it?" Debbie asked.
"Not that I know of." She glanced at her group, who were getting restless. "I need to get back before they mutiny. But here." She dug out and handed over a business card, black with red writing. "In case you want a tour, or … something."