D.V. Patton - Fire and Rain

by D. V. Patton

  Chapter Thirty

  Chris was able to withdraw seven hundred euro from the ATM, his daily limit on the company credit card. He checked into a hotel by the airport, and would fly out in the morning. He stared at the ashtray full of stuffed out cigarettes and sighed. He was still jumpy, but the panic attacks seemed to have passed, and he was able to think in a more coherent way.

  He made the call he had been dreading. He dialed Mattie’s number, but before he could hit the call number, Donna appeared as an incoming call. It took Chris off guard, but he still answered. “Hello?”

  There was only silence on the line, then a women’s voice. “Ring me on a payphone,” and then she hung up.

  Chris had had enough. Screw her and screw this place, this was turning into a bad parody. He cursed the day he had met Mattie, he cursed the day his sister had married a Forde, and he cursed Ciaran the most—Ciaran, who had bolted and left him to the lions. Screw Donna and her spy bullshit, too.

  Five minutes later he found himself walking through a less than salubrious neighborhood as he searched out a payphone. He found a sorry looking phone booth, covered in graffiti that smelled of something terrible. He pumped a couple of euro coins into the phone and dialed her number, trying to balance his own phone to read the number.

  Donna answered immediately. “Where are you?” she asked. Chris found himself circumspect. “On my way back to London.”

  “Listen—” “No, you listen,” said Chris, surprising himself. “I got arrested today. That’s not happening again.”

  “Did you say anything?”

  “How could I say anything when I don’t know anything?” He could hear her wheezy breath on the phone. Chris could imagine her puffing away on her king-size cigarettes. She seemed less cocky, less scary. “And the money?”

  “What money?”

  “Tell me what happened,” she asked. He recounted his day and as he did, the only time she interrupted was to ask “and the police were already there?”

  “They were inside the shop.”

  “If you’re lying to me…I will fooking kill you.” Chris stared across the football field, and saw a bunch of youths smoking and drinking at an underpass. They seemed to have noticed him—a stranger in their land. “I just want to go home, Donna.”

  “And my nephew?” “He ran,” said Chris with sudden vehemence. There was nothing left to say. For a second Chris thought she was gone, but in a very deep smoke toned voice she said. “Remember what I said Chris…if you’re lying to me…”

  “I’m not lying-” She hung up on him midsentence. As he stood in the darkening Barcelona nightscape he realized Donna had not mentioned Mattie once.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  “Hey, sis,” Chris said wearily. His throat hurt from the amount of cigarettes he had smoked in the last few hours. Damn, his chest hurt, too, if he told the truth. But he couldn’t stop. As soon as one was extinguished the craving began again.

  “Chris!” screamed Sarah, almost blowing off his ear. “I was so worried about you.”

  “I’m fine, I’m fine,” said Chris. “Things got a bit hairy, but honestly, I’m fine.”

  “You asshole, I was trying to ring you.” “I got arrested,” he admitted, regretting it as soon as he heard his sister’s intake of breath. “It was just a misunderstanding over some tax thing, but it’s okay, I’m coming back. God knows what Mattie’s going to say.”

  “Chris,” said Sarah, and knowing her well, he picked up on the change of tone.

  “What is it?” “Mattie’s dead. He had a heart attack yesterday.” Chris flopped back on the bed. A lot of emotions hit him at once, though it had to be said not one of them was grief. That was what had happened to him today. It was a shakedown. The cops weren’t interested in him, or the books, or the shop. They only wanted Mattie’s money. He thought of Ciaran, and his missing shop keys. None of it made sense. Could he really have got someone so wrong?

  “Chris?” said the voice on the end of the line. It struck him in that moment. He was free, his life was his own once more. Mattie Forde was gone, and he wasn’t coming back.

  “Chris?” the voice on the line repeated.

  “I’m coming to Dublin.” Chapter Thirty-Two The flight from Barcelona El Prat touched down just after nine, a steep descent and a hard bump signaling his arrival in Dublin. The pilot announced yet another on time flight from the airline carrier that was in fact anything but on time. Chris thought to himself that he really had to stop being so annoyed by inane little things, like low cost airlines stretching the truth about their flights, or how he had been squeezed in between a screaming kid and an overweight holidaymaker with questionable personal hygiene.

  He walked along the long pristine halls of the terminal, the sterile walls and flooring reflecting his mood. He passed customs and found himself in the arrivals lounge of Dublin airport. Chris flicked his phone off flight mode, and finally got the text from Sarah saying she had heard the flight was running late, and would now collect him at ten.

  He wanted to text her to say not to bother, that he would get a taxi, but truth be told he wasn’t sure if he wanted to pay the fare. Before he had taken the flight, he had withdrawn the maximum amount out of the expenses visa card, but he was sure it would be stopped soon. After that he was on his own. His savings account hadn’t been saved in for nearly two years now.

  Chris sat back in the airport seat and sighed. Twenty-eight years old, and running to his big sister for help. He had pretty much lost everything in the last year, and yet in an obscene way he was still grateful. He was no longer under the thumb of Mattie, and although Spain had been one part a blast, two parts scary, it was over now. There was no place like rainy Dublin to bring that home. After the adrenalin of his last few days in Spain had faded Chris felt like he could sleep for a week.

  He flicked through his wallet and looked at the card that a man had given him in Spain. Peter O’Donnell.I bet you’ll be surprised when I give you a call, Chris thought grumpily.

  His phone buzzed, and he answered. “Hurry up…hurry up. I’m outside,” his sister said. Chris didn’t have the heart to tell her that she could stay there for about ten minutes. The airport police weren’t going to hit her with a parking violation at any random moment. He grabbed his bag and headed for the exit. Chapter Thirty-Three

  He hugged his sister, surprised at her strong grip. “Hey, big Sis!” “It’s great to see you,” she said burying her head in his chest. Chris was a little taken aback by her reaction. He wasn’t a particularly demonstrative person, and had assumed she was the same. In truth, he assumed rather than knew a lot of things about Sarah. He probably did that with a lot of people.

  They didn’t look anything alike, this brother and sister. Where he was tall, she barely reached five and a half feet, and where his hair was dark, hers was a beautiful shade of strawberry blonde. She had aged since he had seen her last, but she was still exceptionally pretty. Sarah had those good bones that meant she could never be seen as ordinary, Chris noted with a little jealously.

  He looked into the back of the car, and saw a little lump in the back seat. “You brought Connor?” he asked surprised.

  “He wanted to see his uncle,” she replied. Chris looked at the obviously sleeping boy in the back seat, and figured that Sarah didn’t want to, or couldn’t, pay for a sitter.

  “You didn’t have to collect me,” he said, a little guiltily.

  “Stop worrying, it’s really great to see you, Chris.”

  “It’s good to see you too.”

  “C’mon, let’s get out of here.” They got in the car, but Chris found himself withdrawing a little bit. He was bone tired, and felt like he could sleep for a week. The hectic end to his time in Spain was finally fading, and the more serene road ahead of him lulled him. Sarah nattered on, and he tried to nod in the right places. “Any idea what you’re going to do?” she asked suddenly.

  “Try to get a job.”

  “Here in Dublin?” s
he asked, glancing at him sideways.

  That, in truth, was a grey area. “We’ll see,” he said.

  “You could try office work—you did that before.” Chris rubbed his eyes. “I met a guy on holiday who runs a coffee chain, might send him my CV, see if he’s looking for managers,” said Chris, though in truth, he knew he’d probably accept starting as a barista. He had never been overly proud.

  “Sure, we can talk about that later.”

  “You’ve picked up some of the accent…begorrah,” mocked Chris.

  “Shut up!” It was fair drive from the airport to where Sarah lived now. Chris looked about, all the time trying to judge the feel of the neighborhood, but it was too late and too dark to get a good idea. His sister was either touchy or sensed what he was up to. “It’s not that bad,” she offered.

  “Hey I’m not judging.”

  “Yes, you are.”

  “Well, it’s like genetic.”

  “Mother would be so proud,” said Sarah suddenly, and he laughed.

  “Have you seen the old dear?” “She was over at Christmas, but she’s more interested in her new beau. He’s a pilot.”

  “No shame, that woman,” said Chris, but not with any rancor. “Charlie left?” he asked softly.

  “Oh, I’m long over him. He’s gone back to London.” “And the little one?” asked Chris softly, nodding his head in her son’s direction.

  “He misses his Dad, but it’s better this way. At least now he’ll have some male influence in his life.”

  Chris squirmed a little uncomfortably. “You know I can’t promise I’m going to stay.”

  Sarah laughed, but it sounded a little forced. “A guy brought you here?” “What? No…maybe,” he said and they both laughed a little too forcefully. “There’s a guy I need to see, alright.”

  “From Dublin? Do I know him?”

  “Let’s just say he was the latest of a long line of mistakes.” Sarah banked left and turned onto a motorway. “Well, I’m glad you’re here,” she said suddenly, reaching over and squeezing his knee, the way his mother once had as a boy.

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chris lay in bed, staring at the ceiling as the night hours faded away. What the hell was he doing here? He asked himself time and time again. Was he really making life-changing decisions based on a holiday fling? Ciaran was here, and he knew it. He was sure of that one thing, at least.

  He wanted answers. He wanted to know why the hell he had been dropped in Spain. Sooner or later, their paths would cross again, and he would have those truths. He had decided that no matter how unpalatable the facts, he would at least hear them spoken.

  Maybe that was why he was here…or maybe he didn’t have any other place to go.

  Sometime in the darkness, his eyes drooped, and Chris slipped into a fitful sleep that he did not escape for the next eighteen hours.

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chris twisted and squirmed in his seat, but pulled his belt tight and determined to see this through. In truth it was the most bizarre job interview he had ever attended—dinner in a Michelin Star restaurant. He still had enough style about him to dress well, so at least he wasn’t turned away at reception. Damn, those receptionists could smell an empty wallet, and his had actually grown stiff from lack of use.

  Chris had reached a milestone in his adult life. He had attended his first unemployment office, the first time he done this since he had left school at seventeen. Twelve months before he had been running a gourmet coffee import business off Covent Garden in London. Now he had signed on for welfare in Dublin, via an alleged money laundering operation in Spain. It was like a game of join the dots, and the race to the bottom between aspirations and reality had finally been reached.

  “Peter,” he said suddenly as his guest arrived. He cursed inwardly at his failure to see his potential employer from a distance. He was convinced that it struck the man as amateurish. Chris stood up and waited for Peter to sit.

  The last time they had talked had been in Torres, when Peter had asked Chris on a date. Chris was not too principled to use it as an advantage in the job interview. Still, he looked around the high-class restaurant and felt a little uncomfortable.

  “Ah, I can see why I gave you my card!” said Peter in a very soft tone. He was more camp than Chris remembered. Chris shook his head, slightly confused.

  “I only give my card to rich or cute people.”

  “I fear I’m neither.” “Well, you’re one, and hopefully I can start you on the road to the other,” said Peter.

  He had a very nice smile, Chris noticed for the first time, and had that easy charm and assurance that rich men seemed to have in hardwired into them.

  “Something has tickled you?” said Peter amiably enough. Chris realized he had been grinning, and it might have seemed a little rude. “Oh, it’s nothing—I’m just not used to be called cute.”

  “Ah, you don’t go for an older man. To me, anyone younger and attractive is cute.”

  “You’re not old,” Chris protested, meaning it.

  “Flattery will get you far with me. Would you like to order?” Chris felt himself squirming again. “Actually, if it’s not too rude, I might just get the main. I’m just into Dublin, and my sister insists like feeding me like one of her children.”

  Peter laughed at that. “Not rude at all. In the meantime I’ll get down to the vulgar part of business.”

  “Sure,” said Chris. He ordered two mains, a wild Salmon with a sauce he was sure he mispronounced, judging by the aloof look the waiter gave him. You don’t belong here , those eyes had said to him.

  Chris felt his mild sense of paranoia grow. The prices were eye watering, written in their nice calligraphy. Not for the first time he felt an irrational fear about washing dishes to pay the bill. Chapter Thirty-Six

  “We have three franchises up for review,” said Peter, taking out some little neat laminated brochures. Chris could have laughed…or cried. What had he been saying about rock bottom?

  “So you can see we have a pricing structure, rent, turnover, footfall.” Chris’s eyes had glazed over as he feigned interest. It was nothing he hadn’t seen before. He found himself able to look at the situation objectively, especially seeing as he could not pay for the franchise in a thousand years.

  The rent was too high, footfall exaggerated, stock overpriced. He had seen these pitches a hundred times, or so it felt. The only man who got rich sat opposite him. Peter’s relaxing dulcet tones washed over him, and he began to zone out. At some stage his dinner companion must have realized it, because a silence descended on the dinner table.

  “Am I boring you?” asked Peter. He suddenly reminded Chris of a stern schoolmaster.

  Chris shuddered, but he was bored. He was bored of it all. Spain had been a nightmare in many ways, but it had been fun in a twisted way. He missed Ciaran a lot in that moment, his skinny twink with his sculpted thighs. “I was just thinking of a song,” said Chris quite seriously. “I started a joke. Do you know it?”

  “But I didn’t see that the joke was on me,” said Peter, with an indistinguishable look in his eyes. “I love the Bee Gees.”

  “Was it the Bee Gee’s? I didn’t know that.”

  “Chris, I have no idea what you’re talking about,” said Peter evenly. Chris took the napkin from his lap, and placed it on the table. “I’m really sorry, Peter, but there seems to be a misunderstanding here. I didn’t ring you about buying a franchise. I rang because I thought you might have a job. I’m broke. I’m so broke I have to go get a bus back to my sisters because I can’t afford a taxi. So I believe I’m going to neck this glass of overpriced vintage wine and vamoose.”

  Chris stood up, feeling like the star of a bad drama, but Peter looked at him with one eyebrow raised.

  “Sit down, Chris,” he said, and Chris obeyed immediately. “Are you finished?” asked Peter patiently. “You can at least show the common courtesy of accompanying me as I finish this very expensive meal that I�
��m paying for.”

  The two glasses of wine seemed to have gone to Chris’ head, but he endured his little humiliation well enough, even as Peter changed from predatory to paternal in the blink of an eye. “I’m disappointed in you—one set-back and you’re playing the beal bocht.”

  “I have no idea what that means,” said Chris. “It’s Gaelic, you moron,” said Peter, though not unkindly. “It means poor mouth.”

  “Oh.” “Are you okay now?” asked Peter, studying him closely. He had the look of a man who thought his dinner companion might tear off his clothes and run screaming around the restaurant at any moment.

  “I think I might be having some sort of breakdown.”

  “After two glasses of wine?”

  “Pathetic isn’t it?” said Chris morosely. “Have another,” he said filling Chris’ glass, “in for penny, in for a pound, and all that.”

  “You sure do love your little sayings.”

  “Amongst other things,” said Peter, a mischievous grin playing on his lips. Chris finally relaxed, with his humiliation apparently complete. “Are you trying to get me drunk? It won’t work. I generally just fall asleep. I’m seduction proof.”

  Peter exhaled. “That’s a shame,” he said breezily. “Eat your meal instead.” Chris did as he was bid. He got over his strange fey feeling and tried his best to be a good dinner companion. He listened as Peter spoke, and nodded in the right place, only interjecting occasionally. It seemed his effort drew a benefit, eventually.

  Peter looked at him frankly. “I have three businesses sitting here in Dublin, costing me money. You can manage one of them until I can sell it on or cut my losses on the rent. I’ll guarantee you three month’s work. That should give you time to get back on your feet.”

  “Are you serious?” asked Chris. “It’s not charity, Chris,” answered Peter. “You haven’t asked me what I want.”

  Chris’ eyes narrowed into slits. “What do you want?”

  “Bingo.” “Huh?” slipped from his mouth. Of all the things, he had been expecting, this was not one of them. Peter’s smile told him that he was being gently mocked. “You can bring me to play bingo every second Thursday night with all the rest of the old queens.”