“So he’s Jim O’Driscoll, is he?” I said.
“Was,” corrected Fiona, ever the schoolteacher. “What else ya got?”
Aoife emptied all the scraps out into her hand. But there was nothing but an old train ticket and a spent phone card. I noticed that the wallet’s bulk was still there, though. I reached a finger behind the license and felt something that had been stuck to the leather from sweat.
A folded-up sheet of paper, yellowed and porous from age, saw the light of day again.
“What’s that?” asked Aoife, lowering her voice when she saw the train conductor doing a last check before getting off work.
I carefully unwrapped the inner fantasy life of the one man besides my own father whom I’d ever cared to know anything about. The paper only gave slowly, resisting intrusion, but finally revealed what old Jim had dreamed about between murders.
A hand-drawn old-fashioned treasure map, such as a child might invent, sprawled in all directions. To the north, impassable ice scapes hindered a small stick figure with a cane in his hand. At the bottom, near an ocean crawling with fearsome octopi, a female form lay on a trail near a beach, her neck broken.
“Christ, she looks like Sarah,” I said, and the conductor turned his head my way. I covered by laughing and giggling like the girl I never really was, and he walked on, shaking his head.
Near what was supposed to be the east, the map became a forest with gnarled oaks and wizards in pointy hats sending zigzag rays from their fingertips. Fair maidens ran from wolves, which looked like they had plenty of prey to choose from before the sun went down.
But it was one detail, poorly drawn and smudged, that transfixed me.
“That’s a castle,” I said, holding it up to the light. And it was. Jim had colored the gate black with Magic Marker, and someone sat outside its walls, operating what looked like a radio. A male figure, it looked like. Curly “electrical waves” rose from his head. And you heard me right, he sat, because there was a perfectly good reason why he would never again stand up.
His legs were broken. Almost as if someone had run over them on purpose and left him there to die. A prince, I remembered from Jim’s fairy tale, who also has magical powers. His horse just fell on him. His brother, Euan, will kill him and steal the crown. The dying prince’s name is . . . damn, I couldn’t remember.
Outside the train, the first concrete stanchions signaled that me and my sisters would soon be in enemy territory.
“The next station is Dublin Heuston,” intoned the announcer’s languid voice. “This train is for Dublin Heuston. Thank you for traveling with Iarnród Éireann.”
He might as well have told us the train was rushing straight to the walls of Dochas Prison, its black gates slamming shut behind us.
WHEN WE WERE little girls, our mother would always tell us the same kind of bedtime story, especially whenever something had gone bump in the night. It never varied much, but perhaps it grew a bit longer if we were still crying near the end and needed just one more glimmer of hope to chase away the bogeymen under the bed.
Usually, however, we pestered her to tell us the one where we ended up heroes, and the stakes were dire. What’s the fun, otherwise? Mother would try with the softer versions first, where unicorns frolicked with elves and such complete crap, until she relented and picked the one where something stared back from the darkness.
“There once lived three brave girls, just like you,” she’d begin, tucking our down comforters up to our chins and leaving at least one light on. “Their home was a tree house deep in the enchanted forest. Elves and animals alike loved having them as neighbors. Only the trolls, who preferred the dark and hid underneath rocks during the day, came out at night to stalk the three beauties. That meant the sisters needed to keep their house lit whenever the sun went down.”
She’d go on to tell us how the girls leaped into the heavens each night, trying to catch enough stars in their butterfly nets to light up the bedroom until the sun returned. They’d weave comets and starbursts together until they formed a carpet, which they used for a blanket. Finally, the trolls stopped coming around, frightened by the perpetual glare from inside the girls’ house.
All was well, until the most jealous of all cave-dwelling trolls decided to steal their starry treasure. She had no name, but even the wolves feared her and would not forage if they sensed her presence.
She waited until the girls were asleep, wrapped herself in a shawl so dense no rays could penetrate, and climbed into the tree house. Her hands burned when she touched the bright quilt, and she nearly cried out. But she managed to stay silent until the thousands of stars were buried in the deepest, darkest hole in the ground.
The three girls woke up because all the other trolls now banged on the front door, trying to get in. “There’s only one thing for us to do,” said the bravest of the girls. “We must journey below the earth, fighting whatever dangers lie ahead. Because we’re the sisters who sleep under the stars.”
The bravest. How do you like that? Mother always had a flair for the melodramatic. After a breathless odyssey starring Aoife, Fiona, and me as we battled witches, demons, and dark knights, the sisters finally retrieved the cosmic blanket and lived happily ever after. And mother would leave our night-light on until breakfast, even if it cost her a bundle. I told you she loved us, didn’t I?
There was nothing magical awaiting us at Heuston Station.
We took the DART local train up to Malahide, once again falling into a sullen silence as the sleepy waterfront houses rushed past. Once we got there, it was only a short walk through narrow streets where each house looked like it was made of soggy gingerbread.
I was the bravest, I suppose. So I rang the doorbell of number 1 Strand Street, before any of the others could think about it. I remembered the first time my aunt had taken me to buy sweets and felt very old.
There were disciplined staccato steps from inside, followed by a sharp tug on the handle. I had learned to hate that combination of sounds every Friday night, back home in Castletownbere. Then the door opened.
She looked more beautiful than I’d ever seen her. Aunt Moira’s hair was long and spilled out across shoulders that were as tan as her face. Her teeth sparkled brighter than Jonno’s fake ones, and the dress she wore fit her body as if it had been spray-painted on. There’s a flipping time machine in that house, I thought. She has turned back the clock, and Jim never even happened. We’re kids again. Our parents will be right along, too.
Yeah, I know, right? Hell of a time to put your head into the sand.
whatever cancer Moira apparently suffered from had taken a backseat to sunbathing. There were new freckles on her nose. As she regarded us for a moment, she smiled with such genuine happiness I knew that one of us should have brought at least a knife.
“There you are now, my lovelies,” she said, making me wonder where she was hiding our starry carpet. “And just in time for some tea.”
AND NOW I’M getting that strange feeling again of not wanting to tell you any more.
Because you can guess, can’t you? The oddest thing about our time in this house was how civilized, how almost pleasant, it seemed in the beginning. Aunt Moira was hurt, of course, and couldn’t hide her anger as she sat us down by the mahogany table we recognized from the old days. She almost apologized for bullying us into coming in the first place. And then, as the sugar lumps dissolved in our cups, she came to the point.
“Bone cancer,” said Aunt Moira, nodding at us as if she were introducing herself by that name. “That means I’ll fade away like an old napkin. And don’t worry. Once I’m gone, you can take back your . . . effects . . . in that chest of drawers, there.” She pointed at an oak dresser across the room. The only decoration was the old portrait photograph of Eamon de Valera. The plaster saints hadn’t made the journey to Malahide, apparently. The rest of the house smelled like old dust and regret. Nobody really lived here; they were merely staying. Plastic Jesus hung above the doorway, and t
he wallpaper was the old striped kind you’d expect to find in a dead grandmother’s house fifty years ago. There was nothing else but a few chairs that looked like they had been sat on too hard.
“What effects?” asked Fiona, trying hard not to sound like she wanted to wring her neck. “We got yer cigarette lighter, all right, but—”
“What, you don’t remember?” teased our healthy-looking aunt, who obliged by bounding over to unlock the dresser drawer and returning with what looked like bags of weed. That’s the first time I noticed her necklace. It looked like it was made of iron, or dulled silver. And the pendants hanging from it weren’t jewels, but keys. She waved one plastic bag before us that appeared to be filled with dirt and said, “The guards never found this. It had fallen inside a hollow tree, just like in the fairy tales. But I did. Took me a long time, too. I was out there looking as soon as Brianna from SuperValu said my Jim had been by for a bottle of Chablis and was headed up to the beach.” She peered at me, and I held her gaze until it became too much to bear. “Trouble of it is, he didn’t drink Chablis. Sounded like trouble to me, didn’t it? I had that sick feeling even before I knew he was . . .” She paused before having to put her lips around the word dead. “Well. Anyway. I had to clear out for a bit when Bronagh and her gang showed up with the dogs. But I returned. I found some real treasures. Even after those stupid women turned it into a shrine, I looked for more. Quite a collection. Don’t you agree?”
Inside was the crumpled-up cigarette pack I’d seen Jim throw away, and another bag contained what looked like a button from Aoife’s dress. There were more objects in there too, but I wasn’t paying attention anymore. Because with that alone, I was sure, we’d get done for murder. Aunt Moira locked her evidence back up and pushed a sheet of paper across the table for us to read.
“And now that you’re all here, let’s agree on the rules of the house,” she said.
It was like being back at school with the nuns again. Get up at six, make her breakfast, and prepare her medication. After that, it was to be housecleaning until noon, followed by lunch for her, more painkillers, and only then some grub for ourselves. Before we were to make her dinner, afternoons would be spent shopping for groceries, with one peculiar stipulation.
“Only one of you can leave the house at any one time,” said Aunt Moira, and looked less radiant than before.
“Why’s that?” I asked.
“Because I said so.” She pointed at a long tan overcoat hanging from a hook by the door. “You are each to wear that coat with a shawl when you go outside. You will only shop at the corner mart down the street, and never buy anything but what’s already on the list. Am I understood?”
I looked into her eyes and remembered what Fiona had told me about how she’d looked at Jim when they’d first met. Besotted, I think she’d said. Delirious. We’re deader than rabbits in hunting season, I thought, unless we get out of here soon. I looked at the ghost of a smile and was already wondering how best to escape.
FOR A FEW weeks, nothing happened. Fiona shopped, I cleaned, and Aoife cooked, like one of old Dev’s fantasies of what proper Irish girls were supposed to do with their time.
And Aunt Moira?
Well, she was only happier than I’d ever imagined she could be, of course. She relished in pointing out mistakes, like when I’d forgotten to clean the toilet all the way around the bowl, or if Aoife had put too much salt in the soup. But I was telling myself it was just for a few more weeks. Please don’t think me naïve or stupid to believe that. If you’d seen that woman’s inner glow, you too would have been convinced it was nothing but that last-gasp rally of the terminally ill right before curtains.
No guests ever came to the house. In fact, the only other person I’ve seen in all this time has been the little postman, who used to linger outside as if he wanted to be invited in for tea. I know now I should have yelled at him long ago, but how could I predict what was about to happen to us? He never stayed long on the front steps anyway. I think Moira chased him away.
At night, Aoife would go downstairs and sleep in the basement, where Aunt Moira had made another guest room, while me and Fiona stayed together in a room upstairs. I found a stack of blank notebooks someone had left behind, covered in dust and with the stamp 1941 on the overleaf. You’re reading one of them right now, which I’m sure you’ve already guessed. I even began to make a countdown calendar for our departure, whether or not our dear aunt was belowground by then. Fiona complained of headaches, but I didn’t listen to that right away, because I’d seen her sneaking ciggies from the kitchen drawer and knew she couldn’t hold her smoke.
No, it was something else that made me realize things weren’t as they seemed.
One morning, not so long ago, I awoke at the sound of a key in the lock.
“Hello?” I said, sitting up and rubbing my eyes. I had been dreaming of witches.
“Go back to sleep,” Aunt Moira’s voice whispered back through the bedroom door, but I knew what I’d heard. I turned the handle but couldn’t open the door. She was no longer pretending we weren’t prisoners.And as I listened, the iron sound of more locks sliding shut down the hall told me I should have leaped across the mahogany table that first day we got here and wrung her scrawny neck. If my aunt was suffering from cancer, then I was Madame fucking Curie. This was about revenge, pure and simple. And we would never leave this house alive.
FROM THAT DAY, we weren’t allowed out of our rooms. Not even when I started to pee blood. I hadn’t a clue to begin with why I was feeling busted up inside.
“Can’t trust you,” said our jailer, who had taken the opportunity while we were sleeping to put cuffs on us, like in a bad movie. “Murderers must be kept under lock and key, now, isn’t that right?” She unlocked the door only three times a week, to bring us some slop she called food. We ate it, of course. What else were we going to do, lunge from our beds and kill her? Believe me, I tried. Twice. And she gave me such a beatdown every time I can still feel my front teeth moving back and forth when I chew.
I began to lose weight. Well, of course I did. But this was no normal diet, where yer jeans sag around yer arse. I could see my own breastbone.
“It’s something in the food,” said Fiona, herself covered in sores she couldn’t keep clean.
All I could think of was Aoife.
I hadn’t seen her for weeks and wondered if our aunt had killed her out of spite already. Moira had warned us not to signal anyone outside, lest my twin sister suffer the consequences, and I didn’t doubt her resolve.
A few nights ago, I heard a faint metallic clanking. Someone was tapping on the pipe that led through our bathroom all the way into the basement. At first, I couldn’t make out what it was, because my hearing has gone all sideways, too, but then I got it. It was old Morse code, and I had already missed part of a sentence:
. . . L . . . L . . . R . . . I . . . G . . . H . . . T . . . ?
Was I all right? My eyes welled up, and I started to shake. God bless Aoife for sitting in our bedroom when we were little, suffering through having me teach her Morse code. “Come in handy, you’ll see,” I always insisted then, looking at her very serious like. “But why?” she’d asked. “Because what if there’s no more electricity left in the world all of a sudden?” I’d replied, perfectly logically, I thought.
I woke up Fiona and picked up the screwdriver she’d found under the bed, so I could signal back.
H . . . O . . . W . . . D . . . O . . . W . . . E . . . G . . . E . . . T . . . O . . . U . . . T . . . ?
There was a second’s hesitation before Aoife’s answer came back, clear as a telegram from the high court straight to the butcher’s block.
K . . . I . . . L . . . L . . . H . . . E . . . R . . . F . . . I . . . R . . . S . . . T.
“What’s that racket?” screamed Aunt Moira from downstairs. I could hear her heels on the stairs already. “What are you doing?”
“It’s the water, Aunt Moira,” said Fiona. “It makes the pipes
rattle.”
“You’re plotting something,” said our aunt, shuffling back downstairs, sounding as if she were rummaging through all of her secret drawers. “But you won’t get away with it. As Jim is my witness, I’ll outlive you all.”
That was a new one, and I knew old Jim would have smiled. Now even God took a backseat in her fevered mind to West Cork’s foremost sex-and-death practitioner.
I waited a few hours, until the yelling from downstairs had ended. Then Aoife and I talked through the pipe about escape, about killing, and about the diaries we had all started to write. We agreed to try escaping that next Wednesday morning, come hell or high water. That’s today, by the way, in case yer wondering. And the moon is getting ready to sink into the mass of brick right outside my window. But mostly, we talked about our love for one another, no matter what. She also finally told me why she’d had to go away for as long as she did, and I said I understood. Because how can you not?
There.
The sun is coming up now, and Fiona is sharpening that damn screwdriver one last time. Aunt Moira is preparing something for us, I know it, because she’s talking to herself downstairs, dragging something heavy about, and I don’t like the sound of it. When crazy people argue with themselves, it’s time to end the party, even when you have no strength left to do it. Fiona could tell me something about the three hundred Spartans in front of the Persian army, I reckon, but there’s no time for that now. We’ve agreed to attack Aunt Moira the second she comes in here with the food. Whichever one of us escapes has promised to post the others’ diaries. What, you think we’re stupid enough to believe we can all live through this? Didn’t you listen to anything I’ve said? I can’t even stand up, for fuck’s sake, much less walk anymore.
But I can still write. And I won’t end this diary with something where I make you promise me anything, tell my priest what a good girl I was, blah, blah, blah. Because we don’t know each other, and I’m sure you have better things to do. All I wish for is not to be judged too harshly, that’s about it. Oh, and for you to try and reach Evvie for me, tell her what happened. Still can’t get her out of my mind, ya see. Love that stinker, even if she’s with someone else now, and that’s the truth. Her family name is Vasilyeva, and they live in Sochi. Okay? Can’t be too many like that around, can there?
Darling Jim Page 25