Static Cling (The Irish Lottery Series Book 5)

by Gerald Hansen

  “OUT! OUT! GET THEM ALIENS OUTTA JERUSALEM!”

  “And wave them flags and all! Wave them! Wave them, lads!”

  Fionnuala's heart raced with delight and excitement as the men yelled out the chant and the flags fluttered and the banners seemed to sparkle in all their majesty. She and Bridie, atop their horses, surrounded by massive red crosses and cheering. She felt the power of the Lord surging through her veins.

  She brought her lips up to the traffic cone and yelled into it, “OUT! OUT! GET THEM ALIENS OUTTA JERUSALEM! JOIN US ONE, JOIN US ALL! ON TO DUBLIN, THEN TO THE HOLY LAND! THE EIGHTH CRUSADE, YOUSE'UNS! JOIN US ALL! OUT! OUT! GET THEM OUT ALEINS OUTTA JERUSALEM!”

  Her voice boomed across the square. The pensioners outside the Top-Yer-Trolley turned and stared. Their signs fell to their sides. The crowd around them turned as well. All eyes were on Fionnuala and Bridie and their Christian soldiers. Jaws dropped. Onward marched the horses. They seemed a bit excited and were, indeed, beginning to trot a bit. Fionnuala and Bridie held on tightly to the reins as they felt the animals quicken their stride underneath them.

  “OUT! OUT!” Fionnuala yelled through the megaphone, and Bridie yelled also at her side, and the men around them, “GET THEM ALIENS OUTTA JERUSALEM! EIGHTH CRUSADE! EIGHTH CRUSADE! JOIN US NOW! JOIN US NOW!”

  “ALL YER SINS'LL BE PARDONED!” bellowed Fionnuala as the others continued the chant. “AND YE'LL HAVE NO INTEREST ON THEM CREDIT CARD PAYMENTS! NO INTEREST! NO INTEREST! JOIN US NOW! WE'RE HEADING DOWN TO DUBLIN! TO HELP FILL THE PEWS AGAIN ON A SUNDAY! HELP US FILL THEM PEWS! OUR BROTHERS AND SISTERS IN DUBLIN BE'S LOST! LET'S HELP THEM GET BACK ON THE RIGHT TRACK! AND FROM DUBLIN ON TO JERUSALEM! JOIN US! JOIN US!”

  They were a hundred feet from Mrs. Mulholland and her crew. Atop the trotting horse, and they were both trotting now, Fionnuala struggled to keep a tight hold on the reins. She pressed her knees into the undulating back of the horse, clutched at it with her legs. Her feet dug into the stirrups. She clenched them to the sides of the now galloping beast. The megaphone fell to the concrete. Her hands clutched the straps for dear life. Her heart thumped in her throat. Her knuckles were white. Her body jerked and jumped atop the saddle. Her teeth were in danger of chomping off her tongue. Quicker and quicker the horse galloped. Now she couldn't see Bridie, couldn't see the flags or banners. Her eyes were jumping in her skull. Her brain clunked against the top of her cranium. She strained to see, couldn't steer, couldn't stop. Shops whizzed by. She moaned as her hat flew off her head. Her ponytails sailed through the air. Fear gripped her. She screamed.

  She caught a glimpse of...her mother! Siofra! Padraig! Seamus! Paddy! PADDY! In front of the gift shop. She heard through the air rushing past her terrified head, “Mammy! Mammy!” “Fionnuala! What the bleedin feck...?!” “Fionnuala, love! Stop this madness now!”

  She stared helplessly at the sight of Zoë Riddell—Zoë Riddell!—rushing towards her. Towards the gnashing, grunting horse head, its mane flopping wildly under Fionnuala's nostrils stretched in fear and horror.

  “Mrs. Flood! Mrs. Flood! The shame! The shame!”

  Was it the shame Fionnuala was bringing to herself? Or the shame she'd bring to Riddell Enterprises? As head of house of Final Spinz? Former head of house? Fionnuala couldn't think these thoughts, as all she was thinking of when the horse sailed past Zoë and barged into the screaming, fleeing mass of pensioners outside the Top-Yer-Trolly was her first holy communion. Her life was flashing before her eyes.

  She screamed as the horse rose up on its hind legs. It was like climbing a mountain. She clung to the horse neck for dear life, buried her nose in the sweaty mane. Roared out of her like a thing possessed as its hooves clawed the air. The hooves fell to the ground, then the horse circled. And began bucking. Fionnuala clung to the saddle. Shrieked. Roared at the Lord for mercy.

  There was a scream from the crowd. Zoë? And then more screams. From everyone. Fionnuala tried to crane her neck to see what it was. But she couldn't see. Couldn't see the horse's hind legs, its massive hooves, shoot through the air time and time again. Zoë ducking, diving. The hooves thrusting back. Pounding up. The power. The speed. Back and up. Zoë screamed again. She fell to the ground. Back and up the hooves had gone. Into her stomach. Her womb.

  Fionnuala flew through the air. Smacked against the pavement. Dazed, she looked around. Pain shot through her ribs, through her elbows and ankles. She screamed at the sight of Zoë's lifeless body on the ground. She crawled across the concrete, wincing and whimpering, and pushed through the legs of those around her boss.

  “Zoë! Zoë!” Fionnuala moaned. “I didn't mean to cause ye no harm!”

  First aid, she had to give her. She had seen it on so many cop shows on the telly. You plugged the nose, then blew into the mouth. Or was it...you wrapped your arms around them and then shoved your fists up into their stomachs? Or was that for choking?

  “Let me help her!” Fionnuala moaned, smacking away the hands that were reaching for Zoë's head and body. “I'll give her CRP! I'll give it to her, I say! CRP! CRP!”

  There was something about the wind passage, Fionnuala remembered. It had to be clear of any foreign objects. She slipped her fingers around the chain that lay across the Zoë's neck splayed there on the pavement for all to see. She saw the big vein pulsating with life. Alive! At least she was alive! Fionnuala pulled on the chain.

  And jerked back. Was that...? Could it be...? A very foreign object. Horror filled her.

  The Star of David?! Zoë Riddell was a...a...a secret Jew?! Thoughts spun through Fionnuala's mind even as she heard, felt, Paddy, her mother, Siofra and maybe even Dymphna and Rory behind her, their unheard words in her ears, their barely registered hands on her shoulders. Zoë! Her sister-in-law! A Jew! One of the...the... The thought was so repulsive to Fionnuala, she fought back a retching that appeared out of nowhere in her throat. One of the aliens who had captured her beloved Jerusalem and claimed it as her own! It was like the inventor of dry cleaning all over again. But this time much, much worse. Zoë Riddell was a person she could actually touch and speak to. That she had even had lunch with. A traitor!

  Fionnuala was on the verge of scrambling away from the alien body before her.

  But...Zoë was more than a body. Zoë had been kind to her. One of the few. Like Mrs. Ming. Zoë had given her one job, then another. And another. Had touched her once on the arm as she tinkled with laughter over something Fionnuala had said. It had only been the once, that lunch before the wedding. There had never been another lunch with Derry's Second Most Successful Businesswomen. As much as Fionnuala had longed for one. And Zoë was now part of the Flood family. But...she was now vulgar in Fionnuala's mind. Untouchable. Or was she? There the woman's lips were before Fionnuala on the pavement, waiting for the kiss of life. Fionnuala had always thought they were horrid Protestant lips. Now they were worse. Much worse. Jewish lips. But...

  It had been Fionnuala's fault. Fionnuala's horse. Well, really, the farmer was to blame for Zoë's condition now, Fionnuala considered. If it ever went to court, that would be her defense. But...But...

  Gulping down the sick that threatened to shoot from her throat any moment, she nevertheless leaned forward. She parted her lips. They convulsed violently. As did her entire body.

  “Outta the way! Outta the way, youse!”

  It was some ambulance man. He threw Fionnuala to the side. One part of Fionnuala was relieved. The other, much smaller part, was disappointed.

  The ambulances and police cars had come and gone. Fionnuala sat on a bench beside the public lavatories. She was wrapped in a foil emergency sheet. It was as if she were a debutante at a cotillion, suitors surrounding her; she had watched a movie about the Yank Civil War and plantations on the telly a few months before. But these people peering at her with concern weren't suitors. They were her family. She couldn't put them in a list of best to worst at the moment. Her thoughts were too jumbled. But Paddy was there, holding her hand. Her mother Maureen was ther
e, one gnarled hand on her shoulder, the other gripping her cane. Siofra and Seamus were kneeling before her, hands on her knees, beaming up at her. Even Padraig, though his arms were crossed, was eying her from the sidelines with something that might have been relief. Dymphna and Rory she saw out of the corner of her eye, holding each other and gazing down at her. There was gratitude on Rory's face. He had thanked her for trying to save his mother, give her the kiss of life.

  It hadn't been necessary, though. The medics had arrived and done what they needed to do. Zoë had been taken to Wellness Valley for tests.

  The family had told Fionnuala to come back home

  She'd said she would.

  Fionnuala couldn't know, of course, but while the horse was bucking her up and down in a frenzy, Maureen had turned to Paddy and said, “Ye mind them three choices of punishment we offered Fionnuala? After we caught on to her plan to poison our Lorcan?”

  “Aye. What about them?”

  “There was, of course, banishing yer woman to the caravan. Then there was turning her over to the Filth. Then there was sending her to the madhouse, that Gransha. I fear we mighta, or she mighta, chosen the wrong one. The woman's set for Gransha, so she is. Stark raving bonkers.”

  Paddy had looked at his mother-in-law, guilt etched on his face.

  “I think, but, that we drove her to this.”

  He motioned to the bucking horse, Bridie on hers a few feet away, the homeless men with their flags and banners. “An eighth crusade? How do ye think she got it into her mind? Months of being holed up in that caravan by herself. Nothing but her thoughts to keep her company, like.”

  Maureen set her lips.

  “I dunno. She mighta come up with a daft plan for an eighth crusade even living home with us. Sure, ye know what the woman's like, like.”

  Again, there was that guilt on Paddy's face. Maureen might have been better to wonder a bit more about it. But she didn't. She just listened to what he had to say.

  “Aye. I do know what she's like. Ye know what, Mammy?”

  “What?”

  “I think, after she gets offa that horse, we outta tell her to come back home. Housekeeping aside, I've been missing her.”

  “If ye think it's the right thing to do...” Maureen had trailed off uncertainly.

  “Aye, I do.” Paddy nodded confidently. The guilt seemed to have dissipated. Replaced with relief. “She's the mother to me wanes. Me wife. I want her back home.”

  “Don't come crying to me when...”

  “Naw, I won't. She'll be fine. Now. I'll treat her the way she needs to be treated. Rightly. Ye'll see.”

  Maureen shrugged her shoulders. They would, indeed, have to wait and see.

  “I'll pose one question to her, but, before I invite her home,” Paddy said.

  “And what would that be?”

  “Not about this public disgrace, naw. About that hold up at Final Spinz. I wanny know if she was responsible for it. If she masterminded it, like.”

  Maureen turned and looked at Paddy in surprise.

  “Have ye not heard, then?”

  “Heard what?”

  “It's all around town, sure! It was that Joe! Ye know, Mrs. Ming's grand nephew.”

  “Ye don't say! Why, but?” Paddy was confused.

  “I haven't a clue. Something terrible complicated. Had to do with some trip the woman wanted to take her entire life long. To India, I believe.”

  “India? From the art on the walls at the house, I woulda thought Africa!”

  Maureen shrugged. “India's what I heard.”

  And then they had gasped as Fionnuala's horse bucked into Zoë's stomach. Paddy was shocked, then he was upset. Then he was relieved. Then he looked guilty, and finally a little sad. But Maureen was too busy making her way across the square on her cane to see these emotions.

  CHAPTER 30

  In Wellness Valley, Mrs. Sooth had come and gone. Zoë was alone with a drip and her thoughts.

  “The last time we met,” Mrs. Sooth had said during the examination, “you were pregnant.”

  Zoë's fingers had crept along the bandages towards the center of her torso. “And now?” she had whispered fearfully.

  Mrs. Sooth had shaken her head with sorrow.

  Zoë's pillow was drenched. She had been crying and crying. She was all cried out. Her new child had never been meant to be. It had been nothing but a pipe dream. Similar to her pipe dream for a rough trade romance. Her mind went back to her visit at Pence-A-Day. Her frank discussion with Paddy Flood.

  After she had explained the situation, and Paddy had jerked back as if she had just attacked him with a scorching poker, Zoë had tried to rekindle what little she could remember of that night at the party in the office. She had moved towards him, tried to run a finger over his big, calloused workers hands. Paddy had shrieked.

  “Have ye gone mad, woman?” he had asked.

  “Have you no idea I am Derry's Most Eligible Widow?”

  “Aye, Derry's Most Eligible Protestant Widow.”

  Zoë, of course, had no way of knowing what was going on in Paddy's mind. All she had wanted was a reprieve from all those lonely nights spent in her bed alone. Nights spent tapping into the computer that was on the next pillow. A computer instead of a partner. Spreadsheets and logic instead of passion and love.

  She had no way of knowing what Paddy was thinking, but it was this: In the Moorside, there was Mrs. O'Shaughnassy from Collery Terrace. She was Derry's Most Eligible Widow. Catholic. And Paddy would never leave Fionnuala for Mrs. O'Shaughnassy. So Zoë had no chance. The difference between the women was similar to that between the best salt water fish and the best fresh water fish. Paddy loved fresh water fishing, but hated salt water fishing. Besides...Zoë Riddell, besides being Protestant, and, he guessed from that new necklace around her neck, also now Jewish, was a newcomer to the city. She had blabbed something at some stage about her family having arrived in Derry in 1610. It was like Mr. Eriksson, who was from Norway, and had married a girl from the Moorside. Twenty years before. He was still an outsider. And it had been the same with Jed Barnett. Jed was Paddy's sister Ursula's husband, and he had been Paddy's best mate, but Jed was a Yank. To Paddy, there had always been something slightly off about him. It was more than his accent and the cowboy hat he wore, accentuating the Other. He just wanted a true, real person from Derry. It was the same as Zoë and her ancestors. 1610? Too recent for Paddy Flood.

  The night on the office desk atop the stapler and hole punch had been fun, but he had been drunk, and when he had woken up, he had been horrified. The next morning, their liaison had appeared to him like some, some intra-species pairing.

  “Sure, ye've already taken one of me daughters, and now ye want to take me and all? Ye kyanny have me, but,” Paddy had told her. “I'm wed, so am are.”

  “Can't...your type...get...Oh, I'm afraid that came out wrong. Aren't there annulments, is what I'm trying to ask? Surely the church allows that nowadays...?”

  “Aye. Maybe that's for them young ones of today what want their cake and to eat it too. I'm from a different world. No lawyer is gonny tell me I can do something the church tells me I kyanny do. I gave me vows on the altar, sure. Before me God and maker. Till death do us part. I've got cake enough. Aye, it's...it's...God forgive me for what I'm about to say, but I'm saying it anyroad...” It was as if he couldn't talk about his wife Fionnuala by talking about her. In case she somehow overheard. As ludicrous as that might seem, considering where they were. But, Paddy knew from sad experience that you never knew... He continued talking about his 'cake.' “It's as if me cake be's stale and crumbly a bit around the edges, pure falling apart, some might say. Poisonous, some might say. Me cake be's killing me slowly. And it gives me heartburn and all other ailments, a long and winding list of them that be's driving me to drink. I love it, but. I kyanny do without out it. Och, I wanny stay true to the laws of the land, the laws of me faith.”

  “Faith? If it's to do with my new necklace, I
can assure you I am only a fraction of a percent—”

  “It's not yer faith I'm banging on about. It's me own faith. Ye're a classy bird, Zoë, aye, but ye're only thinking of yerself and yer business. Fionnuala and me...we've nothing, but we've love.”

  “Excuse me, from what I've seen, shrieking like a mad thing and beating the children—”

  “We beat them cause we love them.”

  “You...you...”

  “Not lately, I must admit, but aye. Who hasn't?”

  Zoë knew, somewhere deep in her heart, Paddy was right. Business might make strange bedfellows, politics might, but love never did. Except if you considered Julia Roberts and Lyle Lovett, but even they had since gone their separate ways. She would've had to contend with his cigarettes, his alcohol, his swallow tattoo that, for all she knew, signified a former life of violent and seedy crime. It had excited her. But then logic seeped into her fevered brain.

  Her instincts had been right: Paddy was a good catch after all. An excellent catch. But the catching had been done decades before and not by her

  As Zoë now cried for her child that would never be, she thought about Beeyonsay and Greenornge. She felt her heart swell with love for them. Even as she was repulsed by their names. She'd have to ask Dymphna what their middle names were. Hopefully they were something sensible. Then Zoë could start calling them by these sensible middle names.

  She hoped the drink wouldn't bring the truth out of Paddy Flood one night. One thing Zoë knew is that secrets were usually shared. The new anxiety she now felt was worse than any she had ever felt before. The thought of being Public Enemy Number One to Fionnuala Flood. She'd have to get a better alarm system installed at home, which would be difficult because at the moment she had the best. She might even have to move the headquarters of Riddell Enterprises to London, or maybe to the South, Dublin. Or preferably to the States, as she knew US visas weren't granted to those with police records, and Fionnuala Flood, even before her arrest for public disturbance and horse theft today, had one that must be pages long.