“I’m looking forward to you meeting my brother Daniel,” Dr. Heaton said. “He’s very sharp. In many ways sharper than I am. He’s more of the world, if you know what I mean.”
John did. He often caught himself being amazed at how the doc could spend time with Dr. Lynch and not feel her disrespect or especially Dr. White who was out and out hostile to him.
“I guess most academics are like that,” John said.
“Well, that’s the stereotype anyway. Ethan White isn’t that way,” Heaton said as if reading John’s mind. The cows had finally moved all the way off the road and Heaton inched the car forward. “We used to be close friends once,” he said quietly, as if instead of cows he was seeing happier days with his old friend Ethan White.
John didn’t answer. From what he’d seen it wasn’t just a matter of Dr. White not wanting to be pals any more. When it came to Finlay Heaton, the guy really acted like he hated him.
*****
The E-shaped Ionic colonnade and portico of the old house of Parliament in Dublin sat just south of the Liffey River on College Green by the West Front of Trinity College. Featuring a majestic curving façade, the impressive structure hid a hodgepodge of sheds, and separate bigger buildings within its walls.
The parks surrounding Trinity College were home to thousands of people with most of them living in tents. Liam O’Reilly sat in the passenger seat of the town car he and Shane Sullivan had driven from the government compound. He stared up at the historic building.
“Do you know much about it?” he said pointing to the building. Two men in rags walked by, eyeing O’Reilly and Sullivan in their car. O’Reilly wasn’t worried. There was an armed escort parked behind them. The men kept moving.
“About what every Irish school child knows,” Sullivan said. “That it was the seat of Irish government for years. And that the English sold it to the Bank of Ireland and demolished our House of Commons.”
“You know your history.”
“I know what the English have done to our history.”
Ahhh, there it was. Sullivan’s particular chink in his armor was the fact that he didn’t realize how reactive he was to certain things. O’Reilly could literally make the man froth at the mouth any time he liked by the mere mention of the English and what they might or might not have done to Ireland.
O’Reilly glanced appraisingly at his aide. The problem with that was that Sullivan loathed the English so intensely that O’Reilly was more than occasionally concerned he’d have trouble working with them. In today’s post-EMP pre-plague Ireland, one didn’t always have the luxury to pick and choose one’s allies.
O’Reilly had always been careful about who his friends were. He’d come up the hard way, without the benefit of easy connections. But then the bomb dropped four years ago and everything fell higgelty-pigglety…right into its proper place.
First, the president left—on the heels of the fleeing US Ambassador—for his home in the south of France after a full two weeks of attempting to reinvigorate the power grid in Dublin failed. The prime minister packed up the dominant parliamentary party soon afterward saying he would govern Ireland from Wales. Or was it Dubrovnik? Before they ran out of beer, there were more than a few laughs in the pubs after that announcement. In fairness to the PM, the man did eventually manage to get some of the cell towers rebuilt. And a barge of working government vehicles came over soon after he left.
When the dust cleared, only the Senate of Ireland remained, of which O’Reilly had been a low ranking member. Most people knew the Senate to be the weaker of the two parliamentary groups but with no prime minister, no president and no dominant party, well, it was a new era in Irish politics. With some of the underdogs finally on top, whoever was left to bully through the bad years of intermittent electricity, nonexistent infrastructure and spotty communications—not to mention sudden swamping of two million people who’d swarmed the capital in the days and months after the EMP dropped—well, there was a prize to be had.
It was clear to O’Reilly that someone needed to step forward. Someone unbothered by the occasional piles of shite to be slogged through. Someone willing to do what was necessary to bring Ireland back. He’d made sure that someone was himself.
“What would you say,” he said, turning to Sullivan, “if we moved government back here?”
Sullivan’s eyes blinked rapidly as if trying to process his words. “Make it our parliament building again, you mean?”
“Aye.”
Sullivan looked at the building with renewed wonder and interest. “The English forbade us to ever use it as a government building again,” he said in a hushed tone.
“Sod the English. It’s a new world, Sullivan. Especially for Ireland.”
Sullivan smiled. And when he did, it occurred to O’Reilly that he’d never seen him smile before.
“Mind you,” O’Reilly said frowning as a family of four homeless people approached them. The woman held a large hat out, her face pleading, and he shooed her away with his hand. “We’ll have to clean up the streets a good bit first.”
Sullivan’s mobile phone rang and he answered it, still smiling. O’Reilly watched the smile dissolve from his face.
“Bloody hell. Are ye sure?” Sullivan said into the receiver.
“What is it?” O’Reilly said. “What’s happened?”
Sullivan disconnected the phone and stared at it. “I was afraid of this. I’d heard some rumors…I needed to make sure.”
“What is it, man?” O’Reilly clenched his jaw and felt the frustration pour out of him.
“It’s confirmation,” Sullivan said grimly. “The sickness has found its way to Ireland.”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Mike and Sarah spent a full week with the Connors, moving with them, living with them. In that week, Sarah felt her resolve grow strong and that gave her comfort.
You only hurt when you give up. If you never give up, you can keep the pain at bay. She decided this would be her motto in the coming weeks and months.
However long it took.
The day they parted, the Connors loaded them down with food, oats for the pony they were loaning them, a cart and more hugs and good wishes than they could ever use in a lifetime.
“Promise you’ll come to Ameriland,” Sarah said to Molly as she hugged her goodbye. “If you want to stay, you’ll always have a home there. All of you.”
“Expect us,” Molly said. “I’ve been sick of traveling for weeks now.”
“But no interest in going back to your village?”
“Nay. The Wiccans have taken over there. Or are at least too close for comfort.”
“Not human sacrifice?” Sarah asked.
“No, thank God. But not our type, all the same.”
“Come to the compound,” Sarah said, hugging her again.
“Good luck finding your lads,” Molly said. “I know you’ll find them. And I’ll include them in me prayers every night.”
“Thanks, Molly.” Sarah knelt and gave Elise a kiss. “Bottomless bowls of raisins for you, darling, when you come.”
“Promise?”
“Absolutely, I do.” Sarah couldn’t stop the memory forming of John at this age, so willing to believe, so ready to be enthused about everything.
“Are you sure you won’t stay for Christmas?” Molly said. “The lads are determined to bag a boar. We’ll feast for days.”
“It sounds great,” Sarah said. “But we’ve already stayed longer than we should. We need to get going.”
“Well, I know how you feel. I’d be the same, I’m sure,” Molly said as her hand dropped to the head of her child.
Sarah walked over to the pony cart and gave Darby a quick hug.
“I can’t thank you enough for all you’ve done,” she said. “Don’t forget us in Ameriland. We’d love for you to join us.”
“Pretty sure you’ll see our lot there before long. Good luck to ye, Sarah.” He gave her a quick kiss on the cheek and handed her up t
o Mike who was in the driver’s seat of the cart.
They waved goodbye and pointed the pony south. Their best guess was that, eventually, Gavin would head for home if he could. Meanwhile, Mike and Sarah needed more supplies before they went back out searching. And then there was always the hope that when they rode up to the gates of the compound, one or both boys would be waiting for them. Sarah tried not to focus on that particular fantasy too much but she felt her body leaning forward as if eager to propel the cart faster toward home…and John.
Mike drove the pony with one arm around Sarah. It was cold and though the Connors had given them their extra blankets, they weren’t enough. Sarah’s feet already felt like blocks of ice. She stamped them against the buckboard from time to time to try to bring feeling back to her toes.
“Darby said there’s a hotel or hostel of some kind in the next town,” Mike said. “We can get more information.”
Sarah nodded. What information could they possibly get that made any difference? She instantly felt guilty for the thought. While it was true there was nothing she could learn on this side of the channel about John’s whereabouts, there was still Gavin. She had to admit, finding him would help staunch the terrible feeling of her loss.
The sign for the next town read Carrick-on-Suir. It was a good mile before the actual village showed up and then it was just a string of ten buildings of varying heights, sizes and colors built on one side of the road. The other side was a long line of what was once parallel parking abutting a heavily lichened stonewall. This must once have been a pretty tourist village, Sarah thought as they rode down the main street.
“Which one is it, do you think?” she asked. As usual, all the buildings looked deserted but Mike rode straight to the one building that—to Sarah—looked no different from the others.
He handed her the reins and reached down to pick up the Glock semi-automatic from the floor of the trap. He’d found all their guns and ammunition untouched in the woods once he was able to hobble about on his injured foot. He placed the gun on her knees.
“Shoot first. Ask questions never.”
“I hate that,” she said, as she took the reins. “Didn’t running into Darby and Molly teach us anything?”
“Aye,” Mike said as he climbed down from the cart. “That there are good people in the world and we’re lucky to know them. Mind the front door. I won’t be long.”
He wasn’t either. Before Sarah had time to fully become nervous about sitting out in the pony trap, exposed and vulnerable, he was back, swinging up into his seat and taking both the gun and the reins from her. She felt her pulse accelerate. His excitement was contagious.
“News?” she asked as he hurriedly prompted the pony into a trot. “Did someone see him?”
“Not as such. But they said there’s a large group camped not far from here.”
Sarah bit her lip. “Is that good? Don’t we want to stay away from big groups living in the woods?”
Mike reached an arm around her shoulders and gave her a quick squeeze.
“Normally, aye, maybe,” he said. “But this group is a family. Where there’s wives and kiddies there’s less likely to be blackguards to deal with.”
“If you say so.” Sarah thought of the Connor family and friends and she relaxed a bit. It was true that it was difficult to set up a permanent camp the way she and Mike had done. It wasn’t unheard of but it wasn’t easy. The problem was, unless you did it, you couldn’t plant or have much in the way of livestock. Even four years after the bomb, most people were living off their wits—hunting, stealing from others or starving—as though they were waiting for the lights to flick back on any minute.
“Are they gypsies?” she asked.
“The lads in the pub weren’t exactly sure,” Mike said, his eyes on the road ahead of them. “But foreign to be sure. Italian, they thought.”
*****
The Italian camp was only about a mile away from the village. The pony was tired and wanted its dinner. The last thing Mike wanted to do was misuse the poor old thing—especially since he’d promised to return the beast to Darby one of these days. But they were so close. Maybe the Italians hadn’t seen anything but at least he’d lay his head down tonight knowing he’d done everything he could for one day to find his lad.
They kept to the road and trotted slowly, keeping a sharp eye out. It wouldn’t be totally unusual for a large family moving about like this to have look-outs—or even snipers if they felt threatened. That was the last thing they wanted to encounter.
“Mike, there!” Sarah said, pointing into the woods. They could see the flickering of firelight and when Mike stopped the cart in the road, they smelled the scent of meat cooking and heard the faint sounds of people’s voices.
“That’s got to be them, don’t you think?”
“Aye.” He handed her the reins. “Stay here.”
“You must be out of your mind if you think I’m going to let you leave me here. No way.”
“Sarah, love, why must ye argue with every little thing I ask of ye?”
“Are you serious?” Sarah said, her voice rising. “I am not splitting up again. Ever. I would think you of all people would understand why.”
He sighed heavily. “Of course I do, Sarah. But the baby—”
“Don’t worry about the baby. It’s fine. I’m fine. We’re both fine.”
“You’re not.”
“As fine as any normal person can be under the circumstances.”
He sighed and jammed the gun into his belt before holding a hand out to help her down.
“We’ll need to be quiet.”
“When it comes to noise, I am not the problem,” she said pointedly.
He held her hand and they walked across the road to a stonewall beside the road. Mike hopped over it easily and then helped her over. Even at five months, she could feel her center of gravity had shifted just enough that she couldn’t always predict how to stay balanced. It was very cold and a few snowflakes dropped in lazy, fluffy spirals around them. They entered the woods and walked toward the sounds of people.
Sarah knew that taking people by surprise could be just as bad as giving them too much notice that you were coming but there was nothing for it. There were only two options and most people would opt for the element of surprise if given a choice. As it happened, she needn’t have worried. The Italians—looking to be at least thirty in all—were too busy having their dinner to worry about someone sneaking up on them.
Sarah and Mike stood on the outskirts of the clearing and watched as the family stoked their fire, piled roasted meat on plates and settled themselves around the cookfire. They could see a half dozen or so wagons formed in a half circle but there was no sign of tents. A shrill whinny from behind the wagons answered the question about where the horses were tethered.
“Ready?” Mike asked her, his voice tense with anticipation.
A part of him thinks Gavin will be here. Would she be thinking that too if she didn’t know for sure how impossible it was to hope for John? Probably. She gave Mike’s arm a reassuring squeeze and they walked out of the woods.
A little girl saw them first and promptly screamed and ran to her mother.
“We are friendly! We are friendly! Amiegos!” Mike called out, holding up his hands to show he was unarmed. Unfortunately, his arms outstretched served to call attention to the fact that he had two handguns jammed into his waistband. But all in all that might not be a bad thing.
Everyone around the fire stood up and all conversation ceased. A tall man with a lazy eye met them and held up a hand to signal that they should stop where they were.
“We don’t welcome strangers,” he said in a heavy Italian accent.
“We’re not looking for a meal or a place to stay,” Mike said easily. “Just a little information.”
“Not a good place for that either,” the man said, his eyes scanning Sarah from top to bottom.
“I’m looking for a lad. My son. Tall with ginger hai
r. Name of Gavin.”
The man looked like he’d been slapped. Even Sarah could see that the name meant something to him. Was it possible? Was Gavin here? There was a rustle of activity from the group of family and then a thick-set boy stepped out of the crowd and stood next to the man with the lazy eye.
“We haven’t seen anyone by that description. Now, go,” the boy said, his face contorted with malice.
Sarah’s heart sank. She could only imagine how Mike must feel. One disappointment after another. She touched Mike’s elbow. The boy was right. They weren’t wanted here. It was time to go. Mike stiffened at her touch and dropped his hands. Sarah watched in astonishment as he pulled both handguns out of his belt and aimed them at the two men in front of him.
Oh no no no. This is not good, Sarah thought in bewilderment. What is Mike thinking?
“We told you, signore,” the fat teen said. “We have seen nobodies by this description.”
“Oh, really?” Mike said. “Then why is it I’m seeing my son’s boots on your feckin’ feet?”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Mike pointed the gun at the teenage boy’s head.
“I’m in no mood for your lies or bullshite. Answer me or I’ll shoot me way through your entire camp one by one.”
“He left,” the man with the lazy eye said.
“Without his shoes?”
“He left in a hurry.”
Mike cocked the gun.
“Tell ‘im, Paco!” the fat boy said in a high, panicked voice. “They think we killed ‘im!”
Paco held up his hands. A crowd had begun to gather behind him. The thought came to Mike that if the rest of them didn’t mind losing these two, the crowd could probably overpower Mike in the next few seconds.
“Why is this tub o’ lard wearing me son’s shoes?” he said through gritted teeth.
Irish End Games, Books 4-5-6 Page 39