The Irish Lottery Series Box Set (1-3)

by Gerald Hansen

  “I found it under the cushion of that chair over there. It kyanny belong to them what has the room now, as I can tell from the clothing they be's two men. So it kyanny be thieving. It be’s finding!”

  Fionnuala's lips curled with pure disgust as she thought back to the tube of KY Jelly she had discovered poking out of the Ralph Lauren Dopp kit on the back of the toilet. She felt ill at the thought what of the two 'men' sharing this cabin did on the bedsheets Siofra's fingers had just folded. And she had just grabbed.

  “And ye see, Mammy? It be's manky aul person's jewelry, grown-up jewelry! Minging and useless and pig-ugly! I wouldn't be caught dead on the playground with such shite, sure. It was me special surprise gift for ye, Mammy! I was gonny give it ye after dessert. When we ever gets to eat.”

  Fionnuala had to admit that even her own mother would find the brooch too old-aged-pensioner. For once, her daughter wasn’t lying: it was hideous. But somewhere in a cranny of her mind she realized Siofra had been doing something nice for her.

  “Och, ye're a wee dote, so ye are!” she said finally, swaddling Siofra in her breasts and tugging out a Snickers she had been secretly munching on between scrubs.

  “Ye've earned yerself a bite. A wee one, mind.”

  Siofra bared her little teeth and took a nibble. Fionnuala bit the pelican's beak and the hard texture of the metal on her molars let her know it wasn't even gold-plated. Her face crumpled with disappointment. She slipped the brooch in a pocket of her housekeeping apron and looked around the disheveled cabin.

  “Och, this room be's a tip. We've no time to tidy up again, but. Them arse bandits what be's in the room'll think it was the storm what did the damage anyroad. We've to move to the next cabin or that hard-faced toerag Yootha's gonny somehow ensure we get no food at all.”

  She gathered up her bucket of cleaning supplies and they left the cabin, and the thought of how many more cabins they had yet to clean made her hate Dymphna even more. Fionnuala simmered over the humiliation at the port in Belfast two days before, while Siofra secretly slipped her hand into her pocket, making sure the five Euro note she had also found under the cushion was still there. It was.

  CHAPTER SEVEN—SOUTHAMPTON PORT, TEN MINUTES EARLIER

  “...QUICKLY, PLEASE.”

  Anthea Planck, the check-in agent for Econo-Lux Cruiselines, flicked off the PA microphone and turned to her co-worker Scully, but the lazy chancer had already skipped away to the staff room, leaving her to fend for herself at the counter. She couldn't fault him; they had spent a morning's worth of lying through their smiles to passenger after furious passenger about the 'special new cruise' that had been arranged after the sudden cancellation of the one they had booked. The victims seemed to think there was nothing special or new about the 100 Years of Misery: the Titanic Memorial Cruise. And speaking of misery, something was coming up on Anthea's left heel...a blister? a boil? a weeping sore?

  If she just slipped her foot out of the high heels Econo-Lux insisted she wear and somehow shimmied down her pantyhose, she could inspect it right there behind the counter. But with all the passengers milling around her, and the occasional patrolling police officers, she realized she'd better wait and whip her pantyhose off in the staff room. When she ever made it there.

  Cursing Scully, and checking the computer, she saw there were still four passengers, the Barnetts, who had yet to make their way from security. They were probably puttering around in the gift shops for overpriced Union Jack pencil sharpeners when they only had fifteen minutes before the gangway was locked. Fifteen minutes before she unpinned her name tag. Visions of choking a Silk Cut Extra Mild down to the butt, then collapsing before a cup of tea and a chocolate biscuit at the staff room table danced in her mind. She could almost taste the chamomile, feel the fingers massaging the tortured and cracked flesh of her heels, inspecting the growth...

  Hoping she wouldn't have to lance, Anthea thought back to the long line of faces twisted with confusion and rage when she and Scully had handed them the change in theme and itinerary, and, on the next page, their no stringent refund policy. Econo-Lux was on the brink of financial ruin, and helping inch it closer to Chapter 13 were the weak sales of five themed cruises that season, the gambling one, the action/adventure one, the Experience the Exotic Creatures of the World one, the hip-hop one and the—Anthea shuddered—the opera one; she couldn't think of anything more oppressive than being locked in a ship with no escape from the Pavarotti piped into the hallways and cabins 24/7. Some idiot higher up had canceled all the cruises just the week before, and the few booked passengers were all bundled together on one cruise that the same idiot quickly rebranded, in a vain attempt to cash in on the fever that was gripping the industry that year, an enchanting Titanic cruise. If the rage directed at her and Scully all morning long was anything to go by, few were enchanted. She tried gamely to explain over their roars that they could get their gambling and action/adventure and exotic creatures and hip-hop and opera, somehow, on the Titanic cruise as well!

  Those who had handed over thousands a pop were not encouraged by the sad selection of on board Titanic activities Anthea pointed out—the lifeboat reenactment, the mandatory hours of memorial silence ship-wide from 11:40 PM April 14th to 2:20 AM (from iceberg to final submersion), the put-your-hand-in-a-bag-and-choose-a-real-Titanic-passenger-and-find-out-if-you-lived-or-died-at-the-end-of-the-cruise. Anthea hoped whoever was in charge of these less than diverting diversions would soon be handed their pink slip. Nor were they happy about the peculiar route the ship was taking. Two weeks before, Econo-Lux had had to sell routes to better established cruise lines, and that meant slim pickings around the world for Econo-Lux passengers. How could she and Scully explain to the screaming faces a Titanic cruise that wasn't following the route of the Titanic? Instead of the North Atlantic, they would head south from the UK, but not even to the paradise of Madeira. The first stop would be the uninhabitable Savage Islands, all 1.05 square miles of them, off the coast of Morocco. And after that, a variety of ports chosen in haste and desperation that were less tourist destinations and more just places. Worse, how could she and Scully reveal the company wasn't even sure of the itinerary towards the end of the cruise? “And a variety of mystery destinations,” they had ended each explanation to face after startled face. And kept pointing out they had been informed by email and kept pointing to the no refund clause. It would give Anthea sleepless nights that she was lying about the emails.

  Anthea was privy to even sadder truths as the disgruntled passengers boarded like lambs to the slaughter: due to the ongoing industrial action by the mostly Scandinavian crew, the entire staff had been fired and replaced by barely-trained peons willing to work for pennies on the pound, but when twenty had called in sick with food poisoning, the Econo-Lux HR department had had to devise a disingenuous plan to fill the slots with unwitting scabs! Also, it was the Queen of Crab's last voyage, she would be junked at the end. Econo-Lux had invested in a cosmetic overhaul as it was cheaper than fixing mechanical problems, which meant the ship was all fur coat and no knickers. The passage of time had made the hull delicate, leaks spouting everywhere, the boiler constantly on the blink, and a wide array of electrical malfunctions and pistons in need of a corrosion expert.

  Anthea would've been blissfully unaware of all this unwanted information if it weren't for the fact she was the regional manager's bit on the side, and he had gone on and on about it that morning as she had pulled her nightdress on and made him a boiled egg. Which the git hadn't bothered to eat, such was his distress about the plans for the disaster cruise which was to be the Queen of Crabs. Just a chomp of a slice of toast and a peck on the cheek and he was out the door. Pounding on the computer as if each key were one of his eyeballs, she resolved to make her way to another lover and another job.

  Anthea glanced at her watch. There were now an unlucky thirteen minutes left for the Barnetts to board the bucket of rusty bolts that might be sending them all to their deaths. Perhaps Titanic wasn
't such an idiotic choice of theme after all. She wrenched up the PA mic again and growled into it.

  “This is the final boarding announcement for passengers Jed, Ursula, Louella and Bruce Barnett. Please make your way, now—!”

  “Hold on! Wait! We're here! We're here, darnit!”

  Anthea turned to see who we was. A woman marched purposefully towards her: a brittle, bossy-looking thing with a gray flip and red round glasses which made her eyes look like those of a tasier, and a sparkly emerald evening gown, an acrylic blend Anthea noticed, which hung on her like a bathmat on a rake.

  “Please, God, tell us we didn't miss it!” Rake Woman said, panic-stricken, shoving a selection of passports at her.

  “No, but—”

  The tasier-eyes peered past her.

  “What are all them signs about the Titanic? Am I at the wrong desk?”

  Anthea's teeth shone their best customer-service smile.

  “I can see from your attire you were expecting the—”

  “Yep! Operas of the Earth! I got it right here.” The woman dug into her purse, tugged out a brochure and squinted at the tag line. “12 Arias in 12 Areas, it says.”

  “We sent an email. That cruise has been canceled, lack of interest, but fret not. We've another thrilling sea excursion planned instead. But you really must hurry. They're about to raise the gangway. Where are the others in your group?”

  She inspected the passports.

  “Jed's right behind me with the luggage, and my husband, but he can't walk so quickly. When you see the size of him, you'll understand. They detained him at the security, that's why we're late. And Ursula's on the commode.”

  Anthea took a step back.

  “Security?”

  A man in a cowboy hat, Buddy-Holly glasses, a tuxedo and a cummerbund that looked like it was doing damage to his inner organs raced up. He was rolling a luggage cart laden with half-closed suitcases seeping clothing, a shirt sleeve danging here, a bra strap there. The masking tape that apparently had kept them closed flapped in the wind. Cowboy Hat looked sheepish, and Anthea suspected the tuxedo was to blame. No doubt Rake Woman had insisted he wear it.

  Anthea took a step forward as he handed her a business card.

  “If you're ever in Wisconsin, and need some place to spend your dollars,” he said.

  Anthea smiled. They seemed like such nice, older, vaguely affluent Americans who could have no qualms about the current World Order and therefore no need to dabble in terrorism. Why had security given them such a hard time? She inspected the card from his business, apparently called Shooters, Sinkers and Scorchers (and Beef Jerky). Get your guns 'n' more at our family store it read at the bottom. Her smile soured. She took a step back.

  “...I heard they done it with mothers and their babies' formula, but I never thought I'd be put through something like that. Okay, I'm here. Have we missed it?”

  An obese bald man with a walrus-type mustache joined the others, trailing another luggage cart behind him. He was poured into a tuxedo in need of ironing, and close to apoplexy. His bright red face and the sweat that poured from it seemed to come from more than the physical exertion of rushing compounded with his girth would suggest.

  “You really must hurry,” Anthea said, her eyes settling everywhere except on this new arrival. “Non-smoking cabins?”

  “Over my dead body,” Cowboy Hat said.

  Anthea smiled as best she could, her fingers pecking away at the keyboard. “I was just explaining to your, er, friend, we've had to change the cruise, and it's now a Titanic cruise. I'm sure you approve,” and here she nodded her head and beamed brightly as she had been instructed, “after all, $1,843,201,268-worth of people world-wide loved the movie Titanic. I'm sure you do, as well.”

  “Who in their right mind would want to celebrate the sinking of a ship on a ship?” Cowboy Hat wondered.

  “Rod Stewart, for one.” This was Anthea's ace-up-the-sleeve. She gave a triumphant smile.

  Cowboy Hat and Sweaty Red Walrus exchanged a blank look. Rake Woman pushed forward, eyes shining.

  “On our cruise?”

  “No,” Anthea admitted. “On a Titanic cruise. It's quite a competitive market this year. Which is another reason why you should count yourselves lucky to be included.”

  “Will we still have chambermaids?” Rake Woman asked.

  “Cabin attendants, yes.”

  “Are tips still included?” she demanded fiercely.

  “Yes.”

  “And will the ship keep us out of American waters?”

  “You certainly have the questions!” Anthea marveled, while her brain wondered not only how she would answer this question, the “mystery destinations” at the tail end of the cruise considered, but also why Rake Woman would be interested. “You really must hurry quickly. They'll bar you from boarding the ship in,” she glanced at the clock on the computer, “three minutes. Where is your fourth?”

  They peered through the throngs, and Anthea's eyes joined theirs.

  “There she is!”

  “Ursula! Over here! Ursula!”

  “Hurry! Quickly!”

  They pointed eagerly at a frazzled eggplant-colored bob making its way through the crowd. The woman who owned it raced toward her, and Anthea gasped at the fox stole around her neck, one of those creepy ones that had dangling paws and beady eyes and chomped on its own tail.

  “C'mere a wee moment, have we missed wer ship?”

  Anthea took another step back in shock, and it wasn't from Fox Woman's breath. This strange new arrival was maybe trying to affect an American twang, but Anthea wasn't fooled. The accent underneath was Northern Irish, Londonderry, if she wasn't mistaken, breeding ground for generations of IRA operatives. Anthea's lips disappeared. Now she understood perfectly security's problem with them.

  “Have we missed it?” Fox Woman asked breathlessly.

  “Almost, but no.”

  “We've got to get on board now.”

  As Anthea printed out their boarding passes, she did the math in her mind: an inability to meet her eyes + a Northern Ireland accent + access to arms =

  It wasn't rocket science, especially as she had come in third in her terrorist-detection class.

  “Here are your boarding passes. The gate's over there.”

  As they grabbed them and headed off, tugging the luggage carts with them, Anthea considered slipping her finger under the counter and pressing the button to alert the ship's security that People of Interest were boarding. But then her heel twitched with pain, her lungs were in need of nicotine, and she wasn't long for this job in any event. She flicked off the computer and the PA system. Besides, she considered, she had heard rumors that MI-5, or was it MI-6, one of the branches of the British Secret Service anyway, was on board due to a heightened alert of some sort. They could deal with Terrorist Fox Woman if need be. She made her way toward the staff room, humming Maggie May as she went.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  FIONNUALA HATED BEING made a fool of, and that's what Dymphna had done to the entire family. She shuddered as she thought back to them all trembling with excitement as they marched to the counter of the port in Belfast to board the complimentary Titanic cruise. They had been dressed in what passed for their Sunday best (Fionnuala had unearthed her special hat festooned with exotic bird feathers last seen at Siofra’s first holy communion), and bundled in duffel coats and hurriedly shoplifted scarves, suitcases packed with winter gear as they assumed they would be following the route of the Titanic, which was akin to traveling to the Arctic Circle. Fionnuala had long ago researched the route and committed it to memory. And, indeed, at 6:00 AM on April 2nd, 1912, the Titanic had set off from Belfast, where it had been built, a never ending source of Fionnuala's Irish pride, and from there it had plowed masterfully through the waves of the Irish Sea to Southampton in England, then to Cherbourg in France, then back to Queenstown, Cork in Ireland, its final port of call, and afterward...nowhere, really. It just trundled through the drea
ry waters of the Northern Atlantic until it sank. Fionnuala hoped there were plenty of activities on board, as otherwise she would go mad with boredom.

  “Should I at least have brought me swimming gear?” Dymphna had asked as they stood in line, inching closer and closer to the counter for the trip of a lifetime. Paddy and Siofra were at the duty free and the mini-mart; they needed toothpaste as Fionnuala’s homemade jar had been confiscated at security, the cinnamon one which gave her teeth an extra little zing.

  Fionnuala scoffed and took a sip of tea, the price of which still stung. “Naw. Miserable, the weather will be. It was an iceberg themmuns collided with, if ye recall. And I still kyanny believe what a selfish bitch ye be's, not allowing yer brothers along on the trip. Lorcan and Eoin spent the past two years locked up at her Majesty's pleasure in minging dark cells with pervy hands grasping their arses, and now they've finally been released and can walk around the Earth like normal beings, ye deny them this chance to see the world outside the nick.”

  Dymphna had given her a glare like one she had never seen before that, almost, made Fionnuala shrink back.

  “Mammy, it was me what won them tickets, so of course I'm taking meself. Can ye imagine the grief I've had offa Rory for not choosing him? He be's me fiancé, after all. And his mammy pretended she wasn't bothered about being chosen. I saw it in Zoë’s eyes, but, and can only imagine what an even more miserable bitch she's gonny be to me when I get back. She can afford her own cruise, but, the pounds bulging in her bank account as they be's. If ye want, I can take them tickets offa ye and me daddy, and Lorcan and Eoin can take yer place. As I telt Rory and his mammy, but, ye're mad for the Titanic, and ye'd disown me if I didn't take ye along. Are ye saying now ye're disowning me anyroad?”

  “I kyanny understand why ye chose wer Siofra, in that case.”

  Dymphna took a deep breath. “After ye and me and me daddy, there was only one place left. I couldn't take Eoin and not Lorcan, or Lorcan and not Eoin.”