The Undivided

by Jennifer Fallon; Jennifer Fallon

  Murray was not impressed. ‘Don’t try that on with me, Ren.’

  ‘Is that how you get your kicks, you sick bastard?’ he asked, feigning disgust. ‘By molesting the poor defenceless kids in your care?’

  ‘Ren,’ Murray warned. ‘Stop it.’

  ‘Stop what? Exposing you for what you really are, you dirty old man?’

  Murray maintained an admirable air of serenity in the face of Ren’s ludicrous accusation. ‘This is just your way of acting out. Calm down.’

  ‘Calm down!’ Ren yelled, getting right into the moment. After all, his mother was an award-winning actress. A lifetime spent on film sets surrounded by the greatest directors of this generation had taught Ren a thing or two about being dramatic. He raised his voice even louder. ‘I will not calm down! You’re disgusting. And I’m not taking my clothes off for you! I don’t care what you threaten me with!’

  As he’d hoped it would, his yelling brought Kiva running into the kitchen. She wasn’t looking nearly so immaculate this afternoon. She was barefoot, wearing a roughly tied blue silk bathrobe over her nightdress. Her shoulder-length blonde hair was mussed and stiff and pointing in several odd directions.

  ‘Ren? What’s the matter?’ she asked, looking back and forth between him and the psychiatrist. ‘What are you yelling about?’

  ‘You gotta save me, Mum!’ he cried. He hurried around the bench to put Kiva between him and Murray, as if he feared for his safety, even though he stood a head taller than Kiva and had done since he was fourteen. ‘This depraved bastard is trying to make me take my clothes off.’

  ‘Murray?’ Kiva asked, looking more perplexed than worried.

  ‘Pay no attention to Ren’s histrionics, Kiva,’ Murray said calmly. ‘He’s simply trying to divert attention from the fact that he’s cut himself again.’

  Bollocks, Ren thought. He knows.

  ‘All I did was ask Ren to remove his jacket,’ the shrink added, ‘so I could check his arms for injury.’

  Kiva turned to Ren, looking mortified. ‘Is that true, Ren? Did you cut yourself again?’

  ‘No,’ Ren replied adamantly — and quite honestly. Whatever wounds he was carrying, he hadn’t inflicted them on himself. He pushed his sleeves up and held out his bare forearms for examination. ‘There! You see! Not a mark.’

  ‘Kerry found blood on the light switch in your bathroom.’

  ‘I cut myself shaving,’ he said. ‘It happens. Even to people without low self-esteem.’

  Murray studied him closely for a moment from across the counter and then shook his head. ‘You don’t appear to have shaved this morning.’

  ‘How the fuck would you know?’

  ‘Ren! Stop this!’ Kiva exclaimed, her eyes welling up with tears. ‘Dear God, I don’t know where I went wrong with you!’

  ‘How about the day you pulled me out of that lake,’ Ren said, a little regretful that the comment would cut Kiva to the core. Deep down, he did love Kiva, and he knew that she, in her somewhat quirky way, loved him too. She didn’t deserve such cruel words, but he needed a legitimate reason to flee the kitchen before Murray decided he really must take off his jacket, and Ren’s greater lie was exposed.

  ‘He doesn’t mean that, Kiva,’ Murray said, calm as a frozen lake. ‘He’s just trying to hurt you to mask his own pain, isn’t that right, Ren?’

  ‘If it meant I didn’t have to deal with this sort of bullshit,’ Ren said, mostly to Murray Symes, who was the true focus of his immediate problem. ‘I reckon I might have been better off if Patrick had left me there to drown!’

  With that, Ren turned and stormed out of the room before Murray or Kiva could order him to stay, confident the discussion would no longer be about him. Murray Symes was going to have to spend the next hour or so consoling Kiva, and perhaps reassuring her that twenty thousand US dollars would be a small price to pay for a Utah Brat Camp if it meant Ren could be saved from himself.

  Ren took the stairs two at a time, locked the door to his room and headed for his bathroom where the light switch was now free of blood smears. He poured a glass of water from the tap then took out of his pocket the two codeine tables Jack had given him earlier. He swallowed them with a grimace and went back into his room, kicked off his shoes and lay on his bed, wondering how long it would be before the pain in his side abated enough for him to keep up the pretence that nothing was wrong.

  CHAPTER 11

  Somewhat to Trása’s amazement, Dublin Guided Limousine Tours had a whole list of celebrity addresses on their tour itinerary, most of which, however, belonged to dead people.

  The latest stop had brought the tour to Baggot Street. They were standing on the pavement outside yet another old house. This one was neat and narrow, four storeys tall with a bright blue door trimmed with brass fittings.

  ‘Do you only know where dead people used to live?’ Trása asked her guide, a plump blonde woman wearing a green uniform with a rather ridiculous four-leaf clover-shaped hat. The woman had introduced herself as Kathleen, which seemed odd to Trása because she looked more like an Anthea. ‘Or do you know where some live ones can be found?’

  Trása had booked the tour with reception at the hotel when she checked in. She’d left Plunkett in her room to amuse himself while she went scouting their quarry. She had been in Dublin for less than three hours. She should have been minutes away from finally laying eyes on Rónán of the Undivided and this foolish woman with her ridiculous hat was wasting time showing her the residence of some pork vendor.

  ‘Francis Bacon is one of Dublin’s most famous sons. His paintings have been exhibited in every major gallery in the world, including the Guggenheim Museum and the Metropolitan Museum of Art in New York.’

  ‘But he’s dead,’ Trása pointed out impatiently. ‘So was the last chap, Yeats.’

  ‘You asked for the celebrity tour, miss.’

  ‘I wanted the live celebrity tour,’ Trása said.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Kathleen replied in a tone that was anything but conciliatory. ‘People who take this tour have usually some idea of the depth of Ireland’s cultural heritage.’

  Trása smiled, which didn’t help matters much. Stupid cow, you don’t know the half of it. ‘I want to know where Kiva Kavanaugh lives.’

  ‘Blackrock,’ the woman said with a sigh. She clearly thought Trása a complete philistine. ‘It’s about fifteen minutes from here. Ten, if the traffic’s with us.’

  ‘Let’s go then,’ Trása ordered, jerking open the car door. She climbed into the back of the limo, wishing she’d brought Plunkett along. He might have been able to glamour some manners into her rather put-upon tour guide.

  Still … they were only fifteen minutes from the Kavanaugh house.

  Only fifteen minutes from locating Darragh’s long-lost twin …

  She cut the thought off before it could form into something more dangerous. Instead, she concentrated on the good things.

  Her time in this reality was almost done. Soon she could go back to her own world where her magic worked. A world where she wasn’t constrained by the whim of a fickle Leipreachán. A world where everything made sense to her.

  Well, almost everything …

  Trása sank back into the deep leather seat of the limo.

  It wouldn’t be long now, and she could go home.

  ‘You should have seen it, Plunkett,’ Trása told the Leipreachán when she arrived back at the hotel a couple of hours later. ‘It’s like a fortress. It has a high fence and locked gates and there’s a whole mob of noisy people camped outside with cameras, waiting to get in.’

  Plunkett shrugged indifferently when he heard Trása’s tale of woe. He was sitting cross-legged in the middle of the king-sized bed, rifling through the contents of the bar fridge, which he’d emptied while waiting for Trása to return. In addition to mounds of bacon, he was particularly fond of chocolate and potato chips. Outside, the night sky was bright with the lights of the city. That was another thing Trása found disconce
rting. In the cities of this realm, it never really got dark and the sky, instead of being a reassuring backdrop sprinkled with familiar constellations, was a washed-out shadow of what it might have been, outdone by gaudy neon lights.

  ‘What did ye expect? A welcome mat?’ Plunkett said.

  Trása slumped into the armchair by the window, staring despondently over the city. ‘I thought I’d at least be able to get a look at the house. And maybe Rónán. To make sure we’ve got the right one.’

  ‘Aye,’ the Leipreachán said, nodding sagely. ‘Best be sure we got the right Rónán, rescued from drowning at the right age, who’s the spitting image of the lad who might be his brother in our realm.’ He tore the wrapping off a triangular chocolate bar, snapped a piece off, and added, ‘Wouldn’t want to make that sort of mistake, would ye?’

  ‘All right,’ she conceded. ‘We have the right Rónán … hopefully.’

  ‘What do ye mean, hopefully?’ he asked through a mouthful of chocolate.

  She turned from the window to look at him. ‘Well, if Marcroy and my father tossed Rónán through a rift to be rid of him, what’s to say other versions of my uncle and my father, from other realms —’

  ‘Their eileféin,’ Plunkett interrupted, calling the alternative versions of the same people by their proper name.

  ‘All right, their eileféin … what’s to say they didn’t do the same thing? I mean, how can we be sure he’s our Rónán, and not a Rónán from somewhere else?’

  Plunkett frowned. ‘Ye’re worried this Rónán is our Rónán’s eileféin?’

  ‘It’s possible.’

  ‘Then maybe we should lead the Druids to him ourselves,’ the Leipreachán chuckled. ‘Can ye imagine the trouble if they brought the wrong Rónán back?’

  Trása hadn’t considered that. Knowingly bringing someone’s eileféin back through the rift was a serious crime among the Tuatha. It invariably ended in someone’s death, usually the eileféin’s and often that of the rift runner who had brought them through.

  She shook her head. It was a nice idea, but it wouldn’t really work. ‘The Druids would only be in trouble if someone brings the right one back. And even if they did, how would anybody tell the right one from the wrong one? The real Rónán from our realm is missing.’ Trása sighed unhappily. Her enthusiasm for this mission was waning rapidly, a feeling that surprised her, given she was so close to succeeding. She expected, at this point, to have become more excited, not increasingly bothered by the likelihood of success.

  Perhaps it was because Rónán looked so much like Darragh. That was a hurt Trása knew would probably never heal. And she knew it was dangerous to think of Rónán as anything other than what he was — a threat that needed to be contained before the others found him.

  Or perhaps it was because, although she loved her uncle dearly, she didn’t trust Marcroy Tarth much more than she trusted Plunkett.

  ‘Do you think we should send a message back home?’ she asked. ‘Let them know we’ve found him?’

  ‘And risk the news getting out?’ Plunkett asked. ‘I wouldn’t, if I was ye. But then, I’m only a hundred-and-eleven years old. Who am I to argue with a halfling Beansídhe?’

  Plunkett must be feeling the pressure too, Trása decided, surprised to hear the Leipreachán sounding so snappy. Or he’d eaten too much sugar.

  ‘How do we get to him, then?’ she asked. Plunkett might be right about keeping the news of their discovery to themselves, but she still needed to make contact with Rónán. How else was she going to lure him away from the rift? ‘You can’t glamour us past all those people at the gate.’

  ‘I could pay him a visit,’ Plunkett suggested, as he continued to devour the triangular chocolate bar.

  Trása shook her head. ‘He’s been raised in a world with no magic. The Tuatha are nothing more than a children’s story in this reality. If a Leipreachán suddenly appears to him, telling him he comes from another reality where he’s a Druid with a long-lost twin, he’ll think he’s hallucinating. It sounds crazy even to me, and I know it’s true.’ She sighed. ‘I’m afraid no one raised in this reality is going to go anywhere with you voluntarily, Plunkett.’ Still, it wasn’t an entirely ridiculous idea. Her forehead creased thoughtfully. ‘Do you suppose you could glamour him into compliance?’

  Plunkett shrugged. ‘Don’t know. Can’t glamour any kind of Druid in our world.’

  ‘But we’re not in our world,’ she said, leaning forward a little. ‘Maybe here, you can glamour a Druid, even one of the Undivided.’

  The Leipreachán frowned, looking very uncertain. ‘Be taking a big risk if it doesn’t work.’

  ‘What risk? He doesn’t even know what a glamour is, so he won’t understand what you’re trying to do.’ She smiled. ‘I’ve seen the face you make when you glamour humans, Plunkett. He’ll probably just think you’re constipated.’

  ‘And what’s your solution, lassie?’ the Leipreachán asked, scrunching the foil wrapper of the chocolate bar and tossing it at her with a scowl. ‘Ye have no power as a Beansídhe here. What’re ye thinking? To lure him with feminine human wiles?’

  The Leipreachán had a point. Trása’s magic was non-existent in this reality. She couldn’t fly, she couldn’t shape-shift. She couldn’t even tell if someone was dying, although that might have been a good thing. With so many people crammed as closely together as they were in the incomprehensibly large cities she’d visited since she’d been here, she’d have spent all her time wailing and crying, if she could sense the end for everyone about to die. Trása was stuck in her human form, and that meant that here she was just a seventeen-year-old girl with impressively long blonde hair, rather oddly shaped ears and a charming stuffed toy Leipreachán she was fond of carting every place she went.

  Rónán wouldn’t know what she was. Or who she was.

  And how was she supposed to explain herself?

  What would she say to Darragh’s twin if she came face to face with him? Hello, Rónán, I’m a Faerie — well, half a Faerie, truth be told — from another reality, and I’ve come to make sure you never get home or meet the twin brother you don’t know you have.

  ‘I think we need to try the glamour option first,’ she decided. She bit down on her bottom lip for a moment and then added, ‘But I’m not letting you do it alone.’

  No need to add it was because she didn’t trust him. That was a given.

  ‘Which brings ye back to the problem of getting through the front gate.’ Plunkett ripped the top off the small tube of sour-cream-and-onion-flavoured Pringles and began stuffing them into his mouth.

  ‘You’re right,’ she said, something she’d never admitted to a Leipreachán before.

  ‘I am?’ the Leipreachán said, shocked by her admission.

  ‘The front gate is out of the question, but I checked out the neighbourhood, and according to the postman I spoke to, there’s an old man living alone in the house next door. Maybe there’s a way onto the Kavanaugh estate from his place.’

  The Leipreachán thought about that for a moment and then nodded. ‘He might even know the lad,’ Plunkett suggested, chip crumbs spilling out of the side of his mouth and catching in his goatee. ‘Maybe ye can lure him out that way.’

  ‘It will solve most of our problems right there, if we can,’ Trása said, making her decision. She stood up, thinking it was about time she ordered room service. Plunkett’s bar-fridge binge reminded her she hadn’t eaten all day. ‘It’s settled, then. First thing tomorrow, we’re going back to the Kavanaugh house in Blackrock and we’ll try to make contact with Rónán using the old man next door.’ She leaned across and playfully jerked the little Leipreachán’s perky red cap over his eyes. ‘Time for you to pay your debt to the Daoine sídhe, Plunkett O’Bannon.’

  The little man shook his head sorrowfully. ‘Marcroy sending me here with ye was punishment enough, Trása Ni’Amergin,’ he said, pushing the cap up in annoyance. ‘Trust me, lassie, I’m paying me debt to the Daoine síd
he. Oh, how I’m paying.’

  CHAPTER 12

  Every morning, just before dawn, Jack O’Righin climbed out of bed, treated himself to a long, luxurious hot bath to ease the aches and pains that came with old age, and then walked downstairs to the kitchen. There, every day without fail, he ate two pieces of thick white toast with butter and honey, brewed himself a cup of good strong tea, shovelled four heaped teaspoons of sugar into it, and made his way out to his glasshouse.

  Jack loved his glasshouse. It was the reason he’d bought this particular house. Not because of the neighbours, the posh location or the fact that — thanks to his runaway bestseller — he could have bought his own island in the Caribbean had he been so inclined. As long as Jack could remember, through a childhood filled with hunger and pain, a youth filled with violence and death, and much of his adult life spent behind bars, he had dreamed of being able to do exactly this. Get up, make a cup of tea, and potter around the garden with nothing more important to worry about than whether or not the bromeliad needed re-potting. It was his idea of heaven, and no matter where he went after he died — and Jack was certain, given some of the things he’d done, he was heading downwards to a very warm place — he would always be grateful that, for a short time at least, he’d known what it meant to be in heaven.

  Well, almost heaven, he thought, as he shovelled sugar into his chipped enamel cup, ignoring the mess in his kitchen. He knew he should at least put the dishwasher on, but Carmel, his cleaning lady, would be back next week. She ought to be grateful he’d left her so much to do. After all, he paid her by the hour.

  Jack glanced out the kitchen window, looking for the sun, but the day was overcast and it seemed about to rain. Perhaps a bit of precipitation will drive away those fools hanging around the gate next door, he thought.

  Living next door to a famous actress had unexpected consequences for a man who liked his solitude and privacy. There were always those wretched photographers lurking in the street, hoping to catch a glimpse of her.