Stone Heart

by Des Ekin

  Andres laid a comforting hand on her arm. ‘Don’t waste your concern on this young woman, Tara. I looked in her eyes. She is dead.’

  ‘Yes.’ Tara knew that he meant the word in both senses. The young woman they called “Dog” was already dead in spirit and, barring some sort of miracle, would soon be physically dead as well. ‘Yes, you’re right. But I can’t help feeling sorry for her.’

  ‘Which was more than she did for you,’ said Andres, harshly. ‘Forget about her.’

  Chapter Fifteen

  TARA’S BODY gave a bone-wrenching shudder, as though to remind her that she was still standing in the cold rain, soaked to the skin. She began shivering and the shivering didn’t stop.

  ‘We need to take you home now,’ pressed Andres. ‘I insist.’

  This time she didn’t argue. ‘But first I must get my car. It’s back at the flats.’

  ‘That would be most unwise. There are some very angry people who have just lost thousands of pounds in drug money. There is no point in tempting fate by letting them know which car is yours.’

  ‘But it’s my only means of transport. If I leave it there, it’ll be wrecked by morning.’

  He raised a hand as though to fend off her concerns. ‘Trust me. I’ll take care of it.’

  He produced a key and removed two motorcycle helmets that had been locked to the back of the machine. ‘Here. Put one on. We’ll take you back to base and get you into a hot bath. Where are you staying?’

  Tara’s face fell. She hadn’t planned to stay another night in Dublin, and her colleague with the riverside apartment had left town for a few days. ‘I don’t know yet. I’ll find a hotel.’

  He understood right away. ‘Okay. We’ll sort that out later. First, dry clothes.’

  Helmets on, they got back on board the bike and drove off at a more sedate pace. They rejoined the M50 and followed the main roads around the west and south of the city until they reached the sea.

  The landscape changed from industrial-estate and giant housing complexes into an almost Mediterranean environment of twisting, hilly roads bordered by palms and monkey-puzzle trees. This was the Dalkey-Killiney area, nicknamed Bel-Éire because it was home to millionaire rock stars and movie directors.

  The rain had stopped. Clouds reluctantly nudged each other aside to reveal the sun, and the sea changed from grey to an uncertain blue. The air was fresh and tangy with the scent of wet eucalyptus trees. Suddenly, it felt good to be alive.

  Andres steered the bike into the car park of an apartment block overlooking the bay. He turned the ignition key, and the growl of the big Bavarian motor was replaced by the gentle sibilance of surf.

  ‘This is my home,’ he said, unbuckling his helmet. ‘At least, one small part of it is. I think it would be a good idea if you had a hot bath here while I get those wet clothes washed and dried. Then we can sort out the matter of your accommodation. What do you think?’

  He waited formally for her approval.

  ‘I can think of nothing I’d enjoy more,’ said Tara gratefully.

  ‘Splendid!’ Again, his English sounded like something from the days of the Indian Raj. He led the way through a security door and into a lift which took them smoothly to the top floor.

  The apartment wasn’t enormous, but the sea view from its window was magnificent. She could see all the way from the Howth Peninsula in north Dublin to Bray Head and the Sugar Loaf Mountain in the extreme south. No wonder it had been compared to the Bay of Naples.

  Andres walked right past. He didn’t even notice the view.

  ‘Here we are,’ he said, fetching a couple of giant white bathtowels. ‘The bathroom is just down the corridor. Please excuse any mess. I was not expecting company.’ He smiled for the first time since their escape. ‘I have never been…what do we say?…housetrained.’

  He handed her a white towelling dressing-gown. ‘Also, if you could leave your wet clothes outside the door, I shall ensure that they are seen to.’

  Tara put the dressing-gown to her face. It felt soft and luxurious. On the lapel was a logo which she recognised as the crest of the top international hotel in St Petersburg.

  Andres gestured to a door at the end of a colour-washed corridor hung with two tiny original oils. ‘Now, please. There is plenty of hot water, and feel free to use anything you find in bottles.’

  ‘Including brandy?’ She felt she needed one.

  ‘I meant the bath oils and shampoos and stuff.’ He smiled comfortingly, as though he were familiar with the strange reactions of those who had suffered a recent traumatic experience. ‘Later, we shall share a drink if you wish, but for now it is best that you get warm and dry. Alcohol is not what you need at this moment.’

  ‘Where I come from, farmers often use poteen as a cure for traumatised animals,’ she protested as he pushed past her and turned on the hot tap. ‘They give it to cows who’ve fallen into rivers in the middle of winter.’

  He shook his head. ‘Try this instead,’ he said. He was holding out two small white tablets.

  ‘What are they?’

  ‘Arnica. A homeopathic remedy for shock. Don’t worry – the dose is so tiny it’s insignificant. It’s perfectly harmless but remarkably effective.’

  Tara glanced at the label on the bottle and took the tablets. They melted almost as soon as they touched her tongue.

  She nodded thanks and disappeared into the bathroom. It was simply furnished in white tiles and mahogany – an Edwardian gentleman’s bathroom. The free-standing bath was larger than average. She filled it high and hot. The bottles he’d referred to were tiny and filled with various medicinal oils. Some smelled pleasant, others smelled like ancient compost. She chose two she liked and added a few drops to the bath.

  As she wallowed unhurriedly in the hot water, she felt her worries evaporating with the steam of the bath. Time slowed down. Outside, she could hear the comforting background sounds of domesticity – the purr of a washing machine, the clink of glasses and dishes, muffled piano music which she guessed was Bach but was unable to identify. At one stage she heard Andres’s voice on the phone giving instructions on something or other; at another stage she heard Bach being replaced by a radio news programme. She recognised the time-signal and realised with a start that she had been in the bath for ninety minutes. Had she been asleep for part of the time or just daydreaming? She didn’t know and she didn’t really care.

  The dressing-gown fitted as comfortably as a warm woollen glove in winter. As she emerged from the room, towelling her hair, she saw Andres seated at a small desk in front of the seascape window, typing staccato rhythms on a laptop computer.

  He didn’t notice her. For a long time she just stood still and watched him at work. It was a curiously restful feeling. This is what a good marriage must feel like, she thought. This is how it must feel to have someone who’ll always be there to lend you strength and support whenever you need it.

  She could get used to it – this warmth, this cosiness, this temporary surrender to pampering and cosseting, this willing acceptance of care and support in the knowledge that on other days, it would be the other way around, and that she would be the carer and supporter when he needed it.

  He? Who did she mean, he?

  He didn’t turn around from his work. ‘How was your bath?’ he asked, still typing furiously at the keyboard.

  She started with surprise at the sudden sound of his voice. ‘It was wonderfully relaxing, thank you. I feel much better.’

  His chair spun around. ‘You’re still rubbing your wrist,’ he pointed out.

  ‘Yes. I don’t know what I’ve done to it. It hurts like mad.’

  ‘Let’s have a look,’ Andres suggested. ‘I’m not a doctor, but I have had some first-aid training and I’ve had to treat a lot of people for injuries in situations where no doctors were available.’

  She shrugged. ‘Why not? But do me a favour, don’t amputate without an anaesthetic. I’m no good at biting bullets.’

 
; He gestured for her to sit down. ‘It’s okay,’ he said after probing gently at her hand and forearm. ‘It’s not broken, just a little sprained.’

  He fetched a bandage and a bottle of clear liquid. ‘This should help,’ he promised. ‘It’s witch hazel. It may not be as efficacious as poteen, but it has also been used for centuries for this purpose. I am adding another medicinal oil to help relieve the pain.’

  He prepared a compress and began to apply it to her wrist. The process was strangely relaxing; the pain didn’t disappear, but it faded into the background as her tensions eased.

  All the time he was reassuring her that her immediate problems had been taken care of. ‘Your clothes have been washed, and are in the process of being dried and ironed by a wonderful lady who looks after my domestic needs. They should be ready in half an hour. After that, if you wish, I shall help you find a hotel. On the other hand, you are more than welcome to stay here. I have a comfortable guest bedroom and I give you my word that I shall behave as befits a gentleman.’

  She checked his face to see if he was joking, but his old-world courtesy seemed genuine and unaffected.

  Tara was both amused and pleased by his concern. She had often shared flats with other single people – males, females and some who were undecided – and there’d been several occasions when she’d dossed platonically on the sofas of male colleagues or friends when she couldn’t get a taxi home.

  But on the other hand, she hardly knew this man who had saved her life and who was now treating her with such special hospitality.

  She hesitated only a few seconds before making up her mind.

  ‘Then that is settled,’ said Andres happily. ‘We can have dinner and relax.’

  ‘But what about my car? It’s still at Ballymahon Flats.’

  ‘I told you – trust me. If you were to look outside the window, which you cannot because I have yet to finish my healing work on your wrist, you would see that it is in the car park right now. My friend who knows things gained access to your car – please don’t ask – and drove it across town. He assures me that it has not been linked with the curious events at Ballymahon this morning.’

  ‘Good. That’s a load off my mind.’

  ‘He tells me there is great excitement in the area. There are several prominent gentlemen who are very upset over the loss of a sizeable quantity of heroin. The local people, on the other hand, are delighted that the dealers have suffered this setback.’

  He completed the compress and secured her wrist in a white bandage, tied tightly enough to support the sprain. ‘How’s that?’

  Her wrist glowed warmly where once there had only been a searing pain. ‘It feels much better,’ she said.

  ‘Good.’ He sat up. ‘Now it’s time to ask what the next move is to be in this general quest. It appears that, working separately, each of us has…crashed into a brick wall? Is that the phrase?’

  ‘Usually it’s “hit a brick wall”, but yes, you’re absolutely right. All I managed to learn in Ballymahon was that Manus, Mano, or whatever he calls himself, has disappeared and that his mate Christy blames him for the disappearance of three thousand pounds. Nobody seems to have a clue where he is. So where do we go from here? What do we do next? Any ideas?’

  Andres nodded. ‘I agree with your choice of pronoun. Since we have banished the mistrust between us, it makes much more sense if we pool our resources to a common end.’

  Tara was more guarded. ‘I wasn’t actually thinking in terms of a strategic alliance. Still, I suppose you’re right. But only until we get to the bottom of this business. After that…’ She left the sentence unfinished but her meaning was clear.

  ‘Agreed,’ he formally shook her good hand. ‘Now, as to your string of questions, I admit I do not know the answers.’ He smiled. ‘Yet. Let me think about it. But not on an empty stomach.’

  Tara was quick to cut in. ‘Let’s eat out, or organise a Chinese takeaway or something. Dinner’s on me. I don’t want to cause you any more trouble.’

  His eyes widened in mock-offence. ‘I would not dream of accepting such an offer. We Estonians have a long tradition of entertaining our guests at our homes. I may not be a master-chef, but I know how to cater for myself.’

  He stood. ‘And I have learned some valuable lessons during my time in the Far East, one of which is that the tastiest meals are the simplest and most easily prepared, often by the roadside with nothing but a naked flame, a wok and a bamboo steamer. In short, trouble is not an emotion that is permitted past my door – and especially the door of my cookhouse.’

  With this, his tanned face split into an infectious grin, and she knew he meant it.

  ‘What I propose to make will take less than twenty minutes and very little effort, yet it is wholesome and nutritious and, I trust you will agree, quite delicious.’

  He flung open the door of the kitchen and began displaying ingredients with the air of a Victorian conjurer premièring a special trick. ‘You must imagine that the scene is a forest track in Cambodia or Vietnam,’ he said, tongue firmly in cheek. ‘There may even be mortars exploding in the distance. Whee! Pow! Like that. Four small fillets of chicken. Bought fresh this afternoon. Simple? Yes? We have had them marinading in Chinese rice wine, soya sauce and some finely chopped ginger and garlic for the past half-hour. Oh, and a little zest of lemon.’

  ‘In other words, here’s some you prepared earlier.’ She entered into the role of the audience heckler.

  ‘Okay, okay. Now we take everything, the entire plate of chicken and marinade, and we place them in this bamboo steamer. We put them over a wok filled with simmering water for a short while – around twenty minutes – and we let the steam cook them. Simple as that. No oil, no fat, just basic H2O and heat.’

  ‘Chicken in a sauna bath.’

  ‘Precisely. Now we take some top-grade Basmati rice – never compromise with the quality of the rice, it is too important – and, having washed it, put it in this rice steamer with a little salt. It goes into a microwave for ten minutes.’

  ‘I didn’t know they had microwaves by the roadside in the Cambodian forest.’

  ‘I am cheating just a little. In such circumstances, the rice would have been cooked in the wok. Do not make irrelevant objections. Listen and learn.’

  Amused by his mock-condescension, she watched as he threw together the other ingredients and left them to cook.

  They ate seated at a simple wooden table. He served up a starter of asparagus tips in melted lemon butter (‘again, simplicity is best’) and put on a CD. She recognised the same calm, methodical piano music that she’d heard earlier while enjoying her bath.

  ‘Andres, this asparagus is very good indeed. What’s the music?’

  ‘Bach’s Forty-eight.’ He seemed to think she’d know what he was talking about.

  ‘Is he? Well, happy birthday, Bach. Now, tell me what the music is.’ She smiled, still giddy enough to make bad jokes.

  He stared at her, uncomprehending. ‘It’s Bach’s Forty-eight. His collection of forty-eight preludes and fugues entitled “The Well Tempered Clavier”,’ he elaborated patiently.

  ‘As opposed to a bad-tempered clavier? You have to be careful of those claviers when they get angry. You never know what they might do, especially after they’ve been drinking. What is a clavier, anyway?’

  Andres kept his patience. ‘It is a keyboard instrument – the precursor of the piano,’ he explained. ‘And well-tempered simply means well-tuned.’ He glanced up and caught her expression. ‘You’re mocking me, aren’t you?’

  ‘Just a bit. The food is so perfect you deserve to be taken down a peg or two.’

  He shook his head in a parody of despair and brought out the main course. The steamed chicken fillets were served on a bed of wilted pak-chao, which he explained was a green-leafed vegetable popular in Asia.

  ‘Will you join me in some wine?’

  ‘That would be nice. Thank you.’

  He brought out a chilled litre
bottle of white wine, and proceeded to pry off a crimped top like a beer bottle’s. She was puzzled, because it seemed so out of place. In her experience, wine that came in litre bottles with prise-off metal caps was usually the cheapest of plonk, either sickly sweet or acidic enough to strip the paint off a farm tractor, and Andres didn’t seem the sort of person who would compromise with something as important as wine.

  But this was pleasantly crisp and dry. It smelled of mountain pasture and it tasted of elderflowers.

  ‘It’s very unusual,’ she said. ‘Very different. It’s delicious. It’s so light and fine, it’s more like spring water than wine.’

  ‘I’m glad you like it. It’s one of my favourites. And I can assure you it’s much more potent than spring water.’

  ‘Are you going to tell me what it is?’

  ‘Wine from Switzerland. Fendant, from the Valais region along the Rhone River Valley.’

  ‘Never heard of it.’ She took another sip. Yes, Swiss. The mental image fitted the taste exactly.

  ‘No, it is rare to find it outside Switzerland. The Swiss say their wine is so good that they drink it all themselves. Very little of it is exported, which is a great loss to the rest of us.’

  ‘And which explains why Heidi looks so happy all the time. Cheers.’

  They raised their glasses and ate.

  ‘So,’ he said, between mouthfuls of pak-chao and chicken, ‘you must tell me more about yourself.’

  ‘No!’ She surprised herself with the forcefulness of her reply. ‘You know quite enough about me already, Andres. Far too much. I think it’s time I learned something about you instead.’

  He seemed amused. ‘Very well, Tara. But I must warn you, you ask at your peril. When the clock sounds one in the a.m., and I am still describing my childhood, you must shut me up and walk away.’

  To emphasise his point, he took a section of bread roll and thrust it plug-like into his mouth.

  But contrary to his warning, he wasn’t long-winded and he certainly wasn’t a bore. Like the food he served, his reminiscences benefited from being pared to the essentials. And they were well seasoned with self-deprecating humour.