It had taken a while for her to accept his way of thinking, but she was grateful for it because she was in too much of a hurry to let anything this pompous windbag said, get to her.
"Feel free to find another realm where the social order is more to your liking," she suggested. "Now get out of my way, Stiofán, or I'll arrange to have some of my honored lesser sídhe evict your sorry ass out of Tír Na nÓg and you can go live in the mundane world. You never know, those filthy humans out there struggling to get by might be a little more sympathetic to your need for a room with a view."
Stiofán had probably never been spoken to so harshly, and if he decided to retaliate with magic Trása wasn't powerful enough to stop him. In her own realm, she had been cursed by Marcroy Tarth and was doomed - in that reality at least - to spend her days as a barn owl. It was the reason she could never return and was relying on the others to do what needed to be done for her. Stiofán was more than capable of doing the same to her here, or worse.
But he wasn't as sure of himself as Marcroy. And perhaps he sensed Rónán was back. He might be brave enough to insult Trása to her face. He wasn't going to challenge one of the Undivided.
He hesitated, and then stood aside to let her pass.
Trása did not spare the Tuatha Dé Danann lord another thought as she headed down the tree-trunk stairs, hoping "the boys" had come through the rift near the entrance to Tír Na nÓg. If they hadn't, she was going to have to get undressed, pack up her clothes and boots, change into a bird large enough to carry them, and fly to wherever they had emerged with a surprise for her.
Chapter 13
Although he had no magical powers in this reality, Darragh had developed almost preternatural senses over the past ten years. Without them, he would have died long ago. They were tingling now as he ate his meal in the dining hall of Portlaoise Prison, his arm circling his plate to protect it from any of the other inmates with mischief in mind.
Darragh looked up and surreptitiously surveyed the hall. There was nothing untoward happening that he could see. The line at the servery was moving at a steady pace. The guards on duty seemed relaxed. Those prisoners already served their meals were eating with their heads down, their eyes fixed on their plates. They ate like men consuming food to survive, not to savor it.
But something was up. He could feel it on some unconscious level, in that part of himself that had allowed him to survive in one of the toughest and most secure prisons in Europe.
He risked a glance sideways. Beside him sat a big, ginger-haired brute named Gerald Madden. Gerald was serving a life sentence for murdering his girlfriend in a fit of pique and wasn't having any luck with the Parole Board because he kept insisting she made him do it.
Beside Gerald sat Fergus Gilligan who was serving time for yet another series of burglaries. Fergus seemed inordinately proud of his occupation as a thief, bragging often about his exploits -probably a ploy designed to uncover snitches seeking to do deals with the prison guards in order to have their own sentences reduced. He wasn't a very good thief, Darragh surmised, given he was serving his fifth stretch behind bars, but he'd learned not to point such things out, particularly to lunatics like Fergus, who had earned this particular stretch in maximum security because, during his last job, the unfortunate owner had arrived home mid-burglary and Fergus had beaten him senseless with a tire iron before making his getaway covered in his victim's blood.
That was the victim's fault, too, Darragh was quite certain.
Among the many things he'd learned was that prisons were full of men who were only incarcerated because their victims had either selfishly reported their crimes to the police, or - as in Fergus's case - had the temerity to bleed over the man beating them with a tire iron, thus creating a bountiful trail of DNA evidence.
Beside Fergus sat Darragh's cellmate and the only man in this place he truly trusted. The only other living being in this reality who belonged in the same realm Darragh longed to return to. Ciarán mac Connacht.
Ciarán was serving time now for killing another prisoner. He'd only got eight years for the bank robbery and with remissions they were ready to let him out much sooner than he'd anticipated. Killing a convicted and unrepentant child molester had been Ciarán's rather heavy-handed - albeit very effective - solution to the problem of being released on parole three years ago for good behavior. Now the warrior had a life sentence and was guaranteed a place next to Darragh where he believed he belonged.
Like Darragh, Ciaran's weary blue eyes were constantly surveying the hall. His reason was more practical than Darragh's vaguely unsettled feeling. Ciarán was here fulfilling his oath to protect Darragh of the Undivided.
Although he was touched by the warrior's devotion, the fool had committed an armed robbery, and now a murder, to get himself placed next to his charge. There were days when Darragh found himself catching a glimpse of Ciarán across the way and recalling his shock when his protector and mentor had taken him aside the day he was released into the general prison population seven years ago and announced that Marcroy Tarth had sent him here to guard Darragh, because he and his brother were supposed to be the savior of all sídhe-kind.
He had watched over Darragh every day since then, assuring him that Rónán would come for them soon.
Darragh had been tempted to point out that Ciarán would have been far better served staying on the outside and making contact with him by more mundane means ... say, coming to see him during visiting hours. On the outside he might have been able to do something useful to orchestrate Darragh's escape, either through the legal channels of this world, or more deceitful means.
It was great having a bodyguard, but Darragh was more than capable of taking care of himself; he had Jack O'Righin's protection to call on when he needed assistance, and really didn't need the big surly warrior hovering nearby, every moment of the day, watching for an attack that never eventuated.
But Darragh said nothing, accepting Ciarán's guardianship with grace and resignation. Ciarán was a noble warrior and a powerful sorcerer, but despite having the ability to cross realities he was ill-equipped for this magic-less, complex world.
The old man might think he was protecting Darragh, but in truth, Darragh felt more like it was up to him to protect Ciarán.
Across the aisle, at the table on Darragh's right sat the few dark-haired, dark-eyed Travellers in Portlaoise. He got on well enough with them and, for some reason, they accepted Ciarán almost as one of their own, but they tended to keep to themselves as a rule, probably because they all appeared to be related to each other somehow. Beyond the Travellers were a couple of the local drug gangs whose members stuck together, despite the best efforts of the prison officers to keep them apart. External feuds and affiliations did not stop when people were sent to jail and protecting inmates from each other probably consumed more of the prison's resources than protecting society at large from those incarcerated here.
On the far side of the hall, as far away from him as they could get, were Dominic O'Hara's gang. The man himself was holding court in the center of his table, probably still running his drug empire from inside the prison. His gang kept away from the Republicans. Jack had made it clear after Darragh arrived that this young man was under the protection of the Republican gang and no attempts to make him pay for the crimes of his missing twin brother would be tolerated - a message reinforced by the constant presence of Gerald and Fergus.
Between that and Ciarán's threatening, if somewhat redundant, presence Darragh was well shielded from the less desirable nocturnal shenanigans that inevitably resulted when far too many unprincipled men were incarcerated together.
The rest of the dining hall was filled with inmates who sat in their own gangs and watched out for anybody who might be marked for some kind of trouble or retribution.
All seemed well. But there was something not right and Darragh couldn't figure out what it was.
"Is something wrong?" Ciarán must have noticed his unease.
&nbs
p; "I'm not sure."
"What's the matter with ya, then?"
Darragh glanced at Gerald who was staring at him with a puzzled look. Being far from the brightest man in the room, Gerald often looked puzzled, but he seemed concerned, which was unusual. Darragh didn't know if that was because like Ciarán, he was feeling the oddness too, or if he could sense Darragh's disquiet. "Nothing's the matter. Why?"
"You're not eating."
"The food is shit."
"Aye," Gerald agreed with a nod. "Can I have it?"
Darragh was only half listening. Across the hall he spied one of the guards looking about the dining hall. The man stopped looking when he spied Darragh and began to walk purposefully across the linoleum toward their table.
"Didn't ya hear me?" Gerald asked. "If ya not eatin' ya lunch, can I have it?"
"Be my guest," Darragh said, sliding his plate with its rubbery roast lamb and gelatinous mashed potatoes across the table to the big man just as the guard stopped beside the table. He looked up at the guard and smiled politely. "Good afternoon, Officer Connors."
"Sorry to interrupt your dining experience here in Chez Portlaoise, lads," the guard told them, "but young Darragh here has a visitor."
"Who?" Ciarán demanded, jumping to his feet.
"None of your business, Mac," the officer informed him. "Now sit down."
Ciarán did as he was ordered, although reluctantly. Disobeying a direct order would see him sent to solitary for a spell, and he wouldn't risk being separated from the young man he was here to protect.
"I really have a visitor?" Darragh asked, once he was satisfied Ciarán didn't need settling down.
"Aye, your lawyer's here."
For a moment, Darragh didn't know what to say. He literally couldn't remember the last time he had spoken to a lawyer. He certainly didn't have one on retainer.
Darragh stood up. "It'll be okay," he promised Ciarán and then he turned to the prison officer. "Take me to him."
"It's a her, actually," Connors said. " Come on."
The lawyer was a woman Darragh had never seen before. She was tall, blonde, thin, severe and all business. She wore a grey suit and spoke perfect English, but she clearly wasn't Irish by birth. As Darragh took his seat in the glass-fronted booth, she sat down on the other side and picked up the telephone that enabled them to speak through the bulletproof glass.
"My name is Eunice Ravenel," she said, saving Darragh from having to ask. "I represent Kiva Kavanaugh and the family of Hayley Boyle."
Darragh didn't answer for a moment. The flood of his brother's memories that her words released, needed time to wash over him. Time for them to settle into some semblance of order.
"What can I do for you, Ms Ravenel?" he asked, while the memories flashed through his mind like little snippets of lightning. Eunice Ravenel bailing him - or rather his brother, Rónán - out of jail ... Kerry Boyle making him hot chocolate ... Kiva having a tantrum because she looked fat on the Oprah Show ... Patrick Boyle teaching him to ride a bike ... Hayley and Neil playing hide and seek in the grounds of Kiva's house ...
"It's been ten years since Hayley disappeared," Eunice reminded him, her clipped English making the sentence sound like an accusation.
"I'm aware of that." More than you will ever know.
What's stopping you coming for us, Rónán? I came for you.
"Hayley's parents, Patrick and Kerry Boyle, and her brother, Neil, would like to move on with their lives."
"I'm sure they would."
"In order to do that," the lawyer told him, "they have decided to petition the courts to have Hayley declared legally dead."
Darragh was silent for a moment. He'd been in this reality long enough to appreciate the complexity of its legal system, and he was quite sure such a thing would not be achieved without considerable effort. He was also quite sure Eunice Ravenel had not come here to Portlaoise Prison to tell him this news as a mere courtesy.
When he didn't respond to her statement, she frowned. "You could make this traumatic process considerably easier for them."
"I wish none of the Boyle family any ill," Darragh assured her. "My brother was exceedingly fond of them." It was true. Rónán's memories of the Boyles were good ones. "How can I help?"
"You can confess to murdering Hayley and tell me where her body is."
Ah! That could be a problem.
Darragh wanted to help. He really did. But helping didn't extend to confessing to a murder he didn't commit. Particularly as the victim of this non-existent murder was not only alive and well, but probably being feted as an honored guest in the reality where Darragh and Rónán came from.
"I can't do that."
Eunice didn't seem surprised. "Can't, or won't?"
"Both," Darragh said. "I did not kill Hayley and was never party to any plan to bring her to harm, therefore I would have to commit perjury to claim I have any knowledge of her fate. Furthermore, as she is - to the best of my knowledge - alive and well, it would be even more irresponsible of me to distress her family further by lying to them and declaring her dead."
"Where is she, then?" Eunice asked. "And so help me, I will come through this glass and throttle you, young man, if you give me that rubbish about her being sent to an alternate reality to have her sight healed."
Darragh sighed and pushed himself to his feet. "Then we're done, Miss Ravenel, because I have no other explanation I can offer you."
He replaced the phone in the cradle and turned to the door, waving to Officer Connors through the small observation window to let him know he was ready to return to his lunch. There was nothing more he could say to Eunice Ravenel and he was done trying to explain anything to these people.
Rónán will come for me one day, and then you'll see I've been right all along.
But until that day, he would have to suffer the accusatory looks of people like Eunice Ravenel and the far too real consequences of their ignorance of even the mere existence of other realms.
As the door opened, he turned back and glanced at Eunice. She was still sitting there, clutching the phone, glaring at him.
What did she think my response would be?
"That was quick," Connors remarked, as Darragh compliantly turned to face the wall and put his hands behind his back so the officer could cuff him.
"She wanted something I couldn't give her," Darragh explained.
Connors chuckled as he clicked the cuffs closed, and turned Darragh around to face him. "She's a woman, lad. What did you expect? They all want something you can't give 'em. I've been married three times. Trust me, I know."
"If she comes back, I don't want to see her," he said.
"Why don't you want to see your lawyer?"
"She's not my lawyer. She represents my alleged victim's family."
"Awkward."
"You have no idea."
"What did she want?"
"She's trying to have the girl they think I kidnapped declared dead."
Connors' jovial mood faded a little. "Which, of course, you can't do, because like every other poor bugger in here, you were framed, right?"
"No, I wasn't framed," Darragh said patiently. "Framed implies someone deliberately set me up, which was not the case at all, Officer Connors. It's just that there's been a misunderstanding caused by this world's ignorance of the true nature of the cosmos. I'm innocent and one day they'll come for me and you'll see I was right."
"Oh, well then," Connors said, giving Darragh a shove in the direction of the door, "I'll be sure to alert the media."
It was hard to tell if Connors was being sarcastic. He had a reputation as one of the guards you could count on to acquire things for you, if the price was right and he decided you were worth the risk.
"Do you think they'll care?"
"About as much as I do, lad," the officer told him. He shoved Darragh forward. "Get a move on."
Darragh did as he was ordered. There was nothing to be gained doing anything else.
But Eu
nice Ravenel's visit awakened his urge to return home. He was a patient man, but it was ten years since Rónán and Trása stepped through the rift.
What could possibly stop Rónán coming for me? Don't leave it too much longer, brother.
Perhaps it was time to contact Rónán again, to ask him what the hold-up was.
In a strange way he had been in contact with Rónán through these years. There was a cut behind his ear - a tiny, insignificant nick - that healed and reappeared every couple of weeks. It was Rónán, cutting himself with an airgead sídhe blade, to let him know he hadn't forgotten about him.
Perhaps it was time to do more than take comfort from a small wound behind his ear. He had a way to communicate with his brother, after all, although it was no easy thing to achieve in a maximum security prison. Even Ciarán didn't know about that.
"If I wanted something special, Officer Connors," he asked, glancing over his shoulder, "what would it cost me?"
"I've no idea what you're talking about."
"Humour me, then," Darragh said, accustomed to how this game was played. "If I wanted to get hold of something small. Something not even illegal ... what would it cost."
"That depends," Connors said behind him, as they walked down the long empty corridor.
"On what?"
"On what you wanted. And assuming there was any guard in here willing to risk his job and the possibility of joining you as an inmate to get it for you."
"Let's just assume for a minute that there is. What would it cost me?"
"What do you want?"
"An electric shaver. A Remington Microscreen, cordless, rechargeable shaver to be exact."
Connors was silent for a moment and then he laughed. "Something like that would take more money than you've got, my lad."
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