by Kate Johnson
“Doubtful. But you know, I wouldn’t really be that surprised.”
Fantastic. I ended the call and looked over at Docherty. “The gun that shot Luke is the same gun that killed Petr.”
“What a surprise.”
“Same calibre as the gun that shot Greg Winter.”
“Lots of people have .22s.”
“Well, yeah. But I still think there’s something icky about it.”
Docherty nearly smiled at that. “Icky? Is that a professional term?”
I prickled. “It is now.”
He turned off the little road onto a very narrow boreen. “Not far now.”
He said that an hour ago.
But this time he meant it. At the end of the little track was a gate, and through the gate was a courtyard with chickens and a couple of collies scratching about. The buildings on three sides were neat and clean. Flowers in the windows. Clean steps. Nice.
“Is this it?” I asked Docherty.
“This is it.”
We got out of the car and I stretched, feeling horribly scruffy. And then we went up the steps and into a big scrubbed kitchen where a beautiful black-haired girl was kneading bread, and I felt even scruffier.
Docherty said something to her in Irish, and she nodded and smiled and made a reply. I don’t understand Irish at all. They have the same alphabet as us, but they seem to approach it sort of sideways.
“This is Sophie,” Docherty said, and I smiled nervously. “Sophie, this is Éibhlís Kennedy.”
I blinked. Did he just call her Eyelash?
“That’s an unusual name,” I ventured. “How are you spelling that?”
She paused, as if she couldn’t remember, then spelled it out. See? Sideways. “The ‘E’ and the second ‘I’ have acute accents. It’s quite complicated. They were going to call me Mary.”
Irish. Different species.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I just thought the professor would be older. And, you know, a guy.”
Docherty and Éibhlís smiled.
“He is.” Éibhlís said. “I’m his daughter.”
Ah. I felt my face flush.
“Would you be wanting anything to eat?” she asked, and I closed my eyes and thought about barmbrack and Irish butter and natural cider. When I opened them again, Éibhlís was taking biscuits out of a packet and putting them on a plate. She opened up a large fridge and offered me mineral water, Diet Coke, Budweiser, Guinness or wine. There was English Breakfast tea or Costa Rican coffee on offer, both to be made with organic milk.
I felt Docherty’s gaze on me and said I’d just have water. Coffee would have been good, but I was so dehydrated I felt as if my body was slowly shrivelling.
“Is the old man around?” Docherty asked, and Éibhlís shrugged.
“He’s out with the horses. You’re a little bit late, so…”
A whole day. It didn’t seem to be bothering her. She poured herself a Guinness, then one for Docherty, and we followed her through to a stone-floored living room, lined with books and papers and CDs and a lot of PlayStation games.
“Do you not have any luggage?”
I shook my head. “The airline lost it.”
“Ah, well. Travelling light’s always a better option anyway.”
Hmm.
“I’ve cleared you out a room upstairs,” she said, waving her hand at a precarious staircase. “Will you be staying tonight?”
“I think so,” Docherty said. “I’ll call the airline and re-book for tomorrow.”
“So, Sophie,” Éibhlís said, “tell me about this SO17 you’re working for,” and I sprayed water all over myself.
“It’s supposed to be a secret organisation,” I said, glaring at Docherty.
“Éibhlís won’t tell anyone.”
“That’s not really the point,” I said. “Even the British police don’t know about it.”
“The British police couldn’t find their arses with both hands,” Éibhlís said dismissively. “Do you have a gun?”
“Somewhere,” I said.
“Airline lost that too,” Docherty explained.
“Some airline.”
“Well, they gave Sophie a job.”
“Hey!”
They both smiled at me. “Sure, we’re joking,” Éibhlís said. “Haven’t you heard Michael's sense of humour?”
I stared. Michael?
Now, that just spoiled the illusion. It was such a normal name. Docherty on its own sounded so much more brooding and mysterious.
There was the sound of clattering hooves outside and I looked out of the little window to see a fit man in his sixties swinging off a large chestnut horse. Éibhlís got up and went outside to him, and Docherty followed her, and I sat there for a few seconds before following, too. I wasn’t sure I totally got this. I’d been expecting— Well, I don’t know what I was expecting. A musty old man in a college library, maybe? An ancient geezer in a wheelchair? Not a robust man with a tan, handing the reins of the horse to his daughter and clapping Docherty on the back. They exchanged a rapid stream of Irish that sounded impressive but could really have been a shopping list for all I knew. I don’t do languages. Especially not ones that need you to learn the alphabet all over again.
Professor Kennedy—for I assumed that was who he was—looked me over and said something in Irish.
I blinked politely. “I’m afraid I don’t understand.”
“Sasanach,” Docherty said, and I frowned suspiciously.
“What did you just call me?”
“English,” Docherty said, and Kennedy laughed.
“And sure you’re an English Rose,” the professor said, lifting my chin. “Even if you are hungover.”
I blushed bright pink.
“Éibhlís,” Kennedy yelled. “Is there any lunch to be had?”
She yelled back something and Kennedy nodded. “How’s chicken soup for you?”
I winced. “Er, I don’t eat meat,” I said, and felt like the Big Fat Greek Wedding girl. “What do you mean, he don’t eat no meat?”
“None at all?” Kennedy was staring.
“Erm, no. I eat fish,” I volunteered.
“Why?”
“Well, because I could kill a fish,” I said, wanting to curl up and die.
Kennedy looked at me for a long while, then he laughed. “Sure, that’s good reasoning,” he said. “Are you sure you’re not Irish?”
“I think my mother’s grandfather was. But that might be wishful thinking.”
“Everyone wants a bit of Irish in them,” Docherty said, with a meaningfully penetrating stare at me that made—I swear—even my hair blush.
I ended up having bread and cheese for lunch, but since the bread had been made that morning and the cheese was fresh Irish cheddar, I was more than happy. I sat there at the big oak table in the kitchen, feet tapping the slate floor, listening to a burble of Irish voices. Éibhlís came back in and got some soup, and was soon arguing with her father about the Internet. Her position was that it was a great tool for communication and information, not to mention shopping, and he maintained that it was a ploy for global domination by the Yanks. I wasn’t sure who I agreed with most, because they were both so bloody entertaining. Docherty kept out of the discussion, and I got to wondering if he even knew what the Internet was. He didn’t really seem like one for technology.
Éibhlís cleared away our plates and stacked them in the dishwasher next to the huge old-fashioned farmhouse sink. So much for bucolic Oirishness.
“Now then.” Kennedy got to his feet and patted his flat belly. “What is it you’ve come all the way out here for?”
I glanced at Docherty but he wasn’t forthcoming.
“Michael said you might be able to tell me something about this artefact we’re trying to trace,” I said, ignoring Docherty’s glare. “It’s Mongolian, called the Xe La.”
Kennedy frowned and went through the living room into a very crowded study. It might have been a large room, wer
e it not for the shelves and shelves of cascading books and files, cases of stony things, three computers and 3D map of Ireland spread out on a large table.
“Mongolian,” he said. “I don’t know of anything… What era?”
I blinked. “I don’t know. Nobody knows. We’re not even totally sure it’s Mongolian.”
Kennedy raised his palms. “Not even sure it’s Mongolian,” he muttered. “Do you know what it looks like?”
I shook my head.
“What it does?”
“Does?”
“All artefacts do something. Even if it’s only in legend. The best ones earn you money while they’re doing it,” he said, and I understood from this where the horses had come from.
“Why is it you want to know about it?”
I sighed. “Well, it’s a bit of a long story.” I told him about the threats Angel had been getting, the photos and the stalking, about how we were sure the stalker was after something he thought Angel had. I explained about Janulevic sending Petr after me, and how we’d connected them both to this artefact and concluded that Janulevic thought Angel had it.
“Why would Angel have it?”
“I don’t know. But it’s all connected with her father’s death. We think. Someone sent her photos of her father being shot from his bike and killed. MI5 say he wasn’t working for them at the time. But if that’s so, why did someone kill him and make it look like an accident, and document the whole thing?”
Kennedy frowned. “You think he had the artefact?”
“I think that was why he was killed. I think someone thought he was transporting the Xe La and that’s why he was killed. But he didn’t have it, so they’re still looking, and they reckon his daughter must have it.”
“But why wait fifteen years?”
I raised my hands. “I don’t know.”
Kennedy crossed to a box of files on the far wall. “Greg Winter,” he said. “He came to me once about a—”
He looked up at me suddenly. “Spell Xe La,” he said, and I did.
“Have you seen it written down? Who told you it was spelled like that?”
I tried to think. Had anyone told me?
Kennedy grabbed a pad and a pen and wrote “Séala”. “Not Xe La. It’s Irish. You pronounce it the same way, more or less.”
He suddenly looked very excited.
“What does it mean? In Irish?”
“It means seal or mark. Like you might have on a letter, for instance. In terms of what you’re looking at, it’s a seal ring. Believed to have been forged for a king of Ulster, it fell into the possession of the evil elf Cluricaune, who hid it for centuries. The stories don’t have much interest in it other than saying it will grant the bearer his or her heart’s desire.”
Blimey.
“Do you know what it looks like?”
Kennedy shook his head. “I’ve a few books if you want to look through them…?”
I nodded, but my eagerness soon faded when I realised that the Irish “few” didn’t just apply to miles. It applied to books, too. There weren’t a few. There were bloody dozens.
I spent the rest of the day looking through all these fabulous old books—some of them texts on parchment—feeling very privileged. I learnt all sorts of great things about Celtic myths and legends—so much better than Greek ones! I kept having to get out Kennedy’s big fat Irish-English dictionary to translate things, and learnt a lot about Irish pronunciation. It’s quite simple when you get the hang of it. At least, I assume it would be. I didn’t quite get the hang of it, myself.
I hardy noticed it get dark, until Éibhlís came in and asked if I wanted anything to eat.
“I’ve made you a vegetable stew,” she said. “It’s a Delia recipe…”
I smiled. “Can’t go wrong with that.” I slipped a bookmark into the text and followed her out into the kitchen. I hadn’t seen Docherty since lunchtime, or Kennedy since he’d told me about the Séala. I hadn’t even thought to call anyone about it. I’d call Luke later, after tea.
But tea turned out to go on for hours, with Éibhlís and her father sparking off another debate, about the Euro this time, which I tried and failed to not get involved in.
“What do you mean, easier?” Kennedy roared.
“Well, you know, if I have to go to a lot of different countries, it’s a lot easier to have one currency in my wallet…”
“Exactly, but it’s not losing cultural identity,” Éibhlís said, and Kennedy looked mutinous.
“Well, no, not really…”
“Sophie,” Kennedy said, “did you not think the Irish Punt was a charming currency?”
I have to say it hardly crossed my mind and when it did, it was just that Punt was a funny word.
“Erm, well, yes, I suppose so…”
“And speaking as an English girl, you must have found it easier to use, what with being nearly the same as your own…”
“But what if she was French, Da?” Éibhlís asked. “Would she have found it easier then?”
“Ach, the French,” Kennedy said dismissively. “Stop your jawing, girl, and fetch me me dessert.”
Dessert was homemade cheesecake. Éibhlís appeared to not only be beautiful, but a fabulous cook. The vegetable stew had been gorgeous.
We were sitting outside in the courtyard, under a gas heater that played gentle light on the candlelit table. While Éibhlís and Kennedy argued happily all through dessert, Docherty turned to me and asked quietly, “Did you find anything useful?”
“Yes. It’s not Mongolian, it’s Irish, and it’s a seal ring. Said to give the bearer his heart’s desire.”
Docherty whistled. “So I guess we have to hope that Janulevic wants world peace.”
“Maybe his heart’s desire is for better hair,” I said. “To lose weight. Learn English.”
“Maybe he wants the love of a good woman.”
“Maybe.”
But honestly? This was a man who’d killed every person who’d ever heard of the Séala. Somehow I didn’t think his heart’s desire involved hugs and puppies.
Éibhlís didn’t even bother to clear the plates away before she fetched a little round flat drum, a bodhrán I think she called it, and a penny whistle, and a fiddle and a guitar, and handed them round and started playing and singing. Kennedy was on the guitar and his daughter alternated the whistle and violin. To my surprise, Docherty picked up the bodhrán and played along.
It was fabulous. Actually, what it was like was when I still lived with my parents, and my dad would insist we’d all sit out in the garden for tea when it was summer, even when it was freezing, we’d all be sitting there in jeans and fleeces, shivering and drinking lots of wine to keep the cold out. And after a while Chalker would go and get his guitar, and we’d sit there playing Beatles songs until the wine ran out or the neighbours started getting grumpy. A couple of times last year, when I went home for tea, Chalker might have a few band mates over and we’d have a jam in the back garden under the fairy lights I’d put up years ago for a garden party and never taken down. I love fairy lights.
It got late, and Éibhlís fell silent as her father sang on in Irish. Docherty placed the drum quietly on the table and we all listened as the song, old and beautiful, went on and on.
Before I realised it, Docherty was shaking me awake and telling me it was late, I should go to bed, and I fell asleep beside him under a soft duvet.
Chapter Eleven
I woke alone when it was light and lay there for a while. I’d had some wine last night, but not enough to get me really drunk. Not enough to give me a hangover. I was feeling good. I’d found out something important about the Séala, something that put us ahead of Janulevic. He didn’t know it was Irish. And he obviously didn’t know Kennedy knew about it, or Kennedy would be dead.
I’d tried to tell him and Éibhlís countless times last night that they might be in danger, but they’d just shrugged it off and said they’d be fine. No harm could come to them here.
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Well, yes, I could see their point, but I’d always believed the same thing about my little flat. Right up until the minute when someone threw a flaming bottle through my window three months ago.
I stretched under the covers and wished I’d got some clean clothes to put on. Well, not so much clothes as underwear. Two days was pushing it. Three was just unhealthy.
A knock on the door announced Éibhlís, asking if I wanted coffee or anything else.
“Coffee would be great,” I said, “but so would clean underwear.”
“What size are you?”
Uh, what size am I really, or what can I tell her? “Twelve. UK.” Did they have the same sizes in Ireland?
She nodded and disappeared, coming back a minute later and throwing me a selection of knickers. “Fresh out the laundry,” she said. “I’m afraid I can’t do much for you in the way of a bra…”
“I can live with this one. Thanks, Éibhlís.”
She smiled. “Don’t mention it.”
“Do you know where Docherty went?”
“Out for a walk. He’s a bit of a loner.”
“Tell me about it.”
She regarded me carefully. “Is there something going on with you two?”
I shook my head quickly.
“Neither of you complained about sharing a bed.”
“We shared one the night before.” I paused. “I mean, nothing happened—well, pretty much nothing—I mean, I have someone at home,” I fabricated.
“Is he a patch on Docherty?”
I thought about Luke. “He’s better.”
She looked impressed. “Does he have a brother?”
“I—” You know, I had no idea. “I don’t think so.”
“Ah, well. Will I fetch you some towels for the shower?”
A subtle way of telling me I looked a wreck.
“Thanks,” I nodded. “That’s kind of you.”
“Don’t mention it.”
She brought the towels and left, and I lay there a while longer before getting up, making my way to the bathroom, and washing all the grime of the last two days off me in the shower. Éibhlís had some coconut shampoo and it smelled divine. I got dressed, put on some makeup, and spotted the car keys lying on the floor. They’ll get lost there, I thought, and put them in my pocket to give to Docherty later.