The Dark Divide

by Jennifer Fallon

  ‘No reason, Toyoda … just wondering. Let’s get out of here, hey? I’m freezing and there’s nothing happening down there tonight.’ She glanced up at the sky. ‘It will be Lughnasadh soon. If I can’t stop what’s about to happen to Rónán, I’m not sure I want to be here to watch it.’

  ‘As ye wish, mistress,’ Toyoda said, climbing to his feet, which made the branch tremble alarmingly. ‘Where did ye want to go?’

  ‘To Tír Na nÓg, Toyoda,’ she said, grabbing an overhanging branch for balance. ‘I want to go home.’

  CHAPTER 42

  Old age was a terrible thing. It was bad enough, Sorcha mused, to suffer the steady decline of one’s body over a period of decades — to feel the muscles withering, the ravages of time wrinkling one’s flesh until one looked like nothing more than a caricature of the person they knew themselves to be — but to have it happen in a couple of weeks was beyond painful. It was soul-destroying.

  And there was nothing she could do to stop it.

  For much of her life Sorcha had been lithe and nimble, blessed with youth. That blessing was now revealing its dark side. Even returning to her own realm now would not undo the damage. Her ageing had been delayed by her time in Tír Na nÓg. Returning through the veil to Tír Na nÓg would not restore her youth or reverse the damage wrought by this magic-less realm. Whatever happened, she was doomed. Her age had caught up with her.

  It was not the first time she’d been touched by the cold hand of her apparently miraculous youth. She’d entered Tír Na nÓg with Marcroy Tarth when she was sixteen, naïve and full of hope, blinded by the promises of her Faerie prince. She thought she’d only been there five months or so. She emerged from the magical realm fifty years later. The pain of that agonising discovery she thought long forgotten. Sorcha had emerged to find her parents dead, her brothers old men, her great-grandnieces and nephews already starting families of their own. Her family had treated her like a pariah, fearful of the youthful stranger who claimed to be one of them.

  She had tried to make a life with the remains of her family, but it proved too awkward for all of them. So after trying to fit in for a few uncomfortable and best-forgotten months, Sorcha had walked away. She sought a life using the warrior skills she had learned among the Daoine sídhe. If anybody asked — and few risked it — she would tell them she had emerged from Tír Na nÓg to find her entire family gone, everyone she knew and loved, long dead and buried.

  It was easier for everyone that way. And it felt like the truth.

  Jack’s housekeeper, Carmel, didn’t question Sorcha’s rapid deterioration. A gossipy, generous woman who was rather fond of the sound of her own voice, and who had an opinion on pretty much everything, she took it upon herself to care for Jack’s ‘cousin’, even though Sorcha didn’t want her help and tried — without success — to refuse it. As the days progressed, however, and her condition deteriorated, Sorcha reluctantly began to rely on the housekeeper’s appearance each morning, not sure she was still capable of getting out of bed without assistance.

  Sorcha had met plenty of old women in her time, some of whom reached their mid-eighties and were still collecting eggs and milking goats and generally looking after themselves as they had done for most of their lives, albeit a little slower than they once had. It didn’t seem right that she was so fragile. Perhaps the speed with which her age had caught up with her was contributing to her weakness. Whatever the reason, there was no dash for a rift to her own realm in her future. No diving out of moving cars. No vigils in trees. Sorcha knew with a certainty bordering on prescience that she would die in this realm.

  All she could do was make sure she didn’t endanger Darragh by betraying the truth about him.

  That proved quite easy when it was just Sorcha in the house, with daily visits from Carmel, who made her a delicious, creamy pumpkin soup with soft white bread rolls and settled her in front of the TV, tut-tutting all the while about Jack’s inconsiderate ways. ‘Fancy inviting his elderly cousin to stay and leaving her to fend for herself in this mausoleum,’ she would mutter as she fussed over her.

  Sorcha entertained herself with the many ways she’d like to murder this well-intentioned but interfering old biddy, while being quietly grateful for her help. She could barely make it to the bathroom on her own these days and would have preferred to relieve herself in the garden among the bushes in the way she was accustomed. Sorcha found the notion of flushing away one’s bodily waste with perfectly good drinking water to be an indescribable folly.

  Jack returned a few days before Lughnasadh, his book tour cut short by the attack on the World Trade Center. Nobody wanted to read about terrorists anymore. At least, not in a good way. Jack’s story, the tale that had made him a wealthy man, now seemed self-serving and opportunistic. The Irish-American ladies Jack was so scornful of — those society ladies who had so desperately wanted to pose with him for a photograph to show their friends how dangerously they lived — had cancelled their dinner places in droves. Feting a former member of the IRA — who’d been jailed for killing innocent bystanders by blowing up public buildings — seemed tacky and tasteless, in a place where the final death toll of another horrendous attack on a public building hadn’t even been calculated but was likely in the thousands. He predicted the money would dry up for all organisations even remotely terror related in the aftermath of this attack. There would be no more Irish-American black-tie fundraisers held in New York to raise money for their poor put-upon cousins back in the Old Country. It wouldn’t surprise him if the IRA decided to publicly disarm, Jack said, just to distance themselves from the scale and horror of the New York disaster.

  Sorcha sat in the reclining armchair and listened to him going on and on about it, trying not to nod off in the afternoon sun. It was important to act as if she had some idea of what he was talking about because he was her host, and besides Carmel, the only person she knew in this reality. He was more than her only friend — if that was the word for their odd relationship — she figured if Darragh didn’t miraculously escape custody and find a way back through the rift in the next day or so, he would probably be responsible for her body and laying her out. She owed it to Jack to pretend she cared.

  To say he was surprised to find Sorcha still in his house when he returned from his travels was an understatement. Jack wasn’t just surprised, either. He was livid. Sorcha wondered if his anger wasn’t so much at her, but as a result of what he had witnessed while he was away. He didn’t turn her out, though, despite his threats to do just that. Instead, he suffered her presence and watched her deteriorate a little more each day. Any lingering doubts he had about the existence of magic in the realm where his visitor belonged were fading with every wrinkle and liver spot that appeared on her ancient, wasted frame.

  The morning of Lughnasadh dawned overcast and dull. Sorcha greeted the day with a certain amount of fatalistic acceptance. Tonight, back in the realm where she belonged, the queen of the Tuatha Dé Danann would make a rare appearance in the mundane world, to brand the new Undivided heirs with the magical tattoo that would allow the sharing of the magic between Faerie and human to continue. Heads of state from around the realm would emerge from the stone circle, bearing gifts for the Faerie Queen, to thank her for her generosity and to watch the ceremony unfold. It always struck Sorcha odd that they thanked her. There was really no need. Orlagh had given her word when the Treaty of Tír Na nÓg was first forged, nearly two thousand years ago. She couldn’t break her word, even if she’d wanted to. Orlagh would continue to allow humans to share the Tuatha Dé Danann magic while ever humans were able to produce the special twins who were the vessel for the sharing.

  The fate of the cast aside Undivided was well documented. Any chance Sorcha had of returning to her own realm would die within a few days of the power transfer. As would Darragh. In all likelihood, he would not see out the night.

  Wherever he was, if Rónán wasn’t able to stop the ceremony, he would die too.

  Sorcha was
pondering this disturbing scenario when she heard the doorbell ring. She didn’t try to answer it. Jack was in his glasshouse and wouldn’t have heard it ring but Carmel was in the kitchen preparing lunch. Whoever it was and whatever they wanted, Carmel could answer the door and deal with it. Sorcha was quite certain the visitor wasn’t here to see her. She lifted the remote and changed the channel. Sorcha liked watching the home shopping programs. They reminded her of the hawkers in the markets of her world, trying to entice passers-by who had no interest in, or need of, their wares.

  ‘If you’ll just wait in here,’ she heard Carmel saying, out in the hall, ‘I’ll go and fetch him from the glasshouse.’

  ‘I can talk to him in the glasshouse,’ Sorcha heard a male voice offer.

  ‘You’d best be waiting here for him, officer,’ she heard Carmel tell him. ‘He’s not fond of visitors in his precious glasshouse. You wait in the living room. I’ll be back in a tick.’

  Footsteps hurried away from the living room as the door opened and a young man appeared at the door. He was in his late twenties, Sorcha guessed. Certainly no older. He wore jeans and a suit jacket, with a blue checked shirt underneath, as if he couldn’t make up his mind to dress up or dress down. He was a good-looking young man with more than a passing resemblance — she noted with curiosity — to Darragh.

  He stared at her for a moment, frowning. ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t realise there was anybody here.’ He stepped into the room, reached into his coat and produced a wallet, which he opened to display some sort of identification and a shiny badge. ‘Pete Doherty,’ he said. ‘And you are?’

  ‘Tired and in no need of company,’ Sorcha informed him. She turned her attention back to the TV and the program she’d found. They were selling a rather clever blanket with sleeves, which she thought was quite a useful idea, but would have been better if it came with pockets to store one’s weapons within easy reach on the outside.

  ‘You’re a friend of Jack’s?’ he asked.

  Sorcha turned to look at him, this time more closely, and her heart skipped a beat. This was the man she had punched into unconsciousness in their stolen Gardaí car during Rónán and Darragh’s escape from St Christopher’s Visual Rehabilitation Centre.

  She took a deep breath, and started eyeing off the nearest exit, until she realised Pete Doherty had no idea who she was. Even if he did get a clear look at her in the car a couple of weeks ago, the girl who had knocked him out was nothing like this decrepit old woman sitting here watching the shopping channel.

  ‘I’m a cousin.’

  ‘Do you have a name?’

  ‘Of course.’

  The detective frowned, tilting his head to one side, as if he couldn’t place where he’d seen her before. ‘Do I know you?’

  ‘Not likely,’ Sorcha snapped, ‘if you don’t even know my name.’

  ‘Now, now,’ Jack said as he entered the room, wiping his dirty hand on a grubby scrap of towel. ‘You be polite to the nice policeman, girlie, or he’ll take you away.’

  ‘Chance would be a fine thing,’ Sorcha muttered, and turned back to watching the presenter and his co-host gushing about the many uses of this amazing new concept of blankets with sleeves.

  ‘How can I help you, officer?’ Jack asked, ignoring Sorcha’s answer. He seemed cool and unbothered by the Gardaí detective’s visit. Sorcha didn’t know if that’s because he really wasn’t bothered, or because he had this sort of discussion down pat, given his long experience of being in trouble with the law. ‘You’ve come on your own, so I’m guessing you’re not here to arrest me for anything.’

  ‘Patrick Boyle tells me he sent Ren Kavanaugh’s twin brother and his accomplice to you, after he helped them escape the Castle Golf Club.’

  I knew that bastard would betray us, Sorcha thought, making a point of staring at the TV, for fear her anger at Amergin’s eileféin would betray them. But how did they know it was Darragh they had in custody? Had he told them who he was or did they have some arcane way of finding things like that out with their technology and sciences?

  Jack didn’t bother to deny it. ‘Aye. Little prick turned up here expecting a handout. I told him to piss off.’

  ‘Do you know where he went?’

  ‘I’d be guessing, given the commotion going on at the Kavanaugh place a couple of days later with your lot invading the house like you had a hot tip on the location of Jack the Ripper, that he went next door,’ Jack said with a shrug, as if the ERU storming Kiva Kavanaugh’s house was nothing particularly remarkable.

  ‘What about the woman with him? Dark hair, about twenty-five. Maybe thirty. Maybe younger. Where did she go?’

  Sorcha froze, expecting the detective would turn and look at her any moment and realise she was the one he was talking about. But he didn’t and Jack didn’t so much as spare Sorcha a glance to draw attention to her.

  ‘Don’t know who you’re talking about,’ Jack said, without missing a beat. ‘The boy turned up on his own and I sent him on his way. I told the last cop who came to visit the same thing.’

  ‘I like to check these things myself.’

  ‘Check away, son,’ Jack said, placing his hands on his hips. ‘I’ve got too much invested in life outside of prison to get mixed up with that sort of trouble these days. I pissed the lad off and got on a plane for New York. Wish I had stayed here.’

  Out of the corner of her eye, Sorcha could see the detective nodding, although she couldn’t tell if he believed Jack or not. ‘Yeah … nasty business, that. Whose side are you on?’

  ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘That’s your thing isn’t? Blowing up buildings? Killing innocent civilians?’

  ‘We never did anything like what they did in New York,’ Jack said, the contained anger in his voice obvious even to Sorcha. ‘And we phoned in a warning. Every time.’

  ‘Which makes it all right, I suppose.’ Doherty didn’t wait for an answer. ‘Do you know a man called Warren Maher?’

  Sorcha gripped the remote control so tightly the channel changed. Suddenly she was watching a football match, but nobody seemed to be paying any attention to her.

  Jack shook his head. ‘Should I? What’s he do?’

  ‘He’s a financial analyst.’

  ‘Not my crowd, really,’ Jack said, feigning innocence. ‘Too busy planning terrorist attacks to talk to me broker. Should I know him?’

  ‘Ren Kavanaugh and his brother, Darragh, stole his car last week.’

  At the mention of Darragh’s name, Sorcha let out an involuntary squeak of alarm. How does he know Darragh’s name?

  Both men turned to look at her. Sorcha kept her eyes determinedly forward, fixed on the football match.

  ‘Housekeeper’s aunty,’ Jack explained. ‘Got dementia, poor old thing. Barking mad, she is.’

  ‘She seemed quite lucid a moment ago,’ Doherty said. She wasn’t looking at him, but Sorcha could feel his eyes on her. And his suspicion. ‘Claimed to be your cousin.’

  ‘It comes and goes. What’s the problem with this broker fella? You think he was up to something with the lads?’

  ‘I think he’s dead,’ Doherty said, turning his gaze from Sorcha to watch Jack’s reaction. ‘Someone slit his throat while he was taking out the garbage.’

  Jack barely hesitated. ‘Wish I could help you, detective, I really do. But explosives are my thing. I’m not a knifeman. If I’d done him, he’d be spread out all over the garbage, not bleeding on it.’

  ‘I never said you did it,’ Doherty pointed out. ‘Is that a guilty conscience talking?’

  ‘Yeah, right,’ Jack snorted. ‘Is that all you wanted, detective? I have a bromeliad in dire need of a new home. I don’t want to leave the roots exposed any longer than I have to.’

  ‘A bromeliad?’

  ‘I’m halfway through re-potting a pineapple. Can you find your own way out, or do you need Carmel to show you the way?’

  ‘I can find my own way out,’ the detective said. He turned to Sorcha, who
was still glued to the TV, even though she couldn’t have recalled a single thing that had happened on the screen these past few minutes if her life depended on it. ‘Ma’am.’

  She ignored him. Barking mad, Jack had described her. Best this nosey young man keep thinking that.

  ‘Don’t make plans for any more overseas trips in the next month or so, O’Righin,’ Doherty suggested and he opened the door. ‘I may want to talk to you again.’

  ‘Be my pleasure, detective. Now bugger off.’

  Jack waited in silence as the detective walked the long length of the hall. He didn’t speak until he heard the sound of tyres on the gravel drive and then he turned to Sorcha.

  ‘You killed him, didn’t you?’

  ‘It had to be done,’ she replied, seeing no point in denying it. ‘I had to protect Darragh and Rónán.’

  ‘One is missing, the other is in gaol,’ Jack pointed out. ‘You must be very pleased with your work.’

  She turned to glare at him. ‘You know nothing about me, old man. Or why I am here. It’s of little consequence, at any rate.’

  ‘I’m not sure Warren’s family would agree with that.’

  She turned back to stare sightlessly at the television screen. ‘It is September twenty-second, Jack. It is Lughnasadh. By sunset, unless Rónán has found a way to stop the transfer, both he and Darragh will be dead in a matter of days, and me along with them, because with their death, I will lose any chance I have to return home. Warren’s death was unfortunate, but necessary, a sentiment I am sure — given your background — you understand.’

  ‘I’d already silenced him.’

  ‘You silenced him until his conscience got the better of him,’ she pointed out, raising the remote control to change the channel again. ‘I took care of the problem permanently.’ The next station she flicked on to was a news program, once again showing the planes crashing into the World Trade Center.

  Jack stared at her for a long moment, and then shook his head. ‘Jaysus, it must be a cruel world you come from.’