Another smile was exchanged, this one of triumph from Fionnuala. And as much gratitude as she could force herself to impart.
“Ta for that, like.” Ta, thanks. “I would've done it meself, but ye're so much better at it than me nowadays. You and Padraig. It's yer wee fingers, ye understand.”
Smaller fingers made for more nimble shoplifting. Add to that Siofra's age and smile, which really could melt butter, and lots of it even if you had placed it in the fridge, and you had a criminal supreme. Fionnuala cracked opened her Celine Dion/Titanic satchel as Siofra opened her One Direction bag, and, consummate pros both, they completed the hand off without arousing so much as a glance from two PCs that happened to be passing. Fionnuala was a bit shocked to see them. She glanced at her watch. Surely policing hours were over for the day?
Fionnuala stood there before her daughter, uncomfortable at the 'ta' that had slipped unawares from her mouth. Why should she say thank you for something that, as the girl's mother, was Fionnuala's God-given right? Her daughter should do everything she asked. If she asked her to shoplift twenty yards of white cotton fabric and five yards of red felt, and three of gold, and a stencil of a lion and one of a dragon and a few maps and travel guide books, as she had, Siofra should do as told. Siofra also seemed not to know where to look.
“Tell me, wee girl, did ye happen to speak to yer daddy? About getting me back into the house?”
“I tried to make him see sense. He was bladdered last night, but. Did nothing but sleep.” So intent was the girl in not meeting Fionnuala's eyes, though Fionnuala could barely detect this as she herself was staring as if in interest at the pig carcass hanging in the window before her, that Siofra's eyes had the opportunity to sweep up and down the entire length of the Strand. And they alighted upon a building site next to the bank. And the safety cones there. Those eyes lit up.
“Look, Mammy! There's the megaphone ye wanted.”
Fionnuala followed the course of the girl's finger, and her face scrunched with disdain.
“Och, catch yerself on, ye daft bitch! How could one of them cones— Och!” It had taken a while, but her brain cells had finally trundled to understanding. “I know what ye're on about now. Aye, brilliant, so it is. Can ye get yerself across the road to nick one of them for me and all?”
Siofra weaved through the traffic, grabbed one of the cones, flipped off the construction worker who yelled at her, then hurried back through the passing cars and trucks. Mother and daughter ran around the corner.
“One more item to tick off yer list,” Siofra said.
Fionnuala shrugged off the light jacket she had worn to make herself respectable for the interrogation and that she cursed with every step she took in the heat, and draped it over the traffic cone. It would have to be cut down a bit, but it would indeed make a marvelous megaphone. She hadn't been able to source one anywhere else in town, even paying for it. It would look odd rising up from her lap on the bus to the caravan, but such was the price she would have to pay for putting her plan into action. She no longer cared about making a show of herself. She was on an important mission. For the betterment of the world.
“About me sewing machine...do ye not think ye can sneak me into the house? What's yer daddy's shift today?”
“Daddy roared abuse at me last night. Naw. Anyroad, we've no electricity in the house. Yer sewing machine would be useless.”
“No electricity?”
“Nor gas nor telly nor phone.”
“Och! Ye don't say! Now I understand why...why...I tried to ring last night, ye know.” Relief spread over Fionnuala's face. “Perhaps yer daddy did want to ring me and...and...”
Again, Siofra couldn't meet her mother's eyes and found herself staring at the door to the public lavatories.
“Anyroad,” Fionnuala went on in a different, lighter, interested tone of voice, “why've ye no electricity?”
“Our Dymphna said she'd take care of it. I thought it would finally be turned on this morning when we got outta bed, like. It's been days since we've had hot water, and—”
“I was only trying to make polite conversation, just. No need to blather out an endless sermon.”
Siofra looked put upon or put out or put down, but Fionnuala ignored this and sidled up to her conspiratorially there before the door to the ladies.
“Are ye sure ye're not up for joining me on Sunday?” she asked. It was strange to be asking and not demanding. Fionnuala had a dim realization somewhere in a crevice of her brain that threats were becoming less and less effective with her daughter lately. She knew a bit less dimly why. Siofra was growing up and betraying her, much as Moira had, Dymphna had, Eoin had and, dagger to her heart, golden boy Lorcan had. Padraig was a violent rowdy and Seamus a spastic, so they didn't count. It saddened Fionnuala's heart that this was happening. After all the love and care she had lavished on them. In her mind. “How's about ye help yer mammy out and and get a wee trip down to Dublin and beyond thrown into the bargain...? Ye've always wanted to see Dublin, haven't ye? And all them other countries we're to be going to after that. I kyanny name them all, there be's that many of them, and a few I must admit I kyanny even pronounce even if I could bring them to mind. But ye'll be able to see them all. And then there's them horses I told ye about. Imagine riding one of them. Ye could have yer own, call it what ye wanted. Sure, ye love horses, don't ye?”
“Aye. When I was seven.”
Fionnuala bristled.
“Mammy, if ye don't mind me saying, what ye're doing is madness. I've no doubt all Derry will think ye a headcase, a nutter, not right in the head—”
“Ye've made yer point.”
“Good on ye, but, for what ye're doing. I'll be there to support ye. Not to take part, but. The reason I'll be there to cheer ye on be's because...ye mind what ye said to me the other day in the dry cleaners? Before them men barged in and Mrs. Ming died? That girls be's good for nothing but housekeeping and being mammies? I've been struggling to get me head around it. I think with this...this madness ye're set on doing, no matter how much I think ye're just gonny show yerself up, ye're not being a mammy and ye're not cleaning the house. And I think it's effin brilliant, so I do. Ye not being on yer hands and knees scrubbing the scullery lino.”
“Are ye saying to me ye think me housekeeping's shite?”
Fionnuala finally had the chance to clatter her about the head. She'd wanted to ever since that look in the police station. Siofra shrunk back, but took the beating without a tear, or even without a glimmer of fear on her face. It was if a child had skipped into the Top-Yer-Trolley, and a teen had slouched out.
“Naw. What I'm saying be's...ye say we're no good for nothing but cleaning and scrubbing and popping out the wanes. We were told in school, but, and I've seen with me own eyes on the telly, women doing all sorts. I dunno, astronauts and what have ye, but I guess they was Russian, and maybe on the telly it all be's fantasy, as, aye, all the mothers of me mates from the Moorside seems to do nothing but hang out the laundry. Maybe not me mate Victoria's mammy, but, though she be's Protestant and dead, so maybe that makes a difference, like. So ye've got me blessing for what ye're gonny do. Wile daft, if ye ask me. Better than scrubbing a loo, but.”
Who was this unknown creature before her? Fionnuala was flabbergasted. Had she really burst forth from her very own womb? It didn't seem possible, and it had nothing to do with the size the girl was now. Not impossible biologically, because even she knew Siofra had been smaller when she was a newborn, but mentally, genetically, spiritually.
“Look at Girls Aloud, sure.”
Fionnuala wasn't certain what Girls Aloud had to do with it, but didn't bother to ask. She was still wondering how she could start her plan without being an army of one.
“It would make me feel better if I had someone with me. Do ye think Padraig might wanny join in?”
Siofra's face said no.
“Are ye sure, love?”
Siofra stared, and her look said 'love' was different f
rom being called a 'daft cunt,' or a 'filthy bitch,' or whatever else her mother usually called her.
“Anyroad, Mammy, I've to track down wer Dymphna. We need that electricity on. I'll see ye tomorrow. We've that counseling session, mind. Cheerio, Mammy.”
Fionnuala stared after her, clutching the draped traffic cone in one hand and the handle of her Titanic satchel in the other. She felt old. She wondered if this was the last time Siofra would shoplift for her, and she was sad. Time was marching on. And then she felt scared.
Mrs. O'Grady rounded the loos and almost uploaded the swag from her bag. The woman had a hooded teen of indeterminate sex along with her. Baggy jeans and all. God only knew what relative the thug or thugette might be.
“Och, Mrs. Flood!” Mrs. O'Grady exclaimed, eyes shining. She had always sat next to Fionnuala in the hair salon. When Fionnuala had lived in the vicinity of one. “What about ye?”
“Aye, 'bout ye.”
“How are ye out in that...field? Living with the tinkers?”
“The knackers,” said the teen with a snicker.
“Are ye a culchie now? Got ye milking the cows, have they?” Mrs. O'Grady's smile was a sneer. Fionnuala had never liked her. Tinkers/knackers/culchies, travelers, non-city people
The teen waved his or her arms up and down like wings and made clucking chicken noises, though what chickens had to do with cows Fionnuala couldn't fathom.
“Feck off, ye sarky cunts,” Fionnuala muttered into their faces. But without her usual conviction. She trotted off down the street, a free-floating anxiety in the pit of her stomach.
* * *
CHAPTER 20
O'Toole squealed with delight when a shelf-stacker guided McLaughlin and D'Arcy into his office.
“Just like an episode of Law and Order!” he twittered. “Go on ahead and sit yerselves down, pull up a pew, like, youse. It's been a slow Wednesday evening and I've just been sat her, rather not enjoying meself pairing up the discrepancies of stock with the shifts of the occasional laborers. More trouble than they're worth! Youse'd never believe how those without year-long contracts here at the Top-Yer-Trolley think they're entitled to rob us blind! How can I help youse, but? What brings ye here? Please don't tell me ye've uncovered a dead body hidden under the pyramid of tinned beans, or a cache of heroin under a bag of frozen vegetables or two?” He tittered with laughter, and his eyes twinkled. There was no tittering or twinkling from the two across the desk from him. O'Toole sobered. “Please forgive me insolence, or what youse might term me flippancy. But I've just sacked one of the girls who works on the till, one of them occasional laborers I've just been on about, and it always gives me a special rush of giddiness. I kyanny understand how some people think. Though, as youse've so many coppers under yer control, perhaps youse know what I mean. This girl was either incredibly cunning, or perhaps an imbecile or a simpleton, someone who kyanny fend for herself. Anyway, the matter's done and she's been handed her P-45. With my extreme pleasure.” P-45, Pink slip. “What is this visit about? What can I do for youse?”
“Aye, let's get down to business, shall we not?”
D'Arcy broke in. “Can you speak any foreign languages, Mr. O'Toole?”
“Forget that,” McLaughlin harrumphed, and waved away the sudden alarm on O'Toole's face.
“I wonder if ye could tell us, in the Lord's English, what ye were up to yesterday? At noon or thereabouts.”
O'Toole seemed surprised. “Am I suspected of something?” He folded his arms, and grew angry. “I'm not suspected of anything, am I?”
“I'm terrible sorry. Ye seem to have got the wrong end of the stick. Don't get yer knickers in a twist. Sure, we're not here asking ye to reveal some innermost secrets. It's routine questioning, just. Ye're behavior is understandable, like, but ye've nothing to fear. I'd only like ye to clear something up for me, and for DS D'Arcy and all. It's about Mrs. Ming's death and the hold up at the dry cleaners on the Lecky Road.
“I've nothing to do with that, but! I was sat here at me desk, glued to me chair, all yesterday long! Youse can ask any of me staff here at the Top-Yer-Trolley, and they'll soon put youse right! Except the lass I've just sacked, like. I'm sure she'd lie just outta spite. I'm mortified, so I'm are! Why would youse think...?”
D'Arcy said, “Please don't think we enjoy interrogating pillars of the community like yourself, or wasting time hauling them down to the cop shop when we could be spending our time more constructively, if not quite pleasurably, for example, investigating victims of domestic abuse, mugging, drug addiction, the rare gristly murders and even more rare plane crashes and the like.”
McLaughlin continued, “The point is, however, that we've found yer fingerprints on Mrs. Ming's Zimmer frame earlier today, and we wondered how they might have got there. When did you touch it?”
“Why would ye want to know that?!”
“With Mrs. Ming's dead body languishing away in the morgue?! “ D'Arcy said. “I should think it patently obvious!”
Here there was a deafening screech from some machine close to the desk, and after they had all jumped, O'Toole apologized.
“Sorry about that. There's a fault in the PA system. There was, anyroad. The machine seems to have totally died now. Finally. I must call to get it repaired.”
“Are ye giving yerself time to think of a response to the question we've posed?” McLaughlin asked.
“Naw...” O'Toole nibbled on a fingernail. Then his face lit up. “I know!” He clapped his hands with sudden glee. “She bought that Zimmer frame here two weeks ago. Sure, ye know how frail the woman is. She needed a Zimmer frame, so I suppose it's obvious. Anyroad, as the Mings are marvelous customers of ours, I helped the aul one shove it into the back of the taxi I had called for her. And I even paid for the taxi meself. She'd been moaning about the expense, but I ask ye! How did the woman expect to get it home?”
“She could have used it to walk there.”
“All that distance? And it was raining. A pity they don't equip them with a hole ye can shove an umbrella into.”
The faces across the desk from him seemed disappointed.
“Does that clear it up for youse?” O'Toole asked. “Have I been helpful?”
“We'd need verification from some of your staff that this actually happened,” McLaughlin said.
“Surely.” O'Toole pressed a buzzer of the in-house intercom. This piece of equipment still seemed to be functioning at least. “Marilyn, would ye please collect Sorcha from till number four?”
“A-aye,” they heard. And it was tinged with some emotion—repulsion? —disgust? that they couldn't quite fathom.
And it was the same repulsion or disgust they saw on Sorcha's face as she forced herself, apparently much against her will, into the office and looked at the three of them as if they had just announced they were kingpins of a worldwide pedophile ring.
“Sorcha,” O'Toole said, wondering why she was staring down at the floor and her fists were balled, “could ye please tell these inspectors if I helped put Mrs. Ming's Zimmer frame into a taxi a few weeks ago? Ye remember that, don't ye? Ye held the door of the store open for us.”
“If I didn't fear for me job,” Sorcha managed to croak through clenched teeth, “if I didn't have wanes I had to feed, I'd tell youse all what I thought of youse!”
The three looked at the girl in surprise.
“But what—” O'Toole gasped.
“In the privacy of yer own homes, that I could maybe stomach. Naw, even then I couldn't. But when youse broadcast yer perversions all over the—naw. I've said too much.”
McLaughlin and D'Arcy were used to people hating them. But O'Toole was genuinely surprised and hurt.
“Is it because themmuns is coppers?” he asked.
“The answer to yer question, as I don't wanny be hauled down to the cop shop, especially by the likes of youse,” her entire body shuddered, “be's aye. Aye, O'Toole helped get Mrs. Ming's Zimmer frame into a taxi.” And off she raced.
&nb
sp; “I'm terrible sorry,” O'Toole said, “I'm quite perplexed at the wee girl's behavior. She's normally a mild-tempered lass.”
McLaughlin and D'Arcy flipped their notebooks shut in tandem. Their shoulders sagged. One dead end in the investigation.
“Strange staff you employ here,” D'Arcy said as she got up.
“I'm sorry again,” O'Toole said. He sat down wondering.
And when McLaughlin and D'Arcy walked through the aisles towards the exit, there were yells of “Filthy filth!” “Satan's spawn!” and much worse spat at them from customers.
Again, so used to this were they, they barely gave it a second thought. How could they know what had been broadcast over the PA system?
O'Toole: Law and Order. On...a slow Wednesday evening...I...enjoy...pairing up...with the...occasional...dead body...or a vegetable or two...youse know what I mean, an imbecile or a simpleton, someone who kyanny fend for herself. What...about...youse?
McLaughlin: I'm terrible sorry...to reveal...it's routine...behavior...for me, and for DS D'Arcy and all.
D'Arcy: We enjoy...spending our time...pleasur—ing...the victims of...gristly murders...and plane crashes and the like.
McLaughlin: Earlier today...we...did...it...
D'Arcy: With Mrs. Ming's dead body...in the morgue!
* * *
CHAPTER 21
Night was falling. In the Moorside, that was the time when the children slithered out for robberies and casual violence of all sorts, and woe betide any unsuspecting (and presumably lost) tourist that came upon a pack of them. But Siofra was twelve, the same age as many of them, so she was safe. And if she wasn't, in the highly unlikely event she came upon an unknown gang, she'd only have to utter her older brother Padraig's name to make them scatter. Everybody in their right mind steered clear of Padraig Flood and his violent tendencies. Maybe he had more Heggarty blood flowing in his veins.
The peculiar heat seemed to be dissipating a bit with the darkness slowly shrouding the town. In fact, though they had been promised three or four days of heat, the forecasters now said it seemed a cold front had shoved the warm front aside, and the weather would resume as normal come the next day. As Siofra walked into the Craiglooner pub, she noticed it was hotter in there than outside. She pushed through the elbows and crotches and peered through the masses for Dymphna.
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