Zoë nodded. She, also, had been asked many questions of a similar nature by her staff at Riddell Enterprises. She understood, and softened considerably. Really, what she was doing was so nerve-wracking. She was out of her comfort zone. The baby forming inside her was responsible.
“As you are here, and you're Rory's mother, we may as well take a swab from you as well.”
“And on that note, I'd like a pregnancy test run for myself, if you could. I've already been told by my GP that I'm pregnant. But I'd like a second opinion.”
Mrs. Foley eyed Zoë, and her discretion kept her from making a noise of surprise.
“Certainly. We do that here, too. And, as a matter of interest, in addition to paternity testing, official pregnancy tests, and of course the DNA from crime scenes for the police, we also engage in ancestral DNA testing.”
Zoë was enraptured. Finally, amongst all the technical babble, was something she could understand and appreciate.
“Ancestral testing? How fascinating! You may as well throw one of those in for me as well.”
“Marvelous!” Mrs. Foley actually clapped. “I find ancestral testing especially riveting. This other...paternity business I find rather, er...”
“As do I. Don't worry, dear. If I'm not mistaken, I believe you were about to say 'gauche?'”
Mrs. Foley gave a little embarrassed nod, almost imperceptible. “That or 'sordid.' Or 'tawdry.'”
Zoë tinkled with somewhat nervous laughter. “I find both words most fitting myself, actually. I can't help thinking this is all rather below me. I'm not quite certain what has possessed me to do all this other, and no doubt you must think I'm mad to be pregnant at my age. I wonder if I am. Though this ancestral testing is something much different. I'm excited to know about my ancestors. My mother always told me we were descendant of marauding Viking hordes, or perhaps a Russian or two. I studied the language at university, you know. Because I long suspected... Well, in any event, it would be interesting to know.”
“Then that will be SNP-based testing. The ancestral testing will be done with microarray chips, which use around 700,000 tautosomal single-nucleotide polymorphisms, SNPs, you see, to complete a biogeographical analysis, and then we can assign you to the biological group to which you belong. We can be confident of a correct analysis as to where you historically come from when we compare the results with our vast database of the dominant Y-chromosome haplogroups in pre-colonial world populations, and take into account the possible migrations routes that your ancestors might have taken.”
“It sounds delightful. Official.” Zoë leaned back with approval, considered for a moment, then leaned forward with uncharacteristic embarrassment. “Though, I wonder if I may ask...what are these haplogroups you're referring to? Please pardon my ignorance.”
Mrs. Foley waved her concern away with a little laugh. “Not at all. I can assure you, most people outside of our profession, or sociologists and the like, aren't familiar with the term. I'm delighted to explain it to you. A haplogroup is a group of people who share a common ancestor. That's what we discover here. Common ancestors. Haplogroups.” To Zoë's surprise, the woman pulled out a map from one of her drawers. It was a map of the world, with colored blobs showing these haplogroups and their names, and arrows showing the directions of their migrations. Warming to the subject, Mrs. Foley babbled on as she pointed out location after location on the map; she clearly loved this aspect of her occupation. “There are some fascinating haplogroups, including, you see here, North Siberian Turkic, Neolithic, Elamo-Davidian, Baskir, Samoyic/Ugric, and here Chadic, Nilotic and Cushitic. Though, sadly, the likelihood is that results will reveal you come from one of the rather less exciting or exotic haplogroups, such as Western European or Scandinavian. Most probably U5, if I'm not mistaken. This haplogroup is nicknamed Ursula. Hmm, I presume you are Protestant?”
“Why, yes I am.”
“Do you happen to know when your family went over to Ireland from the British Isles?”
“From what I was told, from my grandmother years ago, our ancestors were some of the first who went over during the British colonization of county Londonderry, or perhaps it's more politically correct to call it Derry today, when the plantations were set up. No, our ancestors didn't own one, unfortunately. But they managed a few. It took our family centuries to, er, reach the success it has nowadays.”
“That was around 1610. Hmm...In that case, as I said, probably haplogroup U5. The indigenous white inhabitants of the British Isles today, English included, share about 80 per cent of their DNA, being descended from the original inhabitants of the British Isles after the ice sheets receded. Ursula is one of the seven females who contributed to the root stock of the Tribes of Britain. Many Irish are also from the haplogroup U5, as this lineage entered Ireland around 7300 BC or so. So regardless of when your ancestors moved over to Northern Ireland, there is a high U5 probability. Here in England, if you're interested to hear more...?”
“Certainly.” Though, actually, Zoë's head was beginning to swim with all the information.
“The base stock is, of course, Celtic. Later invasions of Romans, Saxons, Angles, Danes, Normans, and so on, contributed the rest of the 20% of the DNA, usually as a cultural elite. That is, of course, until the recent massive immigrations from the third world and Eastern Europe under, if I may get political for a moment—I hope it doesn't make you uncomfortable, but I find it historically fascinating—“ Zoë urged her to continue with a nod, “until Tony Blair and his successors. Who have with their lax immigration policies, with social engineering, changed the DNA of these islands forever.”
Zoë thought about this for a moment and was a little saddened.
“You never know, though. We might find a Viking or a Russian in your ancestors. Both are haplogroup I, with Russians being R1a, and the ancient Norse mostly likely to be R1a or R1b. But, well, I hate to disappoint you, that you come from Vikings or Russians is unlikely. As I said,” Mrs. Foley smiled, “you never know. There might be a little surprise or two. One woman, the whitest woman I've ever seen, collapsed right there where you are sitting when we revealed to her there were alleles, loci from not only the Pygmy but also the Indo-Iranian haplogroups in her chromosomes.”
“All of this is fascinating,” Zoë said. She looked at her watch. “But...”
“I'm guessing you'd like your ancestral DNA test fast tracked as well? Like your pregnancy test, the DNA of your son, and the paternity tests on your children?”
Zoë's wallet was already flipping open.
“Faster tracked.” Her debit card was clutched in impatient fingers. “Make it happen.”
Mrs. Foley placed a hand on Zoë's forearm. “I think you were told the quickest we could do it was—”
“Fifty four hours, fifteen minutes.” Zoë glanced at her ladies' Rolex. “Oh, we were a bit late in arriving. It was the traffic. So 6:15 AM this coming Saturday.”
“For the general public, yes,” Mrs. Foley said. She leaned forward, and her eyes were shining. “I think we have bonded. And I know you're Vera's sister-in-law. I'll let you in on a little secret. We only say it takes so long so that we can bill the police for all our hours of supposed work, for our overtime. A year ago, we upgraded our labs and all the machines in our facilities. We spent millions on a machine that can do the unthinkable, do all the screening, the extraction, the quantitation, the amplification, the detection and the analysis in a fraction of the time. It hasn't been approved by the government for use yet, of course, but as both MI-5 and MI-6 use it, why can't we? Without compunction? We will use the new machine on your samples. Think of this as a friends and family perk. A little bonus. I can't charge you any less; we have the cost of the machinery to think of. But what is more important than money?”
“Time.”
“Precisely. I can get it done for you in,” she looked around to ensure nobody was eavesdropping, “seven hours. You'll have the results around 3:00 AM.”
“I'll be asleep, b
ut ring me nevertheless with the results the moment you get them!”
Zoë had never before kissed a strange woman, but she did now.
* * *
CHAPTER 25
Fionnuala continued to check little boxes off her list. She had crept onto the farm where she went for her well water and stolen a hatchet. It had been just standing there, sticking out of a log between the chicken coop and the pig sty. She took that hatchet to the traffic cone, and now it was a megaphone. It was sitting in a corner back at the caravan with all the other things for her plan.
As she had been tugging the hatchet out of the wood, Fionnuala had spied some horses grazing across the field. Three of them. They were grumpy, ancient and knackered: only a few bits of hair clinging to their skin, teeth worn down, one toothless, riddled with muscle loss and slackening skin. But they were still horses. They weren't in the caravan—there was barely room for Fionnuala herself in there—but on Sunday, she'd take the one that seemed to have the most get-up-and-go. She wanted all three, though, now that ungrateful Siofra had said she wouldn't help her, Fionnuala couldn't imagine how she would trail the other two behind her. Perhaps she would need some sugar cubes to entice them. She had been about to add that to her list as well, but realized she hadn't seen sugar cubes in years. There were only those little packets nowadays, and even with all the different types and different colors, yellow, blue, pink and so on, none of them really seemed to be real sugar. Her best hope was that they were all lonely and liked to stick together, so that they other two would follow them (her and the youngest horse) out of the pasture and down the road into town and the city center.
The hatchet had been a godsend. Another sign that she was doing was what the Lord had created her for, what she had been born to do. That the Lord was sanctioning her actions, helping her even. Perhaps Father Steele couldn't see that a crusade was necessary, but the Lord did.
She had scoured the woodlands around the caravan site with the hatchet and had chopped off seven branches which were long, thick and straight enough to be considered poles. Out of the other twelve hundred (or so it felt) branches she had inspected and that had clawed into her face. Seven poles. Enough for banners and flags for seven brothers and sisters in arms. If she could find these elusive people. But that's what the megaphone was for.
Seven was a grand number, a special number, A religious number. There were the seven deadly sins, the seven holy sacraments, Fionnuala had even seen on a telly program that Rome had seven hills, and she wasn't just Catholic, but Holy Roman Catholic, so the seven hills had to be sacred as well. Then there were the seven things Jesus had said on the cross, and the fact that God had rested on the seventh day. And there was that expression, 'I'm in seventh heaven.' There was even Seven Brides for Seven Brothers, which was one of her mother's favorite musicals and they had watched it on the telly one Sunday afternoon, so that was sort of holy as well. Though...there was also that other film with Brad Pitt and Gwyneth Paltrow's head, Se7en, and that was much less holy.
Twenty minutes earlier, Fionnuala had crept up to the door of Final Spinz under the cloak of darkness. She didn't know why she hadn't thought of it before. She'd been wondering where she would get a sewing machine from, and, of course, there was one at her job. And she had the key. That there was police tape draped across the door, that she wasn't supposed to enter, was of no concern to her at all. As long as the police didn't find out, she'd be fine. And, the way the Lord was looking out for her, she figured she'd be safe.
She'd looked up the street, then down the street. Except for two lads passed out in a pool of vomit at the pub on the corner, she was alone. She'd lifted up the police caution tape, stuck the key in the lock, and slipped inside.
The felt and the fabric were perfect. She was measuring the fabric out now. She had seven poles, so she'd create three banners and four flags. She'd already realized she'd have to go back out to the woods and chop down some more straight branches. She'd need three smaller poles to hang the banners from the poles. She always passed a rusty hammer on her way to the bus station. It was in a ditch filled with empty cider bottles, mangled bicycle wheels, burnt out car engines and two old fridges. She'd get it that night, though she didn't relish the idea of climbing down the ditch in the darkness. But the Lord would protect her, and if he didn't, she could always get a tetanus shot. And there was a telephone pole next to the bus stop that had nails sticking out of it. She would use the hammer to pull them out, then hammer the banner poles into shape, one small pole near the top of the long pole. She was grateful the bus to town was always late, as the endless time in the rain and cold for its arrival had allowed her to inspect every inch of the area around the bus stop. That reconnaissance was coming in quite useful now. She wondered if God had made the bus late every day just so she would know where to secure everything she needed. Probably. And she'd say a wee prayer of thanks to the bus driver as well. She felt bad now for all the abuse she had roared at him every time he (finally) pulled up.
She was satisfied with the quality of the cotton. Her mind quickly calculated the dimensions of the flags and banners. If it had to do with measurements of fabric, she was a genius. She nodded with confidence. The signage, she had heard the word on a few episodes of the Apprentice when the task was a marketing one, would be big and grand. Seen for miles.
Fionnuala wasn't quite sure what lions, or dragons, for that matter, had to do with the crusades. Maybe they had lions in Jerusalem, and perhaps centuries ago dragons had lived there also. But she had seen them over and over again during her research, so she knew they were a necessity. She had to get the banners and flags exactly right. And, especially, the crosses. They were differently shaped ones. Not the basic types you saw in every bedroom with Jesus hanging on it, nor the flowery Celtic ones she had seen in graveyards, but fancy Continental ones, like French ones. Or maybe they were German.
The other day, she couldn't remember the images from the internet at the cafe where she had done her research, and she couldn't imagine herself sitting there sketching them from the screen, not with the Asians babbling around her, so she had gone into the library, crept in amongst the homeless alkies who slept there during its opening hours—longer than those of the police stations—and coughed to cover up the sound of the paper ripping as she tore the pictures out of the book. The History of the Crusades, it was called. It was one of those important reference ones that you couldn't check out of the library, but even if she had been able to check it out, she wouldn't have been able to because they always did a background check when issuing borrowers' cards and Fionnuala had a record.
She set down the bolts of cotton, leaned down, rummaged in her bag, and pulled out the pages from the library book. She spread them out on the table, smoothing out the wrinkles of the folds with her hands. Banners and Flags of the the Crusades, said the top of the page, and there were many, many illustrations of those they had carried into battle centuries before.
Her sewing brain clicked and whirred, calculating if there was enough red felt for the crosses (they were always red in the illustrations), and gold for the lions and dragons (they were always gold), taking into account the sizes of the poles and how much cotton she had for the flags and banners. She felt secure about the crosses. But she didn't know about the lions or the dragons. Exactly how large were these stencils Siofra had gotten for her? If they were too small, how would Fionnuala be able to make them larger? Tape paper to the wall, shine a light behind the stencils, then trace the larger shadow of them on the wall, and then cut that out?
Her bucked teeth gnawed nervously on her lower lip. She glanced at her watch. She wondered if she'd have enough time. She was surprised nobody had come upon her yet, especially as they must be able to see some light from the outside. But then she wasn't surprised, because the Lord was smiling kindly down on her, keeping her safe and urging her on. She reached back into her satchel, grabbed the bottle and took a swig of generic whiskey. She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand.
She felt the harsh alcohol burn the back of her mouth, burn its way down her throat. She shuddered. But now the panic had gone. She smiled and reached into her bag again. She pulled out the stencils. She yowled as if she had stubbed her big toe.
“Feckin bastardy useless cunt! I shoulda done it myself! I knew I shoulda!”
This was not a dragon. She wasn't quite sure what it was meant to be. Perhaps Godzilla? Maybe a Tyrannosaurus Rex? Yes, the big teeth and the tiny claws. A fecking dinosaur! How she wished Siofra's filthy little face were there next to the sewing machine so she could smack it with the strength it deserved. She uncovered the next stencil. She screamed.
Simba from the Lion King smiled up at her. Fionnuala simmered with rage, her body shuddering and convulsing as she stared down at it the cartoon face. Even though Siofra had chosen the adult Simba and not the baby Simba, Fionnuala still sputtered with fury. This...this...fake lion...this lion for wanes!!! bore no resemblance to what she had seen in the library book or on the internet. She stared from one image to the other, though how her eyes could even take anything in, so boiling red with rage was her brain, she couldn't imagine. They were worlds apart. The lions should have been...like the ones in the book! Regal. Standing on their two hind feet, or even elongated (there were two different types), the power shooting out of them. Fionnuala crumpled the stencils in her shuddering fingers, and her hands became fists, and she banged them on the table, and the bolt of white cotton jumped and clattered to the floor and rolled into the corner, and then her fists became hands again and they tossed the crumpled stencils to the table, then picked them up again and ripped them to shreds, and the shreds flew up into the semi-darkness and fluttered back down, past Fionnuala's roaring face and contorting limbs and landed on the floor.
And then came the thought...Siofra had betrayed her. There was no way the girl was so stupid. In fact, Fionnuala had long suspected, and wasn't happy about it, that Siofra was the most clever that the family had ever had, after Moira. And as for that odd Yank-like pep talk her daughter had given her that evening, Fionnuala thought there had been something not quite right about it. Supporting her mother! As if she would! Fionnuala imagined Siofra giggling into her little hand right now, and she wanted to put her in Intensive Care.
Static Cling Page 25