by Fynn Perry
“We don’t live together; we’re divorced.” Jennifer’s mother clarified with a detectable hint of satisfaction. “She’ll be staying with her father like before.” She turned to glare at her ex-husband, her expression stiff with skepticism. “I’m sure he will manage to keep her safe.”
There was an awkward few seconds of silence before Di Luca continued. “The nurse will be along soon with the discharge papers.” He offered a big smile and shook Jessica’s hand with both of his, and added, “Call me if you are concerned about anything . . . anything at all.”
As soon as the doctor had left, her father relaunched his attempt to convince her mother that Jennifer should go and look at mugshots.
“David! Stop being a damn lawyer and be a father for once. She needs to eat properly and rest at home.”
“So now you are playing the concerned mother? When is your flight back to Miami?” he sneered.
“I’ll go tomorrow to look at the mugshots. Just stop arguing!” Jennifer yelled out and then looked immediately apologetic as she saw the shock on her parents’ faces.
“You’re upsetting her!” her mother seethed at her ex-husband.
Nurse Bailey returned, holding the discharge papers. Leaning over Jennifer, she whispered with a wink, “So you convinced the doc you’re not a nut. Well done. I was starting to wonder back there.”
“Me too!” Jennifer whispered with a smile. If I actually told you what I’ve seen, you’d have me in a straitjacket and rubber room before I could even blink, she thought.
Her mother took the documents from the nurse and signed them immediately. She gave them back without even looking at David. The nurse raised an eyebrow at David’s apparent impotence in the matter and winked again at Jennifer. “Good luck!” she mouthed before leaving the room.
As Jennifer tried to get dressed as quickly as possible, her father’s phone pinged. He read the text message. “I’ve got to go to the 109th Precinct—now,” he said.
“Your daughter is being discharged from the hospital and you can’t take her back home before going back to work?” Jessica Miller said, glaring.
“It’s to do with the attack!”
“Can’t it wait? You heard the doctor. She needs familiar surroundings to recover—like being driven home in your car rather than a cab. Be a parent!”
Jennifer felt this was unfair. Her father had always been protective of her. Finding his daughter’s attacker would, in his mind, amount to him being a proper father. It was just how he was wired. She knew there was only so much of her mother’s criticism that he could take without biting back, but somehow, he’d once again managed to keep his cool and not make a scene.
“The detective called me earlier to say that one of the pub staff was having a cigarette at the time of the attack—he saw the whole thing and is now in the station to look at mugshots.”
Her mother simply stared. “Just go. You’re more interested in the case than your daughter. We’ll take a cab to your house. Just let me know when you are planning to come home so I can leave for my hotel.”
Her comment came as no surprise to Jennifer. Ever since the divorce, her parents had avoided spending any time together, and the fact that they had tolerated each other for as long as they had in her hospital room was some kind of achievement. What did amaze her, as her father kissed her good-bye, was that neither of her parents had asked if she would like to go and see John. It was of no consequence, of course, as she was now sure she had already seen him.
John had hoped that this time he might wake up mortal, but that hadn’t happened. He’d have liked to see Jennifer before her parents arrived that morning, but when he got to her floor, he spotted them in the corridor, already walking toward her room. After following them for a minute, he heard her father say that he was expecting a call from Detective Williams with an update on the case. John decided to stay back, out of Jennifer’s sight, not knowing how she would react to seeing him again.
That was fifteen minutes ago. Now, seeing the expression of determination on her father’s face as he left his daughter’s bedside, John figured that his reunion with Jennifer could wait. Following her father might be a better idea because it might lead to news of his attacker. As they approached David Miller’s Volvo station wagon, John readied himself for his first journey as a spirit.
Sitting in the passenger seat right next to his girlfriend’s father, yet knowing he was completely invisible, was strange enough. But not being able to feel the vibrations and bumps in the road when he momentarily lost focus and started sinking through his seat was even weirder.
As they entered Flushing, the main business district in Queens, the rumble of the tires and David Miller’s humming were drowned out by the noise of car horns, sirens, jackhammers, and truck engines. The sea of yellow cabs, the energy, and the bustle on the streets had not yet lost their wonder for John, who was new to New York, but today they paled into insignificance compared to what he could additionally see.
He had seen several spirits on the way to Flushing, but never as many as were in the view that now confronted him. They were amid the crowds, on street corners, in alleys, in cars, buses, taxis—spirits of every type of person he could imagine, from crackheads to executives, soldiers to policemen, young and old. Some of the spirit kids were running, completely wild, into and through oncoming traffic, laughing and screaming. In the distance, John saw spirits jumping from one vehicle roof to another, making a fast path through the slow crawl of traffic.
A sleek Porsche coupe sped past them on John’s side of the car, taking him by surprise because of the female spirit crouching on the roof. Like a surfer riding a wave, she was clearly in her element. Their eyes met and he was sure she nodded at him and smiled. Seconds later, a second car carrying another spirit ‘surfing’ on its roof rushed past; this time it was a long-haired guy in his twenties, whooping and laughing as his ride—a black Camaro muscle car weaving in and out of the traffic—seemingly in pursuit of the Porsche.
“Fucking idiots,” David sighed as the loud crackling and popping sounds from the high-performance engine exhausts and flashing brake lights of the two cars racing gradually faded ahead of them.
Ten minutes later, Jennifer’s father pulled his car into an empty spot outside the 109th police precinct in Flushing. John followed him inside and watched as he introduced himself as David Miller to the desk sergeant and asked for Detective Williams.
He was told to sit and wait on a wooden bench. It was unoccupied and he sat down, with John sitting about a foot away from him. For a moment the lobby was quiet. There were just the three of them, including the desk sergeant. However, the lingering smells of old coffee, stale sweat, and cologne suggested this was just a pause in a high-traffic area. Seconds later, the external doors burst open and two cops dragged in a man, possibly in his thirties, proclaiming his innocence regarding a drug possession charge. His appearance––all sinew and bone with deeply socketed eyes and yellowed teeth—suggested his record was not entirely clean. Directly behind him was the spirit of a woman of similar age, with the same haggard look. They might have been a couple, might have taken drugs together, but only he had survived the habit so far. Perhaps she had stayed on Earth to wait for him so they could move on together, John thought.
As the officers pulled the man toward the desk, John’s gaze was drawn to their holstered guns. Back in Dublin, the police, or Garda, as they were known, didn't carry guns. They had to call upon a special, armed-response unit for assistance. He understood why it was different here. This was New York, after all––different country, different level of danger and different gun laws—but after two months, he still couldn’t get used to seeing officers bearing arms. Not that a stray bullet could harm him now.
As the group around the arrested man disappeared through a set of internal doors, John recognized a figure now approaching David Miller. It was the detective he had seen the previous evening in the hospital.
“Hi, David. Sorry you had to w
ait. But I’ve got some good news. Since sending you that text, we’ve had another walk-in witness, someone answering one of the flyers we handed out in the neighborhood asking for help. She didn’t recognize the attacker from any of the pictures of known muggers that we have on file, that live in the area, and match the general description provided by witness statements on the night of the incident. But she did sit down with one of our technicians and we now have a facial composite. Pretty good, too. If the first witness, who works at the bar, recognizes him, we’ll canvass the immediate neighborhood with this picture and send it to other precincts. So, we’re just about to start. I can’t let you sit in, of course, but you can look in on the meeting through the viewing-room window. This is a favor, David. You can’t say anything. You can’t do anything.”
This was better than John had expected. He eagerly followed them out of the lobby and past two large pens containing several desks, one populated with uniformed officers and the other with what he assumed were detectives in plain clothes.
Detective Williams showed David Miller to a door marked Observation Room 1, which was right next to another bearing a sign that said Interview Room 1.
John followed Jennifer’s father in a dimly lit and cramped room of which half of one wall was one-way glass looking into Interview Room 1, where a thin man was slouching in a chair at a table. He was in his thirties with an embryonic beard and scruffy hair, and his hands were hidden in the pockets of his hoodie. John realized he had seen this guy before, during practice sessions with his band or while doing various jobs around O’Donnell’s. There had always been a nervous energy about him. He figured he must be an employee of Donovan’s—and the first witness to the stabbing.
Not content with observing at a distance, John passed through the wall into Interview Room 1 and stood behind the employee. He turned to see Detective Williams enter the room with a large pile of mugshot printouts, which he spread out over the table. There must have been about fifteen. The O’Donnell’s employee sat straight and examined them one by one. They were head shots of men of various ages, ranging from a few that looked almost respectable, to others you wouldn’t trust with your cat.
The employee looked at them all, and finally came to the last one. “Can’t see him anywhere here,” he said with obvious relief.
There was a knock at the door, and the detective beckoned in a female assistant.
She handed him an iPad in a robust case. “Detective Williams, here’s the composite you asked for.”
The detective looked at it quickly and slid it along the table so that it came to rest in front of the man from O’Donnell’s. Startled, John instantly recognized the deep-set eyes, bulbous nose, and full lips before him. Up until this moment, he could not recall seeing the attacker’s face. But now he realized he must have seen it––if only for a second––just enough for the image to get imprinted deep within his subconscious.
In that instant John heard, “Not him.” The words came from the employee, his voice weak and unconvincing. Clearing his throat, he repeated more forcefully, “Not him.” He took his hands out of his pockets and rested his elbows on the table with his mouth hidden behind clasped hands.
“Are you sure, Mr. McGinty? I’ve been doing this a long time. I think you recognized him.”
The employee cleared his throat again before reconfirming his opinion.
The words of the employee and detective echoed around John’s head as he tried to make sense of them. It was clear this guy was lying, but what could he do? He just stood there silent and invisible. Helpless.
“So, wait here and we’ll get our sketch artist to do another composite,” Williams offered.
“I really can’t remember anything of his face—it’s all a blur.”
“You said you had a good look when we first asked you!” Williams persisted.
“I’m sorry—I can’t help you.”
“If I find out you’re concealing the attacker’s identity, Mr. McGinty, this won’t end well for you. This is an attempted murder charge. Do you understand?”
“Yes,” McGinty answered, his voice small now.
“You’re free to go…for now.”
John felt his anger rise. The O’Donnell’s employee had just become the focus for all his frustration. Leaving the detective and Jennifer’s father to their follow-up meeting, John caught up with McGinty outside the precinct. He followed him down the crowded street, weaving in and out between the mortals: a mother kneeling to attend to her small child who had fallen over; roller skaters slaloming through seemingly stationary pedestrians; fast-walking, suit-wearing business types and dozy tourists with gaping mouths and city guides in hand. Some seemed to attract the attention of passing spirits, others did not.
As McGinty crossed a side street, a battered blue Chevy Caprice pulled up, blocking his path. Both he and John bent over to get a look at the driver. It was Jim Donovan.
“Get in!” Donovan ordered.
As McGinty got in, so did John by passing through the rear passenger door. Streams of Whiskey by The Pogues was playing inside the car until Donovan turned the music down.
“Well? Took you long enough!” he snapped, staring at McGinty as he drove on.
“They had a composite photo of the guy I saw.”
“What?”
“From another witness.”
“Shit! But you didn’t confirm it was him, right?”
McGinty said nothing.
“Right?” Donovan pressed, his voice now louder.
“No, of course not. I did like you said.” McGinty paused a moment. “I’m taking a risk for you, lying to the police’n’all.”
“Are you fuckin’ trying to blackmail me, because I know you ain’t got a conscience. If you wanna keep slinging dope in my pub, you’ll do what I tell you to. Do you really want to cross me, you little shit?”
The car screeched to a halt. “Get the fuck out. Remember, I know people.”
The employee nodded apologetically and got out.
John remained seated as Donovan drove off. He was in shock. His father’s best friend was involved in his stabbing? How was that possible?
The engine rattled and grated as Donovan angrily gunned it, cussing to himself. The route they now followed suggested they were going to O’Donnell’s.
O’Donnell’s sat low among its taller neighbors in the Queens borough of Jamaica. The Star-Spangled Banner, soaked and heavy from the previous night’s rain, hung by the main entrance at the midpoint of a row of green canopies. Each one of the etched glass windows beneath the canopies bore an elaborate pattern of curlicues framing either the words Public Bar or Fine Food & Spirits. The ‘fine food’ part, in John’s opinion, was a gross misrepresentation and the spirits, he suspected, were watered down.
Donovan parked at the rear next to John’s BMW, which was still where John had left it on the night of the attack. He loved that car. His father had bought it for him the same day he got his own Maserati. Not a day went by without him appreciating how fortunate he and his father had been. If his father hadn’t sold acres of Irish farmland to Hewlett Packard in the eighties just at the right time, he wouldn’t have had the money to invest in the subsequent property deals that made him even richer. They wouldn’t be living in a luxurious condo in New York, he would never have driven that BMW, and he wouldn’t be in line to inherit a successful property development business.
John had never taken the time to look at the rear of the pub during the day, but as he waited for Donovan to haul himself out of the car, he noticed that “the old girl,” as Donovan called the place, was peeling paint from rotting timbers and the lack of mortar in places gave the illusion of some of the bricks not being fixed but floating in the walls.
John had found out only a few months ago why his father had continued to invest in the pub after generously helping Donovan to buy it when the man was nearly broke, and when it clearly had become a money pit. Recently, he had confronted his father after finding in his study
some of the half-baked financial reports, showing consistently poor results that had been sent by Jim once a year. When he’d suggested that Donovan was either a terrible businessman or suffering from a drinking problem—or both—his father’s response had shocked him.
He told his son that Jim Donovan had saved his life in what could have been a fatal car accident when they had both been teenagers, and that that kind of debt could never be repaid. Embarrassed, his father went on to explain how he had crashed the car into a tree following a drinking binge. Jim, who had been following behind, had pulled him out in the nick of time, before the vehicle had caught fire.
Donovan now wandered toward the door at the back of the pub. Unclipping a bunch of keys from a belt loop on his jeans, he thumbed his way through them and opened a series of locks with the systematic efficiency of a prison guard. John followed him in, past kegs of beer and boxes of dubious-looking French wine, all stacked against one wall of a narrow corridor. John recalled Jim explaining that the wine had been bought ‘for the ladies and stuck-up buggers.’ The Irishman definitely wasn’t going to fit with the ongoing gentrification of this area, where gourmet prepared-food delis and health food restaurants were slowly replacing greasy takeouts and bodegas.
John had never been upstairs but he suspected that’s where Donovan’s living quarters were. As he followed him up the staircase, he was expecting to find a comfortable apartment funded with his father’s money, but instead it turned out to be much like the rest of the pub––dark and dated.
Jim pulled off his coat and threw it on one of the sofas. He dropped himself into a spot on the nearest couch and let out a loud sigh and an expletive. John hadn’t taken much notice of Jim’s tattoos before, but now they caught his eye and he had time to study them. They covered his forearms like sleeves: intertwined, monochromatic Celtic symbols and female figures—all mystical and unmistakably Irish.