Best Served Frozen (The Irish Lottery Series Book 4)

by Gerald Hansen

  Unable to help herself, Mrs. McDaid beamed with pride, and she touched the gray fuzzlets of hair that poked out of her scarf, and now the mop was held like a scepter. She was queen of her kingdom, listening to the words from Fionnuala's chapped lips, and what a fine kingdom it was. The chapped lips continued flapping. “I've brought me Siofra here along with me as proof of yer lads' kindness and generosity, like.”

  Fionnuala looked down at Siofra's still-bobbing, still-sobbing head. She paused, having given the girl her cue. Siofra was like a wind-up toy whose only function was to shuffle there on the floor you wouldn't dare eat off of, wring her hands, sprout tears and mew miserably. Fionnuala smacked the back of her head to prompt her into action.

  “Aye,” Siofra managed through her tears. She took a breath, tugged her tights a bit, then the words poured out: “I was desperate for a wile dear communion frock, the Maria Theresa, for me first holy communion that me mammy didn't have the funds to afford, so I was. She wanted me to have it, but. I heard her crying about it late one night sitting at the table in the scullery when she hadn't a clue I was listening in. And I came here with me hand out, and Caoilte, Fergal and Eamonn give me the money. They was effin magic! I got the parasol, the tights, the Andromeda veil, and me mammy scrabbled together enough for to get me the flashing tiara and all!”

  Under the veil, Fionnuala stifled her smile. Word perfect! Siofra's amateur dramatic skills were miles better than Padraig's. She would be a natural on the stage, if the delivery of the soliloquy she had demanded the girl memorize was anything to go by. Wondering if she should sign Siofra up for those acting classes down at the youth center on a Wednesday night and how much they might cost, she moved on to the next stage of her scam: their shared religious upbringing and all it taught, appealing to Mrs. McDaid's sense of Catholic benevolence. And she had been lucky enough to notice poking from the tattered housekeeping smock, as if the Lord's holy hands had draped it across the woman's bosoms for Fionnuala's benefit—

  “Och, ye've the same wee cross on as I've got, so ye do! Would ye credit it?” She fiddled with her gold-plated crucifix as Mrs. McDaid looked down in surprise at her own. “I wear me wee cross with pride, as I'm sure you do. As I think every good Catholic should. The female ones at least. Lovely, doesn't they be? Did ye get yers down at Knock and all? From that Marian Shrine gift shop?”

  “Aye, surely, on that bus run last year. Mines's bigger than yers, but,” Mrs. McDaid said, as if that somehow made her holier than Fionnuala, closer to the Pearly Gates. Fionnuala didn't rise to the bait.

  “C'mere,” she said with a strained lightness, “they was terrible dear, but. Do ye not agree?”

  Mrs. McDaid stifled a chortle, “Och, catch yerself on! I lifted it from the gift shop when yer woman behind the counter's head was turned, sure! As I'm sure ye did and all.”

  Fionnuala's veil bobbed up and down. Mrs. McDaid had caught her out. But not, she thought, about the most important thing: the reason they were there.

  “Entertaining as this stroll down memory lane be's,” Mrs. McDaid's tone said it was anything but, “Would ye kindly get to the point, woman? What's all this palaver about mourning? There'll be no need for me to mop the front hall with them wanes flooding the floor with tears. What are ye mourning? Or, more to the point, who? And what's it to do with me? Somebody I know?”

  There was a silence marred only by the squealing of the infants bunched together as one in the stroller. Then Fionnuala, Siofra and Padraig, as they had rehearsed earlier that morning before the mirror on the door of Fionnuala's wardrobe, wailed in unison:

  “Wer Dymphna!”

  “I loved me sister,” Siofra wailed.

  “And I miss her,” Padraig grumbled.

  Fionnuala continued, voice hoarse with the tragedy of it all: “Pride of the family, a ray of sunshine in wer lives of gray, the wee girl was, a young mother with all her life ahead of her, and yesterday...yesterday... They found her lifeless in the fish and chip van, ye know she worked there, aye? And now there be's a broken-hearted fiancé with nobody now to take to the altar in holy matrimony. Aye, I know her promised be's an Orange Proddy bastard, but he be's a human with feelings nevertheless, and we've laid down a deposit for a reception at the Rocking Seamaid which we're never gonny see the light of no matter how we try. And them two wee poor, innocent, precious even, infants in the pram over there, now left orphans. Ye might think they be's screaming bloody murder as their nappies need changing, but it be's the absence of their loving mammy they feel. Infants know when their mammy has been taken away from them, ye know. And perhaps word hadn't gotten out, but wer precious Dymphna was up the scoot again. Aye! She had a third on the way. A wee young one growing within her womb. So that be's two lives snuffed out in one fell swoop! Oh, the humanity!”

  She buried her head in her hands. Her shoulders heaved, wracked with anguish. She reached out to her children's frail shoulders and clutched them for support. She didn't know what that last bit of her speech meant, but she had caught the tail end of a documentary about the Hindenburg on the telly the night before, and threw it in for good measure. It sounded dramatic.

  “And all this,” Fionnuala sobbed, “at the tender age of...” her lips could barely form the word, “...eighteen.” It was a strangled whisper.

  Fionnuala knew damn well Dymphna was almost twenty-three—she had counted off each birthday around the cake in a pointy paper hat with a sense of disgust, every year the girl got older, so did Fionnuala—but a mother of two with another on the way at 'the tender age of eighteen' somehow seemed more tragic. She would've said sixteen, but that would bring her parenting skills into question. Mrs. McDaid seemed unmoved in any event. She was staring at her in incomprehension. Fionnuala sidled over to her, using the children's shoulders as a handrail, and pressed her fingers against a forearm that felt like what she imagined a dead rhino's carcass might feel like.

  “I know I can rely on ye, love,” Fionnuala whispered to Mrs. McDaid, eying her cross meaningfully, “for to do the right thing.”

  Mrs. McDaid struggled to understand.

  “Like...attend the funeral, ye mean? Send a flower or two? I've never met yer wee girl, like! Laid eyes on her, aye, staggering outta the pubs at closing time with her arms draped around a fella more times than not, and last June I passed her as she was vomiting into her handbag outside Austin's on the Diamond. Aiming for her handbag, anyroad. The blootered bitch missed, and I almost trod in it and all. Spewed up and down the length of the cobblestones, so she did. And roared drunken abuse at me as I passed. Och, and I mind now. She always serves me a curry chips from that van in the city center where she worked. Always used to serve me, anyroad, now she's gone, like. She shortchanged me on a twenty pound note once and wouldn't give me back what was due me after I pointed it out. Said it was me own fault for not counting me change before I left the van, but how could I do that with me hands full of chips and all me shopping? They've new signs posted everywhere saying the chips now be's made with that swanky new goose fat. Kyanny detect no difference in the taste, but, and fifty pee a portion more they be's charging. Never felt so fleeced. And she always under weighed me cheddar when she was working behind the meat and cheese counter at the Top-Yer-Trolly a few years back and all. It's a terrible tragedy she's gone but, aye, I'll grant ye that, and I feel for ye. No parent should lose a child. But...for the third time, I think it must be now, what's this to do with me? I've the patience of a saint, so I do, everyone tells me so; me patience won't be long in fleeing, but, I can tell ye.”

  “It was the drugs,” Fionnuala revealed with another sob. “The drugs has gone and killed her. An overdose, she took, and the light was snuffed outta a young girl's, a young mother's life. Yer sons' filthy drugs!”

  She paused to let it sink in. Her eyes twinkled their accusation. Mrs. McDaid blinked. She thrust off Fionnuala's hand. She bristled with anger. She brandished the mop menacingly.

  “Och, I kyanny be dealing with this foolishness no
w. I haven't the time nor the disposition. How can ye possibly know it was me sons' drugs to blame? Let alone, it be's more like yer Dymphinia's simple mindedness for shoveling em down her throat. What was she doing...an overdose, ye say? Scoffing em down like sweeties? Flimmin daft cow!”

  “Dodgy E's it was. It's all over town, sure. Since yer three lads broke outta prison, ye've had em holed up somewheres, fugitives of the law. Some says down yer auntie Lily's in Creggan Heights, others across the border at yer second cousin Susie's in Muff, some says right here in the loft upstairs. And right back to their filthy drug pushing they went, poisoning the wanes of wer town with their disgusting, godless wares. And I'll remind ye her name be's Dymphna, not Dymphinia.”

  “Why are youse here, for the love of God?” Mrs. McDaid implored more to the heavens than the Floods.

  “Compensation!” Fionnuala barked. All jumped at the sudden rage. “I'm here as ye're gonny pay for yer lads' mistakes, and I do mean pay. After the litany of bother yer family's put us through, and now with wer Dymphna lying cold on a slab, the least ye can do is brush off them cobwebs from that handbag of yers, reach inside and give us what we be's due. Don't ye think?”

  She stared at the woman expectantly.

  “Yer story be's pure tugging me heartstrings,” Mrs. McDaid said, “I don't think. Ye've not an ounce of proof me lads was involved. Sure, there are drug pushers on every corner down the town. Sometimes it's terrible difficult for me to make me way through the doors of the Top-Yer-Trolly to do me weekly messages,” shopping “from pushing them to the side. Ye said yerself yer Eoin was involved in it and all. Maybe he give em to that slapper of a daughter of yers. And that Dymphna of yers was always mindless even without the help of me sons drugs deranging her brains further, if I recall. That randy cow of a slag of yers seems to have been born doing the splits. Tell me now, have youse special ordered a Y-shaped coffin for her?”

  “Ye spiteful cunt!”

  “Pay youse off, but? Pay ye for yer grief? Aye, surely I will...” She placed the mop against the wall, made a quick trip to the kitchen, materialized, handbag in fist, and made to reach inside. Fionnuala deflated with relief. The Floods, except the infants, leaned forward, their heads craning forward, their eyes following Mrs. McDaid's hands as they reached for her wallet. Gone was the grief. Replaced with greed. Mrs. McDaid tugged out a can of mace and pointed it at them. “...in me arse! Not a rusty ha'penny piece are youse getting from me! Now, clear on off outta here, the lot of youse or I'll spray youse to Altnagelvin Hospital!” Mrs. McDaid roared. “The stench from that pram has the sick shooting up me throat. I'm about to boke.”

  “Where are they? Where's them murdering bastard sons of yers? Where've ye got em holed up? Lemme up at that loft of yers! Holed up there, themmuns must be! Yer auntie Lily's only got the one bedroom, after all! Lemme at em! I'm a grieving mother, and I kyanny be held responsible for me actions. Lemme at em!”

  Fionnuala thrust the stroller aside and barreled towards the stairs to get at the attic. Mrs. McDaid dropped the mace, grabbed the mop and tossed it like a javelin. Fionnuala's right foot reached for the first step, but found the mop handle. She crumpled against the wallpaper and landed on her arse. The children hid their sniggers behind their hands, fearful their mother would see them and the retribution that would ensue.

  “Outta me house!” Mrs. McDaid roared. “All of youse! Money-grabbing arseholes, the lot of youse! Out of me house now!”

  She grabbed the stroller and, as Fionnuala struggled to haul herself upright, flung open the door and shoved it outside.

  “Bleedin deadly!” Padraig chortled, jumping up and down and clapping his hands with glee at the sight of the stroller stuffed full of shrieking infants bouncing down the steps. It crashed against the front gate. A baby bottle filled with fizzy lemonade popped out and rolled in the weeds.

  “Piggin child abuse!” Fionnuala yelled, fixing the lattice of her veil, the spittle spraying from her lips. She staggered on a broken heel towards the door with as much dignity as she could muster, which wasn't much. “C'mere, youse wanes. Let's clear on off outta this house of sin. It's not a suitable location for any of us. And you, ye heartless bitch...” She singled out Mrs. McDaid with a shuddering finger as she tripped over the doorstep. “I'll be down to the Filth shop to tell them all about it! And all about yer sons and all!”

  “Och, tell me hole!” Mrs. McDaid snorted as Fionnuala shepherded Padraig and Siofra into the pelting rain outside. “As if ye'd grass us up to the peelers! Ye know you and yours would be stoned the next day! Or tarred and feathered!”

  She had her there. Fionnuala knew well that, in the Moorside, snitching to the police was a social crime on par with pedophilia, maybe even worse.

  “Ye cunt ye!” Fionnuala called towards the slamming door. “Ye'd do well to clear on off outta town, the misery ye've caused not only me but other good, God-fearing mothers, the palaver they've had to put up with with their wanes turned to mindless druggies and alkies thanks to them fecking bastard sons of yers! Florida's misery is Derry's celebration. I'm happy to see the back of youse all! And ye've a fat, shapeless arse and all! And ye'd do well to have that Molly add a bit of color to yer hair and all!”

  But the door had long since closed. There wasn't even a flickering of the net curtains.

  Fionnuala smiled at a passing stranger. And when he rounded the corner, something she now realized was on his forehead made her clutch her chest in shock.

  “Och, for the love of—! It's bloody Ash fecking Wednesday! We've to get to church to get blessed with them ashes, wanes.”

  As Siofra and Padraig whined their protest, Fionnuala's mind ran through the Rolodex of Derry's churches she had in a special corner of her brain. “We can cut through the industrial estate and make it over to St. Columb's in ten minutes. C'mon, wanes. Padraig, you wheel that pram.”

  They moaned, but followed their mother, steps dragging.

  “The frost be's barely gone from the ground!” Fionnuala snarled. “It comes effin earlier every year, for Christ's sake!”

  When they got to the abandoned estate, dilapidated warehouses surrounding them, rusty barbed wire all around, Padraig handed off the pram to Siofra, ran up and rugged on his mother's elbow.

  “Leave me in head peace, wane,” Fionnuala spat.

  “We've done what ye asked at the McDaid's,” Padraig said, staring at her expectantly through the greasy lenses of his yellow specs, “And ye promised me Grand Theft Auto for me part in it. After the ashes, are we off to the Top Yer Trolly for to get it?”

  Siofra whined from behind, “And I want me Little Princess Wets Her Pants dolly and all.”

  Fionnuala whipped the veil from her head and snarled down at them. So much mascara had fled from her eyes, she looked like she was auditioning for the Black and White Minstrels.

  “Youse was useless in there! Did ye see me get me mitts on some money? Selfish wee cunts!”

  The children raised their hands and wailed as Fionnuala's palm sliced through the rain towards them. It halted, to their shock, then started to tremble, then shake. Siofra and Padraig gasped as a unit as their mother's body shuddered before them, twitched and shook as if she had thrown a radio into the bathtub with her. Then it collapsed at their feet.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Rain clattered down on the roof of the fish and chip van. Rory Riddell passed the portion of curry chips through the slot of the serving hatch. His fingers trembled. His eyes, speckled with bloody veins from endless pints of lager the night before, were now swollen with tears.

  “Ta,” he said, scooping up the coins and tossing them in the open drawer of the register. He turned and picked up the knife to continue chopping. Fresh tears would soon be rolling down his cheeks. Rory heard the old woman's exaggerated sigh of discontent, the clicking of her dentures even over the rain and the blare of Rihanna from the grease-spattered radio in the corner next to the slightly stale burger buns—she had been insisting for what seemed like y
ears now that 'we found love in a hopeless place' (Rihanna, not the customer). He turned back around, wiping his eyes, knife clutched in his bony fist.

  “C'mere a wee moment there, boyo,” she said. Over the shelf poked haggard eyes, a row of too-perfect teeth and the daisies of her plastic rain cap, scanty wisps of pinkish hair splayed underneath. And the styrofoam container. She had pried it open and peered within. She eyed Rory, eyes glinting with irritation. “I think ye forgot to scoop the rest in, like. I didn't ask for a half portion.”

  “Them be's the size of the portions.”

  “And here was me thinking that with the rise in prices, ye'd increase the size of the portions, not make em smaller. I'd need larger eyes or a smaller stomach for this to make sense.”

  “The rise in prices be's down to the new goose fat, sure. Dead dear, so it is.”

  She peered at him with suspicion. The container wafting curry steam through the raindrops remained an accusation on the shelf.

  “Where's the wee girl what normally be's serving here?” the woman asked. “A lovely full portion of curry chips she always gives me, so's the container can barely shut and the curry be's seeping out the sides.” To make her point, she rattled the container, and the few chips within tumbled sadly through the gooey brownish curry sauce. “And two serviettes. And a wee fork to eat with.”

  “That might be the reason me mammy keeps blathering on that this van hasn't been turning a profit, hi.”

  He handed over another napkin and a plastic fork.

  “Sometimes the wee girl throws in a free sausage roll as a bonus, what with—”

  “And that and all.”

  “—me being an old aged pensioner on a fixed income, like, struggling to make ends meet. And a smile when I'm ordering, she's be's happy to give, which is more than can be said for you. Though how she can be smiling, what with them two infants of hers howling in the pram next to that vat what be's spitting what ye're calling that new goose fat of yers, I kyanny fathom. And looks like she's another on the way and all, another wane, I'm talking about, the size of her stomach lately. Unless she be's scoffing down chips in the van all day long. I wouldn't know what it be's like to have a stomach full of chips, but, as...” She rattled the container again.