Best Served Frozen (The Irish Lottery Series Book 4)

by Gerald Hansen

  “Tell me now what ye did or I'm gonny clatter ye, Jed! We're standing penniless, without a pence to wer name, here in the middle of nowhere in Derry! And I wanny know why! How!”

  “I—I knew we were in international air, so I knew there were no restrictions on online gambling—”

  “Och, for the love of God!” A sharp pain attacked her breastplate. She heaved huge breaths.

  “I was winning and winning on this one slot machine. Something about ancient Egypt. And I kept playing and playing and winning and winning. I was up to $5000! And then I started to lose. And I lost and lost. And then I put more money from my card onto the site. And then a message popped up that my card had no more money. I had to win the money back! I had to get back up to $5000 again! Your purse was at my feet. Remember you put it there so you could stretch your feet out more? So I found your credit card and then—”

  “Ye daft eejit! Och, don't waste yer foolish, goofy breath to tell me any more! Sure, I can write the sad, desperate script meself! I know exactly what happened. I'm raging, Jed! Absolutely raging! What are we meant to do? Where are we meant to stay? What are we meant to eat?!”

  Tears of rage and anger cascaded down her face. She smacked away Jed's comforting hands. The hands that had flown over the keys of the laptop and put them where they were now. Mortified, terrified, hungry.

  Jed adjusted his glasses. “Slim—”

  “When does yer pension get paid into your account?”

  “Not for two weeks.”

  She would've smacked him with her handbag, but she was too worn out, too grieved, too weak with hunger and, frankly, feeling too old at that moment to summon the violence. She dried her tears as she thought. This was their reality, and she needed to think, not cry. She fondled her crucifix while she thought.

  Ursula had brought along three pound coins she still had left over from their last visit to Derry, and this was now all the funds they had.

  “We kyanny stand here in the street and argue no more. What's done is done. There be's ways today to get money transferred immediately to wer cards. Let's see who we can get to do it. Let's sit on that...does it be a bench?”

  She motioned to a bus stop up the street, with those tiny slivers of plastic that folded up and were meant to be folded down and perched on with half your bottom. Actual sitting was impossible. They rolled their suitcases to the bus stop and perched.

  First they used their cellphones and tried to call their children (yes, they had three, Egbert, Vaughn and Gretchen) but all they got was voice mail; it was the middle of the night in the states where the kids lived (Texas, Colorado and Washington), then they tried to call Slim, but he was still in the hospital, then they tried Louella at home, but there was no answer there. And then the batteries of their phones died in tandem. And then they searched for payphones, trailing their suitcases behind them, but of the three they were surprised and grateful to find, one had no receiver, one was out of order, and one accepted only phone cards, but they didn't know where to buy a card, and all the shops seemed closed, except for one Sav-U-Mor that was lowering its metal shutters. Ursula rushed in, but then realized she didn't have the money to buy a phone card in any event. She bought a Crunchie chocolate bar with one of her three pound coins, cracked it in half, and they each ate their share there in the doorway of the shop. Two pounds left.

  Then it began to rain, and one of the wheels of Jed's suitcase fell off. They went to Francine's to ask if they could stay there—Ursula couldn't bring herself to ask for money—but Francine had her sister, her brother-in-law, their three children, and the wane of her oldest daughter and the wane's father and the wane's father's sister staying with her for the weekend. It was one of the lot's birthday, Ursula couldn't quite make out whose. There was no place to fit them. Then they had gone to Molly's, but Molly was on holiday, two weeks in Ibiza with a complimentary hour at the hotel spa thrown in, so they were told by her neighbor, she had left two days ago, and the night before squatters had broken into Molly's semi-detached house and set up camp, nine or ten of them it seemed, with black clothes and studs and piercings and unwashed hair and music that blared until all hours, this from the neighbor as well. They went to Mrs. McDonald, who had been under Ursula's care when Ursula was an Osteocare provider, and who had told Ursula she had been so kind and if there was anything she could do for her in the future don't hesitate to ask, and Ursula had thanked her, but secretly laughed at the time, as how could Mrs. McDonald ever be of help to her, a lovely woman, but she could barely move, but when Mrs. McDonald opened the door, it was clear she was suffering from dementia, so she couldn't even remember Ursula, though Ursula tried to jog her memory for half an hour, singing songs the woman had enjoyed back when she was her carer, “All Kinds Of Everything” was one, and retelling her some jokes they had laughed at while watching an episode of Mr. Bean all those years ago, “Ye mind when yer man was in the loo and had to dry himself?” But Mrs. McDonald wouldn't let them in. Ursula was now a stranger.

  And finally they trudged through the rain, past hooded teens who smirked at them on street corners and clutched bottles of beer in their hands, and landed on the doorstep of the rectory of St. Moluag's, where Ursula had sung in the choir until she had been asked to leave, and she hoped to find home Father Hogan who, after the lottery win, Ursula had handed several checks for the collection plate. Several very large checks.

  Ursula heaved up the big brass knocker and pounded on the massive oak door. Again and again, desperate attacks on the wood. The door creaked open. Father Hogan appeared before them. He gasped and took a step back in alarm. Ursula's mascara was running from the tears and the rain, her purple bob a mess, Jed's cowboy hat sagging, sopping, on his head, their suitcases heavy, their hearts heavier, hunger and despair etched on their faces.

  “Ursula!”

  “Hello, Father. And this is me husband, Jed. I think ye met him?”

  “Of course. Jed.” Whether he remember meeting Jed or not, he smiled kindly at him. Jed did his best to smile back. “Whatever brings you here? I thought you were in the States?”

  “Aye, I am. We're here now in Derry, but, for a funeral. Three nights, we're here for.”

  “Och, a terrible shame. The funeral, I mean, not yer stay.”

  “Are ye not doing the funeral tomorrow? Dymphna Flood?”

  “Dymphna? But..naw, she must belong to another church now. I haven't seen her in donkey's.”

  “Anyroad, Father, that doesn't be why we're here. Why we're here be's...”

  Ursula faltered. She couldn't remember if gambling was a sin. There was, of course, church bingo, but maybe that was a special type of gambling the Lord allowed. She still thought gambling might be a sin, so she blurted out: “We was attacked by yobs the moment we stepped off the bus from Belfast! A drunken pack of hooligan teens, yelling abuse at us, so they were, as they threatened us with screwdrivers what looked like they'd been sharpened and demanded we empty wer pockets. Everything, they took! Down the pub pouring wer money down their hateful bakes I'm sure they are at the moment.”

  Father Hogan looked down with some surprise at the handbag that swayed from Ursula's elbow.

  “They tossed me handbag back to me after they took everything out. Only me tissues and lipsticks be's left inside, like. And a Tic Tac or two. Penniless, we are, Father! Och, I know it be's like a scene from the nativity, but is there any way we can spend the night with ye? Plus the next two nights, actually?”

  He looked as if Ursula had asked him to go pole dancing with her.

  “But...I...I...” He placed a comforting hand on her shoulder. “Ursula, dear, the Lord helps those who help themselves.”

  Ursula felt a pang of anger. “And ye know what, Father? I've never understood that. If that does indeed be true, why the bloody hell does the Lord expect us to fill the collection plate every Sunday? Ye weren't backwards about snatching outta me hand all the money I could throw at once we won the lottery. And then ye went and got me kicked ou
tta the choir.”

  “You know I had no hand in that, Ursula. I was powerless. And, if you recall, I did go visit you in prison. Remember when you were banged up for running over that wee boy?”

  “Allegedly! Me point is, anyroad, how can the Lord help them what helps themselves if the Church kyanny even help itself and relies on the congregation for handouts? Explain that to me, would ye?”

  He sighed. “I'd let you stay in the guestroom here, Ursula, really I would, but I'm in the middle of renovations. A gale knocked over the old tree in the yard, you remember the one next to the O'Leary mausoleum over there? And it crashed into the roof. There's nothing up there but tools and wooden planks and sheets of plastic and so on.”

  “Can't you just let us sleep on the sofa?” Jed asked.

  Father Hogan seemed to consider this. Then he snapped his fingers.

  “I've an idea. Let me make a call. Come in a wee moment.”

  While they were waiting the hallway and the priest was in some inner room on the phone, Ursula tiptoed up the stairs. She came back down, shaking her head. “They really are doing renovations up there,” she told Jed.

  Father Hogan bustled back into the room, beaming and clapping his hands with joy. Ursula's heart swelled with relief.

  “I've found beds for you both,” he said.

  “Marvelous! Ta so much!”

  “Oh, wow! Thanks a lot! You're great!”

  Ursula threw her arms around the priest, and Jed pumped his hand so that they both winced.

  “At the Mountains of Mourne Homeless Shelter. I believe it opened up after you left. It's down the town opposite the Top Yer Trolly. Don't look so horrified. It's new, all mod cons, and it surely can't be that filthy? They've only been open a month now! Calm down. There are special delousing cubicles you can make use of, and there is a safe they can lock your suitcases up in. I do recommend you remove those earrings, though. And you, sir, that watch. You know, you might think about pawning them. Perhaps that would help your, shall we call them, money woes?” He looked at his own watch. “You'd do best to be on your way there now. I guess you'll have to walk as you have no funds, so it will take about half an hour. And there is a curfew, so you must make it there by 10 PM. And that's in half an hour.”

  “Could ye at least give us a wee something to eat before we set off? Ravenous, so we are.”

  “There is a kitchen at the shelter. And the clock is ticking.”

  He ushered them out. Ursula's family had turned its back on her, and now her church was.

  As they hightailed it through the sopping streets to make the deadline, Jed said, “I'm so sorry, honey.”

  “I don't wanny hear it!” Ursula roared out at Jed, “Ye've made me lie to Father Hogan! And I was looking forward to having him hear me confession while I was here! Now, but, I kyanny sit there in that confessional and reveal to him I lied...to him!”

  “What do you think, Ursula?”

  “I think... I think I'll be moving me custom to that new church up on Culmore Road.”

  It was 9:55 by the time they reached the shelter. It did look new. But the people did not. Ursula could smell the building before they entered it. Some of their future roommates were drinking outside, palms outstretched. A vagrant here, a tramp there, hobos everywhere. Jed shook his head at them, “Sorry.” Ursula never wanted to hear him utter that word again. Junkies and alkies greeted from from all sides. And as they skulked towards reception, Ursula had a sudden and startling thought, a thought that filled her with dread. This, she thought, is what it feels like to be Randaleen Jagger.

  CHAPTER 36

  As the sun rose on Derry that Sunday in March, piercing through the mist, dancing off the branches of the still-skeletal trees, serenaded by the chirp of bullfinches stirring in their nests, the top of the Guildhall glinting, the shutters of the Kebabalicious dappled with light, there was no whistling from a cheery post man as he pushed letters and cards from distant loved ones through the letter boxes; this was because it was Sunday, and also, it was 2014, and he usually just passed out junk mail and bills.

  In the three bedrooms of the Flood home, one for Paddy and Fionnuala, one for Lorcan, and one for Dymphna, Padraig, Siofra and Seamus; at Bridie McFee's; at Mrs. Mulholland's; in the homeless shelter where Jed and Ursula were imprisoned on shaky cots; and across the churning sparkle of the River Foyle, in the Riddell house of glass and chrome, nobody was stirring, pulling across the curtains and smiling out the windows, opening them, and breathing in the brisk air of the dawning of another Irish early spring day as the sunlight light up the world, making the calcite crystals in the dull gray pavements sparkle, drying the dew that clung to blades of grass and petals of dandelions and the damp that had collected in the pot holes and cracks in the pavement from the rain of the night before, nobody was stretching yet, eager to see the new and exciting day. Of course not, as it was only 6:37 AM, and most had been chucking the drink down their throats for one excuse or another and were in catatonic states in their beds, sleeping off the drink in dull, dreamless slumbers.

  There were the flagons of cider and cans of beer for Dymphna and her bridesmaids in the confines of the chip van; the generic whiskey for Fionnuala, Maureen and even Paddy himself as they sat before the blank telly screen, bits of wreath and pieces of the card sitting accusingly on the coffee table like police exhibits, as the three sniped, barked and yelled at each other, unable to decide if the wreath from Ursula were a mistake or a joke in very poor taste; upstairs, Lorcan's fat tins of lager his mother kept creeping up to supply him with and parting his lips to pour into his mouth; he was feeling better, but she was ensuring that, though his illness, confoundedly, was disappearing, she would replace it with a hangover that may as well be an illness; Hendricks and tonics glugged down by Zoë, the half-bottle and cucumber slices on the table before her in her living room of clean straight lines, Adele, then Sade, then Adele again crooning out of the Bang & Olufsen speakers around her, humming along as she waited for Rory to stagger home from his stag do and she contemplated the change that was coming to her well-ordered life, maybe a nightmare she would never wake up from, as divorce might be tolerated by a Protestant, but she could never see the bride's mother with her strident Catholicism agreeing to it; the countless flaming Sambucas and Car Bombs and bottle after bottle of Stella Artois for Rory and his soccer mates, arranged by best man Georgie, and poured by the staff at the posh upmarket bar in the Waterside that would be witness to the evening's ever more disturbing pranks as the drunkenness increased, the male stripper Georgie had arranged, the blue-painted dwarf, a 'Smurf,' he had rented and handcuffed to Rory to the howls of laughter all around, the fake tan that would be sprayed on half of Rory's face the moment he passed out, the eggs, flour and cream they would spread on his naked body and the sparkly thong they would slip him into before they tied him (and the Smurf) up to the lamp post on the Craigavon Bridge as the evening's crowning glory; the green apple and kiwi flavored alchopops for Bridie, several of them, as she sat in the living room, hoping for another sighting of the Virgin Mary and staring with unseeing eyes at a rerun of Dancing With The Stars, and a 'medicinal' scotch for her mother, babbling into the phone with her aunt, and, on the other end of the line, a glass of sweet sherry from a beveled crystal glass for Bernadette Mulholland as she sat next to the phone stand in the hallway on a chair she had pulled in from the sitting room, arranging the troops for the next day, scribbling away with a pencil into a little notebook the computations and chants and time tables and lists for the demonstration at the wedding she dearly hoped would turn into a riot; and for Jed and Ursula, a bottle of something with a label in a language without regular English letters, offered to them by the man in the next cot, a liquid they all weren't quite sure which family of liquor it belonged to and was brown and acid-like but made them feel happy, well, not happy, but happier than expected, and they guzzled down although the Barnetts had been warned at reception that the drinking of beer and spirits, and the taking of
recreational drugs as well, was expressly forbidden in the shelter, and soon all three were singing Irish songs, but quietly, as they didn't want to be tossed out of the shelter for intoxication and God knew they had nowhere else to go; water for Padraig, Siofra, and Seamus; orange soda for Keanu and Beeyonsay, their little lips slurping at the teats of the bottles Dymphna had shoved in their mouths at the beginning of the impromptu bachelorette party; and hot Horlicks with a HobNob and a nighttime sleep aid for Mrs. Dinh, as she had sworn off drink since her husband had died of cirrhosis of the liver.

  It was half an hour later, 7:07 AM, that Jed and Ursula rose, and by then the sun had hidden behind sinister gray clouds which pressed down as if keeping them captive in that town. The Barnetts were the first to rise, as they had been told, again by reception, that the center would start serving breakfast at 7:30 AM, it was first come, first served, and once the food was gone it was gone; that if they left it too late, it would be like the Berlin airlift and they'd have to be prepared to put their elbows and feet to good use; it would also be in their best interests to get to the community showers before any of the others rose; soap was limited.

  Still groggy, cricks in their necks and other body parts, Ursula and Jed made their way silently through the rows of spartan cots and the lumpen, snoring, drooling masses atop them. They tiptoed down a stark hallway that stank of antiseptic and homelessness and followed the signs to Dining.

  Ursula tried to smile at the woman in a hairnet who dumped a pile of what Ursula supposed was porridge into a bowl and handed it over to her.

  “Ta,” Ursula said.

  “Thanks,” said Jed. “Have you got any toast?”

  The woman nodded to a table on which there was a loaf of sliced bread and a sad slab of butter. Knives, they had been told, were also forbidden. If they wanted to butter their bread (there would be no toast), they'd have to be creative with their spoons.