Best Served Frozen (The Irish Lottery Series Book 4)

by Gerald Hansen

  The limousine rolled towards the city center.

  The massive wooden doors of the church flew open. Zoë smiled politely as the crowds from the wedding flooded out, rice and confetti flying, laughter and applause and the flash of cameras ringing out. At the same time, limos and cars and vans were pulling up before the church. Another wedding party. Zoë checked her watch in surprise. Just how tight was the schedule at this church? At this rate, they must turn the church over every ten minutes. A feeling of dread, of unease, clutched her stomach. Something seemed a bit off. Perhaps she should have taken over this part of the planning as well. She didn't want her son to be married in a ceremony that lasted all of three minutes. They might as well have gone to the registry office. Maybe their ceremonies were even lengthier than those here at St. Fintan's were seeming to be!

  Across the square from the church, beyond the public lavatories, there was a sudden commotion before the Top Yer Trolly superstore. Zoë's eyes were momentarily distracted by the gathering of hordes of old women that rounded the corner, twenty or more, rolling bulging shopping carts and toting signs and unraveling bedsheets with things scrawled on them in paint. The one ray of sunshine that poured from the heavens was right above them, so it made it difficult for her to see them correctly. But she had other things to think about anyway. She looked away.

  The first wedding party had disbanded and cleared out, and now the second was streaming past her into the church, the bride lovely, the groom handsome, suits and high heels and low gowns and floppy hats all around. Zoë looked to the left, then looked to the right for the Flood's limousine. All she saw were two pitiful creatures exiting the homeless shelter. What a pair they looked! Down and out, definitely, the man with a battered cowboy hat, of all things!, on his head, the woman with a disheveled purple bob and a lurid, eye-scorching yellow jumper with an elephant on it. What rubbish bin had the poor soul found it in? And, though Zoë could understand the desperation of the homeless for different if not new clothing, perhaps that was one creation that should have been left in the wheelie bin to die its own death.

  They seemed to be walking towards the church, and, what troubled her more, searching her face with looks of hope on their own. Zoë made little crab sideways steps towards her car as if to hide behind it. They were probably on her way over to ask for a handout, it was her posh clothes, and she had given enough to the homeless shelter the responsible way, through charity drives. These two would probably only waste it on drink, if their faces and bodies were anything to go by.

  Zoë focused on her phone. She heard the opening strains of “Three Times A Lady” from inside the church. Who should she call? Text? The Flood woman? Had she herself gotten the time wrong? Was she at the wrong church?

  She was scrolling through her contacts, disturbed, when she felt the two tramps stop in front of her. She scowled inwardly. She forced herself to look up into their wretched faces.

  “I'm sorry, I don't have any spare ch—”

  “Are ye here for the funeral?” the woman asked. Zoë was taken aback. She saw the woman's eyes, then the crumpled up loo roll in her hand. She had been crying. Perhaps she had looked in a mirror. Surprisingly, they both seemed freshly-bathed, or, considering where they had probably spent the night, showered.

  “Why, no. I'm actually here for quite the opposite, you might say. A wedding.”

  The two tramps eyed each other in disappointment.

  “Maybe there's another entrance?”

  The man-creature was American! Wonders never ceased on the streets of Derry! Zoë made a mental note to get out of the office and into the real world more often. Life outside Riddell Enterprises really was surprising. And fun.

  “Aye, perhaps there be's a grand entrance for weddings,” the alkie woman in the vile yellow jumper said, “and a wee one, discreet, in the back for the funerals. Though...I sang many years here in the choir, so I did, and I don't recall ever seeing...”

  “Where was this funeral meant to take place?” Zoë asked. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw clunking across the slick slabs of the square three hungover slappers in avocado dresses, one with a cast dyed green, the bridesmaids, she assumed, by the bright red letters embroidered on the décolletages of their gowns DY on one, the MPH on the second, and NA on the third, and other people in bargain bin suits and knock off dresses who might just be Flood guests. And then a rather striking young priest with piercing eyes and jet black hair, clutching the Good Book as he rounded the corner. They were all descending on the church. So it must be the right place. But—

  “Here. At St. Fintan's,” the American said.

  “Do they even do funerals at this church? I would've thought...” Zoë shook her head. Other than the venue, she didn't know what to ask them to help them. The name of the deceased wouldn't help her help them. But it was strange that there seemed to be two weddings and a funeral booked for this church at the same time. “Anyway, I'm sorry, but I don't know what to tell you. Erm, I wonder if I might be so forward as to ask you... How shall I word this? How did you two end up in the state you're in? Homeless, I mean. I'm sorry for being so direct, but it's rather odd to come across an Ame—” She saw her son's limo approach. It was the smaller of the two she had ordered. She saw Georgie get out, him pulling Rory out and trying to get him to stand. “Pardon me, I must go. That's my son there. The groom.” She said it proudly, which would have surprised her a few months earlier. “Oh! And that must be the bride!”

  The tramps turned around as a black Rolls Royce stretch limousine, a Phantom, pulled up and parked outside the church.

  Zoë said, “If you'll excuse me...”

  Ursula and Jed watched her hurry off towards the opening doors of the second limo.

  “What do we do now?” Jed asked.

  “I haven't a clue.”

  Gnarled hands gripped the broom and mop sticks as tightly as they could. Mrs. Gee, Mrs. Leech, Mrs. Stokes and various others would be brandishing the signs. They were practicing in front of the Top Yer Trolly now, before the window with the ads for washing powder and tinned mushy peas and two for one apricots, making sure their twiglet arms could hold the signs high for an extended length of time. The length of a wedding.

  Green + Orange = Vile, read one sign.

  It's A Sin! another.

  Proddy Bastards Get Out Of Our Churches!

  Mary Told Us NO To Interdenominational Marriages!

  Mrs. Ming and Mrs. O'Bryan unfurled the largest of the bed sheet banners. MARY SAYS YOU'RE GOING TO HELL! If She had been looking down from on high at them that day, She would have been saddened at the hatred being spread supposedly in Her name. And more than a bit mortified.

  Mrs. Mulholland was trying to tame the electric megaphone she had borrowed from her nephew, who was quite political and had used it for various anti-Brit demonstrations. Feedback kept squawking from it, and she kept fiddling with the knobs hoping to make it disappear. Bridie was sat on a cardboard box that had once held deodorant as if it were a throne. She looked around at the women gearing up around her, hauling the vegetables and fruit out of their shopping carts and loading up the plastic bags each of them would carry. She didn't know if she felt like a queen or a general or a prophet. A bit of all three, actually. She was glaring across the square at St. Fintan's, searching for a sighting of Dymphna Flood and her Proddy fancy man. Once they appeared, the attack would begin.

  “C'mere, Bridie,” the young girl Mrs. Dinh had brought along again said to her. “It says behind ye there be's a two for one sale on apricots. Do ye want me to run in and get some more?”

  Bridie surveyed the shopping carts and calculated how much they had shoved into each one. Mrs. Mulholland had contacted Mrs. Leech's uncle, who owned the fruit and vegetable stand at the market, and he had given them all the rotten orange fruit and vegetables he could. There were oranges, of course, and tangerines, mangoes, parsnips, turnips, butternut squash, yams, peaches, nectarines, the more rotten the better, Mrs. Mulholland had told t
he man, but a few were ripe. They had taken them along as well. Maybe they wouldn't spatter as much, but they would hurt. The uncle had even dredged up a pumpkin from somewhere, and a papaya. And, of course, apricots. Bridie had thought her auntie Bernadette not only resourceful, but also inventive. She herself wouldn't have been able to think of such a fitting punishment. Orange filth flung at a filthy Orange bastard. And his Green traitor of a tart.

  “Naw,” Bridie said. “I think we've enough. Good thinking, but.”

  Bridie patted her on the head. The little girl beamed as if Bridie had handed her a ten pound note. Bridie loved the way people were treating her now, in a manner she had never been treated before. With reverence, with respect.

  Their plan of attack was threefold. First there would be the chanting, led by Mrs. Mulholland on the megaphone, then the signs and banners waving in the air, and finally, the flinging of the rotten orange fruit and vegetables. Bridie had told them to aim for Dymphna and Rory. But, of course, anybody who was part of this vulgarity was an appropriate target.

  “Look!” called out Mrs. Leech. “There the sinners is now! Getting outta that limo! Well, the Proddy one, anyroad.”

  Bridie jumped up as a geriatric roar went up from them all. They held their heaving bags tightly, brandished their signs high, those with the bed sheet banners shuffled into rows and clutched them with as much force as their hands could muster. Mrs. Mulholland flicked on the megaphone and was pleased there was no shriek of feedback. She held it to her mouth and parted her lips.

  “Wait!” Bridie said.

  A sea of purple and blue rinses, row upon row of thick spectacles turned to face her, expectant. Their wrinkles awaited her words of wisdom.

  “I know youse are all excited. But let's wait a wee moment, shall we, until we see the bride herself. And...and...I feel the Virgin giving me a special message for youse all!”

  Some looked startled; they had forgotten all about the poor Blessed Virgin in all of this. This hatred.

  “What does She say, Bridie, me love?” Mrs. Mulholland asked, a smile playing on her withered lips.

  “She says...Good luck, girls!”

  A roar went up as if their number had just been called at the bingo, the special Stamp and Four Corners jackpot. They hadn't felt so alive in years.

  CHAPTER 38

  Paddy hoped the others in the limo didn't notice how skittish, how tortured he was. And as the car purred like the marvelous machine it was through the city gates and headed towards the church, he felt a shame, a deep, all-encompassing guilt, for the call he had placed the moment he went into the house to retrieve the babies. For once, he was happy the family was reduced to using pay-as-you go mobiles, as he had seen on all the copper dramas on TV that they were untraceable. He hoped the wailing infants hadn't obscured his voice too much as he hissed down the line to the police, “Listen, youse. This doesn't be a hoax. There's a bomb in St. Fintan's church. Set to go off in half an hour, so it is.” Then he had hung up and rolled the stroller shamefacedly to the limo.

  And now they were here, the flying buttresses before them, the gargoyles glaring down, Dymphna's tears wiped away, the excitement and nervousness beaming from his daughter's face under that gorgeous veil and above the colorful gown. How could he have been such a fool, such an eejit, to forget to book the church? He would never forgive himself. But somehow he figured...they could still go through with the reception today, and have a ceremony at a later date. All who had been invited seemed more interested in the free booze and scran than the vows. He wouldn't be disappointing many of the guests, if any. Dymphna would be gutted, but she could always get married whenever. He downed the last few bubbles of champagne as the limo's engine fell silent. Around him, the family whooped and cheered.

  The wanes clambered out, then Lorcan, then Paddy, and finally Fionnuala decided she had fixed her peacock feathers enough, had struck the appropriate pose, and hoped she would be seen by the gathering masses—she had seen them through the tinted window, Zoë, the bridesmaids, the priest she had arranged, her auntie Julie, her uncle Vernon, a smattering of cousins, some Floods, and others she knew to see but didn't understand exactly who they were—she hoped they, especially Father Steele, saw her as alighting from the limousine.

  Maureen held Dymphna back.

  “Ye want to build up the suspense, love,” the woman said. “Sit you here with me a wee moment. I'm sure most of the guests are waiting outside the church for the first glimpse of ye. And we don't know where Rory be's. We've to make sure he's well hidden before ye step out, like.”

  “I understand, aye,” Dymphna said, compact out, redoing the mascara that had coursed down her cheeks. “I've to freshen meself up anyroad. Could ye help me with me eyelashes, hi?”

  “Aye, I can. I've something to tell ye, love. I think yer mammy doesn't know what she be's going on about. I know yer head must be all over the place, about to be wed and all, and then there must be the hormones from the wee baby growing inside ye, but I don't think yer auntie Ursula meant ye any harm. And I've a suspicion that be's yer mammy's handwriting on the back of the card, altered a wee bit, aye, but her handwriting nevertheless. Ye know the blind hatred yer mammy has for yer auntie Ursula. I love a bit of drama, me, but yer mammy's unhinged. And I'm a wee bit surprised at ye agreeing with her, going along with her campaign of hatred. It doesn't be a day for hatred. It be's a day for love, so it does. Remember what I'm telling ye now if ye set eyes on yer auntie today.”

  “Hand me that lippy, would ye?”

  Maureen did. Then, “C'mere,” she said, peeping through the door. “There's a terrible racket out there! What's all that palaver about I wonder...?

  Siofra was the first to see them. They looked different somehow, but she knew who they were the moment she jumped from the limousine.

  “Auntie Ursula! Uncle Jed!”

  She shrieked with delight as she ran towards them, Seamus on her heels, his gurgles of joy ringing out, and even Padraig had a smile on his face as he hurried across to wrap his arms around them, something he hadn't done to a fellow human in years.

  Ursula knelt down there on the concrete as the children covered her with hugs and kisses. Jed reached down and ruffled their hair as their arms wound round his legs and they shouted their glee and asked if they had gifts for them.

  “Och, Siofra, Padraig, Seamus,” Ursula bubbled through her tears, “it's lovely to see yer smiling faces. There's no need, but, for youse wanes to put on brave faces for me. I know youse must be terrible sad. It's an awful day, so it is. Horrible! Youse can cry along with me, but. Ye see?” She pointed at her wet cheeks. “I'm a grown up, but I kyanny hide me tears. Youse wanes is allow to cry and all.”

  “Sorry, kids,” Jed said, his voice breaking. “Really, I'm so sorry.”

  He took off his glasses and wiped them as tears trickled towards his goatee.

  “But Auntie Ursula,” Siofra said, “Uncle Jed, ye've no reason to be sad. It's a grand and happy day, so it is!”

  “Aye, Mammy said so,” Seamus said.

  “She would,” Ursula sniped. She gave a fearful little nod towards the limo. “Does yer...” she struggled to get the words out, “does yer sister's...does her earthly shell be in there?”

  “What are ye on about?” Padraig asked.

  “What's that mean?” Siofra asked. Seamus cried, apparently because he thought he should.

  “Her...body,” Jed said.

  Padraig crinkled his nose.

  “Do ye really think she's gone and died?” He looked at them in disbelief.

  “Well, yeah,” Jed said.

  “We heard it from me mate Francine, from yer Moira and all.”

  “Naw!” Siofra said. “She's not dead! She's getting wed!”

  “What?!” Ursula and Jed chorused.

  “To Rory Riddell!” Siofra enthused.

  “Aye, it's true,” Padraig said. “To a Proddy bastard.”

  “Proddy bastard,” agreed Seamus, head bobbing..


  “God's honest truth,” said Padraig. “In St. Fintan's there. And there's to be a big party after and all.”

  “I made the cake!” Siofra said, beaming. “It's pink!”

  “I help,” Seamus said.

  “Aye, ye did,” Siofra agreed. She clapped her little hands, suddenly realizing something. “Och, Auntie Ursula and Uncle Jed!! Youse can come help eat the cake as well! Youse can have a slice of the special princess towers I made! With wee purple flowers on em!”

  Ursula and Jed stood, stunned, before the children as Siofra, Padraig and Seamus babbled on and on about this apparent wedding. They tried to make sense of what they were hearing, especially from Seamus.

  “But I was told...” Ursula said, “The wreath I sent...the lesbians what're never gonny die...”

  Jed eyed her as if a breakdown were eminent.

  “C'mon and see for yerselves!” Siofra said. “She's a wile lovely frock on and all! Hearts and bows and stars and crosses and long jangly things! Come on to the big car and see her!”

  Ursula and Jed felt their little hands urge them across the square.

  Paddy was looking around even as he shook hands with twigs from the family tree, clock ticking. Where was the bomb squad? He knew the IRA used to give a special password to let the Filth know a bomb threat wasn't just a scare. Maybe they had sussed it was a hoax because he had no password to give. But, hoax or not, his only hope was that they would have to send in the troops, the dogs, the equipment to investigate. If only to stop a liability lawsuit, at the very least.

  He looked past his second cousin's shoulder and was startled at the sight of two disheveled beings with their paws all over his children. He threw down his cousin's hand and, fears of pedophiles racing through his mind, raced over. As he was thinking he had seen the yellow elephant jumper somewhere many years ago, and as the children pushed the pedos towards him, the pervs' heads were raised and looking at him. Ursula and Jed! Tears seemed to have been streaming down Ursula's face, Jed was teary also. Now smiles were breaking out on their faces, but tentative ones, unsure.