Gillean’s head was swimming. Despite his current assessment that Ciar was only out for herself and not to be trusted, he didn’t disagree with what she asserted about his wife. It was fitting that the universe should confirm his suspicions through the words of such a dark-hearted messenger.
“Clueless little, Gilly. You don’t even know who the man is—what he meant to you. And now he has taken your wife to his bed and won the trust of your precious son.”
She pressed her body against his, forcing his back into the unyielding brick. “You haven’t been able to reach her, have you? That’s because she is with him, making love with him. I’ll bet they are at each other right now, as we speak.” Her eyes were empty, black holes shining with the pleasure of his misery.
He pushed at her, meaning to assert his full autonomy from her and the darkness she represented. “For the last time, I’ll ask you to leave me alone.”
She backed away, tossing her long tresses over her shoulders. “Or what?”
“Or I will be forced to do whatever I have to in order to ensure that you will not invade my life ever again.”
He was invulnerable to her extraordinary figure wrapped in an elegant, low-cut red dress. All he could see were the mangled flower petals her fingers had so callously crushed. An offering from a well-meaning stranger, destroyed by a heartless woman. She was right about one thing. He was a fool. He had the distinct feeling he was on the verge of something immense, a winding bend in the road. He could either steer it with great care, or take his hands from the wheel and continue to careen out of control, losing everything by going over the edge.
“Please leave. I was wrong to think I ever cared for you.” He bent down to retrieve the petals as she looked on open-mouthed. “I was wrong about a lot of things.” He stroked the soft edges of the ruined flower. “And if my wife is being loved by another man, I cannot fault her. She deserved better than a husband who needed her to be someone she was not. Perhaps you’re right. Perhaps she is happy with him. I hope so.”
She quickly recovered her voice. “Believe me when I say, Sully is no better a man than you. Worse even, because he knew exactly what he was doing and who he was betraying.”
She held him in a long stare. Her eyes had the power to touch him like fingertips to his naked body. “You will remember my words soon enough. And I hardly think you will feel as generous towards your wife knowing what she has done. As for me, don’t worry. I’ll leave you to your own destruction. I’m sure there will be many people interested in spending time with me, and in the story of my time with you.”
She put her hand to his cheek stroking it with familiarity. “I’ll bet they will be even more fascinated by what I know of your wife and her pubescent lover. I will make out just fine without you.”
She was at the door, grinning. “I wish I could say the same about you.”
His eyes focused on her high-heeled shoes, and for one brief moment the sound of the train whistle combined with a memory which dropped into his mind as softly as a leaf. He was twenty, sitting on his bed at the Teach na Si`, watching in awe as an older, urbane French woman’s pink stiletto heels clicked on the floorboards of his room. She was gathering her things in a huff, upset with him because he had declared the ending of their affair. He was promised to another woman, Adara. The last thing he recalled was the Parisian’s saffron hair as she slammed the door behind her.
“A black thorn has pierced your heart, but I am the mate of your soul. Look for my eyes, and become whole.”
The cryptic words uttered in Irish, the unremitting whistle, and the memory of an enigmatic woman circled Gillean’s cloudy consciousness like a ring of smoke. He shook uncontrollably. He looked around, but there was no alcohol in the room to steady his nerves, only bunches of flowers, boxes of chocolates, and various trinkets of appreciation. Where was the wine for Christ’s sake? Some smitten fan always left a bottle of the finest.
Tottering on unsteady legs, he tripped over a guitar standing by the door. He was due for his sound check. Noel would be coming to cart him off shortly. Gillean reached for the instrument thinking a song might be just what he needed.
The whistle in his head grew louder and more haunting. Bells clanged as when a train is lumbering into a station. He stumbled back to his seat and looked into the mirror again. His vision clouded slightly as the glass took the form of a train window. Peering into it he could see faces: a little girl, her red hair in braids, and a young man with fervid green eyes. The sublime pair gazed back at him from the other side of the window, but their ghostly quality made it seem as if they were on the other side of a nether world. Gillean felt a wrenching in his heart, like something was trying to break free from the layers of lies he had buried over the years. Whoever these two phantoms were, they could see right into his soul.
He became aware of his cold grip around the guitar’s neck, and the biting steel of the strings against his fingers. When he looked at the window again, it had reverted back to a stage mirror. The faces, noises, and memories were gone.
His life was chaos, the havoc created by his carelessness. He was losing everything, and it appeared there wasn’t a damn thing he could do to stop it. Not even the much adored Gillean Faraday could salvage the disintegrating composition that he had taken so long to create. His father had spent a lifetime sifting through the lives of others, maintaining all the while he was doing crucial work. All Gillean had ever wanted was for his father to lavish him with as much attention and devotion as he did those old, dirty bones and artifacts. He spent his entire life hopelessly searching for that acceptance. And now came the truth, piping hot like a cup of black tea poured down his throat and choking him with its acrimony. That was all Arlen wanted as well. But Gillean had been too busy listening to the music in his head to hear his own son’s plea.
“No!” He raised the guitar over his head and slammed it to the floor. “NO!”
He pushed out the protest from his burning throat as he continued to smash the instrument against the walls, sending flowers from their vases scattering into the air, the chunks of glass pulverized by his step. Splinters of wood flew out like embers around him. The room was filled with the awful sound of his banshee wail, the screaming of pounded strings and the smashing of wood.
He stopped his rampage momentarily to inspect the remaining piece of ruined guitar in his hand, a severed string lolling from it like a tongue. He threw the last piece of what was once his treasure, against the door.
“Here’s to ya, Gillean Faraday! Bravo!” he cried, falling back against the velvet couch weeping.
“What the…?” Noel rushed in looking incredulous at the devastation and the crumpled remains of his friend on the couch.
“Get out, Noel.” Gillean continued to sob quietly.
“Gillean, talk to me.”
“Please, just get out.” He was utterly defeated.
“Jesus, Gill,” Noel mumbled. He backed hesitantly out of the ravaged room. “I’ll be with you shortly. I just need to see about rescheduling the show.”
~~~
Elsewhere in the large, ostentatious hall, Charlie nervously paced about the lobby. He looked as out of place awaiting the commencement of a Gillean Faraday concert as a fisherman tilling the land. He chuckled amazed at his own bravado in not only finding where the show would be, but also at his resourcefulness in renting a car for transport. Granted, the motor car was an older model from a back street dealer, and one that any reasonable person would have haggled over regarding the cost. But Charlie was proud of himself nonetheless.
He had obtained transportation and a ticket for the show at short notice. It had been decades since he had left the secure confines of his little village, but it had also been decades since he had known the likes of Sully. And Charlie welcomed the challenge. He had gone through all the necessary motions like many of the humans who were seated in the theatre. To them, this was an opportunity to escape their individual realities within the music. But for Charlie, it wa
s the chance to prove to himself that he possessed the courage to go out on a limb in order to save another.
He would have to do this without certain facts that the powers deemed necessary to keep from him. If Charlie was going to succeed, he would have to do so without the knowledge of what had recently transpired between Sully and Adara. He believed he must get to Gillean unimpeded and, the powers willing, get Gillean to Sully. This, he believed, was the only hope of helping his charge. Sully was like a mountain, strong and unmoving in his convictions and pain. Charlie took stock in the old saying, and decided to bring Mohammed to the mountain.
Some of the people inside the theatre began to leave their seats, joining Charlie in his anxious waiting. He could hear fragments of conversations as several members of the audience, clearly showing signs of irritation, paced about the lobby. Charlie began to sweat in his overcoat. He was about to remove the garment when he heard a voice over the loud speaker. The announcement came first in English, then in Irish.
“Ladies and gentlemen, we regret to inform you that the concert for this evening has been cancelled. Mr. Faraday sends his deepest apologies. He is too ill to perform. Please retain your tickets. The concert will be rescheduled as soon as possible. Again, Mr. Faraday and his management are sorry for any inconvenience. Please exit the theatre in a timely and orderly fashion. Thank you and good night.”
An older, foreign woman clad in a much too revealing dress, toting a bottle of wine in one arm and a large bouquet of roses in the other, turned to her slightly younger companion with a ridiculous fur cape draped around her neck. To Charlie, they looked more like burlesque performers than concertgoers.
“Well, I can’t believe it, can you?” the elder quipped in an Italian accent. “I spend great amounts of money, give up my entire holiday to see him, and this is what he does—cancel a show at the last moment?” She scanned the lobby, which was now filled with disappointed guests. “And where is Max for God sake? The man is like a useless appendage!” She turned back to her fur clad friend. “I wish to give Mr. Faraday a piece of my mind, you can be sure.”
Charlie knew little about Gillean Faraday. So far, he had learned two things: that he was Adara’s husband and had somehow hurt her, and that he had been responsible for Sully having felt the need to make some terrible pact with an instrument of darkness. Such scant evidence, however, did cast Gillean in a less than flattering light. Still, standing among so many demanding and unreasonable ’fans’, Charlie pitied Gillean. Charlie had enough sympathy to imagine that, year after year, this kind of life and these kinds of people could take its toll on any reasonable person.
This was another first for him as he offered his unsolicited advice to the disgruntled woman. “Maybe ya should focus more of yer life on the people who are actually in it, rather than on some fantasy of a man who happens to be another woman’s husband.”
“I beg your pardon?” she asked indignantly, regarding him with beady eyes.
“It’s called a reality check. Life is more than one singer with a guitar. And I suppose whoever Max is would agree with me, so get to livin’ a real life.”
Charlie left the mortified woman in the skimpy dress to see if he could sneak his way into Gillean’s dressing room. He had a hunch the musician would still be in the building, waiting for everyone else to leave.
The confusion and crowding of concertgoers was enough to keep the security workers’ attentions diverted. Charlie was relieved at how easy it was to slip behind the stage. He walked down a dimly lit corridor, feeling sure that Gillean was in one of the rooms in this, the only quiet space in the venue. Spotting a door with a small star taped to it, Charlie trusted that providence worked in his favor. He prayed it was a good sign that he was able to locate Gillean without much trouble.
Hearing no sounds from the other side of the door, he knocked softly. There was no response. He pressed his hand a little harder. “Mr. Faraday?” After his third attempt at calling after the singer, Charlie tried the door. As he suspected, it was locked.
“Well, I hope it’s not against the rules to use me physical powers.”
He shoved his imposing frame against the door. It took little effort to tear it from its hinges. He stumbled into the darkness of the room. A nightlight from the adjoining lavatory cast a meager glow, but enough for Charlie to see a man lift his head wearily from a couch.
“Who the hell are you?” His words were harsh, but his voice weak.
Charlie propped the door back against the frame. “I’m sorry to impose, Mr. Faraday, but I believe I can help ya.”
“Help me?” Gillean regarded Charlie, but showed no signs of fear. “Would that be by breaking into my private dressing room, or by demolishing property?”
“Ah, well now…” Charlie timidly walked to the center of the room, his boots connecting with wooden particles and something else. He wondered if he had done so much damage to the door. When he knelt down to examine what was under foot, he found the remains of a shattered guitar, the strings stripped from the body of the smashed instrument.
“Looks as if ya have done a good job of demolishin’ as well. Why did ya do it?”
“Because it was there.” Gillean lay back down, placing a wet cloth over his head.
“Like a mountain.” Charlie thought of Sully.
“Precisely.”
“You aren’t makin’ much of an effort to get rid of me.” Charlie came closer. Gillean’s sadness clung to the very walls of the room.
“Should I?”
“You don’t seem to care much about anythin’.”
Charlie eyed the surroundings, taking in the shredded bouquets, headless stuffed animals, and crushed boxes of chocolates strewn about.
Gillean lay like an injured man in hospital—a causality of war. Although it was a battle of the musician’s declaration, Charlie’s heart still went out to the man. Gillean appeared broken, like Sully when he had first arrived. The two men had so much in common. How was it they are now enemies? Charlie wondered.
“Take what you want, then please go.” Gillean’s voice was barely audible.
Charlie said nothing.
“Is it an autograph you’re after?” Gillean sat up slightly. “Alright, bring me pen and paper.”
“No. I don’t want anythin’ from ya.” Charlie searched for the words to convince the man of his desire to help.
“That’s impossible. People always want something from me.”
“I know of one man who only wanted to love ya. In fact, he gave up everythin’ to do so.”
“I see. You’re some kind of Jesus freak. Worried that I haven’t accepted Him as my personal savior? Well, you’re a little late. I’d ask you to leave your literature at the door, but seeing as you obliterated it—”
Charlie laughed a big hearty sound that filled the room. “Fair enough! But I wasn’t referrin’ to Jesus, but to someone a little less divine, someone ya had a friendship with. Someone a lot like yerself, I would say.”
“I have no such friends. No one would give up everything for me. If they did, they would only end up resenting me for it.”
“Friendship and love are two way streets I’m afraid.” He didn’t bother to ask, but sat on a chair next to Gillean. “In fact, so too is war. Ya should know that though. I believe ya have sung about all three.”
“How so?”
Gillean removed the cloth from his head.
“In order for peace to exist, one man has to lay down his arms. It can only work if the other is willin’ to do the same. And a person has to be ready to open up his arms for love and friendship to happen. If not, someone gets hurt.”
“A wise observation. What did you say your name was?”
“Oh, excuse me ignorance. I’m Charlie, Mr. Faraday.” He held out his chaffed hand.
“Pleasure, Charlie.” Gillean returned the gesture with a weak handshake. “And I’m Gillean. Mr. Faraday, my father, has been dead for years.”
“And yet—” Charlie thought
better of voicing his thought.
“What?”
“’Tis nothin’…” Charlie was gaining a sense of purpose sitting next to the desolate man. He was beginning to understand why the singer had been so important to Sully. “I meant to say that most people wantin’ to be famous usually change their names—ya know, try and create an image for themselves. But ya kept yer father’s name. Must be important to ya, part of who ya are.”
Gillean’s laugh was one of mockery. “My father knew nothing of little Gilberto Faraday, nothing of me.”
“And who might Gilberto Faraday be?” Charlie asked with a sympathetic smile.
“Damned if I know. It’s all a fucking mystery to me.”
Charlie hesitated, but decided to take what seemed to be the perfect opportunity to explain his presence. “Just like Sully, eh?”
Gillean sprang up from the couch. “How do you know Sully? Did he send you? Where is he? With my wife, with Adara?”
“Easy now.” Charlie reached over to steady the overexcited man. “Ya don’t remember him, do ya?”
“How can I remember a man I never met?” Gillean posited. “Is everyone trying to drive me mad?”
“He’s in here, girls! I’m sure I heard him!”
The two men were startled by the woman’s call from the other side of the broken door.
“Now look what you’ve done,” Gillean lowered his voice. “They’ll all descend like a pack of hungry vultures. Thanks ever so much.”
“The hell they will. Get up!” Charlie stood over the irate singer.
“What?”
“I said, Get up, Gilberto.”
There was no time to consider the options, so Gillean obeyed.
“Now, ya just stay with me and don’t say a word. Agreed?” Charlie put his coat around Gillean. The massive garment enveloped the small singer, allowing only his feet to protrude from the bottom edge.
Blackthorns of the Forgotten Page 23