Ishtal

Dedication

Many thanks to – Jackie, Paddy and Oliver for their critiques and encouragement, Joan Afman and the Wings editorial team for licking Ishtal into shape, and as always to Mary, for still having faith.

One

THE TRAFFIC SIGNALS ahead flicked red to green, and with only a brief, juddering protest the bus continued its laboured journey up the steep city incline. From his window seat halfway along its lower deck, Stephen gazed absently at the tailback of Dublin commuter traffic travelling in the opposite direction. He smiled—Friday evening, the sun was shining, another working week behind, and a weekend of drink and televised soccer ahead of him.

He re-aligned his attention along the bus’s centre aisle and through its windscreen to the bus stop ahead. A mob of people manoeuvred for position between the glass and metal shelter and the kerbside. The accepted rules of queuing did not apply in Dublin. The nearest to the bus’s doors when they opened would board first.

He glanced around at his fellow passengers and at the few empty seats that remained to accommodate the waiting throng, picked up his small backpack from the vacant seat next to him and dropped it onto his lap.

The doors whooshed open, and the rituals of payment and ticket verification filtered the crowd aboard.

Most of the faces were familiar. The same people travelling home on the same bus every workday evening. Stephen watched eyes flick left and right seeking out the most preferable of the limited seating options. Some always chose left, some always right, some back, some front. Some ignored the lower deck and headed straight for the stairs.

Within seconds, all the options except one were taken. The one was always the same one—the one next to him. He often pondered on this. Not that it worried him; he just couldn’t work out why. Sometimes, especially when a boarding passenger was female, young and good looking, he tried to influence events. He’d tried all the options: make eye contact and smile, make eye contact and frown, stare out of the window pretending he hadn’t seen them. The seat beside him always remained vacant.

With its last passenger processed aboard, the bus pulled back into the traffic. Five people remained standing. One seat remained unoccupied. Stephen shrugged, considered dropping his bag back onto the empty space next to him and decided against it.

Across the aisle two seats in front of him a young woman bent to retrieve something from the floor. Her curtain of auburn hair fell forward, shining in the evening sunshine like a TV ad for shampoo. He leaned his head to the side and tried to get a glimpse of her face, but she accomplished her task and the opportunity was gone.

If he could stop time, for the rest of the world, not for him, he could walk up to her and see what her face looked like. He could touch her hair. He could touch her wherever he wanted. He imagined his hand cupping a breast that he couldn’t see.

Pervert. He smiled and transferred his attention to the man standing in the aisle in front of her. Middle-aged and business suited, his hand reaching for the back of the seat next to him as the bus turned right.

If he could stop time, he could pull the man’s wallet from his pocket, take whatever he wanted and return to his seat. With time stopped, even the bus’s CCTV camera would record nothing. How much would be in there—one hundred, two hundred?

If he could stop time, would he age a few seconds every time, while the rest of the world didn’t? Best not do it too often, or for too long. His eyes flicked to the back of the young woman’s head then up to the man. If he had to ration himself, which would he choose, cash or grope?

The bus lurched to the left and accelerated. Stephen glanced out of the window. They’d turned onto the dual-carriageway heading south. He hadn’t even noticed the inevitable stop-start crawl through the traffic in Stillorgan village. His daily journey always seemed shorter when he allowed his fantasy scenarios free rein.

The bus’s lower deck was half-empty when they turned left and headed downhill toward the sea. Ahead and below, Dublin Bay shone blue in the evening sunshine for a few seconds then disappeared from view as they descended toward Dun Laoghaire. Stephen lifted his bag from his knee, pressed the bell and made for the doors.

Thanks, he said to the driver without looking at him and stepped down onto the pavement. The bus pulled away, leaving a fog of exhaust fumes hanging its wake. Stephen took a deep breath and crossed through it toward the open door of Finnegan’s lounge bar. Friday evenings were a little bit special. He could have as many pints as he liked without worrying about having to work on the following day. If he had too many the red, half-glazed doors would be open for ‘a cure’ at ten-thirty the following morning.

His plan that evening was for three or four pints, then fish and chips on the way home. Plans could change though—that’s what he loved about having a local pub: always exactly the same, but always, strangely, just that little bit different. He called into Finnegan’s every evening, almost afraid that if he missed a visit he’d miss something of import. He usually left realising that if he’d given it a miss, he’d have missed nothing at all.

He recognised every one of the backs that lined the bar. Heads turned and nodded. ‘How’s it goin’ and ‘How yer doin’ punctuated his walk to an unoccupied barstool. Pint? the barman asked as Stephen hoisted himself onto it and dropped his pack to the floor.

Yes please, Paddy.

He sipped on his pint and let the banter of the crowded Friday evening bar wash around him. He didn’t join in. He rarely did. Finnegan’s had been his local pub for six years, and still he didn’t feel quite at home. Not that there was any hostility; the regular bar-leaners were always pleasant, friendly even, but there was some sort of unspoken barrier there, one that neither he nor they ever tried to cross. He shrugged, drained his glass and ordered another pint.

Paddy the barman picked up the five-euro note from the bar-top as he placed Stephen’s pint of stout next to it.

If he could stop time, he’d never have to pay for a drink again. He could just stroll behind the bar and help himself. He glanced up at the CCTV camera, high in the corner to his right; no one would ever know. He could do the same in the supermarket on his way home. If he could stop time, he could get away with anything, murder even. He could saunter across to that group of business-suited assholes against the far wall, stab them all to death then return to his seat. Wasn’t me. I never left the bar. Check the camera. His gaze flicked back to it. He smiled and took a drink through the creamy head of his new pint. He could even pause on his way back for a feel of one of the office girls around the table outside the ladies’. The tall, blonde one, no contest. He turned to look at them. One of them, a spiky-haired brunette, her nose and lips a mass of rings and studs, made eye contact, said something to her friends and they all laughed. He looked away. He could strip her naked, return to his seat, start time again and watch the fun. Now that would be amazing. He could stop time, stroll up the hill to the next pub, kill everyone in it then stroll back. Freakin’ awesome.

See you tomorrow, Stephen.

He turned toward the voice. See you, Sean. Take it easy. He glanced along the row of vacant bar stools to his left. They’d all drifted off home without him noticing. He shrugged, looked down at his half-empty glass and ordered another pint.

STEPHEN GROANED AS he sat at the table in the bay window of his first-floor apartment. The bright sunshine outside did nothing to lift his hangover-induced downer of a mood. On the table next to his open laptop the scrunched-up brown paper fish-and-chip wrapping lay next to a plastic bottle of ketchup. His brow creased. He couldn’t remember buying, or eating, them.

A robin fluttered down onto the windowsill and looked at him, its head cocked comically to one side as if studying him through the smudged glass.

Hi. He smiled at the morning visitor that had succeeded, where the sun had failed, to lift his spirits. The bird bobbed its head twice then took off over the road and the houses opposite. Still smiling, Stephen bent sideways and retrieved the sports section of the Irish Times from the floor. He still needed a cure, but he’d time it to coincide with the most promising of the day’s televised soccer matches.

A screech of brakes and blast of a car horn from the road below his window tore his attention from his deliberations. In the centre of the busy junction, down and to his right, the driver of a silver Toyota thumped his forehead with the ball of his thumb. Beyond the car’s long bonnet a golden Labrador glanced back, then trotted off unconcerned along the street opposite.

Stupid dog. Stephen shook his head and returned his attention to the soccer fixtures.

Man. City, Arsenal, it is then—12:45 kick off. He’d ration himself to one game. Two pints for the first half, one at halftime, two for the second half, then home, fully cured and ready for an afternoon nap.

He picked up his mobile from the table to check the time. It vibrated in his hand. Startled, he almost let it drop from his fingers and then tightened his grip and looked at the screen—unknown number

He frowned. He didn’t get many calls. He didn’t get any calls. Pressing connect, he lifted the set to his ear. Hello?

Hi, Stephen.

The pause that followed the greeting suggested that he should recognise the voice. He didn’t.

It’s Rachael.

That wasn’t much of a clue either, although it suggested American.

Rachael Weinstock.

That clicked in his memory. She was a Facebook friend of Helen, or was it Josie?

I’m a Facebook friend of Josie Heller. You’re her friend also.

He had one hundred and forty-seven friends on Facebook, but he’d never communicated with most of them after the initial invitation and acceptance ritual. He’d never actually spoken to a single one of them.

Hi, he said, couldn’t think of anything to add and waited.

I’m in Dublin. Could we meet?

When? he answered, automatically. It was as good as agreement. He couldn’t take it back now.

This afternoon.

He’d miss the football.

You’re in Dun Laoghaire, right? She wasn’t giving him time to think.

Right. How did she know that? It must be in his profile, or in one of the messages he’d posted.

I’ll meet you there. Is there a good place?

His eyes flicked to the window. The late morning sun shone from an unbroken blue sky. On the seafront, opposite Teddy’s. That’s an ice cream place—anyone will direct you.

Cool, see you there. Three?

He grinned. He’d have time to watch the match in the pub then head down to the seafront.

Fine.

She disconnected, leaving him staring at his mobile. How had she gotten his number? That wasn’t on Facebook. He shrugged. There must be ways, even if he didn’t know them.

Okay, let’s see who you are. He tossed the phone back onto the table and booted up his laptop.

Wow. He leaned closer to the screen. "Hello, Rachael Weinstock." Wide eyes and a wide smile, long auburn hair; even in the thumbnail profile photograph, she looked gorgeous. Rachael only shares certain information with everyone. He clicked the photos tab and felt a pang of disappointment when none appeared. She wasn’t his friend. He tried her profile page—female and from San Francisco, that was it. He could send her a friendship invite, but she’d have to accept before he could learn more, and she was in Dublin. She might have a smart-phone though. He guided the curser to the top of the screen and clicked Add as Friend.

He looked down at his tattered jeans and beer-stained t-shirt. He should shower and change. If she was only half as good looking as her profile photo suggested, she was worth the effort. Snatching up the paper again, he re-checked the day’s fixtures. Bolton and Newcastle kicked off at 4:00. He’d forgo the planned early match. If she didn’t show, he’d have plenty of time to get to the pub for the later one.

He should message Josie first, see if she could tell him anything. What time was it in California? Probably about four in the morning; he’d like as not be gone before she replied. He sent it anyway. Who was she? Why was she in Dublin? Why had she contacted him?

Did it matter? She was in Dublin. She had contacted him. She was drop-dead gorgeous, and it was the first Saturday of the month. His bank account was payday healthy. All the omens looked good. He grinned, his hangover almost forgotten. This was going to be one special weekend.

EASTERN EUROPEAN ACCENTS wafted around him. A great deal had changed in Ireland since his arrival from England five years ago. He’d seen boom, then bust, enjoyed the first and survived the second.

The voices moved away along the promenade, and he returned his attention to the sea. The high tide was on the turn and lapped against the rocks beyond the blue and white iron railing that stretched the length of the seafront.

He adjusted his position on the hard wooden seat of the bench. Behind him, children screeched as they queued for ice cream.

Where is she?

He glanced at his phone—3:15. He’d give her five more minutes, and then if she hadn’t shown, he’d head for the pub and the football. She probably wouldn’t turn up anyway. She might not even be gorgeous. He didn’t know for certain that the photo on Facebook was actually hers. If it was hers it could be airbrushed, or twenty years out of date. Like the faces that smiled down from the election posters that adorned every lamppost and electricity pole along the length of the seafront road. All the wannabe TDs looked ten years younger on the posters than when seen in the flesh.

A sudden anger that he’d forgone what promised to be the best game of the day just to be stood up swept over him. How big an idiot was he? At least the boys in the pub didn’t know where he was.

Sorry I’m late.

He’d sensed no one approaching. He turned. No...no problem.

Gorgeous wasn’t the word. He couldn’t think of the word. He stood and turned to face her. She was taller than he by a good two inches, and most of her height seemed to be legs. She’d tied her auburn hair back into an elaborate plaited bun. He wondered how long it would be when she released it from its red elastic binding. Her tanned face was round, friendly and smiling. His mouth hung open. He closed it and held out a hand. She took it. Her fingers were longer than his, and her handshake dry and firm.

He’d practiced dozens of killer opening lines on his walk down to the sea. Now that she was close, he couldn’t remember one of them. His mouth had gone so dry, he hardly dared speak. He had to say something. He still held her fingers. He released them. You want to sit for a while, or go eat? he croaked and felt his cheeks redden.

She moved around the bench and sat.

He edged sideways, so as not to be too close, and sat down next to her. She stared out to sea. The high-speed ferry from Holyhead churned up the sea halfway between the horizon line and the entrance to Dun Laoghaire port. It provided a focus for his attention that made the silence, while he thought of something to say, less uncomfortable. He didn’t want to ask her straight out why she’d contacted him.

So, what brings you to Ireland? He turned, crossed his legs toward her and studied her profile. From the side her nose looked a little too sharp and her jaw not quite sharp enough. She turned to look at him, and the minor imperfections disappeared into a captivating smile. As women went, she was probably the most beautiful one he’d ever been this close to.

If I told you I just wanted to meet you, would you believe me?

No. He laughed, feeling suddenly out of his depth. This was the type of woman for whom men much more world-wise than he sacrificed families, fortunes and reputations. The thought almost cheered him. He had none of those to lose.

She laughed too. Well it’s not quite true. I was coming to Ireland, and you are the only friend of a friend who lives here.

There’s a nice little Italian place just down the coast. It’s not far. He turned to look in that direction. You can almost see it from here.

Sounds good. She said it as if she meant it.

She stood. He remained seated. Her hips were higher than his head. He looked up. Her figure was just... Let’s go eat then.

A neat patio garden fronted the restaurant. Stephen stepped aside to allow Rachael to precede him through the small wrought-iron gate and down two shallow, stone steps. He studied the swing of her hips as she crossed the checkerboard flagstones toward the glass-paned front door. If nothing were ever perfect, she was probably as close as anything came. His mood suddenly slipped out of control, a black storm cloud passing in front of the sun. Things like this just didn’t happen to him. There would be a price to pay, and a big one. He should be in his local pub watching the soccer with the rest of the sad bastards who had nothing better to do with their Saturday afternoons. Then she was holding the door open and smiling at him. He should have taken her to the pub. The boys would never believe this. Perhaps after they’d eaten, he’d do just that.

Thanks. He smiled back, reaching for the door.

Her eyes widened. The colour drained from her face. Her mouth dropped open. She wasn’t even pretty anymore.

He turned.

The driver of a black Mercedes pointed at them through his open window. He wasn’t pointing. He had something in his hand—a gun.

A head appeared above the car’s passenger side. An arm stretched toward Stephen over the roof—Another gun.

The square pane of glass in the door next to Stephen’s head disintegrated. He knew he should run, but his limbs froze.

Rachael grabbed his sleeve and dragged him through the door, colliding with a hovering waiter and sending wine glasses and cutlery crashing to the floor.

Another window shattered. A car door slammed.

Rachael pulled him further into the room. His thigh hit the back of a chair, sending it toppling to the floor. He tripped over it, and only Rachael’s fingers wrapped in the fabric of his sleeve halted his fall.

She jerked him upright. Come on.

His eyes flicked around the dim room, looking for another exit. Back door? he screamed at a mesmerised bartender as Rachael pulled him past a small serving counter.

The man’s hand didn’t move, but his gaze flicked toward a green fire-escape sign above a grey door at the rear of the room. Stephen headed for it, pulling Rachael behind him, his head clearing with every step.

Slamming his hand against the release bar, he pushed the door open. Alarm bells activated, adding to the urgency.

They exited the restaurant into a small, high-walled yard with a tall gate set into its far end. Stephen saw the solid bolt and padlock before he reached it. Shit.

Three, wheeled rubbish containers lined the wall to his left. He tugged at the first, and it rolled easily into the centre of the yard, from where he guided it toward the door in a wide sweeping arc. The impact slammed the door shut. He stamped his foot down onto the brake plate of the nearest caster then onto the one on the bin’s other side. It wouldn’t move so easily now.

Turning, he grabbed the handle of a second bin and arced it toward the rear