Arthur Quinn and the World Serpent

‘Ahh!'

Arthur Quinn woke with a start, disoriented. Sitting in the driver's seat next to him, his dad laid a hand on his shoulder and said something inaudible over the thump of music in his ears. He pulled his iPod earbuds out and said, ‘What?'

‘I asked are you all right?' repeated his dad.

‘Yeah, yeah, I'm fine. Just a bad dream. A weird dream.'

‘Yeah?' His dad fixed his attention back on the road. ‘Weird how?'

‘I dunno. Can't really remember it. Just this … smile … It doesn't matter.'

He popped his earbuds back in and stared out the window. A Coldplay song had come on; it kind of suited his mood. They were nearly there. Dublin. It had been an uncomfortable three-and-a-half-hour drive from Kerry, especially with most of their worldly belongings piled on the back seat and in the boot, and all that concerned Arthur now was a toilet break.

Arthur had shaggy brown hair and blue eyes flecked with green. Freckles danced across his nose and high cheekbones. He looked at his dad. With his grey temples and deep wrinkles, Joe Quinn appeared a lot older than forty-three. But then, he'd gone through a lot in the past couple of years. They both had. His dad's head started to turn and Arthur quickly averted his gaze.

Heuston Station passed by outside. People flowed constantly in and out of the building, hailing taxis and waiting for the next LUAS. Arthur reflected that, in all of his twelve years, this was the first time he'd arrived in Dublin by car. Every other time they'd taken the train, making Heuston Station their threshold to the capital. He could even pinpoint the last time he'd been to Dublin: two years ago, at Christmas. They had travelled up by train to go ice-skating: himself, his dad and … his mum. That had been just before she'd gotten ill.

He looked down at the ribbon tied around his right wrist and fingered it absent-mindedly. It was a pale golden colour, soft to the touch. The edges were neatly cut and hadn't frayed, even at the knot. It had been his mother's; now it was his.

As they drove along the quays it started to rain. Arthur looked past Joe at the drops hitting the River Liffey. The water was high and dark, reflecting the clouds above. Somewhere nearby was his dad's new office.

It had all happened so quickly – Arthur had barely had time to say goodbye to all his friends. Three days ago he'd come home from school to find Joe all flustered, making phone calls and filling out forms.

‘What's up?' Arthur had asked as his dad finished the call he'd been on.

Joe looked at his son. ‘Well, it's a long story.'

‘What is it?'

‘I got a call this morning. You know the new Metro line they're digging in Dublin?'

Arthur had of course heard about it. Who hadn't? The fact that Dublin was finally getting its own underground rail line had been front-page news for weeks. They'd been planning it for years and construction had finally started. Well, excavation had finally started.

‘Yeah. What about it?'

‘Well, they're having trouble excavating under the Liffey,' his dad had continued. ‘Turns out the foundations aren't as stable as they first thought and they've had a couple of small cave-ins. Anyway, they've offered me a job.'

It made sense. Joe was an engineer with experience excavating tunnels. As a young man in the early nineties, he'd even worked on the Channel Tunnel, the train link under the sea between England and France.

‘Cool!' Arthur had exclaimed. ‘So what does that mean?'

‘Well, for starters, it means we're going to have to move.'

‘Move?'

‘To Dublin.'

‘What? When?'

‘Well, Sunday. But –'

‘What!'

‘Look, Arthur, it'll be fine. They've found us a house and a school for you – it's a really good one. And it's a nice house, they've sent me pictures. I'll show you them later.'

‘But –'

‘Please, Arthur. It's good money. Really good. And it's only for six months or so. Just the rest of this school year, really. We'll be back here for next year, for secondary school. And I think a break from Kerry will do wonders for both of us.'

Without another word, Arthur had gone to his room and started to pack.

And now, driving alongside the Liffey, Arthur couldn't help but wish he was back in that room.

Willie Higgins inhaled greedily on his cigarette as the rain pattered on the roof of the security shed. The shed itself was very basic, consisting of four walls and a roof, all constructed from corrugated iron. A small Perspex window had been fitted in the creaky door, while the floor was a sheet of plywood that bounced slightly as he walked on it. The only pieces of furniture in the shed were the small yet comfortable wooden stool he sat on and the gas heater that kept him warm on days like these. He opened the
Sunday World
to the sports pages and started reading about today's games.

Willie was one of eight full-time security guards posted to the Usher's Quay Metro site. From here, the construction company, Citi-Trak, was excavating the first tunnel for the state-of-the-art Metro. They planned to have the tunnel complete within five years, an optimistic estimation in anyone's book. Ordinarily, work would continue fourteen hours a day, seven days a week, even on a Sunday. But work had been stopped on the previous Wednesday following a small cave-in in one of the secondary tunnels. Luckily no one had been injured – or worse, killed – but, nevertheless, work had been suspended.

Well, suspended for everyone but Willie and the seven other security guards. But Willie didn't mind. At sixty-two, he was glad to be out of the house, especially on a Sunday when all the grandkids were around, screaming their heads off. He had a flask of tea, his papers, some sandwiches and a radio. What more could he want?

‘Excuse me.'

The voice startled him so much he dropped his paper onto the plywood floor. He had been so engrossed in the story he hadn't even heard the hut door open. He bent to pick the paper up, but the owner of the voice reached it first and handed it to him.

‘Thanks,' said Willie and looked up at the speaker. She was tall – over six foot – with long blonde hair and wearing a slinky red dress. She had no coat on but held a black umbrella over her head. Against the grey rubble of the site through the window, she stood out like a sore thumb. No, that wasn't right – she'd stand out anywhere. She reminded Willie of the supermodels his wife watched on that television show. And now he saw the door was shut behind her but, again, he hadn't heard it closing.

‘Jaysus, you scared the life out of me,' he said. ‘Can I help you?'

‘Willie, isn't it?' Her voice was smooth, breathy and had no distinct accent.

‘That's right. Do I know you?'

‘I don't think we've met.' She offered her hand. ‘I'm Aidan Byrne's wife.'

‘Oh, Mrs Byrne!' he exclaimed, shaking her hand a little too vigorously. ‘Lovely to meet you! How's Mr Byrne today?'

‘He's fine. Actually that's why I'm here. He forgot his jacket in the office – the feather-head.'

‘Oh well then,' he started to pull on his rain jacket, ‘let me get it for you.'

‘No, it's all right, Willie. I'll get it. You stay here, nice and dry.'

He hesitated, one arm in the jacket. ‘Are you sure, Mrs Byrne?'

‘Of course I'm sure, Willie.' She held out her hand and smiled. Willie unhooked his heavy bunch of keys from his belt-loop and placed them in her palm. ‘No problem at all.'

The Citi-Trak office was just over the crest of some rubble, barely out of sight of the security shed. The office consisted of two prefabs side by side. One prefab housed a kitchenette-cum-canteen and two small bathrooms, while the other housed the office itself. Without looking, the woman picked the correct key and let herself in.

Inside, papers and plans were piled high on desks. Blueprints were tacked to the walls, alongside computer-generated designs of the Metro trains and tracks. There were four desks in the room, each with its own laptop, and a large boardroom table in the centre. Along one wall was a row of tall filing cabinets. The woman slowly walked over to the cabinets, dragging her red fingernails along the nearest desk as she went. She read the labels on the fronts of the cabinets, eventually opening a drawer labelled ‘Human Resources'. Her nails flicked through the files quickly then stopped suddenly. She pulled a folder out and shut the drawer with a clang that resounded around the prefab. With a laugh that would have chilled even Willie's warm heart to the core, she took the file with her and left.

While Mrs Byrne was gone, Willie returned to reading his paper. He received another shock when she peeked in at him through the Perspex window.

‘All done!' she mouthed, dangling his keys by her face. Willie got up to open the door. The cold wind blew around his ankles and he pulled his heavy coat around him tighter, half-wondering how Mrs Byrne could wear something so light in this weather. She dropped the keys back into his open hand.

‘Did you get sorted, Mrs Byrne?'

‘I did indeed, Willie. Thanks so much.'

As she walked away over the rubble, Willie shuffled back to his stool, trying to return his attention to the
Sunday World
. But there were two niggling thoughts in the back of his mind. The first was that Mrs Byrne didn't have a jacket with her as she left. The second was that he'd never heard of an Aidan Byrne.

As suddenly as the thoughts formed in his mind, they were gone. Just like the woman.