Shiver the Whole Night Through (14 page)

That didn't happen. She remained gone, gone, far gone.

By Tuesday morning I was walking the streets, cutting school again, during the daytime, which was ridiculous because Sláine was hardly going to materialise in broad daylight outside the shopping centre or Supermac's. I did it anyway. It hadn't worked, except to draw me into the clutches of Parkinson and Uncle Tim.

All along I continued to wait because what else was I supposed to do? I didn't have a choice. I felt paralysed and useless and waited some more.

Now I sat on a park bench and whispered, ‘Where
are
you, Sláine?' A squad car rushed past across the street – one driver in uniform and two forensics types in those padded white onesies they wear – as I considered the question.

Was she dead? As in, properly dead, no more afterlife, no more strange existence as a shadowy entity, haunting the forest and my dreams? Maybe she had an allotted time after her mortal death and then,
click
, it truly was all over. Maybe Sláine hadn't foreseen this happening, it came too fast and she was gone before she knew it so there was no way to warn me.

Or
maybe
, genius, she sodded off and left you without bothering to say goodbye. I didn't believe that. I think I didn't. Even if I had, I wouldn't have admitted it to myself.

I felt lost without her, I realised. She'd only been missing a day and a half, and already my life didn't seem to have the same purpose. It was on pause while I awaited her return, a state of limbo made worse by anxious uncertainty. And  …  and  …  I think I knew then that I was in love with her.

The park was practically frozen solid, as was everywhere else. The temperatures, incredibly, had continued to fall: now the daytime average was around minus five, nights dipping as low as minus twenty. For Ireland, this was unparalleled. My mother had fallen on the treacherous ground the day before and sprained her wrist. I thought I'd get her something, a gift to cheer her up and a little mission to distract me.

So I wobbled across town, cautious on that slippery surface, to an old antiques shop in an alleyway. I'd never been inside before. I'd never even seen the owner, but had passed more times than I could count. They always had a collection of interesting-looking things in the window: all sort of gewgaws and trinkets and dideys, a piled-up mass of bric-a-brac collapsing on itself, the relics of hundreds of forgotten lives.

I went in, a bell tinkling to announce my entry, and had a look around. There was as much dust as objects for sale in here, but I didn't mind. It kind of gave the place a romantic atmosphere, like something out of an old movie about Victorian times. Jack the Ripper might dash in here, fleeing from the bobbies. Pity the street outside had no cobblestones, just boring concrete slabs.

A voice spoke, small and quavering but quite strong. I almost yelped in shock. ‘Flood. Isn't that it?'

I whirled around. A tiny woman had come through an alcove and stood behind the counter. It reached her chest, so high that she looked slightly out of scale with the rest of the shop. I squinted through the gloom and thought I'd seen her before, but not in here. Where  …  ? She sort of resembled the woman Sláine had ‘hypnotised' into coming over to me, outside the park, after I'd given both barrels to Rattigan; the same one who might have slipped William McAuley's letter into my bag.

Then again, maybe it wasn't her. All old people look alike, don't they? Babies and old folks – we look the same as everyone else at the start and end of life.

She gave a small smile and said, ‘I know who you are. Our two families go a long way back in this town.'

‘Um  …  thanks. I mean, okay.'

‘I'm Meredith. Your parents will know me if you want to give them my regards.' She waved a hand around the shop. ‘Have a good look. Take your time and decide what you want.'

I did as she suggested. There were some pretty things on those shelves, the sort of stuff my mam would definitely like. After a few minutes of browsing I narrowed it down to an old brass bell shaped like a woman in a ballgown, and a piece of coral embedded in a half-sphere of glass. I held each in my hand, getting a feel for them, their weight and balance, how they reflected the light.

The old lady spoke again, almost to herself, her voice drifting across to my ears like dust motes in the still air: ‘I will bring a flood of waters to destroy all flesh in which is the breath of life. Everything on the earth shall die.'

My skin crawled. Those words  …  where had I heard them before?

Sláine. The first night we met.

I spun around again. ‘How do you know those lines?'

Meredith said, ‘The Bible. I'm sure I have them a bit mixed up, but that's more-or-less the way it goes.'

‘But –' I stopped myself from asking, ‘How did you know that Sláine had spoken them too?' Because of course she didn't know – it was a coincidence. Lots of people read the Bible, and she knew my name was Flood, and that was a quote about
the
Flood, the Noah's Ark one. You'd have looked a right eejit, I told myself, making some wild hypothesis out of this lady reciting part of a book.

As if supporting the argument, she said, ‘I just remembered that because of your name. Flood, it's a lovely name. Not common in Ireland, I don't think?'

My mouth recited some vague reply while my mind asked itself, but
is
there such thing as a coincidence? All the extraordinary events I'd experienced over the last few months proved that this was a far more weird and fantastic world than we imagine. There were unexplained connections between things, which may not be recognised but are very real  … 

‘Anyway don't mind me babbling like this,' she said, ‘I'm just filling the silence with speech. Have you chosen what you want to do?'

‘Wha—?'

‘Those two. Have you picked one to buy? You needn't make any purchase by the way. At this stage of my life I'm as happy to have some company in the shop as to make a sale.' Again she gave that small, enigmatic smile. ‘That's probably why I keep it open at all. There's no money in it any more really. I do a bit of cleaning work to make ends meet, casual, you know. Big houses around the town. Knockmore Road, Belladonna, DeLacey Heights  …  Those people are too busy to clean, I suppose. They just give me the house keys and let me work away.'

I nodded sympathetically and made a snap decision: the bell. I handed it over and Meredith wrapped it nicely in a box and coloured paper.

‘Thanks,' I said. ‘How much?'

‘Ah sure, we'll say  …  five. Have you that?'

‘Yeah, no worries.' I paid her and was about to go when the old lady frowned and tapped her forehead.

‘Oh. Do you know, I might have something here for you. Free of charge. Hold on one moment, like a good lad.'

‘For me?'

Meredith reached under the counter and, without looking, pulled out a small disc made of brass or copper. She flicked a clasp and it sprung open: a locket, used for holding photographs. Two oval spaces to place pictures. It was old and, although plain, quite beautiful.

‘It mightn't be the kind of thing young men like, I suppose – I wouldn't be well up on the fashions nowadays,' she said. ‘But I saw you and thought you might be interested. It's a pretty little thing, isn't it?'

I nodded.

‘Dates from Victorian times  …  around the Famine, as far as I know. I couldn't
tell
you where it came from or how long we've had it. My father ran the shop before me, and his before him  …  We're around a long time.' She smiled ruefully. ‘Anyway. You might find some use for it. Maybe put in a nice picture of your sweetheart. Go on, take it. Think of it as a gift for a valued customer. A
rare
customer, ha ha.'

I mumbled thanks and shoved it into my inside jacket pocket. I'd put in photos later, maybe a passport shot of me and that one of Sláine from the newspaper report on her death.

Meredith smiled. ‘That's it. Keep it close to your heart.'

I left the old lady and her dusty, romantic shop, a bit discommoded by the experience but not sure why. Anyway the feeling soon faded because, two steps past the entrance door, I bumped into international super-spy Sioda Kinvara.

Literally: we collided and he almost fell on the ice. I grabbed his arm. The soft sleeve of his plush cashmere overcoat was chilly to the touch.

Kinvara regained his balance and smiled, saying, ‘Thank you.' Then he did a double take and the smile changed to bemused recognition. ‘The lad from the library. The park there, you gave that other boy some dressing-down.'

I said, ‘The –? Oh yeah. That was me.' I smiled awkwardly. ‘Ah, he deserved it.'

‘I have no doubt  …  Enjoyable to watch someone beat a bully with the power of words, I must say. It pleases a mild-mannered bibliophile like me.'

I shrugged and harrumphed, the usual Irish way of accepting a compliment. ‘John Rattigan's brain, now  …  it wouldn't take much to outsmart him.'

‘Perhaps  …  Still. The pen really is mightier than the sword. Sometimes.'

‘Yeah, sometimes. Sorry, am I blocking your way?'

I moved from the door. Kinvara said, ‘Not at all, I'm just browsing. Killing time. Yourself?'

‘Uh  …  pretty much the same. Got something for my mother, you know. Little present.'

I held up the gift box Meredith had given me. Kinvara said appreciatively, ‘Good man yourself. It's lovely to see a boy looking after his mother. Family is  …  ' He frowned and sort of stumbled on his words. After a pause he went on, ‘Family is important. We  …  we do have to take care of family, don't we?'

I shrugged again. Guess so, man.

‘You can't  …  you have to stay loyal to your own, don't you?' he said. ‘Yes. That's right, I think.'

‘Sure.'

I stared at the ground, a bit perplexed and a bit uncomfortable. Then Kinvara's face brightened, as though whatever clouds were darkening the sky inside his head had blown away, and it was all shiny blue in there now.

‘Speaking of family,' he said. ‘I think I know your father. It's Aidan, isn't it?'

‘That's me. Dad did the job on your cars, right? You're Mr Kinvara.'

‘Live and in person.' He stuck out his hand – I shook it. The hand was even colder than his overcoat. ‘Sioda, please.'

‘Nice to meet you, Sioda.'

‘Likewise.' His phone sounded, the tone for a message, a familiar tune. Did I know that from somewhere  …  ? Four notes, three up before the last one comes back down as far as notes can go  … 

Kinvara must have read my thoughts or noticed my expression of curious concentration. His eyes twinkled as he said, ‘The ringtone? I love that tune. From a film I really like. I downloaded it off the internet.' He hummed the melody, ‘Dum-dum-dum-DUMMM,' and I remembered, of course, hearing it play inside the house on Belladonna Way. So that was Kinvara's home after all – I'd got that right.

Now he was off on a different tack, saying, ‘He did a grand job for me. Your dad. That man knows cars,
whoo
.' He whistled, a low and somehow mournful sound. ‘Are you into all that yourself?'

‘Cars? Not in the slightest,' I said proudly, chuckling. ‘Music and books'd be more my thing.'

‘Well, I'm the same as you. Which of course is why I needed your father in the first place. I mean I
love
to drive them. Those vintage machines – beautiful. It's an almost narcotic experience, you know? Actually, I hope you
don't
know.' He smirked. ‘But as to how or why or what they do  …  pff. Might as well be Coptic Greek. No, I'm a man of letters, like yourself.'

I rolled a smoke, saying, ‘Yeah, I love to read. Like, I get real pleasure from it, as well as  …  broadening the mind, whatever.'

‘Absolutely. That is
absolutely
it. There's an unbelievable power in books. Literal power. Books can change the world. Marx, Darwin, the Bible, Shakespeare, sure where do you stop  …  ? Such possibilities. Language and words, I mean they actually create consciousness. They're what make us human, not just dumb apes that can stand upright  …  Do you know, I thank God, or whatever's out there, on a daily basis for books and reading. Don't think I could exist without them.'

‘Um  …  yeah. Me too, like I say. Love reading.'

I pulled on my fag and sort of half-moved onto the road. Kinvara ducked in the opposite direction, towards the old curiosity shop. He stopped with his hand on the door, saying over his shoulder, ‘Come around to my house, any time you like, and pick something from my library. I have thousands of books, all sorts, you can borrow some. If you want to – no obligation. But there might be something to pique your interest, maybe a book that's hard to find elsewhere, you know.' He raised a finger. ‘
Only
if your parents say it's all right. If you want to drop by, have your dad ring me beforehand to verify. The door won't be opened unless I get that call.' He turned to me and flashed a smile. ‘Wouldn't want people getting the wrong impression. Don't worry, I'm not some sort of weirdo. It's just books. But you seem like the kind of lad who'd be interested in alternative stuff, so  …  ' Kinvara shrugged. ‘The offer's there, whatever you decide is fine by me.'

I shrugged too, the best non-response I could think of in a situation where a response was required. Something felt slightly hinky about it: his offer, this whole conversation. Not in the predictable sense – I didn't get any dangerous pederast vibes off Kinvara. Quite the opposite. If anything, he seemed strangely asexual, a bit of a cold fish. It was just  …  something.

I sighed. Probably your imagination, Aidan. Again. The man knows your dad, knows you like reading, he's offering to loan some books. He's even said he won't let you into the house until your parents phone to verify it's all kosher. Stop looking for shit when there's none there. You've got enough shit to deal with as it is, ha.