The Undivided (34 page)

Although he knew things about this realm, thanks to the
Comhroinn
, Darragh discovered that knowing and understanding were two entirely different things. When Rónán said they needed a phone, he immediately knew what a phone was and where they might find one, but the how and why completely eluded him. He would know a phone if he saw one, but was quite certain he would have no hope of using it successfully, despite what he’d learned from his brother.

He hurried after the others across the perfectly manicured lawn of the golf course, amazed at the lush perfection of the fairways. Once again, he knew they were on a golf course, understood that this flawless swathe of lawn was a part of the game, but why anybody might want to indulge in such a pastime remained a mystery.

Once they left the shelter of the tress, Darragh realised what else unsettled him about this place. There was no magic. He could feel its lack. It was as if the air was missing some indefinable quality to which he was so attuned that he didn’t notice it until it was gone. The air in this world smelt different too. Darragh wasn’t sure, however, if the strange smell was because the world lacked any usable magic or if it had something to do with the technological progress that destroyed it.

He wasn’t sure what time it was. In his realm, it was near midnight when they dived through the rift with Trása in pursuit. He glanced sideways at her, trying to decide how he felt about her presence here. He’d missed her terribly, after they sent her away from
Sí an Bhrú
, and he’d never truly believed she’d callously tried to seduce him in order to make him void the Treaty of
Tír Na nÓg.
But even her own father hadn’t been certain that wasn’t something Marcroy hadn’t coaxed her into doing, even unwittingly. So Amergin had sent Trása away. It confirmed what everybody knew about him. Amergin had been a loyal and trustworthy Vate, willing to sacrifice even his own family in order to protect the Undivided.

It wasn’t until his deathbed confession about his part in the plan to separate the Undivided twins that the true depth of Amergin’s betrayal was revealed. His sacrifice in sending Trása away — in light of his confession — had seemed less like heroism and more like a craven attempt to cover up his own treason. It also made Trása a suspect. Darragh had grown up with Trása thinking of her as a trusted friend, and the only child of an equally trusted friend. She proved to be the daughter of a heinous traitor and, now, if he believed Rónán — and he had no reason not to, with access to his brother’s memories confirming every detail — Trása had compounded her crime by trying to trap Rónán in this realm by framing him for murder.

And yet, Darragh realised he still missed her. Feeling his gaze upon her, she turned to glance at him. He quickly looked away. Despite her treachery, despite everything he knew she’d done, Darragh was secretly thrilled to be back in her company, even if they were enemies. He couldn’t trust Trása, he knew that, but the knowledge meant she couldn’t betray him again unless he allowed her to.

That thought set him thinking about Brydie. Another complication he didn’t want or need at the moment, albeit a
delightfully distracting one. She was back at
Sí an Bhrú
even now, waiting for him to return.

As Darragh pondered the complicated mess his life was becoming, they walked through the moonlight across the golf course, groped by the chill fingers of a brisk westerly. By the time they reached the last tree-filled border to confront a huge white two-storey building lit by artificial lights, the moon was almost set. Darragh hurried to catch up with Rónán.

‘I know this place,’ Rónán said. He stopped and pointed to the building, surrounded by a large car park.

‘Ciarán sent us to
Eblana
?’ Darragh asked, glancing over his shoulder to ensure the others were keeping up.

‘Get used to calling it Dublin,’ Rónán advised. ‘And speak English. The language you guys speak won’t get you far at all in this reality.’

‘Okay, let us speak English,’ Darragh said, trying it out, the words feeling odd as they formed on his tongue. Just as he knew what a phone, a golf course and a car park were, he knew English from his
Comhroinn
with Rónán. But the intricacies of the language that came only with speaking it every day, were things he would have to pick up on his own. ‘Where are we?’

‘The Castle Golf Club, I think.’

‘Is that the castle?’ Sorcha asked, staring at the clubhouse. As soon as Rónán had named the place, the memory burbled to the forefront of Darragh’s mind. This was not a castle, but a meeting place for an exclusive club whose members liked to play the game of golf. The windows were brightly lit in some places, others were dark, but it was obvious there were people about, even though none could be seen from where the group stood among the trees on the other side of the car park.

‘You competed in a tournament here,’ Darragh said to Rónán.

Sorcha was impressed. ‘You joust,
Leath tiarna
?’

Rónán smiled. ‘Not that sort of tournament. It was a school thing. We had a choice of extracurricular sports. Golf got me out of the rowing squad.’

‘Why did you not want to row?’ Trása asked, placing herself beside Rónán, as if to put as much space as possible between herself and Darragh. ‘It seems a far more useful skill than golf.’

‘Well, for a start, rowers have to get up at the crack of dawn to train,’ Rónán said. ‘I wonder what time it is.’

‘After midnight, I would think,’ Darragh suggested, glancing up at the moon.

‘What day is it, do you suppose?’ Rónán asked. ‘It was August, 2001 when I left. I wonder if it’s a Saturday or a Sunday.’

‘Does it matter?’ Darragh asked, pleased to realise he knew what days of the week were called here.

‘Kinda,’ Rónán said thoughtfully. ‘If it was the weekend, I’d expect to see more cars in the car park.’

‘What’s a car?’ Sorcha asked.

‘A … um … horseless carriage,’ Rónán told her. ‘Like that.’

He pointed to one of the vehicles in the car park. They sat there squat, cold, and unimpressive, although Darragh knew they could be fast and rather dangerous, based on Rónán’s impression of them.

‘Will one of these horseless carriages solve our transportation problem?’ Sorcha asked.

‘Sure. Right up until we get arrested for stealing it,’ Rónán said.

‘I’ll get us a car,’ Trása volunteered.

‘How?’

She pointed to the clubhouse in the distance. The faintest strains of music wafted to them on the gusty breeze. ‘From him.’

The clubhouse door was opening as she spoke, and a man stumbled out. He wore a tweed jacket and knee-length pants
with matching chequered socks and was wending his way rather unsteadily in their direction. Over his shoulder, he carried a large golf bag full of clubs with covers shaped like small furry animals. He seemed more than a little intoxicated, struggling to maintain his stability with the clubs, which were throwing him off balance. He fiddled with something as he walked. Then he dropped it and stooped to pick it up. The clubs slid out of his bag and spilled out onto the ground.

Rónán looked at her askance. ‘You’re just going to walk up to that guy and ask for his car, I suppose?’

‘Watch me,’ she said, dropping Rónán’s cloak.

‘Oh, my God,’ Rónán muttered, as Trása left them standing in the rough and made her way across the car park, naked as a newborn. The drunk was still trying to stuff his golf clubs back into the bag. ‘What is she doing?’

From the shadow of the tree line, they watched Trása stop in front of the man, watched her bend down to help him gather up his clubs. The man’s gaze was glued to the naked young woman who had come so unexpectedly to his assistance. She spoke to him for a few moments and he handed her something. Trása turned to face them, holding up a set of keys and jiggling them with a broad, and rather self-satisfied, grin.

‘A naked Faerie just approached him,’ Sorcha remarked disapprovingly. ‘If she’s not fulfilling all his wildest fantasies, I’ll warrant she’s giving him a few new ones.’

Rónán muttered a curse and hurried after Trása.

Darragh glanced at Sorcha. ‘Well? Shall we?’

‘This won’t end happily,’ Sorcha predicted, her hand flexing on the hilt of her sheathed sword. ‘Not for any of us. You really do need to let me kill her, Darragh.’

‘No killing,
Mháistreás
,’ he ordered. ‘At least not until we get home. Then we will deal with Trása Ni’Amergin, and her bastard uncle Marcroy Tarth in the appropriate manner.’

Sorcha frowned, but nodded in agreement and picked up the cloak Trása had discarded. ‘It is about time somebody did something about that treacherous
sídhe
,’ she said.

‘And we will,’ Darragh assured her.

‘How?’ she asked.

‘The only way you can do something to discipline one of the
Daoine sídhe
,’ he told her as they walked across the bitumen. ‘By reporting him to the queen of the
Tuatha
and letting her deal with him.’

‘This is Warren,’ Trása announced, as they piled into the man’s car. ‘His wife’s away, visiting her mother in Limerick. He said we can stay at his place.’

Warren was a man of early middle age, Darragh guessed, with an impressive combover, a paunch and the bleary eyes of a man who drank too much, too often. As Rónán loaded Warren’s golf clubs into the boot of his car for him, Warren scowled at them with alarm, and turned to Trása.

‘You shaid a
few
friends …’

‘Oh, I have many more friends than this,’ she told him cheerily. ‘Trust me, this is only a few of them.’

‘Put this on,’ Sorcha ordered, thrusting the cloak at Trása. She pulled the cloak over her shoulders, much to the disappointment of Warren, and then opened the front passenger door for him.

Darragh opened the back door. Sorcha eyed the car with a frown and then climbed into the back seat. Darragh piled in after her, followed by Trása, who had tossed the keys to Rónán.

It was tight in the back seat, pushed so close together, but there wasn’t much choice. The front of the vehicle only allowed for two. They had to shuffle around a bit to fit, and Sorcha had to remove her sword but, finally, they were able to close the door, although that meant Darragh had Trása’s body pressed against his in a very unsettling way.

Rónán turned his attention to the ignition and started the car. The engine roared to life. Sorcha let out a small squeal of fright. Then they moved off smoothly, Darragh trying to pretend he understood how this vehicle was propelled, reminding himself that despite seeming to be self-propelled, the vehicle was the result of technology and not magic.

‘Where are we going?’ Trása asked, as Rónán turned the car out of the car park and onto the main road. The other cars on the road had painfully bright lights and so did the road itself. Darragh stared out the window, entranced and appalled, all at once. The speed they were travelling was frightening, but not so bad if one kept one’s gaze fixed forward. When he turned his head sideways and saw the rate at which the world was rushing past, Darragh felt quite nauseous.

‘Good question,’ Rónán said, and then turned to Warren. ‘Where do you live, Warren?’

‘Castleshide Drive,’ Warren mumbled, craning to look at Trása in the back seat. ‘I’ll show you the way.’

‘Do you live alone?’

The drunk nodded and then shook his head as if he’d changed his mind. ‘Yesh … no … I mean … the mishus ish vishiting her mother. Took the kidsh with her.’ He fixed his gaze on Trása. ‘Are you really a fairy prinshesh?’

‘In the flesh,’ she promised him with a smile. ‘You can have your three wishes as soon as we get to your house.’

‘You can’t grant him three wishes!’ Sorcha hissed at her in a low voice, leaning forward to see past Darragh. ‘Only the Djinn can do that, and even they couldn’t grant wishes here because we’re in the wrong realm for them to survive!’

‘He doesn’t know that,’ Trása pointed out with a shrug.

Sorcha was appalled. ‘I can’t believe you told him you were a Faerie princess.’

‘Well, I am. Sort of.’

Sorcha was the only one who seemed to have a problem with Trása’s ruse. Even Darragh acknowledged it was clever. Thanks to Trása’s shameless audacity, they had access to a vehicle, shelter, clothing, and probably a chance for Rónán to find Hayley without raising the alarm. Darragh had enough of Rónán’s awareness to know that in this realm, it was very easy to be traced if one left a ‘paper trail’, whatever that might be.

If a little white lie was all it took to keep a middle-aged drunk happy and the rest of them safe until they could find Hayley Boyle and take her to a magical realm where she could be saved, then so be it.

Warren’s home proved to be an upmarket detached suburban house that backed onto the golf course. If Warren had been sober and in the mood for a bit of a hike, he could have walked home across the greens. As it was, Ren had to take a far more circuitous route, past Rathfarnham Castle, which sat at the western end of the golf course, then double back and turn east again, back toward the houses bordering the greens.

Ren parked in the driveway and glanced at Warren, who’d already started to nod off. He shook the man gently. ‘Hey! Warren! Wake up! We’re home!’

The man eventually stirred and stared at Ren myopically. ‘Wha … Who are you?’

‘I’m one of the Faerie’s friends, remember?’

Warren saw Trása in the back seat and smiled drowsily. ‘Oh … yeah …’

‘Your house keys are on here, yeah?’ he asked, holding up the keys for the Audi and shaking them to get his attention.

‘Mmmm …’

‘Do you have an alarm?’

‘What?’

‘Is your house alarmed?’ Ren asked. One glance at the houses in this street, and Ren was certain it was the kind of
neighbourhood where people installed alarms. If you could afford to live in a city like Dublin with a golf course in your back yard, you had things you wanted to protect. It would defeat the purpose of hiding out in Warren’s house if the first thing they did was trip a silent alarm and have the security company around, banging on the door.

‘Yeah.’

‘What’s the code?’

‘Oh-four-oh-eight,’ Warren said. ‘It’sh my annivershary …’ He glanced back at Trása with a smile. ‘Wife shet the number sho I wouldn’t forget.’

‘Okay.’ Ren turned to Darragh. He was the only one he trusted not to do something silly. Trása was not to be trusted. Despite the
Comhroinn
, Darragh was still trying to get his head around this realm, but Ren knew instinctively that he would do what he must to keep them safe. Sorcha would make an awesome bodyguard if he ever needed one, but when it came to the day-to-day practicalities of life in the twenty-first century, she was next to useless. ‘Can you give Warren a hand to get inside?’ Ren said to Darragh.

‘Of course.’

‘You girls,’ he said to the others, ‘follow me. Don’t touch anything, don’t do anything and don’t talk to anyone. Got it?’

‘I have been here before, you know,’ Trása reminded him.

‘We had that discussion already,’ Ren replied sourly. ‘It might help a bit if you stopped reminding me.’

He climbed out of the car and headed for the front door. The lights came on automatically as he approached. The front of the house was neat and well kept, mostly given over to a gravelled drive where two cars could comfortably park. The front door was wooden, with two glass panels inset into the wood and a brass deadlock. He studied the lock for a moment, found the most likely key on the ring, and inserted it, whispering a silent
prayer that Warren’s alarm system wouldn’t be triggered by him opening the door. The key turned without resistance. He glanced up. The blue light mounted under the eaves would start flashing if he tripped the silent alarm. It remained off. He let out his breath and turned to the others who were gathered outside, Sorcha staring up at the automated lights with a suspicious glare. Trása and Darragh were supporting Warren between them, his arms slung over their shoulders.

‘Gimme a minute to disarm the security system,’ he whispered.

A few feet inside the hall, Ren found the alarm panel. He punched in the code and was relieved to see the red arming light turn to green. He motioned to the others and ordered Trása to lock the door and then led them inside, turning on the lights as he went.

‘Trása, check all the blinds are down,’ he ordered. She looked like she might object to his command, but nodded and headed back into the living room, to make sure nobody could see inside. Ren turned to Darragh. ‘Can you get him upstairs? Find a bed for him and lie him down. He’s on the verge of passing out as it is.’

Darragh did as he asked, leaving Ren alone with Sorcha. She was looking around the room, open-mouthed. They were in the kitchen-cum-breakfast room. The gleaming white cabinets and countertops, the shiny appliances and general cleanliness left her gaping.

Ren smiled. ‘Welcome to my world.’

‘This palace is … unbelievable.’

‘I guess it must seem that way, but can you do me a favour?’

‘What’s that?’

He pulled out one of the stools by the breakfast counter and pointed to it. ‘Sit here and don’t touch anything.’

She nodded and did what he asked without complaint, which Ren found a little odd, but it was one less thing to worry about. Ren headed through the kitchen into the formal dining room,
noting the flower arrangement on the table. Either they had a housekeeper or the wife and kids hadn’t been away that long. Warren didn’t seem the type to care about fresh flowers.

He walked into the living room pleased to find the blinds drawn. The sofas were comfy brown leather and covered with cushions, a fire laid out in the fireplace that was obviously gasfired — the logs only for show. He walked on through to the hall and glanced up the stairs. Darragh was heading down.

‘How’s Warren?’

‘Out before his head hit the pillow,’ Darragh said. ‘I don’t envy him the hangover he’s likely to have in the morning.’

‘Or his surprise to discover that the naked Faerie he met in the car park of the golf club was real,’ Ren added. ‘Speaking of our fairy princess, where is she?’

‘She found a bedroom upstairs that had some clothes she thought might fit her,’ his brother told him. ‘I suggested she find something appropriate to wear.’

That seemed like a good idea. ‘We should probably send Sorcha up to get changed too,’ Ren said.

Darragh shook his head. ‘Not unless you want bloodshed. Let Trása get dressed first, and then we’ll send Sorcha up. We need to find something for us to wear, too.’

‘We can check the cupboards,’ Ren agreed, ‘but I don’t like our chances. Warren’s shorter than us, and considerably wider. Maybe we can send Trása out in the morning to buy us something to wear that doesn’t make us look like we’ve escaped from a comic book convention.’

Darragh frowned. ‘Do you trust her to do that?’

‘Do we have a choice?’

‘I suppose not.’

‘Okay, then,’ Ren said, wishing his thoughts would clear for a moment so he could get his head around everything that had happened in the last couple of hours. It was hard to credit,
standing in this suburban hallway, that a few hours earlier he’d been standing on the battlements of a fortress hundreds of miles — and an entire reality — away from here, having his brain magically slam-dunked by the twin brother he didn’t even know he had until a few weeks ago. ‘We should get some sleep. It’s nearly three am and I don’t know about you, but I’m exhausted. In the morning, we’ll sort out clothes, and I’ll find out where Hayley is.’

‘Will she not be in the place you left her?’ Darragh asked.

A terrible thought occurred to Ren. If Hayley was still in the ICU, and still in a coma, how was he going to get her to the nearest reality rift so he could have her magically healed in another reality, if she didn’t survive the journey through?

The first thing Ren did on waking the following morning was take a shower. It felt so unbelievably good, he almost ran the hot water out, letting the grime and the confusion of the past few weeks wash away with the water.

The only sour note to the morning was that he’d dreamed the dream again. It wasn’t as vivid as it used to be, but that might have been because Darragh was here with him. Or perhaps their recent actions had changed the possible future they both saw, and the dream was no longer relevant. Did that mean staying in the other realm would alter that future? If he only had the dream when he was in this reality, perhaps it was staying here that would make it come true.

He let the water cascade over him, trying to decide what would be better. Stay here and suffer nightmares for the rest of his life, or return with Darragh to an uncertain world where he might have some hope, perhaps, of controlling his fate?

Ren wasn’t sure what day it was. In Darragh’s reality, all the days seemed the same. Because of the moon, he knew he had been away for a month or so. By now, all his friends were back at school. Life would have gone on without him …

It was a disconcerting thought.

Once he was out of the shower, Ren borrowed Warren’s razor, something far easier to use and far safer than the thin cutthroat razors on offer in Drombeg. He then went looking for some clothes and had a stroke of luck. Warren owned nothing likely to fit Ren or Darragh, but the ‘kids’ Warren referred to were obviously teenagers. The first bedroom door he opened was painted pink, filled with posters of Britney Spears, and an alarming number of stuffed animals. Darragh was stretched out across the frilly floral bedspread on his back, snoring softly.

The second bedroom revealed a shrine to all things heavy metal. There were posters of Megadeth on the wall over the bed, a Guns ’n’ Roses towel draped over the window to cut out the light, and a Metallica poster on the other wall beside the built-in closet, and when he flipped the light switch, it proved to be wired up to a UV light over the dresser. Ren grinned and went to the closet. Sure enough, in addition to a number of school uniform shirts and a blazer bearing the crest of the nearby Terenure College, the wardrobe was full of blue jeans and black T-shirts.

He pulled out a pair of jeans and was relieved to find they were of a size that might fit him and Darragh if they wore a belt. When it came to shoes, he wasn’t quite as fortunate, but he figured that wasn’t such a big deal. Their boots from Darragh’s reality would pass casual scrutiny, concealed under jeans.

Ren gathered up the clothes and walked back into the hall, wondering where the others were. Darragh was asleep in what was clearly the room of Warren’s teenage daughter, Warren was passed out on the sofa in the upstairs study, which was where Darragh had left him last night. He assumed Sorcha and Trása had crashed in the lounge.

Ren headed down the stairs carrying the clothes. He heard the television. It wasn’t coming from the lounge, but from a wall-mounted set in the kitchen. Trása was sitting cross-legged on
the counter, dressed in black jeans and pink T-shirt proclaiming ‘Boys are cute, every girl should own one’ in glittery writing on the front. She was eating a bowl of fruit puffs, and was engrossed in what appeared to be a program on the E! Channel.

She ignored Ren until he picked up the remote and started flicking through the channels, looking for the news. That was the fastest way to work out what day it was.

‘Hey! I was watching that!’

‘I need to find out what day it is.’

‘Thursday, 6 September 2001,’ she told him, through a mouthful of fruit puffs. She snatched the remote and switched back to the E! Channel.

Ren decided not to argue about it. He headed for the fridge, hoping the absence of Warren’s wife didn’t mean the absence of anything edible. ‘I don’t know why you watch that crap,’ he said, as he jerked the fridge door open.

‘Don’t knock it,’ she said. ‘It’s how I found you. Where’s Warren?’

‘Still sleeping it off in the study upstairs. Have you seen Sorcha?’

‘Last I saw of Sorcha, she was patrolling the grounds.’

‘Shit,’ Ren muttered, slamming the fridge shut. The last thing they needed was one of the neighbours spotting Xena the Warrior Princess in the yard, armed to the teeth, ready to fight off … well, whatever it was she thought she was protecting them against. ‘Why did you let her go outside?’

‘Interesting. You say that like I had any say in the matter.’

Ren looked out the kitchen window. He couldn’t see Sorcha, but that just made it worse. She might be halfway across the golf course by now. ‘I’d better go find her. Can you show Darragh how to put these on? How to work the zip,’ he asked, pointing to the clothes he’d dropped on the counter beside her.

She nodded and kept eating her fruit puffs. He was at the back door before she stopped him. ‘Rónán.’

He turned to look at her. ‘What?’

‘I’m sorry I got you into trouble,’ Trása said, sounding genuinely contrite. ‘I thought I was helping Marcroy.’

‘You
were
helping Marcroy,’ Ren said.

‘I didn’t mean for anyone to get hurt.’

He wished he could be certain her apology was real but she had framed him for murder. And thanks to the
Comhroinn
, he had enough of Darragh’s lingering mistrust of her, to doubt Trása’s sincerity. ‘I’m sure the homeless guy you killed would be thrilled to know that, Trása.’

She sighed, as if his anger was exactly the response she expected. ‘I won’t let you down again, Rónán,’ she promised. ‘You or Darragh.’

‘Damn right, you won’t,’ Ren said, as he jerked open the back door. ‘’Cause believe me, Trása, you won’t get the opportunity.’