Hiding in Plain Sight Page 15

  ‘Huh. Still, I’d say it was a tough chat,’ Ferdia said. ‘Always an added complication when you’re having it with relatives.’

  ‘He’s taking Milo to the ball tonight,’ Charlie said. ‘As a gesture.’

  ‘Hmm-hmm.’

  ‘See? Life pans out in the end, Ferdia. Ciara and Mal will soon take over the business. Will you keep an eye on the boys tonight? You know what lads are like. If you see a row brewing—’

  ‘That won’t happen, but if there’s an issue, I’ll separate them.’ Ferdia scratched behind his ear. ‘I was thinking. Has Malcolm got involved in stock assessments, invoice pricing, suppliers, margins, that end of things yet?’

  ‘That’s Philip’s side of the business.’

  ‘Yeah. I bet he’d welcome another pair of hands, to, you know yourself, ease the workload. And it’d benefit Malcolm to get experience in the accounts department; even for a few days a week. Keep him out of mischief. He needs to learn the drill, especially if you’ve got plans for him, in time.’

  Charlie considered that. ‘I’ll ask him to take Mal under his wing for the next round of trade appointments. You’re right. He has to learn.’

  ‘If you want, I’ll mention it to Philip tonight, if he turns up.’

  ‘Nice if he did. He’s the financial director of the fundraiser trust too. I think he attended once in ten years. He hates social events. Bet he’ll be crunching numbers when you’ve gone to bed. No, I’ll do it. It’s best coming from me. Philip can be touchy—’

  ‘Huh. I heard the way he talked to you the day you met Hugh Fallon.’

  ‘It’s his way. He’s got the good of the company at heart.’ Charlie gazed out the window. ‘I’ll miss being there tonight. I love the chance to chat with people I seldom get to meet.’

  ‘Don’t worry, we’ll have a party when you’re outta here. You can invite them all.’ Ferdia stood and stretched.

  ‘Sure you’re okay for Wednesday?’ Charlie asked.

  ‘Course I’m sure. Don’t worry, I’ve got it sussed. Nothing else to tell me?’

  Charlie repositioned a pillow. ‘That’s it.’

  They stared at each other.

  ‘Grand,’ Ferdia said. ‘I’ll head off, so. Gotta pick up my car.’

  ‘What’s wrong with it?’

  ‘Argh, got a bit dented. What’ve you done about your motor?’

  ‘I’ve asked the guards to pass their report onto my insurance—’

  ‘What room did you say?’ A tap of high heels in the corridor.

  ‘Oh, God.’ Charlie pulled the bedspread up to his chin. ‘Dorothy Ridgeway.’

  Dorothy sailed into the ward. The voluminous multi-coloured Paisley shawl that billowed around her shoulders made her appear like a ship in full sail. ‘Charlie. And Ferdia. How lucky am I? My two favourite men in one place. I’d give you a hug Ferdia, but I don’t want you to get this flu.’

  Ferdia enveloped her in his arms. ‘For you, I’ll risk it, Dorothy.’

  Sharona followed, carrying fruit, soft drinks and sugary snacks.

  ‘Howaya Sharona.’

  ‘Morning, Ferdia, Hi Charlie.’

  Dorothy’s eyes swept Charlie’s face. ‘Oh my God. What mess did you get yourself into?’

  ‘It’s—’

  ‘I hope you’re getting the best treatment and medication. If not, tell me now. I’m on first-name terms with the consultants here. Are you hungry? We got you—’

  ‘I’m fine, Dorothy. Morning, Sharona.’

  Ferdia stepped aside to give Dorothy the armchair and plucked out a handful of black grapes.

  ‘I’ll sit here.’ Dorothy squeezed by and plopped onto a stool. ‘I prefer hard seats; soft ones spread the hips. Now then, Charlie, have they arrested anybody?’

  ‘Not yet.’

  ‘Have you any idea—?’

  ‘Just bad luck, Dorothy. Wrong place—’

  ‘But what were you doing—’

  ‘Ah, come in Mal.’ Charlie beckoned at Malcolm, standing in the doorway.

  Ferdia chewed a grape and shook his head. ‘God almighty. This place is like feckin’ Grafton Street on Christmas Eve.’

  ‘Um, I’ll come back,’ Malcolm said.

  ‘No, no. Come in,’ Charlie beckoned. ‘You haven’t seen Dorothy in an age.’

  ‘Hi, Dorothy.’

  ‘Hello, dear.’ Dorothy’s eyes flashed between Sharona and Malcolm.

  ‘Morning, Malcolm,’ Sharona smiled.

  ‘Hi.’ Malcolm looked away.

  ‘Well, I’m off.’ Ferdia squeezed Dorothy’s shoulder. ‘See you tonight.’

  ‘Remember, first dance with me, Ferdia.’

  ‘There’ll be dozens of men camped around you, but never fear, I’ll beat my way through them to get you.’

  ‘Oh, stop.’ Dorothy patted Ferdia’s arm. ‘It’s me that’ll have to do the running as usual. You attract women like butterflies to a buddleia bush. Who are you bringing as your date?’

  ‘Hugh Fallon. Friend of ours. He’s going through a rough patch. Needs a night out.’

  ‘You’ll make a nice couple,’ Sharona said.

  Ferdia slapped Malcolm’s back and pushed him towards the corridor. ‘Let’s go for coffee and leave these good people to chat.’ He turned back and pointed at Sharona. ‘I haven’t forgotten ’bout those premises. Gimme another few days.’

  ‘No rush.’

  ‘Slán.’

  Malcolm’s hunched figure was waiting at the lift.

  ‘Buck up, lad. Chas will be right as rain in a week or two.’

  ‘It’s my fault. It’s all my fault.’

  ‘Huh.’

  On the ground floor, Ferdia caught Malcolm’s jacket and bundled him to a corner table in the cafeteria. ‘Don’t move.’

  Malcolm stared at a wall.

  Ferdia plonked down mugs of coffee and two plates with slabs of pie smothered with artificial cream. He transferred a dollop of cream into his coffee, stirred and let the silence build.

  ‘Dad told you.’ Malcolm focused on the mug.

  ‘Aye.’ Ferdia said.

  ‘What’ll I do, Ferdia?’

  ‘I’ll take care of it.’

  ‘God, Ferdia, that’s …’ Malcolm leaned across the table. ‘I’d have paid them if they’d given me another week. I wouldn’t dodge a debt.’

  ‘I know.’ Ferdia scooped pie into his mouth and chewed.

  ‘I swear, never again,’ Malcolm said. ‘Ever. I’m done. They almost killed him.’

  ‘How much did what’s-his-name lend you?’

  ‘Dessie Dolan?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Five G.’

  Ferdia devoured another chunk of the pie. ‘Chas didn’t mention how you and Dolan met.’

  ‘A casino on Fitzwilliam Square. I played in a poker tournament and ran out of cash.’ Malcolm’s eyes lit up. ‘Got two aces as hole cards—’

  ‘So you needed a float?’

  ‘Hmm. This guy said he’d give me a loan. I’d seen him around the circuit.’

  ‘Dolan?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘What did he get from the deal?’

  ‘Twenty per cent.’

  ‘Huh. You gonna eat that pie?’

  ‘No. The third ace got turned on the flop, along with a pair of tens, and I got beaten by a straight flush. Four to eight of diamonds. Flushes are my bogey. I mean, the chances are what?’

  ‘How the feck do I know.’ Ferdia tucked into the second slice of pie. ‘You said six months ago you’d—’

  ‘This was a once-off. Honest.’

  ‘When did it happen?’

  ‘Before Christmas.’

  ‘Why get Chas involved? He’s under enough strain. You should’ve told me.’

  ‘Dolan forced me to give him Dad’s number. I’ll pay you back, Ferdia. You won’t regret this.’

  ‘Regret taking you into that feckin’ bookies years ago. Shouldn’t have let you talk me into—’

  ‘Oh yeah.
2013 Grand National. April sixth. Auroras Encore, Remember?’

  ‘No I don’t. Wish to Christ you’d lost.’

  ‘66/1. I fancied him. Didn’t I say it? Class horse. Trained by Katie Walsh and ridden by Ryan Mania—’

  ‘Shape up, Mal.’ Ferdia lumbered to his feet. ‘Don’t make Chas disappointed he’s given you a chance to—’

  ‘I’ve a hundred questions for him. I’m—’

  ‘You’re in charge while he’s out. Delegate. You mention this to Ciara?’

  ‘I was gonna—’

  ‘That’s the same as you didn’t.’

  ‘I told her about the poker game, not that Dad—’

  ‘Keep it between us so. No point telling either of them ’bout our chat. Least said, and all that. If you need guidance on work issues, ask Hugh Fallon or me. And for Christ’s sake cop on, Mal. No. More. Gambling. It’s time you quit the expecting-everyone-to-mollycoddle-you lark. Take off the trainer wheels and knuckle down. Why can’t you play feckin’ cards or bet on a horse in moderation like the rest of us? If you can’t do that, then for feck’s sake man, go and get help.’

  Malcolm chewed his bottom lip. ‘I’m done gambling, Ferdia. I don’t want help. Thanks for doing this. I’m in a different place now. I’ve learned my lesson. It’s over. I’ll never again get trapped in debt I can’t repay. Ev … ver. I swear.’

  ‘Good man. Now you’re talkin’.’

  Malcolm’s mobile bleeped. He checked the screen, thumb spooling through text.

  Ferdia watched him. ‘Got change for the car park?’

  ‘I’ll use a credit card.’

  ‘I’ve got coins. C’mon.’

  Malcolm hummed his way along the pathway. He used the phone as a guitar bridge, the fingers on his left hand sliding over and back on an invisible fingerboard.

  Ferdia said, ‘You’re in good humour all of a sudden.’

  Malcolm stopped strumming. ‘Got good news for a change.’ At the car park entrance, he wheeled left. ‘Thanks again, Ferdia.’

  ‘Hang on. I’m parked over there too. Heard you gave Milo his walking papers.’

  ‘Milo? Oh, yeah.’

  ‘How’d that go?’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘All in order?’

  ‘Yep. Listen, I gotta—’

  ‘You could’ve brought Ciara with you. Listen ’n’ learn from her experience.’

  ‘I handled it.’

  ‘Wouldn’t kill you to bring her along. You don’t know everything, and if you think you do you’ll never improve. Don’t be an amadán. Ask for help.’

  ‘I need to do things my way, Ferdia. Dad wants me to act like a boss.’

  Ferdia stared at him. ‘Good man.’ He watched Malcolm unlock a red ‘97 Honda Civic. ‘Where’s the Audi?’

  ‘In for service. I’m picking it up Monday. See ya tonight.’

  -----

  Ciara consumed the art dealer’s thoughts.

  On the flight home, it felt as if colours had become more vivid, senses sharper. Sound was amplified, concentration enhanced. In his mind’s eye, he could see every word of her last mail, and he deliberated over words and sentences he’d use in their first phone conversation.

  Earnestness and humour. Now, an alias.

  He searched the roiling clouds for inspiration. Company names. Client names. Shop names. Teacher’s names …

  The art dealer’s thoughts regressed twenty-seven years.

  The teacher, Mr Moran, called him ‘potato head’. Moran had always been vicious: he loved to run fingernails across the blackboard and watch children shiver at the grating screech. Moron, they’d whispered behind his back.

  The ‘potato head’ label stuck, and he’d tolerated classmate’s vicious taunts for the rest of the year. His surname had generated pig noises, oinks and grunts, but this nickname, endorsed by a grown-up, became acceptable. The constant jeers made him defenceless. Vulnerable. Powerless. The taunts carried into Secondary school. Teachers smiled whenever ‘potato head’ echoed around the schoolyard. By distancing himself from classmates, he avoided further hurt and he sought, even welcomed, seclusion. Solitude gave him time to heal, regroup and plan.

  Challenging everybody wasn’t an option, but payback got delivered by stealth. That was more rewarding. One tormentor reported a bike stolen. Months passed before it was found dumped in a ditch. A girl’s cat strangled itself; its head caught between two gates. The replacement kitten vanished. The principal antagonist discovered his years of class exercises had disappeared. Mr Moran left a bar one night to find his car paintwork destroyed by either a nail or a screwdriver. The high-achieving quiet boy who never instigated trouble was never suspected.

  Potato head. Maris Piper. Maurice Piper. That’s my name for this adventure.

  Potato head. Should be Golden Wonder.

  In the arrivals area, he paid cash for a pay-as-you-go phone, topped it up with credit, discarded the wrapping and drove home. Once settled in his study, he dialled Ciara.

  The phone rang. ‘Hello?’

  ‘Could I speak to Ciara, please?’

  ‘Speaking.’

  ‘Good morning, Ciara. I’m Maurice. We’ve been in contact through the dating site.’

  ‘Oh. Hi.’

  ‘Is this a bad time?’

  ‘No, no. Not at all.’

  ‘Thanks for your emails, and for your safe home message. I—’

  ‘Did you manage to get a flight?’

  ‘Eventually. There was a huge backlog at Belfast airport earlier, but I made it, a few hours behind schedule.’

  ‘And home is …?’

  ‘Dublin.’

  ‘Oh, yes. You mentioned that in your email.’

  ‘I loved your Mark Twain quote,’ the art dealer said. ‘So, by now, I guess you’re a master craftsperson in the art of snowmen construction.’

  Ciara laughed. ‘Another week of this weather and I’ll be giving igloo building lessons to Eskimos.’

  The art dealer laughed too. ‘DIY is not one of my strengths. Three words that strike fear in my heart are “easy to assemble.” I’ve got a pile of do-it-yourself tasks I should start, but … I’ll work on them next week. For definite. “The secret to getting ahead is getting started.” I believe that’s a Mark Twain quote too.’

  Ciara laughed again. ‘When I came back to Ganestown, I bought a rundown cottage, and after countless backbreaking hours, I’ve managed to get ahead and change the old house into a home. I’ve enjoyed the task, but it’s one I wouldn’t repeat.’

  The art dealer relaxed. ‘I’m so glad you trusted me your number. It’s nice to hear your voice.’

  ‘I debated whether to pass it on or not, there are so many weirdos out there, but anyone who can write a nice chatty email, with proper spelling and grammar, can’t be a stalker or a bunny boiler.’

  ‘Well, thank you for—’

  ‘Your accent? You’re not originally from Dublin, are you?’

  ‘Tipperary, outside Thurles. I settled in Dublin back in 2010. I was in a relationship for four years, but it came to an end last year,’ the art dealer lied.

  You’re giving her too much, too soon. Ask questions.

  ‘Sorry to hear that.’

  ‘C’est la vie. Where did your travels take you before returning to Ganestown?’

  ‘The U.S. West Coast.’

  ‘Ahh. San Fran—?’

  ‘Yes. So, what exactly does a jewellery collector collect?’

  ‘Confession time,’ the art dealer said. ‘My username is a little deceptive. I don’t collect jewellery. I work within the gemstone industry.’

  ‘Wow.’

  ‘And no, it isn’t as glamorous as you think. In the same way I’m sure chocolatiers get fed up with the taste of chocolate, gems lose their sheen after a while. However, I love work, and I get to travel. At the moment, we’re eying 2020 trends, and here’s a heads up: coloured gems will be on shelves in a few months, and opals—’

  ‘I love opals. I love t
o wear them and watch them shimmer. The colours remind me of an Australian holiday, and sunset at Ayers Rock.’

  ‘Shakespeare called opals the Queen of Gems in Twelfth Night,’ the art dealer said. ‘If my username misled you, I’m sorry.’

  ‘No need to apologise, Maurice. I assumed from your username … My fault. What are your plans for next week?’ Ciara asked.

  ‘Oh, the usual. Paperwork and meetings. You?’

  ‘Same. It’s annual appraisals time for me—’

  ‘A necessary evil.’

  ‘Indeed. I’ll spend the next week conjuring up related, yet different phrases for each of my team.’

  ‘Ouch.’

  ‘Yes. After all,’ Ciara said, ‘I can only write “satisfactory,” or “exceeds,” or “needs improvement,” so many times before the words get tedious. Anyway, rant over. My job’s great. Not as glitzy as yours, but it pays the bills.’

  ‘How about “Demonstrates ability to …” the art dealer suggested. Or, “establishes,” “makes excellent use of,” “delivers valuable,” “displays considerable—” ’

  ‘Let me jot those down.’

  ‘I’m sure you’re a fabulous employer,’ the art dealer said. ‘I’ve found you can’t go wrong if you treat employees with honesty and sincerity. If it suits, could we meet for coffee tomorrow? Or lunch?’

  Silence.

  Too soon. Stupid, stupid, stupid.

  ‘Can I let you know later?’ Ciara’s tone changed.

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘I've got to go, Maurice. There’s another call waiting.’

  ‘Looking forward to hearing from you anytime, Ciara.’

  ‘Okay, then. Bye.’

  The art dealer stared at the phone.

  I’ve blown it.

  The study seemed to close in. He needed space to think. Seething, he drove to Portlaoise, bought a coffee in a café on Lyster Square, and spied on a pair of teenage mothers slurping lattes and sharing dull details of their lives. They rocked designer buggies with the soles of Toms shoes in a futile attempt to keep their chic-clad litter quiet. One pushed globs of grey goo into her child’s mouth, moaning that the dole officer rejected a rent allowance increase. ‘And he didn’t believe me when I told him Jack’s father had absconded. Imagine that?’

  ‘I know. Didn’t trust me either,’ the second said. ‘Acts as if he’s judge and jury. I still haven’t worked out how I’m gonna keep drawing single mother’s allowance after me ’n’ Barron get married in June.’