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Better Than Rest Chapter One It is surely a given that a hairy big toe is not an attractive feature,
on a man or a woman. Cats and dogs get away with it, as do otters, rabbits
and what have you. Humans, no. That's what I was thinking at 12.30 a.m.
as Michael O'Donoghue let himself out of another woman's house and set
off for the southside of Dublin city where he lived with his wife, Miranda,
and, occasionally, their two teenage children, Tara (15) and Ben (13).
That's how scintillating the evening's mental activity had been, how interesting
covert surveillance can get at times: hairy big toes. Noel peeked his cheeky face through the curtains as I hiccoughed my jalopy over the speed ramps and clanked to a halt outside my house. It was one of a series of triangular dwellings, all in a row, known locally as The Toblerone. The lights of the front room were on and I could hear music being played on the stereo. I didn't think that Noel or Bridie or Snubby was responsible for the noise. They were cats. That left me with Barry, my live-in boyfriend. Unless it had been No. 4, who was partial to the Divine Comedy, the group I could hear singing about Daddy's crashed car. Here comes Mummy with her version, I thought, as I followed my cloudy breath up the pathway and let myself in the front door. Barry Agnew was draped lazily along the couch, smoking a joint. Nothing unusual here. Barry had lived either on the bed or on the couch since he had moved in with me, three years ago. The only addition to this familiar sight was the figure lolling in the opposite armchair: Coleman Pearse, another actor. They favoured the term 'wandering minstrel' to describe their profession. I was beginning to prefer 'meandering wastrel'. 'Leonora,' exclaimed Coleman, in deep theatrical tones. 'What an unexpected surprise.' 'Coleman, I live here. But what an expected surprise to find you in situ.' 'Of course I am, dear heart. This house of yours is an oasis of the finest hospitality imaginable to a poor thespian.' 'Nice diction, Coleman,' I congratulated him, my voice lightly iced with sarcasm. 'Now, now, Leo,' said Barry, from the deepest reaches of his lair. 'Coleman is a guest, so play nice.' 'Okay, okay,' I agreed. 'Sorry to be a grouch, Coleman, but someone tried to take the side off my car tonight, and they very nearly succeeded. It's in a right mess.' Coleman nodded his head sagely. 'All part of the derring-do of your profession. The risking of life and limb. Very brave of you, Leonora.' This 'Leonora' business was beginning to get to me. Only my family used it with any regularity, and then it was usually reserved for occasions when they were angry with me, or winding me up for some reason. In them it was occasionally endearing, in Coleman I found it overly familiar, something I could not abide in a casual acquaintance. Coleman was very casual, particularly with my beer. And my food, for that matter. Oh, yes, and my spare bedroom, when he was too trashed to make it home to his own house. Barry and Coleman had become the best of friends some weeks ago when they began work on the Dublin Literary Tour and Pub Crawl. They took to the job with marked alacrity, principally because it involved lots of thunderous oration and the drinking of, at least, one glass of stout in each of the many pubs they visited on the Crawl. And then getting properly shit-faced afterwards with the punters. It had been their vocation fulfilled. They finished most of these evenings with a brace of takeaway lagers, and smoking a load of dope. At my house. Coleman liked to put it about that he was a cousin of the late Padraig Pearse, the Irish writer and revolutionary. I thought it more likely that he was as related to the famous Pearse as I was, which was not at all. But according to Barry, the boast worked a treat for pulling women, and Coleman was never short of a bedfellow in the shape of a foreign student, au pair or American tourist. That's when he was not bunking over at mine. I drew the line at him keeping company there, using the place like a brothel and giving me, effectively, another mouth to feed and water. 'Anyone for a beer?' I asked, foolishly. 'Did Rose Kennedy have a black dress?' replied Coleman. I opened the fridge and saw two tins of Czech beer with an unpronounceable name. This brand was obviously the cheapest available locally; neither Barry nor Coleman believed in paying much for their drink, if they were using their own money. It didn't take a genius to figure out that three into two did not go. I announced as much. 'Well, you drink wine so,' suggested Barry. 'Anyhow, that lager is a terrible ring-stinger, and you'd regret having it as much as I'm going to tomorrow.' 'You're all heart, Barry, do you know that?' I said sweetly. 'And I would be delighted to drink some wine, if there were any. If seems the wine mouse has been to the fridge again, and had the lot.' 'Bad, evil, wicked wine mouse,' he slurred. I looked back into the living room, saw the two languid beauties and made a decision. 'You've both been drinking all night, and now you're smoking your faces off. You don't need any more booze, so here's my revolutionary plan. Why don't I have both the cans that are left, and that way everyone is happy? Particularly me. Now who's a clever girl!' The cream of Ireland's young actors looked shocked, but knew better than to argue; it was my house. As I closed the fridge door I noticed that the cat magnet poetry was getting more and more puerile, with overuse of the words 'pussy' and 'lick'. Kick rhymes with lick, I mused idly, and remembered that 'doggerel' is the word for bad verse, though it didn't seem appropriate in this case. As I made my way over to a chair, I looked around uneasily. The power of poetry had triggered a thought in my brain. Something was bothering me about the domestic set-up; something was missing. No. 4 was nowhere to be seen. He had come to live with us as a bizarre by-product of a case I'd worked on in Kildare. At that time I had been chosen for, perhaps even by, No. 4. 'Barry, where's the dog?' 'Oh, he's upstairs in one of the bedrooms. The cats and him were killing one another all evening, so I had to separate them.' 'Well, I hope you let him out for a pee before you banished him,' I said. Realisation clicked behind his eyes, and I knew that he had not. 'Oh, for God's sake, Barry, can you not be trusted with anything?' As I rushed up the stairs, I heard Coleman ask, 'Do you think that was the kind of green boat that the owl and the pussycat took?' followed by hoots of laughter. I opened the bedroom door and a yelping white-black-brown blur whizzed by and made for the cat flap from the kitchen into the back garden. It was still swinging to and fro when I got back downstairs. 'Doggone!' Barry hooted. Coleman enjoyed this and showed it noisily. 'Tossers,' I murmured to myself. When the little Jack Russell had discharged his business, he returned and covered me with licks, before boisterously making friends with the bewildered felines. After that I took great delight in cracking open the second last tin of lager in front of the lads. They looked on longingly as I slowly sipped the ice-cold brew. I gave a contented sigh and said, 'Barry, I don't know what you're talking about. I think this is delicious.' Then I squeezed on to the couch beside him so that he had to adjust his comfortable slouch to accommodate me. This was shaping up nicely, I thought. We sat in silence for a while, and Barry rolled another joint. Then he and Coleman smoked it. I didn't partake. I never did. In a way there was no need. Unlike Bill Clinton, however, I did inhale. It would have been hard not to in the fumes that filled the air in the tiny room. I noticed that the cats, myself and No. 4 were like the Bisto Kids, our noses slightly upturned and inhaling the wafts of smoke though this was a different joint from the one the Bisto Kids would have been involved with, I guessed. We were all smiling although on No. 4's face this looked a little like a snarl. The expression on blond-haired Coleman Pearse owed more to Harpo Marx, but in a spirit of peace and reconciliation, I refrained from mentioning this. 'Leo, you'll love the latest standout advertisement we've found in the Northsider News,' said Barry, reaching for the local free paper. 'Myself and Coleman are very tempted to apply. We'd be just right for the job.' In the Situations Vacant section, a drawing of a truck headed an ad declaring: 'Wanted - articulate drivers. Experienced HGV licence essential'. 'That old devil, the roving ''d'',' I laughed. 'If only I'd heeded me mammy and taken the heavy goods vehicle test,' wailed Coleman, dramatically, 'life would have been so different.' 'Yes,' I agreed, solemnly. 'You're only half qualified. You may be articulate, but you don't have the driving licence.' 'And your experiences may be of the wrong kind anyhow,' added Barry. 'Oh, I don't think so,' grinned Coleman. 'Trucking, and all that.' The two actors began to discuss the finer points of a play we'd seen at the Abbey Theatre the week before. This amounted to a fair bit of bitching about the younger members of the cast. Both Barry and Coleman had been up for parts, but had not been successful. As a result, they had long ago decided that the female director of the piece was a lesbian. I had enjoyed it very much, particularly as it starred my friend Maeve Kelly. She assured me that the director was as straight as ourselves, and married to a stunning, filthy-rich businessman. I looked at Barry as he waved his arms about, explaining some complicated notion he had about the leading actor's lisp, which I had found charming in the extreme. Barry's long, square-jawed face was animated and therefore at its best. As he smiled dimples appeared in each olive-skinned cheek; his vivid blue eyes sparkled and crinkled good-naturedly. Every time he jerked his head, masses of black curls bounced up and down. He was gorgeous. I had met him, and his friend Maeve, at a party in a house in Glasnevin on Dublin's north side. There was a catholic mix of people, ranging from air hostesses to brokers to teachers, with showbiz represented by actors and solicitors; a very good party. I ran into Barry, Maeve, and some more of their cronies in the kitchen as I foraged for beer. Of course, Barry had appointed himself Keeper of the Fridge, so I had to speak to him to cajole my way into the ice box. One sentence led to another, and when the night was winding to a close I found myself bundling him into a taxi and taking him home with me for a night of raucous sex and laughter. I called him Larry for the entire evening, having misheard his name in the noisy kitchen. He corrected me, gently, over a breakfast of beans on toast the following morning. He moved in three weeks later. There would be times over the next three years when I would miss Larry. I had heard of a seven-year itch, but begun to think that Barry and I were going through a three-year ditch; some sort of a trough at any rate. Everything had become awfully routine. Sex was all too rare and drunken, and most other intercourse involved rows about hoovering and bill paying. The fun and adventure had disappeared, and somehow we had both grown too lazy and careless to rekindle those essentials. But at least Barry was working steadily again, even if he still hadn't had his big Hollywood break, and that meant he could run to his habits and social life without having to borrow money from me. He was also handy for transferring the shopping from the supermarket trolley to the boot of the car. Occasionally he gave me a contribution towards the mortgage, but suffice to say it wouldn't have amounted to rent in even the smallest bed-sit imaginable in the area. For all that, life was okay. We still had laughs, and rarely a dull moment. I met lots of people I would never have come across without Barry, including Maeve Kelly, whom I adored. The cats liked him, in their cat-like way, and when No. 4 had joined the household unexpectedly, he had adjusted fairly well. Barry, that is. I had never lived with anyone before, apart from my family, so I had no comparisons to make, if these are ever a good thing anyway. I had had boyfriends, of course, but none had stayed over for more than a weekend at a time. Barry's moving in, although swift, was a gradual process. His clothes turned up in the wash pile, a toothbrush appeared in the bathroom. Then people started to leave messages for him on the answering machine, and he began to invite his friends around. Before I knew it his dole office had shifted him to my area, and demands for payment of his credit card began to plop through the letter box. It took my family slightly longer than me to figure out that he lived at number 11, The Villas. And that was probably a good thing. I had two brothers, Peter and Stephen, respectably married to Anne and Angela respectively. Between them they had four children, all happily born into wedded bliss. My parents, who were by no means small-minded, would still have preferred their only daughter to be formally and legally hitched to the man she was living with. But that was glossed over quickly, and Barry became a regular fixture in the Street household, much to the delight of my teenage niece Lucy, who had a crush on him the size of Texas. 'Training, shmaining,' I heard Barry say, dismissively. 'If he hadn't gone off to London and got those letters after his name, no one would bother their arses with him. All he learned over there were fuzzy esses and a big attitude.' 'Agreed, agreed,' agreed Coleman. 'But,' he raised a forefinger significantly, 'you know yourself . . .' His face drooped, but I felt that this had more to do with the grass he had been smoking than the perfidy of the Irish theatre world. The discussion would probably go around in circles from here. As the two actors' melodious voices dissected their peers, I pondered my work problem. It was not unheard of for a private investigator to get someone in to help on a case. It happened for a variety of reasons. You might simply not have the time to do all of the leg work yourself. Or you might have been spotted, as I had been, although Michael O'Donoghue would not have known that I had been following him at the time. So, there was no disgrace in any of this. The problem was that I ran a very small operation of one, me, and avoided drafting in extras. I was moderately successful, but could ill afford to have another dependant on full pay. I racked my brain for a suitable replacement. And then, in a Road to Damascus revelation, it came to me; I actually slipped off the couch a bit as a name formed in my brain. I thought of Ciara Gillespie. She had been part of our gang of four on a cookery course I had taken earlier in the year, a teenage minx who was driving her parents around the bend at home. Ciara was bored, aimless and full of mischievous intelligence. She was young, quick-witted and capable - I should have been writing her CV for her. I could train her in on this straightforward case, and she would be very useful in the future. She would also be cheaper than hiring another pro, and money was a consideration. Ciara would be perfect. If it had not been so late, I would have put the call in there and then. But the Gillespies had enough to contend with in Ciara without some strange woman rambling at them in the wee small hours about a less-than-average job opportunity. I was so delighted with myself that I opened the last can of lager without even teasing Barry and Coleman. I had gulped back half of it before I remembered to ask if there had been any messages for me during the evening. Coleman had to be cut off in mid-flow of his treatise on Irish Theatre For A New Millennium as his rapt audience reported that my mother had phoned to remind me about lunch the following day. I was looking forward to this. It would involve the Street women: myself, my mother, her mother, my two sisters-in-law, and our special guest Rose Street, who was the latest addition to the family, and who would be mewling and puking at her mother's breast for the occasion. Angela, the mother in question, had even promised them both a glass of champagne; she would drink it, and Rose would have the filtered benefits. I checked my watch and saw that it was close to 2 a.m. I hoisted myself into a standing position and announced that it was very late and probably bedtime for all of us. 'A lovely invitation, Leonora, my dear,' said Coleman, 'but I'm sure that Barry would prefer you all to himself.' I looked at him, gobsmacked. Did he really think that I had been suggesting a threesome, or was he taking the piss? I caught Barry's eye and we both began to laugh. 'I'll just shuffle away,' Coleman continued. Now I was very taken aback. Was he going home? I looked to Barry again. Huge tears were pouring down his cheeks. 'No need to be so sad,' slurred his cohort. 'I'm not going far.' With that he made a lunge for the door, and before I could bid him goodnight, I heard his footsteps clumping upstairs to the spare room. Coleman might not have been going home, but he was certainly making himself at home. As Barry wiped the tears of merriment from his face, he remembered something. 'Oh, yeah, there was one other call,' he said. 'Some man wants you to phone him tomorrow. I don't think he left his name. It'll be on the machine still. I'm off too, Leo. See you above.' He got to his feet and staggered slightly. 'Jeez, that latest dope is really strong stuff. I'm wrecked.' He stopped at the door. 'Have you seen my lucky underpants anywhere?' he asked. Barry was as superstitious as any other actor I'd met. If he had an audition or an opening night, he had to wear a certain pair of Y-fronts. They were a bluey-grey from countless boilings and colour runs, no doubt a difficult shade to replicate if one had a mind to. I truthfully denied all knowledge of their whereabouts. He continued his unsteady progress to the stairs where he murmured what sounded like 'love ya, g'night', and disappeared. I could hear him bump softly off the walls of the stairwell at regular intervals before throwing himself on to our bed. I slugged back the last of my beer as I pressed the 'play' button by the telephone. A deep and sexy voice said, 'Leo Street, you owe me and I'm calling in the favour. Ring me tomorrow.' He didn't identify himself. He didn't need to. I knew who he was. My heart gave an involuntary leap. Andy Raynor had called. Two I could not remember a time when Andy Raynor had not been around. He was older than me by a year, which would have made him Peter's friend initially, but since no one could remember when 'initially' was, he was just subsumed into the family as a friend of all of us. He had grown up across the street, and was in all of the photographs we had of children's parties, Holy Communions and Confirmations. And even if we were not running a social occasion at our house, he would be there. He was part of the Street furniture, and I treated him like that. Actually, I treated him as badly as I treated any member of my family. And in turn, he treated me as badly as one of his. And then, in adolescence, something strange happened. Andy shot to his full height long before any of the other boys in the area, but without any awkwardness. He just blossomed. Gone was the pug-nosed rapscallion who was forever in some scrape or another, to be replaced by a suave ladykiller who charmed every parent for miles around, and was allowed free rein with their offspring. Or so it seemed to me and the gaggle of girls I hung around with, on corners and outside chip shops. He was captain of his school's rugby team, and a crucial winger on the soccer team. He could also turn his hand to hockey, athletics and, God help us, chess, if required. He was a top debater both in Irish and English, and we were often pitched against one another as I was the captain of both of these teams in the girls' school. It was galling one year when they won the Dublin Regional Final of an Irish debating competition after an impassioned and totally baseless summing up by him, and we, the hot favourites, were left with our arms dangling by our sides. We were robbed. I could not be gracious in defeat, and did not speak to him for a month. I was never sure he even noticed that at the time; he was too busy fending off female attention. Or rather marshalling it, so that he was never without some stunner on his arm. But busy as he was with his amours, he seemed to spend most nights in our house. Sometimes he would help me with mathematics, for which I had no aptitude and never would have. Or else we'd listen to the latest LP he'd bought and have some major difference of opinion about music, mostly just for the sake of it. I would deliberately champion the Police so that he could praise the UK Subs; I'd vote Madness, he'd say the Clash; we would agree on some common ground like the Specials and Thin Lizzy. I loved all of them and so did he; it was our game, these were our shared references. Sometimes he would just sit and watch telly with the family. If I was feeling particularly poisonous, I would ask if the Raynors' own television set was broken, but he would always laugh me off. That's how he handled me, he laughed. It worked as well as any other way with the teenage Leonora Street. But something else had changed between us, and I was the last to realise it. We became attracted to one another. Maybe we always had been. But this physical longing upped the ante considerably. I never trusted it. How could someone so cool be interested in me? I was a heap. My hair was too greasy, my face was too spotty, my bottom was way too big. I was moody; even I knew that. I had nothing to recommend me, I thought. My parents were horrified when I would go into one of my rants about how ugly I was. They couldn't understand how they had instilled me with so little self-confidence. I think, in fairness, they had just forgotten how awful and bleak it can be to be a teenager. One day my mother, close to tears, burst out with, 'It doesn't say much for myself and your father, does it, if we made you and you've turned out to be so hideous? Don't you think it's a bit of an insult to us?' So I toned things down after that. But I could not figure out what Andy Raynor wanted from me when he could have his pick of anyone in the area and beyond. One early-summer's evening I was sitting in our back garden in quiet despair. It was nearing exam time and I was worried that I might not do well. I liked school, and I was academically sound. But I wanted to be one of the best because I wasn't much good at sport and felt I had very little else to recommend me. I was all of sixteen years old. I had also had a shaggy perm done in town the previous Saturday, and I wasn't sure that it was me. Andy came out for a breath of fresh air. I stuck my nose deep into the book I was studying, and ignored him. I tried so hard to read what was in front of me on the page but all I could see was a jumble of letters, and the light was a bit dim for reading anyhow. I could feel him close by and I began to shake. 'Are you cold?' he asked. 'No. And anyway, even if I am, what's it to you?' 'Just asking. No need to bite my head off. I was going to offer you my jumper if you were. No big deal.' No big deal? I would have died at that moment to be swaddled in Andy Raynor's jumper. I began to shake even more violently at the thought of being so close and intimate with something that had touched him. What to do? I would be lynched at school the following day if I confessed to messing this opportunity up. 'Maybe I will take it, if you don't mind? I am a bit chilly.' He took off the grey V-necked sweater and held it up for me to climb into. I did. He stayed right there beside me and said, 'It suits you, Leo. And, by the way, I like your hair.' I was so sure he was lying that I began to cry. It came up on me from nowhere. Suddenly his arms were around me and he was saying urgently, 'Oh, please don't cry, Leo. What have I done? Please don't cry. What's the matter? Tell me.' And all the time he was stroking my hair, and its vile shaggy perm. I sobbed into his white polo shirt for a while, and only stopped when I felt exhausted. He continued to hold me, then pulled back and asked, 'What's the matter? Did I do something to hurt you?' I shook my head, fairly violently, and managed to stammer, 'I'm a bit worried about my exams, that's all.' 'As long as you're sure it's nothing that I've done,' he said. 'I couldn't bear that.' I looked into his beautiful hazel-green eyes and smiled, shaking my head again, a little more gently this time. He magicked a handkerchief from somewhere and wiped away my tears. Then he held it to my nose and said, 'Blow,' and I obeyed. Then he leaned down and said, 'Kiss,' and we did. We had an unspoken, unofficial arrangement after that. If we were in a group, we would oscillate towards each other. He would buy me chips at the weekends, and I would get him the NME if I thought I'd got to the newsagent's before him on the day it came out. These were blissful summer holidays, with no worries and nothing to do. We went swimming in a gang. We would go into town, or to the pictures, in a gang. But each evening Andy would come around to my house, sometimes to leave me home, sometimes to spend time in, always kissing me goodnight, at length. We grew hungrier and hungrier for one another. But with it came desperation on my part. As I fell deeper and deeper under this spell, I became more and more distrustful of it. I still could not believe he wanted the ugly duckling when there were so many beautiful girls in our group of friends. I started to let my insecurities show. It began in little ways. I would tease him gently about how Karen Grealish looked at him, or ask him why he had never gone out with Maria O'Grady when she was so gorgeous and obviously had the hots for him. He gently brushed all of this aside. But I would not let up, and eventually he broke one night and told me that the teasing was boring now and would I please stop it. I accused him of being bored with me. He denied that he was. In retrospect, who could have blamed him if he had been? And then, like the lemming that I was, I declared one day that it might be better if we had a break from each other for a while. I meant it to be a test, and he should have said 'no' and convinced me that it was a bad idea and that we were meant to be together forever. But he was so worn out by my shenanigans that he thought I genuinely meant it. And, reluctantly, he agreed. I took to my room and cried for a week. My family did not know what to do with me. I couldn't sleep. I wouldn't eat. I could not stop crying. In the end, they left me to my splendid isolation. I played every mushy track about love and loss that I had, over and over again. I waited hour after hour for a visit from Andy. Every time the front door opened, I was sure it was him. Each time the back door slammed, I felt certain it was in the wake of his arrival. I was wrong, each and every time. He did not visit my family, and he did not come to see me. I later found out that he had been so convinced by my assurances that separation was what we needed that he really felt he was not wanted any more in my life. He respected my space; he left me to it. He genuinely hoped that we could be friends again at some stage. And by the time I re-emerged into teenage society he had an arrangement with Belinda Farrell, and that was that. Life settled from torture into bearable torture after that. Another academic year came and went, and my parents deemed it acceptable for me to be allowed to go to the local youth disco. My brother Peter would keep an eye out for me, but I was never to know that. Of course I did. It made me feel both angry and safe, having a big brother to look after me. Weekdays were spent in feverish discussion of what to wear on Saturday night. Hours were spent trying on outfits and experimenting with make-up. Nothing was ever perfect, but by 9 p.m. on a Saturday evening, a compromise between fantasy and reality would have been reached, and the girls would be ready to descend on the Youth Centre. I would see Andy in the distance, chatting easily with both the males and the females of his group. We were on speaking terms again, actually quite friendly, after our old style, before romance had ruined everything. Which was to say that we had many sparky arguments, and were vicious to one another when pushing a point home. It was almost like the old days. Then one balmy evening, Andy Raynor took me to a nearby field and showed me that kissing could be applied to more than the mouth area, and I was lost all over again. This time I was prepared, and, fall as I did, he never knew how bad my longing for him was. I even took a boyfriend, a lovely lad called Liam. Liam could not believe his luck with some of the things he was allowed to try out. I couldn't believe some of the things that I had learned. When it came time for the young ladies of the Holy Faith Convent to have a Debutantes' Ball, excitement reached fever pitch. Liam and myself had parted company, but he still expected to be asked to this, the top social event of the school calendar. However, I knew that Andy Raynor was at a rare loose end, and decided to bide my time before pouncing. Everyone knew that this was my plan, including Andy, I suspect. But my timing was off, and I left it that tad too late. It was so close to the event that he assumed I had asked someone else. I had kept my cards so close to my chest that no one could confirm, or deny, his suspicion that I had intended invite him. Imelda Phelan saw her opportunity and made good with it. Liam was granted his wish and accompanied me on the worst night of my young life. I was the picture of gaiety, of course. I looked great, because I was so miserable that I had lost at least a stone in weight. And my mother had bought me the most beautiful, classic gown. It was a long, flowing number in deep crimson, bias-cut, with an ever so slightly plunging neckline. She had also insisted on a special makeover in a salon in town. The Mammy did me proud. Andy and Imelda sat at the same table as Liam and me, and we all laughed and joked the night away. But I knew that it was all wrong, and so did Andy. Each time Imelda touched him, I died a little. She gazed into his eyes, she fed him morsels of her food, she even wore his bloody bow tie at the end of the evening. He brought me out for a slow dance three-quarters of the way through. I shouldn't have gone, I knew it would be agony. But I had to grab any chance I could to be with him, no matter how painful and traumatic. As we swayed to the music, he told me that I looked lovely. I thanked him. 'You seem to be having a good time,' he said. 'Yes, I do, don't I?' 'Liam is a good bloke. He likes you.' I made some sort of non-committal sound. 'Leo, I have something to tell you.' My heart stopped beating, and my body wanted to fall to the ground. This did not sound good. He was solemn. Oh, sweet Jesus, please don't let him say that Imelda is pregnant and he has to marry her, I thought. Or even if she is pregnant, please let him not marry her. If she is pregnant, please let him take me outside and make me pregnant too. Anything. But don't let him be taken from me so comprehensively. As it happened, he was taken away, but not by Imelda. 'You know I've been wanting to go to university,' he continued. 'Well, a place has come up.' 'That's great, Andy,' I murmured. 'Well done you. So, which one is it, Trinity or UCD?' 'Neither, I've decided to go to Galway.' My world had ended. It was only marginally eased by the fact that he was not going to marry Imelda and become a father. At least if he did that, I would know where he was and what he was up to. This way, I felt sure I would never see him again. He would live the high life in Galway, sampling exotic delights that Clontarf could never offer or contend with. And I knew no one in bloody, bloody Galway; I couldn't just turn up out of the blue, and magically bump into him. I was out of the picture. I had ruined my life, by my own stupid, hormonal teenage hand. I was hollow with grief. Andy did go to Galway to study for four years. We kept in touch. Every so often, during term-time, a postcard would arrive, usually a lewd one. I suspected that these delighted my mother every bit as much as they did me. Andy was always a favourite of hers; of all of the Streets', truth be told. And I did see him again, on a fairly regular basis. He returned at vacation time, and then we would go to the pictures, or to a gig. And we would argue, and kiss and make up. But never with abandonment, because that would have meant a commitment, and neither of us was in a position to make that. And neither of us wanted to upset the delicate balance it had taken us so long to find. When he returned to Dublin to find work, I had started my apprenticeship as a private investigator and was more than a little preoccupied. After a few months of bunking out at his parents' house, he found his feet and moved to a wonderful bachelor pad near the Merrion Gates, right on Sandymount Strand. My mother assured me that it was the best place on earth to live, and that every woman in Dublin was queuing up to get in there with Andy Raynor. I didn't doubt it. The only thing that made her shut up going on about it, was when I accused her of being one of the women who had their sights set on it. And she'd only shut up then because she couldn't think of a good enough retort. Not, I suspect, because what I had said was untrue. Andy moved in different circles. I tended not to move in any discernible circle at all, because of my work and the covert nature of my job. Oddly enough, once he moved back to Dublin we started to drift apart. In a way, because we could or might run into one another, we made less effort; if we did, it might acknowledge something that we could not sustain. À la recherche du temps perdu. It was, and would have been, too serious, and we had no real footing for that any more. I contacted him whenever I needed information that I thought he might have. He worked as a journalist and part-time lobbyist in the Dáil. He kept his finger on the pulse of government and politics. My job often took me into that milieu, and if he could, or wanted to, he'd help. Now that I lived with Barry, I felt that Andy and I could be proper friends again. As long as he didn't mention the stupidity in Kildare earlier in the year. I had slept with him, by accident. I was hardly even party to the event, given my unconsciousness through alcohol at the time. Andy assured me that my virtue was intact. He had been worried that I might come to some harm because of the state I was in, and had taken it upon himself to look out for me. It didn't count, but I still didn't mention it to anyone. I had been living with another man for three years now, and I was sure that Andy respected that. Even if he had little time for Barry. So why was my silly heart so excited at the prospect of paying Andy Raynor's forfeit? Three It was doubtful Barry even noticed that he and I slept in the same bed that night. We had recently rallied ourselves in an effort to return to the heady, early days of our romance, and had been moderately successful, but things had fallen away again when he got distracted by the Pub Crawl. It seemed that he couldn't keep up with every option for pleasure at the same time. In the choice between a sex life with his girlfriend or paid fun and games with other thesps, I came off worst. But at least I had been moderately satisfied, even sexually, for a goodly number of weeks, and was no longer looking rabidly at any lengthy, bulbous thing that crossed my path. It had whetted my appetite, however, and now I was left with an amorphous notion that sexual activity should be a touch more regular. Swings and roundabouts, really. I wanted more. The following morning started well. For once I didn't have to prise my face off the pillow. If I go to bed too knackered or too smashed to take off my make-up, it tends to act as a glue between me and the bedclothes. And if there's been a lot of alcohol involved, my saliva turns into Bostick too. Snoring can also enter the equation, and it's bad enough that Barry is talented in that area without our playing a duet. I hopped out of bed quite briskly, full of the joys. I was looking forward to the day ahead. This had a lot to do with one particular telephone call, but I resisted making it; at 8.30 a.m. it might have seemed a little needy. A fresh hairball of cat vomit in the middle of the floor took some of the shine off my breakfast. The three lined up beside it as No. 4 pranced by. 'I know he makes you sick,' I said to them, 'but I'd really appreciate it if you could stage the protest outside from now on.' If there is anything good about catchuck, it's that it doesn't smell and is relatively easy to clean up. That said, the day is always better without it. I had a leisurely breakfast of cereal and coffee, taking good care to leave only just enough milk for one other person to have a hot drink. I knew this was a petty meanness, but giggled to myself as I sloshed the milk into my second cup. Perhaps it would help to strengthen the friendship between the two actors if one of them had to make a tiny sacrifice for the other. I giggled again. Honestly, it didn't take much to amuse me. Maeve Kelly was on the radio telling me to buy a new brand of dishwasher tablet, but, persuaded as I was by her dulcet tones and brilliant delivery, I could not oblige; I didn't have a dishwasher. After some infectious pop music, I was treated to helpful home tips from a bouncy young Australian woman. She wanted to know if I was worried about fleas on my pets. And occasionally I was as they're a seasonal nuisance. She said she understood my reluctance to put chemicals on their fur, or to have it introduced into their bloodstreams, but those fleas were still a problem. Well, no more. The natural solution was to use a little urine, apparently. My own. I looked at the small menagerie in the kitchen, and decided that none of the creatures there would be at all pleased with that particular homeopathic remedy. Back to chemicals it was. Besides, I really did not think that any of them would stand still long enough for me to pee on them. And I wouldn't have known where to look while I was about it. All in all, both advice and marketing were wasted on me that morning. I showered and dressed, humming all the way, then I set about the task of feeding the furry members of the household. As a dog, No. 4 felt it incumbent upon him to eat everything in sight. This habit, or raison d'être as he might have it, was beginning to piss the cats off mightily. If he had bothered to read the tins involved, he would have known that three-quarters of the food on offer was manufactured specifically for cats, but that was of little interest to him. After my third peacekeeping intervention, I separated them entirely by way of doors, and decided to bring the dog with me to work. A United Nations-style buffer zone would only work if it was in situ, and as I was that zone, and in situ, it seemed best to divide and conquer. I rang the Gillespie household to hire Ciara. Her mother answered in a frail and weary voice. I explained who I was, and reminded her that we had met some weeks ago at the end of the cookery course Ciara had taken with me in Kildare. She relaxed a little then, but became agitated when I asked to speak to her daughter. 'Well, I don't know now. She doesn't like being disturbed too early in the morning. She's not really, you know, em, a . . . a morning person. And she was out late enough last night. So.' Ciara pulled the wings off parents and toyed with them for sport. I could understand the poor woman's reluctance to waken her. I tried reassurance. 'Oh, believe me, I do know, Mrs Gillespie. But I may have some work for her. And if she does it, you'd be rid of her for hours on end each day.' That did the trick. 'Really? Right. Here goes so. Wish me luck.' I could hear her walk slowly off to rouse the kraken. Five minutes later a gruff voice said, 'Make it good,' into the phone. I did. Ciara agreed to be in my office in an hour's time. Outside the weather had brightened, and a late spring was . . . well, springing. Miniature daffodils smiled and waved from every corner of my garden. I began to walk on air; that is what the colour yellow does to me. But air-walking is a tricky business, and after faltering above several of the concrete steps leading to my front gate, I reluctantly decided to stick to a more solid footing. In the confusion of righting myself I careered into the ancient, rusty fence and snagged my tights. Curses! Mental note: buy new pair and put on before meeting family, particularly mother and mother's mother. With family, details are everything. So much for my grand gesture of wearing a skirt and blouse for them, rather than my usual jeans and jumper. While No. 4 was busy de-fleaing the grass and hedge, I took note of the other types of yellow flowers blooming on my little patch. Dandelions were having something of a field day, as they tend to do. We called them 'pissy beds' when we were kids, because they were supposed to make you wet yourself if you slept with them under your pillow. Why you would want to do that in the first place was always lost on me. All of the weeds living in the garden were flourishing. I sighed. I'm under no illusion about who's boss out here. Slugs, snails, slaters, creeping buttercup, spiky thistles, velvet nettles, dandy lions, docks, they're in charge. I'm like a student tenant, very low on the evolutionary ladder. Our street busybody, Marion Maloney, was standing vigil over my car. 'That'll cost you,' she murmured, inspecting the damage. She tut-tutted as she inserted her fingers into the grooves. St Thomas wasn't a patch on Marion. Did she really think the dents weren't there if she didn't touch them? If only. I thought of a question Barry was fond of posing of late (he was also fond of just posing): is the grass still green when you've got your back to it? I looked beyond Marion and saw that it was. Then I whipped around to check my own lawn. Even taken by surprise, it was one of the forty or more shades. 'No use looking for the culprits,' Marion said. 'They're long gone.' 'Oh, no, don't mind me, I was just checking something else.' She gave me a look which confirmed that I had sprouted another head. 'It happened last night,' I explained. 'Someone ran into me.' A silence stretched between us. I realised I would not be released until more information was forthcoming, so I glossed over why I was where I had been when the incident occurred, and gave her the low-down on the other woman and her car, even offering the make and registration number. Getting blood from a stone was second nature to Marion, no bother whatsoever. To be thorough, and Marion was nothing less than, she would probably check these details with the police. Finally, she was satisfied and returned to her lair. I was exhausted. I looked at the newly laid speed ramps on the road and wondered if we would make it intact to the corner at all. 'To the city and beyond,' I announced to No. 4. The engine roared into life (but not as we know it) and off we went. The traffic lights were with me all the way, and I made excellent time from my house in Clontarf southwards to the city centre. Normally, this would have made me a little apprehensive, on the grounds that if something good happens, the inverse is lurking waiting to get me back. I'm nothing if not a fatalist. But with Dublin glowing in a faint April sunshine, and healthy greenery popping out of every amenable crack in the concrete, it was hard not to grin. I passed hotels and office buildings and car parks, and found it hard to tell the difference between them most of the time. This morning that didn't bother me at all. I passed a shop called 'Inspiration' which was having a closing down sale, but even that didn't dampen my mood. Was it that phonecall to Andy Raynor, just waiting to happen? I laughed out loud at my girlish whimsy and dismissed the notion. The car really was making a racket. Passers-by were staring, and every so often No. 4 would shoot me the look that said, 'Knock it off on the noise, okay?' I reckoned that the jolt the previous evening was responsible. 'It's sporty,' I told him. 'No mufflers, or squifflers, or bloofers, or . . . whatever,' I added, blinding him with automobile jargon. He was mightily unconvinced. * * * My office was in an old building in the newly trendy Temple Bar area of Dublin. At one stage, the crazed municipal plan was to turn all of this 'Left Bank' into a giant bus depot, but a new spirit of Europeanism had put paid to that. Now we had coffee shops, craft outlets, trattorie and lots of pubs and hotels; themed or neo-traditional, spruce and expensive. I had managed to talk my way into a parking spot on a disused lot two streets away from base. It was only a matter of time before it was built on, and the word was that it would house a multimedia gallery space, cyber café, three bars, two restaurants, a bookie's and a dentist. All solar-powered. For the moment, it was guarded by a gnarly old codger named Malachy, who could be kept sweet with a noggin of whiskey 'for the rheumatics', and £25 a week for the car. This is not to suggest that Malachy had any official capacity on the site; it was my opinion that he had happened on to a good thing and simply hung on to it. He had an entrepreneurial spirit, and good luck to him. I suppose whoever did own the place thought there were worse things that could be happening on it. Malachy, or Molly as he was also known, did a huge trade in the evening in theatre punters and restaurant goers. So much so that he had to enlist help in the form of a 'younger' chap called Gerry, who took this job very seriously and wore a peaked cap and changed his rolled-up newspaper daily. The paper was used as a pointer, along with the words 'lock hard, lock hard'. Gerry bore an uncanny resemblance to Molly, and as Molly was a bachelor boy all his life, rumour had it that Gerry was a lovechild. Romance is everywhere, and in all lives, you just have to know where to look. 'Grand day for it,' Molly said, by way of greeting. As this seemed to cover everything, I agreed with him. He shuffled over, all Sean O'Casey play, right down to the fingerless gloves. 'I heard you crossing O'Connell Bridge five minutes ago in that thing. You'd want to watch out, I think it's against the law to make that much noise in a car. Unless you're the President, maybe. And who is this little chap?' 'Malachy, I'd like to introduce you to Number Four. Number Four, this is Malachy.' 'No need to be formal,' he said to the dog. 'You can call me Molly.' No. 4 was delighted with himself, and popped his front paws up on Malachy's knee so that the old man wouldn't have to bend down too far to pet him. 'They're grand company, aren't they?' said Malachy. Then he spotted the left wing of the car and shuffled over to inspect it. 'You've been in the wars since I saw you last.' 'It's a bit of a mess all right,' I acknowledged. 'Oh, it is that. And it'll be worse if you don't have it seen to a.s.a.p. If the rust gets in there, you won't be happy at all, at all. It's worse than the rheumatics, is the rust.' I'd been treated to the long list of his ailments on many previous occasions, so I knew to nip this in the bud. 'Actually, Malachy, I'm just running off to ring the mechanic now about that. I'd need to hurry and get him before he books in a load of other jobs for the day.' 'Oh, you would. A mechanic is a hard man to find these days. Or a plumber, or a carpenter. There's no trades anymore, d'yeh see?' Ailments and trades, a deadly combination of obsessions with Malachy. I had to run, quite literally; it was the only way to get away from him. I waved back and shouted 'see you later', then legged it with the dog. It's amazing how many obstacles have to be overcome before the working day can begin. And I wasn't past all of them yet. * * * My office building was once a Home for Indigent Chimney Sweeps, and given when it was originally built, those sweeps must have ranged in age from three to thirty. At that ripe old age, which I had attained myself recently, they would have been expected to die, having lived such a hard life. Well, life's still hard, there's just much more of it, I thought, as I decanted the mail from my post box. I turned hopefully to the elevator, reluctant, as always, to climb the many flights of stairs to my office. I know that it's all good cardiovascular exercise, but at that time of the morning, I just couldn't be arsed. The lift was straight out of a thriller: an open-plan cage with latticed metal doors which accordioned open and shut. Unusually, it was ready and waiting, and not stuck on another floor full of the cleaner's equipment. Mrs Mack, the woman who 'does', likes to keep the lift for her own personal use, and you would need to be up very early in the morning to thwart her on that. I was delighted with myself, but Mrs Mack had a surprise ally up her sleeve. Or more accurately on my leash. No. 4 was terrified. Try as I might, I could not persuade him to go in. He whimpered, he cried, and when I went to carry him, he lay heavily on his side and whimpered and cried some more. I tried being cross with him, and he leapt to his feet and barked back. 'You cheeky pup,' I said, with some accuracy. He began to run around my legs, until they were well and truly bound. I spun around to free myself so fast I nearly turned into Wonder Woman. Leaning against a wall, I waited until the stairwell stopped reeling. Then I tugged on the leash once more to pull No. 4 into the elevator, but, as if instructed by Gerry, he locked hard on all four legs and began to howl loudly. I took the hint, and cursed just as loudly as we started up the stairs. We were making a lot of noise at this stage, and several doors opened to check on the commotion. When we had all calmed down, and everyone had established that I was not being cruel to the dog, we set off again. In a knot of self-righteous indignation that anyone would think, even for a moment, that I might harm one hair on his disloyal little head, I caught sight of Mrs Mack looking down from her lair on the second floor. She was beaming with unexpected triumph. No. 4 was now dancing along merrily, his little claws scraping rhythmically on the wooden floor. 'Traitor,' I growled through gritted teeth. Hard to imagine that he was in league with the enemy on Day One of joining the firm. As someone once said, life is just one damn' thing after another. I explained to No. 4 that he would have to behave himself in the office, as it was a place of work. He cocked his head from left to right, as if paying attention, then trotted over to the desk and cocked his leg against it to have a wee. 'Oh, no, you don't,' I said. 'No need to mark this territory, Mister. Anyhow, you went before we came in, so don't try it on.' I began to have the inkling that inkles to you that you're behaving like a crazy lady. Or perhaps it's confirmation that you've become one. Here I was, talking aloud to an animal who probably didn't understand English, or even if he did, really didn't care what I was saying. So who was I trying to impress or convince? I rummaged in No. 4's bag, and took out his favourite ball and squeaky toy for him to play with. While he got to work with those, I fitted a box up with a blanket in which he could have his frequent snoozes, and wished that I had someone to do the same for me. This cur was a sharp operator; all of this was achieved without any overt instruction from him. I felt a conspiracy theory about mind control coming on, and decided to save it for a coffee break later in the day. I was about to choose between calling Andy Raynor or retrieving my messages from a furiously blinking answering machine when a fierce kerfuffle in the hallway caught my attention. Like the canine incident earlier, it attracted the notice of the whole building. This time the voices in the stairwell were more or less human, two of them. I glanced at my watch: 10.06 a.m. and already we'd had major action at the Indigent Sweeps' place, so nothing poorly about that. It was, of course, the Arrival of the Queen of Ciara. And small surprise that Mrs Mack would try to shoo her from the building. Today's sartorial ensemble was Vampire, with a suggestion of drug-crazed thief thrown in for good measure. 'I'll have the cops on you, so I will, if you take one step further,' warned Mrs M. 'Listen, hag,' drawled Ciara, 'cut me some slack or face the consequences. I work here.' 'What?' shrieked the divine Mrs M. 'Yeah, you heard. I'm official. And if you don't let me pass, I'll have your sorry ass fired, OK?' No one, and I mean no one, spoke to Mrs Mack like that. Every worker in the place retreated slightly into their respective doorways in order to enjoy some more of the sport, while it lasted. We all shared a common unspoken certainty that Ciara would suffer for this outrage. But for the moment it was bliss. And it seemed wrong to rob a young person of such a life-shaping experience, even if it would subsequently be filed under 'Learning the Hard Way'. It is hard to explain the gist of an argument when it's all gist, and this one was. After a few parries and thrusts, including a splendid 'you were dragged up, not brought up' speech from Mrs Mack, I decided it was time to intervene. Not for any noble reason, I just wasn't sure how far things could go before Mrs Mack did actually call the cops. 'Ah, you're here,' I shouted to Ciara, as I leaned over the banister. This passed into legend as one of the most unnecessary observations ever. But, in a roundabout way, I felt it could be used to strengthen and underline my deductive powers as a private investigator, even if I was unlikely to list it as a career highlight. I bounded cheerily down to the combatants. They were pulling an enormous black bag to and fro between them, and growling like two Rottweilers, though Mrs Mack looked like a beige poodle and Ciara resembled a dark Afghan hound with an unfortunate hair cut. 'Mrs Mack, I'd like you to meet my new assistant, Ciara Gillespie, and vice versa. I'm sure you two will be the best of pals.' They gave me a long look of disdain that was united and terrifying. The older woman let go of the bag. Then, with almost ceremonial formality, they turned to one another and bowed their heads, ever so slightly. Time out. Mrs Mack fixed a steely gaze on me and said, 'Miss Street, I'm not sure that you're allowed dogs on the premises.' Before Ciara could thump her, I hurriedly interjected a 'she doesn't mean you' and swept her up the stairs. 'I'll have to check the rules,' warned the Mighty Mack. I shivered; I was in such trouble. 'You are in such trouble,' Ciara confirmed. Four 'WHOAH! This is so retro . . . man!' Ciara took in the office; black-and-white-tiled floor, sturdy oak desk and battered leather chairs. It even had frosted glass in the door bearing the legend 'Leo Street and Company'. When you came in, you expected to meet Humphrey Bogart and a glamorous but down-to-earth, heart-of-gold secretary. They rarely turned up for work. 'Coffee? Tea?' I asked. Ciara nodded to both. Snap decision: coffee. 'It's not retro,' I explained. 'It's the real thing. It was like this when I arrived.' 'Yo! So old.' No. 4 took time out from chasing his tail to dispense licks and love. Mmn, nice. 'It's cheap too, in comparison with the rest of the building,' I explained. 'The rent goes down the more steps you have to climb. I think the landlord must know that the lift is not an option. Because of Mrs Mack,' I added, darkly. Ciara had now made herself comfortable by sliding sideways on to the big old brown chair opposite the desk. Clients had a choice of this or a slightly more modern upright, and the more uptight chose the upright, while those trying to appear cool, or business people about to nail an employee, usually perched or lolled in the armchair, with the cools perching and the nailers lolling, respectively. Ciara's head rested on one arm; her legs swung over the other as she addressed the ceiling. I'd never had a client choose that option. 'So, Streetsky, meine kleine maestro, what's the story?' 'Ciara, don't take this the wrong way, or do, whichever you like, but I hope you're not intending to keep this banter up all day? It really is enough that one of us in the office is barking.' No. 4 duly obliged. Fair play to Ciara, she could nearly take a hint, however short-term and half-assed. 'CooLeo, chill. So who's the Spectre?' 'Oh, Mrs Mack. Well, she's officially the cleaner, but that's pretty much an honorary title. She doesn't believe in imposing herself or her cleaning products too much on the building. She sort of sprinkles disinfectant around, but stops shy of washing it in or out. It's some sort of weird illusion-of-cleanliness fetish. And far less work, of course. But she does actually run the place, so beware.' 'Too late for that now, boss. Duly noted, though. I wasn't referring to the Licence to Spill babe, who the fuck is that scary fucker?' I followed her eyes. Ah, Mick. From the large photograph on the wall behind my desk a face hewn from rock, and thatched by a shock of wiry grey hair, glowered down at me. At both of us. 'Everyone is answerable to someone, and I'm answerable to him,' I explained. 'That's Mick Nolan. He's my boss, you could say. He trained me, and I worked for him for a few years. Now he's a kind of silent partner, I suppose, though not half quiet enough for my liking. He follows me around, giving me advice and berating me whenever he thinks I need it. He can be a right pain in the ass.' All of this was true. Then I remembered a pertinent point. 'Oh, and he's been dead for a few years.' Ciara had shifted out of her seat and was walking around the office, watching Mick as she went. 'That following thing is weird. No matter where I go in the room, his eyes are on me. You go over there, I'll stay here, and let's see how he manages that.' I did as I was told, and sure enough, he was looking at both of us. 'Spooky,' I said. 'Yeah. Man, I never even met the guy and he's on to me already. You're gonna have to have words with him about that, boss.' 'I'll try, but I can promise nothing.' I knew then that Ciara was exactly the right woman to join the firm, however short-term; she hadn't batted an eyelid at the prospect of being tailed by a ghost, and didn't seem to think it unusual that he was constantly on my case. 'Okay, let's get down to business. When do I start, what do I do and how much will you pay me?' Succinct, to the point, my kinda goil. 'I need help,' I said. Ciara began to laugh. 'Everyone knows that the minute they meet you,' she teased. 'Ha-ha. I mean, professional help.' 'Again, that's obvious, boss.' She laughed even harder. 'I need someone to take over a job for me, temporarily, you wagon.' 'And that's me. You've made a brilliant decision there, O, Streetwise one. Reveal the legend.' On second thoughts, maybe I would just throttle her. Instead, I told Ciara about Michael O'Donoghue, and his wife Miranda's fears of an affair. 'These are the cases I mostly get. Not glamorous at all, so you'll be starting at the bottom. I rarely do computer fraud, because I'm a turnip with technology, and I'm not brilliant with gadgets either.' 'I am, though,' said Ciara. 'When I've got this ordinary shit figured out, we may have to diversify as a company.' 'Steady on. I only need you for this case.' 'So far,' she interjected. 'I prefer to work alone, so don't get your hopes up.' 'You're not very good at delegating, are you? You don't trust people, do you?' 'What's with the hard philosophical questions?' I exclaimed. This whippersnapper was putting me on the spot. 'I see a lot of the darker side of human nature, so no, I don't always have a very good opinion of people. I'm a realist, that's all.' We were getting side-tracked here, and in territory where I didn't feel comfortable. I wasn't particularly proud of the fact that I spent my days and nights trying to find people out in lies rather than saving the earth. I was in the grubby end of the PI's world, but hey, it was a dirty job and someone had to do it. 'Enough of the farting around,' I said, reaching into a drawer for pictures of Michael O'Donoghue, his wife Miranda, and his friend, special or otherwise, a Mrs Bernadette Flood, resident of Raheny on Dublin's northside. 'How did you find out the friend's name?' Ciara asked. 'I approached the postman while he was delivering one morning and asked if the O'Briens lived in number twenty-seven, and he said no, Mrs Bernie Flood lived there. She's a widow, her husband Joseph died last year.' 'Simple as that?' 'Yep, simple as that. A question is usually good for an answer, maybe eight times out of ten. Use your common sense and you'll be fine.' Common sense is something that has always intrigued me. In a way it's an oxymoron. There's nothing all that common about sense, for one thing. And for another, is it one word or two? Or put it this way, should it be one word or two? 'The postman told you all that?' I snapped back to the present. 'No, I also checked the electoral register, and births, deaths and marriages.' 'Wow, life is so formal.' 'Death too,' I pointed out. 'What if you ask a question and the answer is a lie?' This girl was smart all right. 'Good point. Even if you don't get the truth, the form of the lie can be telling. It's up to you as a detective to establish the truth. That's what you're hired for.' She gave an imperceptible nod, which was my signal that she understood and I was to continue. 'Let's see . . . yes, when in doubt, lie.' 'There's a lot of that around.' 'Yep. It's the three Ls really: Look, Listen and Learn.' 'Oh, so we just ignore the fourth ''L'', the Lie. Or do we count that as ''F'' for Fib?' 'Ciara, let's not get sidetracked so early. Now where was I? Oh, yes, never presume anything, just deal in facts; that's all we want, proof, not theories. And stay on the right side of the law. Okay?' 'And which would be the right side again?' 'The one that doesn't get you put in jail,' I explained. 'Riiiight. So, don't get caught doing anything illegal?' 'Mostly, yes. Also try not to do anything illegal either, if you know what I mean.' She took a moment to contemplate that can of worms, then, sensibly, moved on. This girl was shaping up to be a natural, if there can ever be such a thing in a PI. It's not exactly a genetic trait to want to be in the grey area between law and disorder; to snoop furtively around other people's lives without any hope of a medal of honour or a public commendation at the end. And with no real power to back you up. Not much back up at all, to be honest. It's just you and the power of nosiness to the nth degree, with a tough stomach for lies, corruption and abuse. Oh, and no state-supplied uniform either, which some might argue goes on the plus side for private dicks, and on the minus for public ones. 'What made the wife suspicious in the first place?' Ciara asked. 'Well, you'll see for yourself, this guy is very much a creature of habit. He keeps to an orderly timetable. But recently he's been coming home late, hasn't been where he says he was, or not for as long as he'd like her to believe. So, she confronted him, and he gave her a speech about how she'd have to trust him for the time being, that he'd explain everything soon, and there was nothing for her to worry about.' 'Now that would put the wind up anyone.' 'Exactly, and that's where we come in.' I took her through the rudiments of my stills camera, the video, and the sound equipment she was to use. The latter was a directional microphone, which could be used to listen from a range of, say, a car parked close by. The essentials were point and record, though I could have dressed it up in more flattering terms. 'This and the camera with telephoto lens are good, because you won't be trespassing on the property,' I explained. 'And we'd never do that,' she teased. 'Nnnno. Or mostly never.' I brought her up to speed on Michael O'Donoghue's clockwork routine during the day, and said that for now she might like to check that out herself, before beginning the more pertinent evening surveillance. The only half-excitement I encountered was when he gave a colleague a lift to her car. She was a petite thing with a dark Cleopatra bob. Nothing incriminating, but I took a photograph and I'll let you have it when it's developed.' His wife, Miranda, visited the clinic a few times, laden down with designer shopping bags. Looks like she knows how to spend money. There were a few other details I might have mentioned, but I felt it more important that Ciara should ground herself in the mundanities of this case before progressing to some of its quirks, which I myself was not yet certain were relevant. 'One last thing. You'll need to be a bit less conspicuous than you are at the moment. Nosferatu is a noticeable look in the daytime.' 'But at night I am Princess of Darkness,' she pointed out. 'Actually, I'm ahead of you on that, I've brought a change.' She indicated the black bag from the tug-of-war with Mrs Mack. 'Why go to all that trouble?' I asked, somewhat naively. 'If I left the house dressed as a normal person just one morning, I'd never hear the end of it from my mother. She'd expect it every day. I can't let my rigorous standards of torture slide.' 'Sometimes, Ciara,' I said, 'I wonder where the good twin is.' And then she genuinely surprised me. 'Oh, that eejit Ronan. Goody-goody is at college. He wants to be an engineer, for God's sake. I mean, how square can you get? See you in five.' She left for the loo. I mulled over the Gillespies' plight: two Ciaras. Still, at least not identical girls, which would literally have meant a split egg. Ronan would have been a completely different one, if I remembered my biology correctly. There was, therefore, some hope that he would stay good and true, and, bless the mark, become an engineer. I still had a strange feeling of wellbeing, which was bothering me. I should have been feeling all guilty about going into a supervisory capacity, as I now was. But I was not feeling guilty. There were in fact a few other avenues of Michael O'Donoghue's life to root around in, and now I had the time to do that. This assuaged my professional guilt. But I think I was relieved to find myself at one remove on this case. I was sick to death's door of pettiness. I was tired of the ugliness of cheating. And I was fed up with the paranoia that surrounded suspicion. Now it looked like I was going to get some distance. However, it didn't quite qualify for a victory dance around the room; for all I knew, some bags would walk in the door and offer me another job, and in truth I was in no financial position to refuse it. Subdued joy and a nascent smugness were the order of the day for now. I thought of the other things I hadn't shared with Ciara. Last time I counted, there were upwards of sixty private detective agencies listed in the Golden Pages, or Yellow Pages, or Buttercup, or Sunshine . . . whatever you're having yourself. And that's before we even got to the 'security experts', another fertile area for ex-cops and private eyes who have hit lean times. I've been a bouncer in my day. I've collected 'bad' debts. I hate having to do that sort of work, but sometimes you're left without a choice. And you try telling a house full of cats that you can't afford their food and that you're on a diet yourself anyway; doesn't always wash. You takes what you gets sometimes. And often it sucks. Welcome to the real world. Some agencies are listed as members of various Federations. In Ireland, where two or more of us are gathered together, a Federation can be founded. And like the seasons, they come and go regularly. I'm going out on a limb to say that a lot of those who advertise are chancers. And as I fall to the ground on my broken twig, let me also say that we all have our areas of expertise. I'm a people woman, so I've made that my remit. Big remit: the world is full of people. What I mean is, I'm best at observing, and I'm not great on the technicals. I'm not comfortable with technology. I prefer the worn shoe sole, a pen and paper, the dusty certificates that chart a life. And talk: conversational and inquisitorial. I do know my way around a bug, visual and aural, and the basics of an electronic search. I get by. I also have a rule about death. I like to see as little of it as possible. I once heard a man on the radio say that when he is setting up a big business venture, he asks himself two questions: will anyone die if I do this, and will anyone go bust? If the answer to both is 'no', he goes ahead. I like those questions, and what they stand for. Unfortunately, when I take on a case I cannot know the answers, but I've been lucky that no one I've confirmed bad news for has felt so murderous about it that they've taken to fatal violence. So far. And, you know, so far so good. I wondered if I should have talked to Ciara about the little I have learned during my time as a detective. Should I have mentioned that the truth and what you believe are often two different things; that people tell you what they want you to know, no more; that sometimes they tell you stuff which they believe to be true but which is completely false; that we are bred to lie and to cheat and to mould our morals to suit our situation of the week? If I had said any of this, I don't think Ciara would have been disillusioned; she doesn't seem to expect much of the human race. Just as well. |