Maiden Voyage

  "Souls can touch?" He shook his head. "No. No, I do not simply because I do not believe in the idea of a soul. We are human beings, we forge our own paths with our minds and ambitions. Souls fall into the same realm as other superstitions, Maura."

  "I think you're wrong. I mean, why would people be attracted to each other? All of us are basically the same, flesh and blood and bone. Then what quality separates us, makes us different from every other human being? What attracts or repels others? Well, it's clear to me it must be our souls."

  "Maura." He smiled. "I was attracted to you because I find you beautiful, and then I realized I enjoyed your personality as well. It has nothing to do with souls, everything to do with the mortal body and character and intellect—which has nothing to do with a spirit."

  "You're wrong."

  "So be it. You have every right in the world to disagree with what I'm saying. I simply do not believe in anything I cannot see or touch or feel. But does it really matter?"

  "Yes, it does. To me it does, because our souls have touched."

  "That is ridiculous. This is the product of stress and imagination."

  "No, it's not! This is important to me, Donal. You

  don't believe there's a ghost here, and that's understandable. But the belief in a soul is so fundamental, I can't fathom not believing in its existence."

  "Enough, Maura. Let's change the subject. Now, I really want to discuss a way to help you with everything that's suddenly been placed on your lap. You've gone through so much, been asked to carry the weight of your father's company as well as everything here, that you must find a way to distribute the responsibility. I was unsure before tonight, but now I realize how vital this is to your emotional and psychological well-being."

  Suddenly she stood up. "Fitz! Fitz, could you please come down here and talk to Donal? He doesn't believe in you. Please, Fitz?"

  Donal stood up next to Maura. "Maura, just sit down. I'll get you something to calm you . . ."

  "I am calm!"

  "No, you aren't. You are angry at me, and all because I believe in a scientific approach to life and do not believe in goblins and souls and little men in pointed shoes."

  "Fitz! Please come down here and meet Donal!"

  "You are getting yourself all worked up over nothing." His hand rested on her shoulder. "I'm here to help you in any way I possibly can."

  "You are not. You just want to butter me up to get hold of the factory. Well, it won't work. I will never give it up. Never. Fitz! I need you . . ."

  And then a chill encompassed the room. Maura halted mid-sentence. "Uh-oh," she breathed.

  "Is there a window open?" Donal glanced behind him to see where the breeze came from, but the windows and the door were all firmly latched against the outside.

  "Let's go," she said. "We can argue about this over at Nesbitt's. I just want you to leave."

  "I will not. Let me check in back and upstairs, Maura. We can't have the place open."

  "Donal, please. It doesn't like you. I think whatever it is thinks you're Fitz, and it's trying to kill you again."

  He grinned. "Not to worry, Maura. Remember—I have no soul. No one, in this world or another, could ever mistake my soul for another. Stay here while I check in the back."

  "No." A sense of fear seemed to close in on her, and Donal paused, as if listening for something.

  "Maura, there's an intruder upstairs." All traces of humor vanished.

  "It's the other, evil thing. It's not Fitz. Please, Donal, let's just leave."

  "Whoever it is, I need to stop him. He must not be allowed to frighten you like this." Donal took both her hands. "Go outside, Maura. There's a phone box on the corner—I don't want you in the house a moment longer. Call the garda."

  Upstairs there was an enormous crash, as if a large piece of furniture had been hurled into a wall.

  "It's in the yellow parlor just above," she whispered. He nodded once. The sense of approaching doom was almost choking her, and she looked up at Donal to see if he felt it, as well.

  He did. She knew it by the slight frown that creased his forehead and a very light sheen of perspiration

  that dotted his temples. She reached up and touched his face, but he did not react, his eyes focused on the staircase.

  He felt it, too.

  In one swift movement he took her hand. "Forget catching anyone, Maura. Let's just go," he mumbled as he pulled her toward the door.

  She nodded, and in an instant they were at the front entrance. He moved the bolt, but the doorknob would not turn.

  "Hurry," she urged. There was another crash from upstairs, and then something much worse. The sound of heavy footsteps treading across the floor above, and then the door from the yellow parlor creaked open.

  "The damn thing's stuck," he rasped, and hit the brass knob once before trying it again. "The back door?"

  "The yard's enclosed. There's no way out except through the front. Donal, please hurry."

  It was coming, she could feel it. By the frantic way Donal was working on the door, she knew he was aware of the thing approaching. She slipped her arm about his waist, as if his body could infuse her with strength, and she turned back to face the staircase.

  There was something there. Unlike Fitz, this was not the clear form of a man, it was not a clear form of anything at all. It was a churning darkness, like malevolent spilled ink, changing and shifting as it moved.

  She was unable to speak, unable to breathe, as if her entire being was suspended.

  Donal continued to fumble, cursing and slamming his hand against the lock and the bolt and the door knob. Still it came closer, liquid movements soundlessly winding across the marble floor.

  Maura glanced at his hands, blood dotting them where he had hit the sharp metal, yet still he struggled.

  And then he stopped.

  "Donal?"

  She could hear him breathing, and turned toward him. The thing was on them.

  She backed away and realized it was only on him, on Donal. And it seemed to have him by the throat.

  "No!" she screamed, and she tried to bat away the blackness. All she hit was Donal.

  His chest was heaving, struggling for air, and she could tell that he was unable to get any, none at all.

  Donal began to slump forward, and Maura pulled and pushed at the lock, beating it with both hands and even her foot at the base of the door.

  "Open," she prayed. "Please, open."

  There was a roar in her ears, and miraculously, the door flew open. She grabbed Donal, who fell forward, his forehead on her shoulder.

  "Run with me," she begged. "I can't carry you."

  Somehow he stumbled forward, still gasping. He began to stop at the base of the steps outside, but Maura knew it wasn't safe. They had to get across the street.

  A green bus veered to avoid hitting them as she pulled them across to the park. Behind her she heard the front door slam shut.

  The moment they reached the grass, he fell to his knees, his breath ragged and painful.

  "Donal, are you all right?"

  She knelt beside him, her hand resting gently on his back as he leaned forward. He nodded once, his hair tumbling over his face as his arm propped him up. Finally he took several deep, shuddering breaths.

  Suddenly he looked up at her. "Are you harmed?" His voice sounded like sandpaper, and he took more breaths.

  She shook her head. "I'm fine."

  Even in the darkness of night she could see red marks on his throat, large and right over his Adam's apple. And when she looked closer, into his eyes, she saw they were glistening unnatural brightness.

  It hit her with a startling force: He had very nearly died. A few more moments, and the life would have been squeezed out of him.

  "Maura?"

  She tried to smile. He pulled her toward him, and she closed her eyes against his shoulder.

  "What just happened?"

  It took her a moment to think. "I don't know. It was all so fast. No
thing like this has happened before, nothing at all."

  Straightening, she leaned back to look into his face. He wasn't smiling.

  "I don't know about you." His voice was heavy, weary. "I could certainly use a pint."

  And shakily, they both stood up and, without even looking at number eighty nine and a half, walked over to Nesbitt's. chapter 13

  Nesbitt's was packed as usual. Elbow to elbow, patrons were laughing and toasting and talking, their images reflected in mirrors clouded with age, smiles distorted, faces blurry and indistinct.

  "Here." It was the first word Donal had spoken to her since they left Merrion Square. He took Maura's arm and led her to the rear, where there was a bit more space. Voices raised in merriment greeted them, and they nodded as they tried to inch by the clusters of people.

  "Good God, Byrne! Have you been in a row?"

  "Look at his eyes, Seamus! Who was it, Donal? And does he look worse than you do?"

  "My sage guess is that it was a 'she,' not a 'he,' that did this to our man."

  Maura glanced up at him, and realized he did, indeed, look as if he had just gone several rounds in a

  brawl. But considering what had just actually occurred, he seemed remarkably composed.

  "Would you like a glass of wine?"

  She nodded, and he ordered wine for her, a pint of Guinness for himself.

  After the initial comments, everyone left them alone, with only intermittent nods and acknowledging, speculative winks. He took a long pull on the stout before speaking.

  "What the hell happened back there?" His voice was still raspy.

  "I think something wanted you to leave."

  "That I gathered." He patted his shirt and seemed surprised for a moment. "Damn, I left my jacket back there. Do you happen to have a cigarette?"

  "You shouldn't smoke," she said automatically.

  "I am aware of that, my dear," he said between clenched teeth. "But I believe being very nearly choked to death is less healthy in the long run than a thousand cigarettes."

  "I'm sorry."

  He acknowledged her apology with a very slight nod.

  "How does your throat feel?"

  For a long while he stared at the Guinness, the thick beige foam leaving waves on the glass like an outgoing tide. He took another drink before answering.

  "I didn't think we would make it out of there," he said at last. "I honestly didn't think we would live."

  Someone in the front of the pub called his name, and he automatically smiled and raised his chin in response, but Maura could tell he was thinking only of the hallway and what had happened. "I know," she whispered.

  "Has anything like this happened before?"

  "No. That wasn't Fitz, by the way. I don't know who it was, but it wasn't Fitz."

  "How can you be so sure," he began, then stopped. A small chuckle escaped his lips.

  "What's so funny?"

  "I was about to discuss this with you in all seriousness."

  "How else can you discuss it?" She was completely baffled.

  "There must be some other explanation."

  "Just a moment ago you seemed to believe it was a ... well, a ..."

  "Let me complete the sentence for you. I seemed all too eager to suddenly believe it was a ghost. Is that what you were going to say?"

  "What else could it have been? You were there, Donal."

  He remained silent for a few moments, not looking at her, not looking at anything.

  "I've just been thinking." With one swallow he drained the contents of his glass and motioned to the publican for another. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, too intent on his thoughts to realize what he had just done. "Is it possible someone doesn't want you there?"

  "Well that's just the point." She frowned. "Fitz is fine, but it's the other person who doesn't want any interference."

  "No, no. That's not what I mean at all." The second pint was handed to him. He tilted his head toward her own glass, but she shook her head. He continued. "Who would have the most to gain from you leaving?"

  "A person, you mean?"

  "Yes. A person or an organization or business. Who would gain the most if you left?"

  "That's immaterial. Whatever is in there, it can't be reasoned away."

  "Maura, listen to me. There are no such things as ghosts."

  "How can you say that? It almost killed you!"

  "Someone did. Someone very clever, someone who wants you to leave, to give up. Think, Maura, who would want you to go back to America and in a hurry without looking back. Whoever it is wants you to just drop your entire inheritance without a second thought down the road."

  Maura cleared her throat and shook her head.

  "What is it?"

  "You're not making sense. Even if someone wanted me to leave, how could they have managed the trick we just experienced? Think, Donal. There is no way someone could have become invisible."

  "I've been thinking about that. Of course, you're right, but we may have been drugged."

  "Drugged? How is that possible?"

  "There may have been some sort of hallucinogenic gas passed through the pipes or sprayed from the top of the steps."

  "Right. And we both imagined the same thing."

  "It could be the power of suggestion, Maura. You're right—what happened was fast and confusing. We need to figure out who would want you to go away, and then we can work backward on exactly how they managed this production."

  She watched his features as he spoke, convincing himself with every word that what he was saying was the only possible explanation for what had just occurred.

  "The truth is, Donal," she said at last, "you are the one who would have the most to gain if I left. You're the only one I can think of."

  After a stunned pause, his expression shifting to anger, he balled his hand into a fist. "Yes, that must be it, Maura." He slammed the still-full pint onto the bar, causing a brief pause in the pub's buzz of conversation. He waited until the noise level again rose before continuing. "I wanted your goddamned town house so much I tried to kill myself. How clever you are to have discovered my trick."

  "You're being impossible." She tried to keep her voice low and even. "I can't believe you refuse to admit what happened. I'm just saying that no one could have staged what happened back there. Don't you get it yet? This is real. We were just attacked by something that is not of this world. My God, I've never in my life met anyone as stubborn and . .."

  "Maura! Donal! How grand to see you, and together yet!" Charles MacGuire seemed to embrace them both with his exuberance.

  "Hello, Charles." Donal did not take his eyes off Maura as he spoke.

  "Charlie! I can't tell you how happy I am to see you." Deliberately she turned away from Donal, relieved their argument had been halted. "So, is it a toast to the deal you're having?" Charles held up a finger, made a circular motion to the publican, then returned his attention to Donal and Maura.

  She flushed, not wanting Charles to continue. What would Donal think, knowing that she was selling the town house anyway in order to save the factory? When she tried to gauge his reaction, he glanced away.

  "Ah, here we go now!" Charles handed her another glass of wine, Donal and himself pints. "Let's have a drink to the prosperity of the Maiden Works Furniture Factory. Here's to a flourishing future to equal and exceed its illustrious past."

  "Thank you," Maura murmured.

  "Ta, Charles," Donal said at the same time. Their eyes met over the rims of their glasses, both slightly perplexed as they raised a toast and took sips.

  "How refreshing, how absolutely refreshing entirely that the two of you have buried your differences, and you with all the reason in the world to have . . ."

  "Charles!" Donal's voice seemed to surprise himself every bit as much as it surprised the other two. "I, well, I just wanted to know how have you been?"

  "Grand, Donal." He shrugged. "Just as I was this very afternoon." He paused, leaning closer to Donal's f
ace. "Good Lord, what the devil happened to your eyes? You look as if you've been pub-crawling for the past twelve months altogether."

  "That's how I feel." Donal smiled. "That's exactly how I feel."

  "But what happened?"

  "Nothing, Charles. I suppose I'm just tired."

  The three remained in uncomfortable silence, glancing about the room, smiling uncertainly at each other, struggling for something to say. This had never happened before, a strained inability to make conversation. Finally Charles spoke, his face brightening.

  "So tell us the plans for the factory!"

  "Oh, well. .." she began.

  "I really don't think..." Donal's words overlapped hers.

  "Can we talk about something else?" She used her perkiest tone. Donal eagerly joined her.

  "Charles, what do you think of Jack Charlton and the boys on the football team?"

  "They're brilliant!"

  For the next hour Maura heard more details of Irish World Cup soccer than anyone, including the team itself, would ever want to know.

  Exhaustion set in, and she searched for a break in the conversation to announce her leaving. Finally, between the finer points of heading a ball and the outrageous injustice rendered by a specific referee, she was able to speak.

  "I'll be off now." She put down the empty wineglass.

  "No," Donal said, then smiled, softening the bite of his objection. "I mean, I will walk you home, Maura."

  "How gallant! Donal, you do all men proud. It's proud I am to be a member of the same sex as yourself." With that Charles was engulfed by a motley trio of men, one wearing sunglasses although it was close to midnight, another sporting half a mustache.

  "We are at present searching for the rest of Willy's facial hair," announced the man in the sunglasses.

  "When last seen it was drifting down Lower Baggot Street with a fancy lady from Kilkenny."

  Donal gently led her to the door.

  "Thanks, Donal. I can find my own way home."

  "You can't go back there."

  "Why?"

  "For God's sake, Maura. You know very well why."

  "I thought you didn't believe in ghosts."

  "I don't, but I do believe in someone wanting to frighten you into selling the house."