“. . . Ah, feel like sharing them with me?”
“We’ll call our baby after him.”
“What baby?”
“We’re going to have a baby.”
“Are we?” Matt pulled back from Maeve, in order to look properly into her face.
“The wise old woman upstairs says we are.”
“But . . . how are we going to manage that?”
“Like this.” Maeve wrenched her T-shirt over her head and wriggled out of her cords and knickers. “Will you . . .?”
His eyes locked on to hers and, wearing an expression almost of panic, as if he was afraid she’d change her mind, Matt pulled off his clothes, then slid his arms around her and carefully gathered her fullness to him. For the first time in three years, he felt her soft naked body next to his, thigh against thigh, chest against chest, the bliss of his hand on the smoothness of her hip bone.
Tears spilled down her face and he kissed them away.
“Will I stop?” he asked.
“No, no, no.”
“Is this okay?” Gently, he touched her.
She nodded.
“And this?”
“All of it, Matt, all of it’s okay.”
5 minutes
Conall slipped his spare hand into Katie’s and she looked at him and smiled.
And would you credit it! Can you believe it! Their heart currents are in perfect harmony again.
It was now or never. Conall had to speak. He had something very important to say. “Katie, I—”
A noise at the door made them both look up.
“Fionn!” Katie exclaimed.
No! No, no, no!
Fionn was staring at Jemima on the divan, at Grudge whimpering quietly, at Conall’s hand in Katie’s.
Then, more gently, Katie spoke again and clambered to her feet. “Fionn . . .”
It was only when Grudge threw back his head and began to howl, that Conall realized what had happened.
Gently, slowly, patiently, his gaze never leaving her face, Matt let himself be guided by Maeve and, at the moment his body merged with hers, he paused and the look they shared was one of triumph.
“Cripes! We’ve done it,” she said. She could barely believe it.
“You’re right, we’ve done it.” This was real. It was actually, really happening. With Maeve, his beautiful Maeve, who bewitched total strangers into collecting spilled coins from the floor of the Dart. “We’ve done it together, the two of us.”
“Teamwork. More power to us.”
“More power to our elbows.”
“Matt, don’t cry.”
“Am I?” So he was. But why, when he was so happy? “Anyway, you’re a fine one to talk.”
Tears were spilling from the corners of Maeve’s eyes. “I thought this would never happen again.”
“Didn’t you?”
“Didn’t you?”
“Me? I never gave up hope!”
They were laughing, they were crying, with joy, with relief. They’d been lost to each other for such a long time, lost, they’d been so sure, for ever. But they’d found their way back to each other, they’d found their way home.
And just in the nick of time . . .
Here I go . . . I’ve had the tap to the head and it’s happening, I’m dissolving, I’m already starting to forget. But . . . I’m in! I exist! Matt and Maeve’s baby. I was always on my way to them but I must admit there were times when I wondered if I’d ever get here. Am I a boy or a girl? Not that it really matters because I’m finally in and . . . ooh, it’s just like what happened to Killian in the story, everything’s gone tingly and sparkly and, like the incoming tide washing away traces on the sand, I’m disappearing little by little, clearing the way for my soul to be rewritten by a brand-new—
And the man and woman, humble, good people, kind and loving companions who shared the one soul, who had endured many sorrows in their lives, who had lived through times of fear and loneliness and despair, were full of heart and restored to happiness and love when they learned that their baby had finally been sent to them.
THE END
Epilogue
Four Months Later . . .
It’s a Saturday afternoon, at the end of November, and I’m flying over the streets of Dublin, looking for Star Street. Number 66, to be precise. My mission is to find my future parents. According to my information—which, by the way, isn’t half as detailed as I’d like—at least one of them will be living there. Another pregnancy happened there four months ago, to a pair called Matt and Maeve, so it looks like a fertile sort of a spot.
But we’re off to a bad start. It takes me ages to find the place and time is of the essence. There are—count ’em—not one, not two but three Star Streets in Dublin. The first Star Street showed up in jig time, but number 66 turned out to be a taxidermist’s showroom. So I set off again, but the second 66 Star Street was an office block, all locked up because it’s a Saturday.
Anyway, my traveling companion, who is killing time with me—he’s always killing something, that same fellow—said he knew exactly how to get to the elusive third Star Street. He keeps going on about what an experienced traveler he is, always down here, he says, ending people’s lives when they least expect it. So I put it up to him and said, all right so, show us this other Star Street, and he said, grand, I will, but I can’t show you right now because I’ve got my mission to carry out, and it’s very time-specific and you might as well come with me.
I was worried. Some in my situation get days, weeks, even months to identify their prospective parents, but I’d been given less than twenty-four hours—just the luck of the draw. Whatever was going to happen for me, it was going down today, and I wanted to get the lie of the land in 66 Star Street as soon as possible. On balance, though, I thought I’d be better off sticking with someone who actually knew how to get there. Waste some time to gain some time, as it were. So, swept along on my companion’s self-important coattails, we arrive in the center of Dublin. I suppose you could say we’re an odd couple, me about to give life and him about to take it away. But we aren’t such an unlikely pair as we seem; life and death often work together, matching each other hit for hit.
We’re in a wide street where some public rally is underway. I start reading the banners and listening to the chants and it appears to be a protest against the low conviction rate for Irish rapists and, as you might expect, the crowd is mostly women. Like, you wouldn’t expect turkeys to be campaigning for extra Christmases.
Fast worker, my knowledgeable friend—in no time, he’s spotted his mark: a lanky unkempt-looking yoke, name of David, one of the few men present. No surprises, David is with a girl; you wouldn’t get too many lads going along to a rape protest on their own. And a lovely girl she is too: tall and slender, with a gap between her front teeth that doesn’t look like she needs to go to the dentist for a brace, but just makes her all the better-looking, if you get me. Steffi is her name. And this David seems to be well aware of how lovely Steffi is, because his arm is clamped around her waist like a vice, like he’s afraid she’s going to do a legger.
Now, wait till I tell you something weird. David’s vibrations are muted and harmless-seeming, but I’m picking up distress from Steffi. She doesn’t want to be at the march. She’s only there because David was so insistent! And she doesn’t like the way he’s holding on to her so tightly. All of a sudden she can’t take it for one more second and she pops herself out from the rigid hold and he gives her this look and she says, sort of apologetically, “Too tight.” And he gives her another look, very wounded-l ike, then he grabs her hand and squeezes it until it hurts.
My know-all companion is watching the sky, then eyeing the protesters, then watching the sky again. You wouldn’t describe him as anxious, exactly, but attentive. His job, as he keeps telling me, calls for a lot of precision. Well, so does mine, as a matter of fact.
And then he’s all smiles. “Ah, here it is.”
Far above us, a
plane has entered Irish airspace and its flight path is going to take it over the center of Dublin. I’m not liking this one bit. What has he lined up? A bomb? A crash? How many innocent people will be killed in order to take out this one individual?
“No.” My companion laughs darkly (he does most things darkly; it’s his way). “Nothing like that. It’s quite ingenious, actually.”
He points at the sky. “Up there, about a mile above us, a lump of ice is coming loose from the underside of the plane. Any second now it’ll start to plummet to earth and it’ll land right on top of me boyo here.”
I’m impressed. I gaze upward, then back at the unkempt David, who hasn’t a clue that he’s living out his final seconds. I’ve a mad urge to alert him to do something really worthwhile with what remains of his life, but it’s not like he’d listen. People never do. Anyway, a short way back in the march, he’s just seen a couple of people he recognizes—a blondy-haired cheruby woman and a smiley man that you wouldn’t exactly call plump, but you wouldn’t exactly call not plump either, if you get me . . . Actually, hold on a minute, it’s Matt and Maeve. From 66 Star Street. David has been hoping they’d be here and now that he’s spotted them he lights up like a Christmas tree, but the kind they’d have in hell. Badness, blackness, that sort of thing. No stars or angels. Skulls, instead. Rotten teeth. Dead bats. And his vibrations start hopping with extra-strength venom. I’d had him all wrong.
Aha! David is thinking. I’ll go back there and taunt the pair of them. I’ll introduce them to Steffi . I’ll say that it’s a crime that so many Irish rapists walk away free. It’ll kill them!
“Steffi ! There’s someone I want you to meet.”
“Who?” Christ, you never saw anyone looking as miserable as her.
“My ex-girlfriend Maeve. Come and meet her.”
Steffi’s confused and afraid and, God, she really doesn’t like him. “Why would I want to do that?”
“Just come on, would you?”
“No, David.”
He tugs at her arm, pulling her with him, and she digs her heels in, so he gives her another hoick, much harder this time, and she wrenches herself backward, breaking free of him, and people are starting to look at him.
“Suit yourself,” he says. Then he adds, “You bitch.” And a cluster of banner-carrying girls—strangers, like—gasp in shock. You can’t be going round calling your girlfriend a bitch. But David doesn’t care. He just steps forward, all business, and everyone around him scoots back and gives him space, because they know he’s a bad hat.
Meanwhile, Matt and Maeve have spotted him and are presenting expressions of defiance. With a nasty little laugh, David walks one large pace, then another, deaf to the faint whistling sound that has suddenly started above his head, and oblivious of the breeze that’s interfering with his already very messy hair.
“Now watch this,” my companion murmurs to me.
And the very next thing, a smallish boulder of ice hurtles from the heavens and collides with David’s head, sending him toppling to the ground. His head, shoulders and chest are covered with the jaggedy frozen ball and, from the way his blood is oozing out from under the ice, there’s no doubt that he’s dead.
There’s a long silence and then everyone starts howling and yelping and running and tearing their hair and putting their arms protectively over their heads and gazing horror-struck at the sky and staring, their eyes bugging out of their heads, at the ball of ice, with the lower half of a body sticking out from under it.
However, and full credit to my companion here, in spite of all the hoo-ha, no one else is hurt, not even a scratch from a stray ice chip.
“See,” he says, swaggering around like the big man. “Talk about a precision strike.”
“They’ll be upset, though,” I say. “Some of them will have nightmares and have to go on Valium. Look at poor Steffi there.”
She’s rooted to the spot and her mouth is wide open, trying to suck in oxygen. One of her hands is on her chest and the other is on her throat, and she’s staring at her boyfriend’s legs and at the blood that’s oozing from beneath the boulder of ice. She’s in profound shock. But, all the same, you can’t miss the thick waves of relief that are coming off her.
“Steffi’ll be grand,” my companion says airily. “She’s been trying to break it off with him for ages. They’ll all be grand. Bit of counseling and Bob’s your uncle.”
“What about Matt and Maeve? She’s pregnant. We don’t want her going into shock and losing the baby.”
My companion finds this highly amusing. “Take a look at them,” he says.
Somehow, Matt and Maeve have fought their way to the front row of onlookers around David’s body and their faces are luminous with some strange emotion—that isn’t shock.
“Is he dead?” Maeve asks Matt.
“Sure looks like it. I fantasized about this. When I read about the balls of ice falling out of the sky, I wanted it to happen to him.”
“Cripes, did you really?”
“And now look.”
“It’s enough to restore your faith.”
“Right!” my companion says. “Job done. And a lovely neat one, if I may say so. Off we go to Star Street. We’ll be there in five.”
Five hours, more like. He was nothing like as familiar with the layout of Dublin as he’d given me to think and it took us ages to find the place. Flying back and forth over the city, time ticking away, me in a right panic. Anyway, I’m here now. Number 66, blue front door, knocker in the shape of a banana (no room for doubt), and in the ground-floor flat a throng of people—Salvatores and Fatimas and Cleos—are drinking beer and punch and eating sausage rolls. Matt and Maeve’s leaving party, would you believe? They’re departing Star Street and moving to a bigger place because of their forthcoming baby. So I start wafting myself around the crowded flat, finding out what’s what. To my relief, neither Matt nor Maeve is showing any sign of delayed shock from the afternoon’s icy events. On the contrary. They look wildly happy, chatting away good-oh to all their guests. Everyone asks about the baby. They already know it’s a boy and they’re calling him Conall, and although there is a Conall present at this party for whom the baby is being named, he is not the father.
In a quest for answers, I focus more on Conall, a fine, big, hunky specimen of a man, and suddenly I get a powerful tingling feeling: he’s the one. He looks like a daddy; his dark hair has a neglected quality that bodes well, because daddies don’t have time to be foostering around with hair gel and the like. And he wears the right kind of clothes—jeans and a dark-blue fleece—like he’d hoist you up on his shoulder and burp you and not care if you puked on him. His vibrations are decent, loving and humble (although I feel that the humility might be a fairly new addition to his bundle of characteristics). Most of all he’s ready. In fairness, he’d want to be; he’s forty-three.
Conall is watching the door, alert to each new arrival. Then there’s this rush of energy, a spiky, barbed sort of a thing: Lydia has arrived. Apparently, she once had a short-lived fandango with Conall, but you’d never know. Through the multinational throng, they exchange a glance, but there’s nothing left, not a zing, not a flash, sweet feck-all.
Lydia is trailed by a flashing-eyed, wild-haired musician, one Oleksander Shevchenko. He’s a handsome devil, even if he is wearing an embarrassing scarf-meets-cravat type thing. Also, no jocks beneath his black jeans. Oleksander’s eyes are sparking black angry fire because Lydia wouldn’t let him bring his instrument, a special Ukrainian accordion, to the party. They’ve just had a fine, big, sexy shouting match in their flat two floors up.
You know what? This pair are worth considering. They are Very Much In Love . . . But, on second thoughts, I don’t know . . . I’d be good-looking, no doubt about it, coming from that gene pool, and conception would be no bother (they do nothing except have sex), but Lydia has a lot of living in her yet. No way is she ready for me and I want to be wanted.
She seems to be making her way
across the room to chew the fat with Conall, but, no, she’s only getting herself a drink. But they’re so close to each other that she realizes she can’t ignore him.
“Howya, Hathaway. What is it? Dress-down Saturday?” Making some scornful reference to his jeans.
“Hello, Lydia,” he says calmly. “You’re looking well. How’s Ellen?”
“Doing all right. Taking the tablets. She’s not the full whack, obviously, never will be again, but she’s not getting any worse.”
“Murdy and Ronnie? Doing their duty?”
Lydia laughs. “Well, Murdy’s wife does a lot. And Ronnie’s produced a girlfriend from somewhere, some poor cow by the name of Shannon, and she’s a dab hand at housework. But Mum’s being taken care of and that’s the main thing.”
“And Raymond?”
“Still hiding out in Stuttgart. Ronnie wanted to send in a crack-squad to kidnap him, like the Secret Service does, and bring him back to face the music, but . . .” She shrugs. “You can’t win every battle.”
“Very wise. So, you still up and down to Boyne all the time?”
“I do Mondays and Tuesdays. We’ve a schedule; it’s working okay.”
“And Ellen’s still living in her own house?”
“Still living in her own house. She asks about you sometimes. I’ll tell her I saw you.”
“Do. Do. And your brothers as well, tell them I said hey.”
“They ask after you too. They took it very hard, me breaking it off with you. A lot harder than you did.”
“Aaah, Lydia . . .”
Just one thing I’ve realized about Conall: he’s not very happy. In fact, he’s throbbing with a red-hot, long-last ache, like an ear infection, but of the heart . . . And something else: Conall doesn’t live at 66 Star Street. So unless I can hook him up with a woman who resides here, it can’t be him.
That starts a panic in me. I scoot to the top of the house, where a woman called Katie lives. She’s sitting facing a handsome prince called Fionn. Their knees are touching, their heads are bent toward each other, there is a profound connection. Okay, she’s no good for Conall but, if I’m stuck, she and Fionn would do.