Stella didn’t love him but, as they say at The Oval, she had a fondness for him. Plus, he was her Green Card, worth a whole shitpile of love and roses.
The love of her life had been The Alien. She came from a family of part time villains:
part of the time they were doing villainy
part of the time they were doing time.
So Fenton’s rep was known and admired in her street. It was a mystery to her why it was described as a working class neighbourhood, as few worked. Fenton appeared glamorous and dangerous and all that other good shit that causes fatal love. The biggest hook of all, he was gentle — to, with and about her.
When she got pregnant, he got three years and she woke up. That would be the pattern. He’d be banged up or killed and she decided to start over. Then she miscarried and the loss unhinged her. Near insane with grief and rage, she’d gone to the prison. As he walked into the visiting room, she saw the macho swagger, the hard-eyed hard man and she wanted to wound him.
So, she told him. ‘I aborted.’
And he’d gone berserk. Across the table at her and it took six guards to beat him into a stupor if not submission. Perhaps the worst horror was him never uttering a sound.
When Jack Davis showed up, she took him. She’d received one call before she left London from Bill who said, ‘Run … for all you’re worth.’
She did.
As the machine kicked into overdrive, Stella made some decaff. It was the state of low fat living. She’d been starting to talk American, eg ‘carbohydrated’.
The washing was in mega spin and she turned on the radio, it had Star Wars speakers and come-on hyper. It was nostalgia hour and she heard Steeler’s Wheel with ‘Stuck In The Middle With You’. Oh yeah. With Gerry Rafferty in the line up, they’d been touted as Scotland’s answer to Crosby, Stills and Nash, which was pushing the envelope; and then Vince Gill with ‘Go Rest High on that Mountain’ …
As she’d boarded the plane at Heathrow, a song was playing. Elton John’s homage to Princess Diana. Then and now, Stella felt the song that sang it best, that sang it heart-kicked was Vince Gill.
When she heard it, she saw the photo of Di that would wound the soul of the devil himself. It shows her running in a school race at her boys’ school. Her face is that of a young girl, trying and eager, and mischievous.
Full of fun.
This whole thing Stella had told to Jack and then played the Gill song.
In a rare moment of insight, he’d said, ‘Down those mean streets, a decent song must sometimes go.’
She’d said, ‘That’s beautiful Jack.’
‘No, it’s Chandler pastiche.’
‘Oh …
Which bridge to cross and which bridge to burn
(Vince Gill)
Brant had to change flights at Dublin. There are no direct flights to Galway in the West of Ireland. He had contacted a long neglected cousin who said he’d meet him on arrival.
Brant asked, ‘How will you know me?’
‘Aren’t you a police man?’
‘Ahm … yes.’
‘Then I’ll know you.’
Brant wanted this crypticism explained but thought it best to leave it alone. Instead, he said, ‘So, you’re Pat de Brun.’
‘Most of the time.’
Brant concluded he was headed for a meet with a comedian or a moron. Probably both.
Brant was already confused by Ireland. At Dublin Airport the first thing he saw was a billboard, proclaiming:
‘Costa l’amore per il caffe’
Unless he’d boarded the wrong flight and was now in Rome, it didn’t make sense. Shouldn’t they be touting tea, or jeez, at the very least, whisky?
His cousin, Pat de Brun, was smiling and Brant’s old responses kicked in. ‘What’s the joke, boyo?’
‘Tis that you look bewildered.’
And more bewildered he’d get. Pat said, ‘You’ll be wantin’ a drink, or, by the look of ye, the hair of the dog.’
Brant let it go and followed him to the bar. A middle aged woman was tending and declared, ‘Isn’t the weather fierce?’
Pat ignored the weather report and said, ‘Two large Paddies.’
Brant half expected two big navvies to hop on the counter. The drinks came and Pat said, ‘Slainte.’
‘Whatever.’
They took it neat, like men or idiots. It burned a hole in Brant’s guts and he went, ‘Jesus.’
‘Good man, there’s a drop of Irish in yah after all.’
‘There is now.’
Brant’s travel plans were:
1. London to Dublin
2. Dublin to Galway
3. Overnight stay
4. Shannon to America
So far so something.
A tape deck was playing ‘Search for the Hero Inside Yourself’. Both men were quietly humming. Brant said, ‘Not very Irish is it?’
Pat finished his drink and answered, ‘Nothing is anymore. My name is Padraig but there’s no way a Brit like yourself could pronounce it.’
The drink was sufficiently potent for Brant to try. He said, ‘Pawdrag.’
‘Good on yah, that’s not bad; but lest I be living on me nerves, let’s stick to Pat.’
Brant swallowed. ‘Or Paddy.’
Pat de Brun was a distant cousin of Brant. Migration, emigration and sheer poor pronunciation had mutated de Brun to Brant.
Go figure.
Brant was to find Pat a mix of pig ignorance, slyness and humour. If he’d been English, he’d be credited with irony. Apart from sporadic Christmas cards, they were strangers but neither seemed uncomfortable. Course, being half-pissed helped. Brant took out his Weights and offered. It was taken and the bar woman said, ‘I could do with a fag myself.’
They ignored her. As Pat blew out his first smoke, he coughed and said, ‘Jaysus … coffin nails.’
‘Like ’em?’
‘I do.’
‘Good.’
Envious glances from the woman. But she didn’t mind. Men and manners rarely met.
Brant said, ‘I better get a move on.’
Pat was truly surprised, asked, ‘What’s your hurry, where are you going?’
‘Well … America … but I better check into a hotel.’
Pat got red in the face … or redder; near shouted, ‘There’ll be no hotels for the de Bruns! The missus is in Dublin for a few days so you’ll be stoppin’ with me.’
Brant was tempted, answered, ‘If it’s no trouble.’
‘But of course it’s trouble, what’s that ever had to do with anything?’
A point Brant felt couldn’t be bettered. When the bar woman put them out, she pocketed the cigarettes.
Felicitations
Falls held her breath as the Doctor began to speak. ‘Well, Miz … or Miss — I never know the PC term.’ And he looked at her. The expression of the misunderstood male run ragged by women’s demands.
She wanted to shout, ‘Get on with it you moron,’ but said tightly, ‘Miz is fine.’
‘All right, Miz … And he looked at his notes.
She supplied: ‘Falls.’
‘Quite so. Well, Miz Falls, you are pregnant. Three months, in fact.’
She was speechless. Now that it was confirmed she felt a burst of happiness and finally said, ‘Good!’
If the doctor was expecting this response, he hid it well. ‘Ah … when there’s, ahm … no Mr Falls, one isn’t always … pleased.’
‘I’m delighted.’
‘So I see. Of course, there are alternatives, once the initial euphoria has abated, one might wish for … other options.’
She wanted to smack him in the mouth but said, ‘I’m keeping my baby. I am not euphoric, I am, as I said, delighted.’
He waved his hand dismissively like he’d heard this nonsense a hundred times, and said, ‘My secretary will advise you of all the details. Good day Miz Falls.’ As she was leaving, he said, ‘I suppose one ought to say felicitations!’