I arrived outside the Lost and Found building and noticed how the carvings on this building were more playfuclass="underline" two odd socks, one yellow-and-pink polka dot and the other purple-and-orange stripes. I stood thinking of Gregory and me at my good-bye dance at school and I laughed. A face appeared in the window, a very familiar face, and I immediately stopped laughing, feeling as though I’d seen a ghost. He was young, nineteen by now, if I calculated correctly. He gave me a cheeky grin, waved, and disappeared from the window and appeared at the now open door like the Cheshire cat. So this was the Bobby from Lost and Found that Helena and Wanda had mentioned.
“Hello.” He leaned against the door frame with his shoulder, crossed one leg over the other and held out his two hands. “Welcome to Lost and Found.”
I laughed. “Hello, Mr. Stanley.”
His eyes narrowed at my knowing his name but his smile widened. “And you are?”
“Sandy.” I’d heard he was a character, always acting the joker. I had watched countless home videos of him performing for the camera from the age of six all the way up to sixteen, just before his disappearance. “You were on my list,” I explained, “for auditions yesterday, and you didn’t show up.”
“Ah!” Realization dawned on him yet he still continued to study me curiously. “I’ve heard about you.” He stopped leaning against the door frame and coolly made his way down the steps with his hands in his pockets. He stopped directly on front of me, folded his arms, then placed one hand to his chin and began to circle me slowly.
I laughed. “What have you heard about me?”
He paused behind me and I twisted my upper body around to him. “They say you know things.”
“They do?”
“They do,” he repeated, and continued strolling around me. When he had come full circle he stopped and folded his arms again, twinkles dancing in his blue eyes. He was everything his mother had boasted. “They say you’re the soothsayer of Here.”
“Who are they?” I asked.
“The…” He looked around to make sure nobody was listening; he lowered his voice to a whisper. “Auditionees.”
“Ah.” I nodded smiling. “Them.”
“Yes, them. We have a lot in common,” he said mysteriously.
“We do?”
“We do,” he repeated. “They say, they being”-he looked left and right again before whispering-“the auditionees, say you’re the person to go to if you want to know things.”
I shrugged. “Maybe I know some things.”
“Well, I’m the person to go to if you want to get things.”
“Well, that’s why I’m here.” I smiled.
He became serious. I think. “Which one? You’re here to get something or to let me know something?”
I thought about that but didn’t answer aloud. “Aren’t you going to let me inside?”
“Of course.” he smiled and dropped the act. “I’m Bobby,” he said, and held out his hand. “But you already know that.”
“I do.” I smiled. “I’m Sandy Shortt,” I took his hand and shook it. It felt limp and I looked up to see his face that had paled.
“Sandy Shortt?” he asked.
“Yes.” My heart beat nervously. “Why, what’s wrong with that?”
“Sandy Shortt from Leitrim, Ireland?”
I let go of his limp hand and swallowed. I didn’t answer. It seemed that I didn’t need to. Bobby took me by the arm and led me to the shop. “I’ve been expecting you.” He looked over his shoulder one last time to see that no one was watching before dragging me inside and closing the door.
Then he closed the shop.
30
Leading away from St. Stephen’s Green, Leeson Street was a fine Georgian street largely intact. The buildings, once grand homes housing the aristocracy, now mainly housed businesses: hotels, offices, and the basements were home to Dublin’s “Strip,” a chain of thriving nightclubs and strip clubs.
A brass plate beside the grand black Georgian door announced the building to be Scathach House. Jack took the seven concrete steps up to the door and came face to face with a brass lion’s head with a ring clasped between his teeth. He was just about to grasp it and rap it against the door when he noticed a collection of buzzers to the right of the door: modern day’s ugly invention mingled with the old. He looked up Dr. Burton’s clinic; it was on the second floor, a PR agency at the bottom, a solicitor’s office at the top. He was buzzed upstairs where he waited in an empty reception area. The receptionist smiled at him and he felt like shouting, I’m not here for me, there’s nothing wrong with me, I’m investigating!
But he smiled back instead.
Magazines adorned the table, some a few months old, others a year old. He picked up one and self-consciously flicked through the pages, reading about a member of the royal family of an obscure country who lay across beds, couches, kitchen tables, and pianos in the favorite rooms of her house.
The door to Dr. Burton’s office opened and Jack quickly disposed of the magazine.
Dr. Burton was younger than Jack had imagined, mid-to-late forties. He had a tight beard, light brown, speckled with silver in places. He had piercing blue eyes, was five eleven, Jack guessed, and was dressed in jeans and a tan corduroy jacket.
“Jack Ruttle?” he asked, looking at him.
“Yes.” Jack stood and they greeted each other with a handshake.
The office was busy, the style of furniture and design eclectic with a packed bookshelf, a full desk, a line of filing cabinets, a wall of academic credentials, nonmatching rugs, a chair, and a couch. The place had character. It suited the man who sat before him in the chair taking his personal details.
“So, Jack.” Dr. Burton finished filling out the form and crossed his legs, focusing all his attention on Jack. Jack fought the urge to run out of the building. “Why is it that you have come here today?” he asked.
To find Sandy Shortt, he wanted to say, but instead shrugged and shifted uncomfortably in his seat. He wanted to just get this all over and done with right now. How on earth was he going to find out about Sandy through making up lies about himself? He hadn’t fully thought this through, assuming that everything would fall into place as soon as he’d walked into Dr. Burton’s office. What was it they said in the movies when the shrinks asked them questions? Think, Jack, think. “I’m under a lot of pressure,” he said a bit too confidently, pleased with himself for answering a question.
“What kind of pressure?”
What kind? Was there more than one kind? “Just the normal kind of pressure.” He shrugged again.
Dr. Burton frowned and Jack feared he’d got the question wrong. “Is it due to work or-”
“Yeah.” He jumped in, “It’s work. It’s really”-he searched his brain-“pressurizing.”
“OK.” Dr Burton nodded. “What is it that you do?”
“I’m a stevedore in Shannon Foynes Port Company.”
“And what brings you to Dublin?”
“You.”
“You came all the way to see me?”
“I had to visit a friend too,” he said quickly.
“Oh, OK.” Dr Burton smiled. “So what is it about work that you find so pressurizing? Talk to me about it.”
“Uh, the hours.” Jack made an under-pressure face which he thought was convincing. “The hours are so long.” He was silent then and he clasped his hands together on his lap and nodded and looked around the room.