The Fellowship, page 7
part #5 of Rick Fuller Series
Well, not enough, anyway.
And now he couldn’t even be arsed to give me a quick phone to say he’d landed.
No, I was good enough to fight alongside him. I was good enough to run his errands and go see Egghead, but not quite sufficiently valued to warrant a telephone call to say, ‘hi, I’m okay, how are you?’
I sipped on my wine and changed the station on the radio feeling truly sorry for myself. Finally, I did something terribly vengeful and stupid. I picked up my phone and dialled the one person I shouldn’t have.
“Hello Lauren,” said Larry. “You okay?”
“I’m fine,” I lied. “You?”
“Still suspended, but I detect some movement. I take it your job is over.”
“Not really.”
“I see, so what have I done to deserve a call from you? I got the distinct impression that you were pissed at me, you and Rick were an item and it was best for me to do the gentlemanly thing and back off.”
“I was very hard on you last night in the Ostrich,” I said.
“You were right, Lauren. You told the truth. My lack of understanding, my decision to play by the rules, got people killed.” I heard him sigh. “At least Henrietta Duvall is out of danger.”
“That’s good,” I offered. “I hadn’t heard, we’ve been… a little busy”
“As ever,” he said.
I drained my glass and took the deepest of breaths.
“Take me dancing, Mr Simpson. I need to go dancing. Drinking and dancing.”
Rick Fuller’s Story:
I wandered towards the taxi rank with those old war stories still floating around my head, found a cab and slumped into the back seat. A fifteen minute taxi ride later brought me into the city proper and my hotel, just off the south tributary, and walking distance to the centre.
You see, Cork is situated on the River Lee. This splits into two channels at the western end and divides the city centre into islands. They reconverge at the eastern end where the quays and docks lead outwards towards Lough Mahon and one of the largest natural harbours in the world.
Visitors get confused, as when the locals direct you anywhere, they only ever refer to ‘the river’ and neglect to mention which stretch, the north or south. Probably their idea of a little joke.
My hotel on McCurtain Street was named The Isaacs and nestled in a small cobbled courtyard. It boasted a very nice looking bar and an award winning restaurant named Greens. As I watched some of the clientele enjoying pre-dinner drinks, I began to wonder if Cartwright had been a little over zealous when it came to my Hugo Boss number, as most seemed to be dressed in the latest designer fashions.
The evening was fine, warm and dry, so I decided to get my bearings, explore a little of the city and practice my rusty Belfast drawl.
I wandered across the street, past The Everyman Theatre, and one of the older established pubs, The Dan Lowrey.
A few hundred yards along McCurtain Street, I found a place called The Corner House. As it was just a little after six o’clock, I was surprised to find the place extremely busy and a small group of musicians in full swing.
I pushed my way to the bar, ordered a half of Beamish stout, the local brew and eventually found a seat.
One big difference between the English and the Irish, is that us Anglo Saxons like our own space. If we see a table set for four people in a bar, with one person sitting at it, we leave the solitary chap to his own devices.
I like that.
This is not the way of the residents of Cork city.
Oh no. Within milliseconds, I was joined by three middle aged women who pushed their way into my personal space and surrounded the table with piles of shopping bags.
They then set about interrogating me.
“Ah, are you alright there so?” “He’s a fine looking man, is he not, Mable? “Are ye a visitor now?” “The session in here is mighty.” “That fella on the fiddle is famous in these parts?
And so it went on.
I did my best with my accent.
None of them could work out where the fuck I was from. In the end, I gave up, wandered up the street, bought myself a burger and went to bed exhausted, no wiser and with no plan of just how I was going to find the elusive Mr Finbarr O’Rourke.
Des Cogan’s Story:
I didnea feel too well. Probably more mental than physical. A mixture of the pain and images of Maggie flying through the air as Al-Mufti pushed her from the moving van, ensured that I’d woke every hour or so through the night, sweating and full of hate.
To make matters worse, the staff had discovered my stash of Guinness, and it had been confiscated.
The Doc arrived just after eight-thirty, had a look at my foot and announced he was pleased with his work. Apparently I would be getting a painful visit from the physiotherapist in an hour or two.
The prognosis was that I could leave hospital as soon as aftercare could be arranged. I would need help with the basics, dressing, bathing, that kind of thing.
I lay in my bed considering who would offer me that kind of help and quickly came to the conclusion that there wasn’t anyone.
As it turned out, I was very wrong.
Just after ten, my room door opened and in walked Grace Yakim and her boy, Kaya. The sight of her and the wee chap brought both pangs of sorrow and genuine happiness. It was hard to believe that it had been less than a week since we had laid JJ, her husband and a man who I would always consider a great friend and soldier, to rest.
As I lay, wounded and tired in my bed, the presence of Grace and the boy raised my spirits no end.
“How did you know I was here?” I asked.
“I tried your mobile, but it was off, so I rang your offices in town. Estelle, your secretary, said that you’d been in a car accident.”
“Aye kind of,” I said, managing a smile.
Kaya ran a toy bus across my bedclothes, making vroom vroom noises. He stopped the red double decker at my bandaged foot.
“Hello, Des,” he said, a rather blank expression on his face.
I looked into Grace’s eyes. She was as lovely as ever, but the sparkle just wasn’t there. Same with the boy, there was something missing. I knew only time could restore that spark, that certain something, and even then, after months or years, it may never fully return.
“How are you bearing up?” I asked, feeling stupid for asking the obvious.
“We’re okay, Des, thanks. The house just isn’t the same though. I’m thinking of visiting Turkey for a while. You know, get some sun and let Kaya see where his Dad came from? Show the family their Grandson.”
I knew that neither their Irish nor Turkish families had been supportive of Grace’s and JJ’s marriage, and that not one single member of either side had attended the funeral.
“Isn’t that going to be a tad on the awkward side there, hen?”
Grace looked at the floor for a moment, then caught my eye. “He’s still their blood, Des.”
“That he is, hen, but I know how hard it can be with family like.”
Grace took a breath. “Anyway, that won’t be happening just yet, and we’re not here to talk about me, we’re here to see you, and get you sorted.”
“You are?”
“Aye. I spoke with your Doc on the way in. He’s from Kerry, would you believe? My mother and his went to the same chapel for a while. Small world, eh?”
“It is,” I said. “I went to Kerry once, just dropped in, like.”
Grace smiled at that.
“Anyway, I was askin’ after you, and he says that you can come home tonight so long as you have the care, so.”
“That’s as I understand it, aye, but…”
“But nothing Des. After what you’ve done for Kaya and me, it’s the least we can do.”
She found another smile from somewhere and her face lit up.
“I have four brothers so, seven of us in a trailer, can ye imagine that? You won’t be the first naked man I’ve seen in the bath, I’ll tell yer.”
I knew exactly what it was like growing up in a large family, all crammed into one small space, all fighting for the cleanest bathwater.
The truth was, I must have spent hours in the showers during my first weeks in the Army. The seemingly endless supply of piping hot water was an absolute luxury for the young Private Cogan.
I shook my head.
“That’s all well and good, Grace. But seeing yer brothers getting bathed and lifting my bollock naked, ugly mug in and out of the water will be a totally different matter.”
“I may be wee, Desmond. But I’m stronger than I look. And anyways, you’re not so ugly.”
Lauren North’s Story:
I opened my eyes and let my mind work out exactly where I was. I hadn’t felt this way since university. I could smell the alcohol in the room, that and the unmistakable aroma of sex.
I cricked my neck to my left and saw Larry dozing away, his usually perfect hair was tousled and the beginnings of a shadow formed on his handsome face.
He looked content.
I felt…well, where do I start with this one?
The night’s events began to play back in my head.
Larry had collected me from my apartment and taken me into town. First we’d gone to a bar, the name of which escaped me, but we’d had a few drinks there, definitely. Then we’d walked to The Ritz.
Jesus, it was like stepping into a time warp. It was eighties night and the place was packed. I’d never seen so many pedal pushers and so much big hair since my college days.
I’d asked to go dancing, and that’s just what we’d done.
Danced… and drank.
For such a big guy, Larry could move, no doubt. But it wasn’t those movements that were bothering me. It was his moves once we’d got back to his place.
I slipped my legs from under the sheets and began to search for my clothes. The only item in the bedroom were my pants.
I racked my brains, did my best to focus, stepped from the bedroom and stood on the landing.
My bra was on the stairs.
The moment I saw it, I had a flashback of it being removed and what was going on at the time.
If I hadn’t felt so devastatingly stupid and slutty, I’d have smiled.
The lounge revealed the rest of my clothes, together with my mobile.
I opened the screen to find four missed calls.
One from Estelle at the office. Two from Mitch Collins and one from Rick, time stamped 0052hrs.
I ran to the kitchen and puked.
Des Cogan’s Story:
“Well, that’s fine news, Sir,” said Mitch. “Home cooked food and a proper bed to sleep in will do you good. That’s mighty kind of the lady.”
“I reckon you’re right there, Mitch,” I said, eyeing him and Lauren suspiciously.
“But I have to say, ye both look like ye had a good night the pair of ye. And by the Christ hen, ye smell like it too. What the fuck were ye drinking… petrol?”
Lauren glared at me. All sullen, like a wee bairn that had been caught with their hand in the cookie jar.
Mitch shrugged his shoulders and risked a glance in her direction.
“I’d be guessing my night wasn’t as entertaining as Ms North’s, Sir. I was summoned to be de-briefed. Seems the guys at the big house wanted to know exactly what occurred in Mr Carver’s apartment to cause his demise. They were concerned that Mr Carver was tied to his bed at the time he was shot. Fortunately for myself, your friends in MI5 had traced the young lady that was in his company when we arrived, and she admitted it was her that had restrained Mr Carver, for the purposes of…err, sexual activity.”
I had a grin at that one.
“So, you were there a while then, Mitch?”
“Until just after four, Sir, yes.”
I turned to the esteemed Ms North. She looked awfully sheepish and green at the gills.
“And where were you being de-briefed, hen?
“None of your fucking business,” she snapped.
Mitch slipped on his diplomatic cowboy hat. “Ms North hasn’t been feeling well, Sir. But we are off to see Simon this morning. You know, the guy that talks real funny.”
I was surprised at that one. “We? So you’re staying on for a while then, Mitch? I thought you’d be back off to The States, soon as?”
The big American gave me a smile. “Seems your Mr Cartwright has pulled some strings, Sir. With you laid up an’ all, he was of a mind to let me stay on. At least until you’re up and about.”
Lauren went a funny colour, turned on her heels and ran out of the door.
Lauren North’s Story:
I’d left Larry sleeping.
It was one of those moments where I really wouldn’t have known what to say to him. I mean, let’s face it, things happen to people that are never meant to happen. But as much as you feel regret, you have to take things on the chin and accept it was your own choice.
You can blame the drink, the emotion, the ‘I was caught up in the moment,’ anything you like, but the bottom line is, it’s down to you.
I felt like shit mentally and physically.
How many times do you think I asked myself why?
Five? Ten? Twenty?
And, of course, I’d doubly fucked up. Not only had I put any kind of relationship with Rick at risk, I’d given Larry, a decent, nice guy, hope.
Hope, and … Oh, I don’t know, just fucking hope, and that was bad enough.
I stepped out of the hospital toilets wiping my mouth and immediately wondered if I would need to go back for another round of shouting down the big white telephone.
Mitch caught me trying to make up my mind. “You feeling any better, Ma’am,” he asked, a concerned look on his face.
I shook my head. “I think it was the Tequila.”
The big American wrinkled his nose. “That would do it, Ma’am, for sure.”
I did my best not to think about the other shots I’d consumed. “I think you’d better drive to Eggheads.”
Mitch checked his watch. “We’re late,” he offered.
I gave him a look. “The boy sleeps late, don’t worry.”
We arrived at Simon’s house, a little after eleven-thirty. Mitch had me at a disadvantage, as I’d never visited the place before and he knew what to expect.
The dwelling had once been a working farm, but Simon’s father, knowing that he was terminally ill, had sold off the land around the main house to pay off his crippling mortgage and leave his wife and the then, baby Simon, with a roof over their heads.
The area that was left around the gaff could hardly be described as a garden, more a jungle of overgrown grass, brambles and bushes. Add various discarded kitchen appliances, rusting away in the weeds, and you get the picture.
The front door had once been gloss painted, but all that was left of the peeling colour, were two thin strips down the centre.
I knew how much Simon charged for his services, and I also knew we were far from his only customers. As I knocked on the door, I considered what exactly the lad did with his six figure annual income.
“Why are you standing back there?” I asked, eyeing Mitch suspiciously as I stood on the step.
The American looked at me over the top of his Ray Bans and shrugged, making no comment.
After what seemed like an age, and three sets of fervent knocks, the door was opened by a woman in her fifties.
She wore a pink housecoat and matching slippers, all of which appeared to have been dragged around the muddy garden for a week or so.
In the corner of her mouth was an unlit roll-up.
Seconds later, I understood why Mitch had taken a step away from the door.
From inside the house came the eye watering smell of cat pee, mixed with frying bacon. Moments later, I was assaulted by the animals responsible for the stench, and what appeared to be dozens of the feline terrors ran past me and out into the open.
I cupped my hand over my mouth, but it was no use. Twisting my body to the left, I just managed to miss Simon’s mother with a stream of Tequila induced projectile vomit.
The woman didn’t even flinch. She simply turned away and bawled, “Simon… company… and yer bacon sandwich is ready.”
Mitch and I stepped inside. My stomach was doing cartwheels as we avoided what could only be the more solid of the two bodily functions that came from a cat, on the stair carpet.
As we reached halfway, a cheery looking chap in his thirties appeared on the landing above.
“Ah, Mr Collins,” he said with a smile. “Nice to see you again.”
After further careful negotiation, we reached the top of the stairs.
Mitch took Simon’s hand and shook it. “Hi there, I hope you’re well, Simon. Not been flying on any of our satellites recently, I hope?”
“Not since we last spoke, Mr Collins, no. I’ve been far too busy with the Russians of late. They seem to be getting very interested in other countries politics.”
“Oh my,” said Mitch, looking like he didn’t know what else to say. He turned to me. “May I introduce you to Ms North? She’s a colleague of Mr Fuller’s”
Simon’s already red cheeks turned crimson and he gave me a big beaming smile.
“You certainly can, Mr Collins. As much as I appreciate Mr Fuller’s visits and sense of humour. He’s not as easy on the eye as Ms North here.”
I raised my brows in surprise at Simon’s belief in Rick’s comic timing and held out a sweaty palm. “Yes, he’s a laugh a minute is our Rick. Still, nice to meet you, Simon… err… can we talk somewhere?”
