August 30, 2008 5:13 PM BST
(Take 2-someone with a JCB 'sabotaged' the connection on Thursday..........
)
Detective-sergeant Ross headed through the drizzle towards the small,birch clad,island.Rounding the tip of it he cut the outboard and let the dinghy drift into the shore.He made fast to a tree trunk,grabbed his oilskin,fishing tackle and a small iso-mat,and made himself as comfortable as possible against one of the trees.Peace and quiet reigned and,as he cast his line out,he began to marshall his thoughts.
'Eamonn knows what we're up to and who we're watching. Almost certain.And.....if he knows...then Grogan knows........! Oh,he knew the situation only too well. There was always an 'Eamonn', or perhaps a 'Bridie'.In every bloody village, in every bloody parish, if you wanted to spread information, flush out a suspect or get them to make a mistake, you dropped a heavy hint to the local Eamonn or Bridie-God alone knew why but their names were always Eamonn or Bridie-that they were being favoured with this information, that they should ' keep it to your-
selves you understand...' with the desired effect that, in nothing flat,everybody in the district.....the whole damn county most probably.....knew down to the last detail what was going on.
'Assuming Grogan knows.......he's covering up well......still, given his form he's well practised.Pack up?Call it a day?......Hmmm,....
can't put my finger on it but there's more to this than we thought...
.what have we missed? We haven't been set-up,have we??....
looks like it a bit but........no.....no.Grogan really detests Kane, no
doubting that.......that exchange in the bar,his reaction to my
request....oh no,he wasn't acting,not at all. Perhaps we should take a closer look at the Kane family? And....perhaps.....perhaps
Eamonn may prove to be very useful.......'
The drizzle turned into rain with the promise of a good squall for an encore. Ross reeled in his empty line, untied the dinghy,
jerked the outboard into life and headed back to the jetty and his Range-Rover.Bumping up the track to Knock-an-Cummin, a change of tactics began to form in his mind. Up at the house he first checked for bugs and other devices then,although everything seemed OK, he put Cream-Live! into the CD-player and kranked up the volume to stadium level. Only then did he pick up his mobile 'phone and duck back out into the yard.
"That you,Nobby? Here's Vimes. How's our Magrat doing?" This
use of code was ridiculous,he knew, but he found an almost childish delight in it,especially when they plundered the 'Disc-
world' cast. Against the background noise of a train in motion he heard his contact chuckle.
"Hehehe....well,we've just left Longford so we should be in Ankh-
..sorry,Dublin,in an hour or so,the gods of iarnrod Eireann permitting. The little witch in question has been immersed in Cosmopolitan ever since Sligo.It's all routinely boring or boringly routine....take your choice. How's things your end?"
"We've got an Eamonn........."
"Oh Jesus Christ,no! Eamonn! Has he b*****ed things up? Seriously,I mean?"
"Maybe,maybe not.Too soon to tell.May turn out to be useful to us
in the long run."
"Aha,I see..........Uhoh,better go,looks as if our 'Maggie' is about to toss a wobbler.........I'll be in touch. If I text in capitals you'll know it's serious!"
Ross looked at the 'phone in his hand for a moment,then went back indoors and turned the volume down. Picking up a couple of dossiers he flopped onto the sofa.'Soooo,' he mused,'Kane is up to something on the train........Is she,or,as Grogan prefers,he, aware of our surveillance?.............'
Bye for now!
Lynn H.
(PS. Angela,please feel free to correct my spelling of Irish and the Garda ranks.)
As she walked carefully back towards the village, she reflected that the last twenty-four hours had ebbed away so slowly. Oh, so slowly. Each second dripping off the clock. Each second a globule gathering and falling. Like slime. Time is slime, she thought, and for the first occasion, in what seemed like forever, she smiled. Small. Short. Easily missed by a casual observer. But a genuine smile nonetheless. She repeated the words internally a few times just for the fun of it. The joy of thinking something outside of her current situation. But just as quickly as it arrived, it was gone. Fleeting would too long a word to describe it. Tara forced her mind back to reality. She’d made her plans, she’d made her decisions and – as Heaven knows only too well – she’d made her mistakes. Now is the time for determination and she almost chastised herself for allowing such a silly thought to cross her mind. But you can’t be serious all the time. There has to be a break.
She clutched her bag a little closer to her body, as if the contents could help ward off evil spirits. Provide succour in some strange and as yet undiscovered way. Maybe they could. Apart from the basic essentials, the bag also contained an envelope. Unopened. And a locket. It was the locket she tried to focus on. Small, round, silver and plain. No adornment was ever needed on anything that contained a picture of Gabrielle. Dear, dear, Gabie. She was more than just a sister. Young, yes, but beautiful, innocent and intelligent. She was The One. The Artistic One. The Creative One. She was her muse. Her inspiration. All but a tangible piece of her own soul. And she did’nt deserve to be resting in peace so soon.
July 3, 2008 10:47 PM BST
And - with a belch and a fart - Tara stirred into a world of encaged normality. A world of overcrowded, over-sweating and over-eating coach travellers. The belch and the fart, naturally, had’nt in the least pertained to her. They merely represented the cacophony of encouped humanity.
And the recollection of remnants of a ragged net curtain blowing in the breeze meandered through her awaking conciousness.
Which, on rational decanting, became the trawlings and detritus of a bad couple of hours of ‘coach dreaming’. Tara remembered something about several shades of green. (The army???) and a band playing in New York. (Police? Partisans?) and a 'Queen of New York City'. The cloud of early morning / late night confusion definately infused her soul.
But, what the hell. She was on the bus, out and away from her past and off on a journey to her future. And, more importantly, she was really finally accepting herself - and being accepted as herself - Tara, a la femme.
Quietly, bizarrely, amazingly, and for the current moment, Tara was Her. And at peace... even the Irish subterfuge had worked!