Windstorm
By Ted Simmons
Published by CyPress Publications
Tallahassee, Florida
Smashwords Edition
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© 2010 by Ted Simmons
Cover art © 2010 by Mark Simmons
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher, except for brief quotations contained in critical articles and reviews.
Inquiries should be addressed to:
CyPress Publications
P.O. Box 2636
Tallahassee, Florida 32316-2636
http://cypresspublications.com
lraymond@nettally.com
ISBN: 978-1-935083-19-1
First Edition
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Smashwords Edition License Notes
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Dedication
For Judy Gross and Louise Kahn whose warm support and wise advice have been the foundation on which this and all my works reside
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Chapter 1
London, England, March 1982
The northbound platform at St. John's Wood Station was eerily deserted. Carter stood alone, staring at the concrete floor and absently scuffing his brand new Nikes on the grimy surface. His body wasn't moving, but his mind was flipping back and forth like crazy. He kept thinking of the friends he'd left behind in what was already starting to feel like an old movie. Tom, Daniel, Sandy. Oh yes, Sandy. For the first time in his life he'd worked up the courage to ask a girl out on an honest-to-God date, and it looked like it might turn into a long-term thing. Then Dad came home and dropped his bombshell. Tom, Daniel, and Sandy were now five thousand miles away and only lived in the movie inside his head.
Alone on the platform, Carter forced his mind back to the present. He'd stayed over at school a couple of hours to work with Mr. Graham, his home room teacher, on make-up assignments. He was way, way behind his classmates because the transfer to ASL was in mid-term. Actually, not even mid-term, because the summer break was just two weeks away. All his new classmates were cramming for finals in courses he hadn't even taken. What a crock this was. Thanks, Dad.
The American School in London was in a quiet suburb, where there weren't many factories or offices or things like that, so not many people got on the outbound train. Except for students like him. And, thanks to his late departure, he was the only one there. The platform was dead quiet—but just for a minute.
When the train rolled in, he could hear the din while the cars were still moving and before the doors opened. When they did, the noise swept out like a violent storm. Shouting and cussing and off-key singing. Inside the train, he could see women and older people cowering in their seats, while the aisles were filled to capacity with pushing, shoving young men and boys, most not much older than his seventeen years. Sheesh, he thought, I've run into rowdy kids before, but nothing like this.
He ran along the platform searching for the least crowded car. His backpack flumped up and down, extra-loaded with a gazillion books that needed his attention. Then the doors started to close, and he had no choice but to leap through the closest one, hoping those gazillion books didn't get caught on the outside. The force of his charge brought him up against the back of a guy in a green windbreaker who was just winding up to slug someone in front of him. He missed and fell forward, and the one he was trying to hit took a swipe at the side of his head. Down he went. A dozen voices quit cussing and singing and started to laugh.
Carter wasn't one of them. As the train lurched forward and then rolled smoothly out of the station, he watched green windbreaker grab onto the silver pole people use to steady themselves. He was having trouble hauling himself up. It was crazy, Carter thought, but through all that, the guy was still clutching a can of beer to his chest with his left hand. He looked pretty smashed. When the fellow who'd knocked him down reached over and tried to help him stand, Carter knew he was in trouble. These were guys who got off on beating the crap out of each other and then ending up hugging and singing. He figured this guy wouldn't hesitate to beat the crap out of a stranger. No singing involved.
He tried to edge himself through the crowd, hoping to get out of sight, and hopefully out of mind, of green windbreaker. But the raucous, already-plastered-at-five-p.m. crowd wouldn't let him through.
"Lookie here. Whatcha got there, ya skinny poofter?"
Someone started to pull open his backpack. He jerked away. "Oooh, lotsa books, huh?"
"He got on at St. John's Wood. Gotta be one a them Yank swots."
"Whyn'tcha say something, Yank? Stand there with yer cake-hole open."
He tried to pull himself together and act as stoic as possible. He'd met enough bullies to know if he showed weakness, they'd be all over him.
"So who are you guys?" he said. "You all just break out of jail or something?"
It seemed like the right thing to say, because everyone around him started laughing again. One next to Carter threw his arm over his shoulder, leaned in and said, in a beer-drenched voice, "You said it, chum, so look out, ladies, we're randy as hell."
"Look out, skinny poofters, too!"
Green windbreaker was fully upright and lurching toward Carter. Just then, the train started to brake for the next station. All the inebriated louts standing in the aisle stumbled forward, and windbreaker grabbed the pole with both hands, losing his beer in the process. When the doors opened he was back down on his knees, groping for the can and swearing like a drunken pirate. Carter slipped by him and out the door.
On the platform he ran toward the back of the train and went into another car, this time with a little more finesse. It was just as crowded, but at least here he hadn't made such a grand entrance. He worked his way toward the back, nodding his head in time to what he assumed was some sort of soccer football club song. He hoped he looked like just one of the lads.
Then his new-found sense of comfort got stripped away. In fact, he stripped it away himself. In his new surroundings, Carter Chamberlain wasn't the one getting picked on. It was a girl. Red-brown-haired, about his age. She was probably pretty, but her face was all screwed up in what he could only describe as half fear, half anger. He could see she could probably hold her own in any one-on-one situation, but this was too much. She was totally surrounded by leering, cursing, drunken louts, who were poking at her breasts and pulling at her hair.
He couldn't stand and watch this. He knew it was probably stupid to get involved, but he was still on an adrenaline high from his adventure in the other car, so he just plowed in and started to throw punches at her tormentors. Most of them missed, but some didn't, and he found himself the target of far more angry fists than he was giving out. Luckily, this bunch was every bit as drunk as the guys in the other car, and most of the fists whizzed by him completely. Then, either by accident or on purpose, they started slugging each other, and Carter was in the middle of an old western barroom brawl. He grabbed the girl and pulled her up against the door that goes into the next car, and they sank down on the floor, out of range of the fistfight raging above.
She started to pull away, but then she grabbed on and clung to him. They stayed that way until the train reached the next station. Somebody shouted, "Wembley, mates!" and the fighting stopped like magic. Nearly the whole crowd cheered and lurched to the door and out onto the platform, elbowing and shoving. Outside, they started in with the off-key singing, as they staggered toward the exit.
There were maybe a dozen people left in the train car. Some were business types, gripping their briefcases like they were filled with the Queen's jewels. Two were women who'd obviously been in town shopping. They were hunched over, hugging their day's acquisitions. One was an older woman who clutched her hands together to her throat. Her face was almost as white as her hair, and Carter suspected she'd looked a lot younger a few minutes earlier.
Then there was him. And the girl who was clinging to him like a winter coat. He didn't know what to do. Normally, he'd have gotten off at Wembley Park Station himself, to change to an express train that went straight through to Rickmansworth, where he lived. But he wasn't about to do that this time, for two reasons. One, he wasn't about to get tangled up with the gang of soccer hoodlums that just got out. Second, he had a pretty, red-haired girl squeezing her arms around him and dripping big fat tears all over his chest.
* * * * *
Chapter 2
The train had stopped at two more stations before the girl pushed away, keeping her hands on his shoulders and staring into his face with a puzzled look on hers. He figured she was trying to decide whether he was the brave but stupid fellow he seemed to be, or just another guy trying to take advantage of the situation to take advantage of her.
He tried to disarm her by saying, "Hi, there."
She gave him a weak smile and wiped away some of her tears with the sleeve of her blouse. She kept her free hand on his shoulder. She being friendly, or just making sure I keep my distance?
"Hello there, y'rself," she said. Her voice was deeper than he would have expected—very Irish, very nice.
"I'm Carter Chamberlain," he blurted out. "I'm an American." Jeez, Carter, what was that about? Now she thinks I'm an American dork.
"I'm Fiona. And I could tell."
"Tell what?"
"That you're a Yank."
He shook his head. "No way. No way you can take one look at me and know I'm American."
"But I can, and I did."
He shrugged his backpack off his shoulders and held it in his lap. Fiona pointed to the backpack and said, "You're on your way home from school. You're wearing jeans and a striped shirt, not a uniform, so—you're American. Simple, really."
"All right. My turn. I can take one look at you and say . . ." He tilted his head and studied her. ". . . you must be . . . Irish!"
"Silly." She slugged his shoulder. "I've got an Irish name, and I talk with a Dublin brogue . . . so I'm told."
"Well, that helped, too. A little bit."
"Don't ya think maybe the two of us could get off the floor and sit properly in the seats?"
"Sure." He leaped up, dumping his backpack. Several books fell out and skittered away. He tried to intercept them with one toe, to keep them from sliding under the seats. At the same time he was bending down to help Fiona to her feet. He didn't do a very good job of either, but, finally, Fiona was sitting and he was back on the floor, searching for wayward reading material. Not his finest hour.
He tried to steer the conversation away from himself. "So who were those bozos in here, drunk in the middle of the afternoon?"
"Typical. England's playing Germany or someone at Wembley Stadium."
"Ah. So those were the famous British football hooligans?"
"Oh yes. Just think how welcome the lads are when they go to Germany or, heaven help us, France."
They sat on a bench seat facing sideways. No one was in the opposite seats across the aisle, so they had a panoramic view of London suburbs flashing by. Clusters of dense housing and shops, with a few green spaces here and there. They were going through an area where the train was elevated, so they could see almost directly into the second-story windows of the row houses backing on to the track. Carter thought, if the Chamberlain family lived in one of those places, they'd have their blinds drawn tight, but a surprising number of these people had the curtains up and the windows wide open.
As they slowed for a station, Fiona pointed and said, "Oh, lookie there!" A semi-naked couple were in what appeared to be a kitchen. The man had the woman pressed back against a wooden table, trying to nip at her neck. Carter was embarrassed, but couldn't help but stare. He glanced over at his companion and saw she wasn't even slightly embarrassed. Go figure.
"Yer turnin' a bit red a the face," said Fiona.
"It must've been the fight," he said.
She chuckled. "Right. Musta been."
"How long have you lived in London?" he asked, trying to change the subject.
"A bit. And how about the Yank?"
"Two weeks. My dad just got transferred here." He pointed to his backpack, again in its place on his lap. "That's why I've got mounds of homework. Not fair, really. I didn't ask to get pulled outta my old school in the middle of the year. I was doing just fine, and now it's like I'm starting over."
Fiona shook her head. "Tssk, tssk. Poor boy."
He wanted to hide his face in his hands. How can I keep saying these dumb-ass things? She must really wonder about me. Time to change the subject again. "Do you have brothers and sisters?"
This seemed like a pretty innocuous question, but after he asked it she stared for the longest time at the floor. Finally, she said, "Two."
"Sisters?"
Fiona shook her head. "No! . . . both brothers. Two brothers, no sisters . . . and you?"
"Two. Both sisters. Two sisters, no brothers."
Fiona had been staring at the floor. She looked up and smiled for a millisecond, then looked back down, apparently interested in a bright yellow gum wrapper.
He tried again. "What do your parents do?"
This time her answer was immediate and hard. "Nothing. Me dad does nothing, on account of he's dead. Me mum does nothing, on account of she's total loopers. She looped out of it when he died, and she hasn't been with it since."
"Jeez. I'm sorry. How long's it been?"
Fiona got real quiet again. When she spoke, he could barely hear her. "A bit."
Now it was his turn to be quiet. He was trying to figure out why some things seemed to be off limits with this girl. She seemed to be a crazy mixture of toughness and vulnerability he'd never before seen in one person. He decided he needed to get to know her better. As an intellectual exercise, of course. Her shoulder-length auburn hair, the few tiny freckles on her nose, her oval face and her voice, her deep, sexy voice—none of these things mattered, of course. And the fact he'd developed a pressing need to keep his backpack planted firmly in his lap—that didn't matter, either. She was pure and simple a mystery that needed to be solved.
They were pulling in to what he was pretty sure was the last station before his, which was the end of the line for this train. He was hoping she'd be getting off at Rickmansworth with him, but she must have read his mind. She was shaking her head slightly and said, "Northwood. My stop, Northwood."
She was at the doors while they were still closed, and he shouted, "Wait. Can I see you again sometime?"
She turned and looked at him for a few seconds. "I don't think so." Then she gave Carter a sad, crooked smile that made him think her words hurt her as much as they did him. She turned sideways and slipped through the still-opening doors, and was gone.
I don't care what she said. I'll find her. She'll take those words back. I'll find her. But would he? In all his questioning of Fiona and her family, he hadn't found out one little detail. He didn't know her last name.
* * * * *
Chapter 3
When the train pulled in to the Rickmansworth Station, Carter was mulling around the question of finding Fiona, when he realized someone was staring at him. It was the old lady he'd seen clutching her throat in apparent terror earlier. She didn't appear terrified anymore. In fact, she was smiling. He smiled back, wondering what it was about him that attracted her attention. He tried to picture how he might appear to a stranger, and came up with the one-word description, "ordinary." Dark brown hair, a touch longer than his dad likes, a six-foot body a touch skinnier than he'd like, a chin that wasn't square or pointy or missing, a face that was neither pasty or tanned, or anything other than—ordinary. So what was the old lady smiling at?
They stood next to each other at the door. She was still beaming at him and nodding her head. When the doors fully opened, Carter got off quickly and then extended his hand to help her down. On the platform, she turned toward him fully and said, "My, how refreshing to encounter a real gentleman."
Carter stammered a bit, but managed to say, "Yes, ma'am," or something that sounded lame even before it cleared his throat.
She didn't seem to notice his embarrassment. "That was quite an interesting journey, wasn't it?"
"Uh huh, interesting."
"I try to avoid traveling before football games at Wembley."
"Yes, ma'am." She transferred her shopping bag to her left hand and put her right hand on Carter's shoulder. He felt another flush pass over him, similar to what he'd just experienced with Fiona, but this time it was confined to his face.
"My girlfriends and I would love to have you join us for a pint, sometimes." She pointed toward a nearby pub, the Cock and Crow. "We rarely have the privilege of entertaining a true gentleman, at least not one of your generation."
"I . . . I . . . I don't think . . . I mean, I don't really drink. I'm just . . ."
"Nonsense, my boy. Everybody drinks something."
"Some people drink more than something." Carter realized his voice had turned hard. He cocked his head and gave the old lady what he hoped was a disarming smile and added, "Sometimes."
Apparently she hadn't noticed his brief change of mood, because she kept her free hand on his shoulder while they walked across the parking lot and maintained a steady stream of chatter. After a while Carter did actually find himself getting interested in her stories about the local eccentrics, and was happy enough to give her a story about his "incredibly dull life" and his "incredibly dull family." She ate it up like he was delivering a state-of-the-union speech.
When they parted company, she went left and Carter went right, across the street toward home. He looked back at the same time as the old lady, and she waved at him. He waved back and then had an unsettling thought. He hadn't learned her name! First Fiona and now the lady. What an idiot, Carter. Twice in less than an hour. His only consolation came when he realized the old lady hadn't asked for his name, either.
As he trudged up the path to his house, Carter Chamberlain replayed everything that had happened between St. John's Wood and home. The minute he walked in, though, and saw his mother splayed out in an easy chair, heavy-lidded eyes glued to the television, these thoughts disappeared in a flash. He sat down quietly next to her and rescued a glass of something brown she'd let tip to a forty-five-degree angle. She didn't seem to notice her son or the loss of the glass. She was caught up in what the announcer said was, "breaking news from downtown London." The scene of carnage on the screen was so bad it seemed unreal. Something out of Hollywood. Carter thought briefly about how terrible it was for the people involved and their families, but heck, they weren't really real, just images on a screen. He put his arm around his mother, and she absently took his hand. How lucky I am really. How good it is to have a family to love and a home to be safe in.
He said, "Hi, Mom. What can I fix for dinner?"
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Chapter 4
The brickwork was streaked with black on black, suggesting it hadn't been cleaned since the days when London's East Enders derived their meager warmth from coal. The alleyway was devoid of light, too, and the dark figure who rapped tentatively at the grimy door would have been almost invisible to passersby in nearby Brixton Road. That was fine by him. Invisible was right good.
When no one responded, he knocked a tad louder, then cast his eyes about, nervously searching for anyone who might have heard him. All he saw was darkness, and all he heard was furtive scurrying behind the rubbish bins. It all seemed appropriate to his mission. Finally, he heard a muffled voice behind the door and rapped again, this time in the pattern that had been specified— three knocks, pause, three more. The door opened a crack, and he heard, "Who's this, then?"
By then, his nervousness had been replaced by impatience. "Crikey. Who'd ya think it was? It's Fergus, ya nit."
The door swung open then, and he was pulled roughly inside. The door thudded heavily behind him, and a bolt was shot.
"Did ya bring it?"
"Nah. I dinna. He weren't there."
"So why didn't ya wait on him? You know we needs those caps. Our work depends on those caps, and you was supposed to bring 'em."
"His flat was locked. After I pounded and shouted like a madman, the woman next door come out and told me he'd off and left. For Belgium or Belgravia or somewheres, she wasn't sure where. I asked her, 'Belfast, p'rhaps?' and she says maybe that could be it. Maybe not."
"Jaysus. Is he supposed to be comin' back?"
"The woman said, to be sure, he was comin' back. He'd better, 'cause she was supposed to go over every day and feed Kildare, that's 'is cat, and while she was happy enough to do that, she wasn't at all looking forward to cleaning out his litter . . . ."
"Good God, Fergus, spare me the catshit stories and gimme the bottom line here. Does he get back in time, or do we hafta find another source?"
"I . . . I . . . I dunno. The woman dinna know, so how . . ."
"Two weeks. We got two weeks. Our people is depending on us. The whole frickin' cause is depending on us."
"I know that. So whatta we do now?"
"Get everyone together. We gotta come up with a backup plan, and we gotta do it quick."
"My house, like last time?"
"Your sister away again?"
"Naah. She's home."
"Then where do you think we gotta meet? You daft or something? Bring everybody here. Night after tomorrow. After dark, same time. And, Fergus, if your nosy sister wants to know where you're goin', tell her you and Gordie's off to choir practice."
"We don't sing in no choir."
"Then make up one. Make up anything. How in hell did our glorious cause come to depend on little plonkers like you?"
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Chapter 5
For the next few days, Carter was so busy trying to get himself up to speed in school, he had little time to think of Fiona what's-her-name, or the little old lady who wanted to share a pint with him, or even the continuing bad news on the telly.
The IRA, the Irish Republican Army, had started a fresh round of terrorist bombings aimed at British targets. Carter wasn't quite sure what their beef was. It had something to do with a place called Belfast, which was in a place called Northern Ireland, which he gathered the British and the Irish were fighting over, for some reason.
In the morning mail, the morning "post" they called it, there was a letter addressed to "Master Carter Chamberlain" in light purple ink. Sandy! When Carter recognized Sandy's handwriting, he felt a quick flash of guilt over the attention his mind and body had given the elusive Fiona, but then he started to wonder how Sandy knew where to address the letter. He figured maybe his dad had talked to someone in Houston by phone, and the word just spread.
Dear Carter,
I knew you would probably hear it from somebody else, so I decided to tell you myself, since I really do care about you. I've been cast in the school play in a leading role, and I'm so excited about it. You remember Matt Wilton, don't you? Anyway, he was cast opposite me, so we've been spending lots of time together rehearsing and all, and we just kind of hit it off. Anyway, just thought you'd like to know I'm really happy. Hope you are, too.
Sandy
Two weeks. Less than two weeks, and Sandy had moved on and she was happy. She'd sent a letter halfway around the world—a one-short-paragraph letter. Carter sat at the blue Formica kitchen table and slowly tore the purple letter into little strips. Then he tried to rip the little strips sideways and found he could only tear about ten at a time. The pieces still seemed too big, so he divided them into smaller groups and kept on tearing until there was a small heap in the center of the table. When he tried to carry the pile to the waste bin under the sink, small white and purple flakes fluttered to the floor, and he had to get down on his hands and knees to sweep them up.
"Whatcha doing?" Carter's younger sister Amy was standing in the doorway, pointing at him with something green on a stick.
"Nothin'. Get the heck out of here. I'm busy."
Amy didn't move. She knew from experience Carter's flashes of temper didn't last long, so she held her ground. She didn't say anything, though. It was part of the secret to handling her brother. If you just kept to yourself, he'd realize what a jerk he'd been and apologize. It didn't take long.
"I'm sorry, Kitten." This was even better. When he used the nickname he'd given her when she was a baby, she knew he was really sorry for his outburst. "I just dropped some stuff, and I was trying to pick it up before Mom came in. She might be in one of her fussy moods today. You never know."
"She might be in one of her not-noticing-anything moods, too."
"Don't think so, Kitten. At least I hope not."
"What's for dinner?"
"I don't know. Want to help me? I think there's some hamburger meat in the freezer, and enough things to make spaghetti. That be all right for our Kitten?"
It was.
When the pasta was almost ready, Amy set the table for four. Even after half a year, Carter was conscious of the missing fifth setting that used to be occupied by his older sister Gwen, before she took herself off to college. He'd be ready for college himself in another year. Then who would cook the spaghetti?
Carter checked his watch. After six. Dad was late again. It seemed like it was turning into a normal thing, his being late. Guess the new job takes getting used to. When he went to the bedroom to fetch his mother, she shooed him away and said she needed to rest because of her headache.
From the kitchen doorway, he watched his little sister for a while, fussing over the placement of the napkins. When she noticed him, he said, "Guess what, Kitten. It's just the two of us for dinner. Why don't we put some pretty marigolds on the table and make it really, really special?"
* * * * *
Chapter 6
The meeting off the Brixton Road alley had not been a peaceful one. Fergus and his brother were late because Gordie had a last minute emergency. A quick trip to the loo turned into a fifteen-minute event.
"What's goin' on, Gordo? You reading Playboy again?"
"Just feeling a bit sick a the stomach. I'll be okay in a sec."
"Too much a that cheap beer, kiddo. You oughta stick to the Guinness."
"Haven't had a thing. You know how Maddock gets if we ain't sharp when we're doing our planning."
"Screw Maddock . . . but you might wanta hurry, though."
Maddock was definitely in one of his moods when the brothers signaled their arrival with the furtive knock. He grabbed first Fergus and then Gordon and hauled them into the darkened room with such force, they ended up tangled in each other and some wooden chairs. He slammed the door hard and thrust the bolt home. Fergus wondered why all the noise, if they were trying to avoid being seen, or heard, by someone wandering through the alley. Maddock, Fergus thought, would have been perfect a thousand years ago driving the Norsemen into the sea at the Battle of Clontarf. But for this kind of secret, out-of-sight work, he was . . . well, anyway, he was the boss, and they had to go along with his tantrums. Maybe in a couple of weeks, when the job was done, they wouldn't have to put up with him anymore. All the more reason to get it done right, and get it over with.
"Where the hell you little pussies been? I been sittin' here forever waiting for you."
"I had to take a dump," said Gordon.
"A twenty-minute dump? You gotta be joking."
"Ease up on him, Maddock. He can't help it if he's got a gut-ache."
"He's a little pansy, and he's scared of the big time. Ain't that it, Gordie-boy?"
"It was a gut-ache. Nothin' more."
"And what about you, Fergus? I couldn't rely on you to get the story right about where Paddy'd gone," Maddock said. "So I went over there and had a nice chat with the catshit lady meself."
"And?"
"I told her I'd brought the dear little kitty some fresh meat, so she let me into Paddy's flat."
Fergus felt his low opinion of Maddock's abilities ease up a tad. "Find anything useful?"
"Found an address. Just a street, no town. But my guess is, it's Belfast all right. He'd scribbled the letters B.C. next to it."
"B.C. Don't mean nothing to me," said Fergus.
Gordon spoke up. "Blasting caps. B.C. means blasting caps." He looked for Maddock's reaction. "At least that's what it might be," he added weakly.
"'Course it does," said Maddock. "Anybody'd know that. So it looks like he went to Belfast to fetch 'em. So, Fergus, let's you and me get busy with the dynamite and the timer. Your job, little brother with the gut-ache, is to come up with something to put 'em in. Something the wankers in the park won't think don't belong."
"I thought we were goin' after military targets," said Gordon.
"Sure and we are, but if the soldier boys insist on parading around and showing off for them civilian idiots, we can't help if a few of the idiots get caught in the fun, too, now can we?"
"Guess not."
"Besides, if old John Q. Public gets blown up once in a while, they'll raise holy hell and insist their bloody government pull the bloody troops outta Northern Ireland. For us, it's all good. You feelin' good, Fergus?"
"Shite, yes."
"How about you, Gordo? How's the gut doing?"
"It's feeling good, Maddock, feeling good. I guess."
* * * * *
Chapter 7
Fiona McKenna was alternately overwhelmed with work or bored beyond belief. Either way, it was just short of unbearable. In quiet moments, she dreamed of being whisked away by some dashing young Sir Galahad, to a place where no one died and no one moaned in agony and no one spent all their days plotting terrible revenge. But then her mother's cry from the bedroom would bring her crashing back to the present. "Yes, Mother," she would say, trying to keep the exasperation out of her voice.
This evening was one of the quiet times. Mother was sleeping, or at least silent. Fergus and Gordie had left the house on one of their furtive missions. They claimed to be heading down to the pub for a few beers and some darts, but she knew better. Months before, she'd overheard a conversation between Fergus and an older man, a conversation that included "fireworks" and "teach the Limey bastards" and a few other choice words that told her something bad was in the works.
For years after their father's death, Fergus had stormed around, threatening revenge against the shadowy figures who'd sent a bullet into Durwin McKenna's brain, in full sight of his seventeen-year-old son. Then two years ago, Fergus had suddenly gone quiet. Fiona felt, knew absolutely, that Fergus's silence was more deadly than his violent rants. Something terrible was happening. And now, Gordie had been dragged into it. Gordie, the twin brother who'd been like an extension of herself, was now telling lies about beer and darts, and skulking off with Fergus. Fiona rubbed the tears off her cheeks. Oh, hell. Now even the quiet times were becoming unbearable.
Fiona leaned her head against the back of the couch and closed her eyes, squeezing out a few more tears. She didn't see the shape rising up from the floor, but felt two furry paws planted heavily on her breast and a raspy tongue on her cheek.
"Kerry Girl, that right hurts!" She pushed both white-tufted paws to the side, and Kerry Girl ended up crossways in Fiona's lap. The Sheltie had to twist her head almost backward to continue her attention to her mistress's face. Fiona couldn't help but laugh. Animals, she thought, have the most uncanny ability to sense when their humans are hurting, and the inclination to do something about it.
"Oh, girl, why can't we all be like you? You'd never, ever hurt the ones who love you, or tell them lies. Or live only to hate. Or . . ." Fiona stopped talking then, and hugged the brown-and-white bundle. Kerry Girl, having exhausted the supply of salty tears, hung her head and closed her eyes.
Fiona closed her eyes again, too, but now her thoughts moved away from her hate-filled brothers. She was envisioning another young man, the Yank on the train. Why he came to mind was a mystery. She stroked Kerry Girl behind the ears. Maybe he reminds me of a puppy-dog. He did have that eager, friendly look to his eyes. She tried to remember his name and finally came up with Carter, but the last name remained a blank. Don't be daft, Fiona. You'll not see him again, and good thing, too. There was no way she would open up her rotten life to a stranger, no matter how cute he was and how hard he might wag his tail.
Carter Chamberlain was enjoying a quiet moment, too. The all-too-short note from Sandy had hurt, sure, but in a strange way he felt relieved. Had he really expected Sandy to wait until he managed to get back to Houston? Had he really thought he'd be returning there any time soon? Or ever? If Sandy's letter had been filled with all kinds of mushy promises about saving herself for Carter and how she would be an empty shell until they were together—well, that meant Carter would have to make the same commitment. The truth was, their relationship had never progressed to the point where that made sense. It might have, in time, but their time had run out. Dad had seen to that.
There was one other reason Carter felt a permanent trans-Atlantic romance with Sandy was not such a hot idea. The surge of feeling he'd experienced for the mysterious girl on the train sure didn't fit with the need to act like a cloistered monk. Fiona. Fiona something-or-other. Fiona. Just saying the name made him feel a bit lightheaded.
Some detective work was definitely called for. The minute those awful final exams were over, he'd become a modern-day Sherlock Holmes. All he needed was a Watson to do his legwork and tell him how brilliant he was. He hadn't made many friends in London yet—hadn't had time, really. But there was one boy in his Chemistry class who would probably make a perfect sidekick for a world-class detective. Carter went to bed planning his recruiting campaign and envisioning how he and his partner-to-be would go about their detecting. Sleep was long in coming.
Fergus and Gordon McKenna decided to stop by the Tethered Bull Pub for a quick pint after all. That way, they could claim to have been there without lying. Gordie thought telling a lie was a pretty small crime compared to what they were planning to do, but Fergus would hear none of that. Fergus was of a mind to consider lying a sin, but blowing up people for a righteous cause was not. "You've gotta maintain a proper attitude, me lad. When the end is just, all the means is, too. Don'tcha forget that, boyo."
"I suppose. But isn't tellin' Fiona and Mum we've gone to the pub part of the means?"
"Suit yourself. If you want to sit there while I down me a jar, go ahead. Then you can lie your fool head off. Tell 'em you drank me under the table and beat me at darts, too."
"I suppose I could use a half-pint, anyway."
"Sure. Then you could just tell a half lie."
In the end, both Fergus and Gordon downed two full pints of lager before they realized time was slipping by and Maddock Lonigan would be fuming. Sure enough, when they'd been pulled in from the alley in the usual fashion, they were met with a stream of obscenities and a few choice punches to the chest.
"Don't tell me the both of you was holed up in the loo, holding your terrible sick stomachs. Chokin' the chickens more like it. Talk about brotherly love."
"We had to do something for our ma before we left. You want we shouldn't be good to our old lady?"
When Lonigan had calmed enough to turn his attention to their mission, he reported their missing compatriot had reported in, by telephone. Paddy O'Brien was in Belfast, Northern Ireland, all right, just as they'd suspected.
When Paddy'd rung up and announced himself, Maddock had tried to avoid shouting into the phone. He took a deep breath and said, "Sure but there musta been some place you might could've acquired some blasting caps closer to London, mate."
"Not without incurring a wee bit o' suspicion. Besides, I had me some personal business to attend to back home."
"Bollox! We've got ourselves a timetable here. Personal business should ought to wait."
When Maddock Lonigan recounted this conversation, he gave Fergus and Gordie a dark look to include them in his warning. Gordie paled and stared at his shoes. Fergus smiled a crooked smile.
"You think this is right funny? You think this is just a game?"
Fergus bristled. "Don't act like a total plonker, Lonigan. Tell me, which one of the two of us had his father murdered right in front of him by the goddam cowardly Ulster Volunteers? With the goddam British troops standing by to protect those friggin' Protestant bastards?"
"Okay, okay, Fergie. Calm down. What we're gonna do in less than two weeks is for you, for your auld mum, for your sister, even for Gordie, here. It's for your pa. Them goddam British troops who protected his murderers is gonna pay. And every last Englishman is gonna feel it."
* * * * *
Chapter 8
London's new Sherlock Holmes decided not to wait until after finals to recruit his Watson. They needed to be in a position to act immediately when summer break arrived. Come to think of it, this whole school thing seemed like total foolishness when there was important work to do. The original Sherlock never interrupted his detecting for anything as trivial as schoolwork.
"It's just a few miles away. Baker Street, where the great man lived. We could check it out during lunch hour."
Carter had decided to ease into his recruiting campaign. Instead of asking Josh Weaver to be his helper point-blank, he'd introduce Josh to things Sherlockian, then spring the proposal on him. Josh would be all primed and eager to accept. Elementary.
"Sorry, Carter. I'm really sweating exams this year. Can't take the time."
Carter didn't answer right away. His mind was racing to figure out what Sherlock would have done. Nothing came to mind. In all the stories, Holmes had already been Watson's boss, so there never was any question the junior man would do what he was told, even if the big guy kept him in the dark part of the time. No, it seemed like Carter Chamberlain was on his own for this one.
"What you need, Josh, is a study partner. You know, someone to go over old tests with you. Skim through your textbooks and drag out questions for you to answer. That sort of stuff."
"Aren't you, like, taking exams yourself?"
"Well, sure. But we got some of the same classes. When I help you, it's like you helpin' me. Besides, even though it's almost close enough to walk, we'd be taking the Underground train to Baker Street. We could study on the way. It'd hardly cost a minute."
They made their sojourn to the fabled detective's home the next day. According to the stories, he'd lived at 221B Baker Street. Only trouble was, they found there was no such place. There was a modern-looking building that had a bronze plaque on the front of it with a picture of Sherlock Holmes, but it sure didn't look like the kind of place that would have been around in the 1800s. It had another sign that said it belonged to the Abbey Road Building Society.
"I really don't have time to fool around, Carter," said Josh, giving his new friend a backward wave of his hand as he stalked off toward the Baker Street Tube Station.
"Wait. Wait. We've come all this way. Let's ask someone."
Josh agreed to give it a few minutes, which was a good thing, since one of the most important things for a detective to learn was patience, as well as the art of interviewing people. Carter realized, of course, Josh didn't know yet he was destined to become a famous detective's right-hand man. With Josh halfway upset about being dragged away from his stupid studying, it didn't seem like the right time to spring it on him. Carter told himself the original Sherlock would have said, "It appears not to be a propitious moment."
The first three people Carter stopped on the street gave him a curious look when he asked them about the Sherlock Holmes house. They just shook their heads and mumbled something foreign-sounding. Carter was beginning to wonder if there was anyone in the capital of the English-speaking world who spoke English.
Finally, he spotted an older man wearing a grey cap and a tweed jacket with leather patches on its elbows. He had a wind-chapped ruddy face and a nose that would have done Rudolph proud. When Carter asked him where he might find the Sherlock Holmes residence, the man cocked his head, nodded a couple of times, touched the tip of his finger to the red thing growing out of his face, and then pointed dramatically to the modern building beside them.
"Had there been," he said in a quivery voice, "had there been a 221B Baker Street, it would have been located at this very spot."
"Had there been?" said Carter.
"My dear lad, you do know that Sherlock Holmes was, in fact, a person of fiction, do you not? A creation of the fertile mind of one Sir Arthur Conan Doyle?"
Carter nodded.
"Furthermore, his place of abode was equally a work of fiction. In his early stories, he gave the address merely as 'Upper Baker Street,' and people believed he had in mind a place further along, near Regents Park."
"But then he gave it a number, 221B. There must have been . . ."
"Tut, tut, tut, lad. He gave it that number precisely because there was no actual property with that number."
"But why would he do that?"
"Oh, come, laddie. Think about it." With a smile and another nod of his head, the red-nosed man tipped his cap and strolled on.
On the way back to the train station, Carter was quiet and Josh was the one who seemed to want to talk. He said, "Not sure what you learned there. In fact, I don't have a clue what you wanted to learn. Why all this interest in some dead guy?"
"Not dead, fictional. There's a difference, Josh."
"Either way, he's not here, right? . . . So why are we here?"
"What'd you say?"
"I said, "Why are we here?"
"I can't talk about it right now," said Carter. "I've got some thinking to do."
* * * * *
Chapter 9
Madeleine Westfall broke out laughing with such force, she spilled part of her pint of shandy before she had time to put it down, and the putting-down caused it to foam over even more. The mixture of beer and lemonade spread out on the dark wooden table, and she groped around through tear-filled eyes, searching for a napkin.
Her very dear friend, Crista Cordelia Piper, located a square of red-checked cloth and calmly wiped up the mess. She was the only one of the three companions who had total control of her emotions, because she was responsible for the uproar. A good comedian, she knew, never laughed at her own jokes. That privilege was reserved for the audience.
"Oh, C.C., that was wicked, just wicked." Beverly Kroome, the third party in the mid-afternoon gathering, was trying, unsuccessfully, to wipe away her own tears without smudging the generous amount of rouge on her cheeks.
"Oh, come now, Babs. I'm merely pointing out what everyone already knows. That size does matter. Men with large mustaches do make better lovers. It's a known fact."
Madeleine Westfall had recovered enough composure to rejoin the conversation. "I have heard, C.C., that bald men are the very best lovers. I've only heard, of course."
"Of course, Maddie. Of course."
"It appears the best of all worlds would be a bald man who also has a large mustache," said Beverly. Nods all around. "Much like that gorgeous young gentleman over there."
Madeleine Westfall and Crista Cordelia Piper both swiveled so quickly on their bar stools, they again spilled some of the afternoon's refreshment.
"Oh, I am so sorry, girls," said Beverly. "He ducked out into the sunlight. You must be getting old. You're much too slow."
"Hmmph. Speaking of gorgeous young men," said Crista Cordelia, "what became of your young American from the train, Maddie? You said you'd bring him around and introduce him to your two best friends. We are your best friends, are we not?"
"Sorry, girls. I haven't seen him since that one time. I know he lives hereabout, but I don't know where. Usually I'm busy avoiding the trains when he's coming home from school, it seems."
"Pity. From what you said, he seems a lovely boy."
"He was. Is. But what can I do?"
"You could sit outside the Rickmansworth Station and wait until he gets off a train."
"Right. People already think I'm a barmy old lady. What would they think then?"
"Tell them you're a sad, jilted housewife waiting for your two-timing husband who's gone off to London with his secretary."
"Then they'd be fawning all over me with, 'Oh, you poor dear. Oh, you precious old thing, you.' "
"Just tell them you've got a gun, and you're going to shoot the bastard. That would keep them away."
"It might keep people away, but the bobbies would haul me away. Smart."
"I'm just trying to help, Maddie."
"Why don't we take turns?" said Crista Cordelia.
"Doing what?"
"Waiting at the station. It'll be fun. And no one person will be there day-after-day looking strange."
"Why don't we all three wait?" said Beverly. "Together. Instead of meeting here at the Cock and Crow, we'll have our little parties on the platform at Rickmansworth Station."
"I don't think they serve proper beverages on the platform of the station," said Madeleine.
"We could hide our drinks in paper sacks, like the winos do."
"I thought the idea was not to look conspicuous. Three old broads drinking out of paper bags seems like it might be noticed. Just a tad."
Beverly laughed and said, "I think, for Maddie's sake, we could forego the liquid refreshment for a few days. Surely your young lad gets off the train every afternoon, don't you think?"
"I have some wizard lemon tortes I whipped up yesterday."
"Yeah, right, C.C., and I made a lovely plum pudding for the Queen."
"Well, I did buy them at Sainsbury's."
"If you all are so intent on helping me with my quest," said Madeleine, "I shall provide the refreshments."
"That's just smashing," said Crista Cordelia Piper.
"Just lovely," said Beverly Kroome.
"Just one thing," said Madeleine Westfall. "How do we avoid frightening the dear boy when three old crones leap on him when he gets off the train?"
* * * * *
Chapter 10
Fiona was engaged in a truly spirited debate, a knock-down, drag-out fight where someone was going to be totally crushed. Unfortunately, that person was going to be Fiona McKenna, because she was debating herself. No matter which side won, she was bound to lose. She could either resign herself to a life of ongoing misery and stagnation, or she could take matters in hand and break out into what could be a life of troubles she couldn't even imagine.
What's more, she had in mind using a young man she didn't even know as the instrument to change her life. A boy, really, who she'd met only once and who'd probably forgotten she even existed. It truly was daft, she knew, but there was absolutely no one in the world, in her world anyway, who would be right for the job. Her loving brothers? They were the problem. Aunts, uncles, cousins? That lot had shown how close a family could be right after Pa's death. They'd melted away like snow on the Comeragh Mountains in July. How un-Irish is that?
She absently stroked Kerry Girl's underbelly, and the little Shetland Sheepdog squirmed in pleasure. It was ironic, really. Fiona's life had come down to this. Watching after a mother who demanded constant attention, and tending a small dog, a single small dog, in a world full of creatures who needed her. As far back as she could remember, she had vowed to devote her life to the care of animals. After a summertime visit to her Uncle Seamus's farmhouse near Connemara, a ten-year-old Fiona fell in love with horses. But just before the holiday ended, Bree, a small and gentle brown mare, stepped in a deep hole and fractured a leg. Her uncle hesitated less than a minute before placing a gun at Bree's temple. The little horse jerked left, and her hind legs collapsed. She tried valiantly to keep her front legs upright, but her eyes glazed and she fell to the side. Fiona heard Bree let out her last breath, a long drawn-out sigh, which sounded like wind in the trees.
Fiona's father explained there was no way to fix a terrible break like that, and Bree was best taken out of her pain. Fiona decided dogs and cats and rabbits could do without her help. She would devote her life to horses.
Fiona wasn't there a year later when, on a Belfast city street, another gunshot ended another life. She tried to imagine the scene, but everyone said she was too young to know the details. Fergus had been there, seen it all, but he told her to just shut her trap and "get off with ye" whenever she begged for answers. Among other things, she wondered if her father had sounded like the wind in the trees when he died.
Kerry Girl was oblivious to Fiona's mental time travel. She was a creature of the here and now. A right good way to be. The trouble with that, thought Fiona, was the here and now wasn't so cracker. The past was a skawly load of old bogey, and the future—well, that was the point of all this painful deep thinking, wasn't it? Did she have the courage to take a chance on a future that could be a wee bit better than the here and now—or far, far worse?
When Paddy O'Brien got back from Northern Ireland with the blasting caps, Maddock Lonigan made what he called "an executive decision."
"Since I'm the only one of the lot of us what's had experience with explosives, we gotta do ourselves a trial run. See how you dossers do when the bloody chips is down."
"We don't have ourselves a big supply of the dynamite," said Fergus. "We'd have to get more if we use it up."
"Not to worry, me boy. One stick is all we need. It's the process we have to worry on, not the result."
"We're not too flush with the blasting caps, either," said Paddy. "The bloke what sold them to me said there'd been a big call on 'em lately. He only had a few left."
"Like I said, we'll only need one."
"So where do we do this trial thing?" asked Gordie. "We don't want to get caught when we're not even doin' anything for real."
"Don't be such a puss, Gordie. Besides, who's gonna get caught? We're smarter than this whole damn bunch of Brits put together."
"So where?"
"We need to do it somewhere that won't tip 'em off to what's coming. Somewhere out in the country."
"There's not a lot of country near here," said Paddy. "We're right in the middle of one of the biggest cities in the world."
"I know a place," said Fergus. "It's out beyond where Gordie and me live. Used to ride me bike there, along a canal. It's perfect. Nothing but fields and trees and cows and the like."
"How come I don't know about this place?" said Gordie.
"Didn't want the little brother along. Needed to be by myself, to think. Had a lot to think about."
"Yeah. I guess."
"So how do we get there?" said Maddock. "You planning to ride the three of us on your handlebars?"
"Naah. I don't have me bike anyway, now. Got too big."
"So, what do we do? Fly?"
"'Course not. We take the train. Go past Northwood where we usually get off and go to the next stop. I think it's called Croxley Green, or something like that. We get off the train and it's, like, right there."
"Seems like a plan," said Maddock. "Now, let's get our supplies out here on the table and make ourselves a wee bomb. What do you say?"
Carter and Josh rode the train back from Baker Street Station to St. John's Wood in silence. Josh wanted to talk, but Carter was lost in some private place and didn't invite conversation. Josh started to make a sarcastic remark about how much studying they'd managed on the train, but Carter waved him off.
Halfway between the Tube station and school, Carter pumped a fist and shouted, "Yes."
Josh jumped and banged his hip into the corner of a red telephone booth. The lady speaking on the phone inside didn't look pleased. Josh wasn't either. "I gather you've finished your thinking," he said.
"Exactly right, my good man. Exactly. I have deduced the answer."
"Right . . . you're gonna have to fill me in on the question here."
"What the tweedy old man said. About why Arthur Conan Doyle used an address that didn't actually exist."
"So tell me, oh brilliant one, why did he?"
"Because all of his readers would want to go there. They'd stand around in front of it and stare and block the doorway and cause a huge mess. It would be awful for whoever actually lived there. Don't you see?"
"You mean, Carter, that thoughtless people would come from miles away, maybe even from places like St. John's Wood, to stare at the outside of someone's house?"
Carter waved off his friend's sarcasm and said, "You and me, you and I, are not thoughtless people. We are very thoughtful people, and we were viewing the premises with a purpose."
"You may have a thought inside that head of yours, but I don't have a clue. And what do you mean purpose?"
Gordie McKenna couldn't sit still. Half the time he was craning his head to study every fellow passenger boarding their train car, and half the time eying the carry-on bag sitting on the floor between Maddock's feet. His mind told him it was an innocuous piece of luggage no one could suspect of being a lethal weapon. But part of him was certain any reasonable person could sense the wires and the detonator and the slender red stick of death inside.
His older brother kept trying to distract him with inconsequential talk. Their sister's moods, their mother's health, neighborhood girls—all these things seemed to float past Gordie's head and out the window, where they got whirled away with the blur of London's suburbs. Maddock Lonigan seemed like he was oblivious to it all. He looked for all the world like he was asleep, but Gordie knew it was just an act. Maddock was a cobra with his head down, viewing his world through half-lidded eyes.
"What the devil? This ain't right." The cobra reared up and shouted at Fergus. "You said it was the next stop after yours, but this sure as hell ain't no Croxley Green."