Anybody Out There - Marian Keyes (23 page)

I clicked on the site--it seemed to be an actual, legitimate church, which believed you could
channel the dead!
I couldn't believe it!
They had a few branches in the New York area. Most were upstate or in the outer boroughs but
there was one in Manhattan, on Tenth and Forty-fifth. According to the Web site, there was a
service on Sunday at two o'clock.
I looked at my watch: quarter to three; I'd just missed this week's. No, no, no! I would have
howled with frustration except that that would have alerted Ornesto that I was in and he'd be
down to badger me. Anyway, I told myself, breathing deeply and talking myself down, I'd go
there next week.
At the thought of actually speaking to Aidan, I felt giddy with hope. So much so that I thought I
could face the world. For the first time since he had died, I actually wanted to see people.
R    achel was away at some Feathery Strokery retreat, so I rang Jacqui. I tried her cell phone
because she was always out and about, but it went to voice mail. On the off chance, I tried her
apartment and she answered.
"I can't believe you're at home," I said.
"I'm in bed." Her voice sounded choked.
"Are you sick?"
"No. I'm crying."
"Why?"
"I ran into Buzz last night in Bungalow 8. He was with some girl who looked like a model. He
tried to introduce me to her but he couldn't remember my name."
"Of course he could," I said. "That's typical Buzz game playing. He was just trying to undermine
you."
"Was he?"

"Yes! By pretending that even though he'd been your boyfriend for a year, you're so
insignificant he can't even remember your name."
"Whatever. Anyway, it made me feel like shit, so I'm having a duvet day, with my blinds down."
"But it's a beautiful sunny afternoon. You shouldn't be hiding at home."
She laughed. "That's my line."
"Come on, let's go to the park," I said.
"No."
"Please."
"Okay."
"God, you're fabulous. You're so...resilient."
"I'm not really. I've just smoked my last cig and I needed to go out anyway. See you in half an
hour."
I   picked up my keys, and the phone rang. I stood by the door to see who it was.
"Hi, sweetie," a woman's voice said. "It's Dianne."
It was Mrs. Maddox, Aidan's mother. Immediately I felt guilty: I hadn't called her since the
funeral. She hadn't called me either. Probably for the same reason: neither of us could face it.
While I'd been in Ireland, Mum had rung her a couple of times to keep her up-to-date on my
medical progress, but without being told, I gathered the calls were a little rough.
"I called Ireland, they said you were back in the city. Can you call me. We should talk about
the...ash...ash-es." Her voice broke on the word. I heard her try to get herself under control, but
squeaking noises kept escaping her. Abruptly she hung up.
Feck, I thought. I'll have to ring her. I'd rather have gnawed my own ear off.

T    he park was jammers with people. I found a spot on the grass and a few minutes later Jacqui
came gangling along. She was in a really short denim dress, her blond hair was in a ponytail, and
her red-rimmed eyes were hidden behind massive Gucci shades. She looked great.
"He's a horrible, horrible man," I said by way of hello. "He's got a stupid car and I'm sure he
wears mascara."
"But it's more than six months since we broke up. How come I'm so upset? I hadn't even
thought about him for ages."
Wearily, she stretched out on the grass, her face toward the sun.
"For your next boyfriend you wouldn't consider a Feathery Stroker, would you?" I asked. "At
least they'd never try to make you have a three-some with a prostitute."
"Couldn't. I'd puke."
"But all these non�Feathery Strokers...," I said helplessly. "They're terrible."
Buzz was non�Feathery Strokeryism personified and he was vile.
She shrugged. "I like what I like. Can't help that. D'you think I could risk having a fag without
getting stoned by fresh-air fascists? Sure, I'll chance it." She lit a cigarette, inhaled deeply,
exhaled even more deeply, then said dreamily, "Anyway, I'll never have another boyfriend."
"Of course you will."
"I don't even want to," she said. "And that's never happened before. I've always been desperate
for a boyfriend. But now I just couldn't be arsed. They always start out nice, so how do you
know they're fuckers? I mean look at Buzz. At the beginning he sent me so many flowers, I
could have opened a shop! How could I have guessed that he'd turn out to be the greatest prick
of all time."
"But--"
"I'm going to get a dog instead. I saw these really really cute ones called Labradoodles, they're a
cross between Labradors and poodles and, Anna, they're the cutest things. They're small like
poodles, but shaggy, and they've got Labrador faces. They're the perfect town dog, everyone's
getting one."
"Don't get a dog," I said. "It's only one step away from getting forty cats. Don't lose faith.
Please."

"Too late. I have. Buzz let me down too often. I don't think I'll ever be able to trust a man
again." Putting on an overearnest tone, she said, "He damaged me." She started to laugh. "Listen
to me! I sound like Rachel. Ah, fuck it. Let's cheer ourselves up. When I've finished my cig, let's
get ice cream."
"Okay."
She never ceased to amaze me. If I could have only a hundredth of her bounce-back ability, I'd
be a very different person.
We stayed in the park until the heat of the sun faded, then went back to my place, ordered in Thai
food, watched Moonstruck, and quoted most of the lines.
It was like old times.
In a way.
37
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Subject: Job!
So like I said, two burly bozos came into office and one says: Are you Helen Walsh?
Me: Too right I am!
(Anna, at this point, must tell you I will be reporting many conversations. They may not be
word-for-word but let me make this clear--I am parrot-phrasing, but NOT EXAGGERATING.)
Bozo Number One: A certain gentleman of our acquaintance would like a word. We have
instructions to bring you to him. Get in the car.
Me (laughing head off): I'm not getting in a car with two men I've never met before--try me
again on Saturday night when I've had sixteen drinks--and I'm certainly not getting in a car with
Austrian blinds. (Remember, I told you there were awful pink ruched yokes on back windows.)
Bozo Number One throws wad of money on table, proper neatly counted bundle with paper
band holding it together, like they do in the bank, and says: Now will you get in the car?
Me: How much is there?
Him (rolling eyes, because you should be able to tell from thickness of it): One K.
Me: One K? Do you mean a thousand euro?
Him: Yeah.
Ding fucking dong! Counted it and really was a grand there.
Him: Now will you get in the car?
Me: Depends. Where are we going?
Him: We're going to see Mr. Big.

Me (excited): Mr. Big?! From Sex and the City?
Him (wearily): That bleedin' show has caused trouble for local crime lords around the world.
The name Mr. Big is meant to inspire dread and terror and instead everyone thinks of this well-
dressed debonair man--
Me (interrupting): Who does phone sex. And owns a vineyard in Napa.
Bozo Number Two (opening mouth for first time): He's selling it.
Me and Bozo Number One turn to stare.
Bozo Number Two: He's selling the vineyard and moving back to Manhattan, and buying a
place with Carrie.
Looked like he might start clubbing me if I disagreed, so agreed. Anyway, he's right.
Bozo Number One: We've tried out a couple of new names. For a while we tried Mr. Huge,
but it never really caught on. And Mr. Ginormous only lasted a day. So we're back to Mr. Big but
we have to go through the bleedin' Sex and the City scenario every time we get a new job. Get in
the car.
Me: Not until you tell me exactly where we're going. And just because I'm small don't think
you can push me around. I can do tae kwon do. [Well, been for one lesson with Mum.]
Him: Oh, do you? Where do you go? Wicklow Street? I teach there, funny I haven't seen you
there before. Anyway, we're going to a pool hall in Gardiner Street, where the most powerful
man in Dublin crime wants to talk to you.
Well, who could resist an invitation like that?
I stopped reading. Was this for real? It sounded just like Helen's short-lived screenplay. Well,
actually, far better. I e-mailed her.
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Subject: Lies?
Helen, this e-mail you've sent me? Is it real? Did any of it actually happen?
She replied immediately.
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Subject: Not lies!
True as God. All of it.
Okay, I thought--still not entirely convinced--and carried on reading.
Sat in front of car beside Bozo Number One. Bozo Number Two had to go in back with shame of
Austrian blinds.
Me: Bozo Number One, do you have a name?

Bozo Number One: Colin.
Me: Does Bozo Number Two have a name?
Him: No. Bozo will do.
Me: Whose idea was the Austrian blinds?
Him: Mrs. Big.
Me: There's a Mrs. Big?
Him (hesitating): There mightn't be anymore. That's why the boss wants to see you.
And I'm thinking, Ah bollocks. Thought this might be start of whole new career, instead just
looked like sitting in more wet hedges. Only difference is that wet hedges will belong to drug
runners and pimps, and that doesn't make it any more exciting. Wet hedge is wet hedge.
Pulled up outside dingy pool hall with war-crime orange lighting. Colin led me down the back
to booth with orange stuffing coming out of seat. Why can't crime lords hang out in nice places,
like Ice Bar in Four Seasons?
Small neat man sitting in booth, pulling at foam seat stuffing--last thing he was was big.
Neatly trimmed bristly mustache.
He looked up, said: Helen Walsh? Sit down. Would you like a drink?
Me: What are you drinking?
Him: Milk.
Me: Cack. I'll have a grasshopper.
Don't even like grasshoppers, hate cr�me de menthe, as bad as drinking toothpaste, just
wanted to be awkward.
Him: Kenneth, get my friend here a grasshopper.
Kenneth (the barman): A glass of what?
Mr. Big: A glass of nothing. A GRASShopper. Right, Miss Walsh, down to business. Anything
that's said here goes no further, I'm telling you this in total confidence. Right?
Me: Mmmm.
Because minute I got home was going to tell Mum and now telling you.
Me (indicating Colin): What about him?
Mr. Big: Colin's all right. Me and Colin have no secrets. Right, the thing is...
Next thing, he dipped his head, put hand in front of eyes, like he was going to cry. I flashed
excited look at Colin, who looked concerned.
Colin: Boss, are you okay...would you prefer to do this another time?
Mr. Big (sniffing loudly, "pulling himself together"): No, no, I'm all right. Miss Walsh, I want
you to know that I'm fond of my wife, Detta. But lately she's being very--how can I put it?--
distant, and a little vulture whispered in my ear that she might be spending a bit too much time
with Racey O'Grady.

I was finding it hard to concentrate because over my shoulder could hear bar staff in panic...a
grasshopper...what the fuck's that?...maybe it's one of those new beers...look down in the
cellars, will you Jason...?
Me (calling): Lookit, it's fine, I'll just have a Diet Coke.
Me (turning back to Mr. Big): Sorry, you were saying. Speedy McGreevy.
Him (frowning): Speedy McGreevy? Speedy McGreevy has nothing to do with this. Or does
he? (Narrows eyes.) What do you know? Who's been talking?
Me: No one. You said it.
Him: I didn't say Speedy McGreevy, I said Racey O'Grady. Speedy McGreevy's on the run in
Argentina.
Me: My mistake. Carry on.
Him: Racey and meself have jogged along nicely together for the last few years. He has his
department and I have mine. One of my lines of work is offering protection.
For moment thought he meant bodyguarding, then realized he meant extortion. Strangely, felt
a little puky.
Him: Just so you know the kind of man you're dealing with here, Miss Walsh, let me tell you,
I'm not some doozy who arrives at the gate of a site, with a couple of lads with iron bars, looking
to talk to the foreman. I'm a sophisticated businessman. I have contacts in the planning
department, with property lawyers, with banks. I'm connected. I know well in advance what's
happening, so the deal is all tied up before the first brick is laid. But twice in the last six weeks,
I've met with contractors to conclude our usual business and they say they're already covered.
Now this is very interesting to me, Miss Walsh, because very few people even know these
schemes are going ahead. Most of them haven't even got planning approval yet.
Me: How do you know it's not a leak in the planning office? Or at the contractors?
Him: Because it would need to be several leaks from several sources. Anyway, all the
individuals involved have been...(meaningful hesitation)...interviewed. They came back clean.
Me: And you think Racey is the one muscling in on your...er...patch? Why him?
Him: Because they effing told me it was.
Me: So what do you think is going on?
Him: A less paranoid man than me might think Detta is picking my brains, taking her findings
to Racey, and the pair of them are creaming me.
Me: And if she is?
Him: None of your concern. All I want you to do is bring me proof of her and Racey together.
I can't tail her and she knows all the lads and the cars. That's why I'm going against a lot of
advice and bringing in an outsider.
Me: How did you hear of me?
Thinking I must be legend in Dublin private investigating.
Him: Yellow pages.
Me (disappointed): Oh, right.

Him: Now the thing about Detta is, she has class.
Thought of Austrian blinds in car. Don't think so.
Him: Detta comes from Dublin crime aristocracy. Her father, Chinner Skinner?
Said it like I should have heard of him.
Him: Chinner was the man who opened Ireland's doors to heroin. We all owe him a debt of
gratitude. What I'm saying is, Detta's no fool. Have you a gun?
Surprised he said it out like that. Aren't they meant to say, "You carryin'?" And call it shooter,
not gun.
Me: No gun.
Him: We'll get you one.
I'm thinking, don't know about this...
Him (insistent): My treat.
Me (thinking better to just play along for while): Okay.
Anna, as you know, I don't believe in fear, just an invention by men so they get all the money
and good jobs, but if did believe in fear, this is time when would have felt it.
Me: But why would I need a gun?
Him: Because someone might shoot you.
Me: Like who?
Him: Like my wife. Like her bleedin' boyfriend Racey O'Grady. Like her boyfriend's mother
--she's the one to watch out for, Tessie O'Grady, misses nothing.
Colin (speaking unexpectedly): A legend in Dublin crime.
Mr. Big (frowning): If I need your help...
Then Mr. "Big" stood up. Even smaller than I'd expected. Very short legs.
Mr. Big: I've a meeting now. Colin here will drop stuff round to you later. The gun, more
money, photos of Detta, Racey, all that. Just one more thing, Miss Walsh. If you fuck this up, I'll
be annoyed. And the last time someone annoyed me--when was it, Colin? Last Friday?--I
crucified him on that pool table.
Me: You personally? Or one of your assistants?
Him: Me personally. I'd never ask my staff to do something I wouldn't be prepared to do
myself.
Me: But that's exactly what happened in that film, Ordinary Decent Criminal. Couldn't you
have used your imagination and crucified him to something else? The bar counter, for example.
Just to put your personal mark on it, as it were. No one likes a copycat.
He was looking at me funny, and like I say, Anna, it's good job I don't believe in fear because
if did, I'd have been cacking myself.
And on that compelling note, it ended. Frantically I keyed down to see if there was any more, but
there wasn't. Feck. I'd enjoyed it hugely. No matter how much she insisted every word of it was