Exit Unicorns (Exit Unicorns Series) (83 page)

Walking the streets, Pat saw a city torn to its foundations both physically and spiritually. What ghosts, he wondered, would rise from the ashes?

It had been a long day of it. He’d gone from neighborhood to neighborhood, street to street, stopped by barricades, halted at makeshift checkpoints as people rallied round and hurriedly formed defense committees manned by locals, rotating in shifts. Relief committees set up at local schools provided temporary shelter, warmth and food for those who’d lost their homes to fire. Others opened their homes, gave up their own blankets, food and even beds to those less fortunate. Transportation into Nationalist Belfast had been suspended and the logistics of getting food through the barricades looked to become a large problem. But a structure was already arising from the rubble, the people, as they always had, would look after their own.

He found his last name provided him with an easy currency, which he wasn’t entirely comfortable using. If they didn’t know him directly, they knew Casey or they remembered his father with some fondness and the association, however tenuous, got him past checkpoints and through doors which were heavily guarded. Three times during the day he’d run into Jamie, a bright, elegant point in the midst of a clutch of women, on his knees in the street handing out food to children. Listening to accounts of the previous night’s horrors, making promises for relief and spreading in his wake a feeling of reassurance that things would be taken care of. At one point, finding themselves side by side in a church basement, they had a cup of tea together.

“It’s good of you to come down here,” Pat said.

Jamie raised an eyebrow and smiled, “Haven’t you managed to sprout some cynicism yet Patrick? This is the politically expedient thing to do. Perhaps I’m merely oiling the electoral waters.”

“Ye don’t fool me,” Pat replied dryly, which ended the conversation.

It was late by the time he dragged himself back to the shelter of the Resurrectionist Church, the morning’s large breakfast a vague memory. His stomach rumbled loudly and he was disappointed to see that the kitchen was empty, lit only by the small glow emanating from the stove. He’d half-hoped that Maggie had left him a bite tucked away as she did at Jamie’s. Considering the number of mouths she’d fed over the last couple of days, he supposed that was asking a bit much.

“Yer dinner’s been left to warm in the oven,” said a voice from the vicinity of the table. “And Maggie said to tell you she hid a piece of pie behind the cream crock for ye and that I was to be certain ye drank at least two glasses of milk with it all as she doesn’t like how thin yer lookin’.”

“Sylvie?” he said, heart thumping madly.

“Aye, it’s me.” She stepped out of the dark, her hair a soft halo of light.

“How on earth—why—what were—?” he stuttered overcome suddenly by an emotion he couldn’t fathom.

She stuck three fingers up where he could see them and ticking them off individually said, “How—by car with a Protestant friend of mine, which made it easier to get out of Derry. Though we still had to drive through a few fields to get here. Why—because I couldn’t stand being stuck there while you were down here an’ not knowin’ if ye were hurt or tired or hungry. An’ as for what I’m doin’ here, the fact of the matter is I’ve run away from home, suitcase an’ all an’ any further answers to that question depend quite a lot on you.”

“On me?” he said in stupefaction.

“Maybe ye’d best eat yer supper while I explain.” She pointed to a chair and he sat while she retrieved his dinner, put a kettle on the boil and brought a bottle of milk to the table. Despite the savoriness of Maggie’s stew Pat didn’t taste a bite. He ate it quickly when he realized Sylvie wasn’t going to talk until he’d done so and then shoved the bowl aside. He met Sylvie’s eyes, dark and soft, above the milk bottle and thought he didn’t care if she didn’t explain a damn thing, he was just happy to see her.

“I saw yer brother today,” she said, “I’m glad he wasn’t seriously wounded.”

“Aye, I’m glad of it as well.”

She held her hands in lap, took a deep breath and with an apologetic smile said,

“I’ve moved here.”

“To Belfast? Now?”

“Aye, things are no better in Derry.”

“But where will ye stay?”

“Yer friend Mr. Kirkpatrick said I could put up at his house with the rest of ye until I find more suitable accommodations. An’ as for work, he said if I could type an’ answer a phone, I could work for him. Said he lost his assistant some time back and hasn’t been able to replace her.”

“Ye said ye’d run away from home. Does yer mam know?”

“Aye she knows. Though the truth is I’m not so much running away as running to something.”

“Running to?” he repeated stupidly, dazed by the smell of lemon verbena and lilac.

“Do ye plan to act obtuse all night, Pat Riordan?” she asked, a flicker of annoyance puckering her brow.

“I imagine I will unless ye flat out say what yer meanin’ to say.”

“I’m running towards you, eejit,” she said, face flushed even in the dim light.

“I see.”

“Is that all ye have to say? I see? See what—a girl throwin’ herself at yer feet that ye’ve no wish to take on? Is that it?” She stood and snatched his bowl, smacking it hard against the milk bottle and tipping it over.

“No, I think I’ve one other thing to say,” Pat said as cold milk first poured, then trickled in a steady stream onto his lap.

“An’ what might that be?”

“It’s more of a request actually.”

“Aye,” she sniffed, face still a deep pink, milk bottle spinning down on the table between them.

“Well it’s only that I’ve had a question to ask since the first I saw ye but there never seemed a right time to ask it.”

She looked at him warily.

“See the thing is—”

“Will ye give over an’ kiss the girl before the two of ye are old enough to have grandchildren,” said an exasperated voice, issuing out of the pantry.

Pat jumped out of his chair in startlement, sending the milk bottle flying onto the stone floor where it bounced twice before settling unbroken.

“Jaysus,” he yelped as he stubbed his toe on the solid oak table, “what on earth do ye mean steppin’ out of the closet like the angel of death, Casey?”

“I’ve been stuck in there the last half hour while ye tried to get around to askin’ Miss Larkin if ye could kiss her.”

“What the hell were ye doin’ in there in the first place?” Pat asked angrily, toe throbbing and milk running in rivulets down his legs as his brother emerged on crutches from the tiny pantry.

“Eatin’ yer pie would be my guess,” Casey said, holding an empty plate awkwardly in one hand while trying to balance a wobbly crutch. “Then I could hear the gist of yer conversation an’ it seemed,” he smiled charmingly at Sylvie, “an indelicate moment to come out. But ye were takin’ so long to kiss the girl, I thought I’d best see if I could speed the situation along a bit as I didn’t think I could stand much longer without collapsin’.” He grinned, turning his attention to Sylvie, “He’s a slow starter but he gets there eventually.”

Pat was saved from committing fratricide by the appearance of Pamela in the kitchen, barefoot and fuming.

“So that’s where you got to, harassing poor spooning couples in the kitchen.”

“Spooning?” Pat squeaked indignantly, the situation having progressed rapidly from romance to farce.

Pamela ignored his protests and putting her hands on hips ordered Casey in no uncertain terms back to bed. Casey with an aggrieved air hobbled out of the kitchen behind her. He hesitated though in the doorway, looking back, his expression tentative.

“It’ll be good to see ye. Patrick,” he said, voice slightly husky.

“Aye, an yerself as well my brother
,
” Pat replied without hesitation and saw the look of gratitude that spread across his brother’s face before he turned to follow his wife down the hall. Pat could hear their voices echo off the stone walls until they turned off the main corridor that linked the main body of the church to the private quarters.

“And if you think you’ll get any sympathy from me Casey Riordan...”

“It was only a tiny bit of pie...”

“...and furthermore you know what the doctor said...”

“...feel perfectly fine...”

“...not that fine, it’s a monastery for heavens sake, keep your hands...”

There was a sound of muffled laughter, the thud of a heavy door closing and then silence.

“I apologize for that,” he said, his own face flushed now.

“Was he right?” Sylvie asked.

“Right?”

She sighed, “Were ye goin’ to ask to kiss me?”

Pat stepped towards her and put his hands gently on her shoulders. This close, his senses swam with her scent, her hair resting on the backs of his fingers like the brush of down. “He’s a right pain in the arse my brother, but he’s the annoyin’ habit of bein’ right almost all the time.”

He leaned down and kissed her softly, briefly, feeling all the trouble outside the door recede at the touch of her lips.

They parted awkwardly, Pat bumping his nose against her forehead and apologizing profusely for it.

At their feet, the milk bottle had finally stopped spinning, its stubby neck pointing away from them. Sylvie stuck out a slippered foot and toed it around until it pointed directly at Pat’s sopping wet feet.

“My turn,” she said.

The Duke of Dungarvon’s town residence, located within the manicured and hushed confines of a huddle of mansions called Knockdrum Park, seemed light years away (rather than the few miles that it actually was) from the smoky center of Belfast. Here the light, rather than grasping its way through smoke, filtered down through stately rows of beech trees.

The drawing room, being filled with this particular brand of expensive light, felt a bit like an underwater cavern, all shifting gloom with the occasional watery ripple of sunlight.

But, as the Duke’s guest knew, it had the advantage of secrecy, being at the back of the house with only dense thickets of trees for a view.

“Lemon or milk?” The Duke asked, heavily beringed hand poised above a delicate Spode teacup.

“Neither,” said his guest politely.

“Well it seems we have achieved what we set out to do,” the Duke, his own tea in hand, leaned back heavily in his chair.

“Did we? It seems you have dropped many of the key points of the original plot as we set it out.”

“One thing at a time my friend, one thing at a time. Leastwise we’ve got my dear James where we want him.”

“Do we?” his guest took a delicate sip of tea. “He’s poised to take over half of Belfast. When you have the working stiff on the streets in your hand you hold the city’s soul within your grasp.”

“It’s what we wanted,” the Duke toyed idly with a filigreed drawer handle.

“Is it? If you think he’ll listen to you, or be fooled by your manipulations, you’ve underestimated the man severely. If I’ve learned anything these last months, it’s that the man trusts no one, not even, it seems, himself.”

“He’s brilliant as a sharpened diamond, I’ll give him that, but he carries the family curse and an illness of the mind like that handicaps him quite badly,” said the Duke feeling casually in his pocket for the small vial he’d palmed there only minutes ago. Reassured by its liquid heft, he continued in a mellow tone, “Besides you’re overdramatizing things. When in doubt James always goes with his conscience, it’s his greatest weakness, this streak of goodness that he can’t shed. His father was the same, bottom line, they always make the choice that will allow them to sleep at night.”

“Is that why you murdered him?” his guest asked without so much as the flicker of an eyelash.

The Duke, long schooled in such matters, retained a calm exterior.

“Utter foolishness to suggest such a thing, you know perfectly well that the man committed suicide.” An idea, uneasy in its brewing, bubbled up from his subconscious. “Is that why you had that absurd article placed in the paper, to throw suspicion out into the open? Have you been trying to sabotage this from the first?”

“How easily your mind leaps to such distrustful conclusions Percy, I wonder why that might be?” The occupant of the chair opposite him, leaned forward and placed the teacup on the desk. The Duke squirmed slightly, the cup was still full. “Do you ever wonder why all the breadcrumb trails we’ve followed lead off in such obscure directions and yet always give us a whiff of something that might be the truth, or might not?”

“Are you suggesting that he knows and is deliberately leading us astray?”

“You may not have noticed, Percy, but the body count has been climbing steadily and not just by our own hand.”

The Duke swallowed, the muscles of his throat contracting painfully. He took a drink of tea to try and ease them.

“Are you saying you didn’t kill our friend the constable?”

The slender set of shoulders across from him shrugged. “It’s neither here nor there is it whose hand killed him? He’s gone, as you requested.”

“He was becoming a liability, completely out of control and crazed.”

“Yes,” his guest said with a disdainful sniff, “he did have a rather fanatical way about him.”