SAMPLE CHAPTERS OF MARTIN PENALVER'S BOOKS
Please feel free to enjoy the preface and first two chapters of the books 'In search of an Angel', 'Ticking Of The Clock' and 'River of Dreams' at your leisure by clicking on either of the book menus below.
'In search of an Angel' is the first in the trilogy 'Laws of the Angel', 'Ticking of the clock' is the sequel with 'River of Dreams being the final part of the trilogy.
'IN SEARCH OF AN ANGEL' 'TICKING OF THE CLOCK'
I wasn’t sure if she had heard me. She looked at me, wax like, her lips portraying a wizened smile.
‘See you later then Roz,’ I bellowed on account of her more than poor hearing. She smiled, but didn’t answer. Our conversation was over for today.
I leant away from the crooked wooden fence that divided us as she gave that familiar little wave and turned away. I noticed she was not hunched in the way many eighty three year olds can be, especially considering the amount of gardening she had done over the years.
Roz had now wandered around the side of her small white bungalow and I stood alone. The sun felt lovely on my face as the delicate sea breeze flowed around me. I walked back towards my own front door. I did not know how, but I knew I was close to knowing, to finding, at last…
My name is Steve Bidante. Not Steven but Steve and don’t ask me why. You get given names and when you have children then you do the giving. Right? This is my story. My quest if you like. I am not a religious man but I have spent the last few years of my life searching for something we all look for in some way or another. Call it a guiding light, call it a god, call it a faith. Call it anything that fits your conviction. All I know is I wanted to find it this side of life’s curtain.
CHAPTER ONE
The town of Clacton-on-Sea has been my home for the last thirty odd years. The other three years of it were spent gaining an education in life in the big city of London. From the age of eleven through to fourteen I lived there - through chance not choice.
As a child you have little choice in the things you do. Your parents tell you what is right and what is wrong, what to say and what not to say. On reflection it’s a tough call to be a parent. I mean if they get it wrong then they can mould you into a shape that gets disfigured. To be fair, neither of my parents got it wrong. In fact, they were as good as it got in my eyes. I comfort myself with that thought often.
I live in a quaint two bedroom bungalow on Gorse Hill in a suburb of Clacton-On-Sea known as Great Clacton. My home is in a lovely location perched on the top of the hill and so gazes upon the green countryside that surrounds the area. History states that it was the beginning of the Clacton story back in the days when it was pretty much all farming land.
The second house belongs to my neighbour Roz and has done for God knows how long. She’s a lovely old lady who has a major hearing problem, especially when it suits her.
The hill is at the top of an old valley that stretches down below. The road leading down splits grassy fields which in turn cover the entrances to two cemeteries. It is a wide valley that slopes for a quarter of a mile taking you to the very outskirts of Clacton town itself.
You may think living so near to two cemeteries is strange, but it’s not like that at all. The cemetery on the left houses a sweet little chapel. Behind the chapel or church as you might call it - (I told you, I am not a religious man but to me, chapel suits this building better) - lies the older of the two gardens where there are many old headstones. It’s a peaceful place and very pretty.
Across the road lies the newer cemetery. Again it’s nothing you would associate with a horror movie. Simply picturesque and tranquil. To the left of this cemetery there’s a children’s play area while twenty metres away a small brook sends gurgles of water along as it passes this little spot in the universe.
The area is complemented by four ancient willow trees spread across the front of the landscape almost as if they have been painted onto the scene. I never tire of this quiet, almost holy part of my world.
Not many people live in Great Clacton. On the whole it is populated by elderly and middle aged people, mainly due, I think to the bungalows which suit them. I got some strange looks when I first moved in, as if I didn’t belong. Maybe they thought that I had some secret of a youth cream that they had missed out on. After a while, when they realised I was no trouble - simply younger than they were - the street became even nicer to live in. I suppose you could say we all look out for each other.
To sum up Clacton-On-Sea itself. Think of London, the big city of England. Think of escaping the smog and grime for a day out on the beach. Over the years you will find or know of someone who has been to Clacton. In its heyday in the early 1920’s, people flocked to the place. They went to visit the pier with its fun and rides and to wander about the beach in their full length bathing costumes. To sit on the deck chairs and perhaps dream of one day living here. I think a place with a beach is always going to have that special feeling for some people. A beach is a wonderful asset and for many years Clacton did enjoy the fruits of its own tree, so to speak. But gradually all that has changed.
Many older people in the town say it was when Butlin’s shut down that things began to go downhill. Butlin’s for those who don’t know was - and still is in other seaside towns such as Skegness - a holiday camp in the best British tradition. A place to take the whole family for a break in the days before cheap flights and internet deals. A place where the kids were just British kids being entertained by the famous Red Coats while their parents relaxed in the evenings and enjoyed some kind of cabaret act. Even though we lived in Clacton it was always our holiday destination too.
I remember those days well when I was a young child until eventually the owners decided to close the place down. It needed major renovation and the first real foreign trips, to places such as Spain, were beginning to win hearts. It was maybe the death knell of this seaside town The holidaymakers left, the jobs went and the council sold the land to another investor named, as I recall, Atlas Park. It was supposed to take entertainment onto the next level but about six months later, the only level was ground level, as it was razed after going bust.
So we were left with a cocktail of people. The slow paced easy going pensioners and the fast moving and fast talking London folk. Not always the best combination.
Add to that the crime that has drifted into the town like an unwanted cancer with many elderly being mugged by the young. Add the drug culture that is beginning to enslave many towns across the country and you can see that I probably think Clacton-On-Sea has seen better days. It has, but I am not complaining, not at all because I love it here. I have friends, I have work, and I have a holiday to take tomorrow.
See that’s another great thing about living here by the sea. I have fresh air and long beaches to empty the mind of dust and set the cobwebs free, whilst just an hour away lies Stanstead airport, a launch pad to the world. Tomorrow I’ll be at that launch pad getting ready to fly to Spain to spend a week with my pal Ray Skee.
Ray, for the record, is one of my best friends. Everyone has friends in different kinds of categories. For men, there are those who you may have an odd drink with. There are friends who you may have a meal with as a couple, if you have a girlfriend (which I don’t right now). Then there are real good friends like Ray Skee. Someone who you can talk to about anything. Who never judges and always supports, and best of all a mate who, if you don’t see him from one day to the next, is exactly the same as the last time you saw him.
Ray and I haven’t seen each other for about nine months so when he called me about three weeks ago to invite me out to his place in Los Alcazares, Spain, I jumped at the chance.
‘Just grab a flight, mate,’ he said. So I did and got a nice deal too.
So now you know a bit about Clacton and my mate Ray.
The strange thing about all of this is that I live here in this town again. You see, I’d been a part of it from the age of zero until I was eleven. Then, after a three year absence, destiny brought me back here.
Here I am then, living in my nice bungalow at the top of the hill by the cemetery. I have a nice job and I have some nice friends. So what is so strange about that, I hear you say?
I haven’t mentioned my family have I? Well they aren’t far away. My dear family. With the exception of my granny they are all inside that cemetery on the right.
I’ve suffered with dreams and nightmares from an early age. One in particular.
I open my eyes. The clock on my left automatically flicks three black pieces of plastic over to show the white numbers: 8.00. Simultaneously sound emits from the built in radio.
‘It’s eight o’clock. John Lennon shot dead in Manhattan.’
December the 8th 1980. Yesterday John Lennon was alive. Yesterday so were my parents.
A shadow appears at the door. It’s Granny. As the radio announcer describes the scene she walks slowly in with a cup of tea, which she puts down on the side next to the alarm clock.
‘Former Beatle John Lennon was shot dead by an unknown gunman who opened fire outside the musician's New York apartment last night. The forty year old was shot several times as he entered the Dakota, his luxury apartment building opposite Central Park, on Manhattan's Upper West Side, at eleven o’clock local time.’
My grandmother strokes my forehead. ‘Steve. Morning,’ she whispers gently.
I don’t answer. ‘Good morning, Steve,’ she says again. I try to smile but nothing happens. My lips curl the wrong way. I try again but this time they curl even more the wrong way and my eyes start to water. I sit up and grab her in one movement. She hugs me and I feel tears rain down from my eyes. Confused – hopeless - real tears- shedding pain and loneliness and so much more. I don’t even know the names of how to describe them.
Granny holds me tighter as she whispers in my ear ‘It’s alright, it’s alright.’
But it’s not alright. I shake inside as the tears take a hold on me. I can’t stop them and I can’t stop shaking. I only know I need to hold my granny longer. She’s all I have left and I don’t want to let her go. I can’t let go - even if I want to - and I don’t. The moments go by. Maybe one. Maybe ten.
Her shoulder is wet now and I am shivering a little. She senses the tears are subsiding and sits down gently next to me, easing me back. My body goes limp. She eases me back onto the mattress and tucks a pillow behind me and I slump onto it. Her eyes are glazed and she looks very sad. I don’t want her to be sad.
‘Sorry, Granny, sorry. Don’t be sad.’ The words quiver from my mouth as my lips just won’t do what they are supposed to do. Soft wet tears run down my face and I wipe them away with my pyjama sleeve.
‘You silly boy,’ she says as a small smile appears. Not a real smile but a sad smile as if she has no control either.
‘Don’t be sorry, Boy,’ she says. Her name for me when she is being kind is “Boy”.
‘Why Granny? Why?’ The words tumble desperately from my mouth. My voice sounds small and quiet.
It was late when the policeman came last night. I know it was late because I was in bed and I didn’t go to bed till it was just past ten. I loved staying with her. When Mummy and Daddy and I arrived in East Ham yesterday, we had a yummy lunch. Granny and Mummy cooked it while Daddy and I played in the garden. Granny has a long garden and her house is lovely. I like it because it’s near a park and it’s off Lonsdale Avenue where there’s a nice sweet shop. If I’m good when I come here I’m allowed to go to the shop and buy sweets.
I must have been good because normally I leave when Mummy and Daddy do, but yesterday Granny asked if I could stay. I jumped about while Mummy and Daddy discussed arrangements. Granny smiled at me when they said I could stay, and I smiled back. I was very happy especially when they said I could stay until Wednesday. It’s the eleventh and Daddy said he would pick me up when he delivered his blinds in London. I could help him and then go home.
I love helping my dad. He makes blinds and they call him Bob. His van has Bob the Blind Man written on it and he goes around delivering his blinds to all the big warehouses in London.
When they left, Mummy kissed me and we waved “goodbye” from the door, watching them as they got into the car and waving more as they drove off. After they’d gone Granny made some sandwiches for tea. I had three types yesterday. She knows I like different kinds of sandwiches so she made me peanut butter, Marmite and strawberry jam ones, all cut into triangles like only Granny can do.
She bustled around doing Granny things and then we sat in the front room and she got out the chess set and we played three games. I won two and she won one. When it got late she told me to get ready for bed so I went upstairs and brushed my teeth and put on my pyjamas that she keeps safe for when I stay. They are light blue with claret stripes, like West Ham, the local team. I’m going to see them one day soon. Daddy told me he would take me, just like my granddad took him before granddad went to heaven.
Granny tucked me in and wished me sweet dreams. I told her the same and then I went to sleep. Sometime later I was woken up by a knocking sound. I heard Granny at the door and some voices. I got up quickly to see what was happening and went to the top of the stairs. The light was on and it was so bright that it hurt my eyes so that I had to rub them.
I saw a policeman and a police lady at the bottom of the stairs. They were talking to Granny but then they stopped and looked at me. I looked back at them because I hadn’t done anything wrong.
Everything changed then. Everything was in slow motion like the football replays on the telly. My granny was crying and the policeman and the police lady looked very sad.
There were lots of words… but I only heard the important ones.
My mummy and daddy are dead. They died in our car on the way home.
‘But why, Granny? Why?’ I say again
‘They are safe in heaven now, Boy,’ she replies.
I don’t like that answer. ‘But I don’t understand, Granny. I need them. Why have they left me?’
She thinks and then looks at me sadly and says, ‘Steve, sometimes sad things happen and we don’t understand them but we have to try to understand them.’
I look at her because I still don’t understand.
She hesitates. ‘They’re safe now. They’re in heaven but you’re here and you’re safe too.’
I want to be in heaven now as well if that’s where Mummy and Daddy are. ‘Why didn’t I die?’ I ask Granny, ‘Why didn’t I go with them and then I’d be dead too? Wouldn’t I Granny? wouldn’t I?’ The tears start to stream down my face again.
Granny’s getting upset now too. She wipes her eyes and says, ‘Steve, do you know what an angel is?’
I nod. I do know because I’ve seen one on our Christmas tree but I don’t know if they’re real because Daddy never told me. I know Father Christmas isn’t real because he did tell me that last Christmas when I was ten.
‘Well angels….’ she said and then stopped for a moment. ‘Angels, they protect us and they look after us and things like that.’
I sniffle a bit while I think. ‘So Granny, where are these angels? Why didn’t they look after Mummy and Daddy?’
Now I watch as she sniffles too while she thinks. ‘Steve…,’ she says really slowly. ‘Your mummy and daddy are in heaven and it’s in heaven that there are angels, okay?’
I nod a little, trying to understand.
‘And you,’ she says. ‘You are my little angel and you and I will look after each other now, okay?’ Granny looks very sad now. She’s shaking a bit, holding my hand and I feel that trembling too. I don’t like seeing her upset.
‘Okay, Granny,’ I say. ‘I’ll look after you.’
‘Good boy,’ she says doing that smile thing which is not really a real smile.
We look at each other for a moment.
‘Granny?’ I say, questioningly.
‘Yes, Steve,’ she answers patiently.
'The angels live in heaven, don’t they? But do they ever come down to earth?’
She stops the way she does when she is really thinking.
‘Yes, yes, I’m sure they do. I’m certain, Boy, because we all have a guardian angel somewhere you see,’ she replies, and then she smiles the lovely smile that means she likes what she just said… I think.
‘Well, Granny,’ I say with a deep breath. ‘Then I am going to try and find an angel, and one day when I do I am going to ask them why my mummy and daddy went to heaven.’
‘I want to find an Angel.’
On the morning of December 8th 1980, the child Steve Bidante uttered these words through a sea of tears. The boy became a man, and through fate, followed his destiny as he went – in search of an Angel.
* * *
‘As an Angel it is forbidden to directly interfere in the worlds we oversee. Our influence can only be through guidance, together with a gentle touch of fate and destiny. We have the gift to offer choices to the ones we wish to help and guide.
‘Many, with eyes unfocused, will not see these things and that is the way of it.
‘We can only represent what we are as sentient beings. We are, after all, fundamentally made of the spirit of you. Emotions are what we hold and cherish. Many good and many bad make up the composition of Angels. We are, in essence, a reflection of dark and light with the balance of emotions in our being.
‘I represent the emotions you would call Love, Harmony, Serenity, Power, Will and Authority and I am spoken of as an Archangel. My gifts have been woven over eons to the point of divinity, yet I have not walked on Earth for three hundred years.
‘There was a time when the influence of your clock had no effect on our being. Now that has changed and the Laws of the Angel must be obeyed.
‘It is nearly time for me to walk once more on the beautiful planet you call Earth. It may be for the last time. Even I cannot know.
‘I can tell you this. The journey of Steve Bidante was so much more than he could have known or imagined. His actions and belief and that of Andréa Sekhova created a miracle: the child born out of pure love. The infant that all white Angels had wished for was found, and our last hope was born.
‘There is much to know of the Laws of the Angel and much to explain. The events within these pages will do much to tell of this, but first we must go back in time and let the story unfold. It will be the decisions and actions of others that will determine our and your destiny. Now is the time to open your mind and soul and to believe.
‘The clock is ticking.’
As Steve Bidante made his journey to the forest of Boubin the two Angels paused to speak with each other.
‘Do you think he will complete his task?’ Helena Sekhova asked.
Rose Gardener smiled as she replied, ‘Of that, there is no doubt. He knows now and understands. Now love will do the rest but I must ask you something, Helena. Tell me, did Andrea know that she should not have been able to bear a child?’
Helena’s lips formed an ironic smile as she pondered the question. ‘No, I think not, although…I cannot say that she did not doubt it sometimes, when her soul spoke to her. But the Angel coin guided her well and ultimately did all we asked of it.’
‘So,’ Rose nodded slowly, ‘if all comes true as it is said, then they will raise the girl to become who she is destined to be.’
‘Yes,’ Helena replied in a soft tone as she touched Rose’s arm affectionately, ‘that is all of our hopes but now…now we must seek the Angelis Mortis and ask for what was taken from you so long ago. Now we must redeem your soul.’
* * *
Steve Bidante saw that there were about ten big log houses separated from each other by small wooden fences. Within he saw soft lights and open fires that sent plumes of smoke upwards into the night air. His eyes scanned for number four and, when he reached it, he hesitated before edging closer to the window. Peering through a small crack in the curtain he saw the silhouette of Andréa. Momentarily paralysed by her beauty he froze, watching until she had moved away from the light and into a room behind.
Taking a deep breath Steve walked to the door and, grasping the small brass knocker in his hand, paused one last time to utter the words ‘Here we go’ into the night.
The knocker dropped onto the door, its dull thud vibrating within him as the noise carried into the forest. The sound of her footsteps approached before Andréa pulled the door open until the chain behind reached its length.
Steve looked into her eyes for the first time in what seemed like forever; the blueness of them shone out like two moons as he spoke her name.
‘Andréa.’
Initially she seemed to react like a rabbit caught in headlights but after a few seconds she relaxed and, without a word, undid the latch and opened the door. As the light glowed from behind her, he stared his destiny in the face. She held out her hand and guided him silently inside.
The two of them stood in the centre of the warm room where a blazing fire flickered in the corner and lit up her face. It was Andréa who broke the long silence.
‘I was told you would come.’
‘I was told you are the answer; that you have the answers.’ Steve looked at her longingly.
‘Maybe; maybe you do too,’ she smiled. ‘Now, come and sit by the fire.’ She took his hand and guided him to a chair where he watched the flames dancing while she went into the kitchen and returned a few minutes later with two mugs of hot coffee.
‘I saw you, Andréa.’ Steve’s voice cracked with emotion. ‘I saw your image at my grandmother’s funeral and soon after I found another coin, the same as the one you gave me. It was then that I knew for sure.’
Andréa looked down at the floor as she replied. ‘I knew a long time ago, I think. When I met you, I knew. When we shared our time together, I knew.’ She looked straight at him. ‘I always knew.’
As he watched her beautiful lips speak those words, Steve Bidante knew that everything he had seen had been true.
He reached out and took her hand. ‘It seems you are my destiny, Andréa.’
She squeezed his hand as a tear fell down her face. ‘And you. You are my miracle.’ She stood up motioning for him to follow.
‘Come.’
Andréa guided him through the kitchen and into a long, narrow hallway. A sensation of familiarity enveloped Steve. He knew this place. He knew the shape and the smooth walls. Opening the door to a room at the back, he saw a large bedroom with a double bed set against the far wall. The room was dimly lit and he strained his eyes as Andréa pointed to the left where there was a child’s wooden cot.
‘There, go see,’ she whispered.
Steve walked over to the cot and peered inside and there he saw a baby with blonde, almost white, hair and blue eyes that gazed up at him as she lay gurgling in the cot.
‘Come, pick her up,’ Andréa said softly.
He stood, unable to move. He knew this little girl. Of course he knew her. He’d seen her in his dream but not like she was now, but as she would become. Steve picked her up gently and held her, feeling her soft marshmallow skin and her warmth against his face.
‘But…’ he mumbled, overcome with emotion, ‘I thought I could not have a child.’
Andréa moved in front of him and Steve saw the tears running down her face, not sad ones, but ones filled with joy.
‘I could not have children, Steve. That is what they told me. But you…you were my miracle; she is our miracle, born out of love.’
He thought back to those last weeks when he and Andréa were together. She had put on weight yet he hadn’t even thought about why. Everything unfolded in front of him as he held the gift of life in his arms, tears of joy and happiness streaming down his face, the creation by two souls whose destiny was decided by events in time.
* * *
The two Angels climbed the many steps towards Prague Castle with an ease belying their appearances. Upon reaching the top they paused momentarily to gaze across the panoramic landscape of Prague before passing the blank-faced guards at the gates of the castle unnoticed.
Walking through into the main courtyard they sat and waited as the sound of the last tourists’ feet rattled the cobblestones around them, clouds of misty air from their mouths floating transiently under the soft glow of the gas lamps. The two women gave off no such vapour or sound. To the passers-by, they were invisible.
When all was quiet, they rose and glided silently across to the vast archway leading to the doors of St Vitus Cathedral. With a touch of Helena’s hand the great door clicked open and the two slipped inside sealing the door behind them silently.
The cathedral was now empty, magnifying its vastness. The silence was interrupted only by the gentle movement of flames, flickering from the many candles which guided the two women to the chancel of the cathedral where, in front of the high altar, they stared fleetingly at the royal mausoleum knowing that below, in the crypt, the royal tombs of Czech kings and queens and patron saints were interred. Now was the time.
Rose closed her eyes and held out her arms as Helena whispered a prayer to the Angelis Mortis. After a period of gentle chanting Helena’s call was answered by the taker of life and souls. Rose fell into a trance-like state as the words of ancient Latin were spoken, a dim glow emanating around her statuesque figure. When Helena fell silent Rose slowly dropped, rag doll like, to the floor where she lay for several moments whilst the ghostlike aura faded from around her. Upon opening her eyes Rose whispered the words with emotion.
‘My soul is redeemed.’
‘Did you hear the words?’ Helena said softly as she helped her up to the nearby pew.
Rose looked at her vaguely. ‘I heard much, but the sensation diluted all but a little. Two sons survived the crash,’ she added in a weary tone, ‘I do not understand.’
Helena had heard all. ‘Then you will know that there were two sons. Rose, our task is not complete. We have to find the other.’
‘Yes…’ Rose replied in a puzzled tone, ‘but if two sons survived the crash and Steve was one, how are we to find the other? And why would the Angel of Death tell us such things?’
‘The Angelis Mortis is neither dark nor light for death comes to both,’ Helena whispered thoughtfully as she recollected the words. ‘She did not tell. She simply said as she would to those with black hearts in the same situation. We must hope that the coin of Angels will guide us. We must go back in time to find the future. There is much to learn.’
Rose was silent, looking ahead to the mausoleum as her soul gained a new found energy. With the return of a glint in her eye she looked quizzically at Helena.
‘Then it seems my work, our work, is not yet done. We have still one more part to play.’
They stood, as Helena took Rose’s hands in hers. ‘We must find the other son and his child, for I learnt that he has followed the path already unknowingly. His daughter is to bear a son. If all is true, that son is the second half angel and, with the child of Steve and Andréa, perhaps saviours of all that is good on this Earth. We cannot interfere, only guide as it is written in the laws.’
‘Then we must hope that this son and his child will be of purity,’ Rose answered with apprehension, ‘and we must pray that we find her first, that she will not be corrupted, and that the child too will be born out of divine love.’ As Rose spoke, her returning soul filled her with emotions hidden for over half a century. Her face strained with the new found sense of concern. ‘We have so much to learn of this yet we cannot fail. We must not fail, so much depends on us.’
‘We will not fail and neither will she,’ replied Helena, confidence resounding from her voice. ‘Even now she is surrounded by love which will protect her, and her gifts will guide her on. When the boy is born they will find their way to each other and they will save us all. It is foretold.’
‘Of that,’ answered Rose with a wise look, ‘we must hope with all we are.’
With that the two Angels slipped away on their final journey.
Many years into the future…when all had come to pass…
November 1st – All Saints’ Day – Lany village – 35 kilometres outside Prague
‘Come on, Marita! We have time before tea! Let me show you what I found!’
Nevan tugged at his sister’s arm urging her to go with him. Her older brother rarely got this excited and now, at eleven years old, his childish smile seemed to suit him more than ever. He ruffled his mop of black curly hair impatiently as he gazed through dark brown eyes waiting for her to follow.
Marita sighed and pushed the jigsaw puzzle aside.
‘I really wanted to…’
‘Finish it later!’ Nevan almost screamed with excitement. ‘Come, leave that here. You can do that after tea!’
Her brother’s animated expression made her smile as curiosity took over. Although he was just over a year older, it was she who always seemed to be the sensible one. The neighbours called them ‘chalk’ and ‘cheese’ as nicknames. Not because they were opposites in personality; far from it. They did nearly everything together and shared many interests. The names were simply derived from their looks. Nevan was well built for his age with tanned skin and Mediterranean features whilst she was lithe and dainty with long, pale blonde hair set against creamy skin.
‘Dinner in twenty minutes.’ The shout from the kitchen added to Nevan’s vibrancy.
‘Quickly!’ He tugged at her again and this time she let his strong hand pull her from the playroom table. Marita followed him up two flights of stairs in the converted farmhouse to the landing where Nevan paused at the bottom of the rickety staircase leading up to the attic.
‘Here, take my hand,’ he urged, taking the steps two at a time.
Marita wanted to say, ‘I don’t like it up here,’ but knew her voice would fall on deaf ears. Both of their parents disliked them playing around in the large attic which, in turn, seemed to make Nevan want to visit the musty and dusty place even more. Whatever it was he had discovered today, it must be worth seeing judging by his excitement.
Stepping gingerly up onto the boarded floor, Marita followed her brother across the attic to the far corner where a pile of previously sealed boxes had been opened, their contents scattered chaotically.
‘Looks like a mess to me,’ Marita commented. ‘What exactly have you been up to?’
‘Shush a minute and let me show you.’ Nevan beckoned for her to kneel alongside him as he pulled many sheets of aged paper into a pile. As she knelt he handed her one of the sheets. ‘Go on,’ he insisted, ‘read it.’
Marita fluttered her eyelids in a do I have to, really fashion before letting her eyes scan the document. It read:
Diary Entry One – December 2009
Now, as I write, I wonder why I have never thought of it before. So much seems to be changing, much faster than I or anyone else could have foreseen. None of us can guess the future just as none of us can change the past.
I have heard many people question the existence of Angels and that is their choice, as it is a choice to believe in any faith. There is enough evidence, belief, history to suggest they do indeed exist, yet the world doubts; it always doubts.
It is my conviction that this catalogue of events, incidents, happenings will one day make sense to all. We will remember and learn of the Laws of the Angel and that memory will be left by the ink from my pen.
The world struggles and we struggle to understand. One day maybe I will, we all will...
Only time will tell.
Marita looked up to see Nevan watching her face, awaiting her reaction.
‘It’s just an old note from some diary.’ Her voice was indifferent.
‘That’s what I thought!’ Nevan replied eagerly as he took a handful of similar-looking sheets in one hand. ‘But, I’ve flicked through these and each one is numbered, just like the sheet you’re holding.’ Seeing his sister’s look, Nevan hurriedly put his spare hand inside one of the boxes, pulling out a dust-covered book.
‘Look,’ he said, opening the book and pointing to another sheet. ‘The diary seems to match the chapters! I’ve tried at least five entries and they all match the chapters and the story!’
‘So what are you saying, Nevan?’ Marita heard the humour in her voice. ‘That whoever wrote these diaries knew about the book before it was written?’
‘I am not sure, exactly,’ Nevan answered truthfully. ‘I just know that if we match the entries with those in the book they all seem to fit!’ He watched his sister’s face for some reaction but, seeing none, continued enthusiastically. ‘It doesn’t look like anyone has touched any of this for a long time. Perhaps no one has worked out the connection. Don’t you see? We can do it together!’
A loud shout carried up into the room calling them to tea as Marita mulled over her brother’s words.
‘Come on, let’s go down for tea.’ Marita stood up. Seeing the disappointment in Nevan’s face she added, ‘I think it’ll be fun. We can go through the book after tea, OK?’
‘You bet!’ Nevan smiled gleefully as he jumped up and darted past her. ‘Race you!’
Marita knew better than to run and watched her brother disappear down the steps before she picked up the discarded book which he had left open upon the floor. Its pages were old and discoloured now, the writing fainter through time but still clear enough to read with ease. As Marita closed the book she saw the title:
‘River of Dreams’
December 31st 2009 – Roma, Italia
Priest Penem glanced at his watch: 14.30. He would soon arrive.
Penem lifted the cup of espresso to his lips and took a sip. As he placed the cup back on its saucer on the café table, a trickle of coffee ran down from his lip and onto his greying beard. Instinctively Penem drew his hand up to wipe the thin stream, his dark brown eyes shifting upwards as he did so. One of the many passers-by on this cold Rome afternoon appeared to acknowledge his hand movement as a gesture and gave a smile and nod of respect which, in turn, made Priest Penem immediately move his hand to the top button of his long overcoat, eyes now squinting downwards in an effort to see that his buttons were sealed. They were.
For a moment he considered the man’s actions before passing them off as simply coincidence. His clerical collar was hidden, of that he was sure, and, besides, it was nothing out of the ordinary; he just did not want to be noticed, stopped and spoken to today.
Another glance at his watch showed him five minutes had passed; time to get going. Placing a five-euro note under his cup, Penem made one last check on himself, a quick movement to adjust his scarf inside his coat, before leaving Caffè Greco. Instantly, his table was taken by two American tourists, their high-pitched chatter giving their origin away immediately. Penem glanced back at his favourite haunt. He loved this café, the oldest and one of the most famous in Rome, if not Italy. He pondered days gone by when the likes of Stendhal, Goethe, Byron, Franz Liszt, Keats, and Felix Mendelssohn had taken coffee there, created ideas of music and culture within the city that brimmed with history and art. For a fraction of a second, Penem felt sadness. He would perhaps never see this place again. Turning away he began to walk west towards the Piazza di Spagna.
The December wind picked up around him and Penem sensed the tear that had left his eye, now a trickle reaching his cheek. He brushed it away, gathering resolve as he did so. Now was not the time for being melancholy, now was the time for focus and strength. If he ever wanted to sit at the Caffè Greco once more, now was the time for Penem to muster all his inner vigour. He had the church to convince.
Throngs of people bustled around him as the people of the capital readied themselves for the night’s celebrations. Tomorrow would be a new year; a new decade would begin, full of new hope, for some…
Rome was alive and vibrant. The icy cold temperatures had given an almost even more ancient and ghostly feel to the city. The frosts remained after the earlier snows of the month had gone, making the cobblestones echo with the footsteps of man and woman, girl and boy, all on their way to celebrate…new beginnings.
Head down, eyes focused, Penem passed the steps and hastened down Via della Stamperia before turning right into Piazza di Trevi. Instantly the people around him magnified in numbers as if everyone on every street had been heading for the Trevi Fountain. Now, as the mid-afternoon light faded further, the Piazza transformed as the scattered trios of lanterns flickered in sync with single lamps that adorned the walls of the streets surrounding the Piazza. The forthcoming darkness gave way to a magical glow, made even more beautiful by the backdrop of the monument, its statues’ frozen gaze fixed upon those surrounding the iconic baroque fountain.
Priest Penem’s eyes studied the area, a multitude of faces sharing a similar expression, one of awe and joy, cameras poised, ready to encapsulate the moment as a loved one moved into the smallest free space to be pictured in front of the fountain. After a moment of adjusting to the various characters, Penem found it quite simple to differentiate between what just moments ago had seemed an indistinguishable mass. The picture takers became obsolete as his stare picked out the peddlers, their toys and gifts displayed on the floor or others being thrown towards the sky as tourists looked on, enraptured by the entertainment, their euros about to be given in exchange for the moment, where the cheap gift seemed invaluable in the magical Piazza. Strangers grinned at one another as red roses moved from the hand of the seller to the hand of the buyer and then onto the dainty hand of the loved one for which the present was meant. Yet, whilst romance pulsated to the sound of the flowing fountains, there were others present whose intentions were anything but pure. Those who watched the notes and the pockets they came from; those who, by the end of the day, would tear out the cash before discarding the useless debris of purses, wallets and handbags leaving the once happy lover, tourist, simply innocent visitor saddened and scarred by the events that had led to their loss.
Priest Penem brushed by a policeman as he shuffled towards the left-hand side of the steps leading to the fountain. He recognised the uniform of the Polizia di Stato, responsible for general policing of Italy and more gentle and anonymous than the feared military Carabinieri who would not be seen in numbers anywhere near here today. No, these officers had the duty of watching over the joyous crowds, eyes scanning for those with dark hearts. Today these officers, as on many other days, would prove to be the saving grace of many a tourist’s bank balance. The thought made Penem smile.
To Penem, the people were now as distinctive as the colours of the spectrum. His experience and wisdom further diluted the scene into colours of black and white as he edged up the staircase. The two men who now stood alongside each other looked as inconspicuous as any other. Romans in Rome, two old friends meeting by the Trevi Fountain before going to a café, perhaps, to a restaurant or…
‘New Year’s Eve, a wonderful day, don’t you think?’ The voice carried an age-matured huskiness.
Penem afforded a glance in the direction of the voice as he replied. The man standing next to him blended in with a practised blandness; his felt winter hat had a tweed design which matched his jacket and plain tan trousers. ‘Thank you for meeting me, today of all days.’ Penem gave a slight bow of his head. ‘I appreciate what you are doing…Cardinal di Steda.’
The cardinal tipped the brim of the hat covering his balding head in reply as he acknowledged Penem through watery blue eyes. ‘Today, more so than all days, has been busy.’ Returning his stare towards the fountain, Cardinal di Steda sighed gently. ‘I am told you have been with the church for many years, Priest Penem, and that your knowledge of the writings of the doctrine is much respected. I was told this meeting was of the utmost importance and that you have information that is paramount to the Catholic Church.’ The cardinal coughed and Penem, in that instant, sensed a man in ill health. He saw concern in the cardinal’s face as well as tiredness. He must use those emotions to convince his superior. There would only be this one chance.
‘I have worked for the Holy Office of the Inquisition for many years. My work is to safeguard the church and all we are.’
‘It has not been called for many years, Penem, long before you would have taken up your position. Do not offend me!’ Cardinal di Steda retorted, pulling a handkerchief from his coat pocket before spluttering a raw, chesty, mucus-filled cough.
‘My apologies, Cardinal, a bad habit of mine, I’m afraid.’ Priest Penem tried to regain his composure. ‘Please, let me explain. I have given my life to the Congregation for the Doctrine of the Faith as it is rightly now called. I have studied and worked alongside the church and the Congregation in order to serve to the best of my ability. You, as Cardinal and Prefect, will, of course, realise the importance of safeguarding the morals and faith of our church.’ Penem paused for effect. ‘I would not have troubled you if my recent findings were not seen as being of great importance. I came straight to you, Cardinal, because I know of your high standing reputation and your wisdom.’
Priest Penem avoided any further eye contact as he gazed towards the fountain and waited for the cardinal’s response. A moment went by before the cardinal replied, his voice carrying the depth of his thoughts. ‘I understand you have an important document, something that the church has been looking for, for quite some time?’
Penem wanted to smile. He had the cardinal’s attention. His ploy had worked. He knew that the Cardinal was high standing and wise, but he was also known to be vain enough to enjoy such adulation. Penem drew in breath to deliver his well-prepared speech.
‘I love this city, Cardinal, as much as I love the Vatican itself. Yet, even here, today, in this beautiful surrounding, we are infiltrated by our common enemies. It is perhaps not known to all but I hear that this fountain claims over three thousand euros a day as visitors throw coins in, and, of course, that money should be used for good, for the fountain, for the Church…’
He heard the cardinal sigh before replying, ‘But it is not, as you say, where there is good, there will always be evil.’ As another savage coughing fit took hold, Cardinal di Steda grimaced before adding, ‘Thieves and the like, those with no morals, they live to take. It is not something uncommon, my friend.’ Turning to Penem, he searched for eye contact which, again, the priest avoided as best he could. ‘So, tell me, what does this document have to do with thieves by the fountain?’
Penem cleared his throat. ‘Today, Cardinal, it is New Year’s Eve, the eve of not just another year but another decade. To many this gives a new sense of hope, a new sense of change. The politicians thrive on it, the people believe in it and… we, the Church, strive to cling onto our importance within society as we spread our faith, which is evermore tested in the world we live in today. I, as a member of the Congregation for the Doctrine of the Faith, have been studying not just the changes within the Church and humanity’s changing views towards it, but I have also been following events much more important. There is to be a change, subtle at first, but, eventually, it will shape the future of us all and that…’ he hesitated for a moment, ‘…includes our beloved Church and faith.’
The aging cardinal ran his hand over his mouth as he contemplated Priest Penem’s words. ‘I will look at this document, not here of course, not now. But I will indeed investigate what you claim is within the pages. For now,’ the cardinal winced with an inner pain, ‘tell me what you can to assist me.’
‘Of course.’ Priest Penem was only too ready for this opportunity. ‘There is more to our world as we know, Cardinal, God and Angels and so, so much more.’ Penem waited for the nod he knew was coming before continuing. ‘The document claims of a time, a time that will soon be upon us, that will see the Angels as we know them leave our earth. They will no longer be the messengers of God as our own faith faces its biggest test. The document tells of signs to watch for and the repercussions that could face us all. In essence, Cardinal di Steda, I would almost call these sheets of paper the greatest chance for the Church to serve God for it will be in the hands of the Vatican as to what choice we make on its contents.’
As Cardinal di Steda acknowledged his statement, Penem carefully reached inside his coat and slid the envelope from within. ‘Please, read through and then make the choice, your choice.’ Penem now concentrated his stare upon the cardinal and saw what he needed to see as he added, ‘I may not be nearby to help but there is information on whom to speak with should you need anything done.’
‘I understand.’ The cardinal’s reply sounded momentarily automated before he appeared to snap out of a trance and to gather himself. ‘I will give it my full attention and who knows? I may be part of something that could save our faith.’
‘Of course.’ Penem smiled faintly at the vain comment. ‘Then I will leave you to your business, Cardinal. Thank you for your time. It has been an honour to meet you at last.’
By now the glow of the lights around the fountain were creating fairy-tale warmth as the bubbling waters splashed in infinite glory. The cardinal slipped his hand into his pocket and pulled out a euro coin. ‘I love this city.’ He smiled as he threw the coin over his shoulder and into the waters behind him. ‘Do you, Priest Penem? You do not follow the tradition of the fountain, I see?’
Penem let his left hand touch the cardinal’s shoulder indicating goodbye. ‘I also love Rome and I understand the tradition of throwing the coin. I believe that such things are very important and, as you will see when you read the scriptures, such a simple thing as a coin has so much more history than we can imagine.’
The two stepped back from one another and instantly the space between them became filled as two young girls, cameras strapped to necks, skipped towards the fountain, faces aglow.
‘So, why do you not throw a coin?’
‘Because it means I will return to Rome.’ Priest Penem raised his voice. ‘I cannot say that will happen.’
The cardinal mouthed the word, ‘Why?’ as the space between them became larger. Penem read his lips but held his hands up in faint bemusement before turning and slipping away into the bustling crowd.
Chapter Two
December 31st 2009 – London, England
‘So, Steve, any great plans to celebrate tonight?’
‘Not really, Pat.’ The voice was energised, despite the line crackling a little. ‘There’s going to be a small party just outside the forest. I think that we’ll go to that, nothing fancy you know, but it should be fun. A little market shopping, some hot wine, and then later they’ll have fireworks to see in the New Year.’
‘Sounds fine to me,’ Pat replied before hearing a muffled sound at the other end of the phone as a hand covered the mouthpiece.
Pat listened, a smile forming as Steve shared the conversation with his daughter. ‘I know you are, darling! Fireworks! Now go and help Mummy and let me speak to Uncle Pat!
‘Sorry, Pat.’ Steve spoke clearly once more. ‘Dusana is going a little crazy with excitement about tonight.’
‘The little sweetheart.’ Pat’s Irish accent oozed affection. ‘I thought you and Andréa would have taken her to Prague, you know the big city and all that? Steve Bidante always loved the bright lights, I recall?’
‘Yeah, maybe we would have.’ Steve laughed. ‘I’m not so bothered about all that these days, Pat. Dusana takes up all our energy and, besides, you obviously haven’t been keeping an eye on the Czech weather, have you? It’s minus eighteen here today, mate! A few hours outside will be enough for us three. I don’t think anyone would be crazy enough to make the journey to Prague in this!’
‘Of course.’ Pat had forgotten the weather. ‘Bloody hell, that’s cold. Last time I was there it was warm as a Dublin dame. Well, I hope you all have a wonderful night, Steve, and you give my love to those beautiful women in your life from me, OK?’
‘I will for sure, Pat.’ Steve grinned. ‘And it is great to hear from you. We hope to be in England sometime next year. Did I tell you that Dusana will be singing in Prague in the New Year?’
‘Bejaysus! No, you did not, Bidante!’ Pat choked momentarily. ‘What is the little angel doing singing in Prague?’
‘Well, my friend,’ Steve’s voice overflowed with pride, ‘she will indeed be singing in the Prague National Theatre! She’s won a placement and will be singing two pieces whilst being supported by the Prague Symphony Orchestra. Pat, we are so proud of her. It all started at her school; the music teacher was amazed by her voice and gave her free training after classes. I’ll have to tell you all about it when I see you but, to put it in a nutshell, she may be singing in many more places after that if all goes well! Andréa is looking into the possibility of an agent but we’ll see. I think it may be best if we take care of her, work permitting. Great news though, eh?’
‘Well, I’ll be damned.’ Pat took it all in. ‘What’s she to be singing?’
‘Er,’ Steve sounded uncertain, ‘I think one of the songs is Ave Maria? I’m terrible with all that kind of music.’ There was a pause whilst Steve tried to dredge up the other song from the depths of his mind. ‘Nope.’ He gave up. ‘God, that’s embarrassing! I’ll learn though, Pat, I will! She sounds very beautiful. I can’t wait for you to hear her.’
‘Ave Maria… Hail Mary.’ Pat sighed with pleasure. ‘A gorgeous song if ever there was one. I can’t wait to hear her, Steve, and to see you all. We knew she would be special, didn’t we?’
‘Thanks, my friend,’ Steve replied gratefully. ‘She is one in a million, but I guess every loving parent says the same of their child! I hope you have a great night tonight. What are you doing by the way?’
‘Ah well, I can’t tell you that, Steve. You know, too many women, too much song, too much Guinness. I wouldn’t want to make you jealous with the details now, would I?’
There was a silence at the other end and Pat sensed that Steve was calculating his reply. He was not going to say what Pat already knew. Steve did not care for such nights anymore. He had what he needed and women, wine and song were not on the list. Pat spoke before Steve could.
‘Nah, not really.’ His voice could not disguise an underlying thoughtfulness. ‘To be truthful, Steve, I’m just working on a gentle night, you know. I may go and see the parents, perhaps catch up with a few old friends for a few pints and stand by the Thames and watch London celebrate while I think of Ireland.’
‘Well I, um, hope it will be, um…’ Steve wanted to say something, something positive, festive, but the words seemed stifled.
‘A Happy New Year to ya, Steve.’ Pat made it easy for him.
‘Happy New Year, Pat.’
As the call ended, Pat paused for just a second before hitting the green dial switch and punching in a number from memory. Two long beeps rang in his ear before he heard the voice.
‘Hello?’
‘Harry, Harry, it’s Pat. How are you? You sound distant?’
‘Pat,’ Harry’s cheerful voice boomed back, ‘I do sound distant because I am! You may work on the human brain, mate, but your memory needs looking at! Do you not remember me telling you that me and the boys were off to Lapland for Christmas and New Year?’
‘Jesus, Joseph and Mary!’ Pat exclaimed. ‘Of that I do! Sorry, Harry!’ Forcing a wry smile he added, ‘I wondered what that ring tone was all about. Are you all having a great time?’
‘Yes we are, brilliant, Pat. I’ll tell you all about when we get back!’ Harry laughed. ‘Now save some of that money you earn and get off the line and go and enjoy yourself!’
‘Aye, I will do, Harry. You too, love to the boys.’
This time Pat did not make another call. He pondered the idea, running several friends, no, acquaintances, through his mind. Each time he found a name his instinct kicked in. Terry O’Dell: no, he didn’t fancy his company on a night like this. Jimmy McGowan: nah, he would be celebrating with family, probably in front of a log fire in Ireland, lucky bastard. Bob Sarge: nah, he was too far away. Darren Wood: nah, he would be with his girlfriend. The names rolled around his head like lottery balls in a drum and, as with most lotteries, Pat could not pick a winner.
The whine of wheels on a portable mop and bucket brought Pat back to reality. Looking up he saw the cleaner staring through the small window of the door gesturing to say he wanted to come in.
‘Five minutes.’ Pat said the words whilst holding up his hand. ‘What bloody time is it, by Christ?’
The face vanished down the hallway as Pat flicked his wrist upwards. ‘Five o’clock. I suppose I’d better get going.’
Pushing the heap of papers on the desk aside, Pat lifted himself out of the chair. He caught a glimpse of himself in the cracked mirror that adorned the rear wall. He looked tired. Walking closer, he ran the palm of his hand across his bald forehead, examining the wrinkles on his face. ‘Forty-two.’ He whispered the words as he pinched two fingers together, massaging his laughter lines as he did so. ‘I look feckin’ sixty-two.’
Clutching his overcoat, Pat made his way out of the hospital nodding and gesturing to the few familiar faces he saw on the way. He had been working, as usual, right up until today. St Andrews in Stratford was the latest hospital where his knowledge had been required which was ideal, at least in its location. The office he had been given was more of a broom cupboard than an office, but Pat didn’t mind. He liked the change of scenery each time he was called upon, and the fact that he was so highly respected to be drafted in to whichever hospital needed his neurosurgical skills was reward in itself for the years of hard work. Being at St Andrews also had the added bonus of being near to his parents’ home.
Outside, there was a chill, made much colder by the wind that playfully threw up litter. A light drizzle fell, its tiny droplets highlighted by the soft orange street lights as they found their way onto Pat’s uncovered head before trickling down inside his collar as he hastened towards the car park.
The journey to his parents which usually took ten minutes at best now took about forty with the overspill of festive traffic cumbersome and slow-moving. The voice on the radio blared out messages of celebration for the evening ahead while Pat pondered. The roads all looked the same: glistening in the light rain as headlights upon headlights flickered around him. Everyone was going somewhere, everyone was in a hurry to get somewhere, and everyone was going to get there but much more slowly than they would have hoped.
‘Bloody London traffic,’ Pat muttered before swerving out of his lane and pushing the front of his car across the junction, blocking another car as he did so. The unmistakable sound of a horn screamed out which Pat duly answered with three blasts of his horn and a glance at the driver who had decided to yell at him in ‘horn language’. A lone finger was held up as Pat blatantly pushed in front of not just that car but any others that were vying for his newfound exit.
‘And a Happy New Year to you too!’ Pat yelled as he pushed his foot down on the accelerator sending the car lurching forward into the open space of the side street.
* * *
‘Ma, Pap.’ The sound of keys on antique glass phone shelf along with the slam of the front door announced Pat’s arrival. ‘I’m home. It’s me: Pat.’
Sliding his damp coat off and hanging it on the banister, Pat afforded a smile as he heard the response. ‘We’re in here, son.’
Of course they were in there: the lounge. If they were not in there then it would be Pap sitting alone, eyes glued to the television, a glass of stout on the table to his right while Ma bustled around in the kitchen fixing up some food. The routine was always the same. Pat came in, made the same noises along with the same greeting and received the same sentence. ‘We’re in here, son.’
The smile stayed on Pat’s lips as he entered the lounge. It was the first time today that he had felt warmth inside, a delightful familiarity that made him feel wholesome, wanted, part of something.
‘Stay there, stay there.’ Pat motioned to his father who was attempting to lift himself out of the chair. ‘You are getting more jittery every time I see you, Pap.’ Pat laughed as his mother stood up with a sprightliness belying her years. ‘It’s good to see you, Ma,’ he whispered affectionately into her ear as he gave her a gentle hug. ‘Is the old man making you run around as usual?’
‘You stay seated, Patrick!’ Her voice had a sharp edge to it as she spotted Pat’s father attempt to get up once again. ‘No, son, no more than usual,’ she replied with a faint grin. ‘His legs aren’t what they used to be.’
‘That they may not be, Niamh,’ came a loud croaky Irish voice, ‘but my bloody ears are still working! Now you come over here, boy, and give your father a greeting!’
‘Of course, Pap.’ Pat released his grip from his mother as he planted a kiss on her bristly cheek making her chuckle affectionately before taking herself off into the kitchen. She looked good for her age, he thought. Now, well into her late seventies, she did not seem so different from when he was a boy: same blue rinse, permed hair, same thick lensed glasses and same type of floral dress that she always seemed to wear. Perhaps she had got stuck in one of those time warps or perhaps Pat has just etched this image of her into his mind.
‘It’s good to see you, Pap.’ Pat took his outstretched hand as his father leaned forwards, shaking it in traditional firm fashion. ‘You don’t look so bad, you know.’
‘Get away with you, boy.’ Patrick slumped back into the wingback armchair that personified the overall décor of the room: dated. Pat watched as his father now stretched out a trembling hand towards his glass, lifting the stout to his lips and taking a long, satisfying gulp. ‘That’s better.’ Patrick smacked his lips in appreciation. ‘Now, son, are you staying with us tonight? There’s some good stuff on the telly and plenty of Guinness in the fridge. What do you say?’
Pat watched as his father wiped his hand across his lips then up onto his hair, flattening the already over-Brylcreemed strands that remained. He still dressed in the same clothes that Pat had seen every day as a boy: black trousers with braces and a crisp white shirt. Nothing had changed, and probably never would. Pat liked it that way.
‘I can’t stay too long, Pap.’ He smiled in acknowledgement as his mother reappeared handing him a can of Guinness and a glass. ‘I fancy popping into the City and seeing the New Year in with my own eyes.’
‘Ah,’ Patrick sighed, ‘I would do the same, son, if these legs were a little less creaky. Besides, those streets are going to be too busy for the likes of us.’ His eyes were a little watery as he reflected on years gone by. ‘The world isn’t as safe as it once was. No respect, son, no respect.’
Pat glanced at his mother who raised her eyebrows in mock amusement as she sat down by the fire. ‘You go and have a good time with your friends, Pat.’ She clasped her knitting and began clicking the needles together gently. ‘You’re still a young man. You go and have a good old party for the both of us.’
‘Ah, I will.’ Pat now found himself sighing at the thought of the night ahead. ‘I’m sure me and the lads will have a jolly old Irish knees-up.’
There was a comfortable silence that ensued. Pat watched his mother click and clack with her new knitting pattern; another jumper, for some poor soul, in a dark red that was as unfashionable as it was colourful. He watched his father who was now staring at the TV screen as if no one else existed. Pat gazed at the pint of Guinness he held in his hand. The dark liquid was topped perfectly by the creamy white head, its contours crisp. The pint was as black and white as the thoughts running through Pat’s mind. He didn’t really want to leave tonight, to wander alone into the City. But being the man he was, Pat knew he would have to carry it all through. To pretend he was off to meet pals, pretend he was going to have a party of all parties. It wasn’t that he needed to kid his folks. It was just that they wouldn’t really let him stay and fritter New Year’s Eve away. To them, Pat was still the child, eager to have fun and to celebrate. Pat found himself thinking of the Church, of going to sit and wait for God to appear; to talk of many things and ask God why it could be that someone could feel so confused, so lonely, in a world where there are so many people.
Snapping out of his self-induced stupor, Pat took one large gulp and placed the empty glass on the coffee table.
‘Right, you two.’ He stood up and went to shake his father’s hand. ‘I have to get going.’
Once more his mother stood up, the sound of needles stopping in an instant. His father simply nodded as they let go of each other’s hands. ‘Have a good time, son.’ He winked. ‘One for me, maybe two.’
‘Of course, Pap.’ Pat forced a grin. ‘Love you, Pap, Ma.’
The routine was completed as his mother hugged him, her thin arms unable to encompass Pat’s broad shoulders. He planted another kiss on her bristly skin before turning to leave.
‘Oh, son, by the way…’ Patrick’s voice followed him to the doorway.
‘Pap?’
‘A Happy New Year.’
Pat glanced back with affection. ‘A Happy New Year, Pap, Ma, a Happy New Year.’
* * *
After stepping on, pushing on, squeezing on a variety of tubes and buses, Pat decided that Trafalgar Square was not his chosen destination. The City of London had kindly given something back to the people in the shape of free transport from 11.45pm till the early hours of the morning but that would only help him on his return journey. It was a journey he had now decided not to take. Perhaps it was the couple of times he had stopped for a pint on the way, unable to find any pub that was not overflowing, joining a mass of people crushing one another to get through to the bar, only to eventually be served the quickest pint of his favourite drink not even allowed time to settle. Maybe that was it. Or perhaps it was the crowds and crowds of people he saw, so many people, some smiling within their small groups, others staring with impatience as the bar staff worked an impossible shift. No, Pat had decided it was something else. He did not feel right here tonight. He had no friends to talk with. He could have been invisible were it not for his broad build which continually worked against him that night. Splashes of drink marked his suit along with the word sorry if he was lucky as people awkwardly bumped past, into, people.
‘Sorry.’ The only word spoken to him in the time he was out.
Head down, collar up, cigarette in mouth, Pat made his way back to his apartment on Canary Wharf a good hour before midnight, something he had never done or even contemplated before this night. But tonight was different. Pat Reilly felt different. The weight of thoughts made his mind spin with confusion as he took each step nearer to the place he called home. He knew from experience that if he stayed out for that extra hour then the words ‘Happy New Year’ would be ringing in his ears and, in years gone by, he had wished many complete strangers ‘Happy New Year’ without a second thought as to if he would ever see them again. Tonight, for the first time in his life, Pat Reilly felt afraid of the future.
The impact on his shoulder was minimal but enough to startle him very briefly. Her voice instantly changed that as Pat snapped back into reality.
‘I… I… I am so sorry, I wasn’t looking. Are you alright?’
Pat heard the gentle Irish lilt of her voice and, as he looked at the young woman, could almost see his beloved Ireland right there in front of him. She stood roughly five and half feet in height dressed from top to toe in black accentuating her snow-white skin which, in turn, emphasised her fiery red hair. Her blue eyes now gazed at him through pretty designer glasses as she waited for a response.
Pat stood, stunned by the moment, all else forgotten, as he took in the girl and the moment. She was Ireland, his Ireland, right there and then. Any other event of this night was erased by her gift. He felt warmth inside that had been missing for years, a love, completeness, and something more. All the questions that had been weighing on his mind for so long were somehow answered.
‘Are you alright?’ she repeated, grinning.
Her smile lit up his street as Pat stumbled, fumbled, for words.
‘I’m fine.’ He spoke with an extra effort to display his accent, to let her know he was a kinsman, to show, well, he had no idea what.
‘Good,’ she replied, adjusting the strap of her handbag on her shoulder. ‘Well, I could say watch where you’re going in the future but…’ Her smile was cheeky; Pat loved it instantly. ‘It is New Year’s Eve and I bet you must be going somewhere in a hurry. It would be rude of me to pick on someone like you on a night like this.’
Pat found his shoulders shrugging without his say-so. ‘Nah, not really going anywhere. It’s not been a good night for me.’ He realised how sad he sounded and immediately tried to perk up. ‘I’m not usually like this, mind.’ Putting on his best smile, he added, ‘I’ve had a lot going on, you know, work, life, the usual stuff that can send an Irishman into deep thought!’
She laughed, her head leaning back as a puff of air, maybe pure laughter, lifted up into the night. Pat wanted to clutch it, bottle it, and listen to it again every time he felt like he had done that night. It filled him with pure joy.
‘Well, sir,’ she let her lips gently curl into an affectionate smile, ‘I guess you must be a thinking man indeed! I have never met a fellow Irishman who thinks when there is time to celebrate. It’s what we are most famous for, you know!’
Her words hit home. It was true as truth itself. Pat felt a little ashamed, as if somehow he had lost his identity that evening. All his life he had been a man loyal to his roots. He had worked honestly, he had drunk hard, he had lived for his beliefs and, most of all, he had felt as Irish as Irish could be.
‘I have to go.’ Her voice was soft, a goodbye wrapped in letters. ‘One last big party awaits me at least.’ He wanted her to invite him now. But why would she? He was just a stranger, going nowhere. He had nothing inside him to make her want to stay a second longer.
Pat found his voice at last. ‘Ah, I’m sure you will be partying many a night more. Someone as…’
‘As what?’ Her hands moved to her hips, head tilted in mockery.
‘As happy as you seem,’ he replied weakly. It was pathetic. He wanted to say someone as beautiful as you but he held back. Why? He would usually have said that with ease.
‘Why, thank you.’ She took the compliment in her stride. ‘Well, a Happy New Year to you.’
‘You too,’ a last strand of courage surfaced, ‘maybe next time, you know, we could party together?’
His words were an invitation, an offering of exchange, phone number, address, anything. Her reaction was to walk slowly past him, her perfume entering his nasal passages with a flourish as delicious as her.
‘Like I said,’ her voice was soft as clover, ‘one last big party for me.’ She was now four steps away.
‘What’s your name?’ Pat knew he would never see her again. The words just came out.
Eight steps away. She turned back, her prettiness personified with one last heartfelt stare as she spoke with conviction. ‘You know my name. You knew it the moment you saw me tonight, just as I know yours. Just remember, your faith has always been true, Pat Reilly, and you have been rewarded with the most important of honours.’
He stood motionless in the empty street and watched her fade into the distance as he digested her words. It all made sense.
‘Galgliel…’