Running on Empty (31 page)

‘When you’re unsure of what to do, do nothing. I think we’ll just carry on as normal. The way I see it, Feeney’s rather limited in his options. Firstly, he doesn’t know his status here. Is he wanted by the authorities, a marked man? He’ll assume he probably is. Secondly, what can he do in Ireland? I don’t think he’ll readily admit to being party to the murder of six U.S. operatives, especially as he’s connected to the killing of two people here. So, the only option he has, as far as I can tell, is for him to lie low, and hope we refrain from any further engagement. Also, even if he did want to make trouble for us, how could he go about it? He can’t get back into the States without papers, and even if he could, what could he do to us? No, I think we’ll put Tom Feeney on the back burner, and concentrate on business for a while. We can monitor the situation, and alter Feeney’s status if need be’.

Fielding slipped his hand into his inside jacket pocket, removing a memory stick.

‘All the information about the logistics of our operation is here. Study it, memorize all the relevant details, then destroy it. Next week we’re going to base camp, and everything will become clear. Now, off you run, and leave me in peace for a while’.

Carter got up to leave.

‘Oh Carter, one more thing. I hope for your sake you have a bit more between your ears than our dear departed Stanley. I don’t like mistakes, and there’s plenty of rabbit holes over here as well you know. Keep that in mind, won’t you?’

Tom and Pat arrived back to the house, in good time for breakfast.

As they ate, Pat spoke.

‘There’s an acquaintance of mine over in Dublin I think you should meet. He’s a bit of an oddball, so you’ll have to put up with his quirks, but there’s no one in Ireland better at, how should I put this, manipulating papers. Maybe get Grainne to bring you over, if she’s free. You’d have to wait over there for a couple of days. Give time for Richie to work his magic. He’s in a place called Darndale, in the suburbs. Bit of a rough spot I hear, bit like your south central LA, but without the sunshine. Grainne can keep an eye on you, make sure you’re not eaten by the natives’.

‘And what’s the benefit of this exercise?’ asked Tom.

‘The benefit Tom lad, is to give you an option’.

‘An option of what?’

‘Of returning home, Tom, of becoming the conger’.

Tom and Grainne sped along the N4 on route to Dublin, Tom clinging to Grainne for dear life as he sat on the back of the bike. They reached the outskirts of the city in record speed, finally coming to a stop outside a guest house in Clontarf.

‘Well, here we are’ said Grainne, ‘this is where we’ll be based for a couple of days’.

‘Why here?’ asked Tom, ‘why not a hotel?’

‘Because hotels look for paperwork, a passport, a credit card, some form of identification. Have you got any, because if you do, what the fuck are we doing going to see a forger?’

Tom nodded.

‘Right, we’ll book in and leave our bags here, then head to Darndale’.

Grainne rang the doorbell. A middle aged woman in a frilly white blouse and dyed blond hair answered the door, giving both travelers the once over.

‘Yes?’

‘We’d like to book a couple of rooms for two to three nights’ answered Grainne.

‘Oh I’m afraid we only have the one room left, a double, will that do? We’re full to the rafters otherwise, what with the matches and the race and all’.

The matches, the race? asked Grainne, perplexed.

‘Well, Ireland play England in the rugby, and Dublin play Kerry in Croker, and the tall ships race is due to hit Dublin tomorrow’.

Grainne looked at Tom, then back to the woman.

‘Maybe we’ll try somewhere else then’ she said.

‘Well, you could try, said the woman, but I wouldn’t hold out much hope for ye. I’d say every spare bed in Dublin is booked at this stage’.

‘We’ll take it’ said Tom, glancing back at Grainne, ‘if that’s ok with you’ he added.

‘Fine by me’ answered Grainne. ‘Yes we’ll take it’.

They carried their bags up the stairs, following behind the owner.

‘Now it’s fifty euro per night for the room, payable in advance, and breakfast is served between eight and ten. How long did you say you were staying for?’

‘Two or three days’ answered Grainne. ‘We’ll pay you for two nights, and see how it goes from there’ she continued, handing over one hundred euro.

The woman took the money, opened the door and handed Grainne the keys.

‘Well, here we are’ she stated, walking into the room. ‘The bathrooms through here’ she said pointing to a veneered wooden door, ‘there’s your bed, and that’s about it. ‘Any questions?’

Both shook their heads.

‘Well, I’ll be off then and leave you too at it’ she finished, with the mearest hint of a smile..

Tom and Grainne both looked at each other.

‘Well, don’t worry’ began Grainne, throwing her bag on the bed, ‘I won’t try and take advantage of you’

‘Ditto’ answered Tom.

‘I’m heading in for a shower’ she continued, walking towards the veneered door. Tom stood in the room, unsure of what to do. He sat down on the edge of the bed. Then he noticed, Grainne had left the door to the bathroom ajar. He blinked. She was beginning to undress, and was clearly visible from where he sat. Did she leave the door open on purpose, or was it just an honest mistake? Was this a come on, or an oversight? Did she know she could be seen from where he sat, or was she just aware she wasn’t visible from where he had been standing? She was naked now, standing with her back to him, undoing the band from her hair. He didn’t know what to do. He reckoned that maybe he should look away, but found it really difficult to drag his eyes from that curvaceous body. Without turning, she spoke.

‘Seems to me that what we have here is, not just a Tom, but a peeping Tom. Why don’t you wipe those drools from your mouth, and come on in?’

How did she know? Tom did what he was told.

By the time Tom had undressed and walked to the bathroom, Grainne was already in the shower. She kept her back to him, the water from the shower head cascading down her long blonde hair and between her shoulder blades, fanning out when it reached her buttocks. Tom was aroused. What should he do? He could hear a tiny voice in the back of his head asking him, admonishing him, scolding him.
What about Sally? Have you forgotten? Do you not care anymore? She helped you, risked her life for you, made love to you, and quite probably loved you too. Do you not care about her anymore?

Tom knew he did care about her, he cared a great deal. But he was attracted to Grainne also. He found her captivating, interesting, funny and beautiful. And he was here, now, with Grainne, naked beside her, touching her almost. He found it totally unfair that he could go through his thirty years of existence, never being totally smitten by any female, yet in the space of a week or so had met two women, neither of which he wanted to let go. He felt he could quite happily be with either one, possibly for the rest of his days. If it had been just a physical thing with Grainne, he knew he would have walked, and avoided being in the situation he found himself in now. But he felt much more than just physical attraction to Grainne.

What do I do?

Tom eased his way back out of the bathroom.

When Grainne emerged a few minutes later, draped in a bath towel, she found Tom sitting on the side of the bed, partially dressed in jeans and t-shirt.

‘Are you ok?’ she asked, using a hand towel to dry her hair.

‘Not really’ he replied.

‘Do you want to talk about it?’

‘Not really’ he answered.

Grainne dressed in silence. Finally Tom spoke.

‘Look Grainne, I feel I have to offer you an explanation. You’re fantastic, that’s all I can think of to describe you, fantastic. You’ve got everything any guy would want in a woman. It’s got nothing to do with you, it’s me. I’m thirty years old, and in those thirty years, I’ve been, by and large, a prick. Yes, I had my moments. I’ve been a nice guy on occasion, but basically, like I said, a prick. The old Tom Feeney of a month ago would have jumped your bones in that shower without a moment’s hesitation. But that old Tom Feeney is gone, probably never to return. I certainly hope he’s gone for good. I’ve encountered quite a bit in these last few weeks. I’ve seen people killed, and had people trying to kill me. But I’ve experienced good things too in all the madness. I’ve had people wanting to help me, people going out on a limb for me, people caring for me, and even one person loving me. See, the thing is, in these last few weeks, I’ve encountered another woman who’s fantastic too. Sally Carmichael’s her name. Why two such fantastic women would give a damn about me, I’ll never know. But, the thing is, I feel like I’m betraying her trust by getting involved with anyone else. I feel like a sleaze bag. I feel like the old Tom Feeney, and I don’t like who he is anymore. So, in spite of me being totally captivated by you, your personality, your beauty, everything about you actually, I just can’t, not yet anyway, I just can’t become involved with you emotionally, until I at least talk to Sally, and see where she’s at, where we’re at. I need time. Can you understand what I’m saying, Grainne? Can you understand where I’m coming from?’

‘Sometimes I forget what you’ve been through’ she answered. ‘I know it’s been rough on you these past few weeks. So yes, I’ll back off, and give you a bit of breathing space. It’s been difficult enough for you. The last thing you probably need at this point is some silly bitch flirting with you like an immature schoolgirl. Let’s just keep it as friends for the moment, platonic friends, and what unfolds, or not as the case may be, happens in its own good time. Meanwhile, we’ve been travelling a good bit today, and seeing as we’re sharing a bed, even if it’s platonically, it might be an idea if you popped in the shower? Then we might go out for something to eat, because I don’t know about you, but I’m famished’.

‘Agreed’.

They sat in a local restaurant, eating quietly for the most part. Finally, Tom looked up from his dish to Grainne.

‘There’s one thing has me puzzled’ he began, ‘had me curious from the time I first set eyes on you, actually’.

‘Which is?’

‘Why no boyfriend? I mean, you must have guys chomping at the bit everywhere you go. With your looks, you could have the pick of the herd. Why haven’t you hooked up with one?’.

‘Ah, now there’s a question. Well, I had a boyfriend until fairly recently actually. We were even planning on moving in together. Charlie his name was, he was the one who got me into motorbikes. He had a beautiful 1985 Triumph, loved that machine more than anything’.

‘So what happened?’

‘I used to share a house with another girl, Pauline Hogan. So, I came home early one day, and there was Charlie and Pauline, testing out the bed springs in our rented house. It pained me to do it, but that Triumph sure didn’t look much when the flames died down. To say Charlie wasn’t a happy bunny is a bit of an understatement, attached to that bike as he was. He caught up with me later on that evening. Slapped me around a bit. Then Pat got word of what happened. I think Charlie got out of hospital a week or so later’.

‘I see’.

‘Anyway, we’d better finish up here, Pat said we were to be in and out of Darndale before dark’.

They left the restaurant, and headed off on the bike. When they arrived at Darndale, Grainne stopped the motorbike, removing a piece of paper from her jacket pocket.

‘Snowdrop Walk’ she said to Tom, ‘sounds nice’.

Tom scanned the area. Somehow he didn’t think the place was going to live up to the name. They headed into Snowdrop Walk, and while Grainne eyed the houses looking for a number, Tom surveyed the scene. A gang of six or seven stood at a corner, eyeing them with interest. A car, rammed into a lamp post on waste ground behind them, was enveloped in flames. A youth of no more than twelve sped up and down the road on a motorbike, back and forth, aimlessly. Groups of mangy looking dogs seemed to be roaming everywhere, scavenging for morsels among the garbage. They parked the bike outside and approached a dilapidated wood and glass door, one pane patched up with tape where an obvious attempt was made to break in. There was no bell to ring, or knocker to knock on, so Tom resorted to hitting the door several times with the side of his fist.

‘Fuck off’ a voice shouted from within.

‘Richie, is that you?’

The door opened slightly, a crazy looking person peered out. He had shaggy grey hair which seemed to want to go everywhere at once, the stubbly beginnings of a grey beard, and thick horn rimmed spectacles, which had been broken and taped back together, framing those crazy eyes.