Tuesday

The true pleasures in life are the simple ones.

The familiar feel of the key sliding in the ignition of my ’69 Datsun Fairlady. Old rust bucket, you could start the thing with a screwdriver at this point. Something beyond my consciousness likes counting to four or five - never six, no matter how cold it is outside - until the starter kicks the engine alive, and the eager first growl of the straight six tickles my zygomatics. It’s a feeling similar to the tail wag of your old dog seeing you for the first time in the morning. “Oh, hey! There you are! We going for a stroll?”

The ancient garage door rattles open on a sunny Tuesday morning. It’s still early enough that most commuters won’t be out for an hour at least, perfect time window for me to slip by out the city unnoticed. Then onto the main road North, exit 7b toward the coast, and from there it’s mile upon mile of dead empty winding roads down to White Park, the one most beautiful beach East of the Caribbean.

There I’ll meet with the occasional hiker, more often than not they’ll be twice my age, and they’ll return my smile in a silent agreement. Truly the great things in life are the simple ones.

The program for the way back isn’t usually set in stone - there’s good to be said about not letting routine overstay its welcome - and this morning I feel like coffee. Slowing down upon entering a village with one of those unpronounceable names, I spot a place that looks inviting enough and park there, pulling one cigarette - just the one - out of the glove box and stashing it behind my ear as I head to the small terrace.

The owner comes out after a while and invites me into a bit of chit chat the locals are famous throughout the world for. She calls me ‘Love’ and flirts cheerfully despite being old enough to be my mum. That’s how they are, the Irish. Miserable history, enough scars in their lifetimes to shut up a war veteran, but light-hearted, generous and upbeat to a fault. It gets even worse if it’s sunny outside.

Her name’s Sarah. She grew up some place nearby between the hills, fled the country as soon as she was old enough to buy a plane ticket and travelled for years throughout Europe and then North America, where she met her Dan. They eventually decided to settle down somewhere by the North Coast here in Northern Ireland and opened this wee coffee spot by the beach. He passed some years ago. Colon cancer.

Eventually, a pair of German tourists wind up at a nearby table. That’s my cue to thank Sarah for the conversation as she goes on to help them. I pop to the bathroom, pay for my coffee, and settle back down to finish sipping it while enjoying my much deserved smoke before getting on my way.

I’m about done with the brew when hell detonates behind the wall I was resting my back against. Glass shatters both sides of me as the shockwave throws me clear off the ground, my eardrums wrung painfully by the havoc. I lie on the edge of consciousness for some time, heat blasting my back. People scream. “Shame”, I think, “it was a nice Tuesday”. A large piece of wood falls from the awning and crashes at the base of my neck, knocking me out cold.

Pain wakes me up to world darker than a sheep’s arsehole. I wonder for a while about how I’d fare as a blind driver by trade until I realise something’s preventing me from seeing. My left hand rises painfully to my face and the touch feels like fabric. Gauze. Wrapped tightly around my head. My breath is laboured, but I feel relieved that the situation didn’t require intubation. I mean, that has to count as good news, right ? Speaking of breath, I can smell the distinct signature of some phenolic disinfectant. Hospital bed. Beats death by fireball I suppose.

Some sound around me makes me freeze and realise I’m not alone in the room. “Fucking hell” I croak, “if this is a hotel I’d like a word with the front desk, talk about a painful check in process”

A chuckle. A young and attractive feminine voice answers my grunt. She’s close enough that she could be sitting by the bed. “Well this isn’t a hotel, and you’ve not checked in yet, Mr. Weber”. Yep, definitely sat real close. Something feels off, I don’t recognise the voice but it feels oddly familiar. I suddenly feel a sinking feeling in the pit of my chest as I realise my right hand is bound to a fixture. What the hell ?

“Well great” I mutter, “because if you’re about to try and charge me extra for breakfast you got another think coming”.

The noise of the leather on the backrest tells me she straightens on her seat, stays silent for a second. I can’t tell if it’s just us two in there, but something tells me I wouldn’t be surprised if it weren’t.

“Humour”, she goes. “Great, then I guess you’re good to write off the list of casualties for the moment. Mind if I ask you a few questions then ?”

I think I hear someone else’s breathing in the room, perhaps standing in the corner.

“I’m sensing in your tone the answer to that first one wouldn’t do much in preventing others from arising?”

“Aye, that’s true. Although in fairness, it’s not like you’ve got much else to be doing at the moment.”

I groan again. Cracked ribs. Fucking great.

“I scratch your back you scratch my back. Deal? Figuratively I mean”, I feel the need to add.

“Let me clear off the first ones for free, and I’ll give you some more information based on how I like what you give me. The name is DS Róisín Byrne. Standing with me is DC Matthew Delves. We’re investigating some neighbourly disturbance that happened recently by Carrowclare. Rings a bell?”

I freeze for a second. She didn’t mention which unit she works with.

“A few bells ringing still, yeah. Listen, apologies Sarge, someone must have spiked my drink, because I can’t remember much. I hope I didn’t cause the disturbance ?”

“Funny you should say that, Mr. Weber. it’s precisely what I’ve been tasked with finding out.”

“Awfully sorry, I fear I might not be able to recollect enough to be of use. Perhaps you could ask someone else that was nearby at the time ?”

“I wish. Not much left of’em all, sadly.”

Silence falls in the room again. Sarah ? What in the fuck happened ?

“Look, Ro-sheen” I say, trying and failing not to butcher the pronunciation of her name, “if I’m half good at assessing the situation, I went a couple of arse hair away from death. Given the way my whole face is wrapped around I’ll be lucky to ever be able to smile to a girl again without her fleeing screaming, you can’t possibly think I’ve got anything to do with what happened ? Hell, I don’t even know what went down.”

“A fucking bomb went down”. That was Matthew. He sounds a bit older. Big fucker too, and somewhat angry at that.

“No shit” I feel myself grinning, “so you mean that wasn’t just me getting blind drunk off an espresso? I’ve been coming around these parts for years on and off, and all without the slightest hint of a nuke blowing my tits off up until now. What even makes you think I have anything to do with what happened?”

“Like I said, Mr. Weber” Róisín again. “I’ll give you some answers but I need your help. For a start, Matthew and me would need a hand in understanding what you do for a living.”

And there it was. Can’t be left alone indefinitely I suppose. In hindsight I should consider myself lucky to have stayed out of trouble for so long.

“Fuck you. Read my blog. I don’t have anything to tell you.”

Silence answers my expletive. Then she goes on, unruffled.

“Of course, you can see how such an answer doesn’t exactly cast doubt away from you?”

Tough shit. The less they know the better, it’s not like they have any good links between me and a bomb blowing up anyway. I hope.

“I built a successful business as a self-employed goods carrier for private customers. I went big on providing rapid, efficient and discreet services. Retired years ago. Haven’t ever gotten so much as a parking ticket.”

That was the gist of it and true by the strictest legal definition. Of course I wasn’t about to volunteer information on what kind of goods it is I was carrying, or whom I was moving it for. Completely irrelevant to the conversation at hand anyway.

“You explain to me how that says potential terrorist to you and we can talk further. Until that I want you both off the floor of my room, and a lawyer called in.”

“No one spoke of you as a suspect yet, Mr. Weber” she said.

Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck. I don’t like any of that.

“You tell the brief. Now at the risk of repeating myself, please jog off.”

I can tell by the noise the leather on the chair makes she’s getting up. Good. I may just have avoided the worst yet. She comes even closer and makes a smooth noise by where a bedside table would stand. Business card. Bloody lass smells heavenly.

“We’ll be in touch soon”

“Not too soon I hope”

“Have a nice day”

“Will you just fuck off?!”

The click of the door makes a smooth noise and silence comes back in the room. I suddenly realise my heart is pounding painfully and the gauze around my forehead feels icky with sweat. That was way too close for comfort.

Unable to determine a reasonable course of action for the immediate future, I resort to trying and get some sleep. If my intuition talks right, I’ll have some amount of admin work to do in the coming times.