Acts of Creation
modified on 6/11/98
"Oh, the primal joy I give..."
(from the novelization by Kirk Mitchell)
Gaerity sat at the head of a long table of American paddies, singing as loudly as the drunkest of them. THey'd been drawn to his accent from the first minute he'd bellied up to the bar, and he'd been drinking free ever since.
...feelings dark and passions vain or lonely...
He pounded his glass of porter on the tabletop, letting the foam fly.
A nation once again, a nation once again.
And Ireland long a province be, a nation once again.
The anthem ended with a boisterous cheer and much backslapping. It was amusing, the boozy innocence of these far-flung cousins.
"Mr. Barry," one of them asked Gaerity, "are you involved in the 'troubles' back home?"
Back home, he'd said. The drunk, a confessed cable television repairman, had probably been no closer to Old Erin than the tip of Cape Cod.
"Can't say that I am," Gaerity answered coyly. "I'm from country Kerry, which as you know is as far across the island from belfast as you can get withous getting your feet soaked." He paused, gave them a broad wink. "But I do have my sympathies in the matter."
"And those?" some simpleton pressed.
"Gentlemen, please--the Queen of England's had a rough go lately, what with Charles wishing on the phone that he was some royal tart's sanitary napkin."
They laughed uproriously, and Gaerity's glass was filled again from a pitcher.
He checked his wristwatch. "Now where the devil's Liam?"
"Your cousin?" the repairman asked.
"Yes, distant cousin. First he was to pick me up at Logan. When I phoned him from the airport, he changed it to here. Two hours ago. No, three. He's turning out to be more distant than I imagined."
One of them asked, "What's his last name?"
"McGivney. Liam McGivney. Have you heard of him maybe?"
Lips were pursed, heads shook. "Ain't a local."
"Sometimes he goes by a more English-sounding last name. For business reasons, he says. Now what the hell was it?"
"Sawford? A Liam Sawford comes in here now and again."
"How old's he?"
"Pushin' sixty."
"No, Liam's in his late thirties," Gaerity said. Then he sighed. "Well, it's a lot to ask of poor shirttail kin. Bed, breakfast, and the key to the liquor cabinet."
A hollow-cheeked man took a long pull off his cigarette, then said, "It's a small son of a bitch who turns his back on his family and his country."
"Ah boys," Gaerity said generously, "I'm sure Liam has his reasons. I'll get by somehow."
"How're you fixed, Mr. Barry?" the repairman asked, the clump of keys on his belt ring jingling as he leaned closer.
"Pardon?"
"How're you fixed for cash?"
"Oh," Gaerity said, briefly threading his arm around the man's waist, "thank God--for a moment I thought you were asking if the surgeon had had a go at me parsnip!" More drunken chortling. "I'll be fine. I heard there's a free lunch in this country."
"Not no more." The repairman tossed his Red Sox baseball cap onto the table, and quickly it was filled with ten- and twenty-dollar bills.
"Boys... boys," Gaerity protested, "I can't accept your charity."
The hollow-cheeked one said, "We'd be insulted if you didn't, Barry. No Irishman comes to Boston and sleeps on the streets."
"You're all too kind. And that porter's heavy on me poor bladder. If you'll excuse me a minute...?" Gaerity took a few staggering steps toward the back of the pub, but then spun around on an apparent afterthought and returned for his glass. "It's a long, long way to Zipperary."
They howled.
But as he turned again, his face went taut. He had a faint hope that McGivney had kept his name. If not both of them, at least his first. Some novices found that easier than conditioning themselves to respond to a Bill or a Bob that didn't wear well.
Yet a check of the Boston white pages had left him with no leads.
Alone in the restroom, Gaerity dumped the full glass of porter down the urinal drain, then peed.
He knew for sure that McGivney had reached Boston in 1972. And two years ago an inmate who had come into Castle Gleigh was positive he'd seen Liam on the streets of Somerville, a suburb of Boston, in 1985. They hadn't spoken, and McGivney had swiftly vanished. But a man who'd spent more than a decade in the same city developed connections, private and professional, that might well keep him there as long as he lived.
Gaerity zipped up and went outside to the alley. The repairman's panel truck was parked in the small lot there.
Gaerity couldn't make use of the IRA's Boston liason in his search for Liam McGivney. Personal endeavors were frowned upon, and the brotherhood had graphic ways of showing it's displeasure, the least of which was kneecapping--crippling an errant fellow with a bullet to the knee. Or both knees. Or to the brain, if it was a second warning. And Gaerity already had been warned to lie low until his escape had faded in the memories of the various British law enforcement authorities.
He took the repairman's keys from his pocket and entered the truck through the double doors at its rear. Just as he'd expected. A saddlebag of fine tools.
There he tossed in a trash can down the alley for later retrieval, then went back inside.
"How was Zipperary?" the repairman asked, grinning stupidly.
"Warm and wet this time of year." Gaerity sat down beside him. A moment later, while chatting with another of the men, he casually let the keys drop to the floor. The tinkling sound made the repairman slap his belt, then grope for them in the dimness under the table. He hooked them on, tested the clip a few times with his thumb, and finally went back to his porter.
"Don't be forgettin' this." The hollow-cheeked man forced the wad of bills on Gaerity.
"Like I said, too kind... just too..." Gaerity's voice trailed off, his eyes on the screen of the television mounted to the ceiling over the bar. Any sound from it was drowned out by the noise of the patrons, but he rose as if in a trance.
"Mr. Barry?" someone asked from behind.
Using an empty stool as a step, he climbed up onto the countertop and stood there, raising hysterical laughter from the table he'd just left. He clasped the set in both palms as if holding the face that was flickering there. "... in Cambridge this morning. Lieutenant James Dove of the Boston bomb squad, seen here exiting the building with the twenty-two-year-old intended victim of a murder-suicide plot, is credited with..."
"My God, boys!" Gaerity roared down at the table. "You're damn well wrong--there is a free lunch!"
After the first bombing...
Gaerity strolled past a small greengrocery whos owner was shutting it down for the night. Smoke was still lingering in the heavy air, although the store was two blocks off Memorial Drive. Gaerity halted and turned. "Lovely apples."
"T'ank you." Italian accent.
"You mind if I choose one?"
"If you be quick."
Gaerity stepped up to the bin, began gently squeezing apples. "They're all so firm. How can they be fresh this time of year?"
"New Zealand."
"What's this beauty?" Red stripes over a rich yellow tone.
"Gravenstein." The owner paused in the midst of cranking down the canvas awning. "Some blow, eh? I betcha gas leak."
"And this oddly shaped fellow?"
"Uh... Red Astrachan."
"Good eating?"
"What do you like? Tart or sweet?"
"Oh, the tarter the better."
"You like."
Gaerity started to reach into his pocket, but the man waved him off.
"Why--thank you, sir. Good evening."
Gaerity bit into the apple. Delightful. Must remember the name. Red Astrachan. He made his way at a leisurely clip down to Memorial Drive, where a large crowd was pressing against a yellow streamer strung out by the police. Hordes of police. And more firefighting equipment than Gaerity had ever seen at one time. Different from Belfast or Londonderry. The British Army would still be running the show at this point, the Royal ordnancemen searching frantically for the inevitable second device.
He slipped into the noisy throng.
A barechested youth was jumping up and down on the balls of his feet, carrying on about what a great boom it had been. Oh, the primal joy I give. Long ago, seeing the same reaction from the children of Belfast, Gaerity had been foolish enough to believe that the reason was political. But it ran much deeper than politics. Fire and brimstone were what the world wanted. Not two hundred channels of cable television. Not video arcades and amusement parks as big as Luxembourg. They wanted to see it all come tumbling down--knowing that they'd feel released after the collapse.
A matron ina sequined gown was peering enraptured at the destruction through a pair of opera glasses. The wife of a Harvard professor on her way home from Symphony Hall, Gaerity supposed.
"Excuse me, madam," he said.
"Yes?" Still smiling. Recognized a gentleman when she saw one. Even at a bombing.
"Would you be so kind as to let me have a gander through your glasses? I'd be eternally grateful."
"Certainly."
Gaerity focused on the bomb squad, which was now sifting through the wreckage for clues. "Oh, yes," he abruptly said.
"Something wrong?" the woman asked.
Gaerity wasn't sure. He felt a curious mixture of relief and disappointment. James Dove was alive. He was in civilian dress, a standout among the blue-suited members of his squad.
"No, madam," he finally said, "probably now." He returned her opera glasses to her and strolled on, chewing pensively on the apple.
It was difficult to have absolute control over a situation like this. Too many variables. Too many accidents, both tragic and fortuitous. Yet Gaerity knew what he most wanted. If possible. He wanted Liam McGivney eventually to beg for death. he wanted the final act to be a mercy killing, and unexpected kindness that would bring their torn friendship full circle. Only then would Gaerity himself be released.
And how to do that?
Torture Liam by killing and maiming those closest to him. Make his life so horrible that death would look like a holiday.
Plainclothesmen were sifting through the crowd, notebooks out, asking the inane, listening to the useless. "You there," one of them said, snatching Gaerity by the sleeve. Same engaging personality type the world over. "See anything?"
"Nothin', officer," he said in an American accent, then broke free and moved on. "Nothing except the path before me."
Part three: Gathering the Pieces
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