Portent

Her eyes fluttered reluctantly as sunlight warmed her face. Was it morning already? She stretched and heard the whisper of crisp linen as the sheets pulled away from her body. One by one she let her legs drop over the edge of the bed. The room was blindingly bright and made her squint.

She padded out of the bedroom, on autopilot, her brain still foggy from sleep, and turned toward the half open nursery door. She pushed it and tiptoed across to the crib.

A tiny lump lay peacefully under the snow-white comforter. She smiled proudly down on her little man, but didn't try to wake him. As the seconds ticked by, she realised how quiet the room was. No creaks of timber expanding in the warmth of a new day, no leaves rustling on the tree outside, no cars passing, no voices on the street - no anything. Most importantly, no baby snores coming from under the blanket.

"Billy?" she said gently, and laid her hand on the swaddled bundle. Not a stir. "Billy?" she said again, her fingers drew back the cover. She could only see his face in profile. Billy's lips were half open, her eyes registered the blue tinge to his skin and the utter stillness of his chest. It was a vision so horrible it splintered her mind into a thousand pieces.

***

BILLY! she screamed, and shot bolt upright in the bed. Her arms were outstretched. Tom bounced out of the bed, disorientated and frightened. From the nursery, an urgent shriek joined her cry. She blinked twice, separating dream from reality, then sprang from the bed. Her skin was drenched in sweat and her was racing as she ran toward the baby's room. She threw the door open with a crash and snatched Billy from his crib. She inspected every inch of his screaming pink face with fluttering fingers. The dream still vivid in her mind.

"You're ok! You're ok!" she said as she rocked him. The vision of Billy- blue and unmoving was still too real to be dismissed. She kept looking at him, kept checking him, even though he was making enough noise to wake the dead.

"Jesus Christ! What was all that about?" demanded Tom from behind her. April could only cradle her boy as her brain tried to recover from the shock. Tom's fear turned to anger. He threw his hands in the air and stormed from the room.

"You're ok," April told Billy, over and over again, until she finally started to believe it herself.

***

When Billy's cries dwindled to whimpers, she picked his blanket from the crib and wrapped him in it. There was no way she could make herself leave him down, so she took him with her to the kitchen. Tom was standing over the sink with a glass of water shaking slightly in his hand.

"You scared the life out of me," he said, no longer mad.

"It was horrible," she said, holding the back of Billy's head as she bounced him gently in her arms. 

"What was?"

"I saw him dead in his cot. He was blue!"

"It was only a dream."

"No, I know a dream when I have one. This was something else, it was too real. I could see everything, feel everything. It was real."

He put the glass down and came toward her, taking them both in his arms and hugged them to his chest. "You're exhausted, we both are. Look at him - he's fine." She did look down and Tom was right, Billy was even starting to close his eyes. She was too tired to argue, too tired to explain, so she let her own eyes close, to enjoy the warmth of Tom's love. She couldn't explain it but she knew - knew- that this was more than a dream. 

***

Two nights later the dream came again and this time it was worse. This time, she knew what was coming even as she went through the motions. When she drew back the cover, she knew what she would see, which made it even more horrible, more realistic. Again, she woke the house with her scream, and it took her even longer to get a grip on things. This time Tom, was not angry, he was something more worrying. He was frightened, frightened for her. He tried to reassure her, tried to reason with her, but she pushed him away. He didn't believe, he couldn't believe, because he had never seen. April was no fool and she knew there was more to this than a stupid night terror. 

The next morning, after Tom had gone to work, she began researching dreams on the internet. It was mostly rubbish about unresolved childhood issues or daily conflict being lived out in dreams but then she found something called Psychic Premonitions. Dreams of the future, or possible futures. It made terrifying reading. Story after story of people dreaming their own deaths, only to swerve it in real life at the final moment.

She thought about her own dream and her fear grew deeper. Was her premonition unavoidable? She thought about showing Tom the articles, but instead, she wiped the computer history. He wouldn't understand.

That night, the vision didn't come, but she hardly slept with worrying. Tom tried to sooth her but it was pointless. If she was honest with herself, she didn't want to sleep, she was afraid of dreaming.

She started the next day groggy and cranky. Breakfast was a sullen affair and Tom had barely said, "Good bye," before she had the laptop open, scouring the internet for advice. Eventually she found a chatroom dedicated to psychic phenomenon and decided to log in. She posted a question about premonition dreams and was bombarded by interest. They all agreed on one thing, psychic dreams were real, and they were signposts for the future.

Spiritguide443 gave the most useful advice. She said that you had to figure out what you did in the dream that made the terrible thing happen, then change that in real life. It made sense to April, and all day she tried to figure out what it was in her dream that caused Billy to die. She could only think of one thing. Billy stopped breathing for some reason. She would have known - if she hadn't been asleep.

That night over dinner, she explained her theory to Tom, leaving out the bit about Spiritguide443 and the internet. Tom said it could do no harm to get Billy checked out by their doctor and suggested she get a check-up herself.

"There's nothing wrong with me," she snapped.

"Jeez, I'm not saying there is. It's just...well...the dreams and...everything." Each of his words were hand grenades going off in his face, but he failed to see the danger of his actions. The rest of the night passes in sulky silence but eventually she relented and an appointment was made with the doctor.

They were sliding into bed when April turned to Tom and asked, "Will you stay up for a bit and watch him while I sleep?"

"April," he said, the sigh in his voice said everything. It said he thought she was being silly, overreacting, irritational.

"Please," she asked softly, and gave him her biggest doe-eyes.

"Alright, if it will make you feel better," he said, sitting up and taking his book from the bedside table. April rolled over and for the first time in days felt secure enough to close her eyes.

It might have been minutes or hours before she woke, thankfully a waking that wasn't accompanied by manic screaming. She rolled over and saw Tom snoring! She sprang from the bed and raced into the nursery, waking Tom in the process. She didn't even have to go inside the door to hear Billy breathing, and as if knowing she was there, he farted. Little rascal. She went back in to their bedroom leaving both doors wide open. Tom was rubbing the sleep from his eyes.

"You promised," she said, glaring at him.

"I must have nodded off. What's the big deal? I would have heard him if he cried," said Tom, fluffing his pillow. April got back into bed but sat rigidly against the headboard with her arms crossed.

"Come on, get some sleep," he said, trying to draw her lower in the bed. She shrugged off his hand and huffed. "Suit yourself," he said, and turned away from her. She sat there in the dark, furious with Tom, listening to Billy breathing. Slowly the hours passed and the sky outside the window began to lighten. Her eyes closed a few times, but before sleep took her properly, she jerked awake.

The next morning, she drove to the doctor's office like a woman on drugs. After a fidget filled hour in the waiting room, they were called inside. The Doc gave Billy a good going over and declared him as healthy as a horse.

"You on the other hand look like you need a holiday," the doctor said seriously.

"I've not been sleeping so well," she said. She decided to bite the bullet and tell him about the dreams. To his credit he didn't ridicule her, but he was far from reassuring.

"Vivid dreams and anxiety are not uncommon in your circumstances, but the worst thing you can do is to bottle this up. You need to talk with someone who can help you." He was making it sound like she was losing her mind, and she was starting to feel that way. He questioned her further and each probe made it sound like she was depressed, or not coping. She just kept nodding and agreeing until she could get the hell out of his office.

That night Tom asked about the doctor. She lied and said the doctor thought it was a good idea to keep an extra vigilant eye on Billy as sudden infant death was not as uncommon as people made out. Tom looked shocked and asked, "Really?" She knew the look in his eye, he was working at the idea because it wasn't sitting right with him. That night, she pretended to sleep until she knew Tom had nodded off, then she slipped out of the bed and spent the night on the floor beside Billy's cot.

He found her in the morning and went mad. Before she could stop him, he was on to the doctor demanding to know what was wrong with Billy. He listened in silence, his ears glowing red, and when he hung up the phone he turned and this time it was he that glared.

"The doctor said Billy is fine! Why did you lie to me?" She started to cry and tried to explain herself. Tom said she was round-the-bend, and he was going to make sure she saw someone about it, before things went too far. She begged, but he wouldn’t changing his mind. He stormed out of the house, slamming the door, which started Billy crying. April knew she had to do something; she need help, but not the type Tom intended.

That night, she again pretended to sleep, and had to fight her mind to stop it shutting-down for real. She was so tired; she was having difficulty remembering things. Tom had let her down, he had abandoned her when she needed him most. Now there was only one person she could turn to, her Mother.

When she felt Tom's weight settle fully in the bed, she slipped out and stuffed a bag with essentials before going to get Billy. She picked him up, being careful not to wake him, then slipped out of the house. She strapped him into his baby-seat and sat it beside her on the passenger seat. She had to steady herself as a wave of dizziness washed over her. It was only twenty minutes to her Mothers; she would help protect Billy. Twenty minutes, and she would be safe.

She scraped the car against a garbage can as she backed out, and knocked it over. She knew Tom would have woken and she knew he would try and make her stay. She put her foot on the gas and peeled away. How had it all come to this?

She managed four turns before headlights appeared in her rear-view mirror and she knew in her gut it was Tom coming after her. She pressed harder on the accelerator and felt the car shimmy. Up ahead a bend loomed and her wheel pumped across the white line as she fought for control of the car. She was starting to see double and her mind struggled to stay alert. She wrenched the car back across the white line, but it was all too much for her exhausted body. Her mind wobbled and her vision spun. Her eyes closed, and no matter how much she tried, she could not open them again.

***

Her eyes fluttered reluctantly, as sunlight warmed her face. Was it morning already? When had she fallen asleep? She stretched and heard the whisper of crisp linen as the sheets pulled away from her body. She moved her leg to let it drop over the edge of the bed but it collided with something solid. The room was blindingly bright and made her squint. She looked around and recognized nothing, she wasn't at home, this wasn't her bedroom. She moved her hand to the side and felt the restraining bar and she heard the rhythmic beeping of some sort of machine. She looked to her left and saw Tom, slumped in a chair, his hair a mess and a few days growth of beard on his chin. She tried to get up but she was so sore, she winced. The sound woke Tom and he shot out of the chair.

"Where am I?" she crooked.

"The hospital. You went off the road," he said, taking her hand.

"Where's Billy?" she asked, looking around the room. She saw something terrible in Tom's face, a pain so deep, so crushing, she knew the answer to her own question. As the first tears flowed over Tom's face, she closed her eyes, searching for darkness so deep, she would never find her way out of it. 

Magic in the Kerry Sky

Sometimes my breath is taken away by the majesty of nature, like this morning when the sky above seemed painted by the hand of a genius. 

I wanted to share some amazing photos I have managed to click on my phone over the months.

This mornings sky on my way to bed.

The Magic of Banna Beach

Lofty getting in the picture.

 Fire on the Mountain.

 A procession of fluff.

 Holly with a peak of the man above. 

Freedom

The door of the cafe squeaked as it opened and a wave of conversation washed over me. At once I felt at home. The air was filled with the smell of roasting coffee and chocolate. The room held every kind of person imaginable, all happily rubbing along together. There's nowhere in the world like a New York coffee shop...nowhere.

I spotted him straight away, Zak could always stand out in a crowd. He shone, it was his greatest gift and his ultimate failing. His hair swept back from his forehead in a jet-black wave. He was good looking in the way that middle aged men can be. He wore a tailored three-piece-suit, in tweed, and looked cool despite the springtime heat. As if sensing my presence he let the corner of his newspaper drop and glanced in my direction. To say we were friends would be stretching things a long way, past colleagues would be more accurate. I walked across and sat down as he put his newspaper away.

"Of all the coffee shops, in all the world, you had to walk into mine," he said with a smirk. The Bogart quote suited him, he had the same laid back swagger, the same level of disinterested elitism.

"Zak," I said in greeting and draped my jacket over the back of my chair. I should be suprised to see him, but I wasn't. He had a habit of popping into my life when the mood took him.

"Judy," he said and grinned. There was a smarmy tone in his voice because he knew he was pushing my buttons. My name is, Jude, not Judy. I knew if I snapped at him, or showed my annoyance, it would only make his day. I decided to play him at his own game and said nothing. I waited, and little by little the humor vanished from Zak's face. It was he that broke the silence.

"You're looking well," he said and smoothed an already razor sharp crease in his trousers.

"That's nice of you to say," I said and refrained from repaying the complement, another tiny victory. Instead I asked him, "What brings you to New York?"

"I had a bit of business to take care of, a few contract defaulters."

"And you came all the way here to do that yourself? I thought you'd have minions for that kind of thing."

"I shouldn't have to tell you what idleness makes. Anyway its good to step down on the shop floor from time to time. You can miss a lot of the subtleties when you rely on second hand information."

"I guess that depends on the quality of those you have reporting to you." I couldn't resist having a pop at him. He abandoned our organisation a long time ago and set himself up in opposition. Nobody could deny the level of success he enjoyed but he never managed to get the upper hand on my boss. To give Zak his due, he never stopped trying.

"That is a bit judgmental, don't you think? Aren't you the one who is always saying there is good in everyone."

"Some more than others. Look, Zak, you know I shouldn't be talking to you."

"But you are talking to me," he said with a wicked grin.

"It's a free country but..." Zak jumped on that like a dog pouncing on a dropped sausage.

"Free country? Ha! Freedom - the greatest lie of all."

"Are you going to start preaching? If you are I've better things to do," I said, not relishing one of the long winded rants he was famous for.

"Freedom is a myth used to control the masses so the powerful can get more powerful, so the rich can get richer."

"And you are complaining about that? I thought something like that would have been your idea, if it had an ounce of truth in it."

"That particular trick came from your camp. I thought you'd have known that," Zak said talking to me as if I was an idiot.

"You do come up with some rubbish," I said and sat back in my chair.

"It's not rubbish. Your boss is always harping on about how open his company is, how everyone is master of their own destiny and in the next breath he is listing all the stuff you can't do. He makes me look like an amateur when it comes to pulling the wool over peoples eyes."

A waitress appeared to take my order and as she left, her gaze lingered on my companioin and a flush coloured her cheeks. Zak noticed and gave her a smile.

"Still got an eye for the women I see," I said when she was out of earshot.

"And why wouldn't I?" he chorkled then sipped his espresso.

"In our of business, women are weaknesses."

"Hummh! Timber with no knots has no strength! Why don't you come hit the town with me, take home a blond at the end of the night, or two and ...."

"That will be the day! Why have you tracked me down... again," I asked starting to growing weary of him.

"What's wrong with catching up with old friends?"

"We were never friends," I said crossing my arms.

"At least we are old." he said and grinned.

"True," I said, I did have to give him that one. Then it struck me - the real reason Zak was here. "You're lonely, aren't you?"

"Don't be ridiculous," he said dismissively but he crossed his legs at the knee, a sure sign I'd hit a nerve.

"You are! You're lonely," I said and slapped my own knee while I let out a belly laugh. Zak tried to control his emotions but he was never any good at that. His skin flashed an alarming shade of red and something dangerous crossed behind his eyes.

"I've got the world at my fingertips!"

"A world of what? Drooling idiots? Self centered egotists? The dross of humanity?"

"At least I chose my own path. What about you? Incredible power at your disposal but power you can never use unless your handler bids it. A brain in your head that you can't exercise. A heart in your chest you're forbidden to follow."

Handler he'd said! He was trying to make me sound like a trained mutt, and it stung.

"Are you are trying to goad me into doing something stupid!"

"How is it stupid to follow your heart?"

"I already follow my heart! I also follow my head!"

"You do what your told!" he said, getting a little bit loud and attracting a few stares.

I sat back and took a breath before I answered him in more controlled tones. "We can't go around acting like toddlers, doing things just because we get the urge. We have responsibilities to uphold."

"Responsibilities my fucking ass."

"Very eloquent."

"You accuse me of acting like a toddler when the truth of the matter is you, and the rest of your kind want the general public to believe they are free while even you are shackled."

I waved Zak's accusation away. On the surface I refused to be drawn into his madness but deep down I felt a pinch of doubt. In my darkest hours I'd wondered such things myself. I knew the importance of what we did but I could see the double standard at work. I followed the company line because I believed it was for the good of all.

"You're blind, Jude. You're a prisoner of your own making."

"Just because I don't see the world the way you do does not make me blind."

"Have you tried to see things from my point of view?"

"You know I can't do that."

"See? A prisoner. "

"Ok, I don't want to see your point of view. How's that for using my free will."

"Ha! That's not free will, it's doing as your told."

"It's because I believe...this is a ridiculous conversation."

"Freedom of choice is ultimately good."

"Yes I agree but not freedom without control."

"Surely you can see that controlled freedom is no freedom at all."

"No I can't."

"All I'm saying is that freedom and truth are subjective. A man kills his neighbor for trying to steal his wife and it's murder. A country goes to war over land or some high moral code and it's justified. Because it's a whole country it becomes acceptable but the truth is, it's all murder. You dip your hand in a man's pocket and it's stealing, a country sticks it's hand in your pocket and it's tax. I can prove I'm right."

"Are you playing games again, Zak?"

"Not at all. What harm could a small experiment do?"

"When you're involved, lots."

Zak smiled. He liked his rebel persona. He slipped his hand inside his jacket and took out an expensive wallet. He selected a hundred dollar bill and let the note flutter to the ground behind his chair.

"You'll never change, still trying to hoodwink people," I said, draining my cup.

"Not at all. Its money I don't need and won't miss. There's no way I can prove it's even my note. No one can be sure where it came from. It's a windfall, a bit of luck."

The waitress who had served me walked behind Zak with a loaded tray. She spotted the note and stooped to pick it up while we continued talking. She paused for a second before continuing to her next order. Zak smiled in victory and leaned forward, placing his elbows on the table.

"I don't know what you're smiling about," I said, "she just exercised her freedom which goes against all you were saying."

"Not really. She's proven that YOUR idea of freedom, YOUR idea of right and wrong is unnatural. It flies in the face of what people do when they have the opportunity and that is why YOU and that sanctamonous asshole you work for will never win."

Zak didn't see the waitress stop behind him and he jumped when she tapped him on the shoulder. "Excuse me, I think this fell out of your pocket," she said. Zak looked at the money she was holding toward him, and although his lips were smiling, his eyes were furious.

"Thank you so much," he said, taking the note and placing it on her tray. "A tip," he said and the woman's jaw fell open.

"There is no need, its far..."

"I insist," said Zak and gave her a killer smile. The woman beamed and hurried away with her eyes glued to her huge gratuity.

"What was that you were saying?" I asked leaning back to bask in Zak's fury.

"She must have thought we saw her pick it up," he said like a sulking kid.

"Or she did the right thing because she's a good person and good people choose freely to respect the world they live in and the people they live in it with."

"If you're so sure of that, why don't we up the ante?"

"In what way?"

"The next person through that door," Zak said pointing at the entrance. "The very next person! I'm going to make their dreams come true. Everything they ever wanted will become possible, but only if they choose it."

"I don't see how that will prove you right or me wrong."

"Like all freedoms, there is a price. I'm betting when the offering is big enough, even the most righteous person will abandon all notion of society and gorge himself on pleasure."

"Only if they are already that way inclined," I parried.

"Then you pick the subject," he said, and I saw the trap. He wanted this experiment to be mine. I was no wet-behind-the-ears-beginner in this game.

"This is your game, Zak, nothing to do with me," I said, and saw the twinkle in his eye when he realised I was not falling for his lure. Whatever would happen was Zak's doing but I was still interested to see the turn of the card. As if on cue the door opened and a mailman walked in. He approached the counter and delivered some envelopes, exchanged a friendly word and then turned to leave. Zak stood and intercepted him. They both moved left in unison, then again to the right. The mailman smiled and said, "My first tango in ages." He stood still and allowed Zak to move around him.

"Mine too - Simon," said Zak, reading the man's name tag, "but hopefully not our last."

The mailman watched my colleague go to the cashier with a frown. It was certainly a strange comment for a complete stranger to make but unfortunately for Simon, Zak wasn't just any old stranger. I watched the man shrug to himself then leave the cafe. I knew from that moment on, nothing in the mailman's life would ever be the same again.

The End...or is it just the beginning. 

Megan

"Megan!"

Her name echoed through the house and she knew by her mothers tone, she was in trouble. She shuffled off the bed but decided to say nothing, if she was quiet enough, her Mom might give up calling her.

"Megan!" her Mother yelled again. Looked like that plan backfired.

"Coming," she called, opened the door and stepped out on the landing. She looked over the banister and saw her mother standing in the hall with her fists planted firmly on her hips.

"You brought more of those pests into the house, didn't you?" demanded her Mother which made Megan look down at her shoes. Now all the yelling made sense.

"They're not pests," she whispered into her chest.

"What?"

"Nothing," she said sadly, twiddling her fingers in front of her dungarees.

"Get down here before I start squishing them!"

"Mom! You can't!" she said rushing down the stairs as quick as her eight-year-old legs would take her. Her Mom wasn't joking, she would squish them, she'd done it before. What Megan didn't understand was how her Mom had found them. She had been very careful to keep the box hidden when she came in from school. She didn't even take them out of her bag. By the time she got to the bottom step everything became clear. Her school bag had fallen from the hook on the wall, her math and English books were lying on the floor along side an empty box with it's lid half popped off. All over the floor were silver snail trails. It was no wonder her Mom was going crazy. Megan scooped up the box and started collecting the snails and popping them back in side.

"They're disgusting!" said her Mom poking one slow moving guy with her foot.

"They can't help the way they look," said Megan, stooping down to gently pick up the snail before her Mom did more than nudge the little guy. Megan didn't understand why people thought snails were icky, she thought they were great. In her opinion they were the best pets ever.

As she gathered the rest, her Mom noticed a particularly wide slime trail vanishing into one of her shoes lying on the floor. She bent down and picked up the bright red stiletto and peered inside.

"That't it!" yelled her Mother as she began whacking the shoe against the banister to dislodge the snail inside.

"Stop, Mom. You're frightening him."

"I'll do more than frighten him when I get him out. Those shoes cost me eighty euro and now they're covered in slime. Look, look! What's that stuff?" Inside the shoe the snail was blowing white foam everywhere, making an already bad situation worse.

"That's Ed Sheeran and he is doing that because you're trying to bash him," said Megan, holding out her hand to take the shoe. Slowly her Mom handed over the footwear, like the guys on TV do with a gun when a cop tells him to. Perhaps that was what she was - Megan, the snail squad. Now she had the shoe she was able to see the mess Ed had made but it was but noting a cloth and some washing up liquid wouldn't fix.

"Come on, Ed, she didn't mean it," said Megan gently picking her hard shelled friend out of the shoe. Ed made a little squeak which was why she'd called him Ed Sheeran. He was a great singer, for a snail that is.

Once she had all the snails gathered she put the lid back on the box and made sure it was secure. She had her foot on the first step of the stairs when her mom said. "And where do you think you're going, young lady?"

"Up stairs," she said, which was silly because anyone could see she was going up the stairs.

"Not with those you're not. They're going back in the garden where they belong. I am not having a repeat of the bat situation."

Oh! The bat situation - again. Grown-ups never let things go. Megan didn't understand what all the fuss was about. A while back, Dad left the attic ladder down and Megan went exploring. She had found the most gorgeous creature. It had dark fur, nearly black, and was about the size of her hamster. Best of all was he had wings! A hamster with wings! She called him, George. Gorgeous George, and she fell in love with him. He was really quiet and slept a lot but that was only to be expected because George was a bat. He only woke up at night when she was asleep. Megan thought George would be hungry when he woke up so she went to get him a snack. She got a block of cheese from the fridge and left it beside him. The next day she pulled a chair onto the landing and managed to get the attic hatch open with the stick Daddy used. The ladder came down and Megan was able to go check on her friend. She was very upset to see that George hadn't eaten any of the cheese, but he was still there, sleeping. This time she left George some ham.

Everyday she brought George something new but he didn't eat anything. One day she was trying him with some carrots when the lights came on and Megan turned to see her Mother's head poking up through the trap door. She got so mad, she said the place was full of rotting food and the rats would come. Megan told her the food was for George, the bat, not rats. When Mom saw George she said he was not sleeping at all. That night Megan cried so hard she thought her eyes would break. Bat situation or no bat situation, Megan thought her mother was being a meenie about the snails.

"That's not fair, its cold outside," she said, crossing her arms and stamping her foot for emphases. Megan was not about to give up on her friends, not without a fight.

"Either you do it or I will," said her Mom, crossing her own arms and putting on the face she thought was scary, but it wasn't.

Megan shook hear head and tightened her arms across her chest.

"Megan," her mom said. This time her name was said in the voice that was serous, not pretend serous, or serous that Megan could wiggle out of, this was serous serous and Megan knew she had lost.

"OK," she said and dragged herself toward the front door as if the worst possible thing waited on the other side of it. Megan could feel little tears at the corner of her eyes but she wasn't going to cry, she didn't like crying even though sometimes she couldn't help herself. Her mom opened the door and stood to one side as Megan walked to the bottom of the garden and sat down at the base of the wall. She opened her box and picked out the snails one by one, resting them under leafs and flowers, where they would be sheltered from the worst of the night. She left Ed for last and whispered to him as she held him against his favorite place, under the lip of concrete at the top.

"I'm sorry Mom scared you, Ed. She just really likes her shoes, like really really. And you're not disgusting, you're handsome, and talented, and really really wonderful. I guess we might look weird to you too." As she spoke, Ed slowly began to poke out his head and uncurl his eyes on the end of stalks. She kept whispering secrets to Ed until he had a good hold of the wall and she could finally let go of his shell. The very last secret she told Ed was to hold on till tomorrow and she would pick them all up again on her way to school.

Megan turned and walked past her mother sulkily, taking each step up the stairs like the sad girl she was. When her Mom came to her room later with a bowl of ice cream and kissed her head, she was still worried about Ed having to spend the night out in the cold. As her Mom left the room she turned and said, "They like it out side, really." Then she pulled the door closed. Megan put the ice cream on her bedside table and took out six boxes from under her bed and opened the lids. Every box was filled with snails.

"Do you like it outside better?" Megan asked. From deep inside a box came a little squeak and Megan smiled. "I didn't think so," Megan said to her friends and began feeding them tiny bits of ice cream which they seemed to love.

Bang Bang, Baby.

Granny Begley had her brood reared by the late seventies, most of them had already started families of their own. Only Uncle Mike and PJ were still living in the little cottage with Granny and Granddad. The cottage stood on top of a hill and was surrounded by fields, hedgerows and scattered stands of trees. It was an ideal place to call home.

PJ and Mike were typical young lads, always on the go and only seemed to pass through the house. They would fly in the door, wolf down whatever Granny had dished up for dinner, then scoot off on another great adventure. When they weren’t taking cars apart, or working, or planning some stunt; the two brothers loved to go shooting. Both of them had shotguns and brought home the odd pheasant or rabbit. Nothing went to waste in the Begley home and whatever the boys shot ended up in the dinner pot.

Ireland was far from ideal during those years. Our island was still divided by conflict. We were an occupied nation for over eight hundred years. The six counties in the north were controlled by England which was the cause of a violent conflict. On one side lay the nationalists, who wanted Ireland reunited and on the other side lay the unionists, who wanted to remain part of the United Kingdom. It was a dark time in our history and I don't believe any right-minded person would ever willingly return to it. The blood of both camps had stained our nation.

Around that time, a wild cat started turning up Granny Begley's yard, and he was one savage feline. He'd clearly had a tough life and was somewhat of a survivor. Around the cat's neck hung an old rabbit snare and it seemed to have been in place for a long time. Granny tried to take it off but the cat would let nobody go near it. The animal would spit, hiss and growl when anyone approached it. He reminded her of the Reverend Ian Paisley, a particularly confrontational leader of the Unionist movement and who was famous for his thunderous preaching against anything nationalist. That was how the cat got the name, Paisley. Uncle Mike had the bad luck of accidentally cornering Paisley in the turf shed one night and received a dozen claw marks in a dozen sensitive areas for his trouble. After that night, Mike and Paisley were sworn enemies.

One evening, Granny Begley was listening to a news report when Mike came trundling in from work. During the report there was a clip of the Reverend Ian Paisley loudly proclaiming that, "Ulster says NO!" to whatever the other side had just suggested.

"Holy God, that Paisley is an awful thorny yoke," Granny said, shaking her head. Now to his credit, Uncle Mike was half listening to her as he struggled to get out of his concrete stained overalls.

"Thorny is right," agreed Mike, before lumbering away toward the bathroom to wash up for dinner.

"Somebody is going to shoot him one day," she professed aloud.

"What was that, Mammy?" yelled Mike from the bathroom.

"I said, someone will shoot Paisley!" she called back, and started dishing up Mikes dinner.

A minute or two later a shot boomed through the house, causing Granny to clutch her chest in fright, but sadly she was holding Mikes dinner at the time, and it ended up all over the place. Then there was a second deafening explosion from the direction of the bathroom. Granny raced into the hall to find a half-dressed Mike coming out, with a smoking shotgun in his hands.

"What the blazes are you doing!" yelled Granny.

"Shooting Paisley," said Mike, bewildered.

"Not that Paisley!" said Granny, swatting Mike with the tea towel.

"Oh feck!" said Mike realising his mistake. "Tis alright, Mammy, I missed the slippery yoke. He escaped down the field."

When PJ got home and was told the story, he laughed so hard he got a pain in his side. Over the coming weeks, the story of how Mike tried to shoot Paisley made the rounds of all the pubs in South Tipperary, and by accident, he became a local legend.

Understandably enough, the furry Mr Paisley never set foot inside Begley's yard again, and to my knowledge, neither did his two-legged counterpart.

Shuffling Joe

I didn't set out to become homeless, but it still happened. Now I call a whole city home.

Before, I thought there were plenty of spots to take shelter in New York: shops, subways, doorways, malls, libraries, museums. The city seemed littered with warm welcoming places but by my second night sleeping rough, those doors started to slam in my face. Day by day I drifted further into invisibility until the multitudes passed me blindly.

Everyone has their own route to the street and mine was booze. It was a slow decay. First, I didn't even notice it myself. It was a beer after work, then a few more. Then came the liquid lunches and a quick shot in my morning coffee to stop the shakes in my hand. As things gathered momentum, I kept telling myself that I could stop, if I wanted to. By the time I admitted the truth, my job was hanging by a thread and my marriage was on the rocks. The only sensible thing to do was to take a few more shots to block out the pain.

The last months of my old life went by in a haze. When I finally woke up in the shadow of a dumpster, it was too late for anything. The cold of the concrete soon seeped into my bones and I began to hate the people who dropped quarters in my cup. Assholes, one and all. I did manage to make one spot my own; a tiny arch under an overpass. It smelled of trash but it was dry and protected from the wind. It was here that I first bumped into Shuffling Joe or more accurately, Shuffling Joe bumped into me.

It was a terrible night; the rain was coming down in sheets while I lay cocooned like a human taco in my alcove. I’d nearly drifted off, with the help of a bottle of Tequila Rose, when something crashed down on top of me. I lashed out at my attackers, fighting for my life, or so I thought. The truth is, when you live on the street, life is cheap and nobody much cares if yours gets taken or not.

"God-damn-it! Get the hell off me!" I screamed as I battled my way out of my sleeping bag. I expected to feel the bite of a blade, or have my brain rattled, but none of those things happened. Instead, my attacker scrambled away and huddled in the far corner with a haunted look in his eyes.

"Get out of here, this is my place!" I yelled and managed to sit up. The traffic rumbled overhead, the wind made the weeds outside dance, and water dripped through the cracks in the roof; but my uninvited houseguest was as still as the grave. He just crouched there, with a box cradled to his chest, and gazed out into the night.

"Can't you hear me? GET OUT!" I yelled, but he didn't budge. I thought about getting up and evicting him, but this guy’s elevator didn't go all the way up. He was damaged and damaged people are dangerous. Hell, who wasn't dangerous? The tequila was wearing off and I was feeling less than brave if the truth was known, so I decided to stay as far away from him as I could. As long as he stayed in his corner, I'd stay in mine.

"Crazy as a bag of frogs," I huffed, and pulled my sleeping bag around me once more. I'm not sure when I fell asleep, but I did, and when I woke the stranger was gone. I jumped up and checked my stuff. I was sure the guy would have robbed me, but he hadn't. Well, I guess we can all be wrong about people from time to time.

A few days later I saw my visitor again, this time in the food queue at St Mary's community centre. It's a good spot for a warm meal but he arrived late. The kitchen was about to close and only the dregs were left in the soup pot. I watched as he edged up to the counter and stood there. He didn't take a tray like the rest of us did, he didn't try to pocket a few extra bread rolls like I had done. He just stood there as the volunteer apologised for the condition of the liquid being slopped into a bowl. The man just nodded his thanks and hurried over to an empty table on the far side of the room. I could tell he was starving by the way he lapped up the first four or five spoon full of the grease-covered liquid. But something happened, I saw it in his face, it was as if he had been caught doing something naughty and he slowly straightened up, forcing himself back from the steaming meal. With a shaky hand, he laid aside the spoon, then slowly stood. In a blink of an eye, he was gone.

I wolfed down my own meal. I had a date with a bottle of Wild Turkey that the Holy Rollers would confiscate if I broke it out here. As I passed my visitor's empty seat, I spotted his half-full bowl and an untouched bread roll. I checked nobody was watching as I slipped the roll into my pocket, then made my escape. He might be a looney-tune, but I wasn't.

That night, winter kicked in for real and the raindrops were so cold, they pinged as they landed. He appeared out of the night like a ghost, I nearly thought it was my double vision playing tricks on me until he moved into my cave and hunkered down as far from me as he could. The box I'd seen before was with him but nothing else. How could he have so little? Even on the street, we all have possessions, this guy didn't even have a blanket to throw over his shoulders.

"So, your back," I slurred. The ghost said nothing.

"God damn cuckoo. That's you? Are you a cuckoo going to shove me out of my nest?" I asked. It made sense in my head. "Well, I'll cuckoo you if you try it!" I slurred and rolled into the corner, turning my back so I didn't have to look at him lurking in the shadows. I felt the bread roll press against my leg. I’d forgotten I had put it there. I took it out and held it in front of me. There was nothing in my stomach but gut-rot hooch.

"Cuckoo," I said to myself and devoured the bread. It was a dog eat dog world and I would have two if they were on the menu.

After that night he started coming more regularly, particularly as the winter closed in on us. No matter what I asked, he never spoke a word to me. I thought he must be mute, but he sure as hell could hear. I knew he was clever, an educated man, you can just tell, even though the dirt. The more I got to know him the more I was convinced he was different to other street-folk. He was still crazy, bat-shit-crazy, just different crazy than the rest of us. After a while I christened him Shuffling Joe, because of the way he walked. It was as if the weight of the world sat on his shoulders.

Over the years, I got used to having Shuffling Joe about the place, and as hard as it is to admit, I missed him when he wasn't there. His silence suited me. I talked enough for the two of us, particularly when my tongue was loosened up by cheap whisky. We were like an old married couple in the end, right to the end.

Joe left this world as he lived. Silently.

I woke one morning and found him still rolled up in the corner. I got up and gathered my belongings but Joe didn't move.

"Up you get," I said, giving the soul of his boot a gentle nudge. His foot flopped over and settled at an unnatural angle.

"Joe?" I said, my voice hushed, my heart heavy. I knew he was gone before I laid my hand against his cheek and found it cool. I sat back and rested my head against the concrete.

"Guess I'll never know your name now," I said to my cooling friend and felt something hard try to climb its way out of my throat. I forced that feeling back down, right back down, and hammered it home before it got the better of me. Joe's troubles were over but I had issues of my own. It was a new day and it wouldn't block itself out! Time to feed the beast and quench the thirst. I thought about dragging his body outside, where someone else would find it, but I didn't have the heart. I decided just to give my cave a swerve for a while, surely someone would find him, eventually. I was about to leave when I noticed Joe's box, he still had one hand wrapped around it.

"You don't need this no more, Buddy," I said, pushing his stiffening fingers from the aged cardboard. The box was secured with string. I pulled one end and the knot fell loose. I lifted the lid with no idea what I would find. Money, I hoped. What I did find left me baffled. Inside the box, on a bed of crumpled newspaper, lay a small pair of pink ballet slippers and nothing else.

"You really were a screwball, Joe," I said to my recently deceased cave mate. I was about to toss the box aside but then I remembered how much Joe cared for it. As stupid as it seemed, I couldn't make my fingers let go. With a roll of my eyes, I put the lid back on the box and stuffed it in my pack with the rest of my stuff.

"If they guys down the mission see you with these," I said to myself, "you better stay out of the showers for a month, or even a year." I shouldered my bag and left the cave for the last time. I took a last look at Joe and wondered who he was. An enigma, wrapped in a mystery, wrapped in rags.

That night, I got more out of my head than ever before. The booze blacked out everything and it was only when I found the shoes in my pack the following day did that I thought about Joe again. I sat on a bench in Central Park and took out one of the slippers. It wasn't new, I could see the way the inside had been moulded to fit a delicate foot after hours of practice. Although the Satan still was lush, it held a smudge here and there. Whoever wore them had a tiny foot. It hadn't been Joe, that's for sure, but it might have been someone Joe loved. As I sat there, I knew I had no right to keep these things, they meant nothing to me but someone else might treasure them. I rummaged through the papers but there was nothing else in the box. That was when I spotted a yellowed label on the underside of the lid. It had the name of a shop on it. Suzette's. The address was in the West Village which wasn't so far away. With nothing else to do and a hangover to walk off, I headed south into unfamiliar territory.

I never felt comfortable in Manhattan, I guess I was never a Manhattan kind of guy. When I eventually found, Suzette’s, it turned out to be a brownstone building on an idyllic tree-lined street. It was a dream place to live, a dream from a life I once knew. I tried the door but it was locked. I pressed the bell, but nobody came. I was tired so I took a seat on the steps to rest. About an hour later, a lady in her sixties mounted the step and gave me a wary look as she swerved around me. She smelled expensive and existed in a cloud of floating scarves. She put a key in the door and I decided to ask if she was Suzette. The lady stopped with one hand on the key as she turned to look at me.

"In a way, I guess I am. Why do you ask?" she said, her accent sounded like money, but it wasn't hard. Still, she was far from welcoming. I took out the box and handed it to her.

"I have these," I said and handed her the box. She opened the lid, as if she expected to find a turd inside. When she saw the shoes, her face softened and she lifted one out with great care.

"I haven't seen any of these in...well... twenty years or more. Where did you get them?"

"A friend of mine had them. I was hoping to get them back to his family if I could." I said.

"And what was your friends name," asked the lady, still stroking the side of one pretty slipper.

"That's the thing. I don't know." The woman looked at me and I could see all the questions flitting behind her eyes but she chose not to voice any of them. Instead, she turned over the lid of the box and gazed at the label which had got me this far.

"You're lucky that this is the original box. It has a ledger number on it. Wait here and I will see what I can find out." The lady unlocked the door and once she was inside, I heard the security chain rattle. I didn't blame her. I wouldn't have let me in either. When the door opened again, she had the box and a piece of paper in her hand.

"I'm sorry to say but I have very little. It's a girl’s name, Annie Leisman, but the delivery address is an investment house on Wall St. That’s all I have. The bill was paid in cash so it's a bit of a dead end."  She handed over the box and the piece of paper and regarded me earnestly. "I hope you get these to Annie. A lot of love went into these. I'm sure she will want to have them back."

"Thanks, Lady," I said, hoisting myself off her stoop. I hadn't got to the sidewalk when I heard the chain rattle again. Wall St? Could Shuffling Joe and Wall St have ever gone together? Only one way to find out I guessed and headed south once more.

It was a long walk, and by the time I reached the address on the paper, the doors were locked for the night. So, I panhandled a few bucks from passing people, got myself a bottle, and spent the night in Battery Park. The next day I went back to Wall St and the address I had for Anne Leisman. It was a typical building for this neck of the woods; old stone, new glass and miles of brass. I got as far as the lobby before a suited guerrilla blocked my way.

"Not today, Buddy," he said, shepherding me back toward the door.

"I'm looking for someone," I stammered, trying to stand my ground.

"And who would you be looking for here?" he said with disdain in his voice.

"A friend," I said, and it was the wrong thing to say.

"Yea, right." This time the hand was less shepherding and more shoving.

"I'm looking for Annie Leisman."

The guy grabbed me by the jacket and half lifted me out of my shoes, "You're looking for a slug in the kisser. Nobody here knows no drunken bum, now beat it," he said, shoving me through the door. I’ve been thrown out of enough places to know how to keep my balance. From the sidewalk, I give the guard a one finger salute and hot-footed it before the cops appeared. 

That night, back in Battery Park, I held shuffling Joe's legacy in one hand and a bottle of cooking brandy in the other. I was on the verge of giving up when I felt Joe's ghost watching me. A shiver ran down my spine and I knew I had to do this thing. I owed it to Joe.

The next morning, the tattered box and a still full brandy bottle were in my pack when I returned to the investment house on Wall Street. I ducked my head in the door but didn't enter. The same suited guard recognised me straight away but instead of going in I beckoned him over to the door.

"I told you yesterday to beat it," he said, as he got closer.

"I know. Just hear me out for a second. I really am looking for someone. I have a box I got to give them."

"Just leave it with me, I'll take care of it," said the guy. I knew the kind of taking care of he would do. Joe's box would be in the first trash can he passed.

"Can't. Got to do it myself. Look, I just want to ask that lady at the desk if Annie Leisman works here. And, I'm stone cold sober," I said hoping the guy would see that letting me ask the lady would be the quickest way to get rid of me. But it turns out he was not that kind of guy.

"You might be sober, but you’re still a bum so, OUT!" he said, spinning me out the door again.

"God damn corporate Nazi," I shouted and snapped out a straight-armed salute. I goose-stepped up and down the steps and could see the guy getting ready to come knock my block off. His huge muscles were straining under his suit. I turned my back on him and moved to the pavement. I sat outside the building with my cup on the ground to collect quarters and asked all the women who went up the steps, "Are you Annie Leisman?"

Three days I stayed sober, and three days I stayed at the door calling out for Annie Leisman. It was looking like a lost cause when a man entering the building heard me ask if a passing woman if she was Annie Leisman. The man stopped and came back down the steps. He was forty or so, rich as hell, with the slicked-back hair of a guy who thought he was the bee’s knees.

"I knew an Annie Leisman," he said, standing before me.

"Does she work in there?" I asked, throwing my thumb toward the door behind my back.

"No, but her Popps did."

"Popps?"

"Yea, the Annie I know is eight. Was eight. She's dead now," said the guy and he genuinely looked sad about that.

"Is her Popps still here? I got something for him." I said, taking out my box and holding it out to the guy. He didn't take it he just looked at me as if trying to make up his mind about me.

"What's in it?" he asked at last.

"Ballet slippers, Annie Leisman's ballet slippers."

"Christ! You got to be kidding me?" The man went pale under his year-round tan and lowered himself on the step beside me. The shock of whatever he knew stopped him from realising he was sharing his seat with a bum.

"What's wrong with that?" I asked, the box still in my hand.

"Charlie Leisman was a senior partner in this company when I was doing my internship. The big cheese, you know what I mean. He was married, with one little girl, Annie, she was eight. One morning, they were all rushing around the house, getting ready for work and school and such. It can be crazy; I got a little girl of my own, so I know. Well anyway, Charlie's wife was going to drop Annie to school and Charlie was coming to work. The all left the house together but Charlie took a call on his cell. He didn't see Annie get out of the mom's car and go behind his. He backed out... backed out... and well he just didn't see her. She’d forgotten her ballet shoes. The next day, Charlie vanished and took nothing with him except those shoes. That was twenty-five years ago. Never been heard of since." The man looked down and seemed really broken by the story. Was it possible that my Joe had been this Charlie Leisman?

I described Joe and the guy sitting beside me nodded his head, "Sure sounds like him."

So, Charlie Leisman, my friend Charlie, was a Wall St guy. You live and learn. I handed the box to the man sitting beside me and said, "Could you get these to Mrs Leisman and tell her Charlie never forgave himself for what happened. He's gone now too, I guess that's all she needs to know."

"She's dead. Five years ago, breast cancer or so I heard."

"Perhaps they will fit your little girl so," I said, and shook the hand of the man who put a name to my friend. I put my bag on my back, the still full bottle of cooking brandy rubbing against my shoulder blade, and walked away from the steps. I saw the man lift up the box and take out one of the shoes that lay inside.

I was on the crosswalk when I felt a hand on my shoulder. It was the guy I had been talking to.

"Hold up! Have you seen this?" he asked, holding out the box. I look at the pink shoes and said sure.

"NO! These!" he said, picking out one of the crumpled pieces of paper.

"The newspaper?"

"Jesus Christ! They're not newspaper," he nearly yelled, but then remembered people were standing around us. He lowered his voice and put his arm around my shoulder to draw me away from curious ears. In a quieter voice said, "They're bearer bonds. Hundred-thousand-dollar treasury bearer bonds. Dozens of them!"

"I don't understand," I said, gazing into the box.

"Its money, lots of money. Could be two million or more!"

"I swear I didn't steal it," I said, throwing up my hands and backing away from the box. The guy started to laugh.

"I know you didn't, but you have them, which makes them yours."

"They were Charlies, not mine."

"Charlie has nobody left. If they go back into the system they will be gobbled up by taxes and fees. I think Charlie wanted you to have them. Look, come up to my office and I will talk you through it. You can't go walking around New York with millions stuffed in a shoe box."

"Charlie did."

"I guess he did," said the guy, patting me on the back. I carefully put the lid back on the box and followed the guy up the steps to the investment brokers. I didn't even register the furious look the security guard gave me as I passed, I was in too much shock. I was a millionaire.

That was five years ago and now I have a small apartment of my own. I still go down to St Mary's, but as a volunteer. I miss my friend all the time and often think the world would be a nicer place if we all talked a little less. I could never get the hang of calling him Charlie, he would always be Shuffling Joe to me. It turned out there was 2.9 Million dollars in his box and although the government took its share, I have more than enough left to see me off to the next world. At home, my home, I have two things that I will never part with. One is a pair of pink ballet slippers, sitting in a tatty cardboard box and beside them stands a still closed bottle of cooking brandy.

I often think of my friend and wonder if he found peace at last.