Malarky (17 page)

Are these only hints of my depravity? She thought further on the Syrian, wondering what she could get away with, as she swept the fireplace of a morning. Would he even oblige me? She imagines he wouldn't talk rubbish like that blundering bog man. She cringes in memory of you're great, you're great. Syrian baker chatter would be better than have you been to Wales? Was it too audacious of her to consider such a young man might want to touch her, when all he'd wanted that day was to trace the valleys up and down a map. But what was he doing in that library on his lunch hour, why would he approach her, only that surrounded by a circle of hostility and suspicion, it's oxygen he's after.

He could be lonely, looking for someone to have a chat to.

And she'll be certain she's there when the urge may strike him.

It could fail, fail utterly. Then it will fail. It will fail spectacularly and she longs that her husband might catch her in the midst of this Catherine Wheel of failure.

This is Ballina.

Our Woman is reporting to you from Ballina, where she is walking boldly into the PJ section of Penneys with one thing in mind. I want to find The Syrian, if he is to be found. I want to make it clear today I am officially looking for him. If I should die crossing the road, it should be known I was searching for him. I am deliberate in this action. I am not seeking revenge. I am absolute in what I seek. I seek The Syrian. I seek The Syrian for my own purposes. I seek The Syrian to give me an answer.

It could be said Our Woman is attempting an overthrow on cartography. I will place Ballina and Syria on the same map. I will unite us West of the Tigris. West of Roscommon. A road map. We'll come off a boreen onto a modern stretch of road and bump back onto the boreen at the end of it.

A random Wednesday, around noon, she returns to the library on the expectation that lunch breaks for security guards could extend all the way 'til two o'clock. She sits with a horse book, and scans it. Then worried he may not recognize her unless she's reading the Syria book. She places it on the table, but reads the horse book. Curiously today no one male or female approaches and it's a lonely two hours reading a book that doesn't interest her. It's raining, of course it's raining, and a steady gang of people enter the library to keep warm and shake off their drops. The woman at the desk smiles and leans over to take library cards and Our Woman wonders has this woman a happy life and wonders what's in her fridge and whether the woman is wearing tights. Does any woman still wear stockings these days or have we all gone the way of the gusset?

En route to the car, parked at LIDL and out of time, she had the brighter idea to walk through the shops with an eye on the rails and an eye for her man in a uniform. There's only a few places he can work, since there's but a few shops that would protect their giblets from thieving paws. That would be Dunnes, Penneys and Guineys.

He was not in Dunnes. No sign of anything in Guineys except GAA shirts and a banner advertising a raffle for the local boys Gaelic team.

The nightwear section, between an unfortunate lemon yellow set of slinky shorts and shirt with fuzzy trim was where
she discovered him. He was happy. His face animated in recognition, first words, it's you. They were barely into hello when his radio cackled.

—Come on, come on. He signaled she should walk with him across the shop, past mens teeshirts, boys shoes, baby blankets. He continued to talk into the radio and she kept pace, while people passed, grabbed a peek that wondered whether he was arresting her.

At the cash till, there was urgent discussion about whether a woman who left the changing room had or had not robbed a towel and a pack of six knickers. The knickers they're prepared to let go, since if she has them on her they can't be resold, but not the towel. The Syrian was trying to understand the colour of the towel but there was some misunderstanding in the pronunciation of the word peach. Petch he kept saying and peach the girl kept roaring at him. Peach, fucking peach, for Jesus sake.

He took off to confront the towel robber, who feigned confusion at the doorway and handed it over apologizing.

By the time Syria found her again, she was in the boys clothing section, attempting to give the impression she might have a grandchild to shop for, admiring football kits and wellington boots with frogs' eyes on them.

—Sorry. He pressed his two hands together in apology.

—I thought I'd call in and say hello. She said brightly like it was entirely normal to track down security guards who don't tell you where they work. How are you keeping?

—Good, he says.

—Have you been back to the library? he asked.

The conversation continued about the library and was
interrupted twice by the walkie talkie. Overhead page. The emphasis on the first syllable of his name. Halll im.

—That's me, he pointed to the ceiling. That's me. I looked for you at the library, he adds. There's another book I want to show you.

She's in quick, swift as he begins to step away.

—You must call down to the house and visit. I'd like you to meet my husband.

—Yes, he nodded, I want to come.

Another overhead page, Halim to the front counter. He ducked a bit below the rail. Squatted to his knees, ripped a page from his notebook and wrote a mobile number on it. Send me a text. Don't exit by the front door, go out the side or they'll know I've been chatting. Chatting said chutting in his accent. All the way to the door she repeated chutting, chutting. I've been chutting.

As they separate, he waves firmly at her. He possesses a face that could age him anywhere from late twenty to forty five. She hopes he's closer to forty five. She considers that he's gracious, soft and enthusiastic and on her return to the car she considers that he will not suspect what she has in mind for him. The windscreen greets her with a parking ticket. Worth it. Worth every penny. Each digit in that man's mobile phone number has cost her husband several euro.