Welcome To Wherever You Are (17 page)

TWO YEARS EARLIER – LONDON

The frenzied cheering started before Lightning Strikes reached the climax of ‘Unchained Melody’.

Geri Garland was the only judge to join the audience on their feet, and applauded with her arms stretched high above her head. Clearly proud of their performance, Stuart and his bandmates hugged and frantically bounced up and down before being joined by
Star People
’s affable presenter, Tracy Fenton.

‘Well done, guys,’ she enthused. ‘Let’s go to Rocky Rhodes first – your verdict, please.’

Behind a brightly illuminated TV studio desk, aging record boss Rocky’s body language announced his opinion before he spoke. ‘Gentlemen, I’ll be honest with you,’ he began with folded arms, ‘I didn’t think that was your best performance and I don’t know if it’s good enough for you to win.’

However, the jeering audience drowned out any of his scripted follow-up comments, good or bad. Geri stood up again, and, ensuring the camera was focused on her, gave him two thumbs down.

‘And James Nicholson, you’ve had number ones around the world with your band Driver,’ continued Tracy. ‘Do Lightning Strikes have what it takes to do the same?’

James shook his head and ran his fingers through his hair. ‘I thought it was very average, Tracy. For the final song of this competition, I expected more. I think Rachael might have nailed it.’

‘Finally – Geri Garland.’

‘Well,’ began Geri, looking from side to side at her fellow panellists. ‘I think you two need your bloody ears testing, because that was brilliant!’ she began, and paused until the audience’s roar of approval began to die down. ‘Boys, that’s an old classic, but you brought passion to the song, you made it your own and there will be an injustice tonight if you don’t win.’

‘Twitter, shitter,’ thought Stuart, and behind his back crossed his fingers as a floor manager ushered their fellow finalist Rachael into position next to the band.

Then Stuart held his breath and didn’t exhale for the next eighteen months.

TODAY

Nicole and Eric tucked into their polystyrene takeaway boxes of burritos and salad that they’d carried back to the hostel kitchen from the beachfront.

The more Nicole considered it, the more envious she felt that Tommy had found someone new to occupy his time. It wasn’t that she didn’t want to kiss him during his previous evening’s failed pass, but she was too old for a first kiss fuelled by alcohol and in the most unromantic of circumstances. Besides, she didn’t want any animosity between her and Eric, so she made a decision not to reciprocate Tommy’s clumsy advances.

‘Hi, Ruth,’ Nicole shouted when she saw the hostel’s quietest resident pass by in the corridor. ‘How was your day at Zak’s house?’

‘It was fantastic,’ replied Ruth without hesitation. ‘He has this great big house and a great big garden and we ate caviar and we drank wine – the posh red stuff that costs tons – and we sat by his pool all day.’

Nicole didn’t need to see Eric’s expression to know that he didn’t believe a word of it either. But as Ruth’s fantasy caused no harm, Nicole played along with it. Eric had other ideas.

‘What did you talk about?’ he asked.

‘All kinds of things, really. You know.’

‘Like?’

‘His films,’ stuttered Ruth, ‘His life. And . . . um . . . stuff.’

‘Oh wow, now I’m really jealous!’ replied Nicole, aware Eric was trying to catch her out.

‘I’m going back tomorrow,’ continued Ruth. ‘Zak said we could watch some of his films and then I could go see him make a movie. Zak said he might get me a part.’

Ruth grinned and then headed back to her room, and Eric stifled a chuckle.

‘Go on, get it off your chest. I can almost smell the evil about to come out of your mouth.’

‘Exactly what part is Zak Stanley going to get her in a film?’ laughed Eric. ‘Australian Werewolf in Hollywood?’

‘I really don’t know why I’m friends with you.’

‘Come on, Nic, look at her. One of the most famous guys in the world decides he wants Ugly Betty as his best mate? I don’t believe a word of it.’

‘Well she seems pretty convinced, so what does it matter? And maybe Zak’s fed up of Hollywood bimbos and wants to meet someone normal.’

‘I bet you anything she’s spent the day sitting in a park talking to herself.’

Nicole shook her head, reluctant to concede Eric was probably right. ‘I bet you $20 that she’s at his house tomorrow like she says she is.’

‘Deal,’ replied Eric, and shook Nicole’s outstretched hand. ‘How are you going to prove it?’

Declan wiped his backside with the last remaining sheets of paper on the roll and flushed the toilet.

Although he’d been in the bathroom for just ten minutes, he’d kept the door slightly ajar so as to keep an eye on Matty in the bedroom. His friend lay on his side on the bed reading a dog-eared European copy of
FHM
that he’d picked up in the dining room, completely aware of his best friend’s beady eyes. The furthest they were ever apart was a partially open door – one of several unspoken rules between them.

‘Did you call your mammy?’ asked Declan, drying his hands on his T-shirt.

‘Yeah, she sends her love.’

‘Is she okay?’

‘The usual, a bit tearful . . . you know what she’s like.’

‘And you?’ Declan replied hesitantly.

‘I’m good.’

‘You know we can go back if you change your mind, don’t you? I’ll go with you, you won’t be on your own.’

‘Yeah, I know, but I also know what’ll happen if we do.’

THIRTEEN MONTHS EARLIER – NAVAN, IRELAND

Mr John Wallace was proud to have held the title of Navan’s postmaster for the last thirty-six years. To take the pressure off his arthritic ankle, he leaned against the counter as he weighed Mrs Flynn’s parcel. He approved of her traditional use of brown wrapping paper and string to hold it together firmly, rather than cramming it into a padded envelope and reinforcing it with sticky tape.

It was the sudden hollering that startled him more than the sight of two figures wearing balaclavas, brandishing handguns and standing by his open door. Mr Wallace had survived six post office robberies to date unscathed, and he was confident number seven wouldn’t be any different. He’d learned from experience that the modus operandi rarely varied: remove all the notes from the safe and the till, place them inside the bags the raiders always brought with them as quickly possible, and once they left, phone the
gardaí
. Four weeks later he’d be reimbursed by the powers that be.

‘This is a stick-up,’ shouted Matty, failing to control his trembling voice, ‘do what we say and nobody gets hurt.’

Mr Wallace chuckled to himself, wondering if all armed robbers read from the same handbook.

‘This is a stick-up?’ Declan asked his friend quietly. ‘Who the feck says that these days?’

‘Well, in case you've forgotten, this is my first robbery – have you got something better?’ whispered Matty through gritted teeth.

Declan shrugged so Matty continued. ‘Any of you fucking pricks move, and I'll execute every motherfucking last one of you.’

Declan rolled his eyes. ‘Really? You're going to start quoting
Pulp Fiction
now?’

Matty’s empty threat was greeted by a collective disapproving sigh from the handful of elderly customers waiting in line to be served. Matty and Declan glanced at each other, puzzled; they’d expected to be feared, not groaned at.

‘Is there any need for that kind of language in front of ladies?’ asked Mr Wallace, evidently offended.

‘Sorry,’ replied Matty, before Declan elbowed landed a sharp elbow in his ribs.

‘What was that for?’

‘Why are you apologising?’

‘’Cos I upset the old fella.’

‘Less of the old,’ interrupted Mr Wallace.

‘Little gobshites,’ added Mrs Norton, grasping her walking frame and tartan shopping bag. ‘It’s bad enough you have to rob a post office but to come in and call us . . . what was it again?’

‘Pricks,’ replied her friend, shaking her head.

‘Pricks? The mouthy bastards! Shame on you both.’

‘Ladies and gentlemen, you're missing the point,’ began a rapidly exasperated Declan. ‘We're here to rob the place, not to make friends.’

‘Well that’s a blessing, because with that language, you’re not going to make any fecking friends in here.’

‘Give me your money, everything you’ve got,’ continued Declan, reasserting his authority, until it was Matty’s turn to elbow Declan. ‘Please,’ he added reluctantly.

To a chorus of further disapproval, Declan used his gun to usher the customers towards the wall, while Matty headed towards Mr Wallace. Matty lobbed their two duffel bags over the thick Perspex counter screens, and Mr Wallace complied, stuffing them with euros before throwing the first bag back towards him. He wondered why the postmaster didn’t look more concerned.

‘It's a shame you didn't come yesterday,’ Mr Wallace casually added, ‘Tuesday is pension day, and you'd have got away with a lot more.’

‘Dec, d’you hear that? We should have come yesterday,’ said Matty, lifting the bag from the floor.

‘Don’t use my name, you eejit!’ snapped Declan.

‘Will you be wanting the coins too, Dec?’ added an amused Mr Wallace.

‘Jesus! No, just the notes, thank you.’

As Mr Wallace hurled the second bag over his booth, he couldn't help but notice the barrel of Matty’s gun was solid. He’d been eye-to-eye with enough barrels to spot the difference between a real gun and a fake.

‘Well it was nice to meet you all,’ added Matty, as he and Declan slung the bags over their shoulders. ‘And sorry about all of this.’

‘Ah, don't you worry yourselves, lads,’ smiled Mr Wallace, now the holder of the divisional record of most robbed post office in the Republic. His wife was always proud when his picture made the local newspaper.

As Declan opened the post office door, Matty grabbed a handful of euros and dropped them inside Mrs Norton's shopping bag, offering her an apologetic shrug.

‘Sorry for the bad language,’ he added, before he and Declan bolted out of the door and through the town.

‘Ah, what nice lads,’ said Mrs Norton, swiftly changing her tune once she calculated how many Lotto scratch cards she could buy with her windfall.

Suddenly her attention was drawn to Mr Wallace’s peculiar gasping sounds and she turned her head to watch him fall to the floor, clutching his chest.

TODAY

‘Where’s this?’ asked Tommy, as he swiped his way from right to left on Jake’s mobile phone.

‘This is a wind farm I worked on in White Hill, New Zealand, set in 24 square kilometres of land at the bottom of a hill.’

Tommy and Jake sat under the shade of a lifeguard tower, drinking bottles of beer – strictly prohibited on the beach – hidden in brown paper bags.

‘And this?’ Tommy continued.

‘That’s the Lumbini Buddhist pilgrimage on the India-Nepal border.’

‘How did you end up there?’

‘I was in New Delhi having a coffee enema . . .’

‘. . . as you do . . .’

‘. . . as you do, and I got chatting to the woman who was shoving the pipe up my arse. When you’re naked, flat on your back, cupping your balls with a stranger holding your legs in the air, polite chit-chat’s a good way of stopping yourself from farting five litres of Nescafé in her face. Anyway, she told me about this town supposedly being the birthplace of Buddha, so I ended up there teaching English to the local kids.’

‘It looks beautiful.’

‘Yeah, it is. But the enema was a waste of time ’cos I got chronic dysentery and had to leave after a month. Then it was over to Thailand, Vietnam, Singapore, Australia and New Zealand.’

‘How long do you stay in each place?’

‘It depends. I travel by three rules – never outstay your welcome; leave when no one’s looking and always leave them wanting more.’

‘So I should expect you to disappear when I’m not looking?’

‘It depends on whether there’s something worth staying here for.’

Tommy glanced up and down Jake’s two tattoo sleeves, which appeared to be inspired by religious iconography. The lines of numbers running from just below Jake’s armpit and down the side of his ribs caught his attention.

‘What are they all about?’

‘They’re the map of my journey from the start to here,’ Jake replied. ‘Every time a place inspires me, I get a tattoo of the coordinates.’

‘So you're like a six foot tall Ordnance Survey map.’

‘I guess you can say that,’ Jake chuckled.

‘And what about that?’ Tommy continued, and pointed to a number 23 etched on the skin between Jake’s thumb and forefinger.