Adrian McKinty - Hidden River

The phone call that’ll change everything….

I dial Ireland.

“Hello?”

“Hello, Facey,” I say.

“Shit, Alex, is that you?” Facey says in a whisper.

“It is.”

“Alex, Jesus Christ, where are you? Still in America?”

“I’m—” I begin.

“No, don’t tell me,” Facey interrupts.

“Ok,” I say, worried now.

“Alex, listen to me very carefully, ok? Pay attention. I’ve been trying to reach you. I’m only a messenger. I’m only a messenger, don’t take it out on me. Ok?” he says, sounding scared.

“Ok, Facey, just tell me,” I say.

“Alex, I wrote it down, let me get the piece of paper, I’m going to destroy the paper once I tell you, can you believe it?”

“Facey, just fucking tell me,” I yell at him, getting impatient now.

“Alex, from channels, way above me, not me, I’ve been instructed to tell you, that if you come back to Northern Ireland, you will be, I don’t know how to say this, Alex, I’ll just say it, they say they’ll see to it that you’re killed. They say if you come back, they’ll kill you. They’ll kill you.”

“Who will kill me?” I ask.

“Alex, oh God, I don’t know, don’t ask me anything.”

“Come on, Facey, I have to know everything.”

Facey, gagging, unable to get the words out. I give him a few seconds.

“Tell me, Facey,” I insist.

“Oh, Jesus. I’m supposed to tell you to stay out of Northern Ireland and stay out of the UK and if they hear that you’re cooperating with the Samson Inquiry in any way, you a-and your dad will be in very serious trouble.”

Facey goes quiet. I can hear him breathing. Someone in the police had passed the message down to Facey. Samson must be close to uncovering some heavy shit. They didn’t have to warn me. Obviously, they didn’t want to kill me, but they would if I showed up in Ulster again. Things must be getting serious. If I returned to Northern Ireland as planned on Friday, by Saturday night I would be facedown in a border ditch. They’d tip off a terrorist cell and get them to kill me. Tell the Prods I was a traitor, tell the IRA I was an important cop. Wouldn’t matter. Of course, it would cause a stink, but not much of one. It would be better for all concerned if I just stayed away.

“Thanks, Facey,” I said.

“Are you ok, Alex?” he asked.

“I’m ok,” I said.

“And you won’t come back, will you?” Facey said.

“No,” I said.

“Good,” Facey said, relieved. He had done his bit, he had secured his career and, maybe just as important, he had stopped his good pal Alexander getting bloody topped.

In a week our money had almost gone and the novelty of living in Denver had worn off. I really didn’t know what to do. I couldn’t go back to Ireland, it wasn’t exactly safe staying here in Denver, and attempting to travel to another city might be the most dangerous thing of all with the cops still watching the bus stations, train stations, and airport. Could always rent a car and drive somewhere. But where? And what if our descriptions had been circulated to the car rental places? Stealing a car was out of the question. Easiest way to get caught. Best thing was to do nothing. Stay put. A lot of cops are lazy and their attention wanders. In another week they’d be thinking about something besides the Klimmer case. A week after, there would be many more pressing crimes to consider and a week after that, we could leave town wearing “We are Klimmer’s Murderers” T-shirts without attracting attention. Besides, we had a clean, rent-free, and safe place to stay, and scoring heroin was easily done with our dwindling bucks a mere fifteen-minute walk from the apartment.

The boy who sold the ketch behind the Salvation Army place was a Costa Rican called Manuelito, nice kid, and he liked me because heroin was a minority taste in this town that was graduating toward crack, speed, crank, and other uppers.

John could have gone home, if he’d wanted. But he chose to stay with me. Doing penance by hanging out with me in exile. I had finally told him everything. I had known John since childhood and to protect him and Dad and everyone, really, I’d kept mum about my resignation from the cops, but now he had to know. I couldn’t go back to Ulster, and he said he would stay with me, at least for a while.

Pat was glad to have us, and when our dough began to run out, he told us about a man he knew who could make us a green card or a J-1 visa. We said thanks, but no, better not get caught doing anything illegal.

Pat had good days and bad days. Sometimes he had energy and would clean the apartment and talk to us, other days he would lie in bed and we would minister to him water and very weak tea. Once we saw the old man who lived on four, but we never saw the nurse. Maybe she’d left and it had slipped Pat’s mind.

All the time, though, we saw the Ethiopians. There were six of them. A father, mother, grandmother, two adult boys, and an eighteen-year-old girl. Only the youngest boy, Simon, and the girl, Areea, spoke any English. Simon and Areea both worked at Denver University as janitors and both were hoping to take classes there in the next quarter. The father and mother both cleaned offices in downtown Denver and the other brother worked in a restaurant. An interesting lot and they made spectacular food and we liked hanging out with them as much as possible. Even though they paid minimal rent, dough was tight and we didn’t like to inflict our presence too much. Still, the dad had character and Simon translated many stories about the corruption and general unpopularity of Haile Selassie, the crazy Jamaicans who somehow thought Selassie was the messiah, and a legend that the Ark of the Covenant was in a monastery in the Ethiopian highlands.

Simon might have had the best English but the girl, Areea, found us the ad. Areea: slender, doe-eyed, straightened hair, tan complexion, pretty. The Ethiopians, improving their reading, took both The Denver Post and the Rocky Mountain News and when they were done Areea brought them up to us. I think she had a thing for John, which showed she was no judge of character.

The ad was in The Denver Post .

Red Rocks Community College seeks teaching assistants for its joint diploma in Irish and Celtic Studies. Teaching exp. a must, college teaching exp. preferred. Contact Mary Block, RRCC, 303-914-6000

Areea thought this would be perfect, considering our Irishness and everything, but neither of us had teaching experience and although short of money this seemed just about impossible. John, though, had spotted something else.

“Jesus Christ,” he said, “Alex, look at this.”

The ad two below Areea’s.

Wanted: Young, enthusiastic activists, who care about the environment, no experience necessary, generous remuneration. Résumés to: Campaign for the American Wilderness, Suite 1306, 1 New Broadway, Denver, CO 80203.

I gave the paper back to John and shook my head.

“I don’t think so, Johnny boy,” I said.

John took me by the arm and led me onto the balcony out of Areea’s earshot.

“Alex, we just go see what it’s all about, we just show up, they don’t know us from Adam, they have no way of connecting us to Victoria or Klimmer. Klimmer was killed by two Hispanics, remember.”

“First of all, fuck that, second of all, we don’t have a work permit,” I said.

“Pat’s friend,” John said.

“John, it’s asking for trouble,” I said.

“Fuck it, Alex, it’s a bloody godsend, don’t you see, it’s why we were here, it’s almost a kind of message, we’re meant to work there, of all the ads Areea could have showed us, she showed us this one?”