Mark Pearson - Death Row

Delaney realised that his daughter had asked him a question. ‘Sorry, darling, what’s that?’

‘I was saying … can I stay the night? Aunty Wendy said it was all right.’

‘Sorry, darling, not tonight.’

‘Oh please.’ Siobhan pulled her most pleading expression, her beautiful big eyes plucking at his heartstrings like Segovia on a banjo. She reminded him so much of her mother. At least he could see the resemblance now and take comfort in it. Months back and he’d have been in pieces, but things had changed. Kate had done more than just help decorate his house; she was helping him rebuild his life.

He ruffled his fingers though his daughter’s curly dark hair again and felt the guilt.

‘Sorry, poppet, I’ve got a really early start tomorrow. But soon, I promise.’

‘What about a fairy story? You haven’t told me a story for ages.’

‘Just a quick one, then.’ Delaney sat at the table and picked Siobahn up, plonking her in his lap.

‘One with magic in it.’

‘All stories have magic in them, darling.’

‘Proper magic. Not just silly words. Anyone can make up silly words.’

‘All right then, I’ll tell you the story of the desert rose.’

‘Okay.’

‘Once upon a time, long, long ago, in a time before man had taken metal from the earth and cracked the bargain they had made with the ancient gods-’

‘What bargain?’

‘They gave us fire so long as we burned only wood. When we took the metal from the earth and burned it we broke that bargain.’

‘You can’t burn metal, silly.’

Delaney’s voice softened, his childhood brogue creeping back in with a sad and lyrical cadence to it. ‘But you can, darling. That magic wasn’t man’s to take, however, and the gods have been angry with us ever since. You see that anger in the melting of the icecaps so the polar bears have nowhere to go, and the angry seas rising in New Orleans and across the world to punish the poor and the defenceless.’

‘That’s global warning.’

Delaney chuckled. ‘It is a warning, yes, darling, not that anyone’s listening, but this happened long before we stole the metal from the underground gods, in a time when tree braches shaking in the wind made music, and the stars overhead sang in the coal black of night.’

Siobhan cuddled back comfortably against Delaney’s chest, listening, her eyes wide.

‘Long, long ago and far away’ — he began again — ‘there blossomed a single red rose. It grew in the middle of the never-ending desert within a ring of sharp-edged rocks in a bed of bleached white sands, and the rocks sheltered her from the biting winds that would spring up as suddenly as a sneeze. Cutting, swirling, hissing winds that raged and howled and danced across the desert like a swarm of angry killer wasps.’

Siobhan frowned. ‘I don’t like wasps.’

‘But although they rasped and scraped and laid low all before them … the winds also carried the little rose seed hundreds of miles from the fertile lands of Araby and left it in the little hollow in the middle of the desert, before vanishing again, in the way of all winds, as suddenly as they appeared. Like a candle being snuffed out. So the little seed was safe where it had been placed, and the tears of the moon in the cool night sky watered it, and the sheltering rocks that ringed her were like stone guardians, so the rose grew tall and proud and beautiful. And the desert loved her. Never in his vast regions had he ever seen something so lovely. So that when the storms raged and the sands blew, the desert stood with the rocks and made sure there was an oasis of calm around the lovely rose.’

‘What was she called?’

‘Just Rose, darling. The rose of the desert.’

‘And what happened to her?’

‘Well, time passed and the little rose flourished. Her delicate red petals were so bright that they seemed to glow in the afternoon sun and her scent was so rare and fragrant and she was so beautiful that the heart of the old desert was nearly broken and he fell even more in love with her. The rose, however, became bored and restless. Nothing ever happened in her tranquil patch and so she wanted to see more of the world. Finally the little rose, sighing with boredom, plucked up her courage and decided to venture out of her little shelter in the eye of the desert. The winds had returned and the rose was overcome with curiosity about what could be making such strange and wonderful sounds. So the rose delicately pulled up her roots and stepped forth, around the corners of the standing stones and out of her patch. And the winds swirled around her, fluttering her delicate leaves so that she almost seemed to dance, and then — as suddenly as a thought — she was gone.’

‘Cheery story, Jack,’ said Wendy, one eyebrow critically bent.

‘What happened to her? Did she die then?’ asked Siobhan, her eyes still wide but a crease crunching her smooth forehead now.

‘Well, darling, the old desert caught a last lingering smell of the rose’s beautiful fragrance and then it was gone, vanished in the swirly air as quickly as you can snap your fingers.’

Delaney snapped his own fingers, making Siobhan jump. ‘And the old desert was heartbroken because he had destroyed the very thing he loved.’

‘Yeah, don’t give up the day job, cowboy,’ said Wendy, frowning.

‘So the rose died because she left home?’ asked Siobhan.

‘Not at all, pipkin,’ said Delaney, grinning broadly. ‘The wind swirled around the rose and lifted her from the floor but cradled her in its airy arms and carried her high, high above the desert and far, far away. Across glittering seas that sparkled like wet turquoise and translucent jade. Over mountains topped with snow so bright and white that it would dazzle you to look at them, over countries with woodland so thick with forests it was like a carpet of branches that stretched from coast to coast, and finally they hovered over a land far below her that was as green as the brightest emerald you had ever seen.’

‘The emerald isle?’ said Siobhan, smiling delightedly once more.

‘Ireland!’ said Delaney, with an emphatic nod. ‘And the wind danced downwards, swirling slower and slower, and laid the rose to rest in the rich and fertile soil below, the sea ahead of her and the rolling hills behind, in a spot that was later to be called Cork in a nook by the sea.’

‘Ballydehob?’

‘No, darling. In a place that was to be called Cunnamore.’

‘Where Mummy came from?’

‘She did indeed, sweetheart.’

‘And roses were her favourite flower.’

‘So they were.’

‘Well, then, that’s a good story.’

Delaney kissed his daughter on the forehead and set her on her feet. ‘Time to get you home for bed. And I have to get to bed myself, pipkin — got an early start in the morning.’

He picked up her coat, which was hanging on the back of one of the mismatched penny chairs he had bought at auction, and helped her shrug into it.

Wendy looked at him, suddenly very serious. ‘Tomorrow morning, Jack, are you involved in the-’

Delaney shot her a warning look to interrupt her. ‘Nothing she needs to know about.’

‘What don’t I need to know about?’ Siobhan asked.

Delaney grinned as he buttoned up her coat. ‘The price of snowshoes in the Sahara.’

‘What?’

‘Just work stuff, darling. Boring old work. Nothing to worry about.’

‘When can I stay over again, then?’

‘Like I say, soon. I promise.’

‘You shouldn’t promise things unless you mean it.’

‘I know.’

She pointed a finger at him sternly. ‘It’s a sin!’

‘Cross my heart and hope to die, should I ever tell a lie.’ He made a crossing gesture over his heart.