Cecelia Ahern - The Gift

“What do you mean?” She frowned.

“You know — ” He looked left and right and barely moved his lips as he spoke. “Aloysius,” he mumbled.

“Aloysius?” she said loudly.

He threw his eyes up. “Keep it down,” he hissed.

“No.” She lowered her voice. “I’ve never seen the name Aloysius on any of the mail.” Then she smiled, snorted, and started laughing. “Why the hell would there be Aloy — ”

At his look, her words disappeared and her smile faded. “Oh. Oh dear. That’s a” — her voice went an octave higher — “lovely name.”

LOU WALKED ACROSS THE NEWLY constructed Seán O’Casey pedestrian bridge that linked the two rejuvenated north and south quays — the North Wall Quay and Sir John Rogerson’s Quay. One hundred meters across the bridge brought him to his destination, the Ferryman, the only authentic pub left on this stretch. It wasn’t a place for cappuccinos or ciabattas, and because of that the clientele was specific. The bar contained a handful of Christmas shoppers who’d wandered off the beaten track to take a break and to wrap their purple-fingered hands around heated glasses. The rest of the place was filled with workers, young and old, winding down after their day’s work. Suits filled the seats, pints and shorts filled the surfaces. It was just after six p.m., and people had already escaped the business district for their nearest place of solace, to worship at the altar of beers on tap.

Bruce Archer was one such person, propped at the bar with Guinness in hand, roaring with laughter over something somebody beside him had said. All around him were suits. Shoulder pads to shoulder pads. Pinstripes and polished shoes and briefcases containing spreadsheets, pie charts, and forward-looking market predictions. None of them were drinking coffee. Lou should have known. But as he watched them backslapping and laughing loudly, he wasn’t in the least bit surprised. So, really, he had known all along.

Bruce turned around and spotted him. “Lou!” he shouted across the room in his heavy Boston accent. “Lou Suffern! Good to see ya!” He stood from the stool, walked toward Lou with his hand extended, and then, gripping Lou’s hand firmly, pumped it up and down while thumping him enthusiastically on the back. “Let me introduce you to the guys. Guys, this is Lou, Lou Suffern, works at Patterson Developments…” And so Lou was lost in a sea of introductions, forgetting each name the second he heard it and pushing the image of his wife and daughter out of his head each time he shook a firm, clammy, or limp hand. He tried to forget that he had forsaken his family for this. He tried to forget as they pooh-poohed his order of coffee and instead filled him with beer, as they ignored his attempt to leave after one pint. Then after the second. And again after the third. Tired of a fight each time a round arrived, he let them change his order to a Jack Daniel’s, and as his cell phone rang he also let their adolescent jeers keep him from answering. And then, after all that, they needed to convince him no more. He was there with them for the long haul, with his phone on silent and vibrating every ten minutes with a call from Ruth. He knew at this point that Ruth would understand; if she didn’t, then she was an extremely unreasonable person.

Then there was a girl catching his eye across the bar; then there was another whiskey and Coke on the counter. All sense and reason had gone outside with the bar patrons having a smoke, and it was shivering out there, half thinking of hailing a taxi, half looking around for someone to take it home and love it. And then, too cold and frustrated, sense turned on reason and resorted to fisticuffs outside the bar, while Lou turned his back and took sole care of his ambition.

LOU REALIZED HE WAS FAR too drunk to chat up the attractive woman in the bar who had been eyeing him all night, when, in the process of joining her table, he stumbled over his own feet and managed to knock her friend’s drink into her lap. Not the pretty one’s lap, just her friend’s. And while he mumbled something he thought was highly smooth and clever, it was obvious she thought it was sleazy and offensive. For there was a fine line between sleazy and sexy when you’d had as much to drink as Lou Suffern. He appeared to have lost the swagger of charm and sophistication that he’d possessed in heaps when he had first walked in this evening. His crisp white shirt and tie were now stained with whiskey and Coke, and his blue eyes, which usually had hypnotic effects, were now bloodshot and glassy. And so, too drunk to get anywhere with her — or her friend — the more sensible option seemed to be to walk back to his car. And drive home.

When he reached the cold and dark basement parking lot underneath his office building — a walk that took twenty minutes longer than it should have — he realized he had forgotten where he’d parked. He circled the center of the lot, pressing the button on his key and hoping the sound of the alarm or the flashing lights would give it away. Finally seeing the car lights, he closed one eye and focused on making his way to his Porsche.

“Hello, baby,” he purred, rubbing up alongside of it — though less out of love but more because he’d lost his footing. He kissed the hood and climbed inside. Then, finding himself in the passenger’s seat, where there was no steering wheel, he got back out and made his way around to the driver’s side.

After a few moments of trying to get the key into the ignition, he cheered at the sound of the engine, then with his foot pushed the accelerator to the floor. Finally remembering to look up at where he was going, he screamed with fright. At the hood of the car stood a motionless Gabe.

“Jesus Christ!” Lou shouted, taking his foot off the accelerator and banging on the windshield with his hand. “Are you crazy? You’re going to get yourself killed!”

Gabe’s face was blurry through the windshield, but Lou would have bet his life that he was smiling. Then he heard a knock and he jumped, and when he looked over he saw Gabe peering in the driver’s window at him. Lou lowered the window a slit.

“Hi.”

“Hi, Gabe.”

“You want to turn the engine off, Lou?”

“No. No, I’m driving home.”

“Well, you won’t get very far if you don’t take it out of neutral.” His tone was patient. “I don’t think it’s such a good idea for you to drive home. Why don’t you get out and we’ll get you a taxi home?”

“No, can’t leave the Porsche here. Some crazy will steal it. Some looney tune. Some homeless vagabond.” Then he started laughing hysterically. “Oh, I know. Why don’t you drive me home?”

“No, no, I don’t think that’s a good idea, Lou. Come on out and we’ll get you a taxi,” Gabe said, opening the door.

“Nope. No taxi,” Lou slurred, moving the clutch from neutral to drive. He pushed his foot down on the accelerator, and the car jumped forward with the door wide open; then it stopped, lurched forward, and stopped again. Gabe rolled his eyes and hung on to the door as the car jumped forward like a cricket.

“Okay, fine,” Gabe said as Lou lurched the car forward again. “I’ll drive you home.”

Lou climbed over the gearshift into the passenger seat, and Gabe sat in the driver’s seat. He didn’t need to adjust the seat or mirrors as he and Lou, it seemed, were exactly the same height.

“You know how to drive?” Lou asked.

“Yes.”

“Have you driven one of these before?” Lou asked, and then began laughing hysterically again. “Maybe there’s one parked beneath your penthouse.”

“Buckle up, Lou.” Gabe ignored his comments and concentrated on getting Lou home alive. That task was very important at this point, very important indeed.