John Lenahan - Sons of Macha

I hesitated before signing. I had been called a lot of nasty things in my day. Once I had even been called ‘unfunny’ (can you believe that?). But ‘terrorist’ was not something I wanted people saying about me. I imagined that in prison hierarchy, a terrorist would be just a tiny step above a guy who cooks puppies for supper.

‘I don’t think I can sign this,’ I said.

‘You want we go through all this again, O’Neil?’ Agent Murano said, rubbing his knuckles.

‘Well the way I figure it, either I get a beating from you today or I get one every day from my white supremacist flag-loving cell-mate. Sorry, Andy, but I’m sticking with the fire-breathing dragon story.’

‘Sign it,’ the FBI man said as he stepped menacingly towards me.

‘No.’

‘SIGN IT!’

‘Sign what?’ Brendan said as he entered the room. The so-called kidnap victim was flanked by a local cop in uniform and an old, grey-haired lady that I at first thought was his mother. Brendan picked up my confession and scanned it. I kept staring at the wrinkled face of the old lady – something about her intrigued me.

‘So you’re a terrorist now?’ Brendan said to me.

‘Special Agent Murano thinks so.’

‘Did he coerce you?’

‘I’d say he counselled me,’ I replied. ‘Agent Andy is like a shrink.’

Murano bristled and pulled Fallon into the corner. I’m sure the special agent meant to whisper but he was worked up and not doing it very well. I could hear every word.

‘What do you care if I rough him up a bit? According to the report he had you locked up in a closet for a couple of months.’

‘It wasn’t that bad.’

‘Come on,’ Murano said, ‘you probably want to take a few pops yourself.’

‘I’m not sure his attorney would approve,’ Fallon said, pointing to the old woman.

‘No,’ the grey-haired woman said, ‘I’d be fine with that.’

At the sound of her voice all the hairs on the back of my neck stood straight out.

‘No you are not,’ Fallon said to her. ‘You were about to tell your client not to sign anything.’

‘My what?’

‘Your client, Mr O’Neil?’ Brendan said pointing to me. ‘You were about to tell him not to say or sign anything.’

‘Oh yes, I was.’ A look of confusion crossed her face – it was maddeningly familiar. ‘Yes, what Brendan said – do. Or don’t do.’

The old woman tilted her head down and with inordinate interest began inspecting the bulb on the desk lamp.

‘She was also about to say that she would like some time alone with her client.’ Brendan stared at the woman again. ‘Wasn’t she?’

The woman straightened up and hurriedly said, ‘Yes, I’d like to be alone with Master On-el.’

‘O’Neil,’ Brendan corrected.

‘Yes, Prin— Mr O’Neil.’

Agent Murano finally took notice of the woman. ‘Can I see some identification please?’

‘Some what?’

‘Identification.’

The old woman looked like she didn’t know what he was talking about. She looked over to Brendan and said, ‘Can we get on with this?’

‘Yeah,’ Brendan said with a sigh, ‘go for it.’

The woman reached up to her ears and pulled off the marble-sized gold earrings that were hanging from her lobes. She held the two shiny spheres in her palm and incanted under her breath. The gold balls glowed then rose from her palm and encircled each other like tiny binary stars.

The uniformed cop stepped in to get a better look but Murano backed up and said, ‘What the—’ He didn’t get to finish before the two balls shot through the air and exploded into the chests of the two officers. They were thrown against the wall in a shower of light. When I could see again it looked like they weren’t getting up any time soon.

Brendan went through the FBI man’s pockets for the handcuff key while the old woman checked on the health of the cop.

‘’Bout time you got here,’ I said to Brendan. ‘That Fed is a nutcase. It was only a matter of time before he dropped a starving rodent down my trousers.’

I stood up and went over to where the old woman was holding the policeman’s head. I leaned in and took a close-up look at the old woman.

‘Essa?’

She smiled – it wrinkled up her whole face. ‘Miss me?’

‘Essa, you’re so …’

‘I’m so what?’ she said in a tone that sent warning bells exploding in my brain. ‘How do I look, Conor? Tell me.’

‘Well, you look …’

‘If you say “wrinkled” I’m going to chain you back to that chair. For you, I got off my horse and set foot on the ground in the Real World. Because you and Brendan don’t know how to hide, I am what an eighty-year-old woman looks like in this gods forsaken land. So once again, how do I look?’

‘I was just about to say that you don’t look a day over seventy.’

‘Can we get out of here please,’ Brendan said, ‘I’ve just assaulted a federal agent. I’d like to be gone before that appears on my permanent record.’

Essa opened her briefcase and took out a jar of Vaseline.

‘Are we going to slide out of here?’

Essa didn’t even bother with a dirty look.

‘Oak tree sap,’ Brendan said. ‘It was my mother’s idea to put it in a Vaseline jar to get it past security.’

Essa smeared the sap in a circle on the windowless wall. Then she placed her hand on the sticky circle and incanted. When she removed her hand a gold handprint glowed in the brown circle. She straightened up, groaned and rubbed her back.

‘Ready to leave?’

‘I sure am, grandma.’ That got me a dirty look.

She shouted a single word that sounded like a sneeze and the circle silently blew out of the wall. Daylight poured in among the dust and I could see parked cars through what moments earlier had been a wall.

Brendan crouched down and pointed. ‘We have to get past that gate. My car is parked on the other side.’

I walked over to the unconscious Agent Murano. He was starting to come round and if I was honest, I’d have to admit that I was toying with the idea of kicking him in the ribs so he would have something to remember me by. That’s when I saw it. Brendan had emptied the FBI man’s pockets looking for the handcuff key. In a pile on the floor, was scattered change and car keys attached to a keychain that said Porsche.

‘I’ve got a better idea.’

In the parking lot I pressed the fob attached to the keychain and lights on Agent Andy’s white sports car blinked. It was almost like his car was saying ‘Steal me.’ The car, like the special agent’s shoes, was meticulously cleaned and waxed. It wasn’t new but he tried to make it look like it was – right up to the new-car smell air freshener. It was obvious that my torturer loved this vehicle and I was looking forward to smashing it through the front gate. I didn’t get a chance. Brendan wouldn’t let me behind the wheel. He pointed out that he’d been trained in high-speed driving and I had only been driving for a year. I wouldn’t have gotten to smash it into the gate anyway because it was open. We zoomed past a surprised (and soon-to-be unemployed) guard without even a scratch.

It was a tight fit in the car. I got stuffed in to the back and we broke all Pennsylvania speeding laws. After my incarceration I needed some air, so I reached into the front and pulled the latch for the convertible top. The wind took the roof and ripped it right off the car.

‘Oops,’ I said with a smile worthy of Fergal.

‘Yeeha!’ Essa whooped.

I laughed and shouted over the sound of the rushing wind, ‘Where did you learn to do that?’

‘Isn’t that what you and Fergal used to do when you were excited?’ Essa said, her grey hair swirling around the car.