Cecelia Ahern - One Hundred Names

‘Payback time,’ she said.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

Kitty and Archie sat in the Brick Alley Café in Temple Bar in silence. He held a cup of tea in his hand, she a mug of coffee, and they sat half-turned in their stools, facing one another so that they could see the rest of the café behind them. The mousy woman arrived a little after 8 a.m., on cue as usual, stayed for twenty minutes, drank a pot of tea and ate a fruit scone with butter and jam, as she always did, and then she paid and left. Kitty was the first to hop off her stool. Archie was a little more hesitant.

‘Come on,’ she said, and he grudgingly stood as if a child scorned by his mother. ‘Hurry.’ She rushed him along out of the café and on to the street while he shuffled his feet behind her. ‘We’ll lose her.’

By the time they got outside with all of Archie’s faffing around there was no sign of the woman either end of the street. ‘Ah, Archie, we’ve lost her. You did this on purpose. I should have made you approach her inside.’

‘You can’t make me do anything,’ he said firmly. ‘And we haven’t lost her.’ He shoved his hands in his pockets and turned left, walking without purpose up the road, as if he had all the time in the world.

‘But she’s not here. What do you mean, we haven’t lost her? Why are you walking like that? Archie, believe me, I have enough going on in my life right now without having been dragged here to be fooled.’ She continued her rant while he walked and eventually she fell into a silence and just walked with him, thinking of all the things she could have done that morning that would have been far more beneficial. When they took a sharp right and another right on to the quays they saw her crossing the Halfpenny Bridge.

‘There she is!’ Kitty exclaimed, grabbing his arm excitedly.

Archie didn’t seem at all surprised.

‘You’ve followed her before,’ she accused him, eyes narrowing.

He didn’t respond.

‘How many times?’

‘Once or twice.’

‘Where does she go?’

‘See for yourself.’

They crossed the bridge over the River Liffey and arrived on Bachelor’s Quay. The woman disappeared inside a church. Archie promptly stopped.

‘This is as far as I go.’

‘Let’s go in.’

‘No. I’ll wait here.’

‘Why? We’ll see what she does in there.’

‘What do you think she does? It’s a church. I’ll stay here, thank you very much.’

‘She could go to confession, she could meet somebody in there, pass a briefcase or two, she could sing or cry or strip naked and cartwheel across the altar, for all we know.’

He looked at her intrigued. ‘The way your mind works.’

‘I’m more interested in yours. If you hear prayers like you say you can, maybe there are more people in there that you could help.’

‘Are you doubting me?’

‘I am now, yes,’ she replied truthfully.

He thought about it and then went inside the church.

Kitty watched Archie’s face as he entered. The church was quiet, with a dozen or so people scattered across the pews. It was silent but for the occasional cough and sniffle, which, when started, seemed to flow like a tidal wave through the small gathering and then silence again. Archie closed his eyes and tilted his head to one side, seeming pained. He finally looked around, studying each person. His eyes rested on the mousy woman. She was lighting a candle, then she moved to a pew and kneeled. Archie slowly made his way down the left-hand side and self-consciously shuffled into a row to sit behind her. Kitty stayed where she was at the back. She did this for a few reasons – she wanted to give Archie space, she wasn’t entirely comfortable in churches but mostly because, on the rare chance that Archie did possess the ability to hear people’s prayers, she didn’t want him to hear hers. Kitty hadn’t been lying when she said she didn’t believe in God. She had been christened Catholic but, like most Catholics she knew, didn’t practise her religion. Church services for her were confined to weddings and funerals. She didn’t pray either, not in the sense of getting down on her knees by her bedside each night in a ritual, but occasionally when she felt lost she prayed for whatever crisis she was in to pass quickly and never gave any thought as to whom exactly she was sending these thoughts to. She understood that Archie believed he could hear people’s prayers, that after spending time thinking nobody was hearing his prayers for his daughter he had to somehow manifest the idea that somebody somewhere, if not a god, might have heard him and now he was that person. Perhaps this was to help him believe his prayers weren’t wasted, but that whoever heard them was powerless, just as he was, to act on them. Or perhaps he was simply bonkers. Kitty tried to think of anything but her prayers as she stood down the back of the church, but it was difficult. She had much on her mind, much to worry about. It was so quiet, so peaceful, that the silence was like a wave on a shoreline, pulling her into her mind.

She was worrying about Pete, about Richie, about thinking Steve had been ignoring her instead of the fact he had been defending her honour and how that made her feel, about her story presentation on Friday and then, if approved, having a mere weekend to write it, about having to find a new place to live by a fortnight’s time, about the upcoming job interview, about possibly being involved in the theft of a nursing home bus. But mostly what occupied her mind was how she was ever going to figure out how to apologise to Colin Maguire. At least she was confident on one thing. She had found the way to write Constance’s story and, with or without Pete’s permission, she was going to write it.

After fifteen minutes the mousy woman stood and exited the church. She didn’t glance at Kitty, showing no recollection whatsoever that they had been in the same café three mornings. Archie stood up and left too, passing Kitty and walking towards the bright light of outside existence. They both squinted in the sun.

‘Where does she go now?’ Kitty asked.

‘Don’t know, I never lasted this long.’ He sighed. He seemed weary.

‘How was that for you?’ she asked gently.

‘It’s one thing being in a crowd or on the bus – you hear the occasional thing that someone’s praying for, like people not wanting to be late, praying for good results in school or college, praying for something to happen at work or a mortgage or loan to be approved – but in there …’ he blew air out of his mouth ‘… it’s pretty hardcore.’

‘What did you hear?’

He looked at her uncertainly. ‘It’s kind of … private, isn’t it?’

‘I have to know this stuff,’ Kitty said simply. ‘Otherwise how can I write about it? And it’s not like you have some priestly confidentiality clause that says you can’t tell anyone.’

‘Still,’ Archie shrugged. ‘I’d rather not. It wasn’t exactly pleasant. People don’t usually pray when they’re happy. And if they do, they don’t go in there at nine in the morning on a weekday to do it.’

They stopped walking on the Liffey boardwalk, a promenade hanging over the river, a south-facing set-up for al fresco lunch and coffee. The mousy woman went to the coffee kiosk next to O’Connell Bridge and started setting up for her shift.

‘What do you think I should do?’ Archie asked.

‘I think you should help who you can. I think it will help you. And I think you should start with her.’

They watched her.

‘People are going to think I’m crazy when this comes out.’

‘Won’t it be better than what you say they think of you now?’

He pondered that, then watched for a gap in the traffic and hurried across the road to the kiosk.