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LISTOWEL, A SLEEPY little town on the banks of the river Feale, half an hour’s drive north of Tralee, came into view as Janine tried to drag herself out of the mists of her memories. She didn’t know why she kept drifting back to those days. If it was because of taking up painting again or her self-imposed solitude that gave her more time to think, she didn’t know. Perhaps it was simply her mind going through some kind of healing while processing and digesting those memories so she could get to some kind of closure? The memories were bittersweet and made her sad, but she felt she had to go through those days one more time before they could finally be pushed away into the past and she would be able to live again. Ireland and its beautiful, melancholy winter landscape invited this kind of thought process. Time seemed to go by more slowly here. The light and soft air led to a seductive self-indulgent nostalgia.
Janine shook herself out of the long brooding silence and switched on the radio. Listening to a lively Irish jig, she looked around as she drove down the main street. The town was enchanting, like a picture postcard, with old houses painted in vibrant colours, shops, pubs and restaurants with beautifully painted signs. Being there was like stepping back in time or into a delightful movie set in the nineteen fifties. Janine half expected Maureen O’Hara to come running down the street with a shopping basket on her arm.
She pulled up the car as The Wild Geese pub came into view. It had a blue sign over it with the name of the pub painted in a white scroll. The door was the same shade of blue. A man sat on a bench outside, smoking a cigar, enjoying the pale sunshine, which added to the convivial look of the pub. I’ll have a peek just for fun, Janine thought and parked the car. She walked up the street and pushed at the door.
“It’s closed,” a voice said behind her.
She turned around. The man sitting at the bench stubbed out his cigar and rose. “I’m the owner. I close for an hour between four and five, just to get a break. And as today is such a nice day, I celebrated with a cigar.” A stocky man in his fifties with sandy hair and twinkly blue eyes surrounded by laughter lines, his kind face exuded charm and humour. A man who appreciates women, Janine thought as she basked in the warmth of his admiring glance.
“Did you want a drink?” he asked.
Janine returned his smile. “No, not really. I was just going in to have a look. I’ve heard this pub is very traditional. And that you have some nice artwork on the walls.”
“So my pub is even famous in France?” He held out his hand. “I’m Brian Moriarty.”
“Janine Marchand.”
His handshake was firm. “A pleasure to meet you, Madame Marchand. I’ll open up so you can have a look at the paintings I have at the moment. It’s the low season, so there isn’t much right now. He took out a key and opened the door. “After you, my dear,” he said and held it for her to step inside ahead of him.
“Thank you, kind sir,” she said and walked into the dark panelled interior.
“Like jello on springs,” he muttered behind her.
She turned around. “What?”
“A line from a movie.”
“I see. Which one?”
“One of the classics. How on earth do you drive in those shoes?” he added. “Or even walk?”
She glanced down at her stilettos. “French women learn to do that in playschool. By the time we’re ten, we can run marathons in them.”
“With wiggles that could start wars,” he remarked as they continued through the lobby into the pub.
“That, we are born with.”
“I can tell.” He sighed. “Now you’re going to tell me I’m horribly sexist and stomp out of here and slam the door. Preferably in my face.”
She laughed. “Of course not. In France, it’s perfectly acceptable for a man to appreciate women. We find it very charming.”
“It’s a crime here, it seems.”
“If it were a crime in France, most of the male population would be in prison.”
“What a perfect country.”
“It is in many ways.”
“I like your laugh. It has a slightly naughty ring to it.”
They arrived at the bar. Janine leaned her elbows on the smooth counter. “I am slightly naughty sometimes. And very naughty on other occasions.” She looked at him coyly and he smiled back at her in a silent conspiracy.
He nodded at the opposite wall. “So, what do you think of that?”
She followed his gaze and discovered a big oil painting of a seascape in hues of grey, black and blue, the sky brooding, the sea a heaving mass and the clouds threatening. “Dramatic,” she said. “Very good. Except the use of blue is a little overdone and the perspective could be deeper and perhaps,” she cocked her head to one side, “the clouds are a little out of proportion.” She hesitated. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be critical.”
“Don’t worry. It isn’t one of mine.” He studied the painting. “You could be right. There’s something missing in the composition.” He turned back to her. “Are you a painter?”
“Yes. I do paint. I’m not very good and I need practice, but it’s very...healing.”
He nodded. “Yes. It’s a great balm, I hear. I don’t paint myself, but I love art and I love discovering new artists. Maybe you could show me some of your work sometime?”
“I don’t think I’m ready for that yet.”
“I can wait.”
“That would be a long wait. I haven’t done much yet. Two little canvases that are just an experiment. But if I get going and paint a bit more, I might.” She laughed softly. “I was on my way to Dingle town to buy art supplies when I got this strange idea to come here instead. So if I don’t go and do that, I won’t be able to paint anything.”
He walked around the bar to stand behind the counter. “There’s a good art shop down the street. Might not have a huge stock but you could find what you need. Now, can I get you a drink? On the house, of course.”
Janine wiggled onto one of the bar stools. “Let me buy you one instead. As a thank you for opening your pub on your break. And for cheering me up,” she added as an afterthought.
“That’s very kind of you. I would normally say ‘no thanks, I don’t drink on duty’, but I’ll make an exception just for you. It’s not every day a beautiful French woman wearing stilettos comes into my pub. But ladies first. What can I get you?”
“I’d like a small whisky. What would you recommend?”
“A woman after my own heart.” He leaned closer across the counter as the door opened and three customers wandered in. “I should tell you that Bushmills ten-year-old is the best,” he murmured in her ear. “And that Irish whisky is the only one worth drinking. But my favourite is a very old Scotch. Laphroaig single malt from the isle of Islay. The most richly flavoured Scotch whisky in the world. Peaty, smoky, like an Irish whisky, but not as rough. Pure nectar. I could write a book about it.”
Janine chuckled. “You just did. Let’s have two of those, then. How could I resist that description?”
He took out two shot glasses. “You weren’t supposed to.”
“A trap? And I fell into it.”
He pushed a shot glass with golden liquid across the bar. “Most willingly, I bet.” He picked up his own glass. “What will we drink to?”
She held up her glass. “To friendship?”
“Of the flirtatious kind?”
She winked. “Definitely.”
“You have a little dimple in your cheek when you smile like that.” He lifted his glass. “Cheers.”
They clinked glasses and drank. The Scotch was indeed wonderful. Smooth as silk with a deep smoky taste, it slipped down her throat and settled in her stomach with a warm glow.
More customers arrived and Brian turned his attention to them with an apology. The pub was soon very busy, so Janine slipped off the barstool and nodded at Brian, leaving the money on the counter. He winked and mouthed a ‘goodbye, see you soon’ before he turned back to tend to more orders. She glanced over her shoulder as she opened the door to leave, and their eyes met yet again.
-o-
Back home from Listowel, Janine unloaded the car. She could still feel the afterglow of her chance meeting with Brian, and the whisky. She had found the art shop without problem and despite their meagre stock, found most of what she wanted. She bought several canvases of various sizes, tubes of oils and a fine sable brush. On impulse, she had picked out a large canvas, feeling that maybe one day she might paint a big landscape or something abstract in vibrant colours once she had more confidence. It was too big for her to put in the car but the owner of the shop had promised to drop it off at the post office in Tralee. She could ask Beata to get it when she was in town.
She took her supplies inside and stacked the canvases in the living room. She would take them up to the spare room, turned into an improvised studio, later. The room hadn’t been furnished when she moved in. Janine had noticed the bright north light pouring in through the large sash window and asked Megan if she could use it for painting. “I might splash some paint around, but I can clean that up and give it a coat of paint when I move,” she had promised. Megan had agreed and seemed relieved she didn’t have to worry about furniture for that room.
Janine switched on the radio and half listened to the news while she made supper. The usual: a revelation of corruption in the Irish government, demonstrations in Belfast and unrest in Syria. She was about to switch over to the classical music channel when the next item made her gasp. Rooted to the floor, her hand on her throat, she listened to what the newsreader said.
Jewellery theft on the French Riviera.
A lone gunman made off with jewellery and watches worth an estimated thirty-five million euros from a display at a diamond exhibition in the Carlton Hotel in Cannes on the French Riviera earlier today. The man, wearing a mask and gloves and carrying a briefcase, strolled into the exhibition area just before midday. He pulled out a pistol, believed to be a Walther PPK, threatening staff and visitors and filled his briefcase with jewellery and diamond- encrusted watches, before casually walking out again. “It was all over very quickly,” a witness said. “There was no violence and very little shouting. A very elegant raid.” The police believe the thief was alone and had no accomplices. The raid took place in broad daylight at a time when hundreds of tourists were enjoying the early-spring sunshine on the nearby Croisette. It could not have been more daring.
The items exhibited belonged to a well-known jewellery collection, owned by the Greek shipping magnate, Stavros Nikolaides.
Unable to think or move, Janine sank down on a chair. Steve would be livid. Someone had stolen his beautiful jewellery collection. Janine knew how proud he was of it and how he must have relished the idea of it being displayed at the Carlton. She also had a feeling the thief had done this not for money but for the fun and challenge of nonchalantly strolling into a luxury hotel, stealing the jewellery, then calmly strolling out again, probably mingling with the crowd before disappearing to wherever he would be safe.
Could it be Jake? she asked herself. No. He was dead. She had grieved for him and cried for him but cherished the memories of those few weeks they had together. But what she had just heard on the news ripped open a wound she thought was about to heal. It took her back to the last days they shared.
-o-
They arrived at Safaga around noon, the jeep coming to an abrupt stop just as they could see the buildings, the red mountains and the Red Sea in the distance.
Janine sat up and threw off the blanket. “Where are we? Why did we stop?”
“We ran out of juice.” Jake wiped his forehead with the sleeve of his shirt. “And that’s Safaga ahead of us. Great little town.” He took a water bottle from the back seat.
“Doesn’t look that great from here. Just a jumble of low buildings and a port.”
Jake held out the bottle. “It’s a lot more than that. Here. Have some water.”
Janine took a few deep gulps and handed the bottle back. “Thanks. Tell me about the town then and why it’s so wonderful.”
Jake drank some water. “It doesn’t look like much but it’s a popular destination for cruise ships. It’s fairly close to Luxor and all the old tombs and temples. So you can take a bus from here and see them all. And there’s the windsurfing. The thermal winds blow steadily all year round, so it’s perfect for the dedicated windsurfer. There’s also deep sea diving in the Red Sea. And you can take a ferry to Saudi Arabia from here.”
“Is that what we’re going to do? Take the ferry?”
Jake shook his head. “No. That’s what they would expect. If anyone is following us, and I think they are, the ferry and the ships are the first places they’d look.”
Janine glanced nervously behind them at the desert landscape they had just left. “Someone’s following us?”
Jake followed her gaze. “I don’t see anyone right now, but I saw pinpricks of light behind us during the night.”
Janine swallowed, her mouth dry despite the long drink of water. “Oh God, what are we going to do? If they find us we’re—”
Jake grinned. “We’re going to be German tourists.” He pointed into the distance, to the north of the town. “See that long sandy strip? That’s where the windsurfers and divers hang out. Many of them are German. If we mingle with them, we can disappear into some group or other.”
Janine glanced at her flimsy little jacket and wide cotton pants. “Disappear? How? In this outfit, I look as if I’ve escaped from a harem.”
“Don a wetsuit and stick a surfboard under your arm, and nobody will know you’re not one of those surf enthusiasts. Or you could say you’re into scuba diving.”
Janine laughed ironically, despite her fear. “Okay. Snap your fingers and get us each a wetsuit. You could also perhaps get us a magic carpet. It must be a least three kilometres from here to those beaches.”
“Five,” Jake said.
“Wonderful. I suppose you’re planning to walk there?”
Jake shrugged. “Yeah. Unless you have a better idea?”
“Have you seen my shoes?” Janine lifted her foot encased in a silk slipper. “You think I can get there from here in these?”
Jake glanced at the slipper. “Shit. You’re right.”
“And another little detail,” Janine said, irony dripping from her voice. “How are we going to procure those wetsuits in the unlikely event we actually manage to get there?”
“That’s not going to be as hard as you think, babe.” Jake pulled a wad of euro bills from his jacket. “Plenty of cash here. These are mostly thousand-euro bills.”
“Where did you get all that money?” Janine’s eyes narrowed. “You didn’t filch them from my bag, did you?”
Jake looked only slightly embarrassed. “That was before I knew you. When we were having that first drink in Malta.”
Janine glared at him. “So that’s why you were so interested in me. I should have known you just wanted an opportunity to steal my money.”
“But it was so easy,” Jake said. “It was practically falling out of that silly purse.”
Janine didn’t know what to say. He was sitting there, laughing in the face of grave danger, confessing to stealing her money, as if it was something trivial. She knew her instincts had been right. He was a con man who couldn’t be trusted. But then the memory of that first night flooded into her mind and through her body. Who cares, she thought, he is what he is. And he’s doing his best to save us both.
“Ah, come on, honey,” Jake said, putting his arms around her. “We’re in this together. And if I hadn’t lifted your money, we’d be broke. You lost your bag in that storm. Lucky it was empty, if you ask me.”
“Empty? But I had a lot of things in it—my phone and some underwear and my face creams and—”
Jake dug into his pocket. “I rescued your phone on our way down the pyramid. But the rest of your stuff, I’m afraid, was blown away in the wind. But wasn’t that money better off in my pocket than flying into the desert?”
Janine pressed her face into his chest. “I know. You’re right. Good thing you’re such a crook.”
“That’s for sure. Where would you have been with a real gentleman? Back where you started, is my guess.”
“Probably.”
They both looked up at the sound of an engine nearby. “There’s someone coming up behind us,” Janine exclaimed, grasping Jake’s arm. “Oh God, what are we going to do?”
He was about to answer when a battered jeep pulled up beside them, full of scruffy, heavily armed men.
