Chapter Twelve #2
I have a sudden memory of me and Roo sitting in her bedroom on my fourteenth birthday, the day she gave me my first deck of tarot cards.
She was the only person outside my family who even knew or cared it was my birthday.
She already had her own deck, passed down to her by an older Spanish cousin a year before.
‘I don’t really think they can tell the future,’ Roo said thoughtfully, the first time she did a reading for me.
‘But Carlota says they can help you deal with the present.’
And on the day I turned fourteen, she handed me a small box wrapped up in a blue silk scarf.
‘You’ll have to give me back the scarf,’ she said apologetically. ‘I borrowed it off my mam.’
I didn’t answer her. I was too busy gazing in awe at the gorgeous Morgan-Greer tarot deck, with its colourful 1970s artwork. As I took it out of its silk wrappings, something sparkling fell onto the bed. I gasped as I picked it up. It was a small, smooth, colourful stone.
‘It’s a rainbow opal to cleanse the cards,’ said Roo. ‘They used to belong to a friend of Carlota’s.’ She nodded at me solemnly. ‘But they’re all yours now.’
I held the stone up to the light. ‘It’s beautiful!’
‘It’s a protective stone,’ said Roo. ‘You can carry it in your pocket and hold it whenever you feel worried. It can cheer you up.’
‘Do you have one?’ I said.
‘I don’t need one,’ said Roo. ‘I don’t worry all the time. But you do.’
I stared at the rainbow opal.
‘It’s the best present anyone’s ever given me,’ I said.
It’s still the best present anyone has ever given me. It was the first time in my increasingly anxious life that I felt fully understood. It was the first time in my life someone outside my family told me, albeit indirectly, that they loved me.
I treasured that opal for years. I kept it in my pocket during exams, on my way to dates, during job interviews, until it vanished during one of my many house moves. I remember frantically searching for it before I went for my first meeting at Our Toon and realising it had gone forever.
But now here’s Roo handing me another one.
‘For protection,’ she says. ‘But mostly,’ she adds, as I take the ring from her outstretched hand, ‘because it goes with all your many ridiculously colourful outfits.’
I slip it onto the ring finger of my right hand. It fits perfectly.
‘I love it.’ Tears sting my eyes. ‘I love it so much. Thanks, Roo.’
‘I mean, I’m not a hundred per cent sure you really do have enemies,’ says Roo. ‘And even if you do, well, we both know the ring might not do much. But it can’t hurt.’
‘I’ll take all the help I can get,’ I say.
As I walk into the IBC building, I twist the shimmering ring around my finger.
I don’t think either Roo or I seriously believe in the ring’s protective powers these days, but looking at it reminds me, like the stone she gave me over twenty years ago, that I have a good friend who cares about me, and that genuinely does make me feel better, and braver.
Art’s already at his desk when I enter our office. He looks up and blinks in what looks like genuine surprise.
‘Wow,’ he says.
It does not sound like an impressed ‘wow’.
I look at him suspiciously. ‘Wow, what?’
‘Those are very bright trousers,’ says Art. ‘Are they blue and pink?’
‘They’re blue with a fine fuchsia check,’ I say.
Art shakes his head. ‘It’s all very … vivid.’
‘I’ll take that as a compliment coming from you,’ I say. ‘Are you actually allergic to colour?’
‘I don’t need colour to draw attention to myself,’ says Art loftily.
‘Is that why you dress like a 1930s art student who ran off to fight in the Spanish Civil War?’
‘Is that meant to be an insult?’ says Art.
‘More an expression of deep concern,’ I say.
We’re back to normal! Insulting each other’s clothes! It’s like the whole … incident on Friday never happened.
Brilliant. Great.
I sit down at my desk and turn on my laptop.
‘Is your script present and correct?’ says Art.
I try to hide my relief when I see that it is. I’d backed it up anyway, but it’s good to know no one tried to mess with it. ‘Yup. How about you?’
‘Mine’s fine,’ he says. ‘I knew it would be.’
Of course he did. I put on my headphones and set to work. I do my best to ignore the nervous energy still coursing around my system, and I almost succeed.
Shortly before one there’s a knock on our office door and Simon comes in.
‘We’re going to the canteen,’ he says. ‘Want to join us?’
‘Sounds good,’ says Art. ‘I could do with a break.’ He closes his laptop and stands up.
I need a break too. But suddenly the thought of hanging out with Simon and Nora and making polite conversation while worrying if they secretly hate me, or if I’m doing something weird to make them hate me, is simply too much for me.
‘I think I’ll keep working,’ I say. ‘I’m kind of in the zone right now. I’ll get some food later.’
‘No worries,’ says Simon. ‘Oh, by the way, did you hear about Adam Pender?’
‘The guy who plays Ritchie?’ says Art.
‘Yeah,’ says Simon. ‘He fell off the fire escape of the hospital set yesterday. Don’t worry, he’s basically fine.’
‘What?’ My stomach churns.
‘Jesus, what happened?’ says Art.
‘He found out about the kidnapping scene,’ says Simon. ‘God knows how.’
‘What do you mean?’ I swallow. ‘Did … would Bernard not have told him about it?’
‘Tell Adam?’ Simon grimaces. ‘No way! God love him, he’s such a liability we never give him any story details before he gets the actual scripts. Especially when it comes to action scenes. Everyone knows he might lose the run of himself again.’
‘And did he?’ says Art.
‘Yup,’ Simon says. ‘He found out Ritchie jumps off the fire escape when Louisa attacks him, so he decided to see if he could do it.’ He shrugs. ‘Turns out he couldn’t.’
Jesus, what have I done? ‘But is he okay?’ I say.
‘Just bruises, as far as I know,’ says Simon. ‘Though I don’t think it helped his knee problem. But he’s not badly hurt. And he’ll be able to shoot your episode.’
I almost don’t tell him that I was responsible for Adam finding out, but I know it’s not right to keep it a secret. Also, Adam could easily reveal what happened. ‘But … I’m the one who told him about the kidnapping. He said Bernard showed him the scene-by-scenes so I thought he already knew.’
Simon sighs. ‘God, Nora’s right. He really can be a bollocks sometimes.’
‘He tricked me.’ I don’t know whether I feel more anger at Adam’s manipulation or guilt that he got hurt.
‘Seriously, don’t worry,’ Simon assures me. ‘There’s no harm done.’
He sounds so sincere I manage to believe him.
‘Thanks, Simon,’ I say. ‘I suppose I’ll know better next time.’
‘Every day’s a school day around here,’ says Simon.
As Art follows Simon out the door he turns and looks at me. ‘Sure you don’t want to join us for lunch?’
‘I’m fine!’ I say brightly.
I’m not, of course. I’m freaked by the Adam news and worried about what might happen if he tells everyone it happened because of me.
But it’s actually easier to work in the office without Art, and by the time he comes back I’m hyper-focused on the script.
In fact, it’s only then that I realise I’m actually quite hungry and take off my headphones.
‘I’m going to get lunch,’ I say, closing my laptop. ‘How were Simon and Nora?’
‘They didn’t reveal any evil plans to me,’ says Art, ‘if that’s what you were wondering.’
‘I wasn’t.’ I’m starting to feel a bit stupid about my sabotage suspicions. It’s not like anything else has happened. My vivid imagination is helpful when it comes to writing scripts, but it also leads to, well, worrying about all sorts of mad shit that will never happen.
‘Simon and Nora are sound,’ says Art. ‘Actually, they showed me how to set up the software so it does offline backups auto-matically.’
‘Oh!’ I say. ‘That’s good.’
‘Yeah,’ says Art. ‘Come here and look at this.’
I go over to his desk and lean over his shoulder.
‘So,’ he says, ‘if you click this …’ He adjusts the settings. ‘Simple! Feel reassured?’
‘A bit,’ I say.
Then I notice something on the screen. The writing credit for each episode appears at the top of every page of a Northside script. And at the top of this page …
‘Art,’ I say, ‘why is your script credited to Arthur T. ó Súilleabháin?’
‘My middle name’s Thomas.’ He grins. ‘What, were you thinking the T stood for “theatre” or something?’
‘I’m not talking about the initial,’ I say. ‘Why are you using ó Súilleabháin?’
‘It’s my name!’ says Art. ‘The original Irish form of my name before our colonial oppressors forced my ancestors to anglicise it. We’re all entitled to use the Irish versions of our names, you know.’
‘I do know,’ I say. ‘But—’
‘I’m surprised at you, McDermott,’ says Art. ‘I wouldn’t look so bothered if you were calling yourself áine Ní Diarmada or whatever.’
‘I’m not bothered,’ I say. ‘I just … why are you using it? You’ve never written under it before, have you?’ I’m not going to admit I googled him, but I remember that all his credits in IMDb said Art Sullivan.
Ah.
‘Is this because you don’t want Northside to show up in your IMDb credits?’ I say.
‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ says Art, too quickly.
‘So you’ve suddenly developed a love for the Irish language,’ I say. ‘Is that it?’ I hear the accusatory tone in my voice and pull myself together. ‘Sorry. Ignore me. It’s none of my business what you call yourself.’
Which is true. So why is it getting to me so much?
Art almost looks uncomfortable, but not quite. ‘Look,’ he says, ‘writing for this show is … it’s very different to my previous stuff. It makes sense to use another name. You know, like how authors use different names to write books in different genres.’
‘You’ve written for different types of TV shows before,’ I say. ‘LA Medic wasn’t exactly the same as Slow News Day. Did you use ó Súilleabháin for that?’
‘No, but that’s not the same,’ says Art. ‘First of all, it wouldn’t exactly trip off the tongue in America.’
‘You could have used another pseudonym.’ I can’t let this go.