Away Part 1: 16:35

It was midday before I set out for the next prime minister, Joseph Bryan’s, Irish vacation home. The Torry’s secretary had curtly told me that he and his family were on holiday.
“ Might I ask where?” I had inquired at innocently as possible.
“ Are you a personal friend of the family?” She had shot back and whilst I was contemplating whether or not to lie she promptly disconnected me. Had it been twenty years ago I would have shouted “Bitch!” into the phone but by now I was used to the treatment. It didn’t take me long to find out that the Byran’s( Joseph, his wife Carren, and son Marc) had in fact several vacation homes, a beachside villa in Bonaire, a seaside Irish estate in Cork, a flat in New York, Buenos Aires, residence club in Tokyo, Dubai, Davos, and Canberra, along with of course their “permanent residence” near Whitehall London, and family estate in Cumberland, all looked quite charming from satellite photos, ah Google Earth. These choices alone were impossible to narrow down, that is if they chose to make their “holiday” at a house they actually owned. But there was the second Irish house, down by the sea near Baltimore, it was only an hour away. I could take a chance to poke around and I might just get lucky and come upon old Joseph.

The three lane EU Highway cleared out and narrowed as I got closer to the coast, the sun had come up warming the cattle and horses lounging in the green fields. The checkered fields quickly gave way to coastal moor on both sides, brightly painted little houses peeping out from behind rocks at odd intervals. To the right now I could see the bay, the little town squatting by the water, a fertile hill rising behind it, further back a cliff held the Baltimore beacon, quite a popular post card subject. Little islands, yachts, and sailboats filled the dark blue water. I recalled the last time I’d gone to the beach with Sara, fecking freezing, no swimming wasn’t for me, even the community pool held no attraction for me when growing up at least as far as the water went. I spent loads of time there for other reasons, and when I actually started going out with guys I still told mum I was going swimming, she never knew any better. Of course working like she did with dad gone she probably had little time to even think about if I was going out snogging other boys. She probably never suspected anything, dying last year in that accident thinking she had two great straight children, when in fact Sara was a reformed bi-sexual crack addict and I was the gay full time café waiter, part time private investigator, part part time male escort, but only when cash was tight, what a successful pair of offspring.

The Byran’s house was on the hill behind the town, judging from the photo’s I’d printed off it was a white one overlooking the bay, I’d followed the best directions I garnered after talking to a farmer as to what road I should take to get to my friend’s white house over there. Thankfully the old boy’s indicated road led me right to it, that was a first. I pulled up to the gate, I was expecting it to be a locked iron number with a voice pad but instead it was two simple stone pillars, and a swung open white gate over a livestock grate. Good old Irish security. I’d probably meet a full security force but I continued down the gravel path. Crunching past a horse field containing two large graceful animals, probably worth around a hundred thousand euros a piece, more than twice what I make in a year, bloody rich people. I then passed into the perfect yet natural gardens and I could see the white house to the right of it a greenhouse crouching behind a hedge and to the left a little stone house and garage. I pulled my twelve year old Renault into the ample gravel space in front of the little stone dwelling.

This place was amazing, through the very wide gap between the two houses I could see out to the fields leading to the bay, the hundreds of little sailboats, then more land, checkerboards of fields, little towns, coast and islands, all the way to the blue mountains of County Kerry. The wind whipped through the trees planted around the buildings as I walked down a few steps to the glass door of the stone house. Inside I could see a framed poster of Boticelli’s “Birth of Venus” over a sparse little table. I knocked. Suprisingly, as I was about to turn away the door opened.
Standing there was a very tall boy wearing baggy plaid pants and a tee shirt with two giraffes surrounded by glitter proclaiming London Zoo. His face turned red as I looked back at him apparently very embarrassed to be caught wearing what was obviously his pajama’s. I looked into his eyes, stunning green, under that messy dark brown hair he was quite pretty. So this was Marc. He smiled at me, running a finger through his bangs arranging them on top of his head. The little tart.

“ Umm, who are you?” he finally thought he should ask before making any more eyes with a perfect stranger.
“ Patrick Donnelly,” I extended my rough calloused hand, he shook it with his young, smooth, I’ve never worked a day in my life one. “ You’re Marc right?”
He nodded and smiled in affirmation. Oh God, I just thought, what if I shag the prime candidates son? “ Are your parents in?” I asked instead, “ I’ve some questions to ask them.”
“ No, they’re in France, Paris.” He pronounce the first with the very long deep a Fraaaance, and the second as if it was the most boring place ever and he had already been innumerable times. So not at one of their many homes. I was trying to think of a question to ask him just to prolong my prescence when he said.
“ Do you want to come in?”
“ Uhh,” I just looked at him hardly believing my ears my eyes truly betraying my lust.
“ We could have breakfast.” He suggested.
“ It’s past noon.”
“ Okay brunch,” he rose his eyebrows and walked inside, leaving the door open, I followed. He led me down the amazing hall, on one side a wall of glass to catch the view with a door to the solarium, as if they needed it, the other the original stone of the outside hung with modern paintings a door leading to the cozy living room. The ceiling heightened briefly and we went into a low kitchen.
“ If you’ll excuse me a minute, you can sit in the breakfast room, he beckoned to the sun flooded baby blue room next door. He rushed up the tiny stair case behind the dishwasher to what must be the very small second story. I sat watching the sail boats and exactly three and a half minutes latter he emerged wearing a tight black D&G shirt hugging his well built slender torso, dark washed skinny jeans clinging to his legs making him look even taller and thinner, probably Diesels or maybe Hugo Boss, he had even slipped on dark Gucci loafers and whipped his bangs straight up with gel and hairspray, he looked like a parakeet. From glittery giraffes, to a smoldering exotic bird of paradise. My eyes continued to stare at the perfectly fitted designer clothes I would have killed for at his age and would still today along adorning the body I could die for. He probably could just send mummy to Milan and have her pick up twenty thousand euros worth of spring clothes he would throw out by summer, lucky bastard.
He stood at the base of the stairs green eyes darting.

“ I’ve some Cuisine de France croissants,” he said hurridly in amazing “I’ve been tutored since birth” French embarrassed at feeling my eyes boring into his chest. He nervously crossed to the counter and slid open the bread bin, extracting the white crumpled paper bag.
“ I love this stuff,” he muttered passing me a piece as I sat on the chair, my hand brushed his, I left it there, he did not retract it. “They’re only a from yesterday, so they’re still fresh.”
“ That’s the best way,” I replied standing up beginning to close my hand around his wrist, “ Are you here alone?”
“Yeah,” he nodded, “ it’s easy I take the flight to Cork, then the bus takes me to the bottom of the hill, I love this place so whenever my parents are going away I have my own little holiday.”
During his monologue his eyes had began to scan the floor, he was nervous. I took my pointer and placed it under his chin, he raised it up and looked me in the eyes.
“ Are you alright with this?”
The tip of his tongue darted out onto his bottom lip, “ Incredibly”

Softly the croissant dropped to the floor as he released and turned, leading me by my hand that had moved from his bony wrist into his sweaty palms. We ascended the incredibly narrow, steep stairs. His perfect arse dangled in front of my face as we turned off the first landing and began walking up the next set of six steps, more modern prints surrounded us, hung on the cream walls.
This room of the house, like the rest had the glass wall facing the view which flooded the room in light, hitting the plush Armani Casa bed and Jacuzzi nestled in the corner, more light flooded in past the pine boughs through the sky lights in the triangular ceiling.

The Farm Gate Café was situated in a glass-enclosed rectangle overlooking the English Market in Cork City. Its walls were a dark burgundy to mingle with the darker woodwork and odd wine bottle that constituted as an attempt at restrained classical decorating. Personally I think a better attempt could have been made.
It was a Saturday, and today the shopping streets surrounding the market were packed. The Cork of my birth and childhood was quickly changing. In those days we were all poor, lived in drab gray row houses, and ate our fish and chips in newspaper, if we could afford them. Now the car dealerships, DIY shops, and appliance centers lined the Bandon road: Peugot, Mini Cooper, Mercedes housed in their great, modern, glass buildings. We all had jobs now, we bought new cars, had Sky television. In the city on even rainy days like this Saturday the Parnell Place and its neighbourhood were chock a bock filled with people shopping at Debenham’s, Marks and Spencer, Primark, HMV, French Connection, Brown Thomas, The Officer’s Club, and United Colours of Benneton. We could now also get our fish and chips at McDonalds in colorful cardboard packages. The County Council’s building had been redone to downplay its repressive ugliness, the airport had a new terminal, a new high rise was being built, multi-storey car parks were rising downtown, modern sculptures sat on street corners and served as street lamps now, thanks to the Eurovision Awards. Along the canals the warehouses and dilapidated buildings were all cleared, modern style flats replacing them.

Of course some things haven’t changed. I had reflected as I walked to work a few hours earlier, edging around the queue that had formed around the AIB hole in the wall as the bank itself did not open on weekends. Or past one of the hundreds of pubs with a Guinness mural or more likely Murphy’s this being Cork who did as much or more business as ever. Most of the children walking with their parents wore Gaelic games jerseys, now emblazoned with sponsors across the front but still for hurling, or Gaelic football. On match days most people could be found switching from the innumerable options to good old RTE which never missed airing a big game.

It was a great place to live, I had decided years ago and still held firm to my belief, sure I lived in a shitty flat from the seventies but the private investigation business was picking up and I could dream of a brightly coloured canal side house or maybe a new cottage just outside of the city beside a field with hedgerows, birds, and cows. Maybe I’d move out to Kinsale and be able to see the ocean everyday from my bedroom… But for now I held down my job at the respectable Farm Gate. Certainly a step up from building whose only attraction back then had been the unclothed torsos.
The lunch hour had passed, and the dining area had gradually cleared out, when I came back from my quick smoking break to see the elderly woman with the gray bob and bug eye sun glasses rearranging the flowers of the table she had set at. I grabbed my note pad and approached her.

“Good afternoon, ma’am what would like to drink?”
“ The house white,” she drawled in an implacable accent. As I turned to leave she finished, “ and I’ll have the spinach and goat cheese quiche, the starter size, for my entrée.” I smiled at her and continued into the kitchen, silly old bat, trying to loose weight but eating only the best appetizers.
It took her only a few minutes to slowly consume the miniscule quiche and to sip the glass of wine, the café was empty, she alone at her table. I gave her two minutes after she had set down the fork for the last time to emerge from my vantage point behind the round glass window with the bill. The buzz from the market stalls below softened the silence as I collected the dishes, she was reaching into a bold floral print bag. The woman withdrew fifteen euro in bills and on top of the blue five a business card, my business card.
After setting on top of the check she turned over the side that proclaimed “Patrick Donnelly, Private Investigator” and I could see on the back was scrawled.
The Crawford Art Gallery

Fiona Henry Sculpture exhibition
16:35 in front of the old man’s head

I had barely finished reading this before I realized she was already standing, “Keep the change darling,” she said with a warm smile before clicking out of the café in her trench coat the bag draped over her shoulder. I slipped the card into my stained white apron’s pocket.

Watch for Part 2...