Keys of Life

Chapter Four: Faye (She's back!)

Chapter Four: Faye

   I was glad when the three hours were up. It hadn't been boring, just disconcerting. Continually being watched made me feel like a bird in a cage, unable to fly without permission. That I had no control over what Keenan was drawing, the way he represented me, didn't exactly reassure my fragile ego. I could be the wicked witch of the west or the good fairy.

   Sometimes I think that artists have more power than politicians. Being touched by the words of a song or the truth behind a painting was effective in a way a leaflet never could be; it called out to people's hearts instead of their minds.

   The streets of Dublin were full of early morning bargain-hunters, eager to find the dress of their dreams or the sofa that would make the wallpaper match the carpet. The sun shone through the clouds, having won the battle of the previous day. Balls of fluff raced across the sky, and the heat felt as if it was a gift from time itself, handing the world a day from early August. I stretched to catch a cluster of dandelion seeds, the bunch of white, feathery spikes evading my grasp with glee and energetic, good-natured mischief.

   I had no clue what to do. My 'errands' were just made up possibilities to get me away from Keenan. His artist's hands and deep brown eyes made me nervous; they saw too much. He seemed like he could penetrate the smoke and mirrors I clouded myself with, as if he knew how torn up I was inside. He reminded me of Jason, of the times he just knew things through intuition without ever having been told or even given the slightest hint.

   When I was younger, I realised that magic was real; it was just intermingled with life, camouflaged within normality. The supernatural might be in the imagination, but that didn't make it any less genuine, just that it was harder to find. If you looked, there was a sparkle of fairy dust on every rainbow-coloured bubble as the light shone through it, a cupid's grin on every smile born out of kindness, and the gold of a leprechaun in a ray of liquid warmth cascading from the heavens.    

   I hadn't really been surprised when I found a stranger dressed in paint-splattered clothes leaning lazily against the counter. It was time for one of my mother's new 'up and coming' artists to appear. They were like gnomes, popping up when you least expected them, but you always knew when they were about to materialize. There were signs, like a sigh at the end of the phone, or the excitement in my mother's gaze if you went to the gallery. It was her calling, and the painters, sculptors and designers were her disciples, subject to her every ruling.   

   Keenan, though, he was different. His apparent impassiveness to his leader except for the gratitude required was startling. The way his eyes hardened when he asked me about my school, or the flat tone his voice took when he said 'family' informed me that there was a story to tell. His manner contrasted fiercely with his personality, the times when he seemed warm and friendly hypocritical of the ice in his gaze, the steely flint in his eye. Usually the protégés just mumbled some authentic sounding conversation, before turning back to my mother with words of art jargon and an adoring gaze.

  I wandered aimlessly around the city, finding myself heading for the station. My parents had left a message on my phone saying they would be out for the rest of the day, and to make sure there was food in the fridge for Keenan. Never mind me.

   A bus pulled into the stop where I sat, mistaking me for someone who might want to get on. I glanced at the destination, my heart pounding as I read the dim orange lights over and over again in the space of a few seconds. Belfast. I found myself searching in my purse for the twenty-euro note I had put in this morning, shoving it with a shaking hand into the palm of the woman who sat behind the wheel. I managed to choke out the necessary words, gasping for the oxygen that couldn't seem to fill my lungs, no matter how hard I tried. The sun no longer seemed like a gift, more like rubbish on an unbearably hot day that the fates were hastening to get rid of. I sat down. I had no idea of how I got to the plastic chair I was now collapsed on, desperately trying to maintain some kind of facade that would allow everyone to believe that I was normal. I was a dog caught on a leash with no choice, just being tugged along by some kind of higher power.

   I didn't really believe that, though. I was being pulled towards the city by a fatal human flaw, not a divine master plan. Pride. Curiosity. Regret. Nostalgia. Feelings.

   The journey seemed fractured, disjointed. One moment we were in Newry, the next thirty minutes away. A second could seem to take hours, and I gave up on trying to understand any semblance of time. I was sure that it wasn't exactly normal. Then again, when had I ever been?  

   I stumbled off the bus. The familiar sights and the twang of accents I had grown up with sent a wave of peace through me, even as my head was spinning and the honking of taxis was ringing loudly in my ears. I spent a few hours wandering, enjoying the feeling of being able to know exactly which turn to take to get to anywhere in the city. A grimy bar materialized in front of me, its dingy lights shining weakly compared to the natural brightness outside. The exact same one I had run into the day that Jason had died. The same one that had given me refuge, albeit in a scornful manner. Maybe it would take me in again. With a deep breath, I pushed through the door, once again noticing its judging atmosphere of hostility and contempt for what seemed like life itself.

   No one was inside, not even someone to man the bar. Drawing closer to the counter, I rang the bell sceptically as the door closed behind me. Nothing. What did I even hope to achieve? It wasn't as if Jason would pop up from behind one of the tired sofas, confessing that he had been in hiding for the past year and saying that he was sorry he hadn't called.

   "Hello?" I called, feeling more and more idiotic by the second. Was it even legal for me to be in a pub?  

   "Yeah, yeah, hold your horses. I'm on my way," a husky voice shouted from the gloom. He stepped out of from behind a beer-stained door I hadn't even noticed. His big, burly frame filled my vision, before my eyes focussed on a scar that ran the length of his cheek. His ever-present tea towel was slung over his shoulder, the cloth stained with alcohol. His eyes met mine for a moment, filling with recognition. "Oh," he said in a flat monotone. "You."