Chapter 2: A Strange Awakening
It was not just the loss of his family and the strange disappearance of his apartment that troubled the detective as he sat ruminating on what the exasperating little leprechaun had told him earlier that day. There were other problems in his life. His job, for one. Since the start of these bizarre events he'd been unable to concentrate with anything like his old efficiency; though, to be fair, he had never been the sharpest knife in the drawer.
Nowadays he was being watched very carefully by his chief who considered, not without good reason, that Donnally was losing it. Big time. Much more of his aberrant - what his boss referred to somewhat less politely as "freakin" - behaviour and he would be in real danger of losing his job.
Added to this were the problems of simply keeping a roof over his head. When your apartment just vanishes into thin air that way it's a little inconvenient to say the least. Staying overnight with colleagues was fine for a while, but hospitality had worn thin now and as he was still paying the rent on his own apartment - wherever it was - there was little left over for another place.
He’d spent some nights in bus or rail terminals, sleeping on benches, which was the best he could come up with, never having been homeless before. If the cells in the station house were empty he slept in one of those, explaining his need for sleep as the reason. He could have gone to a relative’s house and asked for help, maybe saying he’d been kicked out for some marital misdemeanour or other, but thought it might cause even more complications. Especially as time went on.
His wife - wherever she was - was still drawing money from his bank account, and who could blame her? After all, he reasoned, it wasn't as if she'd asked to be transported bodily along with her immediate surroundings to god knows where. She was no doubt even more dismayed by the whole thing than he was, having had no explanation at all for this odd turn of events. I mean, how often does that happen? And though she had wanted to move away, this took the phrase "moving house" to a whole new level.
Joe sat, his head in his hands, and sighed. Elves now. Jeez. What next? Fairies? Pixies? The goddam Loch Ness monster? Bigfoot? UFO’s perhaps? He shook his head and heaved another sigh.
It wasn't long before he decided that the answer to his problems lay at the bottom of a whiskey bottle, so he left the station house and headed for the nearest bar. There was no one in there he knew, so Joe felt safe to indulge in his one real weakness.
"Large whiskey, Irish," he gruffly told the obviously gay bartender.
"Oh dear. Had a bad day, sweetie?"
Joe scowled. "Bad? Bad doesn't come close. And not just day either. Try month."
"Oh my! Want to tell me? I'm a very good listener."
"You wouldn't believe me if I did. Nobody would. It's unbelievable. Crazy. Outa this freakin' world."
"Oh dear! We are in a mood aren't we? No need to bite my head off, I'm sure. Never mind, it'll probably look better in the morning. Things generally do, after a good night's sleep."
Joe glared at the man with a look of pure hatred. Never in his life had he been regaled with such vacuous inanities or, in Joe's mind, "bullshit". He swallowed the drink in one go and ordered another, settling himself onto a stool. Several large ones later - he wasn't counting after all - a strange thing happened.
Now the detective was getting used to strange things happening, to some degree anyway, but this - this was very strange. A stunning redhead entered the bar and headed straight for Joe. She sat on an adjacent stool and smiled at him.
Joe blinked, slowly, as his eyelids were only just under his control - as indeed were his eyes, which had developed a mind of their own at some point and now moved independently of him and, what was worse, of each other. In spite of this though he could see she was a looker. He took his time visually absorbing the long swathe of red hair, pale creamy skin daintily dotted with freckles, a full mouth, pert nose, sparkling green eyes, slender yet curvacious body, and legs that went on for ever. A real fine lady.
She wore a green dress that covered everything but hid nothing. It clung to her curves like a president to his appointment and stopped just below her knees which were no doubt as beautiful as the rest of her.
What in the name of all that's holy was a lady like her doing smiling at him? He had little going for him. Katie had married him out of pity he reckoned. Face it, he thought now, she was better off without him. Perhaps he should just leave her to her new life, wherever it was. What could he offer her anyway? He wasn't going anywhere. Just a dumb cop, that's all he was.
He turned to the woman, smiled blearily and stupidly back at her, his eyes almost closed, and promptly fell off his barstool. He lay looking up at the ceiling with a puzzled frown which lent him the appearance of a very relaxed bulldog.
The woman leaned over him. "Here. Let me give you a hand," she said in a soft, lilting voice.
"Hey! Thatsh ok. I got two of my own, see?" said Joe, and chuckled at his own wit.
The woman held out her hand anyway. She was looking rather amused now. "Erin," she said.
"Huh? No. Joe, acshally," said Joe, and grinned again.
"Well now, Joe," said Erin," I think perhaps you need to sleep this off, don't you?"
"Ah, sleep. Yes. Thatsh what I need. Shleeeeeeep. You are quite correct in your assess-assessmen-ment of the factsh as I shee them."
Without further thought he allowed Erin to take his hand and lead him from the bar and into a waiting cab where he, slowly but inexorably, passed out cold.
***
The following morning found Joe lying in a large bed, alone, with not a stitch on under the pale silk sheets. His head felt like the city's rush hour traffic had recently run through it and his mouth felt like the bottom of a parrot’s cage. He tried to sit up, failed and collapsed back into the downy pillows beneath his head. Prying his eyes open he attempted to look around the room, and what he saw through half lowered lids was just sensational.
The walls were a soft shade of gold and all the woodwork was gilded. Above him was a large crystal chandelier, and a deep soft looking carpet, the color of thick cream, covered the floor.
Pheewwwww, thought Joe. Have I died and gone to heaven? Jeez, how'd I get here? I must be hallucinatin' again. Yeah, that's probably it. Face it Donnally. A guy like you don't get this lucky.
A soft tap at the door interrupted his thoughts.
Joe pulled himself together and the sheet up over his chest. "He - hello?" he said, as loudly as he dared, allowing for the banging it set off in his brain. "Wh - who's there?"
"Are you decent?" asked an almost familiar voice.
Funny, he thought, it reminds me a bit of - oh no! Not that! But a slight trace of an Irish accent - now where - I'm sure I know that voice from somewhere. Last night - yeah - in the bar - some classy dame - yes! Ouch. That hurt. So - is this her place? Sure as hell ain't mine.
"Hello?" came the voice again. "Is it all right to come in? I have your clothes here."
Suddenly being made aware of his nakedness all over again, Joe grabbed the sheet and pulled it even higher, up under his chin. "Er, ok, you can come in," he said, very carefully.
The door opened and in walked the vision from the evening before. She was just as outstanding as he remembered her. Looked at drunk or sober, she was a real babe. This time she was wearing some flimsy thing in pale green that hid most of her and floated like the morning mist around her.
"Good day," said the vision. "Here, your clothes."
"Thanks," replied Joe, then, wincing with every word, "er, can I ask something? Who are you? Where am I? And what am I doing here?"
Erin smiled. "That's three things," she said. "I'll talk to you later, but for now you should get dressed - there's a bathroom behind that door - then I'll get you some juice. Help that head of yours."
Some while later Joe was seated at a patio table, white, wrought iron, fancy, as Joe was later to write in his note book, and drinking fresh orange juice.
The shower he had taken had helped bring him round a little and now he felt almost human again. But only almost. He spoke to the lovely creature opposite him.
"So, are you going to tell me what gives?"
"All in good time, all in good time."
Hah, thought Joe, like that is it? Why can I never get a straight answer any more? Has the whole world gone crazy?
Joe, now considerably sobered up, walked in an apparently untamed garden that could have been designed to titillate the senses; which in fact it was, though Joe would never have thought of anyone doing such a thing. Various fragrances - the sweet apple-like aroma of roses, the heady scent of lilies, and others he did not recognise - combined to make a tantalising bouquet which did not overpower but gently and stealthily crept into his consciouness, "like a real professional thief" as he was to describe it later, and played with his emotions.
His ears were similarly entertained by the gentle sussuration of leaves moved by a balmy summer breeze. This was joined by the splashing sounds of a fountain, as yet unseen, while the soft insistent droning of bees added a counterpoint to the melody. Joe sat himself down on a conveniently placed moss-covered log and drank it all in. He looked up at the sky, wonderfully blue, with fluffy white clouds drifting almost imperceptably across it and thought how rarely he noticed skies, living in the city.
Joe's thoughts were confused and uncertain. He still had no idea why he was here in this place, who it belonged to or even how he had gotten here. His companion of earlier had excused herself and left some while ago, leaving Joe to his own devices, which is why he was now sitting here, just passing time. What he had seen of the inside of the house was enough to convince him of its beauty and tranquility. Now he could see that the outside, with its old ivy covered walls, provided a perfect backdrop to this paradise of a garden.
"Paradise, yeah," murmured Joe. "That's what it is - paradise..." though it has to be said that he lacked the education necessary to a full understanding of the connection between a paradise and a garden. Glancing down he noticed a plant that struck a chord - three leaved...
"Shamrock? Jeez, if that's shamrock then she is Irish. Heh! Nothing much gets past Joe Donnally!" he said to himself. "Damn, I could get used to this," he continued. "Oh yeah. Beats the crap outa my place. What am I saying? My place! I ain't got a place no more!"
His face fell, and the suspicion of a tear started to form in the corner of one eye, but the combination of warm sun and the intoxicating scents and sounds around him were making him very drowsy and, before he could get too depressed, persuaded Joe to lie down in the longish grass, mingled with wild flowers, and drift into a deep sleep in which he was to dream of undulating leprechauns and fairy princesses luring him into an unknown future.
The detective awoke some hours later with a slight shiver. He yawned and stretched, scratched himself a little and rubbed his eyelids with his knuckles in an attempt to remove what remained of his bleariness. Cautiously, he opened his eyes and looked around. He was still in the garden.
Joe could be forgiven for his caution as this whole thing had a feeling of Alice in Wonderland about it; he wasn't sure whether he'd dreamed the whole thing and would wake up in some flop house or police cell, or even some back alley somewhere. He didn't even know whether to be pleased or sorry to find himself still here. On the one hand, it was nice to know that this place hadn't all been a dream, but on the other hand, getting his normal life back would have been even better.
Clambering to his feet, Joe realised that he had been there no little time. The sun was getting low in the sky and, more importantly, his stomach was demanding attention so he set off back to the house in search of food.
Entering at the back door he had come out of earlier in the day, he searched for a source of sustenance. His natural instincts and the mouth watering smell of food cooking led him in the right direction and he entered the kind of kitchen he'd only ever seen in the glossy magazines his Katie read sometimes. His eyes widened in amazement as he took in the size of it and the range of furnishings and appliances. He said nothing to embarrass himself however as there was already someone in the room.
A somewhat diminutive middle aged woman sat at a well scrubbed table reading a paperback book and sipping from a teacup. As Joe moved closer she looked up and, without a change of expression, said: "You'll be Joe. Hungry are we?"
Uh huh! thought Joe, that Irish accent again. "Uh, yeah," he replied. "And you are?"
"Bridget. Cook. Herself told me to feed you. Whatcha fancy?"
"Uh, whaddya got?"
"Stew."
"Stew is fine, thanks."
"Uhuh. Dumplings? Bread?"
"Gee, yeah, ok."
"Right. Sit yourself down then."
It sounded like it might be best to obey, so Joe sat at the table and watched Bridget bustling around, fetching a plate, cutlery and bread, then ladling out stew from the steaming pan on the hob. She was dressed all in black except for a white apron around her middle. He cleared his throat and ventured a question.
"Uh, who owns this place then?"
Bridget plonked the plate of stew and dumplings down in front of him, added a plate with thick slices of what appeared to be home made bread, then stood looking down at him, her arms folded across her chest.
"If you don't know that already, why the divil should I be tellin' you?"
Joe thought about this as he ate, but the logic of her remark escaped him. If he'd known already he wouldn't need telling. He shook his head in bewilderment and carried on eating.
When he'd finished eating he got up from the table and tried again to converse with the cook, who was sitting reading again.
"Uh, any idea when the owner's getting back?"
Looking up from her paperback, Bridget sighed. "What am I, a mind reader?" she enquired of no one in particular. "No," she continued in Joe's direction, "I have no idea. At all. If you've finished you can go into the drawing room and amuse yourself there."
Joe was rather relieved to be leaving the presence of this rather intimidating woman but hadn't the nerve to ask anything further, so he left the kitchen and went quickly through the first door he came to. It was clearly a study, all dark panelling and leather chairs, so he left and tried again. After another couple of wrong guesses - a library and a dining room - he came to what appeared to be the room in question.
It was beautifully appointed, like the other rooms he'd seen. A long low sofa stretched before a magnificent open fireplace which was presently adorned by a huge arrangement of flowers. Joe sat down on this sofa and looked around. He noticed a big wide screen television with video and dvd players beneath, an impressive stack system with flat wall mounted speakers, and glass fronted cabinets full of expensive looking china and silverware. He whistled slowly. Got money whoever she is, he thought.
Having decided he'd been given permission to do what he liked here Joe turned on the tv.
It soon became apparent that the things he was seeing bore no resemblance to what he was accustomed to. Half the time he couldn't understand the language and when he could they all had Irish accents! Some foreign programme, obviously. When the news came on though, things got even crazier. "Telefis Eireann", the logo said.