Lies And Consequences Collection

Chapter 14-2

I should have known that jade being lucky was a lie as it wasn"t for that Englishman that night. I thought it would change with the change of ownership and in some respects that"s been the truth. I"ve known luck, but it doesn"t last forever. The wheel spins around and around. Sometimes you"re on the top and other times you"re at the bottom. The secret is in knowing when to jump off, no matter how high you are.”

“That sounds so full of remorse, Fianna. Why?” I asked, trying to entice more from her.

“I once read a series of magazine articles, written by a women riddled with cancer who wanted to tell the world of her chemotherapy treatment. It contained detailed memories of her life that she regretted and would change if she was given a second chance. It was sad and beyond sad. There"s no salvation to be found in regrets, Shaun, now is there!”

“I don"t know. A trouble shared and all that. It might help if you were able to talk about it.”

“Yeah, I can imagine. A friend in need is a pain in the arse and I was never a pain to a friend unless I needed to be.”

At the time that negative statement sounded threatening, but having read her letter that threat disappeared.

I folded her letter and placed it in my pocket. As far as I was concerned I was living an exciting life with nobody to answer to. However, parts of that letter challenged that assumption. Should I ignore the tenderness and sincerity she expressed in it simply to follow my self-absorbed interest in the intrigue that was offered by Jack? Should I consciously pay no regard to advice given by someone who put my needs before their own? I had lived alone for some time now, but even when my parents were alive I gave scant regard to their requirements or wants from life. I thought only of me. I was a loner who held no perception of the idea that a stranger could give her heart so readily, so quickly without expecting something in return. Her letter had shaken the foundations of my life.

The two conditions of being alone and experiencing loneliness are completely separate. You can be lonely in the middle of a crowd of people that not only do you know, but normally interact with easily. That can be as a result of a simple or complicated unconnected event, or, a mood swing. Stark, miserable loneliness, where there are no friends or relatives that you can speak to or socialise with, can be agonisingly painful, where all self-esteem vanishes to be replaced by depression and anxiety. Being alone and not only expecting that, but also welcoming the condition as your destiny, requires a special disposition where an amount of selfishness, in not wanting to share your life, plays a significant part. Few possess this ability and even fewer welcome it. Up until this point in my life I had been one of those few.

Fianna, as I preferred to remember her, had been no more than a companion on my journey through the labyrinth of Jack"s mind, yet she had touched something in me that I"d never experienced. As I stood with the memories of her swirling through my head I felt both the state of being physically alone and the misery of loneliness at the same time. Memories of people, with recollection of events, fade or change as time moves on. They become misty and indistinct. I decided that by keeping her ring I would be able to keep her presence clearer, but I had not counted on sharing in her personal regrets. Mine was the regret of not knowing her better and the belief that I never would. I checked out of the hotel and trusted in my widening circle of acquaintances for the next steps on my journey, but to use an Americanism; I almost never made first base!

“A Salvatore Guigamo has sent me. You should be expecting me. He told me to ask for his daughter but never told me her name. I"m here to have my hair colouring changed to black,” I announced on my arrival.

The receptionist never had a chance to reply. The girl standing behind her responded quicker. “It"s not my lucky day, is it!”

Salvatore"s youngest daughter was my junior by some years, but the fact that we were both breathing was about the only thing we had in common. She was obese, and bad-mannered. Her size could easily have been ignored as she had the most angelic face imaginable; small and pert with large, sharp, sea-blue eyes, a tiny upturned nose and hair the colour of the deepest, blackest night one could ever have imagined. It was her temper, rudeness and attitude that set her apart from any description of beauty. Those characteristics would have precluded all but the most insane from approaching her for anything other than a haircut. And then it took only the bravest of the brave!

Back in England I was used to the name of unisex to describe hairdressers where both men and women went for a trim or perm. Her salon was called The Hedonistic Cut Shop; perhaps that should have given a clue into what I was in for.

“Were you born stupid or did you achieve that status on the boat that brought you to New York, Irish? You have the very worst skin colouring for black hair and I will just not do it!” was how she answered my request, walking determinedly around the reception desk towards me.

“Go cover it in river mud and let it set,” was what she added, stopping two paces in front of me.

Thinking I"d made a mistake in the timing of the visit and not wishing to antagonise her, or her father, I thought it best to make an appointment for a later date. But it wasn"t my lucky day either.

“Where the freaking hell are you going, you son of a b***h?” she shouted at my turned back.

“Go plant your a*s in my chair.” She pointed to the empty one in a line of twelve.

“I can do you a sick green or a yellow submarine colour. Whichever one you choose you"ll still look a freak. Your one consolation is you"re not infested by freckles like some of you red-haired weirdos. You choose, but you ain"t leaving here black.” She turned her attention towards the other stylists, who had stopped working to watch the spectacle of her berating of me.

“What are you lot looking at?” It was their turn for a lashing of a***e. “Get back to work or you"re sacked!”

I plucked up enough courage to speak.

“Are you always this respectful to your customers, or am I special to you in some way that I"ve not yet noticed?”

“I"m doing you a favour and being nice. You should see me when I"m a bad-mouthed cow,” she added without a glimmer of a smile.

“Green or yellow? What"s it to be?”

I sat in silent discomfort for some considerable time with my neck being heaved from side to side as she painted clumps of my hair then wrapped them in foil whilst mumbling under her breath as she did so. As she finished that process I tried to gain favour by paying her a compliment. It was useless.

“Your hair is very nice. I never got your name, by the way.”

“Nice! My hair"s not nice, that"s a stupid thing to say. It"s either stylish or not. Everything about me oozes style, can"t you see that?”

“Well, it"s very stylish then. As, of course, are you,” I lied, as the chair was turned and my head was forced under a tap. I wasn"t ready for the outcome when I emerged as a dripping wet blond. As I was spun back and faced the mirror again, nameless had wrenched off her hair.

“It"s a frigging wig, you Irish Mick! Do you really think anyone who works as hard as I do to please my father would have such perfect natural hair, cos if you do then you"re worse than stupid. There"s never enough time to do it and then supervise this lot.”

Underneath her long, tumbling black wig was a head of short, chocolate-coloured cropped hair. So short any serviceman would have been thankful for surviving the barber"s razor. My compliment had only managed to provoke her into more insults.

“My dad doesn"t normally make friends with screwballs. Why the exception with you? You sure you ain"t his bastard son and he has to be kind? Oh no, I know what you are. You"re a leprechaun who arrived with his restaurant"s salad delivery this morning? Whatever way you got here, Irish, you"re still a fool.”

The prolonged noise from the hairdryer luckily drowned out any more conversation until, seemingly finished with both the hair colouring and her assessment of me, she removed my gown before delivering her final blast.

“I"ve heard a lot said about thick Micks from the Emerald Isle of Ireland and now having met one who must have spent all his youth standing in the rain, all I can say is that I never want to go there or meet any more. It"s a pleasure to say goodbye, Mick.”

I stood, towering over her by several inches, then picked her up by her braced elbows and dumped her in the chair that I had just risen from. She wriggled fiercely, trying to break free from my grip. I wouldn"t let her, as I pinned her bare shoulders back roughly against the plastic of the chair. I had her attention and that of everyone else in the shop.

“In time my hair will grow, but I"ll be able to keep the colour by simply colouring it again. A simple practice that even an Irishman can do. You, on the other hand, are just a sour-mouthed b***h who will never change no matter how many different wigs you wear. You"re in desperate need of much more than a wig to hide what you are. Your father seemed a reasonable man, you have a long way to go to be like him. I can only hope that one day he"ll get over the disappointment and shame he must have for fathering you. By the way, I"d change the name on the outside window if I were you to Chucklehead. It would suit an i***t like you far better.”

At that I left the salon, glancing at what I imagined as smiles of approval in the wall-mounted mirrors on my way out, but there was no smile or sarcastic grin from Nameless. I guessed she wouldn"t have known the meaning of the word chucklehead and I wasn"t about to stay and explain.