Whispers in the Mist Read Online Free Page A

everywhere.
    The stranded Dubliner nodded at the girl. Belatedly, Alan realized that the girl’s gaze hadn’t lingered on his tattered self at all. She signed something to the coffee drinker, who waved his hand in acknowledgment. She continued weaving her way through the crowd. The way she contorted her body to avoid brushing against strangers reminded Alan of a modern dance performance he’d once seen. Odd, but oddly graceful at the same time.
    “Not the full shilling, that one,” Seamus said.
    “I’d wager she’s smarter than you,” the coffee drinker snapped. With a deep, what looked to be fortifying, breath he raised a hand in quick apology. “She’ll find a safe corner. She always does. Best to leave her be until she settles. She’s shy, like.”
    “And who are you now?” Seamus said with a proprietary air that amused Alan. God forbid an outsider trump him in conversation.
    “I’m Dermot, her brother.” He sipped his coffee. “She’s Gemma. And before you say anything else, Gemma functions in society, holds down a job, and pays her bills.”
    Alan eyed Dermot, comparing his sharp chin and nose against his sister’s features. The features looked better than good on Gemma and average on Dermot. He was at least ten years older than she was, and he looked it.
    “You’re sure about the girl then?” he said.
    The man’s lips pursed and he straightened. His tone turned frosty. “She’s older than she looks. Twenty-six.” He sagged as if leaning into a noose he’d never pull free from. “Believe me, I know how it looks, but she’s doing well. Fact that she came in at all is a bloody miracle. She avoids crowds if she can.”
    The girl-woman passed in front of the fireplace and aimed herself toward the back wall.
    “Ah, Christ.” Alan started forward, but Dermot had risen and held him back with a request to wait and watch.
    Bijou, Alan’s eighty-pound dog, lounged in a cozy corner to the right of the hall that led to the bathrooms and kitchen. Most strangers sidestepped the dog or ventured a tentative hand toward her for a sniff. This girl-woman, Gemma, however, entered into a crash course straight toward Bijou’s throne of a dog bed. She dropped onto the pillow and wiggled herself in between the dog and the wall. Bijou, delighted, pushed her oversized gargoyle head against Gemma’s in an ecstasy of licks.
    “Gemma’s more comfortable with animals than people,” Dermot said. “What the hell kind of dog is that, anyhow?”
    “That slobbering beast would be the fecking ugliest dog there is,” Seamus said. “Uglier than a toad’s arse.”
    “She’s a dogue de Bordeaux . A rare breed.” Alan raised his voice. “Or, a French mastiff to the lot of you crétins .”
    The crows laughed. It was something of a game with them to poke at Alan and for Alan to poke back.
    Alan addressed Dermot. “Just so Gemma doesn’t feed scraps to my dog. That’s forbidden.”
    “Ay, she’ll be fine. Like I said. You can tell her yourself if you want.”
    “She’ll hear me?” Alan said.
    “She hears just bloody fine, thank you kindly.” He shook his head. “Christ.”
    Gemma pushed a jumper hood off her head and out bounced a mass of tight curls. She gazed down at her lap, where her hands rubbed over an object Alan couldn’t make out.
    Remembering the quote he’d meant to write, he returned to the chalkboard. The meaning of a word is its use in language. He thought this was true, but whatever their usage, words were meaningless most of the time. Words fooled. Actions did not. He’d learned this lesson long ago, and it was a good one.
    “What’s that malarkey you’ve written now?” Elder Joe said.
    Alan didn’t bother answering as he set about pulling more pints. Outside, the fog pressed against windows and tried to breathe its isolation over the premises, over Alan. Inside, the bar counter shone and firelight cast a cozy glow onto his customers. His realm. The door opened and a slim figure