The Dark Divide (11 page)

There was one very simple and effective way of doing that.

‘How well do you know Ren Kavanaugh, Patrick?’ Darragh asked.

Patrick scowled at the question. ‘You know the answer to that.’

‘Would it be reasonable to assume that you have been a father to him? That it is unlikely any man in this world knows him better?’

‘That would be a fair call,’ Patrick agreed warily.

‘Is he in the habit of lying to you?’

‘I would have said no, right up until you started dealing drugs, burning down buildings, killing people and kidnapping my daughter,’ Patrick replied. ‘That’s not the Ren I know.’

‘Ren has a tattoo on the palm of his hand, doesn’t he?’ Darragh asked, ignoring Patrick’s snide remark. It made little difference in the scheme of things. Either Patrick was going to believe the evidence of his own eyes or he wasn’t. Whether he got snippy about it or not was irrelevant. ‘It’s been there since you dragged him out of that lake up in County Donegal where you were employed as Kiva Kavanaugh’s stunt double?’

‘Of course,’ Patrick said impatiently. ‘But if you think that’s going to excuse —’

‘On which hand is the tattoo?’ he cut in, placing both palms on the table in front of Patrick.

‘What?’

‘Which hand?’ Darragh asked. ‘You know Ren better than any man alive. You just said it. So which hand is the tattoo on, Patrick?’

‘The left,’ Patrick snapped.

‘Are you certain of that?’

‘Of course I’m fucking certain of it!’ he said, rising to his feet as Darragh turned his palms over for Patrick to see them. ‘What’s the point of this, Ren? Just tell me what you’ve done with Hay —’

‘Absolutely certain?’ Darragh asked softly.

Patrick froze, staring at Darragh’s right hand with a look of
utter disbelief. He slowly resumed his seat, staring at Darragh with dawning comprehension. ‘Oh, my God. You’re not Ren.’

Amergin would have come to the same conclusion just as quickly. Darragh nodded. ‘Rónán is my brother.’

Patrick studied him closely for a few moments, and then shook his head in wonder. ‘Jesus, you’re exactly like him.’

‘We’re identical twins,’ Darragh agreed, stating the blindingly obvious, mostly because he considered it necessary to drive that point home before he tackled the rest of his story. If Patrick didn’t accept that inescapable fact, Darragh would lose him completely the moment he uttered the unfortunate words ‘alternate reality’.

‘So was it you who took Hayley? Or Ren?’

‘I’ll get to that,’ Darragh promised. ‘First I have to know you believe me, Patrick. I need to know you understand I am not the young man you know as Ren. I know much of what he knows, for reasons you would not comprehend, but I am not him, and I do not have your daughter.’

Patrick took a large gulp of whiskey and turned to look at Jack seated at the far end of the table, watching them. ‘Do you believe him, Jack?’

The old man nodded. ‘Aye. But then I’ve seen them standing side by side, so it’s a little easier for me to grasp.’

‘Okay,’ Patrick conceded, turning back to Darragh. It was impossible to tell what he was thinking. It couldn’t be utter disbelief because he wasn’t reaching for his cell phone to call the police, so that was something to be grateful for. ‘Let’s assume for a moment I accept you are Ren’s twin brother. Where is he then? Was it you who burned down that warehouse? And where is my daughter?’

‘Before I can explain anything, I need to tell you how Rónán came to be in that lake up in County Donegal when you rescued him. Once you understand that, the location of my brother and your daughter will be easier to comprehend.’

Patrick leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms. ‘Okay, then. Lay it on me.’

‘Excuse me?’

‘He’s willing to listen to you,’ Jack explained.

Darragh nodded and took another deep breath. ‘Rónán — that’s his real name — tells me you’re familiar with the concept of alternate realities in this —’

‘Alternate realities?’ Patrick spat, jumping to his feet. ‘Alternate fucking
realities
? Are you kidding me?
That’s
your explanation?’

‘Do you have a better one for this?’ Darragh asked, holding up his tattooed palm.

‘I could think of a dozen better explanations off the top of my head!’ Patrick shot back. ‘You could be Ren and that tattoo you’re sporting on the wrong hand could be make-up, and don’t tell me it’s not possible. Ren grew up on movie sets. He probably has the cell phone numbers of half the make-up artists in the country, if not the world, stored in his phone. Kiva would certainly know them, although the idea Ren comes from an alternate reality is a step up from her first suggestion that he was left behind by aliens.’

Darragh offered Patrick his right hand. ‘Do you want to check it’s real? I am not Ren, Patrick. I am his brother, and my name is Darragh.’

‘I know,’ Patrick said, in a less belligerent tone. ‘And do you know how I know you’re not Ren?’

Darragh didn’t respond, certain it was a rhetorical question.

‘He would never try to spin me such a ridiculous fucking yarn to get himself out of trouble.’ He drained the last of his whiskey and then raised his empty glass to Jack in mocking salute. ‘Explains the generous proportions of the drink, though. Suppose you thought I’d swallow this blarney easier if I was pissed?’

‘The alcohol helps,’ Jack conceded.

Patrick let out a derisive snort as he slammed the glass onto the table. ‘I’m not going to sit here and listen to this nonsense. You may be Ren’s brother, lad, but you’ve taken my Hayley. There’s going to be an accounting for that, let me tell you.’

‘She is being held as a hostage until Ren has been exonerated,’ Sorcha announced from the door.

Darragh looked up in surprise. He didn’t even know she’d come downstairs.

Patrick swung around to stare at the newcomer. Sorcha was still dressed in the jeans and t-shirt they’d borrowed from the accountant’s house. Her long dark hair was dishevelled and she looked pale, but still commanded attention when she spoke, even without her weapons.

‘Who the hell are you?’

‘I am the one negotiating Ren’s surrender,’ Sorcha announced, looking at neither Darragh nor Jack. ‘Something I will not permit until the crimes committed by the half-breed mongrel, Trása Ni’Amergin, are attributed to the right perpetrator.’

‘What the fuck is she talking about?’ Patrick asked in confusion.

Darragh was wondering the same thing.

‘I am talking about clearing Ren Kavanaugh’s name,’ Sorcha said, stepping into the room. She was a head shorter than any man present, but acted as if she towered over them. ‘Once we know it is safe for him to return, your daughter will be returned to you unharmed.’

‘That’s extortion.’

‘It is also the only way you are ever going to see your daughter alive again,’ Sorcha informed him with chilling certainty. ‘So you may go, and you may contact whomever you see fit, to ensure the threat to him is removed. Once that is done, Hayley will be returned to you.’

Sorcha was making this up on the spot, Darragh realised with despair. They couldn’t do anything of the kind.

‘And if I don’t? If I walk out of here, call the cops and have the whole frigging lot of you arrested, what then?’

‘I can get a message to the people holding your daughter much faster than you can get the police here,’ Sorcha told him. ‘One hint that you have betrayed us, Patrick Boyle, and you will never see your daughter again.’

CHAPTER 12

The reception Ren got from Kazusa’s brother was in stark contrast to his treatment at the Tanabe compound.

Chishihero of the Tanabe had tried to kill him.

Namito and his sisters put on a banquet for him.

After being offered an opportunity to bathe and change into clean clothes — albeit a
yukata
much the same as those on offer in Japanese hotels in his own reality — Ren was led to the main house across a raked courtyard, where dinner and the rest of the clan were waiting for him. Despite feeling he was wearing a borrowed dressing gown, the informal, unlined kimono tied with a narrow obi around the waist was a welcome change from the damp filthy jeans and borrowed t-shirt that he’d been wearing when he jumped into this reality.

The house was a little smaller than the main residence of the Tanabe, but it was much older and seemed to belong in the landscape. The people of the Ikushima — especially the servants — looked mostly Caucasian. Kazusa’s claim to her family’s lengthy residence was reasonable. They’d been here so long it was hard to tell where the colonial Japanese ended and the indigenous Celts took over. Namito’s striking blue eyes and distinctly Japanese features were not uncommon in the Ikushima
compound. He guessed Chishihero and her Tanabe clan were more recent immigrants.

Dinner was already laid out when he arrived. It was a traditional Japanese table setting with a steaming bowl of rice on the left of each place, a bowl of
miso
soup on the right and several other delicious-smelling dishes served in delicate porcelain bowls. Finely carved ivory chopsticks lay in front of the rice bowls.

Ren bowed as he entered. He remembered that much about his lessons in Japanese etiquette. The studio had sent Kiva’s entire entourage to protocol lessons after his mother almost had them run out of Japan for inadvertently insulting someone. Ren had found the classes the most interesting part of the trip — not counting their visits to Space World and Tokyo Disneyland. He was so intrigued by the customs that when his school had added Japanese to the curriculum last year, he’d signed up for it right away.

He wondered now if it really wasn’t just the remarkable coincidence it seemed to be at first glance. Darragh had the ability to see glimpses of the future. Arguably, Ren should share the same talent. But while Darragh grew up knowing what he was seeing and learning to focus his Sight, Ren was oblivious to it. Was his interest in learning Japanese a manifestation of a gift he knew nothing about?

Did my subconscious know that I would need this one day?

It was an interesting idea, and one he could only discuss with Darragh. But first he had to find Darragh, and that meant finding a way home. There was no sign of Trása, but he wasn’t too worried about her. This place oozed magic. Kazusa claimed the
Youkai
were all dead, but it seemed unlikely, given the magic in this realm. It may have suited them to let the humans think they were no longer around. Trása was half-
beansídhe
. She’d probably found the local
Youkai
and was being coddled and
comforted in their version of
Tír Na nÓg
, while bemoaning the terrible accident that brought her here, not for a moment caring what might be happening to Ren.

She may even believe he was already dead. After all, they had been trying to slit his throat just after she left, and she hadn’t hung about to find out if the Tanabe had carried out their intentions.

Dinner was an informal affair, Ren gathered. Everyone was dressed in much the same fashion as Ren, in cotton
yukata
. He entered the room after kicking off his wooden
geta
, stepping on to the straw
tatami
mats in bare feet, and discovered his hosts had seated him with his back to the
tokonoma
. Ren couldn’t read the hanging scroll in the
tokonoma
alcove, but he knew the place in front of the
kakejiku
scroll was always reserved for special guests. That made him very suspicious. Kazusa had escorted him here at the point of the sword, and now he was the guest of honour?

There were four other places set at the low table beside Ren’s. As
Daimyo
of the Ikushima, Namito sat at the head. On his left sat Masuyo, Namito’s grandmother. She was a tall, gaunt woman who seemed to be suffering from some ailment. Her wrinkled skin was papery and pale, and as far as Ren could tell, she was a Celt, despite her Japanese name. She bowed stiffly, as if it caused her great pain, but watched him with pale eyes that missed very little. Next to her, and nearest the entrance, sat Daichi, an older man who was introduced as the commander of the Ikushima samurai. He was short and stocky and seemed almost as suspicious of Ren as Ren was of him. Opposite Daichi was Kazusa, looking very pleased with herself. Ren gathered she was not often present at meals with the adults. She occupied that frustrating limbo between childhood and adulthood where she was too old for one and not old enough for the other. Her role in bringing Renkavana to
Shin Bungo
could not be denied, however. Tonight she was a grown-up.

Sitting between Kazusa and Namito was a young woman who bowed low to Ren as he took his place. Namito introduced her as his sister Aoi. She raised her head and smiled shyly at him, almost taking Ren’s breath away. He guessed this was what Masuyo might have looked like when she was young — slender, elegant, with porcelain skin, thick straight black hair and wide-set, sapphire eyes. She was a beauty, and her brother acted as if he knew her value. Kazusa rolled her eyes as Ren stared at her sister. She was used to — and unimpressed by — the reaction of men when they met Aoi.

‘Why don’t we be seated?’ Masuyo suggested, smiling as she watched Ren watching Aoi.

They sank onto the cushions, the men sitting cross-legged, the women with their legs folded to one side. He could all but see the magic crackling the air in this reality, otherwise he could almost have convinced himself he was in his own world, in some high-priced Japanese restaurant.

‘
Itadaki-masu
,’ Namito said.
I gratefully receive
. The others around the table repeated the mealtime salutation before reaching for the food.

‘Who would have thought,’ Masuyo announced, reaching for her soup, ‘that I would sit down to dine with
Youkai
in my lifetime.’

‘You must forgive my
Obaasan
her manners,’ Namito said to Ren. ‘She is old and quite overwhelmed to meet one of your kind.’

‘I’m delighted to meet her too,’ Ren said, smiling at the old woman, who was watching him like he’d sprouted horns and a tail. ‘But, truly, Namito, I am not
Youkai.
How could I be? Kazusa tells me they are all dead here.’