Delaney. Part XXX

Mr. Murphey is in a frantic state, rushing through his office and shoveling his personal effects into a wooden box. His hair is wild, and his eyes are wild, and he is calling madly for his secretary.

“Miss Sweeny!” And when she does not get out from behind her desk and run into his office within two seconds he calls again. “Miss Sweeny!”

A woman flush with hysteria rushes into the room with quill pen at the ready, ink bottle in hand and writing tablet under her arm.

“Where have you been! Take a memo this instant.”

The woman rushes to sit in a chair beside his desk and quickly dips the pen into the inkwell.

“Dear Miss Cosgrove. In view of your father’s recent passing and the change in ownership, I feel it is my duty to resign.”

Miss Sweeny looks up from her pad. The man is pulling pictures off the wall, yanking bottles of whiskey from drawers, and even retrieves a pair of pajamas from under the sofa, stuffing them all in a little wooden crate.

“However, in order to be certain, the management of the Drogheda Care Home is properly looked after, and as is the prerogative of the Manager to name his successor, I do hereby instate Mr. Joseph Pankow to take my places.”

“Sir,” says Miss Sweeny. “Mr. Pankow? The mail clerk?”

“Yes Miss Sweeny! Now put my benediction on the letter and let me sign it.”

Miss Sweeny is flustered and scribbling with a tremendous sense of urgency and dread which Mr. Murphey has cast over the room. Then, Murphey, with crate under his arm, snatches the quill, dips it in the inkwell, and hurriedly signs his name. Then the man disappears out the office door and past Miss Sweeny’s desk, a trail of papers fluttering behind him in his wake.

In fewer moments than it took the woman to enter his office, Miss Sweeny has spread the news throughout the second floor and the place is a stir with the strange news. No one can work because all are chattering away as Mr. Pankow emerges, at which point a tremendous hush drops onto the place.

The slender, bald man is no longer wearing his typical uniformed coveralls, but is smartly dressed in a three-piece suit and tie. He is cleanly shaven with the lines of his tattoo running like tracks over his chin and down his neck.

“Miss Sweeny,” he says, and all ears are keenly tuned to his next words. “Call a meeting of all staff. Nine o’clock sharp. On the fifth-floor executive wing.”

****

It was nearly dawn when Delaney finally drifted to sleep, and so Reilly must knock again and again outside her door, calling with increasing volume at each attempt to rouse her, “Miss Delaney. Miss Delaney.”

At last some muffled acknowledgement comes from within the room.

“Miss Delaney.” He says. “Brother Frank is here to see you.”

Slowly the fog lifts from her brain.

“Tell him I’ll be down shortly,” she says, throwing the covers from her body but remaining flat on her back for a while longer. She’s willing herself not to return to the oblivion of sleep, much as her body demands it.

Brother Frank requests some of the coffee which Adrienne had gifted, “If there be any left.” He says.

“I assure you,” says Reilly. “The stuff has hardly been touched.” And the man’s nose is literally upturned when he leaves the room mumbling something about how English breakfast tea is “perfectly adequate” and something about the “laborious preparation” required for the “wretched drink.”

The “laborious preparation” for the coffee takes nearly as long as Delaney’s laborious preparation to fully wake, wash up, get dressed and come into the parlor.

“Good morning,” Brother Frank says standing as she enters the room.

“Sit. Sit.” She tells him. “I’m not such a grand lady. At least not yet. Probably never will be.”

“You look exhausted.” Frank says sitting down as Delaney takes a chair opposite him.

“I’m not sleeping,” she replies, and Reilly enters with Brother Frank’s coffee.

“Here,” Frank says handing it to her. “You need this more than I do. It’s much more a stimulant than tea.”

“Is it?” She says taking the teacup and pulling a loud sip from it.

“Reilly, would you please fetch another cup for Frank.” She tells him “In fact, could you just bring a whole teapot out?”

“Yes, Miss Delaney.” And Reilly departs with a sour look on his face.

“Would you like to talk about what it is that keeps you from sleeping?” Frank asks gently.

“Not really.” She says. “I’d much rather be distracted from my worries.” And Delaney decides not to report to Brother Frank the bizarre druidic visit that plagued her ability to sleep last night.

“Well then,” he says, pulling a piece of folded paper from the pocket of his Franciscan robes. “I have the perfect distraction.” And he flicks his wrist to snap the paper open and to give its presentation a bit of a flourish.

“I began by trying to decipher each letter, one at a time, which proved to be an arduous task. Turns out druidic runes have adapted over the centuries and certain letters developed hooks and tails making them appear quite different. But I did translate one set of runes which clearly formed the word ‘murder house,’ or ‘house of murder,’ if you like. In the druidic script it’s actually a single word.”

“Murder house?” She repeats. “As in Murder Factory? That’s here on my arm?”

“Fascinating.” He says. “Isn’t it.” And he smiles like a little boy who’s figured out how to reach the cookie tin.

“Well, that word I recognized from a section of the book which has some druidic proverbs and prophesies along with their English translation. It’s a prophesy from centuries ago. Essentially, your tattoo is a druidic saying. Are you ready for this?”

And her face drains of color. She takes a nervous sip of coffee and nods.

“In a house of murder, grows her wealth
In the darkness blooms her cunning
The smell of Blackthorn upon the goddess
Cultivate her fate and prosper, poison it and be destroyed”

“To make things even more curious,” he says. “This was a prophesy about the daughter of the queen of the druids, named Brigid – like the saint, St. Brigid of Kildare. But any stories about the fulfillment of the prophesy are not recorded. At least so far as I could find. There are not even any stories about the goddess ever having a daughter.”

Brother Frank is smiling and shaking his head in bemusement, but Delaney stares blankly at her forearm.

“What does it mean, Brother? And who could’ve writ this here?”

“OK,” he says. “I’ve been thinking about this and there are two possible explanations. First, you really were born with those marks and possess some kind of mystical connection to the druids and to the Murder Factory.

Second, and more likely, some deranged brothel worker, possibly even your mother, read the prophesy somewhere and either liked how it the letters looked or actually believed you to be some kind of druidic goddess, and tattooed the runes on your arm.”

“I’ve thought my markings the work of someone who is ill myself. But the specificity Frank.” Delaney’s voice is thick with wonder and anxiety. “What if I’m destined to grow my wealth from the Murder Factory. And you are aware my adopted mom’s name is Brigid. I chose to plant that Blackthorn hedge as a young girl, and I have a moon garden where I go to think. And the reference to the smell. I’ve got this unusual ability to smell. Frank there are too many coincidences!”

“OK,” he says, hand in the air. “Slow down. First of all, half the women in Ireland are named Brigid and you don’t even know what your birth mom’s name was. Could’ve been Mary for all you know. Second, by ‘house of murder’ the druids might have been referring to a place for executing criminals or prisoners of war. They had nothing like Murder Factories back then. And the prophesy says nothing about planting a Blackthorn hedge or having weird smelling powers. It only says the smell of Blackthorn is upon the goddess. As far as your moon garden, the druids are all about darkness and cunning. Those words are in lots of their sayings.

“Delaney, it’s like the astrologers and palm readers. They make their words obscure enough so you can read yourself into them.”

Reilly returns with a teapot upon a tray next to a wax sealed note. Delaney opens the note as he lays out the teapot, another teacup, and dishes with milk and sugar.

“I’ve got to go.” She says, worry lining her face. “Mr. Murphey has resigned. He’s named Pankow his successor.”

“Pankow?” Says Brother Frank. “Who’s he?”

“The mail clerk.” She says.

“What? A mail clerk?”

“Never mind, Brother. Can you take me there?”

And the pair bolt from the parlor.

****

“Sister,” one of the orderlies says to Sister Mary Eunice as she lowers her from a standing position into a wheelchair after having helped to dress the nun. “You can manage the toilet by yourself, yes?”

“I c…c…can manage.” The Sister tells her.

As the orderly turns to leave a nurse pokes her head in the room and announces, “Nine o’clock all-staff meeting.”

“What’s it about?” Asks the orderly.

“Murphey’s quit. Pankow’s taking his place.”

 “Pankow?” The orderly exclaims. “Isn’t he the mail clerk?”

The nurse shrugs. “Nine o’clock. Fifth-floor.” And she scurries down the hall making the same announcement as she goes.

Sister Mary Eunice spies a ring of keys the orderly has left on the nightstand. She slips them onto her lap, but she needn’t have been so covert. The orderly is utterly mystified by the news and leaves without remembering that she had set them down in the first place.

As nine o’clock approaches staff across the facility are in a tizzy, and the rumor mill is busy churning out any number of stories: The girl has sold the Care Home to Pankow for an undisclosed sum of money. Joseph Pankow is really the illegitimate son of Mr. Cosgrove and therefore the true owner. Pankow is an agent of the corporation and they are instigating a hostile takeover. And the rumor closest to the truth; Murphey was forced by Pankow to name him as manager under threat of some bizarre curse and a ritual performed on the man’s lawn late last night involving a beloved pet.

As staff empty all areas of the Murder Factory and move toward the fifth floor, Sister Mary Eunice wheels her way down the invalid wing.

“Out!” She calls, repeating it until residents take up her insistent cry and begin their sojourn outside, the more mobile helping the less.

She wheels through the garment factory and into the “engine room” to stop the deafening roar of the sewing machines and looms.

“Get out!” She calls, and the bicycles cease. There are no foremen to protest.

“What is it?” One of the laborers asks.

“Get everyone out.” And they look to each other for a moment, but reluctant laborers don’t need to be invited twice to go outside for a break. They start to file out when Mary Eunice grabs one man by the shirt sleeve.

“Get others out.” She says, handing him a ring of keys. “All floors but fifth. Everyone outside.”

He looks at her for a while and then at the keys as his synapses fire. The man has some cognitive issues. But she only becomes more adamant.

“EVERYONE. OUT!”

Then the woman wheels herself out of the room as a tremendous hubbub ripples through the garment factory. Children are flooding toward the door. Mary Eunice goes against the stream of kids racing out with wheelchairs and crutches or running with a palsied gait toward the exit. Finally, as the factory empties, she wheels to a door labeled “Kerosene Room.” It is the store of fuel for the lamps and heaters used throughout the facility.

“Attention!” Mr. Vadik is shouting as he pounds on a desk at the front of the room in the fifth-floor executive wing outside Mr. Cosgrove’s suit. “Attention!” He says again, louder. And the din dies down to a simmer.

When it grows quiet, Mr. Pankow straightens himself.

“As many of you now know,” he begins, “Mr. Murphey this morning resigned his post and has named me Manager.” An undertow of whispers flows through the room and is shushed by those eager hear more.

“I have been able to observe all areas of the Care Home since my coming to work here some time ago and have become well acquainted with the Cosgrove family, particularly young Miss Cosgrove. You may be aware that the Cosgroves were not church goers. Their daughter, Delaney, is being schooled in the druidic rites.

“It is therefore, as of today, a requirement for those who work at the Care Home to embrace the druidic traditions.”

Now there is more than a few whispers. The din in the room is rising to the level of a proper uproar, but Vadik is rapping on the desk and shouting, “Silence! Silence!” until the noise level dies down.

“Those unwilling to undertake a ritual of druidic conversion will be asked to leave.” The noise level rises again so that Pankow must shout, “These will be given a one-month severance package to lighten the economic burden.” And now the room is in a tumult.

Someone is shouting, but it is not Vadik.

“Hey! Hey!” The man is screaming, and he manages to get everyone to shut up. He’s looking out the fifth-floor window down at the Care Home grounds.

“Look.” He says. “They’re all outside. Why are they all outside?”

The horde of staff move to the window to peer out when someone near the door to the executive wing shouts.

“Fire! There’s a fire!” And curls of smoke begin wafting into the room from the hallway ceiling.