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51 pages

English

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Goodbye Mrs. Robinson is an Irish, very black comedy about a brother and sister who find themselves in a very complex plot to claim money from their foster mother's insurance. Set in Galway, West Ireland this novella is about two orphaned children Aoife and Conor trying to break free from their contrary foster mother, Helen Robinson.

If you liked In Bruges and The Guard you'll enjoy this latest book from Fiona O'Malley.
Half of the money raised from book sales will go to one of Fiona's favourite charities - GOAL.

Sujets

Crime

Fiction

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Publié par	eBookIt.com
Date de parution	14 décembre 2013
Nombre de lectures	0
EAN13	9781456620837
Langue	English

Informations légales : prix de location à la page 0,0050€. Cette information est donnée uniquement à titre indicatif conformément à la législation en vigueur.

Extrait

GOODBYE MRS. ROBINSON

By Fiona O'Malley

Copyright 2013 Fiona O'Malley

This e-book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This e-book may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to www.amazon.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Website

Editing and formatting by Byers Ink | www.byersink.com

Cover Design by Ellie Egle Baksaite

SKIP TO THE BEGINNING
PREFACE
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

PREFACE

With special thanks to:

Siobhán and Jenna at Byers Ink for being great editors and friends.

My beautiful friends and family for being my beautiful friends and family.

The Coronas for providing escapism and great music.

50% of all money from ebook sales will go to the charity GOAL to help the emergency relief work with the Philippines Crisis. GOAL is an international humanitarian agency dedicated to alleviating the suffering of the poorest of the poor. Find out more about their work here .

CHAPTER ONE

Grey, bleak clouds haunted the misty sky and an ancient crow flew onto the concrete crucifix of the church steeple. It wasn’t sunny enough to look like day and it wasn’t dark enough to look like night. There was a consistent spitting of rain from the heavens. The day-night was miserable but typical weather for the location of this tale. The church was in Ireland, the west of Ireland to be specific, County Galway to be more specific.
Beneath the ancient crow and the church steeple was a pebble stone path leading through a graveyard up to large, heavy double doors. Over the gravestones, tombstones and crosses hung rosary beads, laminated prayers and flowers. Nothing says ‘grieving’ more than a labyrinth of coronations spelling out ‘DAD’ or ‘MAM’ over a gravestone, symbols of lost love and hungry slugs.
With a high-pitched squeak, the church gate opened and a young woman and a man walked up the path, dressed in black, huddled together under a black umbrella. They were as pale as they were thin and they were very pale and very thin. They looked like elongated milk bottles and the only colour in their gloomy, faint faces was the red in their blood shot eyes and the slight flush in their cheeks. When they reached the church the young woman pounded heavily on the door.
A stooped old man, who was also dressed in black but had a white middle in his shirt collar, opened the double doors and squinted suspiciously at them. Then his face softened and he stood back and gestured for them to come in.
“Come in, come in!” he said. “Tis terrible weather! Terrible weather altogether so it is!”
“Hello Father!” the thin young woman said and stuck out her hand. “I’m Aoife, we spoke on the phone.”
“Aoife, hello,” the priest said and shook her hand. “I’m sorry for your loss and please; don’t call me ‘Father’. There’s no need for unnecessary formalities here. It’s Father Gerry.”
Aoife smiled awkwardly at the ground.
“And you must be Conor?” Father Gerry asked the thin young man and stuck out his hand.
“That’s right Father,” Conor replied and shook the priest’s hand.
“I’m sorry for your loss.”
“Grand, Father.”
“If you’d like to come with me, we’ll just go through a few things," Father Gerry said as he gestured to a room behind the altar.
Aoife and Conor followed Father Gerry as the church bells rang out to the misty morning. The crow took off with a fright but before it reached the miserable grey clouds it had a heart attack and died.
As Father Gerry, Conor and Aoife sat down at a table something black came falling from the sky and landed on the ground outside the window.
“What the hell was that?” Conor muttered to Aoife.
“It looked like a dead bird,” Aoife said, her eyes wide. “Fecking freaky!”
“Fantastic!” Conor replied. “That’s all we need now – another omen!”
Father Gerry joined his hands together and leaned forward on the table.
“What was she like?” he asked.
There was an awkward silence and Conor looked at Aoife, who looked at Father Gerry.
“I mean, if I’m going to be saying a few words about her it’ll be better if I knew more about her.”
Aoife and Conor looked at Father Gerry with tears in their eyes.
“But,” Aoife said, trying to keep her voice steady. “You knew-“
“-Or” Father Gerry interrupted. “At least what her loved ones thought of her?”
There was another awkward silence.
“She, eh,” Conor began and then stopped to clear his throat. “Sorry Father…”
“It’s alright son,” Father Gerry said. “Take your time.”
Conor took a deep breath and Father Gerry smiled sympathetically at him.
“She was hypocritical… sexist… melodramatic…”
Father Gerry looked gobsmacked as Aoife nodded in agreement.
“Miserable!” Aoife added.
“Yep,” Conor replied. “Lazy and a bigot!”
There was yet another awkward silence.
“Oh, and an avid racist!” Conor said definitely.
Father Gerry opened and closed his mouth, stunned.
“A what?” Father Gerry replied.
“An avid racist!” Conor repeated.
“Well,” Father Gerry said and took a deep breath. “I can’t really say that… at her funeral!”
“Oh,” Conor said, almost disappointed.
“Right,” Aoife said, almost confused.
“Anything else?” Father Gerry asked hopefully.
Aoife looked out the window at the sombre skies.
“Hard to think of anything else, Father!”
“Any hobbies?” Father Gerry suggested.
“Bigotry!” Aoife said.
“Misery!” Conor added.
“Racism!”
Father Gerry put one hand to his forehead in stress and the other up to silence them.
“Apart from the ones you’ve already mentioned.”
Aoife and Conor frowned at the ground, deep in thought. The wind whistled through the skeletal trees in the graveyard, making them tremble and shake. Aoife suddenly looked up and quietly gasped, as though she had thought of something genius.
“Knitting?”
***
Outside the back door of the church, Conor sat frowning at the ground, deep in thought. The rain had stopped but it was still overcast. He put a cigarette in his mouth, took out a packet of matches, lit one and held the tiny flame up to the end. When the tobacco glowed red, he sucked the life out of the cigarette and finally exhaled to release a smoke that circulated around his head. The church door behind him creaked as Aoife came out and sat beside him. She squeezed his elbow. Conor put his arm around her and kissed her forehead. Aoife took a deep breath and looked at the ground.
“You holding up?” she asked.
“Yes,” Conor replied. “You?”
Aoife nodded at the ground.
“Not long now…” she said.
“No…”
“Are you sure you still-?”
“Yep.”
“You don’t think,” Aoife replied and inhaled deeply. “You don’t think we’re going to… you know… get caught?”
Aoife bit her lip as Conor took another drag of his cigarette.
“No,” Conor replied gruffly. “We never do!”
Conor exhaled and the smoke blew across his face. It reminded him of the train smoke that blew into his face as he waited on the platform with his mother, Margaret, and Aoife, when he was a child.
***
The sound of screeching metal-on-metal pierced the evening air as the wheels ground to a halt and the train doors opened. Among all of the passengers was a tall, broad man whose hairline was so receded that it practically touched the back of his neck. He wore a scowl so bitter that people believed he spent his spare time sucking lemons. His face looked like it was once handsome. His body looked like it was once in good shape. But his frown marks and down turned lips tarnished his beauty and his hunch and pot belly compromised his figure. This man’s name was Patrick. He was Margaret’s husband.
“Patrick! Patrick!” Margaret cried and waved. “Over here!”
Patrick saw Margaret, smiled stiffly and waved back.
“Hi,” he said as he walked over to her.
Patrick passionlessly kissed Margaret, dropped his bags and bent down to talk to Aoife.
“Hello!” he said. “Have you grown since I’ve been gone?”
“Not in two weeks!” she replied.
“No, I think you have, you’ve stretched!”
“Daddy,” Conor interrupted excitedly. “Do you think I’ve grown?”
“No,” Patrick snapped.
“Just a bit?” Conor pleaded.
“No, not as much as a Gallagher should have. I would have thought my son would have stretched by now. It’s a tad embarrassing actually, having a short-arse in the family.”
Conor’s eyes widened as he looked up at Patrick.
“I never thought any son of mine would have grown up to be such a runt,” Patrick said to Margaret.
She blinked a few times and then looked at the ground.
“How did the trip go my love?” she asked. “Did you close the deal?”
“No, much like you failed to close other things while I was away!”
“Like what?”
“Your legs!”
“How dare you say that!”
Patrick shrugged.
“I don’t know,” he replied. “I just do!”
“Patrick Gallagher!” Margaret shrieked. “That accusation is as false as your teeth!”
Patrick slowly closed his mouth and covered his teeth.
“Some thanks for waiting in the cold for you for an hour! Welcome the fuck home!”
Margaret froze and looked down at Conor and Aoife. Patrick looked guiltily at the ground.
“I’m sorry kids,” she said and sighed. “I said a bad word. Never use bad language like Mammy just did.”
Margaret glared at Patrick.
“Welcome the feck home!” she snapped. “Come on kids!”
She took Conor and Aoife’s hand and stormed off.
“I’ll get my own bag,” Patrick muttered to himself. “No fecking manners at all!”
***
Aoife’s crying snapped Conor out of his daydream and back to the present, outside the church. He put his arm around her.
“I still cannot believe it,” she said. “There’s no going back now, sure there’s not?”