Chapter 28: A Lorry Load of Trouble

Cyn Sweetwater in checklist mode; Celine Sweetwater floating in the depths.

Dress. Brush teeth. Pack. Check.

Ring Daniel. Check. He wants me to buy him an Explorer Cap, I do so even as we chat. I explain I’m leaving Cork and will meet my dad in Limerick; I’m not sure when I’ll be back in Dublin. Maybe tomorrow.

Ring Amanda. Check. ‘Yes, yes, yes,’ she answers all my questions. ‘All’s fine. It’s going to be an app called DreamFree.’ She laughs at her own idea. Anything which annoys Neo makes her laugh. She wants Daniel to have an Explorer Cap so she can test it with hers. I tell her it’s already ordered. ‘Get one yourself and friend me. I’m SharkSamurai nineteen, numbers, no spaces.’

Go downstairs for breakfast and try to explain my departure. Check. What is the reason? Core issue, I can’t paint while here. ‘Come back anytime,’ they say, sincerely. They are good people, just not my people.

Bus to Limerick. Check.

Cyn Sweetwater exiting checklist mode for communion-with-soul mode.

Warm, swaying gently, and listening to the swishing whispers of the bus’s tyres on the smooth motorway surface, I found it hard to stay awake. Dreamy half-sleep was the perfect state of mind for a conversation with Celine. I valued her wisdom on so many matters. Her understanding of art, for instance, was way ahead of mine and so I closed my eyes and asked her, What should I paint next? Her answer was the image of a fox accompanied by a fragment of subtitled Japanese. “It is in showery weather like this that fox-people come close to humans, sometimes even walk among us in human form. Beware.”

I wasn’t sure what to make of this. Instead of my usual synthesis of women’s faces with flowers, I could paint a portrait of a fox’s head among petals. Surely, that would be too clumsy? What about person who was a shape changer? How would you see that in a portrait? That was a challenge I was interested in. And who would it be? My father? I didn’t normally paint men. If anyone I knew was a shape-changing fox demon it was dad. I put the answer to one side for the time being and asked Celine another question.

What would make me feel happy? The answer appeared in my thoughts as a silver cross in a dark void. Was this a Christian image? Was she saying religion? The longer part of the cross was horizontal, so it was a cross on its side. An aircraft? Should I travel abroad? A lance. It was a lance. Niall was my Lancelot. A knight in shining armour holding a lance. I shouldn’t have left him so soon. I should have given him a stronger confirmation of my love for him. Intimacy. I should have renewed our intimacy, for both our sakes. It would make me happier to know he was not hurt, that he had not suffered on my departure. I came out of my meditation to text him at once.

I love you. Sorry if you felt any coldness on my leaving. I am thinking of you and surrounding you with the warmth of my feelings for you. I hope you can sense that as you read this. It’s just. You know the bit in Lord of the Rings when Gandalf is told the ring cannot stay at Rivendell, well, it’s like that. I feel safe at your place, for now, but fascism is growing and it will engulf us wherever we hide unless we stop it.

Less than one blue motorway sign later, my lover replied.

Thanks Cyn. I love you to. And I understand. I’m Elrond, right? That’s a win. And you’re Frodo, which is fair, considering your height.

You do realise the thought of me as a hobbit will be in your head next time you play with my breasts?

😵‍💫.

Flow of love restored – Celine was right, of course, I was a lot happier for this exchange – I fell asleep until Limerick.

White whale alert. A large Goggins truck parked near the bus station. Dad. Looking out of the cabin for me with the black radiant eyes of an evil homunculus.

‘Hi dad.’ I had to climb up to the passenger seat with both hands on the grips and my backpack over my shoulder.

‘I’ve been trying to get hold of you. I didn’t know you had a new number. You should have let me know it.’

‘I didn’t want to.’

That was sharp of me and he knew it. Dad was no fool. Not in that way. He could read people.

Key turned, the truck cabin rose even higher off the tarmac and a blast of air like that of a French horn heralded our departure. Soon I was rolling through Limerick at the head of this monster and I felt powerful. Up above everyone. This beast was capable of making pedestrians jump with just a tap of the pneumatic brakes. What kind of a creature is it? I asked Celine and her answer was not the whale I had seen on leaving the bus station, nor any monster, but a fairground ride, a carriage ascending a rollercoaster, both terrifying and thrilling.

‘Where are we going?’ I asked.

‘Galway.’ And that was all Dad said until we’d shaken off the last of the traffic lights and were properly established in the left lane of the N18. Then he said, ‘I made a mistake.’

‘Just one?’

‘Paintings. Art and all that. I didn’t believe it would earn you a living. I got angry at you for not working. That was wrong. You’ve done well for yourself. I’ve driven trucks for forty years and I have nothing. You are going to be a millionaire.’

‘I wasn’t doing it for the money and from your perspective I was a troublesome waster. I still am.’

‘You should stick at the painting now though. You’re famous. You have a Wiki page.’

I laughed. ‘Is that what counts?’

‘Mum would have been proud of you.’

I stopped laughing. ‘You have me there. That is what counts.’

‘Do you have a manager? How does it work, when you sell a painting?’

‘I probably should get an agent. For now, I have a gallery owner, Julian Costello of the Sackville Gallery.’

‘How much does he charge you?’

‘Twenty percent commission on whatever he sells.’

‘I’d do it for fifteen.’

‘You don’t have a gallery, or any idea about the art market.’

‘Listen, I have big followings for you on X, Facebook, TikTok and Instagram. People are contacting me all the time wanting to buy your work. Even your sketches.’ He took his left hand from the wheel to point to my feet, to where I’d thrown my bag. ‘Got any with you?’

‘Hardly anything and nothing I’d want to share.’

‘I have to take a break in two hours. Sketch something then.’

Do dads always take charge of their daughters? Even when their daughters have walked through the valley of death?

Celine stirred, showing me the icon for Instagram. She wanted to know how many followers Dad’s account had, which surprised me. Normally, she drifted without any concern for my worldly affairs. Of course, simply being in the vicinity of my Dad made the world uncanny and put us on full alert. Even the patterns of the drops of rain on the windscreen were in communication with us, should I care to read them. Celine was fully attentive to the entire soundscape as well as the scents of oil and dust, the feel of the seat and the vibrations of the wanna-be rollercoaster carriage.

‘How many followers do you have?’ I asked.

‘All told, about a million.’

‘Well done Dad. I need access to them.’

Dad said nothing, only flicked the windscreen wipers.

‘They are worth a lot.’ His look was calculating, venal.

‘You want me to pay you for them?’

‘It’s only right. I’ve built them up.’

‘How much?’

Evidently, Dad hadn’t already thought about this in advance, since his eyebrows rose and fell repeatedly as he watched the flow of the traffic around us. While I was waiting on him – If I could afford his figure, I’d transfer the money – his phone rang.

Dad’s phone had a stand fastened to the dashboard, so he could use it as a satnav. I could see the screen pulsing with a large M in a circle. Unexpectedly, instead of answering it with a tap on the screen, he grabbed the phone with his left hand and brought it up to his ear. With just his right hand on the wheel of this massive vehicle the cars and the noise and the spray felt threatening.

‘Hi.’

…

‘There’s someone with me.’

…

‘Of course not a woman.’

…

‘Just out of Limerick, near the motorway.’

…

‘About five. I have to take a break.’

…

‘Sounds good.’

…

‘Same.’

…

‘I can’t. There’s someone with me.’

…

‘Love you too.’ This last was a whisper.

Uneasy and brusque, Dad put the phone back in the holder and once more had both his hands on the wheel.

‘That was Michael Gillan,’ said Dad.

I couldn’t help laughing. ‘You love Michael Gillan?’

He looked angry. ‘Well, I’m seeing someone.’

‘And it’s not Michael Gillan.’

‘Her name’s Mary.’

‘Go on, if you want to.’

‘That’s all.’

We reached the motorway with nothing more said about Dad’s relationship, nor any indication that he was going to return to the issue that had brought me to him.

‘How much do you want for the social media accounts?’

‘I’ve decided to keep them.’

‘What?’

‘I’m keeping them. That’s all.’

‘Why?’

‘There’s the advertising money. It’s not much but I think it will grow. The main reason though is I like having a lot of followers and seeing the accounts get bigger. I’m getting a lot out of it. I feel important.’

‘It’s my portrait of mum which is getting you those followers.’

‘You’re my daughter.’

‘I’ll pay you twenty thousand.’

‘Not interested.’

‘Thirty.’

‘No.’

‘Fifty.’

‘No.’

‘Think about it.’ I couldn’t go any higher. Did I have anything else that dad wanted? That I could tempt him with? ‘Not that I’d go the legal route or anything, but I probably have some kind of rights to those accounts. I definitely could get them shut down for impersonation. Obviously, I don’ t want that.’

‘Still no.’ His face was sour now.

Do I have anything else I can offer him? Celine’s answer was a crossroads. It felt like I was in a dream I’d had once, mum had been there too, except this time the traffic lights were American and swung in a lonely breeze. I recognised the scene from the sad, whistling sound. This junction was in Twin Peaks. Mum had the DVD boxed set. What did the location mean? Although I was getting better at understanding Celine, it took a few tries before I got there. The girl? No. The detective? No. The dad. Of course.

Celine really didn’t like Dad and seemed to be telling me that if there was anything that could budge him, it would be dark, sinister and beyond my reach. One option I had been considering was to try to explain to Dad why I needed those accounts. That I wanted to promote DreamFree when it was ready. That we had to try to save people from yet another layer of fascist manipulation, one that spoke directly into our dreams. Another option was to let him keep the accounts but ask him make those promotional posts for me. Yet there was something in Celine’s answer that deterred me from speaking. And if I had learned anything since joining the DreamAds pilot, it was to listen to my inner self.

An hour of driving. A minute of conversation, not even.

‘I have to come off for forty-five minutes.’ The left indicator was ticking. ‘I’ll nap in the cabin. You can go to the shop if you want coffee. Draw a sketch or two can you?’

We came up the off ramp, turned left and after a small roundabout arrived at a garage. Dad parked well away from the petrol pumps and clambered into the space behind the seats, ready to lie down.

‘Want anything?’ I asked, opening the door.

At first he shook his head. Then he breathed into his hand and sniffed. ‘Can you get me a pack of mints?’

‘Sure.’

Walking across the forecourt, I felt at a loss. What a waste of time this had been. I should have known better than to contact Dad. I’d have to set up my own, ‘official’, social media accounts and try to build them. A disheartening thought. I hated that stuff.

A coffee and a read of The Examiner later, I went back to the lorry, feeling less uptight. I’d stay the night in Galway and treat myself to the train back to Dublin in the morning. Quietly, I entered the cabin and sat in the passenger seat. And there it was, Dad’s phone, still in the holder in front of the dashboard. Calling out to me. Come. Come see!

Celine didn’t hesitate. She took the phone, tipped the glass against the light to study the fingerprints. Unlocked it at the second attempt. Set the sound to mute. Opened Instagram, clicked forgotten password. Confirmed via his email. Opened X. Clicked forgotten password. Confirmed via the text code. Same with Facebook and TikTok. Then she put the phone back.

As quietly as possible, she took our bag and climbed back out of the cabin and as she hurried toward the exit lane of the garage, texted Dad. Going back to Cork. Message me if you change your mind about selling.

The third car to drive up stopped for my outstretched thumb and a woman in her forties with expensive-looking lowlights leaned towards the open passenger window. ‘Can I help you love?’

‘You can indeed.’ I got in. ‘Where are you going?’

‘Derry.’

‘Perfect. That’ll do me.’

‘Are you in trouble?’

‘No end of trouble.’

‘Will I get in to trouble for giving you a lift?’

‘Only if you want to.’

‘All right, so.’ She laughed and we were off in the opposite direction to Cork.