Wolf's Teeth

Notes on pronunciation: The characters in this story have some rather unusual names. Here are some notes on how to pronounce them.

Cearbhall O'Connor: key-ARE-voll/oh-KON-ur

Sylwia Neschume Appolina Gwozdek: SILL-vee-ah/ney-SHOO-may/ah-PO-lee-nah/guh-VOZ-deck

Michael Tornit: my-KULL/TORE-neet

*****

Cearbhall O'Connor sat at his desk at 11am dialled a familiar number on his mobile. The phone rang twice before a young man on the other end picked up.

"Hello, this is the office of Michael Tornit, solicitor-at-law. How may I help you?"

"It's O' Connor. Put Tornit on the line. Tell him we've something to talk about"

"Certainly sir. If you'll hold for just a moment, I'll get Mr. Tornit on at once."

Two minutes later, Michael Tornit's rasping voice came out of the receiver. "O' Connor, my friend. What's new with you?"

"Nothing. Same as ever."

"I bet. My assistant tells me you and I have something to discuss?"

"That's right."

"Legal advice? Something troubling with a case, perhaps?"

"No, this is about you."

"Me? Well I can't imagine what you'd have to talk about me."

"Hm. It's about that girl you sent into me. You know the one." There was a pause. "Tornit?"

"Ah - yes, I know the one. What about her? Did - something happen?"

Cearbhall frowned. "No, nothing's happened. Nothing yet."

"Yet? So you think something will happen?"

"Not exactly, but there have been - issues. Certain clerical errors, statements drawn up wrong. I've got one of my workers looking after her, and she's had a few complaints for me."

"How did you reply?"

"I told her not to bother me unless something serious happened and to get back to work."

Tornit chuckled. "How very like you."

"Whatever. You still haven't answered me. Look here, Michael, I know you. We've worked together for a long time, and I know you would never push for an apprenticeship for some random girl just out of the goodness of your heart. Even if you did, why give her to me and not just take her for yourself? What I want to know: Who is that girl, and what is she to you?"

For a long while, Tornit said nothing. It was a new kind of silence that Cearbhall was not used to from his business partner. The kind where he struggled to find words. At last he said, "She has quite an interesting name, doesn't she?"

Cearbhall's frown grew deeper. "Eh?"

"I think it's lovely myself. You all call her Snag in there, correct?"

"...It's how she introduced herself."

"Of course. As far as I know, she been calling herself that all her life. It is, of course, what you get when you put the initials of her name altogether: Sylwia Neschume Appolina Gwozdek. Such a lovely name, don't you think?"

"I know what her name is. I also don't care."

"Really? I thought you'd like to know. You've clearly been paying close attention to her. Even sticking up for her on occasion, from the way it sounds."

"What are you trying to say, Michael?"

"Nothing, Cearbhall. Just making an observation."

Cearbhall sniffed in dismissal. "Listen here, I need to know if this girl is going to end being a problem for me and the firm. If she turns out to be more trouble than she's worth, then I'll get rid of her."

"Really?" Tornit asked in a tone of such concern Cearbhall had never heard, "You'd really just discard her like that? Could you?"

"...Yes. If I have to. What is it to you, anyway?"

"It's just - she seems so fragile, doesn't she?"

Cearbhall couldn't think of anything to say to that, and Tornit sighed. "Look, O'Connor, I'm sorry, but that's all you're getting out of me. It's just not something I can just talk about. All I can say is that a certain someone, who will not be named, called in a favour from me, and I had no choice but to grant it."

Sitting in his office, scowling into the telephone's receiver. Cearbhall remembered how little he knew about his business. He knew he came here to Dublin in the early late eighties. He knew he was of Inuit heritage with a French Canadian mother. He knew he was one of the most intelligent men he knew. He was also a great lawyer: Cunning in argument. Ruthless in strategy. All else was conjecture and rumour. He could say nothing for sure. At length, Cearbhall released a sigh of his own. "Alright, fine," he said, "I give up. That's the last you'll hear of it from me."

"Glad to hear it," Tornit answered, his mock-cheery attitude restored. "Do let me know if you need anything else. I'll do what I can to assist. Talk to you again."

"Yeah. Bye," grumbled Cearbhall. He threw down the receiver. No sooner had he hung up did the girl in question enter the office.

"Snag."

"Yes sir."

"Ah, I mean, Gwozdek."

"Yes sir."

"Can I - help you with something?"

"Yes sir. Ms. Martina sent me to give you the revised witness statements from the Rory Carragh case."

Cearbhall looked the young woman up and down, careful not to let his gaze linger too long. Medium height. skinny limbs. A thin waist. Long black hair, tied and draped over her shoulder. She was slender, and quite beautiful. And yet her presence disconcerted him, in a way that he didn't understand. Her face had no expression, frozen in place, like a Classical sculpture. Her voice, without emotion. The longer he looked, the more agitated he grew. He did not understand why.

"Oh yeah, that's the one about the dog attack, right? Client's suing his neighbour for not keeping his dog on a chain. Give them here, I'll look them over."

"Here, sir." As she turned to leave, Cearbhall stopped her.

"You've been here four months, yes?"

"That's right sir."

"Mmh. How are you finding it? Working here, I mean."

"Not so bad. It's hard work, but I manage, sir."

"Well, let me know if you're having any problems, and I'll at least help to take care of it."

"I will, sir. Thank you." And then Snag left.

Cearbhall sat at his almost empty desk. Pretending to read the witness statement Snag had handed him. Thought about what Tornit had said. Fragile, he'd said. Just seems so fragile. Yes, Cearbhall thought, she does look fragile. And yet there was something else that he could not put a name on.

She was beautiful. There was no doubt of that. But she was too thin, too pale. Too light, like she was in danger of fading away. Most unsettling of all was her personality. Her lack of one. No, not just a lack, an absence. Standing there. A white blouse. A grey skirt. Dark stockings and black sensible shoes. In his mind's eye, she appeared translucent. Like a living ghost, leeched of all her colour and substance.

Seeing her, being near her, thinking about her. It filled his with the most awful sense of restlessness. The all but uncontrollable urge to do something. Something. Anything. Anything he hadn't done before. An urge to tear everything down, to burn all bridges, cut all ties.

Cearbhall looked around his office. Well organised, arranged to perfection. Nothing out of place. Nothing superfluous. On the four walls, his law diploma, team photographs. On shelves, certain law texts and statements. Two simple filing cabinets on either side of the desk, which had a lamp, a laptop, some pens, and a photo of his son. He picked the photograph and looked at it, his features softening ever so little.

No, he decided. She has to go. She can't be here anymore. It was cruel, he knew, but it was necessary. He would find some pretext, some error, something, but he would be rid of Snag.

Cearbhall O'Connor sat in his office. He released a deep breath, and read the statement that she had handed him.

The first time Cearbhall called, no-one picked up. He allowed her time, letting the phone ring for close to five minutes. But he gave up at last, and headed on to the station.

It was evening-time now. Another day's work completed. Now all the hard-working people of Dublin City thronged the streets, trailing to and fro on their way home. Whether by train, by bus or by tram, they all wanted only to go home. Except for a few who didn't, but went anyway because they had no other choice.

Cearbhall tried calling again, ten minutes later. She could have left her phone somewhere she couldn't hear it. That would happen a lot, when they were married. She would leave her phone in the weirdest places. Find them later in surprised. Once, she put it down in the boiler cupboard. It was only found a month after she'd bought a new one.

Yet another five minutes, and still no-one answered.

Cearbhall was not looking forward to going home. Not that he especially loved work. It wasn't all this way. Once upon a time, he took every day like a new challenge. He was strong, confident, full of energy and life. Now he was old. Not older or getting old, but old.

Catching sight of himself in a window, he saw the long lines. The dry skin. The grey widow's peak. He was a dark grey suit, a black wool overcoat and a burnt red tie. His back was not yet bent, he still stood straight at 190 cm. But he could feel it bending. He could feel the weight, the shaking hands, the dimming eyes. He was old. He'd been old for a long time.

Cearbhall was not looking forward to going home. Not because there was anything bad there, but because there was nothing to look forward to.

When at last sat at the tram stop, Cearbhall called his ex-wife's number again. He knew full well what he was doing, and he hated it. Stilted, confrontational conversation. It would be painful. But he insisted on doing it. Once a month, every month. Self-flagellation. He insisted, because he felt he had to do it. He had to prove that he was capable. To show that he could still do this much, at least. He all but jumped when someone picked up.

"Yeah?" For a moment, Cearbhall didn't recognise the voice.

"Ah - Cornelia?"

"Try again, Cearbhall." The voice was young and unimpressed the way only a 19-year old could sound.

"Cormac? What are - where is your mother? What are you doing on her phone?"

"Mam's out. Having dinner with some mates."

"So then, she left her phone behind?"

"Yeah. She's been doing it a lot lately."

"Ah - well, okay. Well, since you're there, how are you doing?"

"Hm - I'm grand, I suppose. Nothing important happening."

"Nothing in college?"

"No. College is fine. Same as ever."

"Then - what about that girl you've been seeing. What was her name - Michelle?"

"...We broke up. A while ago, two months in fact."

"Ah...I - I'm sorry to hear that, son."

"No need to be. We weren't a good couple."

"I thought - your mother never mentioned anything."

"Did she not? Must have slipped her mind."

"Well, she can be quite - forgetful."

"Yeah."

A dreadful sweat surfaced on Cearbhall's brow. "Oh yes, that reminds me. Your birthday is coming up soon, isn't it? I was thinking, maybe I ought to show my face. I mean, it's been a while since we've have a good talk, and I think -"

"Dad, listen." Cearbhall bit his tongue.

"I appreciate the - effort, it must take to make these calls every month, but you can stop now. There's just no need for you to keep doing this. Now, I mean this in the best of ways, but Mam is over you. The fact is, there's no need for us to be a part of your life."

"But -"

"And there isn't any need for you to be part of ours, either."

"Cormac..."

"Mam will find a new boyfriend. And I will find a new girlfriend. And we will both be fine. You don't have to make like you worry about us. You don't have to pretend to care anymore."

Cearbhall rose to his feet. "Now hold on -!"

"I'm hanging up, Cearbhall. Bye." And he hung up.

It crossed Cearbhall's mind to ring back, but he knew no-one would answer. The other people at the tram stop ignored him. They were oblivious in their own worlds. Cearbhall sank back onto the bench, stared at his feet. He sat and tried not be relieved.

The tram arrived, and out of habit Cearbhall rose to get on. But then he thought of all those people. Breathing his air. Tasting their apathy. He decided not to get on. He decided that he needed to get away from people. He didn't know how, but he knew he had to get away.

The tram left. Cearbhall walked away from the little platform, just as a young woman in a dark coat sprinted past him. His eyes followed her, running just out of reach of the tram doors closing. Shame, he thought, no bother, though. There's another one coming in ten. He turned away. Then she tripped over her own feet and landed with a thud on the concrete. He hesitated a moment, then went over.

"Are you alright? Can you stand?" Kneeling down, he placed a hand on her shoulder and immediately regretted it because the woman was Snag. She was crying.

"M - Mr. O'Connor?"

Dumbfounded was the only word. To be completely lost for words. What a strange thing to see. A young woman kneeling on a tram platform, her leggings torn. Tears streaming down her face. Making no sound, while her mouth twisted.

What could he do? Cearbhall helped her up, and said nothing. They stood there for a long time, Cearbhall silent, Snag wiping at the tears that flowed from her eyes with one arm. Her other hand clasped in Cearbhall's. Around them, the city of Dublin winded down for the night.

"I've been under much stress lately. When I fell over and hurt myself, it must have all came flooding out. I'm sorry if I made you worry, sir."

They sat across from each other in a restaurant with a French name. A quiet place, Cearbhall had not eaten there for around five years.

"Don't be sorry," he said, "it's fine. Happens to everyone."

Snag looked up at him, seated with a new pair of stockings. "Even you sir?"

"Yeah. Even me."

Forty minutes previous, Cearbhall had bought the stockings that Snag now wore. Her other pair were destroyed from the fall, and she had no spares. Twenty minutes before that, he cleaned her wound with a damp cloth and placed a plaster over it. Then, he decided she ought to get some real food into her for once. So there they were.

"You know, you really should eat more."

"It's fine, sir. I have a small stomach anyway."

"How long have you been living here?"

"A while."

"Have you any family? Brothers, sisters?"

"Only my mother."

"Do you enjoy living here?"

"I don't really know."

Snag proved to be even more guarded than Tornit. Even as she sat there, Cearbhall could feel the restlessness. Simmering under the surface. A powerful urge to make something happen. A maddening urge. She ate her meal. Answered his questions in monotone and monosyllables. Remained otherwise silent. Maddening.

The tears from before were gone, like they had never been there. Her face returned to its forbidding, statuesque mask. Cearbhall fidgeted in his seat. He could feel something. Something just there, but just beyond his reach. That was what agitated him so.

"Mr. O'Connor?"

"Hm?"

"Is something the matter?"

"Eh - no, why?"

"You're not eating, sir, and you look like you're contemplating violent murder."

"Eh?" Cearbhall blinked, and laughed. "Is that what it looked like?"

"Yes. You often have a look that looks like you are thinking about doing bad things to people you don't like.

"Do I now?" He laughed again. Snag wore a gentle smile. "That explains what happened to all those other interns" Cearbhall said.

"What happened?" Snag asked, curious.

"Oh, they all quit within a month or so. Longest endured for two. Until you appeared, of course." He looked at her sidelong. "It bothers you, doesn't it? We're not friendly people, in that firm of ours. At least I'm not."

"It doesn't bother me."

"Why not?"

"It's interesting working with you."

Cearbhall blinked again. "Interesting? I suppose that's one word for it. I don't see it. From where I'm sitting, we're just a building full of hardass, antisocial arsehole lawyers."

"Oh no, not them, sir."

"Eh?"

"I mean you. You are interesting." Cearbhall stared as she continued. "You look and talk so scary, but you helped me when I hurt myself. You bought me new stockings and even dinner. Even before that, you have always been very kind to me, even though you're in charge of so many people. It's interesting."

Cearbhall didn't say anything for a while. He was sure that this was the most words he had heard Snag speak in one go. "Interesting..." he sighed. "I'm no more interesting than anyone else. I'm just an old man."

"Of course you don't think you're interesting, you live with yourself. It's normal to you. You don't see yourself the way others see you."

"I think I do, that's the problem."

"If that's true, then why have you been so kind to me?"

"I don't know!" He hadn't meant to say it so loud. "I don't know. Maybe... maybe I'm trying to make up for the past. I've got - a lot of regrets. You know, when you're young, you think you'll be that guy. That old man, made all the wrong choices. The one that regrets his whole life. You never think about your life. Not until you are that old man. Not until it's too late."

Before he knew what he was doing, Cearbhall started telling her everything. Everything about his marriage and his divorce. His estrangement from his son. His monthly phone calls. The call from only ninety minutes ago.

"I was a bad husband, and a worse father. The least I can do is try to keep in touch. To show that they did mean something more to me than alimony." He sighed again, deeper than ever. "But now Cormac is going to university, Cornelia's doing her own thing, and I'm nothing but a bad memory. Now all I can think is: what have I been doing until now? Have I wasted half of my life?"

Snag listened to him with intent. Making no sound. When he finished, he sank a little deeper into his seat. "Ridiculous," he groaned. "Man my age, unloading his problems onto a girl like you. An employee, no less. I'm sure you've had enough."

"No sir. This just makes you even more interesting."

"Eh?"

"You've gone through so much, and yet you still helped me tonight. You have so much weighing down on you, yet you're still so strong. You can still stand so tall. It's fascinating."

Cearbhall suppressed a blush. "I said so, didn't I? If you needed anything, you could come to me."

Snag smiled. It was a lovely smile.

He paid for the room with cash. €35 for a two single bed room for one night. The receptionist, a young man, asked if he and his daughter would like any room service. The tall old man glowered. Answered no, in such a voice that frightened the poor boy. The pair went up the elevator in silence. They said nothing until they were in the room, the door locked. Safe from the outside.

"Would you like to take a shower?"

The young woman nodded, and entered the bathroom without a sound. As the water ran, the tall man pushed the two single beds together. He grunted with exertion. Undid his tie. Removed his jacket. Placing them on the back of a chair. Then sat at the end of the beds and waited. Thinking of nothing. Just waiting.

The water stopped running. The woman came out, clothes discarded, only a towel wrapped around her. Covering her white-pale skin. Her hair, loosed from its binding, fell down to her lower back. It clung to her skin with its moisture.

"I need to dry my hair first," she said.

"That's fine," he answered, "you do that while I wash."

As he passed, he touched her arm. His fingers brushed the soaked skin. Lingering. Then he passed and entered the bathroom. He removed the rest of his clothes. Saw his body in the mirror. Would it be good enough? The tall man frowned. It doesn't matter, he thought. It will be.

The water was still warm. He was not under long. He washed all over, under his arms, his chest, his groin. He looked to see already he was rising. "Not yet," he whispered, "settle down." He stepped out of the shower. The electric hair dryer switched off. He dried his hair, assaulting it with a white towel. Got down a XL bathrobe from a hook, folded like a Celtic knot. He hesitated at the door. His hand hovering over the handle. He took a step back. Took a slow, steadying breath. Then took hold of the handle and stepped out.