Surely, We Can't All Be Stupid

By Jason Shield

Keller Boyle is a failed museum curator, he believes he is responsible for his daughter’s horrific accident. Whilst he is at the hospital awaiting her surgery she is kidnapped from the operating theatre, and shortly after, Keller himself is captured. Cahan O’Malley is a ruthless felon and IRA supporter, he is convinced Keller is the only man that can find an invaluable artefact smuggled into the country. Keller has no choice but to accept Cahan’s terms and work with three strangers to seek out the item that will change Cahan’s future.

Desperate to save his young child and constantly haunted by memories of having been a bad father, Keller lies to his new ‘friends’ to keep them on track with his secret mission. But they have reasons to be suspicious, Keller’s layers of lies and the unbearable of truth that he is hiding from everyone is catching up to him, and everyone around him is getting caught in the net. Nothing anyone says or does is quite as it seems in Keller’s world, and no one can be relied on to help him save his dear child.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jason Shield
• Release date: Nov 14, 2020

Jason Shield

Jason Shield has been writing stories for many years, he has studied character development, scene development and the story-telling art form for longer than Mother Theresa has been a Christian. Jason is an exceptionally jovial individual to go to parties with, because he also holds an accolade in truth-bending in the manner in which Uri Geller bends spoons.Jason holds a BA (Hons) degree in Business Studies and specialised in Human Resources Management, he likes to regularly remind people of this information as if he were the only human ever to gain a certificate. After a few years of working in the HR field he wished to work in more creative industries where he could experiment with his imagination, mainly making stuff up. So he travelled to the film industry.Jason started off with screenplay writing, taking several courses on storyline development, character development, plotting (not plotting to kill people), and he even completed a comedy course. The best joke he ever wrote was about a chicken with no legs that couldn't cross the road. He has now progressed on to writing fictional novels and hopes to dedicate his life to writing engaging stories that are heart-breaking, yet funny, tragic, yet fun to read. Use your reviews to let him know if he has succeeded.

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Surely, We Can’t All Be Stupid

J. Shield

Copyright © 2020 by J. Shield

All rights reserved.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted. In any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, or by any information storage and retrieval system without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of very brief quotations embodied in critical reviews as permitted by copyright law.

Disclaimer:

This is a work of fiction. All dramatised characters, names, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either products of the author's imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any likenesses to real-life persons, living or dead or actual events are purely coincidental. All ideas in this book are the intellectual property of the author and any similar occurrences in any other part of the world are coincidental.

A thank you from the author

I wrote this book to give you, the reader, something to think about, and experience some joy in its content. If I’ve accomplished that, then all is well.

This book is dedicated to

All those people in the world

Who live in fantasy,

And struggle with reality

CHAPTER 1

'Ooohhh-ooooooo'

It was an odd sound, human, but not. Like sound does, it drifted through the air, croaky, and yet, yet, like it was created inside a tin can, it had a groaning element to it, a lustfulness, and yet, it felt hollow. The people far below must have wondered at it, and then dismissed it because they had more important things to do. Like, loiter. Or stare invasively at everyone else with their nosey suspicions. But that sound, so faint, so easily dismissed, it would haunt them, and so very soon.

It was one of those nights that should've been perfect. The sun had long turned in and hadn't been seen for a good few hours. Yet its glimmer hung in the atmosphere like Victorian art, it felt light, it felt welcoming, and the speckled shapes of cloud particles made it seem like a sea that was upside down. This was a rarity in the usually cold wet weather of a land called Ireland, and it was especially rare in the north of Ireland, Northern Ireland.

That name. That designation. Because of course, the English had the imagination to invade and annex Northern Ireland, but not the imagination to give it an English name. Like Clarence. They could have called the country Clarence. And then all the troubles between the republic and the north would have been long over. For what Irishman wants to lay claim to a country called Clarence? From an Irish point of view, it'd be like winning the football world cup and finding out the cup was made out of blighted potato skin. No one wants to be reminded of the great potato famine of 1845 and the suddenly absent father of the time that was England.

Well, the moon was out. It was that light that was caught between the moon and the sun that was allowing for this perfect vista. And so, on the streets of Derry folk were jostling along about their business, or loitering outside the pubs, trying not to notice that faint sound, because it was a nice night for the men to be out watching the women passing by. And possibly it was a nice night for the women to show off their dancing legs. The greyish-blue halo in the sky had put everyone in a good mood. After all, this was a religious country, and any symbolism of the Lord was an omen worth celebrating, preferably with a touch of alcohol. And if the weather had been terribly windy, bitter and cold it would have been a time to commiserate, with even more alcohol.

Here in the North of Ireland, there was always a reason to drink. And why not? What other medicine was there to help the communities tolerate decades of violence? Dads and grandads and possibly great granddaddies had grown up knowing nothing but hatred, poverty and alcohol and more poverty, and more alcohol. This was a land of people ravaged by division, famous not for art, or conquest or invention, but for violence, such as the Easter Rising of 1916, partition of 1922, Bloody Sunday of 1972, Hunger strikes throughout the 1980s. All violent incidents, and if you cared to follow it you could follow it all the way back to the 12th century when English Barons sailed across the wee pond and claimed Irish land en masse and by the 16th Century Ireland was ruled in its entirety by the English King Henry the wife killer.

So it was on Friday 24th September 1982, under the glow of this perfect sea in the sky above Derry, and inside the tall and masculine chest of the 'O'Neill House' apartment block which shouldered one of the busiest shopping streets of the Town, that on the sixth and highest floor was an apartment that overlooked the small food stores, bookies, toiletry store, and in particular, the late-night hamburger stand on the paving beyond the awning of the haberdashery store far below. Here inside flat 64 was the arousing sound of lovemaking, of murmuring, of excited breaths of unbound desire, hiding beneath the thick tog 13 bedsheets. And from the sound of it, it was likely a man and a woman, which was thankful, for this homophobic community would've had a touch of the piles if it were a man and a man.

The bedroom was large, and most rooms here in Ireland were small. Like the people. It had two doors on the same wall, one that led out to the hallway, and the second led out to a shared bathroom, shared with the children's room opposite. So already it was an architectural bodge up. The walls were a dark brown with gold lines which gave it a posh aura, the carpet was flowery. The bed was of oak and the bedsheets were an awfully dark cream pattern, to go with the brown walls. On the far wall was a window, quite close to the bathroom access door, and presently on a beautiful night like this the wonderful sliding window was pushed up high so the dreamy night air could be enjoyed.

There was a groan from the bed, the sheets had been moving up and down like the storms of Saturn, and at long last, the top of the sheet fell back a touch to reveal the man's head. He was clearly tall, of a meagre build, by contrast, his face was full, and his eyes were large, but the puffiness of his cheeks hid that well. It was a strong face, a rough-textured face. Like looking at a rock with a face painted on to it. In fact, he looked like James Stewart if James Stewart's face was carved out of sandpaper and lumpy clay. In other words, he could be mistaken for being handsome. But he could also be mistaken for being ugly. He was also not pure in his whiteness, he had a touch of tan to him. Most Irishmen were white as ghosts with blood vessels quite close to the surface, which gave them a nice red colour that came and went depending on how quick they were to anger. It gave them a nice pink complexion. But this man with the rough face had a touch of tan and it was clear a parent or more likely a grandparent had emigrated from tropical shores.

He puffed and he wanted, he wheezed with excitement and satisfaction, he was never still, and a sweet tinny voice groaned back as if she'd suddenly found volume in her lungs.

Oooh-oooooo… baby the voice was angelic, soft, pleasurable, and for some reason, it felt practised.

He moved his pelvis faster. Purring like a cat wanting to be stroked.

Yeaaahh, harder... She called out seductively from under the sheets where she was buried.

He let out a faint smile, building his excitement.

Yeah, baby... aaahh. Come on, we can do it. He encouraged.

He was having, possibly, the greatest sex of his life.

He thrusted harder, slowed, started rocking back and forth, groaning, the duvet fell back to reveal her face for the first time...

A used synthetic robotic love doll.

Her strawberry red lips fixed open in a constant ‘O’ shape. Her second-hand ocean blue eyes staring up at him with love that cost £1,300. Her long nylon hair was blonde and permed, but let down by tatty patches where it'd been torn out by lovemaking that'd been aggressive

Sweat was dripping down his back, still going to and fro, he reached over to the side table, grabbed the open bottle of Chanel perfume, gave her a couple of sprays, for wherever she came from, she didn't smell clean.

Oooh babyyyy she called out to him in that tinny but sexy voice.

He thrusted harder… and again, getting ever more excited. Pretending he could feel her breath upon his face. The duvet slipped completely off, revealing their naked torsos... and also the fact that she had a leg missing.

Yeaaaahhh… yyyeeeah, who's your daddy? I don’t need a penis enhancer...

There was the KLICK-CLICK klicking sound of something turning. The door lock. The man with the rugged face almost fell off the bed. He twisted, pulled the duvet over like it were a massive sail.

The door flung open.

A silhouette stood sharp and solid at the open door frame.

The sixty-watt light bulb flashed on after only three blinks.

He froze in a panic.

At the door frame was a tall aloof looking brunette in a summer mac, she was a pretty thing, with short permed hair, blusher on her cheeks, dark red lips and black eyeliner so thin it was just enough to notice. But right now her eyes were staring, fixated at him.

Sweet Jesus. She screamed. You’re…

She was choked up. Like a Fiat that wouldn't start.

She darted out of the room.

The rugged-faced fellow could only stare after her, he quickly remembered to look back and check on his toy, was she covered up properly? Yes. Had the woman seen her? Most likely not, God, hopefully not. Then a feeling of deep deep embarrassment filled his wee head. For he was a tall lad, but with a short brain most likely. What else could he do? He wondered. Did she see the robotic love doll?

Just as his fingers were starting to tremble the woman shot back into the bedroom.

BASTARD! She screamed like a pelican. I go off for - three hours to meet Mother, and you bring some tart… into our house? Our bed?

She was in a bit of a state. You insensitive… vile…

Oooh, harder baby. The Love Doll cuckoo'd out for the man.

Kacie almost fainted. That was her name, pretty little Kacie Boyle from the upper side of Ballyclare. She gripped on to the door frame for support.

Oh my God. You’re still at it. Kacie exclaimed.

Nooo. Noo... Keller resisted.

That was his name. Keller Boyle. And clearly, they were in some kind of a marriage. And Keller was determined to make this out to be a misunderstanding. The poor fool.

He swiftly pushed his hand under the sheets, he forced his hand over the doll's mouth to muffle up her voice. But he seemed to forget that the speaker was in the armpit. The mouth is usually where he'd put the penis inside.

Uuughh. Give it to me my love. The Love Doll rejoiced to encourage him.

You’re still fucking her! Kacie was distraught.

... sweetie... it’s not what you think… Keller was now sweating with anxiety. He was a man used to fighting his way in and out of trouble. In Ireland, men had to be men, and he was a tough cookie, or at least he played that part. But here in this confusing situation, if word got out about a man in Ireland relying on a love doll… well… he was no longer a man.

Don’t tell me what I think, you cheating, lying, son of a –

Baabbyyy. Come in my mouth. The Love Doll interrupted Kacie's anger.

Kacie ferociously dropped her expensive handbag, words like that had never been uttered in her father's household, she was ready to throw her famous tantrum at her husband for daring to bring another woman to her bed.

God...? WILL YOU STOP FUCKING HER?!? Kacie screamed.

Keller could only shrug, in fear of how she'd react to seeing his toy. She’s on autopilot. He tried to exclaim. But it came out pathetically.

What? How can… Who is it? She demanded. Oh my God... it’s Gertrude from next door, isn’t it? That bitch.

No. Honeysuckle. It’s not Gertrude.

Don't honeysuckle me. You arse'ole.

Kacie made to leave. She turned back again. She just couldn't seem to make up her mind whether to stay or go. It’s my sister, isn’t it? You’re having an affair with my own sister?

Yeaahh, harder... The Love Doll called.

WHO IS SHE? Kacie screamed.

Kacie stormed over like a tank, yanked the duvet back…

… found herself staring down at something devastating to her ego.

Keller's face exhibited so much guilt he would've made Richard Nixon seem innocent. He was embarrassed as hell, and there was no getting away from it this time.

Sweet Jesus. It’s worse than I thought.

And for the first time in ages, there was silence in the room.

Kacie could only gape at the doll, Keller could only look up apologetically at Kacie’s horrified face.

Is this how you see me? You had to resort to sex with a piece of plastic?

Keller considered this. Well... statistically… 97% of women masturbate with dildos.

Kacie was furious again. It’s got fucking arms and legs. It’s not even on the same par as a dil –

This was the point when Keller's anger reached too much. There comes a point when a man's anger in his relationship builds up so much that he shits out more truths through his mouth than would otherwise be healthy for him.

Fuck's sake woman! You haven’t had sex with me since you had that affair with Looney Harry! How do you think that makes me feel? How…?

Harry is a nice man.

I’m a niiice man. Everybody at the bridge club tells me so.

Your dick… hasn’t worked for two years. You’re dys-function-al!

Oooh, baby. I want it sooo much. The love doll joined in.

Keller was stumped. He hadn't been able to hold an erection for more than two years now. That much was true, and the truth hurt him. The man had been practising with the love doll in the hope of one day soon satisfying his cheating wife again, and now she'd gone and called him 'dysfunctional'. And to make matters worse, she'd said the word with three syllables instead of four.

I want you so much. The love doll murmured.

Shut that harlot up. I can’t put up with this anymore. Kacie scolded and ran out of the room, on the verge of breaking down, picking up her bag along the way. As the door slammed shut behind her he heard her final words I want a divorce.

Keller watched after her sullenly, frozen in shock, the man buried his face into his hands, forlorn, he sulked back into his pillow. He caught the love doll’s wanton eyes, sighed, covered her up bitterly with the duvet.

The sound of the bathroom door opening fast.

Keller jumped back up in surprise. Covering up the doll again, just to make sure.

A six-year-old girl stood there in her cute pink pyjamas, carrying a golden brown teddy bear with a red and white bow tie under her arm. She had Keller's black hair and his chin, and she had her mother's curls and her legs.

Who keeps leaving open the bathroom latch? Jeeeez!

Daddy.

When did you get home sweetie?

Why are you and Mummy always arguing?

Not now sweetie. This is adult… ermmm… Madeline, sweetie did your mother not buy you a new bear, that one's had its days.

I’m hungry. And Mr Maddi just needs a few stitches at the Doctor, she's not for replacing. The six-year-old explained.

Oooh baby… The Love Doll cooed. And Keller rushed to cover up her voice piece.

Madeline sensed movement under the duvet.

Mummy, mummy... the six-year-old child called excitedly and jumped on the bed, over Keller, and yanked the duvet back. Keller tried but was too late to stop her.

The ugly love doll stared back at Madeline with a 'Chucky' look in her eyes.

Oooh, harder baby... It gave a lifeless haunting cry.

Madeline screamed at the top of her vocal cords EEEEAAAAGGHHH!!!

She leapt off the bed, raced for the door in a panic.

At that moment the door CRASHED open just as Madeline jumped to it. The solid wood expensive door with its beautifully ornate carving violently knocked Madeline back, throwing her out through the open window, into the beautiful night sky. Kacie stood there, glaring down at Keller, angrier than ever, after having time to really build up the vile.

And another thing She screamed at Keller. I’m keeping this apartment, the Chinese tea set, and I’m gonna fucking sue you in court for the rights to that bloody whore in your bed so I can burn it at the stake whilst all your friends watch.

Keller was paying no attention to her at all, he clambered and fell out of bed in complete nudity as he jumped to get to the window. Mindlessly throwing the door back into Kacie's skull to get her out of the way, and probably knocking her out in the process.

He gawped out through the window in horror, searching frantically.

Yeah, baby... you're so good. The Love Doll called out in a croaky voice as its battery started to give up.

Keller had his head and half his body out the window, he found his daughter Madeline hanging from a flag pole below, barely holding on. He called to her to hold on. She was still grasping her teddy. Derry men and women who weren't drunk had started to notice.

Give up the teddy… He called out to the child, so she could grasp on to the pole with both hands, but she was too scared. She was terrified, as any child would be. And he felt himself lose his breath as he watched that terrible panicked expression on his daughter's face.

Hang on Maddy… I’m gonna grab a rope and come to you. Keller reassured her.

And just as he did, the flag pole snapped.

Madeline fell, fell, fell, all the way down. Her little body flumped on the awning of the haberdashery shop four floors below the pole, and she bounced right up and out, and flew for several seconds, before falling again, Madeline landed with a THRACK on top of the hamburger grill. Its flames jumping up immediately in shock all around her from the disturbed cooking oils.

The hamburger man and the good people of Derry who were sober quickly grappled to pull the child up and away from the burning hot grill.

Dear God. Was all Keller could utter as he watched devastated from high above.

He raced out of the apartment to reach his daughter, forgetting about his clothes. And what man wouldn't in such a situation.

CHAPTER 2

As bathrooms go this had to be one of the best. It had a kind of a teak coloured ceiling, with downlights that shone and reflected light beautifully off of the ocean coloured tiled walls, not the surface layer of the ocean, but that deep layer in the Caribbean that was a weird mix of not being blue and not quite being green. Yes, that's what this multi-cubicled washroom was like, and so it had a certain calmness to it. Like its role was to wash away a man's anxiety with each second he would sit at that toilet taking a shite.

Luckily for Keller Boyle, he had no need to