The Shorthand Notebook - Part 1.

I sat on it, by accident, at the train station. I didn't see it initially, as I plonked myself down on the hard metal seat beside the platform entrance to gate 5. I had moved a paper bag of empty sandwich wrappers aside. It was wedged firmly between the back of my seat.The bound spiral edges were digging into the cheeks of my bum.

As I was about to unearth this uncomfortable item, I noticed two gentlemen frantically searching for something they had obviously lost, or misplaced. They spoke into earwigs and were rudely moving people sitting on other metal seats approximately thirty feet in front of me. They seemed anxious to find whatever they were looking for and were sweating and cursing profusely. Whatever it was, they weren't finding it. Their search was moving slowly moving toward me.

Finding it hard to remain seated, I raised myself slightly, wondering what the hell was making my seat so damn uncomfortable. A small spiral A5 notebook.

It was open in the middle with hand written notations - almost completely indecipherable. Then I turned it over and spotted a bloody thumbprint and index finger on the page. Glancing back at the two men manically still searching the seats in front, I got up, feeling a rather urgent need to pee.

Was this what they were looking for?

I kept my walk even and didn't draw attention to myself as I made my way toward the toilets. They were now checking where I was once seated. Fiddling in my pockets for change, I found a twenty cent coin.  I made my way into the large disabled cubicle, as it was the only one vacant. Curiousity began to get the better of me.

I flicked to the front of the notebook, looking for a name of the owner. There was none. It was a simple shorthand notebook. I began flicking through it from the front. The first ten or so pages were shorthand, as I couldn't make head nor tail of it. Then I spotted a name that I recognised - John O'Sullivan. It seemed familiar somehow. Flicking further, I saw more names that I vaguely recognised. I slid the notebook into my laptop bag and zipped it closed. I flushed the toilet and exited the stall. Standing at the entrance to the toilets were the two men.

"Excuse me sir - have you come across a small notebook?" asked the younger man. His accent was English - I could swear from up north, like Birmingham.

I couldn't believe how calm I was. I strolled to the hand basins and turned on the hot tap. Despite the heat of the water, I didn't flinch.

"Notebook? What do you mean?"

"Have you anything in your possession that isn't yours?" asked the older, grey haired man. He was far bigger in stature than his colleague. He looked far more imposing.

"I'm not sure I understand you. Why would I have anything of anyone else's? Sure all I have here is my laptop and my bag."

"Would you mind if we had a look inside them sir?"

The threat was subtle. I dried my hands with brown paper towels as they asked.

"Yes I mind. Do you have a warrant?"

"We don't need one sir. You're in a public bathroom in a public train station. This entire area falls under The Terrorist Acts and Terrorist Crimes against the Public."

"And what jurisdiction do you operate under gentlemen? I could swear by your accents that you both are English. This is Dublin, Ireland. And you both still haven't shown me any identification."

The raised voices had drawn out two other men from their stalls. One other man had entered the toilets. This was becoming a bit of a standoff.

"Eh, excuse me - can I leave?" asked an older gentleman with a grey peaked cap.

"No one can leave until we search your belongings."

"You're doing no such thing! All I have in this bag are my sandwiches and no one is putting their grubby paws on them. And as this young man has just said - where is your ID to prove you have the right to stop anyone in a bathroom to search their belongings?"

"I'm ringing the Gardai right now gentlemen," I added.

They stopped with their posturing and stepped aside. I continued to follow through with my threat. I was put through to Store Street Station and I reported the incident. Then just as I'm about to hang up, another deeper, gruffer voice interjects. He identified himself as Sergeant James McCarthy.

"They were looking for what? A notebook? Which notebook would this be?"

"The one I have right here in my possession."

"What does it look like exactly?"

"Em, it's a regular A5 shorthand notebook. It has shorthand notations on the first few pages. Then there's a bloody fingerprint or two and the first name on it is John O'Sullivan."

"John O'Sullivan you say? And what else?"

"Well I haven't read much more than that, but there's acres more. Oh, hang on. There's a name on the back piece of cardboard here. Eh, it's Pierce Carty. Do you think this belongs to the reporter Pierce Carty? The one from off the television! Jaysus!"

"Sir - what is your exact location right this moment?"

"Eh, I'm about to catch my train to Limerick. I'm in Heuston Station. Why?"

"Stay right where you are. Do not move from your location. Do not get on that train. Are those two gentlemen still watching you?"

"Yeah they're eyeballing me but the ticket inspector won't let them through the gate. They obviously haven't got tickets to board the platform."

The two Englishmen are trying desperately to force their way through to get to me. The train is just pulling onto the platform. The Galway train is boarding beside me on the opposite platform.

"Sir - what is your name? Do not move under any circumstances."

As the Sergeant speaks, I continue to flick through the notepad. A name catches my eye. James McCarthy. And a line underneath - not to be trusted.

I hang up the phone, switch it off and place it in the nearest bin. It is only an old Nokia phone that can easily be replaced.

The two English lads have seen me board the train. This train leaves in four minutes for Galway. I sit down facing their location. Then I see three Gardai approach them. They back off and leave the station. Then I see the Gardai receive some message on their radios.

They literally run toward the Limerick train. Now I definitely have to bolt - how long will it be before they discover I'm not on it?

Exiting the train on the far side, I keep a keen eye out for my two English friends. I keep low and below the level of the railings. Getting to the top where the ticket inspector is, I quietly ask him to move. He does so and I exit toward the taxi rank. I jump into the first taxi and stay low in the back seat.

"Oh howya! Where did you bleedin' spring from?"

"I'm sorry sir. Could you just drive? I'm eh, trying to avoid someone."

"Oh roigh! I gotcha! An ex or sometin?"

"Yeah. Eh, let's call it that."

"Any idea where you want to go to?"

"Limerick, but that's now on hold for the minute. Em, head toward the airport please."

" I can't drive ya to Limerick boss, as much a I'd like to. So, toward the airport or the actual airport then?"

"Actually - the airport is a great idea. Yeah! Airport please."

In the quiet of the back seat of the cab, I pick up a copy of the day's evening paper. It had been left there by a previous passenger.

The front headline sinks me deep into the seat.

GARDAI SUSPECT FOUL PLAY IN MURDER OF TOP JUDGE.

He was killed yesterday morning in his own driveway as he made his way to work. Judge John O'Sullivan - no wonder the name sounded familiar to me. I'd heard his name mentioned on the radio.

Then I see the sidebar of the front page, complete with picture.

HAVE YOU SEEN PIERCE? HERALD REPORTER MISSING FOR LAST THREE DAYS.

The headlines have me saying 'fuck' out loud, even though I'm not even aware I'm saying it.

"Are you alright there bud?"

"Em, I'm not sure. Get to the airport as quick as you can and there's another twenty in it for you."

What have I stumbled upon?