Second Hand Jane by Michelle Vernal

idea he wanted to run it as a
full-page article, independent of her column for which, if the
figure he had quoted as payment was correct, she was to be
generously reimbursed. Her eyes widened further as she carried on
reading. The Express would
pay her travel costs to Ballymcguinness, too, and any other
additional costs she incurred. She felt inordinately pleased that
it wasn’t just her that recognised Amy’s story was one that needed
to be told; it was just a bummer that she hadn’t booked a
first-class seat on the train after all.
     
    ***
     
    By ten the
following morning, she was not only wishing she had taken heed of
Brianna’s warning regarding the bus she was also wishing she had
donned a sturdy sports bra instead of the non-underwire one she had
worn, opting for comfort. Not only had the bus done a loop inland,
passing through all sorts of out-of-the-way towns before finally
getting back onto the road that spliced through Drogheda and headed
north, but Brianna’s warning regarding the potholes had proved
prophetic too. She was fairly sure the bus driver whom she had
nicknamed Leery Len—his badge declared his real identity to be one
Leonard O’Reilly—was deliberately hitting each and every one of
them to see just how much bounce her boobs actually had in
them.
    At this rate,
they’ll be down to my knees by the time we get to Ballymcguinness,
she thought despondently, crossing her arms over her chest before
catching Leery Len’s gaze in the rearview mirror. Humph, she
huffed; the bloody heating was turned up so high in the bus that it
wasn’t as if she could put her jacket back on over her top to cover
up—she’d expire before she even got to Ballymcguinness! She fixed
Len with her evil eye instead and received a wink for her
troubles.
    Turning away in
disgust, she gazed out the window. They were officially in Northern
Ireland now, although crossing over the border had been a
nondescript event since the days of army checkpoints were long
gone. Still, she thought as they sailed past rows of Newry’s white
stucco identikit houses edged up against the grassy verge of the
motorway and Irish flags blowing from their brown tiled roofs in
the chilly autumn winds, even from here she could sense the
undercurrent. It sent a shiver through her.
    The bus veered
inland, winding its way into the green heart of County Down where
they passed through the town of Banbridge and then on through the
smaller village of Dundrum. Spying the ruins of a castle perched
hillside and keeping watch over the villagers, Jess fell a little
bit in love. She’d heard of the father complex but she reckoned she
had castle complex. There was just something so romantic about
them, she thought, sighing wistfully and imagining the grand
banquets that it once would have hosted and the gallant men bravely
going off to battle as the bus left the village behind. She hoped
Ballymcguinness would prove to be just as much of a chocolate box
village as Dundrum.
     
    ***
     
    Um, first
impressions—not overly fabulous, she thought, peering out the
window as the bus topped a hill and headed down toward the little
village some twenty minutes and at least one hundred potholes
later. The grainy Internet photo she had seen of Ballymcguinness
had been a good likeness and, from her vantage point, she could see
a narrow, curving street from which a pile of semi-detached houses
two streets deep ran off either side. There was a mishmash of power
lines dangling over the rooftops, stretching off toward a hill
dotted with pylons that lay over to the right-hand side of the
village. At the base of the hill stood an austere grey stone church
with a tall and wide spire. The location, of which, had been chosen
no doubt to keep the villagers in line. It was one of three
smattered around the surrounding countryside, she noticed—three
churches and not one single castle in sight.
    The bus slowed
to a crawl as it headed down the main street of the village,
passing by half