by Eoghan Egan
‘God. Is she—?’
‘Disorientation. Another part of Alzheimer’s.’
‘Aww, feck. Let me know if there’s—’
‘Thanks.’
‘We’ll get moving too; I’m parked in your way. You right, Master David?’ Ferdia turned to Hugh. ‘Willya meet with Eilish? Try to work it out, like?’
Ciara frowned at Ferdia.
‘Work what out?’ Hugh asked.
‘Ye’re bond, man. Your relationship.’
‘What’s the point?’
‘I’ll have a word with her.’
‘Keep out of it, Ferdia.’ Hugh turned up his coat collar. ‘Eilish has made up her mind. I hope he can provide the style and luxury she’s aspired to. I thought we’d be together forever. Didn’t think forever was this short.’
-----
Styne set the mileage counter to zero and followed the directions intoned by the robotic computer voice. Eleven kilometres out, he saw the school. The sat-nav instructed him to turn left. There was no turn. Irritated, he switched off the GPS and inched along the unfamiliar road. Thick blankets of snow made any landmark undistinguishable. He passed a cluster of houses; three on his left, two on the right. Checked the counter again. Thirteen kilometres.
Turn around. Could be in the other direction from the school.
Rounded a sharp bend.
A detached cottage sat fifteen metres off the road, flanked on three sides by mature Leylandii. The driveway curved towards the front entrance, and a dark Mercedes had parked halfway up. The red Nissan and a light blue car sat side by side near the hall door.
Styne drove on.
At a crossroads, he reversed and backtracked for another inspection, slowing as he approached the house. Ciara and two men stood by the door. A small figure scooped snow in the garden.
Styne’s heart thumped. He pressed the accelerator.
I know those faces.
It took a second.
The blitzed culchie from last night. Ferdia … somebody. Muck savage. And … Fallon. Why are they here? Whatever the connection, it doesn’t matter. I’ve seen enough.
Near Tullamore, he phoned the home number of a garage owner. When he answered, Styne said, ‘A taillight broke on my wife’s Q7. I need it fixed immediately. And I want a car.’
‘It’s Sunday. That’s not an emergency.’
‘If we’re involved in an accident tonight, be it on your head.’
‘Of course, Mr Styne.’
‘I’ll pick the replacement car in an hour.’
‘I won’t get a chance to look at the Q7 ’til Tuesday or Wed—’
‘Have it ready Tuesday.’
Remember to delete the sat-nav details later.
He hummed and piloted homewards. ‘The opal might have given you a sense of security today, bitch, but it loses its power at night.’ He ripped up the paper he’d written Ciara’s details and let the pieces flutter out the window.
‘Victor and victim. And to the victor come the spoils.’
Evening
Jana Trofimiack crammed the last of her possessions into a suitcase. Lech bounced on the lid, and Jana tugged the zip. He had packed his knapsack yesterday. She stacked the case beside the front door with the rest of their luggage and inspected the apartment, her home for ten years. From the hallway, through the kitchen and into the lounge, her steps sounded hollow in the bare rooms. Already, the apartment gave off an air of abandonment.
‘Co czas wyjeżdżamy?’
‘You’ve asked that a hundred times,’ Jana smiled. ‘The taxi will collect us at four-thirty.’
‘In the morning?’
‘Tak.’
The Jack B. Yeats oil on board of The Boat Builder, lay on her bed, the switch unnoticed by the half-blind owner. Remove brads. Swap canvas. Replace brads. Forty seconds.
Jana slipped it into a Sainsbury’s bag, ready for Tomasz, then doubled back the quilt and gazed at three other pieces. Two more by Yates, already out of their frames. The watercolour and pencil on paper, she estimated was worth fifteen thousand. Sterling. The second, a charcoal and gouache: twenty-five thousand. The third piece was still in its original frame. A twenty-five by thirty-centimetre oil on canvas, she couldn’t resist. Jana studied Paul Henry’s The Turf Gatherer; a woman dressed in a red skirt bowed under a weighty turf creel. Quarter million. Minimum. Lech’s college fund. Her art gallery. Too precious to take on a plane.
Jana took the painting from its frame, rolled it loose, painting on the outside and popped it into a postal tube. She wrote a Polish address on the cylinder and added stamps. The other two pieces got placed in separate cylinders. Same address. She broke the three frames and shoved the pieces into a rubbish bag. On the walk to the post office, she tapped out a resignation letter to Adam Styne’s secretary:
Dear Mr Styne,
I’m resigning. Effective immediately.
Jana Trofimiack.
I’ll be fourteen hundred miles away when they get the email on Monday morning, Jana thought. She speculated what his reaction would be when he found out she’d quit. Worried? No. Angry? Yes. Jana frowned, wondering if she’d forgotten anything, and watched Lech running ahead. The rubbish got buried in a builder’s skip, and Lech helped push the postal tubes into a post box. She’d made up her mind. Jana and Lech were never coming back. Concentrating on her son, Jana didn’t notice the unmarked police car tailing them.
-----
Hugh collected his mother’s nightclothes, returned to the hospital and, after the nurses had changed her, kept vigil.
A tea trolley trundled along the corridor. Kathleen picked at food. A nurse gave her a thimbleful of tablets and she got drowsy. We assume we’re organised, getting to grips with life, Hugh thought. Until chance intervenes and makes a mockery of our plans. Ferdia’s comment that problems come in threes sprang to his mind. Job. Eilish. Ma. What else can happen?
He squirmed in the hard chair and watched Kathleen drift in and out of sleep. In the hallway, occasional tap-taps of visitors’ heels offset the swish of nurses’ sandals on the parquet floor. Muffled morsels of conversations soared and faded like shuttlecocks; a tranquil hour ahead of the frenetic evening bustle that kick-starts the night shift.
Ruth peeped in. ‘How’s Kathleen since?’
‘I’m out of my depth here,’ Hugh whispered.
Ruth beckoned him out of the room. ‘I’m off duty. Let’s grab a coffee.’
‘Thought I’d got a handle on life,’ Hugh said. ‘Then, bang, bang. Earlier, Ma said the nurse wants to kill her, then there are snatches of lucidity, where she dishes out orders like a drill sergeant.’
‘Such as?’ Ruth linked Hugh towards the lift.
‘Argh, I promised I’d paint the kitchen. A sugar rush. Too many Ferrero Rocher over Christmas. Amazing how Ma couldn’t remember how to park a car, but she didn’t forget the painting? Worst time of the year for paintwork, but the garden shed’s jammed with bloody paint tins, so I’ve got to do it. I think Ma’s being deliberately confrontational, but I’m putting it down to annoyance at not being able to do as much as she wants. It would be easy to react, but I don’t want to upset her either.’
‘I understand.’
‘Wish I could paint.’
‘Wish I could play a musical instrument …’
Hugh got the coffees. Ruth cleared a canteen table, pulled up two chairs and sat across from him. ‘Talk to me. How are you?’
‘I’m good.’
‘Liar. But congrats. That’s a brave front you’ve put up.’
‘You’re right. It’s an act.’ Hugh picked up a sugar sachet. His mobile hummed and shimmied along the laminated tabletop. They both peeked at the screen. Ferdia.
‘Take the call,’ Ruth said.
Hugh pressed the ‘Off’ button, sipped coffee and said, ‘Since we’ve met, I’ve spent the time talking about me, Ma, my needs, her wants. What happened to you? Where’d you disappear to after the Leaving Cert?’
Ruth sat b
ack. ‘Booked my spot on a nursing degree course in Galway—’
‘I studied in UCG,’ Hugh said. ‘Can’t believe we didn’t bump into each other.’
‘I went on a gap year. Hiked across Europe and enjoyed that so much I spent another six nomadic months roving between Australia and Alaska—’
‘And I’d moved on when you took up the college offer.’
‘Yep. We slipped by like ships in the night. I finished my degree and applied for a job in Manchester. I’ve a sister there. Lives in Didsbury. I met a guy, got engaged—’
‘Congratulations.’
‘Didn’t work out. He’d … issues I assumed were due to a stressful job, plus a two-hour commute each way to work, until I realised he’d met someone else in a nightclub, while I worked double shifts to keep a roof over our heads. Stranger, friend, boyfriend, fiancé, back to zero.’
‘Sorry.’
‘That’s six months ago. Water under the bridge. I’m well past it. You can waste days, weeks, dissecting a situation; women are great at that. We try to put the pieces back together and justify what could’ve happened, if only … Or, you can leave the pieces where they fall, and move on. That’s what I did. At present, I’m enjoying life while the search for Mr Right continues. What’ve you been up to for ten years?’
‘After college, I got a job in Bower’s bakery. Didn’t enjoy desk work, so they put me on the road as a sales rep, and I found my forte. Studied for an MBA at night. Four years ago, I became a manager with Pharma-Continental—’
‘Their reps call here.’
‘That was my team.’
‘Was?’
‘A third of the workforce got made redundant last Tuesday week.’
‘Ouch.’
‘Hmm. So, in under a week, let me see, I lost my job. Ma’s diagnosed with Alzheimer’s, and I got dumped.’
‘Eilish?’
‘Yeah.’
‘I got your side of the phone call earlier. Sorry. Sounded … terrible. God, it’s so unfair. You get into a rough patch, and life kicks you when you’re down.’
‘Mmm. Lulls us into a false sense of complacency. Makes me realise we’re not in control of our destiny as much as we’d hope.’
‘What happened with Eilish?’
‘Same as your guy. She met someone else. To an extent, I’m at fault too. When you work flat out, come home tired, eat, she watches soaps, I fall asleep. Conversation falls off the page. It’s hard to strike a happy medium.’
They reached for sugar sachets together, fingers touching for an instant.
‘You’d imagine it should be easier to talk when you live together, but it seldom is,’ Ruth said.
‘On the plus side,’ Hugh added sugar to his coffee, ‘I’ve a temporary position that could become permanent in a few weeks, and I intend to enjoy life as my search for Miss Right goes on.’
‘Touché.’ Ruth tilted her head. ‘A man of action, eh?’
‘Success is inevitable once you believe it’s possible. Are you glad to be back here?’ Hugh asked.
‘After my engagement broke up, I came home to lick my wounds and help with Dad. I fell in love with the place again. I suppose we don’t value what we have; the grass is greener, etcetera.’ Ruth twisted a napkin. ‘All the places I’ve visited, I never considered settling long-term in any of them. And I didn’t realise how much I missed my family. The Midlands has lots going for it, and Ireland has a charm you get nowhere else. You get a new perspective and appreciation of home, having been away from it for a while. So, I applied for a post, and here I am. I’ve learned Ganestown isn’t a place to use as a pit stop while planning to head off again. It’s taken me years to figure out I’m content here.’
‘You’ve got the wanderlust out of your system.’
‘Could be. I’ve my own higgledy-piggledy modest abode, and work is … an eternal struggle, but it pays the bills, even if it leaves little for the latest fashion.’
‘You look—’
‘Terrific?’
They laughed.
‘Great,’ Hugh said.
‘Ta.’
Hugh drained his coffee. ‘You’re wrecked after a long day. Thanks for the chat. It’s been great catching up.’
‘No need to thank me. I’ve done—’
‘You’ve listened. Having your ear is a huge help.
‘Call anytime.’
‘Okay. I’ll walk you to your car.’
‘Aww …’
Outside, soft snowflakes spun. The crackling cold exploded against their faces like an icy slap. Hugh caught Ruth’s arm, steadied her on the glassy footpath. Frosty patterns on car windows resembled intricate designs of lace.
Ruth pointed. ‘I’m parked over here.’
‘Sorry for being a pessimist every time we meet, Hugh said. ‘The last few days a lot of issues have whirled ’round my brain.’
‘I reckon you’ve got it well under control.’
They lingered beside Ruth’s car.
Hugh drew Ruth closer, curled his arm around her. His heart pounded.
Ruth chained both arms around Hugh’s waist, smiled and angled her head upwards. A vein pulsed at the side of her neck. The kiss hovered between them.
The moment passed.
‘Um, I’ll go back and sit with Ma for a while, and I’ll ring Sarah—’
‘Great idea.’
‘Well …’
‘Well …’ Ruth squeezed his arm, smiled and opened the car door. ‘My offer stands.’
‘I’m sure I’ll have more questions in a week or so.’
‘I’m off tomorrow and Tuesday. Back on duty Wednesday night. If you want me, call.’
‘I will. Thanks for letting me use you as a sounding board.’
‘Remember what your mother still has, Hugh. Her mind is forgetting, but she has spirit and the capacity to love, to appreciate life.’
‘I‘ll keep that in mind. Sleep well.’
‘I wish. Because of Dad’s condition, I’ve got involved in a local support group—’
‘Doctor Abbott mentioned that.’
‘We’re meeting tonight at half-eight in Ganestown Hotel.’
‘Oh? Should I be involved in that?’
‘Well, no pressure. If you can make it—’
‘Anything to delay this painting job.’
‘Then, come along. It’s only for a few hours, but it’ll help to know others are going through a similar process. There are carers with relatives at the same stage as Kathleen. If you’ve got questions on long or short-term supervision—’
‘Great, but I’ll still phone Sarah.’
‘I recommend you do. More options, the better. See you later.’
Hugh watched the car taillights disappear. Ruth’s touch was a soothing salve that helped quench inner turmoil. He checked his mobile; Ferdia hadn’t left a message. He dialled Sarah. Her voice was soft and warm. ‘Sorry about your mother,’ she said when he told her his name. ‘Ruth contacted me earlier. Said you might call.’
‘It’s now beginning to dawn how tied up I’ll be,’ Hugh said, and filled Sarah in on Kathleen’s condition. ‘I need cover next week, and I’m minus any help.’
‘I’m available ’til mid-February.’
‘What’s your hourly rate? I—’
‘Let’s discuss that when Kathleen gets home. Text me the directions. I’ll be there whenever.’
‘That’s a huge relief. Thanks.’
‘I’ve seen this before. I’m sure your mum will remain healthy for years, but you have to face reality and plan for the future. The sooner you build a care network around her, getting support systems in place, the less hard decisions you’ll have to make later.’
‘And the time to organise that is now,’ Hugh said, ‘not when I’m in the middle of a crisis, right?’
‘Exactly.’
‘What do I need to do, as opposed to what do I have to do? I’m thinking … support, understanding and reassurance, but that’s not enough—’
> ‘It’s wonderful,’ Sarah said. ‘But keep monitoring. Needs will change. Be ready to act when they do. The most important factor is to make sure Kathleen knows she’s loved. Look, it’s only been a few days. You need time to get your head around—’
‘Yeah. Too many emotions to process. I want to delay the inevitable. Forever.’
‘It takes most people months to get to the stage you’re at, Hugh. You’ve accepted where you are and started to consider options. That’s all you can do.’
-----
At his house, Adam Styne cleared the sat-nav data and grunted at Madeline when she asked him how long he needed the jeep for.
He picked up her key fob and drove fast to Tullamore. A kilometre from the town, he got out, smashed one of the back taillights, then continued to the garage, swapped the 4x4 for a nondescript Mazda 6, and cruised to the farm.
The rigger brush transformed 16 D 17035 to 18 D 47888, and he lined the boot with used silage wrap. After, in the farmhouse, he changed into a pair of work boots, found plastic gloves under the sink, then sat at the kitchen table and considered, rejected and refined his preferred options. Preparation to the nth degree was impossible; specific issues that could arise, he’d resolve on the fly. That’s the enjoyable part, he thought. Reliant on my wits.
He opened presses, rummaged around and found two plastic cable ties.
I’ll need them later.
He glanced at a wall clock.
19:05.
Still too soon.
‘The challenge,’ he muttered. ‘Boy meets girl. Boy kills girl.’
Check the room.
In the hallway, Styne stood at the foot of the stairs and studied the spot where he’d broken his mother’s neck.
-----
Eilish sat on the toilet seat, stomach churning, and rang Ciara’s mobile.
Her mind raced through a gamut of emotions; concern, trepidation, panic. The phone cut into voicemail. She cancelled the connection, hunched forward, hugged her stomach and studied the digital pregnancy kit test, measuring a two-minute countdown by the plink-plink drip from a leaking tap.
Same result.
Eilish counted backwards, hoping she’d mixed up the dates. Stress, she thought. That’s it. A build-up of stress. Tried Ciara’s mobile again. ‘Pick up. Pick up. Answer your bloody phone. Please, God, make her answer the phone.’ She swallowed, blocked the copper taste rising in her throat, but couldn’t stop the queasiness.