by Eoghan Egan
‘Yes. But I want more morphine. I’ll telling you the doctors are deliberately—’
‘Adam, I don’t mean to trivialise your picayunish bias, but staff are doing everything to alleviate your pain. As I said, everything is documented. We’re at their mercy at present,’ O’Brien tucked the folder under his arm, ‘but when you get to your next destination, a little soft-pedalling on your part won’t do any harm. I appreciate answering questions you consider irrelevant is not your natural … metier, but this is not a business environment, so no heroics. Understand?’
‘Yes. What are you going to do?’
O’Brien’s mouth twisted into a lob-sided grin and he slipped on his gloves. ‘What I do when I’m dealing from a position of weakness. Feign strength. Thank you for the questions, Adam. I welcome them as a base for further discussions. We’ll talk again soon.’
Mid-Morning
Hugh collected dole money at Ganestown’s post office, bought a smartphone, transferred the contact numbers from his company mobile, and drove to Mullingar.
McGuire’s customers and staff huddled in groups, debating in subdued murmurs how they’d react if a family member went missing, thankful they could express their views from a distance and didn’t have to go through McGuire’s ordeal.
Hugh shuffled upstairs to collect Malcolm’s laptop.
‘Hugh?’
He spun around. Brendan Enright stood behind him. ‘Awful news ’bout Ciara.’
‘Terrible. I can’t believe it either.’
‘What happened to your foot?’
‘Aw, got into a fight.’
‘You? Hah. Good one. I bet you fell. Um, the accountant, Philip Waldron, told me yesterday …’ Brendan used air quotes ‘… to “inform you” that you’ve been, err, let go. We can’t afford … I’m on the van now.’
‘Isn’t he man enough to tell me himself? I haven’t even met him. Who’s filling your current role?’
‘That’ll be me too. Sorry.’
‘Not your fault.’
‘Don’t know how I’ll get time to do deliveries as well as everything else.’ Brendan held out his hand and touched his thumb and forefinger together. ‘Yesterday, I was this close to resigning. I’ve let customers down. I hate when logistics …’ His voice dropped. ‘We all want the store to do well, but Philip’s fanning the flames, telling people we’re gonna get sold.’
‘I hope you’ll stick with it,’ Hugh said. ‘Charlie’s spent a lifetime in this business. He needs loyal staff around him now more than ever. He’d hate you to leave.’
‘Thanks for the vote of confidence. We’ll see what pans out.’
Across town at Pharma-Continental, Hugh watched a former colleague walk away from the building, dragging her feet through the snow, labouring to propel herself forward, the weight of unemployment heavy on bowed shoulders.
Ferdia’s Merc wasn’t in the car park.
Hugh left a box of folders, the company laptop and mobile phone at reception. Before he got to the canteen, a discord of voices flooded out, ricocheting around the corridor. Staff strove to adjust, with the inevitability of their situation slowly sinking in. Each person wanted to express their frustration with people who understood their predicament.
‘I got pissed last weekend. That’s how much I’ve planned my future.’
‘Me too. Unemployment was less scary from the bottom of my third wine bottle.’
‘Why am I finding it so hard to tell people I’m out on my ear?’ a third asked. ‘I’ve paid a fortune in tax, so why do I get the sense I’m a blight on society?’
‘Yeah. I’m avoiding friends. I hate the effect my redundancy has on them. And sympathy? Being unemployed makes people see you in a different light; you’re targeted as a failure.’
‘Is it just me or have you noticed how they talk strange too? Like, at you. And louder, as if you’ve become a lesser person. Dumber.’
Hugh asked the group, ‘You job hunting?’
‘Yeah, I applied for a job as a shelf packer in Tesco,’ a middle-aged man said. ‘And I’d an interview at McDonald’s last Monday. Got placed on a panel. If I get the job, I’ve to smile and say “would you like fries with that?” ’
‘I’m getting involved in the agribusiness,’ a woman spoke up. ‘Imagine that? No, me neither. My husband’s a farmer. From power suits to a piggery. How ’bout you, Hugh?’
‘I got a temporary van-driving stroke delivery gig.’
‘You’ve lots of management experience. You’ll pick up work, easy. And Eilish has a good job.’
Hugh shifted in the seat.
‘I’ve fixed stuff in my apartment and painted walls,’ Ronan Lambe said. ‘Another week I’ll be climbing them. I’ve scratched Sky sports. Could sell a kidney, I suppose. In the welfare office, a woman told me that if she gets peckish at night, she can’t make a sandwich for herself, ’cos her children would go hungry. When you have to count slices of bread, dude, that’s rough. Can’t wait to see Ganestown in the rear-view mirror on my way outta this poxy place. This town is dead to me.’
‘Me too,’ another voice chimed in. ‘I’ve cancelled my gym membership. Read someplace that if you walk up and down standard stairs eighty times, you lose three hundred calories.’
‘Huh. How many calories will I lose if I plant my foot eighty times in Wiseman’s backside, dude?’
Hugh fiddled with car keys. If HR stall me much longer, I’ll leave, he thought. This exit interview is minor compared to Ma. If they’d give me the redundancy cheque, I’d go now.
After one o’clock, an HR person came to collect Hugh. ‘Files? Laptop? Mobile?’ she asked.
‘At reception,’ Hugh said.
She checked, then walked ahead to the boardroom. The sharp clip-clop of heels on tiles acted as a conversation blocker.
Denis Wiseman and another man had entrenched themselves in the boardroom, barricaded behind a laager of manuals and files.
Denis waved to a chair. He gripped a coffee mug in both hands, manufactured a concerned frown, and read from a typed sheet. ‘I want you to understand we do recognise the impact this streamline will have on employees, their families and the region. I take full responsibility …’
No, you don’t, Hugh felt like saying.
‘… but the unthinkable has become the inevitable. Demand for our products hasn’t grown in line with expectations, due to the competitive market in which we operate, making our existing business model unsustainable. Therefore, in response to tough trade conditions …’
Here comes the hand-waving speech, Hugh thought, and tuned out, letting the words, gestures and bland business balderdash wash over him.
‘… faced with significant financial challenges … management team has developed a plan … restore efficiency … job losses … no option …’
After he’d delivered the same weasel words to dozens of staff, Denis had tweaked the script into a well-rehearsed routine he should have been able to rattle off by rote, but still needed to have the words written. When he placed the mug back on the desk, Hugh refocused.
‘… hard to let traditional attitudes go. We spent years building beliefs, developing habits that are comfortable. Similar to a person who has’—Denis scratched his chin—‘worn glasses for so long, they forget they’re on.’
This was Hugh’s opportunity to say his piece, but he let the silence build.
The second man kept his face buried in an iPad screen. The woman who’d collected him, scribbled an illegible scrawl on an A4 notepad, underlining and circling key words as if her life depended on it. Not one of the troika had made eye contact with Hugh or called him by his name.
‘Well, ahem, I’m confident that displaced workers will secure new jobs,’ Denis continued. ‘Despite the discomfort downscaling evokes, I expect workers with your skillset will have no problem finding employment.’ He ran out of breath.
Hugh weighed up options. Will I cut the crap, he thought, and tell him I accept and understand the reasons fo
r redundancy, but reduced headcounts across the board in a stagnant economy is restrictive. Should I tell him cost cuts need balancing with progressive strategies and investment, to gain momentum on the upswing? That there’ll be an efficiency backlash, because his slash-and-cut policy is too severe, and will diminish the company’s capacity for growth when rural Ireland finally recovers from the worst economic crunch in a century. Should I give him short-term answers? Medium-term solutions? Long-term remedies? Would he listen? Did he care? Does my opinion matter? Hugh studied Wiseman’s face and said nothing.
Wiseman harrumphed again. ‘With these changes, indications are we’ll be on the road to recovery by end of the next quarter—’
‘I’m sure you’ve considered all options and courses of action.’ Hugh stood and fastened his jacket.
Wiseman handed him an envelope. ‘You’ll find the, ahh, relevant documents, plus your redundancy … Ferdia and HR will triangulate with you next week regarding any questions you have. Oh, and we’re allowing you to keep your mobile number, so your contacts and friends can get hold of you.’
‘Thanks.’
‘No. Thank you. I’m confident if you stay liquid, you’ll find a similar position—’
‘The expression is “stay fluid”, Denis.’ Hugh moved, and the Human Resources duo jostled to thrust business cards at him.
Four years of hard work erased, just like that. Hugh said goodbye to everyone in the canteen. They promised to meet up, knowing they wouldn’t. At least, he had money now to pay for car repairs and his mother’s carer.
Afternoon
Adam,
Forty-eight hours since the guards knocked on the door, and now your barrister wants to know if I’m on your side?
Yes, I know you think I haven’t got the level of introspective awareness or confidence to gather my thoughts, and the shock of this will send me to therapy. Well, I’ve news for you: I’m stronger than you realise. This is easy to write because I’ve carved the words in my brain for years. My one regret is that I never had the courage to tell you face-to-face. Now, I don’t need to.
Remember Trinity College, Thursday, May 13, 1999? Probably not. The day you lifted a weight from my shoulders. Me, insecure, low self-image, no self-esteem and overweight, panicking about exams. I couldn’t believe you’d even bother talking to me. Oh, I’d noticed you around, we all did; the girls had a crush on you. Imagine my surprise when you asked me to go to the cinema. You asked me what I wanted to see, but we went to a movie you picked, and I was happy being with you.
Why’d you choose me, Adam? Out of all the other girls? I’m sure I didn’t represent the most fun. Did I have a mark saying: ‘Pick me?’ Did I seem that desperate? Insecure? Lonely? Did you size me up and think, ‘this is her. This is the one I can bend and manipulate’? Thinking back, I know you didn’t home in on the more attractive girls because I fitted whatever profile you’d visualised. I was the patsy. You zeroed in on my weak spots, my vulnerabilities, and exploited them. You invaded my world. Yes, invaded. I’m from planet earth, you’re from planet Adam, and everything revolves around you. And I let it happen because I desperately needed your approval. When did you decide what kind of magic spell to weave? You know, the spell you cast around, asking advice, making it appear you were getting to know my family and forming a bond? Was it after I disclosed my innermost thoughts and dreams to you? Did we inadvertently tell you what to become, so you could hide who you are while erecting this new persona of being our saviour? Congratulations, Adam, you fooled us all, and influenced my every waking thought. You learned to mimic the emotions I expected in certain situations, figured out what I was looking for, and morphed into a perfect being.
I never knew the real you until the day we got married. Within hours of saying ‘I do’, I witnessed your grooming by seduction change to ensnaring by menace and threat. Overnight, the weight you’d lifted off my shoulders got replaced by an iceberg of anxiety. You turned my faith for the future, into fear, and our home into a prison. I spent my days trying to maintain a smile, and my nights alone, crying. I stopped laughing.
Oh, the signs were there, but I wanted to believe everything would be fine. God, I was so wrong. You’ve no idea how often I contemplated suicide. I spent years going through the trauma of self-doubt and introspection until I realised I wasn’t responsible for your mental abuse. Paris was a blessed relief. Of course, I knew the idea was to prevent me from building family opposition to a number of your business decisions, but actually, it suited me to be out from under your control, and not have to live in the constant spotlight of intimidation. It gave me space, freedom to do what I wanted, and it helped quell my fear of ending up useless.
On the positive side, I can now come home, knowing the house will be empty. I won’t have to endure being criticised under your guise of being supportive or undergo further erosion to any sense of worth you’ve left me. My cooking, for example, which you said you loved, suddenly became garbage. Then, my dress style, which you’d complimented me on, became ‘you look like a whore’. I’m ashamed to say I let you dictate how I presented myself at functions, wearing clothes you’d picked out. God, just typing this makes me cringe; how could I have let you decide what I wore? Then, your criticism of my paintings, my family, my life. Why’d you marry me if you hated us so much? It’s taken a long time to get into my brain that you Just. Don’t. Like. Us. Your words were sharp weapons, countering, discounting, blaming, judging and condemning. You undermined, threatened, commanded and denied. Everyone was wrong. Except you.
How did the man I couldn’t resist become the monster who wouldn’t let me go? You used your social image as a skin to hide behind. Ambrose was in awe of your business acumen, but he didn’t have to live with you. I genuinely thought I was going crazy. You’d say something, and when I’d question it, you’d deny ever saying it. I’ve often asked myself ‘did I hear those words, or imagine them?’
I stood by you when you needed me because I loved and feared you in equal measures. You recognised that flaw and used it to break me even more, attacking everything that meant anything to me. You were quick to pick up on patterns of behaviour, anything that gave you an edge, a toehold into my mind, and used it against me. You do it with everyone. You trapped me with your plausible reasonableness and brow furrowing fake concern, feeding me promises I craved to believe. You’d an ability to speak sentences with two meanings: one for me and one for everyone else in the room, and it’s taken me nearly two decades to understand what you were doing. Controlling. You were right. I was wrong. Your sense of humour was normal. You weren’t emotionally abusing me, it was my doing because I was too sensitive. My concerns never got dealt with, because yours were foremost.
You’re such a bastard, Adam.
Living with you has been comparable to tiptoeing through landmines, awaiting the inevitable explosion. And wow, could you ignite. Over stupid things. I got blamed, and you’d argue nonstop until I’d apologise for things that weren’t my doing to begin with. Again, bigger fool me for giving in, but your emotional blackmail and intimidation drained me. You told me I was incompetent, helpless and would be useless without you. You made me feel worthless. I wasn’t capable of running an art showroom in Tullamore and my paintings were terrible.
We’ll see.
I’m so angry at having to change my life, even though you’re no longer, and never again will be part of it. Angry at what you’ve put us through, and we’re hearing from strangers what you’ve done. Angry with myself that I took so long to realise we were all accessories in your life. I must be a glutton for punishment. Most people who get involved with a malignant narcissist, eventually break away, because to survive, they must. Why didn’t I? That’s the question I keep asking myself, and I’ve no answer. Fear? Maybe. Acceptance? Probably. Terror of your reprisals? Absolutely. Everyone should have freedom of choice, however, you removed my ability to make any. I’ll never be the person I once was because you made me a victim. Right now, I feel like a s
hattered mirror that’s glued back together. It’ll never portray a perfect image, but someday it’ll turn into a beautiful mosaic stained glass; flawed and distorted—yes, thanks to you—yet sparkling and unique.
I’ve spent my life with you saying ‘yes’ when I meant ‘no’. From today, that changes. Whatever splinters of me remain intact, I’m taking back control of the life you sabotaged. #MeToo. I’ll heal, once I don’t have to put up with you shoving your manipulative opinions down my throat.
Whatever my feelings for you are, Adam, I can’t get my head around the fact you’re now branded a kidnapper. I’ve been guilty of naivety, and I know you’re an egotistical, controlling asshole, but I couldn’t be so gullible to live with somebody for that length of time, and not know they’re capable of abduction? Could I? Surely your charismatic camouflage hasn’t slipped that far? I hope and pray there’s an explanation, or is that saying more about my mental state than yours? For what it’s worth, part of me can’t imagine any human could be capable of doing the things you’re charged with, but if what the media says is true, then I’m glad you’re caught, and I hope you burn in hell. Either way, guilty or innocent, we’re finished.
Madeline
Evening
Hugh lodged the redundancy cheque and spent the drive back to Ganestown making phone calls.
‘Detectives aren’t treating Ciara as a missing person.’ Malcolm’s voice sounded cowed. ‘Gardaí keep saying it’s suspicious, but—’
