by Eoghan Egan
‘Today isn’t the time to make life-altering decisions,’ Hugh said. ‘Viewpoints change. Business is in your blood.’
‘Not anymore. For years, I neglected my kids in the belief I’d improve their lifestyle. That’s what parents want for their kids, right? Turns out I’ve built a memorial. Makes you wonder what’s the point? The one time Ciara needed me, I wasn’t there. That’ll haunt me till I die.’
‘You couldn’t have done—’
‘You can’t say for sure. It’s possible I’d have visited, or …’ Charlie exhaled. ‘Doctor warned me not to get stressed.’
‘Have you to go for more tests?’
‘No, unless something … Six months. I’ll be on tablets for the rest of my life, though. Keep my diet under control. No salt. More exercise.’ Charlie slumped in the seat. ‘I’m tired, Hugh. Tired of life. Old fogeys like me tend to stay in the job way beyond our sell-by date. I’m out of ideas. It’s time to hand over the reins. Malcolm will inject new enthusiasm into McGuire’s. Companies demand vitality, energy. New blood generates vibrancy.’
‘Don’t plan on spending your days on the golf course,’ Hugh said, remembering Sharona’s words at the fundraiser. ‘You’re still needed, and you’ve heaps to teach him.’
‘You too, Charlie said.’
‘I don’t work here anymore.’
‘You found another job?’
‘Not yet. Philip let me go. I appreciate money’s tight—’
‘My name’s over the shop front. It’s not the accountant’s decision which piece of the pie gets handed out or kept. That’s my choice, and I didn’t authorise anybody to let you go. Meant what I said. I’m taking a back seat. You’ve a few years’ experience on Malcolm; your management skills are essential. Don’t let me down, Hugh. You offered. I’m calling in the chit.’
‘Of course, I won’t let you—’
‘We’ll talk again next week. Now, I’ve to go’—Charlie took his coat from a wall hook—‘and meet the undertakers. They’ve collected Ciara. She’s on the way to Ganestown. We’re taking her home tonight for a wake.’ He looked at his watch. ‘I’ve got an hour to teach myself to cry with a smile. Then tomorrow, instead of helping organise a birthday celebration, I’ll bury my daughter.’
Chapter 13
Saturday, 19 January
Morning
Parking was impossible around Ganestown Parish Church.
The sombre bong of the church bell reverberated, and the town square got crammed with vehicles. Throngs of funeral-goers ditched their transport on the outskirts and walked to the funeral Mass. Outsiders from the hinterlands, unacquainted with McGuire’s, blended with locals in a show of support for the bereaved.
Hugh got one of the last spaces in Meadow’s car park and hobbled to church. On the altar, a priest prepared a thurible for the Mass ritual. He spooned incense into the censer, blessed it with the sign of the cross, added charcoal, lit it and hung the chain on a stand. It swung gently to and fro, its scented haze shrouding the coffin and Ciara’s framed photo. A male song-thrush perched on a cross-beam above the casket, and when the choir sang the intro hymn, the bird’s fluty tweets chimed in poignant harmony: ‘Cherry dew cherry dew cherry dew. Knee deep knee deep knee deep.’
The organ music tailed off, and the priest spoke. ‘The end of human life is a sacred moment. We want death to reach us at a measured pace, one that gives us time to accept the inevitable. But too often its arrival is unexpected, and it alters our world in a heartbeat. The tragic end to Ciara McGuire’s young life has shaken the beliefs of this community. Today, we struggle to make sense of—’
‘Mammy.’ David’s wail masked the priest’s words.
Sobs spread along the top pew, across the middle aisle, growing in volume. The funeral ritual had brought any ambiguity to an end, and Ciara’s kin keened at their loss. Adam Styne had ripped the heart from a family, and left a trail of destruction in his wake.
Outside the church, Hugh spotted Sharona hug Charlie. She stooped to console David, still crying and clasping his grandfather’s hand. A nosy neighbour stood on a low wall, scanning the crowd, taking a mental headcount. On the fringes, a small group shattered the dignified air with raucous laughs. Milo Brady lurked nearby. Ferdia’s heavy hand thumped Hugh’s shoulder. ‘Sad day.’
‘It is. Jesus, bad enough hearing about unavoidable deaths, but when you witness an unnecessary one, and someone you know, it’s tragic. A life not lived.’ Hugh shook his head. ‘You okay?’
‘Argh, an old dog for the hard road. It’ll be strange not having Ciara around. Always thought of her as more my own daughter than a niece-in-law. One of the decent HR people. Had a genuine concern for staff.’
‘She did.’
‘Every death’s equal, but not every death’s the same.’ Ferdia exchanged nods with a passer-by. ‘Hard to accept when it’s not in the natural order of things. Anyway, whether it’s nine or ninety-nine, the loss is no less, and life goes on no matter what. The focus from here on is Master David. He’s got a tough road ahead.’
Hugh glimpsed Charlie again, waxen skin stretched tight as a drum across his cheekbones. A queue of people were wrapped around the church exterior, waiting to sympathise. ‘His scars are healing,’ Hugh said, ‘but it’ll take him a long time to recover from this.’
Ferdia’s eyes followed Hugh’s gaze. ‘Aye. He’s bolloxed. Every way. Physical. Mental. Emotional. He’ll live for another thirty years and that’ll be his purgatory. We spent the night talking about Ciara. Remembering stuff we’d forgotten. He’s holding onto a reality that no longer exists. All his dreams get buried today. She was his light, even in dark days. A broken heart’s the heaviest thing to carry. What do they say? The more you love, the more you lose.’
‘He blames himself.’
‘Huh. That makes it worse. It’s shot his conscience to shit. The combined weight of grief and guilt can cripple a man. It’ll take a while for this to sink in. Visible wounds mend; it’s the feckin’ internal ones that cause real pain.’ Ferdia rubbed an eye.
A man joined them. ‘No parent should hafta bury a child,’ he jerked his head in Charlie’s direction. ‘It’s a dream crusher. Everyone liked Ciara.’
‘She was easy to like,’ Ferdia said. ‘Forget the bullshit ’bout time’s a great healer. It isn’t. The loss goes on and the pain never ends in this vale of tears. Only way to cope is learn to live with it.’
‘Still, it passes,’ the man said, ‘and pounds the shite outta you before it goes.’ He wandered off.
Ferdia looked across at a plague of politicians converge on Charlie. ‘See? They’re out in force today. Visible for a change. I’d say the feckers never met Ciara. Don’t see the accountant, Waldron. Chas said last night he’ll offer you a management role. I hope you take it. It’ll be a win-win.’
‘We’ll see what happens,’ Hugh said. ‘Charlie said he won’t come back to the business. Malcolm’s in charge, and he’ll have different ideas about—’
‘Three things wrong with that. One, it’s a knee-jerk reaction. Two, Mal’s not near ready to grab the reins, and three, Chas hasn’t even begun to prepare an exit strategy, so pass no heed. You’ll be grand. Reputation got you in the door, talent and ability will keep you there.’
‘I’ll see if I can fit in,’ Hugh said. ‘I don’t even know how—’
‘You’ll learn. And don’t worry about fitting in; it’s better to stand out. When all goes well, praise the team. If all goes pear-shaped, take the blame.’
‘Okay. You were sparring again.’ Hugh pointed to Ferdia’s scraped knuckles.
‘What? That? I paid off the gombeen men. They wanted to force me into a dance routine. Had to convince them I don’t tango.’
‘Jesus, Ferdia. They? How many?’
‘Three.’
‘Jes—’
‘Argh, they’re amateurs. In boxing terms ’twas like flirting. Went off smooth as honey on a bruise.’
‘I said I’d go with you.
Why didn’t you tell me?’
‘I forgot. Mea culpa.’
‘You’re hilarious, Ferdia.’
‘Sure, you’re fighting enough battles.’
‘Did you get hurt? Or hurt them?’
‘Nah, not much. Spídógs, they were. Street goons, hopping about like grease on a hot griddle. What? Don’t look at me as if I’d two heads. Honest, I didn’t touch them, well, except for the fella who beat up Chas. I admit I might’ve given him a few extra whacks, by accident.’
‘Reckless move, Ferdia. There’ll be a comeback.’
‘You reckon? Nah. Bullies back away when you stand up to them. They’re wannabe gangsters throwing a few shapes like drunk uncles at a wedding.’
‘You said yourself these are dodgy people. Remember?’
‘It’ll be grand. A summer breeze would blow them over. The fella I wanted, Dessie Dolan, didn’t show, more the pity.’
‘Dessie Dolan? I heard that name … Sharona mentioned it. He’s a friend of Malcolm’s. What’s he got to do with Charlie?’
Ferdia scratched his head, balancing truth and lies. ‘Argh, you feckin’ can’t fix foolish. Turns out Malcolm borrowed money. Got drawn into a poker game, an’ lost. Didn’t pay the debt fast enough, so Dolan twisted Chas’s arm.’
Hugh stared at Ferdia. ‘Christ. Sharona mentioned an addiction and that Dolan was low-life. I thought she meant Malcolm was buying some recreational drugs off him. Jesus. And Charlie wants Malcolm, a gambler, in charge of the company? How much did he borrow?’
‘Smallish loan. But compound interest is a crippler.’
‘You know impulsive habits lead to rash decisions, Ferdia. Managing a business—’
‘He’s family.’
‘Yeah.’ Hugh sighed.
‘Anyway, ’twas a once-off. Dolan won’t be back.’
‘And you know that … how?’
‘I’ll warn him away.’
‘How? Come on, tell me what your initial gambit will be.’
‘I’ll give Dolan a hard warning. A statement of intent. Frighten the bejesus outta him, an’ run him and his goons out of town … when I find him, that is. He reminds me of a badger, well-known but seldom seen. But he’ll pop up on my radar soon enough.’
‘Forget it, Ferdia. Leaders never appear on the front line. He’ll send more muscle men.’
‘Let him send who he wants, ’long as he doesn’t want ’em back. Nah, he’ll stay away. I’ll have to go looking for him. I won’t be the first to walk into hostile territory. Attack’s the best form of defence.’
‘And fights lead to funerals.’
Ferdia shrugged. ‘Sure, you never know.’
‘Most times, you kinda do. Those type of people retaliate. They have to get even. It’s a law, a code. Any sign of weakness, the rival gangs step in and—’
‘No risk, no reward. Besides, I need a receipt for my accountant. Tax purposes, you know yourself.’ Ferdia winked.
‘Christ sake, Ferdia.’
‘We are who we are, Hugh. You’re a professional, a product of the system. I’m a rebel, a maverick, navigating on pure feckin’ instinct. What’ve I got to lose?’
‘Brain cells?’
‘Nah. I’ll be grand, and so will you. Think of the momentum you’ll gain on the upswing from all this.’
‘What momentu—?’
‘Sort your auld banger out yet?’ Ferdia changed the subject.
‘It’s in for a service, but I’ll probably sell it. I can use Ma’s car. She won’t need it now.’
‘Huh,’ Ferdia said. ‘Heading to the hotel after?’
‘No. You?’
‘Gonna catch up on paperwork. Wiseman wants me to figure out ways to deliver meaningful solutions. Whatever the feck that means.’
‘Any blood tests back?’
‘Aye. Doctor Dracula was in touch.’
‘And?’
‘Looks as if I’ve got diabetes. And the heartburn thing? He wants to do a biopsy. They’re querying Barrett’s oesophagus.’
‘What’s—?’
‘Not sure, but turns out I could have it. Said I might need surgery. Has a name the length of your arm. Something reflux. Sounds like the make of a car.’
‘Hmm?’
‘The operation. Volvo, or Honda.’
‘Volvo-reflux? Honda-reflux?’ Hugh thought for a second. ‘Never heard of it. When’s the biopsy?’
‘Said he was looking forward to seeing me Monday morning. I said I wasn’t looking forward to seeing him.’
‘What hospital?’
‘Saint Vincent’s.’
‘The cancer hospital?’
‘Aye.’
‘No way.’
‘Yes, way.’
‘Jesus wept.’
‘I’ll be grand.’
‘Why in hell do you keep these things bottled up, Ferdia? You’ll be groggy afterwards. I’ll take you.’
‘Ah, good man. Oh, there’s a lad I want to chat.’ Ferdia whacked Hugh’s shoulder again and gave a flea-swatting wave. ‘Pick me up at nine on Monday, so. Slán.’ Ferdia vanished, quick as a pickpocket on a busy street.
‘Hugh?’
Now he knew why Ferdia disappeared so fast. Eilish was wrapped up in a full-length grape-green coat and cream gloves. Ray-Bans covered half her face. ‘Hi,’ he said.
‘Hi,’ Eilish used a tissue to dab beneath an eye. ‘Thanks for the message.’
‘I thought you’d want to know—’
‘I did.’
They both studied the ground.
‘Terrible loss,’ Hugh said. ‘You and Ciara were close.’
Eilish wrapped her arms around herself. ‘Since we were kids. It’s her birthday today.’
‘I know.’
‘It hasn’t sunk in yet. I’m so numb, I can’t call to mind the emotions to deal with this. It’s … and I feel guilty because … I tried to contact her last weekend, and she didn’t answer her phone. I should’ve known there was a problem. I could’ve driven out and—’
‘Yeah.’ Hugh stirred a pebble with his shoe. ‘School hasn’t reopened?’
‘Monday.’
‘Well, take care.’ Hugh moved away.
‘Hugh?’ Eilish caught his arm. ‘I’m … can we meet?’
Hugh stared at the gloved hand until Eilish released her grip. ‘Why?’
‘I need … I want—’
‘You need? You want? Me. Me. Me.’ Hugh bit his lip. ‘It’s always about you. Some things never change.’
‘That’s not fair.’ Eilish glanced around. ‘Or true. Ten minutes? Coffee? After the burial?’
‘For what?’
‘I’d like us to talk.’
Hugh opened his arms wide. ‘What can I say, when I don’t have anything to say?’
‘You owe me—’
Hugh stepped away, then turned back. ‘Huh? I’ve taken nothing from you, so I don’t owe you. If anyone is due anything, it’s me. I’m sorry you couldn’t appreciate what I …’ He glanced around, swallowed his anger and lowered his voice. ‘Anyway, now doesn’t suit. I’ll text you. Next week.’
‘That’s too … I … Okay.’
Hugh shuffled away, wondering what Eilish’s urgency was. Must be important if she wanted to meet so soon after Ciara’s funeral, he reasoned. Should I go for coffee? Where’s the harm in that? He limped on. Let it wait. Eilish wouldn’t answer my calls, didn’t ask how come I’m bandaged up. Never bothered to ask about Ma. Whatever it is, it’s for herself. Focus on what I’ve gained, rather than remember what I’ve lost. I loved you so much, Eilish, and although we don’t have a future, I’m grateful for what we shared. I regret it didn’t work out, but the way you told me we’re finished cut like a knife. You could’ve given me an explanation then. Now, I don’t want it. I’ve got my memories, but I’m moving on; getting my life together. What if Ma hadn’t fallen, he pondered. Suppose Ruth wasn’t on duty that night in A&E. She was becoming … well, he wasn’t sure what, but he looked forward to s
eeing her tonight. He imagined her vanilla essence and strawberry scent. Next week he’d devise a long-term plan for his mother. Ruth would advise him and help pick the best solution.
His mobile buzzed. Ruth.
‘Are you psychic? I was thinking about you.’
‘Aww. Nice thoughts, I hope.’
‘I’ve left Ciara McGuire’s funeral. Contemplating how the unravelling of one life can sow the seeds of another.’
‘And that’s good?’
‘Has potential.’
‘We still on for tonight?’
‘Can’t wait. Oh, Ruth? Is there an operation for reflux problems called Volvo or Honda?’
‘Um… No. You must mean Gastroesophageal Reflux,’ Ruth laughed. ‘The surgical procedure’s called Nissen Fundoplication.’
‘Is it a concern?’
‘Varies from patient to patient. Not usually a cause for alarm, but it can be. Why?’
‘Might be on the cards for a friend of mine. See you around eight?’
‘Yummy.’
Afternoon
Adam Styne could barely open his mouth.
A nurse wheeled him into a day room and said an ambulance crew would be along to transfer him. She didn’t answer when he’d questioned where. He watched the news bulletin on a small television, and endured waves of pain, still convinced the doctors were intentionally keeping him on low morphine doses. He wondered if he’d glimpse Slieve Bloom again.
Two paramedics peeped in and whispered together, discussing, he thought, what made him tick. He’d listened to guards talking outside the hospital room door. Heard them discuss the injuries they’d cause when they’d get him in a cell. A woman whispered she’d slam a dictionary on his head without leaving a mark. He’d find a way to capture their chats. Use them in evidence.
Styne used the tip of his tongue to explore the wire holding his jaw together, searching the gaps left by teeth extractions.
Why did I react so quickly to Ciara McGuire’s snub? Stupid. Stupid. I’d covered my tracks; would’ve been impossible to trace me online. And I should’ve walked away from Sharona Waters. Needed time to plan.
His fuzzy brain perked up when the TV showed footage of Ciara McGuire’s funeral cortège taking her sanctified remains to its final resting place. The screen cut to a miscellany of archived film, summarising Hattinger’s business from its foundation to resurgence, before a camera shot showed the present-day Tullamore premises with its padlocked doors. At some point, a drone had swooped, capturing video footage of his house in Kilcormac, the aerial views now served up for public consumption.
