I dropped the letter for a moment, to search my bedside locker, looking for a shoebox that served as my memory box. And in the middle of the drawer, as I’d left it, many years ago, there it was. Written on the lid, in multicoloured gel pens: PRIVATE PROPERTY OF BEATRICE O’CONNOR. DO NOT OPEN. OR YOU WILL DIE!
I giggled at the absurdity of this threat. I would have to ask Dad tomorrow if he had ever succumbed to curiosity. Somehow I don’t believe he had. It wasn’t his style. I opened the lid and right on top were a bundle of lip smackers. I grabbed the Coconut Cake flavoured one and gave it a sniff. Did lip balms go off? It smelt as divine now as it did back then, so I wiped a slick on my lips, smacking them together happily. Beneath that were a couple of feather pens. The stems sparkly and glittery, and the tops so soft and girly. Who was I even back then? My mom’s Chanel clutch bag was filled with bundles of photographs, ticket stubs for movies, concerts and the theatre. This bag was the only thing of Mom’s that I had and it was my most precious possession, as it had been hers. And there were about half a dozen notebooks in bright colours, some with butterflies on the front, others with flowers, but all with the same small silver padlock on the side. These were my detective notebooks, filled with information I thought would help me in future crimes. Back then, when I was a teen, full of angst and sorrow, I thought the padlocks were as good a security system as you could find in a bank vault. When the truth of the matter was that with the tip of a knife and a bit of jiggling, you could open them without breaking the lock.
I propped myself up on my pink pillows and began to flick through the photographs, searching for one in particular. When I was sixteen I’d received a Polaroid camera from Uncle Mike. I loved that camera; in fact it was probably in a drawer in this room somewhere too. There were dozens of photographs with Katrina, Stephanie and me posing, lips puckered for the camera, eyes sparkling with fun. I missed those days. How long had it been since the three of us had a night out together? I tried to remember and couldn’t. There were photographs of other school friends too, but for the life of me I couldn’t remember half their names. In one photo a girl had her arm around me and I was laughing so hard my whole body was curled up in merriment, but I hadn’t a clue who she was now. I felt old. Then I came to the photo of me I was looking for – me moodily staring at the camera with a cigarette dangling from my bottom lip.
‘Sorry to tell you, Bea, you don’t look one bit cool!’ I whispered, laughing at the state of me. I was dressed head to toe in black. I’d gone through a goth stage for a few years. It drove Gran mad and now, I could see why. The photograph must have been taken at the end of a night, I reckoned. There was someone holding up a red balloon beside my face. Judging by the skinny leopard print the arm was clothed in, it belonged to Katrina. She was and still is a demon for leopard print. Then a memory began to tickle my conscience. I started to hum the Eighties song, ‘99 Red Balloons’ by Nena. We’d sung that song all night long! It was a party at Stephanie’s house. Her sixteenth birthday party, that’s right. And she kept playing her mother’s old LPs over and over. We all took a shine to Nena’s red balloons and when Stephanie found a pack of balloons in a drawer, she blew up the red ones. Whenever the song came on, we’d all burst into song and wave the balloons about. We thought we were hilarious. We were hilarious. I’m both mesmerized and appalled by the volume in my hair. It’s a wonder I didn’t set fire to myself when I lit my cigarette there was so much hairspray in it. Not to mention how ridiculous the cigarette looked, as if it didn’t belong there. Like a prop I was using as I played dress-up with my pals.
‘Would you stop if I asked you to?’ On a whim, I picked up one of my sparkly feather pens and scrolled to the paragraph in my letter where I had written, underlined, that I would never smoke. I scribbled a short note in the margin.
When a boy called Doug tries to get you to smoke – just say no! It doesn’t suit you. Trust me. With love from Bea, You, Me! x
My barely legible scrawl stood out like a sore thumb, not a flourish or swirl in sight. I regretted the impulse immediately. It looked like graffiti on a white wall. But it was too late now. Another wave of tiredness hit me and this time I couldn’t ignore it. It felt like lead was squeezing my eyes shut. The whiskey was strong and better than any lullaby. I’d sleep this crazy night away and wake up tomorrow in a calmer, less reflective mood. I dropped my sparkly pen into the shoebox, beside the cigarette photograph and letter. I fell back onto the soft pillows of my bed. Within seconds I had fallen asleep dreaming of a nameless boy who chased me down Prospect Avenue with a box of cigarettes. Only he didn’t look like whatshisname, he looked a lot like a man called Dan.
I felt the bright rays of the sun on my face when I awoke at half past eight the next morning. I sat up and stretched my arms above my head. I felt great. More than great. I felt like I’d slept for a week not just seven hours or so. Mind you, I’m normally a wake-up-at-seven-a.m. kind of gal, so the extra hour and a half must have given me a boost. I could hear people mooching about downstairs. I figured that with a bit of luck there might be pancakes on the go. They were one of Dad’s specialities. As I made a move to get up, my hand brushed against the shoebox of memories which lay on the middle of my bed. The lid was open. I could see my photographs and letter peeking out. I grabbed the photograph. I wanted to take a screenshot of it for Katrina. She’d laugh for a week when she saw how ridiculous I looked. But then I noticed something very strange. I blinked, once, twice, three times. My eyes refocused on the photograph until I appeared again with frizzy hair, dressed in black, and a stupid red balloon beside me, held by a leopard print skinny arm.
Exactly as the photograph had been last night.
But not quite the same.
It was like those spot-the-difference games; the photographs were identical, but not entirely.
Where the hell had my cigarette gone?
I laughed out loud, because it was so bizarre. Had I imagined the cigarette when I looked at the photograph the previous evening? I wasn’t drunk, despite the beers and whiskey. Well, certainly not that drunk! And while I was tired, there has been no time in my life where tiredness caused me to hallucinate. The only logical explanation was that there were two similar photographs. One taken with me smoking and another taken with me not. I rifled through my memory box. I flicked through the photograph bundles a couple of times, but each time came up blank. I pulled back the duvet, checked under my pillows, I even crawled under the bed to make sure the missing photo wasn’t playing hide and seek on me.
I found nothing.
This was getting creepy. There was only one explanation.
Dad.
He must have found me here sleeping and taken the photo. He was drunk from the partying in Farrell’s and thought it would be fun to mess with me.
‘Dad!’ I yelled as I ran down the stairs, two steps at a time. I screeched to a halt when I got to the kitchen, waving the photograph in my hand.
‘Morning, love. Happy New Year! Did you smell the pancakes? I was going to bring them up to you, let you have breakfast in bed. Such a gorgeous surprise to find you in your old bed. I miss you being here. Anyhow, pancakes will be ready in five. Lemon and sugar, or Nutella and bananas?’ He kissed my forehead.
‘Both,’ I said. ‘But don’t you “morning, love” me. Did you take a photograph from my shoebox earlier?’
‘Of course not. I’d never dream of opening that. You told me often enough as a kid that death would befall me if I did,’ he said in a dramatic doom-filled voice.
‘Back in a sec,’ I said as I ran downstairs to check the studio, even though I knew I’d not been back there. I scanned the room, but there was no sign of the missing photograph. Then I spied my handbag, so ran over to check that. And to my surprise, there was no sign of cigarettes there. I ran back upstairs, ready to confront Dad. He probably thought he was teaching me some kind of lame lesson about smoking, taking them and the photo. A passive-aggressive give-up-smoking-for-the-New-Year trick.
‘They always sang it with so much heart too.’
‘I even belted out “Whiskey in the Jar”. You should have come. It was great fun.’
Dad was either a good liar or trying to deflect my question. ‘Dad, you know as well as I do that I smoke. We’ve played this game for decades, me pretending I don’t smoke, you pretending you don’t know I do.’
‘What are you talking about? Don’t tell me you’re having one of those late teenage rebellions. I’ve heard it all now.’
I felt alarm and irritation in equal measures. My voice rose an octave and I tried to keep it steady. ‘I’ve been smoking since I was sixteen years old. You hate it. We’ve always pretended it wasn’t happening. Admit you snuck in my bedroom last night while I slept and took my cigarettes from my handbag.’ I kept the bit about the photograph to myself.
He put down his mixing bowl and stopped whisking the pancake batter. ‘I swear on Mam and Dad’s grave, I have not hidden cigarettes from you today or any other day. But I won’t lie. I am shocked that you are a smoker. I honest to goodness never knew. Are you sure this isn’t a wind-up? Did Uncle Mike put you up to it?’
I felt a wave of dizziness flash over me.
‘Hey, are you OK? You look a bit peaky there.’ Dad moved closer and grabbed my arm. ‘You’ve not been yourself for weeks, if you ask me. Not since you and Dan split up.’
‘No, I don’t think I am OK.’ I sat down, because I did feel a bit strange. My legs wobbled as another dizzy spell hit me.
Uncle Mike came into the kitchen, frowning, ‘What’s all this shouting about? I’m officially dying here. Hey, what’s up, Bea? Is it that Dan fella? Has he upset you again?’
‘She’s trying to forget about him,’ Dad said.
‘What did he do? Was it another woman?’ Uncle Mike persisted.
‘He didn’t cheat,’ I said.
‘Well he must have done something bad, because you two were as thick as thieves one minute, then boom, it’s over.’
‘I want to call him. But she won’t have it,’ Dad said.
‘Her mom will never be dead with that one. Both the same, stubborn as mules,’ Mike agreed.
‘Hello, I’m sitting right here. I’m fine. I just got a little upset, thinking about Gran and Grandad. This has nothing to do with Dan!’
‘Ah, I had a little weep myself last night too. After we all sang “Auld Lang Syne”. I think that song should be banned. It’s too sad.’
‘Hard agree,’ I said.
‘If you tell anyone I cried, I will deny it forever more, of course,’ Uncle Mike said.
‘Your secret is safe with us,’ Dad replied. ‘Pancakes in five.’
‘Nutella and bananas. Go heavy on the Nutella.’
Dad saluted him, then sat down beside me when Uncle Mike walked out.
‘I think you and I need a chat. Take a deep breath, then slowly tell me what you are so upset about.’
I hated it when Dad got all reasonable on me. But if I was going to get anywhere, I had to do as he asked. So I copied his reasoned tone and calmly told him about the photograph changing overnight. His face went through several phases of disbelief. I placed it in the centre of the table.
‘Exhibit A,’ I said.
He didn’t look so calm any more and there was only concern on his face as he studied the photograph. Then he placed it back on the table and took my two hands between his.
‘Bea, I give you my word that to my knowledge you have never smoked. Ever.’ He leaned over and felt my forehead, ‘You do feel a little warm. Maybe you’re coming down with something. Remember when you had that awful flu when you were six, you thought I was Sherlock Holmes.’
I smiled despite my worry. That had been a lovely hallucination. Sherlock had given me all sorts of tips on how to be a good detective.
‘Don’t worry, pretend I said nothing. Probably the best thing to do is to feed me pancakes.’
He didn’t look so sure, but he went back to the stove and heated the pan, ready to start cooking and flipping. I told him I was going to get some air while he cooked and went out the back to our courtyard. I rummaged through the plant pot. There should have been half a dozen cigarette butts there.
Damn it. Nothing. I went back in and asked Dad if he’d been out the back yet this morning.
He shook his head, another frown appearing, ‘Is there something else wrong?’
‘No. The sun is out, that’s all. You should go out.’
As I took a seat at our dining room table, I looked at Dad while he poured batter into the pan. He looked tired. What if there was something wrong with him? We had a case in work a few years back where a man, younger than Dad was, had early-stage dementia. Maybe he took my cigarettes without even realizing what he was doing.
The problem with that theory was Exhibit A sitting on the table. Had Dad turned into a photoshop wizard too? My theory had more holes in it than Uncle Mike’s socks. In all my years solving cases of missing persons, the most logical answer to any puzzle was almost always the correct answer.
Which led me to only one conclusion. If it wasn’t Dad losing his mind, then it must be me.
I didn’t much feel like eating pancakes any more. My head was filled with only one thing: the time-capsule letter and the crazy it seemed to have unleashed when I tore the envelope open. How had my life got so messed up? I longed to turn back time to twelve months ago, when the only concern I had was over the spot that had taken up residence on my chin …
7
BEA
New Year’s Eve, 2018
Woodside, Queens, New York
When I woke up with a zit the size of Staten Island on my chin this morning, I felt I had no choice but to avoid my usual New Year’s Eve shenanigans with Katrina. I’d happily ensconced myself on my battered sofa, a hand-me-down from upstairs when Dad and Uncle Mike went all fancy and bought an L-shaped sofa. I had all I needed – a bag of Doritos and a bottle of Corona. I figured I’d binge-watch the complete series of Fast & Furious. Mainly because Dwayne Johnson starred in it. The Rock gave good smoulder. I switched my phone off to avoid the inevitable mass texting of friends and acquaintances who felt the need to send a ‘Happy New Year’ to everyone in their phone contacts. When will they ever learn that I never respond to these? People I barely knew would appear on my screen. The responsibility of deciding to reply or not felt heavy on my shoulders. It was a minefield. But then I heard the clip-clop of heels on the stairs and Katrina burst into my living room, clearly annoyed with me. She was having none of my feeling sorry for myself and my enormous zit. She insisted she needed me as her wing girl. She was determined to tie down her on-off boyfriend, Nas, tonight. And when I say tie down, that’s literally what she meant. She had no interest in becoming Nas’s girlfriend, but she did have plans that involved rope later on. Katrina rummaged her way through the rail my clothes hung on, throwing jeans and a top in my direction. ‘You look like slob. I will do make-up for you, hide spot and try to improve … well everything.’
‘Hey, that hurts!’ I’d complained as she yanked my hair out of its ponytail. ‘I was happy here with the Rock and my beer.’
‘Come out with me and I find you real Rock tonight. New York is full of them.’
‘Do I have to?’ I moaned half-heartedly. In truth, I was delighted she was here to drag me out. Once Katrina had worked her magic on my zit and hair, we took the subway to Woodside in Queens. Our destination, an Irish pub called Saints and Sinners. Katrina found Nas within seconds of arriving and I went to the bar to get
drinks. And that’s when I met him. A giant of a man, six feet seven, covered in tattoos on each of his arms. His sheer size filled the air between us. There’s no other way to describe it. I felt intimidated and interested all at once. I’ve always been contrary.
‘Howya,’ he shouted, leaning down towards me.
I ignored him. He was trouble and after a decade of only dating trouble, I wanted no part of this man. I didn’t need it to be a New Year to know that it was time for a change for me.
‘Whereabouts in Ireland are you from?’ he shouted again. I shifted my body so that my back was turned to him. He was persistent and carried on regardless. With hindsight, thank goodness he carried on.
‘You’ve a look of a Dub about you. Am I right? A Jackeen loose in Queens? I won’t hold it against you if you are, even if you do keep beating us at football.’
And despite my head telling me to ignore him, I found myself turning towards him and shouting back an answer. ‘Wrong. I’m from Brooklyn, born and bred.’
‘Ah, but you’re Irish. If not born there, you are still Irish. I can tell by the look of you,’ he insisted.
I had to concede that it was true. I did look Irish. Fair skin, blue eyes and mid-brown hair. ‘My grandparents were from Wexford. A place called Gorey.’
‘I knew it! I can spot the Irish from a mile off. And small world, I’m a Wexford man myself. I’m from The Ballagh.’
Hearing the word Wexford startled me. Whenever it came up, it evoked so many what-ifs and could-have-beens. I’d lost countless hours looking it up on my computer, googling images and trying to imagine what it might be like to sit on Kilmore Quay, looking at the Saltee Islands.
‘My mother was from Wexford too.’
‘Go away. Now that is a bit crazy. Like buses, the Wexford folk come in threes! What part is your mam from?’
‘She was from a place called Kilmore Quay.’
‘A fishing village. Beautiful there. The most gorgeous little thatched cottages scattered throughout. They have the best fish and chip shop in Ireland too, although some would argue Beshoffs in Dublin is better. Not a bit of it. The Saltee Chipper all the way. On a hot summer’s day there’s nothing nicer than sitting on the quay, looking at the boats bob up and down on the blue water, with a paper full of fish and chips on your lap. The air is filled with the smell of vinegar and salty sea air.’ He stopped suddenly, ‘Sorry, I got carried away there.’
The Moon Over Kilmore Quay Page 4
