Suddenly, there was Penelope, right beneath me, cooing seductively, ‘Save me from this rogue, darling.’
‘Why don’t you get Troy fucking Anthony to save you?’ I hissed.
Her eyes flashed. ‘Get down off that table and behave like a man for once.’
‘Don’t you fucking talk to me like that,’ I shouted back. ‘You’re not my mother!’
She looked shocked. Heads were turning to see what the fuss was about. I jumped down and howled into her face, ‘You are not my mother!’
‘I have never pretended to be,’ she said, before sweeping regally away.
I looked up to see my old man watching with reproachful eyes from the other side of the dancers. Jesus Christ, he could still make me feel like a guilty schoolboy from a hundred yards. ‘I’m sorry,’ I called out.
Grover was waltzing with the goat again. ‘Gonna have to do better than that, kid,’ he drawled. ‘Unless you wanna start double-dating with a couple of barnyard animals?’
I caught up with Penelope near the entrance to the church. ‘I’m sorry. For everything,’ I said.
Her face was tight with fury. ‘For goodness’ sake, what kind of woman do you think I am?’ she said. She glanced around, attempting to hold a smile on her face, for the sake of her audience, only to find nobody was even looking our way. Grover and his goat had their attention now. She pushed open the church door, and we stepped inside, where we could be alone. Candles were burning, filling the small chapel with a yellow glow, casting flickering shadows on the thick white walls. The noise of the party seemed a world away from this sacred space.
‘You, of all people, should know better than to believe what you read in the gutter press,’ said Penelope, huffily. ‘Troy is a wonderful, handsome man, a fine actor, and he has been a great friend to me while you were off gallivanting around the world, but he is not now and never has been my lover!’
‘I’m sorry,’ I repeated.
‘He’s far too old for me,’ she said, pouting.
‘He’s the same age as you,’ I pointed out.
‘That’s below the belt,’ she said coldly. ‘And as for all this mother-figure business, well! I can’t think of anything more insulting.’
‘My mother was a very beautiful woman,’ I said.
‘I am sure she was but—’
‘This is her church, you know. The village dedicated it to her.’
‘That’s very … sweet. I’m sure she was a very special person.’
‘She was a saint,’ I said.
‘Well, that settles it,’ said Penelope. ‘I am definitely not your mother.’
‘I think we’ve got that established,’ I agreed.
‘You make me feel like a cradle-snatcher,’ she complained. ‘Why are you looking at me like that?’
I started laughing. I couldn’t help myself. I had suddenly figured out what was different about her. The wrinkles around her eyes had disappeared. And come to think of it, I didn’t remember her lips being quite that full. ‘Have you had surgery?’ I asked, reaching out to touch her cheek.
Penelope recoiled angrily. ‘You’re insufferable.’ But there was a sudden vulnerability about her. ‘I’ve had a little work done, yes. Does it show?’
‘You look gorgeous, as always,’ I reassured her.
‘I could have done without this hullabaloo. I plan a quiet retreat to a clinic in Brazil at the end of shooting, only to find the press camped on my doorstep, demanding quotes.’
‘I’m sorry,’ I repeated, lamely.
‘If it hadn’t been for Troy, I don’t know how I would have coped. He’s been a rock.’
‘What was he doing there?’ I asked. ‘Getting a chin reduction?’
‘That’s enough,’ she said.
‘I’m sorry,’ I repeated. I’d been saying sorry a lot tonight. I had a feeling I was going to be saying it a lot more in the near future, to a lot of people.
‘I’m glad you’re OK,’ she said, softening.
‘I’m not sure I am,’ I admitted.
‘Well, maybe I can do something about that,’ she said, pulling me towards her.
‘Not in church,’ I protested, as she kissed me. ‘My mother might be watching.’
Penelope led me by the hand to my grandmother’s little casa which, judging by the clothes draped over every surface and magazines and scripts piled up on the table, Penelope had colonised, leaving Granny to bed down with relatives, of which, fortunately, La Esperanza was full.
She dragged me into the bedroom, casting off garments like a burlesque angel, silk and chiffon slipping and sliding across her perfect skin. God, she was fucking gorgeous. Invisible fingers unbuttoned my jeans and slid them to the floor. Then she was standing before me, magnificently naked. She was heavenly warrior and sacrificial virgin, brazen harlot and vulnerable ingénue, she was everything a man could ever desire. She was mother, and I was her child, and I knelt down to suck the manna from her breasts. ‘Oh, I do like a hard young body,’ she growled, greedily pulling me into her. Then softly, sadly, whispering in my ear, ‘But everybody gets old.’
‘Everybody except you,’ I lied.
*
In the morning, I sat awake as the first rays of cold sunlight streamed through the open window. My mouth was raspy and dry, my head throbbing like an outboard motor, puttering along a dirty river, but the full hangover hadn’t set in yet. Maybe I was still drunk. I wondered if Kilo was around, and whether he had anything to alleviate the impending pain. But whatever was coming, I knew I deserved it.
Penelope lay naked beside me, hair cascading across the pillow. Her mouth was open and she was snoring lightly, a little spittle of drool at the edge of her lips. But she looked beautiful. I touched her face, running my fingers over the smooth skin where crow’s feet had been erased. She stirred slightly but didn’t wake. I got up, still wobbly on my feet, but with a feeling I had to act now or I was going to be stuck here forever, trapped in an endlessly repeating loop. I rooted among Penelope’s clothes for something I could wear, settling on some sheer black matador pants with silver brocade and a scarlet zip-up hoodie decorated with tiny silver skulls. Women get all the best clothes.
At the doorway, I turned to look back at her long, curving body, so utterly perfect and sexy. And I knew it was the last time I would see her naked. Well, outside of a cinema anyway.
I walked out into the new day. Chickens picked about among the detritus of the night before, dogs snuffled leftover food. A few bodies lay where they had fallen, sleeping it off in the dirt and straw. A group of bleary-eyed drinkers still sat around the big table, seeing in the dawn in a ragged blur of toasts. They raised their glasses to me, ‘El Rojo!’ I was not altogether surprised to see Grover among them, sitting with his new companion, the goat, which he had wrapped in a poncho and appeared to be hand-feeding. Tiny Tony lay unconscious at their feet.
‘What happened to him?’ I asked.
‘He opened his damn mouth one too many times,’ said Grover.
I laughed. ‘Do you want a job running my security detail?’
‘I’m a pilot, goddamnit,’ growled Grover.
‘Sho am I,’ slurred another man, raising a befuddled head from where he had been resting it on the table. I guess nobody would be flying anywhere for a while.
‘Where is everybody?’ I asked.
Grover waved his hand, vaguely. ‘Around,’ he drawled. ‘Have a drink with us, kid.’
‘Go home to your wife, Grover,’ I suggested.
‘Why would I? I got everything I need right here,’ he retorted. ‘Good liquor, good company and the love of a good lady.’ I assumed he meant the goat.
I needed water. One of the locals showed me how to work the pump, and I splashed my face and filled a mug and drank as much of that mountain liquid as I could. The door of an adjacent shack opened and Eugenie appeared at it, blinking in the light. She had lost the frazzled edges of the night, looking strangely radiant in a T-shirt and panties. The drinkers app
lauded appreciatively, and she blushed and retreated inside. As the door swung shut, I got a glimpse of a handsome, muscular village boy behind her.
‘Ain’t love grand,’ drawled Grover, nuzzling his goat.
I wanted to visit the church. I wanted to feel the presence of my mother again and it seemed the most likely place to find her. I needed to do some thinking. And maybe ask for forgiveness. As I passed a pig-sty of rough boards and corrugated metal, I thought I saw the shape of Beasley inside, fleshy, naked and snoring in the straw. I hoped the pigs were safe.
As the church door creaked shut behind me, I realised I was not alone. My old man was already there, sitting on a bench before the Virgin. I sat beside him. He turned to me, his face tight, eyes watery. He looked like he might have been crying.
We sat in silence. But it was a good silence, not the kind of glowering, unspoken pain that had driven me out of our house. But I had to ask. I had to ask the question that had been scratching at a cellar door, deep in the subterranean bowels of my mind. Scratching, scratching, scratching, demanding to be let in. I didn’t even want to know the answer. But I had to ask. ‘What happened, Da?’ I said. And I could hear the tremble in my voice. ‘Did I kill Ma?’
My father turned, as if really noticing me for the first time. ‘Don’t be stupid, son,’ he said, with what sounded like genuine surprise. ‘She was a grown woman. You were just a small child. If there was anyone to blame for what happened, it was herself. Stupid. It was all so stupid.’
‘So what happened?’ I asked.
And he told me.
He had been making a bicycle for me in Father Martin’s shed. The plan was to give it to me on my ninth birthday. But somehow I found the cursed thing, snooping about the churchyard probably, trying to figure out the big secret. Father Martin was always forgetting to lock that shed. And there was the bike, and I must have guessed it was mine, so where was the harm in taking it for a spin? Only my father hadn’t quite finished with it. You always put the brakes on last, you see? It’s just the way it is. The very last thing.
And the memory came surging back, battering down the cellar door and steaming like a freight train through my mind. My father’s lips were moving but I couldn’t hear him speak. I was riding that bicycle home to show my ma. I was so excited and proud. I’d learned to ride on my brother’s bike but I’d never had one of my own. Such a beautiful machine, red and silver, the kind of bicycle a boy dreams about. And so what if there were no brakes? If I needed to stop, I could just put my feet down.
Then the door slammed shut again. I sat there, shaken to my core. My father was still talking, saying he could only imagine my mother had been carried away with my delight. She should have known better than to go riding around on a bicycle with no brakes. She should have had me off that bike in a second flat and tanned my backside for taking it without asking. But her judgement was always suspect where I was concerned. So instead she sat behind me on the bicycle seat, while I pedalled her around, showing off my skills. We must have been a sight on that little bike. Some of the neighbours saw us and said we looked like we were practising for a circus act, wheeling around the estate, laughing.
‘She had a great laugh, your mother,’ he said. ‘I loved to hear her laugh. But nobody could make her laugh like you.’
And then we cycled out onto the road and took off down Kilrock Hill. It was a steep hill that, quite deceptive, the way it started at a gentle incline but then really took a dip.
And there we were, wheeling down that hill, picking up speed the whole way. I could almost feel the wind in my face. I could almost feel my mother’s hands round my waist.
We could have ridden right into town down that hill and eventually it would have levelled out, and we’d have gently coasted to a stop at the Town Hall. And on another day, that’s what might have happened. And if he’d have got home from work and found out what we’d been up to, he’d have given us both a piece of his mind for being so reckless.
But not that day. There was a lorry coming up the hill and a car going down, and there wasn’t room for both to pass. The drivers got out and were arguing with each other about who should back up. And they both saw us coming.
‘Stop,’ I said to my father. I didn’t want to hear any more.
‘You couldn’t stop,’ he said. ‘There was no brakes, you see? There was no fucking brakes.’
So I rode into the back of the car, screaming.
‘I got called to the hospital,’ said my da. ‘The hotel manager drove me. The guy was a pompous prick. Your ma never liked him. But he drove me to the hospital, fair play to him, talking to me the whole time, telling me it was going to be all right.’ And my father shuddered, like something was breaking out of him. ‘I thought I was going to lose you both,’ he cried. And I could see those wheels spinning, spinning, spinning on that upturned bike. My mother lying in the road, head twisted, nose broken, blood in the road, blood in my eyes.
‘I’m sorry, Da,’ I said. It was all that I could say. It just wasn’t enough.
He wiped his eyes. ‘Let’s go for a walk,’ he said. ‘Churches give me the fucking creeps.’
Out in the morning light, he looked me up and down sceptically. ‘What the fuck are you wearing?’ he said, as he tapped out a cigarette.
‘Don’t start, Da,’ I warned him. The hangover was kicking in now. It was going to get rough.
We took an orange dirt path that led out of the village. As the sun rose over the mountains, the colours of the thick vegetation were coming to life, a thousand subtle shades of green and red among the flaming trees and wild flowers, birds flitting like phantoms through the branches. We watched vultures wheeling overhead, black silhouettes dipping and rising in the endless blue, seeking out the dead.
I seemed to remember the inside of an ambulance. I could conjure up an image of a hospital ceiling, people looking down at me, lights, voices. But there was nothing else there. Just a fading, bleached-out dream.
‘Your ma was in a coma for ten days,’ said my father, picking up the thread, although it was taking a real effort for him to talk about things he’d left untouched for so many years. ‘She fractured her skull, there was haemorrhaging – it was bad, very, very bad. I never left the hospital. They said I should go home and get some sleep but I was afraid she wouldn’t be there when I got back. We prayed, you know, by the bedside. Father Martin was there with us, saying the rosary over and over, telling me not to give up hope, Jesus Christ was looking after her, she’d come back to us. I think he was half in love with her himself, you know. I think he might have lost his faith in that hospital. All those prayers. But she never woke up.’
‘I can’t really remember anything about it,’ I said.
‘You were banged up pretty bad yourself,’ said my father. ‘In and out of consciousness, but, you know … kids are resilient. You were with her at the end. She’d have appreciated that.’
‘I always felt like you blamed me,’ I told him.
My father sighed, a long, bitter sigh. ‘I blamed everybody for a very long time,’ he said. ‘I blamed God, Father Martin, the hospital, the driver who was too fucking stubborn to move his car and … yeah, I suppose I blamed you, for a while, anyway, even though I knew you were just a child. It wasn’t your fault. Most of all, I blamed myself. For bringing her to Ireland, for not fixing the brakes, for just not being there. I was supposed to protect her. I promised to take care of her. I promised.’
This was about as much as I could ever remember him saying in one go, at least while sober. We walked a little further, and left the dirt path, following a trail through thick vegetation. An escarpment fell off to one side, and we paused to take in a breathtaking view of the mountainside falling away, deep into a verdant valley. My father nodded approvingly. ‘It’s a beautiful country, so it is. Your ma always said that about it, and now I can see what she meant.’
‘How come you never came here?’ I asked.
‘Ach, we were always broke, what with mou
ths to feed, and sending money to your grandma,’ said my father, dismissively. But he seemed to realise this wasn’t a good enough answer. ‘I suppose I was afraid of the place. It was the murder capital of the world, your own grandfather was killed by soldiers. I was afraid if we came out here, even for a visit, your mother wouldn’t want to come back, and I wouldn’t want to stay.’
‘I can remember you arguing about it,’ I said.
‘Can you now? I can’t remember that myself.’ We walked on. ‘I mean, married life, everybody argues from time to time, it’s no big deal.’
‘It seemed like a big deal to me,’ I said.
‘Your mother had a temper on her,’ he said. ‘It wasn’t all sweetness and light, I suppose. She’d get depressed about the weather. And the way people talked down to her. Her job prospects. You know, silly things. Every time we’d have a big disagreement, she’d threaten to leave and bring you boys back to her own mother. But it was just words people say when they’re upset. She never meant it. Well, she never left anyway. She loved me and I loved her, and that’s the way it was.’
‘And then she died, and left us all,’ I said. I didn’t mean it to come out so angry. But there it was. She left me, and I didn’t know if I could ever forgive her.
My father looked at me thoughtfully. ‘It was an accident, son. Accidents happen.’
‘Siempre duro,’ I said, bitterly. ‘Things are always hard.’
‘Your mother used to say that,’ said Da. ‘Siempre fucking duro indeed.’
We were walking among rows of plants that were obviously being cultivated by the village farmers.
‘What’s this they’re growing here?’ said my father, pulling the branch of a tall, thick shrub to examine the bright red berries and smooth, oval leaves.
‘Coca,’ I said.
‘What, like you make Coca-Cola from?’
l laughed, which surprised me. I didn’t think I had a laugh left in me. ‘Something like that,’ I said.
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