My husband slept with my best friend.
It was such a cliché, it was laughable.
In mid-August, a postcard arrived from Karen. It was from an art gallery in Rome. On the front, a Caravaggio painting called Penitent Magdalene showed a contrite-looking Mary Magdalene bowed in sorrow. On the back Karen had written one word. “Sorry.”
Enraged by such a cowardly, tasteless gesture, I grabbed my phone and texted her.
Thanks for the card. Very appropriate. Like you and your mother, Mary Magdalene was also a whore. Do not contact me again.
That evening I deleted all digital trace of her: photos, phone, email and social-media contacts. I then started on my old photo albums. I burned every picture in the kitchen sink: Polaroids from our school days, arty images from when we went clubbing and all the photos of her with Alexia. It hurt to do that but Alexia looked so much like her mother she had to go. I stood over the sink and watched our years of friendship smoulder and turn to ash. If only it were that easy to erase Karen from my mind. Instead she loomed large, like a searing migraine. I replayed the film of her and Joe fucking over and over until my head hurt.
Life dragged me through those summer months like a mother pulling an unwilling child to school. Then, on the Saturday of the August Bank Holiday, I decided to venture out before I completely lost my mind. I needed books for a research project so I set off for the John Rylands Library in town. I took the bus, getting off at the stop directly in front of Kendals on Deansgate. But as I stepped on to the pavement and saw the shoppers going in and out of the store’s rotating doors, I started to feel odd. I felt unsteady on my feet and grabbed hold of a nearby lamppost. I had trouble breathing and my heart was racing like never before. All those feelings of panic I’d experienced on the day of the bomb started coming back to me. Tess, Joe and I were being swept along with the current of people away from the Arndale, a police horse was trotting beside us and the bride was running on the pavement opposite in her wedding dress. I started to shake uncontrollably and stood with my hands over my ears waiting for the explosion. Then a booming Yorkshire accent came from nowhere as a group of teenage boys jostled past me to get on the bus.
“Oi, lads, can’t you see the lady’s not well?”
A pair of tattooed arms plucked them out of the way and before I knew what was happening, I was being led to the bus shelter by a large woman with a peroxide head of frizz. She said her name was Mandy. As I sat on the seat my heart felt like it was about to explode out of my body. It crossed my mind that it might, that it was now my time, that I was going to die the same way as Mikey. I closed my eyes and saw him writhing in the middle of the road in Old Trafford, his face ashen.
“My heart,” I said, clutching my chest.
“It’s OK, pet. I’m a nurse,” said Mandy. “I can’t be sure but I think you’re having a panic attack. I get them too. They’re horrible.”
She was right. She gave me a bottle of water from her bag and stayed with me until my breathing had returned to normal. Then she flagged me down a taxi.
I was still shaking as I stumbled through the front door. I didn’t understand. I’d been back to Deansgate scores of times since the bomb and I’d never I experienced anything like that. Why it was it happening to me now?
Chapter 27
As if having a panic attack in the middle of Deansgate wasn’t frightening enough, the next day I bumped into Bryonie Phillips. I was jogging in The Meadows. I hadn’t been running since the day Mikey died but I thought some exercise might help my mental health. I’d also heard it was a healthier sleep aid than copious amounts of marijuana and a bottle of Sauvignon Blanc every night.
The Meadows was the local name for Chorlton Eees Nature Reserve, the conservation area on the edge of Chorlton that hugged the River Mersey. Tree-lined paths led you through woodland and fields teeming with wildlife. It was my haven. I loved being deep in the woods away from the sounds and smells of the city. On my walks and runs there I’d spotted a water vole, a brown hare and one time a kingfisher. Despite days of continuous rain that had left the area muddy and treacherous, the path by the river was busy with dog-walkers.
I dragged myself along at a snail’s pace, my calves stiff and in need of oiling. It felt like they were carrying the weight of both my body and troubled mind, but I plodded on regardless, past sunflowers battered and bruised by the wind. The river was swelling, the sluggish brown water rising and curling. After a while, I stopped by a willow tree to rest and watch a heron swooping for fish in the river.
I spotted Bryonie about twenty feet ahead. She was wearing a yellow raincoat with matching polka-dot wellies and was being dragged along the path by her tawny-coloured spaniel, imaginatively named Brownie. I suddenly felt exposed, like I was standing there stark naked for all the world to see. I recalled her laughter that day at the Barbakan Deli and shuddered. It wasn’t one bit rational but I became convinced Bryonie knew all my dirty secrets. She knew about Joe and Karen and she relished telling everyone in Chorlton about my fucked-up life. I was sure of it.
I glanced around for an escape route as she headed towards me, smiling and waving and grappling with her beast. The only thing to do was to head down the bank at the side of the path and into the woods so I went for it. But the incline was steep and I lost my footing in the mud. I plunged onto my backside in the sludge. I got up but slipped again, this time rolling down the incline and landing beside a nettle bush. When I looked up Bryonie was standing on the path. Charcoal clouds drifted above her head and she had one hand over her mouth trying not to laugh, the Hound of the Baskervilles barking at her feet. It was a cameo that summed up just about everything about my life. I kept falling on my arse again and again while the world laughed. Stung, I limped away, leaving my dignity in the nettle bush.
The next day was Bank Holiday Monday. Determined to keep up with my daily exercise, I drove up to Alexandra Park in Whalley Range, parked and went for a walk. Families were gathered around the pond feeding the ducks. As I passed by I thought of Sundays there with Tess and Dad shortly before he died. We’d throw old breadcrusts into the water, buy 99 cones from the ice-cream van near the café and Dad would kick a ball about with Mikey. At four years of age my brother was already showing sporting talent. An image came to me of Tess lying on the grass beside me in a pink summer dress. Her blonde hair was piled messily on her head and I was putting lipstick on her full smiling lips. The memory warmed me and I clung on to it. What happened to her was not her fault. At times she was the best of mothers and we were a happy normal family once.
As I drove home, families everywhere seemed to be piling into cars with bags of food, foil-covered sandwich trays and bottles of something or other. Many were probably dreading a day with in-laws, parents and siblings in damp back gardens or overcrowded front rooms. Christ, how I envied them. I’d have given anything for a dull afternoon with Dad, Tess, Mikey, Paddy or Peggy. I thought of the empty rooms waiting for me at home. What was the point of a dream house without a family in it?
Sunlight was squeezing its way out from behind the clouds when I spotted Samira Khan at the traffic lights on Alexandra Road. She was heading in the direction of Brantingham Road like she was in a hurry. I felt a stab of guilt. I’d been so caught up with everything that had happened recently I’d completely forgotten to contact her after Conor O’Grady’s attack on Adeel. Conor had been due to stand trial but at the last minute Adeel had dropped all the charges. I sighed. I didn’t particularly want a chat with Samira about the old days. But I gave into my feelings of guilt, pulled up beside her and offered her a lift home.
Samira was delighted to see me and accepted. What had happened to Adeel had obviously had an effect on her. She’d lost weight and the happy carefree sheen in her eyes had been replaced by a wary, subdued look. As I pulled up outside her house she invited me in for coffee but I made an excuse about having plans. We chatted for a while in the car instead.
“So, how’s Adeel?” I asked.
“Completely recovered now. Back immersed in his politics.”
“I heard he dropped the charges against Conor.”
She sighed. “Yes. Conor’s father Tom came to the house one day. He begged me to persuade Adeel not to go ahead. Said his son had been suffering from post-traumatic shock for years after a bomb attack in Northern Ireland had left him in his wheelchair. He said the army had abandoned his son and left him on shitty benefits and without any help for his mental-health problems.” She shook her head. “The poor man kept apologising, Carmel. He was so desperate for his son not to go to prison. He said it would be the end for him. Apparently Conor has already made two suicide attempts. It was a difficult decision to make. Of course I wanted Conor to be punished and go to prison for what he did to Adeel but he is not well in the head. So I asked Adeel to drop the charges.”
“Wow. That’s an incredible act of kindness, Samira.”
I thought about my experience with Conor. I wanted to ask her if she thought he could go on to attack someone else, but I held back.
“Adeel refused at first. So I said he could look after his own bloody kids then. He soon changed his mind.”
I laughed. “You are terrible, Samira.”
She grinned and the old Samira was back.
“I know. Anyway, how are things with you?” She squeezed my arm. “You are so pale and skinny. You need to eat more, Carmel.”
“I’m fine,” I lied.
After she’d gone into the house I suddenly remembered about her chats with Tess and what she’d said to me the day I found Dad’s letter. “So cruel to have her son taken from her like that.” I’d been so consumed by what had happened with Joe and Karen I’d completely forgotten to ask Samira if Tess had ever confided in her about the baby she’d given away. I thought about knocking on the door and asking her but the moment had gone. Only a few weeks before, I would have dived in there straightaway with a list of questions. Finding my brother had obsessed my every waking hour then. But now the bottom had fallen out of my world and I simply didn’t have the energy any more.
I started to drive off but pulled over again as I passed the old house. I stopped and stared. It had been completely transformed and was barely recognisable. Grey PVC windows had replaced the cracked wooden ones, the roof was newly tiled and the brickwork plastered over. The porch had gone, Tess’s garden had been completely gravelled over and a Mitsubishi four-by-four filled the driveway. I was overcome by a strange mixture of loss and awe.
Then the front door opened and a dark wiry man in a pale denim shirt came out followed by a girl of about six or seven. She had ebony waist-length hair and was wearing a lemon dress. She stopped on the step and called out to her father, pointing down at her foot. He turned round, walked back to her then bent down to fasten her shoe. He straightened up and as he kissed the top of her head I heard myself say “Daddy”, and something broke inside me.
Chapter 28
In the days that followed the darkness slipped through the front door when I wasn’t looking and made itself at home. Inconspicuous at first, it started to follow me around then before long it was forever by my side. The darkness had a voice too.
“You are worthless,” it said, as I lay in bed staring at the ceiling. “You are neurotic, you have no friends and everyone has left you. Nobody cares whether you live or die.”
Getting out of bed and putting one step in front of the other to go downstairs became a monumental effort. As did showering and eating. I nibbled on bread and cheese, crackers and the odd apple. My appetite for wine did not diminish and I guzzled a bottle most days. I lost track of time. Hours would pass and I’d realise I hadn’t stirred out of bed. I was sleeping up to fourteen hours a day and I spent a lot of that dreaming about the dead. I was clinging to Tess’s lifeless body in the room where I found her, I was watching Mikey writhing in the road at Old Trafford and I was watching Peggy step off the road into the path of a speeding car. But when I dreamt of Dad he was very much alive. We were running on the beach hand in hand in Achill and laughing, I was snuggled on his knee in front of the gas fire, he was helping me unwrap a doll’s pram on Christmas Day. Whenever he was present the fear and the angst wasn’t.
The lovely home I’d spent hours cleaning and decorating was abandoned to dirt and dust. Filthy plates, mugs and glasses piled up in every room, bins overflowed and the post piled up. After two weeks I started ordering all my groceries online, I’d put in an order at the local dairy to deliver milk and online banking meant I didn’t have to go out anywhere to pay the bills. I soon didn’t feel well enough to leave the house and thanks to the internet I didn’t have to.
Joe sent a few emails and Julia rang a number of times but I didn’t answer the phone. A flurry of texts arrived from Mary. I’d agreed to attend a series of literary events and performances with her at the Manchester Festival the following week. I ignored her. The thought of an evening in a crowded theatre in town terrified me. I couldn’t do it. I was terrified of having another panic attack like the one I’d had in Deansgate. It was becoming a Catch 22 situation. The fear of having an attack, not the actual attack, kept me at home.
When I didn’t reply Mary sent more concerned texts, then one morning she turned up on the doorstep.
“Come out with your hands above your head, I know you’re in there!” she hollered through the letterbox. She waited for a while then she left, after slipping a note through the letterbox begging me to call her.
I stared at it and thought about calling her but then the darkness had a word in my ear.
“She isn’t really a friend. She doesn’t enjoy your company. She’s only doing it out of pity.”
One morning I opened the drawer of my bedside table, took out the make-up mirror I kept there and held it up to the light. I looked at my face, something I hadn’t done in days. Dark crescent moons hung under my red-rimmed eyes, my cheeks were hollow and my hair stood on end like I’d been plugged in. I was jaundiced and weak. I looked into my eyes. Nobody was at home. I averted my gaze. I’d seen that look before. When I looked again Tess was staring back at me.
Chapter 29
I sat up bolt upright when I saw him standing at the end of the bed. He looked tanned and relaxed in a linen shirt, loafers and well-ironed jeans. Our time apart seemed to be serving Joe well.
“Shit,” I said, shielding my eyes from the brutal rays of late morning sun that interrogated my face. I glanced over at the alarm clock. Eleven am. I’d overslept. I was supposed to get up at nine, clean the house then disappear while he came to collect his stuff. He was back from Madrid for a couple of days and staying with his friend at the other side of Chorlton.
I slumped back onto the pillows. From the corner of my eye I could see him surveying the room: the huge coffee stain on the beige carpet, the empty packets of Nytol, chocolate wrappers, wineglasses, the half-open drawers and array of dirty clothes scattered everywhere. Tracey Emin’s bed looked neat by comparison.
“Mary Duffy got my number from work and rang me in Madrid,” he said. “She’s very worried about you. She asked if you’d been kidnapped.”
I sniffed. “I’ve had a virus and I didn’t feel like seeing anyone but I’m fine now.”
He stepped towards the bed as if he was about to sit down. I flinched and he moved towards the window instead, leaning back against the sill. On the wall beside him was the sepia poster we bought on our honeymoon in Venice. Couples wearing masks were dancing at a carnival ball. We bought it in a small shop in an alleyway away from the crowds. We’d walked for hours in the sizzling heat that day and afterwards we sat outside the tiny bar next door and held hands over pool-sized gin and tonics. On the walk home the heavens opened in a tropical downpour and we got drenched. We were so much in love we didn’t care one bit. I’d been looking at the poster and thinking of that day a lot. It reminded me of him and our marriage, the mask part anyway.
“You don’t look well,” he said.
“I’m fine.”
“You don’t look it. You’re so skinny and pale.” He gestured around the room at the chaos. “Look at this. It’s not like you at all.” He cocked his head to one side. “You’ve been through a lot, Carmel. Maybe you need to get some help.”
I pulled myself up onto a pillow.
“So you’re giving me fucking mental-health advice after what you did? Don’t you think that’s a bit like beating someone to a pulp then handing them a box of plasters?”
He said nothing and lowered his head.
Out of the window behind him a white ribbon of plane trail soared between two clouds. Was life really going on as normal when mine had come to a standstill? Were people taking holidays? Were they having lunch in the cafés on Beech Road and going to work on trams, buses and cars?
I closed my eyes. I wanted to hurt him, to tell him about that night four years before, how I’d been blown away by another man at the teaching conference. Billy O’Hagan he was called. He was from Galway, a widower, and he lived in Chorlton. He was witty and rugged and we drank late-night tequila shots huddled together in the cold on the hotel terrace bar. Then we ended up in his room where we kissed.
“I still fucking love you,” Joe said.
When I opened my eyes he was still standing by the window and I could see he was crying.
“I made the biggest mistake of my life. I don’t want us to split up.”
I buried my head in my pillow, remembering the look of dismay on Billy O’Hagan’s face when I put my hand on his and stopped him unbuttoning my shirt. “Sorry, I can’t,” I’d said, getting up. “I love my husband too much.” Then I left when I very much wanted to stay.
Joe wiped his cheek with the back of his hand then he moved around the room, picking up some of my dirty clothes from the floor.
My Mother's Children: An Irish family secret and the scars it left behind. Page 15
