by John Brady
He wondered if she were awake now. He saw her in Bríd’s arms, and Bríd rubbing her back to console her. Was Bríd thinking what he was thinking now: what the hell had happened? How had this come upon them so suddenly? And did she too wonder if this was it, and that there was no going back? What was said was said, and it had been brewing for a while? She’d be right to say that, Fanning knew, and now a week ago – a day ago even – seemed to him an impossible distance.
A small van sped by on Bird Avenue. He looked at his watch: a quarter to four. There’d be some light by six, he hoped. He passed the shops, glancing through the shutters at their dim, yellowed interiors. This was the newsagent’s with all the crap that attracted Aisling, the one place he avoided when he had her with him. Three or four sessions of tears were enough: she’d want things he knew he’d have to refuse her – the sweets, the cheap, crappy toys and baubles pouring in from China.
He was by the window when he sensed more than saw a small flicker on the glass behind him. When he looked across the road, there was only the bus shelter in its dome of light. He moved on, but the panic had set his heart racing. He thought about legging it over through the campus at Belfield. Between the buildings and the acres of playing fields and trees, here’d be no end of places to lie low until it got bright. One of the cafeterias might open early, even, and the coffee there would have to be pretty vile for him not to buy it. With a bit of daylight and a dose of caffeine, things would be clearer. But there’d be a hell of a lot of phoning to be done to even get a start on sorting out this mess.
Fanning swore quietly: his mobile had been losing its charge.
He took it out of his jacket pocket and switched it on; stopped after a few more paces, waited for the battery indicator to show up. There was only a quarter left. His thumb found the power button again, but he hesitated. If Bríd were trying to reach him, if she had realized what she was doing to him. … He keyed in the password, and pocketed the phone again. A taxi passed on its way out of town.
He crossed the Goatstown Road and set his mind on the half-hour or so it was going to take him to get into town. Soon his stride returned, and a jittery alertness that had replaced the panic took over. Everyone, every married couple, had gone through this and worse, he decided. It was just that they didn’t talk about it. The dark night of the soul, he could call it.
He felt the familiar reflexes returning to him then, the urge to make something of this disaster. A short film – not like Bergman stuff, that godawful Cries and Whispers – about a crisis between a man and a woman, and a child involved. The ground has been shifting under this couple. Because of that comfortable cowardice that sets in a marriage, neither acknowledges it. They have invested too much in it, they’ve made too many deals, and compromises. They have hacked off too much of the people they would have been. Somewhere deep in their minds each knows the truth: that though to want to walk away from one another, it would only remind them – unbearably – of what they have lost. Fault Lines – there was the working title right there. And, he could work in the newcomer-to-Ireland angle, the catalyst that gets it started: she works in an office where a new employee is a refugee, and she meets the woman’s husband. She falls for him. But it’s nobody’s fault, it’s just the humdrum pain of being alive, and there are no answers. Unflinching, that would be the word.
Breen would see it, and would jump at it.
This was crazy. He was doing his escapist thing again, like he had done since he was a kid.
He sped up. He felt the soft slap of his shoulder bag against the small of his back, a reminder of his student days. There was a light on upstairs in one of the houses coming up to the traffic lights, and a shadow passed against the blinds. Hearing a baby yowl, he slowed to listen, and then resumed his stride.
He had some excuse for giving that idiot a few kicks, that Polish guy. The way he had been carrying on, the language out of him! And then, pulling a knife on him? Anyone with a brain would have high-tailed it out of there of course: called the Guards right away. But that was cocaine, he supposed, the belief that you could do pretty well anything. The guy was probably stoned already. How else would he have had the nerve to walk up to a parked car and ask for dope?
Fanning skipped across the road and gained the footpath on the far side. Another taxi drifted by. He thought to the hours ahead, and the dawn that would slink in so unspectacularly under all this cloud. There was nothing much heroic about this, was there. He thought of the narrow road with the hedges that met the main road, the nearest the bus would get to the farm. Aisling thought the sheep were pets they kept forever there, just like the farm cats.
He almost missed the short ping of a message. The strange compulsion that he mocked in others exerted its hold on Fanning too however, and he quickly found his way to the short, misspelled message: outisde ur place call me NOW.
Chapter 45
MINOGUE’S DREAM ABOUT A PHONE RINGING interrupted by Kathleen. In a sleepy voice that gave way to alarm, she said: “That’s our phone.”
He was wide awake in a moment, up on his elbow. Ash-grey morning light. It was just gone six. He saw the fright on Kathleen’s face, and he began to calculate what time it was with Daithi Minogue, resident of California, USA. Ten o’clock, was that a dangerous time over there?
He did not consider clothes, but made his way hurriedly to the stairs, steeling himself. Freeways full of impatient people, short-tempered people with guns, drugs, earthquakes, serial killers and drifters, and people going postal, and wildfires.
The answering machine had taken over, but had just started the announcement.
“Ignore that thing,” he said into the receiver. “It’ll be over in a few seconds. Stay on the line. I’m listening.”
The other person hadn’t hung up.
“Daithi? Cathy? Just wait for it to finish. I’m here.”
“Jaysus,” came the voice in a low, exasperated growl after the tone. “Bad enough I have to listen to you, but two of you – and at the same time? Too much. Too much, I’m telling you.”
“Tommy. What the hell is this? It’s six o’clock in the morning. I hit the sack at three. I’m far from happy about this.”
“Have you heard of mobile phones?”
“They keep you at work twenty-four hours a day. Those things?”
“I was going to leave a message.”
“Make it a good one, will you. I have a message ready for you here. But I’ll wait until I hear yours.”
“Take a powder there, boss,” said Malone. “You had three hours that I didn’t have. Here’s what I do have: Murph, you know about. If it’s Murph, that is. The bit of toast they found in the boot of his car up in the Pine Forest. So you won’t be talking to Murph.”
“Got that. Move on.”
“Listen to you. I’m doing your work for you here. I expect a cut of that paycheque of yours, you know.”
“Settle for a wedding present – but only if you lift the ban, and let me go to the wedding.”
“That’s another matter. Here’s the goods then: I got this message from a woman the name of Bríd O Connor. It was waiting on me when I checked in the office late. Trying to get in touch with me yesterday, but had a bit of an issue tracking me down.”
“I don’t know the name.”
“Wife of one Dermot Fanning. Now you know her?”
“Your ticket to stardom, okay. But what’s this about?”
“Listen, I’m telling you. You know the routine in our place, about routing calls and that. If we’re out on a job, stuff just has to wait its turn. No interruptions. There’s a gatekeeper, Alec Dowling, a Sergeant. He handles stuff, decides if we get a contact. Anyway. That’s why I only picked this up late, I should say early this morning. She’s in a state. Husband did a bunk, and she can’t get ahold of him.”
“Okay. Look, Tommy, I haven’t done a jigsaw puzzle since I was a child.”
“Did they have them then?”
“Proceed. I’ll save my bad w
ords for when I meet you in person.”
“She and the hubby had a big row the other night. Out he walks, and she hasn’t seen him since.”
“Unusual?”
“Yep. According to her. Oh sure, the artsy-fartsy lifestyle and all, but she’s a teacher. Says she to me, ‘We’re a very normal couple, I want you to know.’”
“The point, Tommy, the point. I’m on a low battery here, man.”
“Point is he’s missing, and she says he had been doing some odd things before he, um, took his leave of her.”
“Odd. Isn’t that what filmy, artisty people do?”
“She says he came home with a cut on his leg, and he was manky, and out of it.”
“Like I said about that crowd?”
“Will you stop hopping the ball on me for a minute there? Fanning was doing research on gangs here in Dublin. Hanging out with them.”
“Got fond of it maybe?”
“She says she thinks he was stoned the other night. That that’s the only way she can account for him losing his rag with her. Mild-mannered, wouldn’t hurt a fly, says she.”
Minogue broke his gaze on the rings of the new cooker.
“Okay,” he said. “I’m getting it, sorry. It’s Murph he was hanging out with.”
“Good. You saved me shouting at you there. Now I haven’t got to the real story here. She left a message, said that Fanning had tried to call her that night – that morning actually. But she didn’t answer the phone. She knew it was him, she said, and she was mad at him. He leaves a message on their machine, but it gets cut off. She doesn’t know why, but she remembers him talking about getting a new mobile, or something about a battery. So she thinks the phone died on him.”
“Okay. But why am I here?”
Malone went on undeterred.
“What she tells me in this message is that he, Fanning that is to say, mentioned something about a thing that happened down the quays. That he wants to talk to her about it, but he has to think it over some more.”
“The quays. That’s all?”
“‘The back of the Custom House Quay’ she says. ‘Something happened,’ says he. ‘Something I’m not proud of.’”
“Did she save the message?”
“I don’t know, do I. But by Jesus, I am sitting here outside her house – I know from her phone call that they have a little one, and she was crying – and I’m going to knock on her door right now and find out.”
“Where is this?”
“According to my GPS,” said Malone, grandly, “5.3 kilometres from your place. Off Bird Avenue.”
Chapter 46
THE CAR WAS A NEWISH Honda Civic, with a Dublin registration. It was a sensible, reliable safe car, Fanning thought wistfully, a real teacher’s car. Cully had been watching him in the mirror from the time he had turned the corner. There was no sign of his sidekick. There were no lights on at the house, and the Golf hadn’t moved. Fanning looked up at the window of Aisling’s room – a box-room it should be called.
His legs were still rubbery. He wondered if his fear showed on his face. He wished he had that Swiss Army knife again, the one that had gone missing on him after Christmas. But what use would that be? He wasn’t thinking straight at all.
Cully looked tired and drawn, with dark patches under his eyes. This surprised Fanning, and for a moment he felt some weird sympathy.
Cully rolled down his window.
“You didn’t knock, did you?” Fanning asked. “Right?”
Cully shook his head.
“Let’s go somewhere to talk,” Fanning said. “Bríd might be awake. I don’t want her seeing us.”
Cully seemed in no humour to dispute anything.
“Get in,” he murmured. He parked by the shops. He and Fanning waited until a long articulated lorry went by, and the road was empty again.
“Hanging up on people is bad manners,” said Cully.
“I switched it off actually.”
Cully looked up from his hands.
“You know, you’re getting cheekier and cheekier. Talking back? Snappy answer for everything?”
“Just stating a fact, that’s all.”
Neither man said anything for several moments. Fanning did his best to swallow without making any sound.
“So,” he said then. “What are we going to do?”
Cully stopped tapping his fingers on the wheel. “You’re asking me?”
“We should do something.”
“Like…?”
“Work something out.”
“What are you talking about here, ‘work something out’?”
“An agreement, I suppose.”
“Go on.”
“To go our separate ways, I suppose.”
Cully threw back his head and laughed.
“That a script you’re writing? ‘To go our separate ways.’”
“We decide on what to do, and stick to it.”
“Oh, bossy now.”
“You asked me for a suggestion. I’m giving it. Remember, I don’t have any experience in this sort of stuff.”
Cully glanced over, but resumed his slow tapping on the wheel.
“There’s a lot you don’t know,” he said. “I’ll grant you that.”
“Look, you take over then. I’m in no fit mind right now probably.”
“You mean it? I take over?”
“I’m not thinking straight. I’m tired.”
“Oh. You like the ‘up’ part, but you’re not so keen on the afterwards bit.”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“That little bit of white powder you took a liking to?”
“I didn’t. And it didn’t work for me, didn’t work much anyway.”
“Tell that to the bloke back there, the one you put the boots to.”
“Me? You mean yourself. It wasn’t me did that.”
“Really. That’s what you’re going to say to them?”
A chill grabbed at Fanning.
“I’m not telling anyone. Didn’t I say that?”
Cully shook his head.
“Well don’t get that idea,” said Fanning quickly. “There’s no way I’d want to tell anyone about that, ever.”
Cully said nothing.
“Ever,” Cully added.
“Never, ever, ever,” Cully murmured.
“Why would I want to do something so stupid as that? Like tell them to throw me in jail or something?”
“They wouldn’t throw you in jail. They’d probably give you a medal.”
Fanning stared at him, but Cully kept his gaze on the empty roadway.
“Or put you on the payroll,” said Cully. “Like Murph.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about. No idea.”
“Oh but you’re the ideas man, and you have no idea? You make it up as you go along. You said so yourself.”
“That’s about scripts, and story ideas. It’s not about real life. Come on.”
Cully looked over with the beginnings of a smile. Fanning realized that there was a plaintive tone to what he had said.
“I’m never going to talk to anyone about it. To tell you the truth, I’m appalled–”
“Appalled, are you.”
“Ashamed. Shocked. The things I said, I can’t believe it was me saying them. Racist, even. I can’t believe it.”
“He pulled a knife on you. Did you notice?”
“Of course I damned well noticed. I have a cut here on my leg, here I’ll show it to you.”
“No. Don’t.”
“I wouldn’t tell anyone. Not even my wife.”
“Well I know that.”
“What do you mean? Why did you say that, like that…?”
“Well she told me where to go, didn’t she.”
“You spoke with her?”
“Can’t say as I blame her either, can I.”
“You talked to my wife. When? Tonight, I mean this morning.”
Cully sighed and looked at his watch.
>
“Half an hour ago.”
“Why did you speak to her?”
“Actually I didn’t speak to her. She did the talking. Yelling, I should say–”
“What did you say to her?”
“…telling me I was the cause of this thing, you showing up all dirty, with that cut and so forth. To stay away from her husband. And so on.”
“What did you tell her?”
“Nowt. Nothing. Nada. Couldn’t get a word in, could I.”
“You had no call to be phoning her, especially that hour.”
“Whoa there,” said Cully and he rubbed at his eyes. “This isn’t Falluja or somewhere. It’s not a crime to talk to a woman, is it?”
“Falluja? What’s that about? It’s four in the morning, I just told you, so why are you phoning my wife at four in the morning?”
“Which question do you want answered first?”
“You can’t do that, it’s not part of our arrangement. Our deal.”
“Oh. We have a deal, do we? An arrangement?”
“You know what I mean. Leave her out of it. We settle this ourselves.”
Cully seemed to consider it. Then he resumed tapping his fingers on the wheel.
“This is important,” he said, “isn’t it.”
“Damned right it is.”
“Well you shouldn’t turn off your mobile then, should you.”
“It died. Ran out of juice.”
“Should I believe you?”
“I’ll show you.”
“No, no. Let’s just move on. What were you saying?”
“Okay. Whatever turns up out of this thing, you know, that guy. … We do nothing. Right?”
“Forget it ever happened?”
“Something like that.”
“He takes his licks, and he – what do they say in the television things… ‘he moves on with his life…’?”
Fanning felt the fear returning. Cully didn’t do irony. He must know what he’d done to the man.
Cully let his hands drop from the wheel.
“You give me your word?” he asked.
“Absolutely, I do.”
“Not a word, even to your missus.”
“Not a word. As if she’d let me talk to her now anyway.”
