Into the Night Sky

by Caroline Finnerty

  Sometimes he hates this place. Really, really hates it. He hates everything that it represents – the dreams that were never fulfilled, and the debt that is a noose around his neck. He could have stayed in his old job. Not just for the security of it – he had actually enjoyed it. He’d had a decent salary, a pension and health insurance. Now he has none of that and, instead, all the benefits have been replaced with constant worry.

  He had opened Haymarket Books six years ago when things were booming. Having worked as a bookseller for many years, the romantic in him had loved the thought of running his own store, recommending the books of his choice to his customers, building up relationships with them so that they always trusted his suggestions. But six months after opening, the articulated lorry of the Celtic Tiger had screeched to an abrupt halt and Conor now lay amongst the wreckage. He had soon discovered that the reality of owning his own bookshop was a lot less rosy than what he had envisioned. What had he been thinking by opening up a store in this location? But the developers had promised that it was an up-and-coming area and was to be the new hub of the city centre – “the new cultural heart of Dublin” they had quoted on their glossy brochures which were full of beautiful, laughing people sipping coffee-to-go from cardboard cups and clutching armfuls of glossy shopping bags.

  And he had fallen for it.

  Now, five years later, the apartments above his shop and the units on either side of him still lie empty and he is stuck in a twenty-five-year lease, with an exorbitant upwards-only rent clause that he just can’t get out of. The US software company that used to have its telesales up the street from him had recently moved the jobs to the lower-cost labour market of India and now that empty building is just another one joining its neighbours in lying idle on Haymarket Street.

  Conor goes home that evening and finds bills lying in wait for him on the doormat as they always are. He knows they are bills because they come regularly now, always by registered post with the words ‘strictly private and confidential’ or ‘urgent’ stamped in red ink across the top of the envelopes. He doesn’t need to open them to know what they say. His mortgage has bounced again and his arrears are creeping up, like a mountain he will never be able to scale. If he doesn’t pay his gas bill this month they will disconnect him. He has never been in financial difficulty in his life before, not even as a student. He was always able to pay his own way but now the debts are closing in around his neck. They’re coming at him from every direction and just when he thinks he’s about to get his head above water again, some other bill comes and demands its payment too. When he goes to work the demands are waiting for him there, and when he comes home they are there too. He stares around at the IKEA kitchen presses, and for the hundredth time that day wishes she was here. He wishes he could reach out to her, draw her close and tell her how much he misses her. He would hold her tightly in his arms and tell her how hard it is without her. How awful every day has been without her.

  Chapter 3

  Fifteen Years Earlier

  Goa, India

  They leave their hostel and step out onto the dusty road. The heat hits them like a wall as it does every time they go outside – even in the evenings it is still intense. They stop to browse in the street market. Rails of T-shirts surround tables crowded with cigarette lighters, souvenirs, beach bags, trinkets and carved animal statues. Vibrant colours shout at them – reds, blues, greens and yellows all vying for their attention. Cattle wander nosily between the stalls. The engine of a passing motorbike rips through the air; the dust rises in its wake.

  Her clear blue eyes are immediately drawn towards the colourful paper lanterns that hang along the top fringes of each stall.

  “Ah, papierlaternen!” Her eyes are wide with excitement. “How do you say it in English?”

  And he thinks this is what she must have looked like as a child. Innocent. Excited. “Paper lanterns, you mean?”

  “I love these!”

  Her skin is golden from the sun and he can see the hairs on her arms have been bleached white. Frayed and worn friendship bracelets climb her slender wrists. She is wearing a faded purple vest and silk skirt with a repeating orange-and-black Aztec pattern. The straps of her turquoise bikini are tied up around her neck.

  “We do these on St Martin’s Day back home. All the children carry lanterns on the street and sing songs. We have to buy one!”

  “Okay,” he agrees because he can never say no to her.

  They buy the lantern and take it down to the beach and light it. They watch as it rises up and floats out over the calm sea.

  “It is so pretty, isn’t it?” she says.

  “Beautiful.”

  They are both sitting on the sand, she in the space between his legs. Her head rests against his chest and rises every time his chest inhales. The dying sunlight is still warm on their skin. They are the only ones on the beach at this time of the evening. Fishing boats lie beached on the shore, ready and waiting to bring home tomorrow’s haul. The majestic palm trees crouch over, some boughs almost parallel with the sand. They whisper their secrets in the gentle breeze.

  “Do you think we’ll still be sitting like this together when we’re seventy-five?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “What about eighty-seven?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Ninety-two?” She turns around to face him.

  “Hopefully – if you’ll be able to push my wheelchair over this sand,” he says, grinning at her.

  Her leather sandals lie kicked off beside his. The sea roars loud in their ears.

  The fire-red sun moves lower until it is almost level with the horizon and in minutes it is gone. The sun always sets quickly here. Soon dusk gives way to night and the beach is cloaked in darkness. He sifts the sand through his fingertips and feels the fine grains fall through them as though his hands are the egg timer of life.

  Time moves forward.

  Chapter 4

  The next morning Ella is woken by Maisie crying at two o’clock. It pierces through her head and once inside seems to hit off everything that is in there, through matter and bone. A grunting Dan finally throws back the duvet and gets up and brings Maisie into their bed. She snuggles in beside Ella and falls back asleep but Ella is left wide awake, thinking. She can’t stop thinking about what she did yesterday in the department store. She is disgusted with herself – she feels sick whenever she thinks about it. It has been so long since she has done it that she thought she had left it behind her. Why has it resurfaced again now? What is wrong with her? Why is she doing this? It is as if she doesn’t know herself any more. She can practically afford to buy anything she wants to, so why is she caught up in this shoplifting and stealing nightmare?

  Her heart is racing in her chest like it does every morning when the rest of the family are fast asleep and her mind is wide awake, full of hatred and self-loathing. But the thing is, that even though she hates what she has done, she knows that she will do it again. She is powerless against it and that is what frightens her most.

  She gets out of bed and makes herself a black coffee. She looks around at the circular walls of her kitchen. She had loved this house when they’d bought it. It was one of a number of defence towers built by the British along the Irish coastline in the nineteenth century to help defend against possible Napoleonic invasion. She and Dan had spent a lot of time and money converting it into a home, using a specialist conservation architect from the UK who had overseen similar projects over there. Ella had worked closely with the interior designer to ensure the decor reflected her and Dan’s personalities. They were privileged to be among the small number of people across the world that could say they lived in a Martello tower, but now she felt as though the solid stone walls imprisoned her. Except for the kitchen on the top floor with its three-hundred-and-sixty-degree windows and views over the bay and the headland, the thickness of the walls in the rest of the house kept out the light and made the place feel cool and damp, having been built originally for pr
otection rather than with modern needs in mind.

  “I was wondering where you’d got to,” Dan says, coming into the kitchen where Ella is seated in an armchair sipping her third mug of coffee.

  “I couldn’t sleep.”

  “Again? Are you sure you’re okay?” He starts measuring out scoops of formula and levelling them with a knife before tipping them into the bottle. “Do you think that maybe you should have a word with your doctor? She might give you sleeping pills or something?” Dan is a fixer. He wants to have a reason why Ella is behaving like this and to fix it for her.

  “Nah, it’s probably just that the mornings are getting brighter and I’m finding it hard to sleep in –”

  “Okay, well, when the girls get up, how about I take the three of them off for a little while to give you a break, yeah?”

  She forces herself to smile at him because that’s what he wants to see. “That’d be lovely, thanks, Dan.”

  “You make sure you go and treat yourself, do you hear me? Take as long as you need.”

  “Sure, thanks, darling.”

  After Dan has taken the three girls off, Ella gets into her jeep and drives into town. The tide is out, exposing the long sandy strand, as she travels along the Clontarf road. The heavy rain from the night before has washed the sky clean and the day looks bright and new. She can see Bull Island in the distance. She goes past Fairview Park and soon she is in the city centre. She finds a parking space near St Stephen’s Green. She strolls through the green on the diagonal and decides to sit on a bench in the morning sunshine. She closes her eyes and lets the heat of the spring sun warm her cheeks. It feels good.

  She goes into a large department store, the same one she was in yesterday and feels the eyes on her as she walks. She walks around the home wares section, running her fingers over sheets with an expensive thread count and polished silver candelabras. The crisp smell of a pomegranate-and-fig candle fills the air. She used to love interiors but somewhere over the last few months she has lost the love of it. It all seems so futile now. Pointless, the lot of it. She catches sight of herself in a mirror. The reflection shows a tired woman with skin which is lined and grey. She hates what she sees. She picks up a leather-bound notebook.

  “It’s fabulous, isn’t it?” The sales assistant has come up beside her. “It only came in yesterday.”

  “It’s lovely.”

  “I hate asking – but myself and Emily, the girl over there, were just wondering if you are Ella Wilde?”

  Ella looks over to see another young girl looking over at them anxiously. “I am.”

  The girl smiles. “I knew it was you!” she says triumphantly. “I wasn’t sure and Emily said it wasn’t you but I knew I was right!” The girl seems genuinely thrilled to meet her. “My mam and dad watch your show every night,” she starts to gush.

  “Glad to hear it.”

  “Well, I suppose I’d better leave you to get on with your shopping or my manager will kill me but if you need any help just shout.”

  “Great, thanks for your help –” she reads the girl’s name badge, “Sandra.”

  Sandra beams at her and leaves.

  She meanders down to the jewellery section and looks down at the glass display cases.

  “Can I help you there, madam?” the man behind the counter says.

  “Yes, I was wondering if I could try on that watch there, please?”

  “Certainly.” He opens the case with a key and takes the watch out, displaying it on the glass in front of Ella.

  It has a platinum band and the clock face has diamonds studded around the mother-of-pearl face. She puts it on her wrist, holding it out to admire it. “It’s beautiful.”

  “This is the latest model – it has a dual time-zone display for people who do a lot of travelling, a five-piece link metal bracelet and of course the signature fluted bezel.”

  She fingers the watch delicately, then removes it.

  “Would you like to see more watches?”

  “Hmmmh, a watch or bracelet, something to treat myself with.” She laughs. It sounds fake and high-pitched to her ear.

  “Well, we all need to treat ourselves now and again, don’t we?” He takes out a tray of diamond bracelets, glittering and sparkling. “Maybe one of these?” He lifts one out and places it on her wrist. “This one is from our vintage collection.”

  “It’s stunning.”

  A young couple come in. Ella can tell by their excited giddiness and affection towards each other that they have just got engaged. He rubs his hand up and down along her arm excitedly before reaching for her hand below the counter. She remembers when she and Dan used to be like that, couldn’t keep their hands off one another, but now she can’t even remember the last time they have had sex. Definitely not since Maisie was born anyway.

  “Excuse me for one second while I call my colleague to come and serve them.” He goes over to the phone and lifts it.

  While he has his back to her she grabs her handbag off the floor and walks quickly through the make-up hall as uniformed girls try to get her to stop and sample their perfumes. She keeps looking straight ahead. She can hear the voice calling after her but she won’t turn around. The shocked faces of the make-up girls mirror what is happening behind her but she keeps walking forward. The voice is getting louder. She is nearly there. Finally she goes through the doors and steps out into the fresh air of Grafton Street.

  “I’m sorry, madam, but I believe you are still wearing the bracelet that you were trying on.” The man from the jewellery counter positions himself in front of her so she cannot go forward. He is flanked by two security guards.

  “Oh God, am I? I – I – I’m so sorry – I forgot to take it off! I just remembered I was supposed to be meeting my husband and . . . God, this is embarrassing . . . I can’t believe I forgot I was wearing it! Here, sorry . . . ” She starts to undo the clasp but her fingers are awkward and clumsy and she can’t seem to get a hold on it.

  “Would you mind accompanying us back inside, please?” one of the guards asks.

  “But I can’t, I’m supposed to be meeting my husband.”

  “Well, perhaps you could ring him and tell him what has happened,” says the guard.

  “But, here, you can have it back –” She has finally managed to open it and she is thrusting the thing at him. “I wasn’t trying to steal it!”

  “I’m afraid we will still need you to accompany us.”

  “But why? I didn’t do anything wrong!”

  “You left the store with a very valuable piece of jewellery on your person which you didn’t pay for. Store procedure means we have to investigate that.”

  “But it was just a mistake – you’ve got it all wrong! Wait until my solicitor hears about this!”

  “This way, madam – we don’t want to make a scene now, do we?”

  “No.”

  Reluctantly she allows them to lead her into the store and down to the back. They swipe their way in through a door and down a white walled corridor that is far removed from the plush front-of-house of the store. They lead her into a small room with security cameras, a desk and two chairs. She notices on the monitor a black-and-white image of the jewellery room she was just in.

  They gesture for her to sit down.

  “The Gardaí are on their way.”

  “You’ve called the Gardaí?” The feeling of dread makes its way over her body. She can feel her hands start to tremble. “But I haven’t done anything wrong!”

  “You walked out of the shop with a bracelet worth almost thirty-five-thousand euro on your wrist.”

  “But I told you – it was a mistake – I just forgot to take it off.”

  “We have you on camera here yesterday. You walked out of the door with a very expensive handbag. It wasn’t noticed initially and it was only when we went back over our CCTV that we saw what had happened. We will be handing it over to the Gardaí this time.”

  The male and female Gardaí who show up try not to lo
ok surprised at who she is. They escort her out through the rear entrance of the store, which is usually used by delivery drivers. They have a squad car waiting for her and she is taken to Pearse Street Garda Station.

  “But they have it all wrong!” she protests.

  “Look, we have to follow up – you were outside the shop with a thirty-five-thousand-euro bracelet,” the female Garda who escorted her to the station is saying. “It doesn’t matter who you are. You’d be amazed at the people that we pick up for shoplifting – all ages, colours and demographics.”

  “What’s going to happen now?”

  “Well, that depends on the store and on whether they want to prosecute or not.”

  “Oh God!” Ella says, holding her head in her hands. “It’ll be everywhere – you can’t – I’ll never work again.” Suddenly she is tired. The tears start and she is worried that they will never stop. She feels the wetness of her tears in the palms of her hands. She is starting to lose the will to fight. The Garda places a cup of tea in front of her and, even though she doesn’t normally drink tea, she finds herself drinking it anyway and enjoying its milky sugariness.