Second Sight

by Aoife Clifford

  My new personal assistant, Melanie, gives me a puzzled look because I have nothing scheduled. A maternity leave replacement, we’re still getting used to each other. She doesn’t know anything about what happened in Kinsale the other day. No-one at work does. There’s now a statewide manhunt for Luke Tyrell, who has become the latest poster boy for antisocial behaviour, and I don’t want to be associated with any of it.

  I manage to get past secretary’s desks and prying eyes but unfortunately Bryan Lowden, the managing partner, is standing in reception with Andrew Prescott. Short and round, the only thing that defines Bryan’s chin is the bow tie underneath it. Another partner once told me after one too many after-work drinks that if you stuck a knife into Bryan he’d bleed money and that he had the type of personality that makes one’s hand itch for a blade. It was hard to disagree with the assessment. Bryan has always disliked me, and even tried to block my partnership. Whether he thinks I’m too young, too female, or just too me, it’s hard to tell. Andrew, on the other hand, is much more personable. A few months ago we dabbled with being more than colleagues but it petered out – it would’ve been career suicide if anyone had discovered it. Our interactions have been awkwardly polite ever since.

  ‘Ah, Ms Carmody,’ Bryan says. ‘We were just discussing the Colcart matter. Where are we at?’

  ‘We should be getting the expert report from Rob Eslake within a fortnight.’ I give myself a few days’ grace.

  He purses his bottom lip. ‘Written? Wouldn’t it have been wise to seek his views verbally first?’

  ‘Eslake is the pre-eminent expert in the area,’ I remind him. ‘It’s important for the client to understand exactly what happened in the fire.’

  ‘I hope you’ve conveyed to him the sensitivities around such a report.’

  I try to ignore the fact that Bryan is treating me like some naive first-year solicitor and Rob as if he is a gun for hire. Andrew has the good manners to look unconcerned, as though he’s not really listening to any of it.

  ‘I had a site meeting with him recently.’

  Our receptionist is pretending to be focused on her computer screen.

  ‘Hmm,’ says Bryan. ‘Colcart is an important client for this firm. Don’t want to disappoint them. Should you need any guidance in developing a robust defence, I’m sure Andrew would be only too happy to help.’

  Standing just behind Bryan, Andrew makes a face like that isn’t necessary.

  ‘We’re fine,’ I say. Andrew was made partner after me, so there would be no reason whatsoever to go to him for help. I give them both an opaque smile before walking towards the lifts.

  I catch a taxi to Southern Cross Hospital and have to steel myself before walking through its doors. I’m only heading to the cafe on the ground floor but it brings back the recent memory of racing here one night months ago to see my father after his accident. It has taken all Amy’s efforts to arm-wrestle her cousin Tristan into meeting me. The time and location were given on a take-it-or-leave-it basis. I sit down, order a coffee and wait for over half an hour – a fortune in missed fees, but Tristan saves lives so there is no comparison. He arrives doing the busy walk of important people and immediately gets the attention of the guy at the coffee machine who has been ignoring my I’d-like-a-refill glances for the last ten minutes. Tristan doesn’t even need to order, he just nods, and the guy knows what he wants.

  Tristan is high-metabolism skinny. His usual includes two iced donuts and neither is for me. He checks for messages while he waits for the coffee and doesn’t even say hello. I’m tempted to go into cardiac arrest to get his attention.

  ‘You not having anything?’ he asks as a flat white is delivered to the table.

  ‘How’s Paul?’

  Tristan tells me he’s spoken to the trauma surgeon and the neurosurgeon and then launches into fluent medico-jargon speak. My legal career started in personal injury cases so I understand enough to translate it into ‘He isn’t good’. There have been brain bleeds, CT scans and chest drains, as well as other procedures.

  ‘He’s going to get better, right?’ I ask.

  Tristan sighs as though I haven’t been listening. A spray of rainbow sprinkles drop from the donut onto the table. Fussy and precise about the rest of his life, he is a surprisingly messy eater.

  Could Paul actually die?

  Suddenly I’m possessed with the idea that if he gets his hat back, everything will be fine.

  ‘Here.’ I scrabble under the table. ‘You’ve got to give this to him now.’ The green hat looks even sorrier and stranger than before. Tristan ignores it.

  ‘Anisocoria,’ he says. ‘I always thought heterochromia but it’s anisocoria.’

  He’s talking about my eyes. What Tristan is trying to say is that I don’t have different coloured eyes. They just look like that because I’ve unequal sized pupils. My left eye appears darker because my pupil is permanently dilated.

  ‘Interesting,’ he says. ‘How did it happen?’

  ‘Can you take the hat to him?’

  ‘I’m not doing that.’

  ‘Please.’

  Tristan stands, gulping down his coffee, grabbing the remaining donut and checking his phone because people could have died without him.

  ‘Have they found the guy who hit him yet?’ he asks.

  I shake my head. ‘Only the car he stole, abandoned in a national park up the coast. Look, please, Paul needs it back.’

  Tristan frowns at me and then at the hat. ‘His brother is here,’ he says, taking pity. ‘I’ll see if he wants it.’

  This is delivered with the finality of a man who is always listened to. I give him my phone number and mumble ‘thanks’ at his disappearing back.

  A waitress wearing Mickey Mouse ears asks if I want another coffee in that passive-aggressive way that implies she doesn’t care but her boss insists on her asking. She forgets my flat white almost immediately because the girl from the flower shop, wearing a set of devil’s horns, comes in and they spend the next few minutes taking selfies. That’s when the text from Tristan arrives telling me to come up to ICU.

  A nurse waits for me at the lifts. She looks straight at my eyes, a useful identifier, then says, ‘They’re in the family room.’

  We walk down corridors with fluorescent lights that turn everything a skeletal white, until she opens a door into what looks like a budget hotel room minus the bed. The curtain material and chairs are a hideous patchwork fabric that was probably chosen to hide stains. There are two men inside. One has his back to me and is staring out the window. The view is one of the city’s most famous parks with ornate flowerbeds and European trees. The second man is sitting down, his arms folded.

  ‘Excuse me, I’m looking for . . .’ Tristan didn’t tell me the brother’s name, but the seated man starts speaking.

  ‘Eliza?’ he asks. ‘Eliza Carmody?’

  He springs from his seat and comes over to me. Much larger than when I saw him last, with a bushy beard, a thick neck and broad shoulders, Tony Bayless stands in front of me. The boy has become a bear.

  ‘God, I can’t believe it,’ he says in a rush. ‘The nurse didn’t tell us who was coming. So you saw Paul being attacked?’

  All I can do is stare. Here he is, the dasher of teenage dreams who until very recently was also believed responsible for the Kinsale bushfire.

  Tony takes my inability to speak as confusion. ‘Sorry, you probably don’t remember me.’

  I recover enough to say, ‘Of course, Tony. It’s been a while.’

  ‘You haven’t changed at all,’ he says. ‘I mean, this has changed,’ and he spreads out his arms to take in my suit and heels, the silk shirt, my perfectly straightened corporate hair. ‘You look really great but I’d recognise you anywhere . . .’ by which he means my eyes. His enthusiasm momentarily peters out and I take the opportunity to turn to the other person and say hello.

  ‘Sorry,’ Tony says. ‘Eliza Carmody, meet Donal Keenan. Eliza is from Kinsale as well, bu
t she escaped.’

  Donal is a couple of inches taller than me, my age, brownish hair, though if we were outside in that park in the sun, it might be a rusty red. His skin is pale. There is a resemblance to the Hat Man but Donal is slighter, and more attractive.

  ‘You found the place all right?’ Donal asks. It isn’t one of those movie Irish accents, all soft and melodic; it’s kind of spikier and jagged. The North, perhaps. I spent three days in Belfast as a backpacker. It didn’t rain once.

  I nod my head and smile.

  ‘Take a seat,’ he says.

  Tony hovers. ‘You probably want to talk. I’ll leave you to it.’

  ‘Appreciate that,’ says Donal.

  ‘It was good seeing you, Eliza.’

  ‘You too.’

  ‘Maybe we should catch up sometime,’ he says, and when I nod he asks for my phone number. We hug awkwardly and then he leaves, shutting the door behind him.

  ‘He’s a good man,’ says Donal. ‘Picked me up from the airport, found me a place to stay.’

  I sit down with the bag at my feet.

  In the chair across from me, Donal’s back slumps as he rests his elbows on his legs and rubs his hands over his face. The smudges under the hazel eyes are so dark they are more blue than grey. His eyebrows are two strong lines but his lips have a lovely curve to them. There is a five o’clock shadow, redder than his hair, which gives his otherwise ashen skin a little colour. There is something of the fox about him.

  ‘Smoke?’ he asks, pulling out a packet of cigarettes.

  I shake my head.

  ‘Haven’t had one in five years but waiting for my flight in duty-free, I thought, fuck it. Could be hit by a bus tomorrow.’

  He gives the sort of pixie-ish smile that makes me think he could be fun if circumstances were different.

  ‘Are you allowed to smoke in here?’

  ‘Probably not,’ he says, ‘but I’ll risk it.’

  There is a metallic click, click, click of the lighter. He smokes with his first finger hooked around the cigarette, clamping it in place as if he’s expecting someone to try and wrestle it off him. He grabs the lid of a takeaway coffee cup to use as an ashtray.

  ‘So, Carmody,’ he says, leaning back. ‘An Irish name.’

  It is hard to work out if this is a statement or a question. There is an upward inflection at the end of all his sentences, a moment of optimism that gets dragged back down at the start of the next.

  ‘Maybe once, a long time ago.’

  ‘Well, I’m Paul’s older brother. Pleased to meet you, Eliza Carmody.’

  He takes another drag on the cigarette. In the gloom, the smoke starts to curl round his head and up into the air like a question mark.

  ‘You were the one who helped Paul,’ he says.

  A half nod. I tried to help but it wasn’t enough.

  ‘You saw what happened?’

  I want to tell him that I saw enough to wake up sweating every night since, but the words catch in my throat and there are tears behind them that will start if my mouth opens. Donal waits as if he has all the time in the world and, when I still don’t talk, he prompts, ‘The doctor fella said there was something you had to give to me?’

  Coughing down the lump, I say, ‘That’s Tristan.’ Fossicking in the bag, I let the tears that have already escaped drip down my cheeks before putting the green hat on the coffee table in front of us.

  Donal gives an upside down smile at the sight of it.

  ‘I thought Paul would want it back or . . .’

  He puts his cigarette down on the coffee-cup lid and picks up the hat.

  ‘I gave this to him at his leaving drinks. Bet him a fiver he wouldn’t wear it. Stubborn bastard wouldn’t take it off. Kept sending me all these pictures from around the world, saying I owed him a fortune. Do anything for a dare. Mad.’

  ‘It’s how I recognised him. Turning down the street, I saw that hat walking along.’ For the first time I realise that might be how Luke recognised him as well. Donal says nothing but from the look on his face I suspect he’s thinking the same thing. He puts the hat back on the table.

  ‘Your brother is a hero. The way he helped that woman. What the papers are saying is right.’

  There has been article after article calling Paul a modern-day Good Samaritan. Some breakfast TV show is even running a campaign that involves wearing novelty hats to #saynotostreet violence. My Facebook feed is filled with profile pictures of people wearing Viking helmets, witches’ hats and green hats like the one in front of us.

  Donal hunches over and picks up the cigarette.

  ‘I’m not sure I recognise my brother in those articles,’ he says, ‘but then I’m hard pressed recognising the beaten-up version in the hospital room.’ He almost spits out the words in a sudden flare of anger.

  ‘How is he?’ I ask.

  Donal sighs. ‘All right, I think. Smacking your skull into the road is never a good idea but he’s a tough fucker. Trying to get a straight word out of the doctors is like pulling teeth. The operation for the brain bleed went OK. He came round in the ambulance. Talked, even. Did you know that?’

  I shake my head.

  Donal pulls off his leather jacket. There are sweat marks on the armpits of his T-shirt.

  ‘Have you siblings?’ he asks.

  ‘An older sister, Tess. We don’t really get on.’

  ‘Gave you a hard time?’

  ‘Stuck a stick in my eye once.’

  ‘Is that what led to . . . ?’ He points to my left eye. ‘Sure she did you a favour there. Makes you look mysterious. Like David Bowie.’

  Not a week goes by without some guy mentioning David Bowie as if it’s a compliment. He asks for the whole story so I tell him about us fighting, me climbing a tree to escape and refusing to get down until Dad got home, annoying Tess so much she threw a stick at me, which struck me in the face. Donal tells me he often threw sticks at Paul so his sympathies are with my sister. I confess that it wasn’t entirely bad because I used to pretend it gave me special powers and I could read people’s minds.

  ‘What, like second sight?’ he says.

  We both laugh. Donal is the kind of person who makes you feel like you are in cahoots with him. He finishes his cigarette and puts the butt and the temporary ashtray in the bin just as the door opens. A doctor looks in, sniffs the air and frowns before telling Donal he’ll see him tomorrow. Donal says ‘Cheers’ and ‘Thanks’ and the doctor nods and closes the door quietly.

  He returns his gaze to me. ‘So,’ he says. ‘Tell me about Kinsale.’

  ‘I grew up there but I’ve lived in the city since I was sixteen. I was sent away to boarding school and never went back.’

  ‘So just visiting,’ says Donal. ‘Not the prodigal daughter returning home.’

  I smile. ‘Just driving through.’

  ‘And you were in the wrong place at the wrong time,’ he says.

  ‘Yeah,’ I say, ‘like Paul.’

  His face tightens, his forehead creases and he looks away.

  It’s time I left. The hat has been delivered and there are ring-binders in a skyscraper on the other side of the city calling my name.

  Before I get a chance to say goodbye, Donal jumps in.

  ‘Could you do us a favour?’ he says. ‘Will you go for a walk in the park across the way with me? I hear this city’s coffee is supposed to be good but I’ve had nothing but hospital muck since I got here.’

  I look at his tired face, his jet-lagged eyes. He needs to escape this world, if only for a few minutes.

  ‘Sure.’

  6

  Donal attempts to buy me lunch but he has no Australian money and we’ve gone somewhere that makes a virtue out of being cash-only. He promises he’ll pay next time but I know they’re only words. We have collided for today only. It is that magical lunch hour that on a sunny autumn day starts at midday and stretches until after 2 pm. People are everywhere. Suit jackets and ties are off, skirts have been hitched
up and heels abandoned.

  He stretches out on a patch of grass, perfectly lean, and when he lights another cigarette I sneak a look at his hands. No wedding ring, but that means nothing. A ball rolls towards us and Donal gets up and kicks it back to its toddler owner.

  ‘Have you got kids?’ I ask.

  He shakes his head. ‘You?’

  I shake mine.

  ‘Paul has. Lovely little fella, Harry.’ He pulls his phone out of his pocket, scrolls and then passes it to me with a proud uncle face. Shading the screen with my hand, I see the child from Paul’s Facebook posts. He’s got bright red curly hair and a smile so large that his face dimples from the pressure of it.

  ‘Gorgeous. His mum?’

  Donal shrugs. ‘Their relationship wasn’t great, broke up when he was a baby.’

  There’s a story behind that, but it’s none of my business. We sit and eat in contented silence.

  ‘They haven’t caught the fella who did this to Paul yet,’ he says.

  ‘I’m sure they will soon.’

  ‘Are the police looking after you?’ he asks. ‘Being the main witness and all?’

  ‘I don’t think that’s necessary,’ I say. ‘They’ve got security footage.’ Gavin left another message this morning asking me to get in touch about making a full statement. I make a mental note to return his call.

  Donal props himself up on his elbow. His hair is all mussed up from lying down and it stands in twists and tufts. Left to its own devices, his hair would have the same curls as his nephew’s.

  ‘I’ve seen a bit of that footage. It shows before and after but not what actually happens. He could try and argue self-defence, or that it was an accident.’

  ‘It wasn’t an accident,’ I say. ‘There was nothing accidental about it.’

  Donal sighs and asks me exactly what happened. Grabbing my bag, I use it for a pillow and lie down beside him in the shade of a large pin oak. I start with being stuck in traffic. When I get to the part about turning the corner and seeing Paul’s green hat, he stretches out and grabs my hand. His grip gets tighter as I tell him about hearing the sound, seeing the movement, stopping the car, turning to look, and then, worst of all, seeing Paul stagger and fall. By the time the ambulance has driven away, Donal’s hand has relaxed but still he doesn’t let go.