This Is Now

by Ciara Geraghty

  ‘So,’ said the doctor who sounded too young to be a doctor. ‘You’re not related to ...’ A brief pause, the shuffle of papers against a clipboard,‘Mr Hartmann, no?’

  ‘No,’ said Rosa.

  ‘Oh. I see ... well ... I’m not sure if ... there’s hospital policy, you see, and ...’ Another sigh, and then, ‘What is your relationship to this man?’

  A pause then. Tobias imagined Rosa’s small face, her careful grey eyes travelling across the doctor’s face without seeming to. Trying to gauge him. See if she could trust him.

  ‘Mr Hartmann is my friend.’ That’s what Rosa said in the end.

  Present tense, correctly conjugated. Possessive article. Followed by a noun. A well put-together sentence.

  Mr Hartmann is my friend.

  Five

  Cillian Larkin arrived into the station in Swords early the next day. He had been off duty when the bank robbery happened. He needed to get himself up to speed. He logged on to Pulse, opened the incident file and began to read. He stopped when he saw her name.

  Martha Wilder.

  The familiarity of it. He was stabbed by a feeling. A memory of a feeling that he had long ago put away. For a moment, he sat there, studied the letters of her name, collected himself.

  Her father’s funeral. That was the last time. She was with that drunken fool of a husband, masquerading as a spiritual pilgrim. Pillock more like.

  Cillian had transferred to Donegal by then. After everything – their split and that case Cillian had been working on – it had seemed like a good move.

  He had moved on. Put the familiarity of her face behind him.

  And now there she was. Her name. On his computer screen, like a virus.

  He sat at his desk and scanned her statement, unsurprised by her attention to detail.

  He checked her mobile number. It was the same. He still knew it off by heart despite deleting it from his contacts two years ago. There had been nights, in the early days, when he’d been tempted to ring but, in the mornings that followed, he was relieved that he hadn’t. Some things are best left alone.

  He pushed his chair back.

  ‘Going out, Cillian?’ one of his colleagues asked.

  ‘Yeah, a couple of calls to make.’ Strictly speaking, he didn’t have to talk to her. She’d made her statement and his six-month secondment from his permanent position in Donegal was nearly up. It would be better for one of his colleagues to handle it.

  He put on his jacket.

  ‘Any sign of the boy yet?’ Cillian asked, nodding towards a photograph of Roman Matus on the corkboard. Most of the witness statements had included descriptions of the boy, after the shot was fired, suddenly appearing outside the room containing the safe deposit boxes with his balaclava off, the gun in his hand and the woman shouting ‘Roman’ at him like it was a question. ‘My son is a good boy,’ Rosa had insisted in her statement.

  His colleague shook his head. ‘Not yet.’

  Cillian moved towards the door. He had hoped that Roman’s name wouldn’t end up on their system but he felt no surprise that it had. The boy and his mother lived in a house owned by Jimmy Carty, one of north Dublin’s least charming drug dealers. It was entirely plausible that Carty had branched into armed robbery; he was arrogant enough to think he could pull it off. And Cillian suspected that Roman might have done a few jobs for Jimmy and his gang, despite Cillian’s warnings about people like Jimmy, who would discard people like Roman once they’d served their purpose.

  He was a quiet one, Roman. Quiet and clever. Cillian had met him a few times in the youth initiative in Swords where Cillian sometimes went to play chess with the kids. Roman took a while to learn the moves of the various pieces but once he had mastered them, he gave Cillian a run for his money.

  He didn’t say much, concentrated on the game. When he did speak, it was brief. But he had told Cillian snippets. Just little bits about Poland, his mother, his friends, Adam and Meadhbh, and – once – his uncle Lech.

  And now this same boy was a number on a file that would be passed from one department to another, trudging through the system. Juvenile court, Trinity House, probably on to St Pat’s – the charges were serious – and he’d be an adult when he got out then and the promising kid he’d been would be long gone.

  There were loads of kids like that, of course, but there was something about Roman that reminded Cillian of another boy. Another case. A few years ago now.

  Cillian picked up his car keys and headed down the corridor towards the front door of the station, and nearly made it before the superintendent flung open the door of his office, strode into the hall, pointed at Cillian. With his ferocious face, the solid muscle of his body and a pair of short, squat legs, he had the look of a bulldog.

  ‘I’ve a favour to ask you, beanstalk.’ The Super often began conversations like that. That was what he’d said to Cillian all that time ago. Three and a half years it must be. He used those exact words, Cillian was sure of it.

  Cillian had just finished a case he’d been working for months which culminated with the interception of a consignment of drugs – worth over a million euros – at Dublin Port the day before. He was at his desk filling in the paperwork, which was the bit of the job that he could have done without.

  The Super had flung open the door of the office, strode inside and said, ‘I’ve a favour to ask you, beanstalk.’

  Cillian had looked up.

  ‘RTÉ are doing some report on drug crime in the city. I told them you’d talk to them.’

  ‘Ah, boss, why’d you do that?’

  ‘You can tell them all about your recent success. They’ll lap that up.’

  ‘Can’t O’Grady do it?’

  ‘With that stutter? You’re f-f-fucken joking.’

  ‘Or Murphy?

  ‘That fella looks too pretty to be a guard.’

  ‘Cheers, boss.’

  ‘You know what I mean. You look like you haven’t slept in a month and Murphy has a head on him like he just stepped out of a fucken – what d’ya call them? – a beauty salon or something. The hair. Jaysis.’

  ‘I was going to go home after I’ve filed this report.’

  ‘You’re going nowhere. Now hose yourself down and shave that mush before you meet the reporter. You look like you’ve been dragged through a bush backwards.’

  Cillian made a last-ditch effort. ‘What about Clancy? Clancy could do it. He’s in that amateur dramatic society. He loves an audience.’

  The boss shook his head. ‘She asked for you specifically. You’re doing it.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Martha whatsherface. RTÉ journo.’

  ‘Martha Wilder?’

  ‘The one and only. And what Martha wants, Martha gets and she wants you, God help you.’

  ‘Why did she ask for me?’

  ‘Who the fuck knows. It’s like throwing a lamb to a wolf.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘You’re welcome. And you know the drill. Talk to her but don’t tell her anything, understood?’

  He didn’t know Martha Wilder, although he’d met her often in the course of his job. And she was on the telly most nights, of course. He felt a contradiction of things at the prospect of meeting her. Of being in a room alone with her. Not that he’d be alone with her. But still, the feeling persisted as he shaved his face and brushed his teeth. A sort of anxious anticipation.

  Martha was one of those women you couldn’t quite put your finger on. She wasn’t pretty. Pretty had girlish connotations. She was too tall for pretty. There was a fierceness about her. Something untamed in the way she walked – more of a stride – and talked – fast, without reference to punctuation.

  There was something sturdy about her. He could see the muscles in her thighs flex against her black skinny jeans when she moved around the room at the station where the Super had arranged the interview. The shoot, Clancy was calling it.

  Martha looked up when he stepped inside the room, studied him lik
e he was something she was cramming at the last minute for an exam. ‘Detective Larkin,’ she said, not quite a greeting. He extended his hand and she shook it briefly with a firm grip. Up close, he smelled mint from her chewing gum and something tart. Lemon, he thought. She had bright green eyes and very pale skin with a collection of freckles across her cheekbones and the bridge of her nose, which gave her a girlish impression. He was fairly sure she hated that.

  Before they began filming, she gathered her long, red hair in her two hands – a tricky task, given the amount of it – and wound it around and around until it disappeared into a surprisingly tidy bun at the back of her head. She slipped her long, taut arms into the sleeves of a black jacket, buttoned it while someone clipped a small microphone onto the lapel. Someone else approached her – cautiously, Cillian felt – with one of those cosmetic brushes and dabbed at her face until the freckles disappeared.

  Now she looked like the woman from the telly.

  Martha’s questioning style was quieter than he would have thought. Her voice was low-pitched, a little hoarse. He imagined her with a cigarette between her long fingers.

  When the interview began, Cillian’s palms were sweaty and he had to concentrate on not shifting in his seat. Martha, he realised later, must be good at her job because he forget about his sweaty palms and the hard plastic chair he was sitting on. He didn’t dwell on Martha’s reputation for chewing people up before spitting them out. He hardly ever watched the news. Didn’t have the time. But he didn’t find Martha bolshie as some people called her. He found her style of interviewing firm but fair enough. She wasn’t afraid to ask the hard questions but she listened to his answers. Cillian felt those same people would describe her as authoritative had she been a man.

  ‘What part of Donegal are you from?’ Martha asked him when she’d finished the interview. He’d left years ago but the accent persisted. His boss said that crime never sounded as bad in Cillian’s Donegal lilt.

  ‘Killybegs.’

  ‘How come you’re not a fisherman?’

  ‘I am. In my spare time.’

  ‘Do you have much spare time?’

  ‘The job keeps me fairly busy.’

  ‘Are you seeing anyone?’

  ‘Don’t you ever stop asking questions?’

  ‘Sorry. Occupational hazard. So are you?’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘Seeing anyone?’

  ‘Eh, no.’

  ‘Why not? What’s wrong with you?’

  Cillian laughed. ‘My sister warned me about women like you.’

  ‘Your mother should have done that. Has more of an impact when someone in authority makes those kinds of pronouncements.’

  When Cillian didn’t answer immediately, Martha’s face clouded over. ‘Oh, shit. Your mother’s dead, isn’t she? And I’m after putting my size sevens right in it. Fuck.’

  ‘Size sevens?’

  Martha shook her slip-on shoe off and held her foot up for inspection. ‘Awful, isn’t it? Like the foot of a farmer.’

  ‘I’ve never seen the foot of a farmer.’

  ‘Well, neither have I. But you’d imagine they’d be huge, wouldn’t you?’ The orange nail polish on her toes was chipped. Martha looked at him. ‘Is your mother dead?’ she said.

  Cillian nodded. ‘And so is my father. And I’m just telling you that so you don’t put your size sevens into it later on, when we’re having dinner.’ This was well outside of Cillian’s comfort zone. It was not that he was shy and retiring but he liked to be certain of things. With Martha, he did not feel certain of anything. He felt uncertain. He folded his arms across the breadth of his chest and looked at her, as if uncertainty was a language that he did not speak and would never learn.

  ‘Dinner?’ she said and her tone was one of mild surprise.

  ‘Are you a vegetarian?’ It was the first question he ever asked her.

  ‘You don’t get feet like these eating lentils.’

  ‘I know a place that grills great steaks.’

  ‘What about wine?’

  ‘I’ll throw in a bottle of wine.’

  ‘Just the one?’

  ‘As many as you like.’

  ‘So long as you don’t insist on paying. Men who pay think they’re entitled to sex.’

  ‘I won’t insist on paying.’

  ‘Cheapskate.’

  That’s how it began.

  Three and a half years ago. They’d been happy, then they hadn’t and then it had ended.

  Simple as that.

  It happened all the time.

  * * *

  He had wondered if he would bump into her while he was in Dublin but he hadn’t. Until now. Her name on his screen.

  ‘What’s the favour, boss?’ Cillian said.

  ‘It’s not really a favour, more of a demand,’ the Super said, unnecessarily Cillian felt.

  ‘Fine,’ Cillian said, wrestling himself into his jacket.

  ‘You don’t even know what it is,’ the Super said, a little put out by Cillian’s lack of resistance. He loved a bit of verbal, the Super.

  ‘OK, then, what is it?’

  ‘Just ... when the ex rings you ...’

  ‘Why would she ring me?’ The Super and his wife were recently separated and neither were adapting well to the altered landscape of their lives. Despite their many differences, they shared a keen sense of melodrama and Cillian did not want to be in the middle of it; he was after a quiet life.

  ‘I might have told her that I was seeing a French bird.’

  ‘What does that have to do with me?’ Cillian knew that the Super wasn’t seeing anyone, French or otherwise.

  ‘I said she was a friend of your sister Joan’s. The French bird. I said she was a nurse. She’s on sabbatical, at the same hospital where Joan works. We met in the Market Bar. We were having tapas, right? Are you writing this down?’

  ‘This is the last time, boss.’ Cillian pulled open the front door of the station.

  ‘Where are you going?’ said the Super.

  ‘I’ve ... got some business to attend to. I won’t be long.’

  ‘There’s another case briefing in an hour.’

  ‘I’ll be back by then.’

  He didn’t have to go and see her. He probably shouldn’t. He went anyway. He put it down to curiosity. That compulsion to turn to the last page of a book you were reading. To see how it ended.

  The day, although dull and cold, was dry. The wind gathered around his head, blowing his hair into his eyes, and he remembered that he had promised Stella he would travel to Donegal at the weekend. Now that was out of the question. He probably wouldn’t get back there until he’d reached the end of his six-month secondment in Dublin which, he was shocked to find, was only a couple of weeks away.

  Stella had mentioned an occasion. Some family do. He couldn’t remember exactly what. The Bennett family was huge and there was always some celebration or other. It was difficult to keep up.

  ‘Will you get your hair cut?’ she’d asked on the phone last night. He’d smiled at the request but acceded to it.

  Martha used to cut his hair. She wouldn’t say a word, just kick one of her kitchen chairs towards him, steer him onto it. This shouldn’t hurt, she’d say before she came at him with the scissors.

  He hadn’t thought about her in ages. And now here she was, back in his head like she’d never left.

  Cillian drove into the estate where Martha lived, negotiating the complicated series of lefts and rights that led to her apartment.

  She mightn’t even remember him.

  She would remember him.

  It had been something, back in the day.

  And then it hadn’t.

  Martha had dispensed with him quicker than she could down a tumbler of Scotch and that had been that.

  Water under the bridge.

  The buzzer wasn’t working and the main door of the apartment block was on the latch. He took the stairs to the third floor and stood outside her apartment
door. It was not someplace he had expected to be again.

  He wondered if she was looking at him through the peephole in the door. Wondered what she would see. If she’d think he had changed. Aged. It was two years since they’d split up. Two years was long enough for time to plant its fist on your face. Standing there, he felt every day of his forty-one years. He passed his hand along his jaw. He should have shaved.

  The door opened and she stood there and his first feeling was one of relief. That she was unchanged. She was the same as he remembered. The long red hair. The pale face, cluttered with small circles of freckles. The green eyes. The lengthy, sturdy body, hidden beneath an oversized navy T-shirt and a baggy pair of track pants. The lump on her temple was impressive and a collection of bruises bloomed along one side of her face.

  ‘What the fuck are you doing here?’ she said.

  ‘Lovely to see you too.’

  ‘Aren’t you supposed to be in the back of beyonds?’

  ‘Do you mean Donegal?’

  ‘That’s what I said.’

  ‘I’ve been seconded to Dublin these past few months. A task force. Short-term.’

  ‘Is this about yesterday?’ Martha asked. She’d always been like that. Keen to get to the point.

  Cillian nodded. ‘Can I come in?’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because I want to talk to you. About the robbery.’

  ‘I gave a statement to one of your lot yesterday.’

  ‘I know. I read it. It was great. Really detailed.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘It’s just ... there’s a kid involved ... he’s only fourteen years old. We haven’t picked him up yet but we will and he’ll face serious charges – attempted murder possibly – but ... I’m not completely convinced that—’