Nobody would ever call her Mo again.
Dan took charge of the bar. He was an attentive barman, Martha thought. He remembered people’s names and the drinks they were drinking. ‘Same again, James?’ he’d say, pressing a clean glass against the brandy optic. He drank steadily throughout that long day, without ever seeming drunk.
Drink. That was what she had in common with Dan. The thought surfaced in her head, without warning. Like a fully formed sentence you have no recollection of writing. It was just there, all of a sudden.
Martha slipped into the back garden, sat on the swing. She held her glass between her knees, pushed her feet against the grass, began to swing. She thought about Amelia. Wondered, would she be sitting on the swing next to Martha if she had lived? Swinging beside her, with a glass of whiskey trapped between her knees. The evening was cooling now, the streetlights coming on, puncturing the fading light of the day.
And then she’d heard his voice.
‘Hello, Martha.’
She was facing away from the house so she didn’t see him. But she knew who it was all the same. That melodic voice. The soft Donegal accent he refused to lose, despite his years in Dublin. Typical of him to come. She remembered thinking that. To be the better person.
She could feel the drink when she lifted herself off the swing. Could feel it inside her head, toxic and familiar. She thought she might throw up. She knew she wouldn’t. Not in front of Cillian Larkin. Wouldn’t give him the satisfaction. She turned her head. Saw him. She hadn’t seen him since that day. In her apartment. More than six months ago. His face was so familiar. She couldn’t believe how familiar his face was.
‘Listen, I won’t stay long. I just ... I was sorry to hear about your father. I wanted to let you know. See if you were OK.’
‘I’m fine.’ She was careful with her words. Didn’t want them to sound slurred.
‘Good. That’s ... good. I know how much he meant to you.’
‘He died of cirrhosis of the liver. Did you know that?’ She hadn’t realised she was going to say that. She’d thought she might mention Dan. My husband, Dan. Something about Dan. Not every man thinks I’ve had enough, see?
And now here she was, spilling her guts instead. Telling him things he didn’t need to know. Giving him ammunition. Confirming everything.
‘I’m sorry, Martha. I really am.’ For a moment, Cillian looked like he was going to walk towards her. She stiffened, wrapped a hand around the chain of the swing. She thought she could take everything else that this long, relentless day threw at her. Her father in the coffin, the very fact of him being gone, being dead, the cirrhosis and nobody mentioning it and everyone getting pissed, Dan serving drinks at the bar her father had built, like a monument to what would kill him in the end.
Martha could take it all, she knew she could. But if Cillian touched her. If he put his hand on her.
‘You alright, gorgeous girl?’ It was Dan. He had abandoned his post, was going to rescue her from this moment.
Her relief was tinged with disappointment and she was confused and put it down to the day. The relentlessness of it.
‘This is Dan,’ Martha mumbled in Cillian’s direction. Cillian stretched one of his arms towards Dan, shook his hand. The Long Arm of the Law, Martha used to say when he reached for her, pulled her against him. She had to stand on her toes, she remembered. Coax him down before she could put her mouth on the pulse that jumped against the warm skin of his neck, in spite of her height.
‘I’m Martha’s husband,’ declared Dan. They’d been married nearly four months by then. ‘And you are ...?’ Dan liked referring to himself as a husband. Martha thought it was because of people’s reactions. Their surprise. He didn’t look like a husband, they told him.
‘Cillian Larkin.’
‘Ah, the detective! Homicide, yes? Do you have a gun? And a catchphrase? You’ve got to have a catchphrase, am I right?’
Cillian smiled at Dan. Martha recognised it as his patient smile, the one he reserved for questions like those, for people like Dan.
Dan smiled back. A wide, open smile that suggested nothing could go wrong. But his eyes were bloodshot and she noticed how he used the side of the swing set to steady himself.
All of a sudden, she was sober.
She stood up. ‘I have to go,’ she said.
‘Sure, baby. Hey, I’ll come with you,’ said Dan, wrapping a clammy hand around the back of her neck.
‘I’ll see you, Martha. And ... sorry again about your dad. I really am.’
Martha hadn’t cried all day. Or the day before. Or the day before that. Not even at the hospital.
‘You’re in shock,’ Tara had said. But she didn’t feel shocked. Just ... a sort of numbness. A sensation of watching from the sidelines. Watching herself, and all of them, going through the motions.
Now, she felt like she might start. Crying. And if she started, she might not stop.
She nodded at Cillian and headed for the house, walked through it with her head down so no one could engage her. She made it to the front door, walked outside and opened the taxi app on her phone. ‘I can drive,’ said Dan, hard on her heels.
‘No, you bloody well can’t.’
‘Why are you shouting at me?’
‘You’re over the limit.’
‘I’ve only had a few little tipples.’ He placed his hands across his heart, like he was swearing an oath.
‘You’ve had at least six gins.’
‘So this is how it feels to have a nagging wife.’
‘This is the first time I’ve ever mentioned your drinking. That hardly classifies as nagging.’
‘Fine. We’ll get a cab.’
‘Let’s walk towards the Dublin Road. It’s too cold to stand around.’ She didn’t want to be there when Cillian came out of the house.
They ended up in the field in Donabate. A plot of land. They had been at a wedding in the Waterside hotel last spring and had taken to the beach at two o’clock in the morning, with a bottle of wine. It was Martha who’d spotted the For Sale sign and it was Dan who’d bought it for her the following day.
‘I’ll build us a house there,’ he’d told her when he got the deeds. He waved them like a flag in his hands, a flourish of ceremony.
They’d promptly forgotten all about it.
Martha never worked out why she decided to go back that day. The day of her father’s funeral.
The field was overgrown by then, the grass up to Martha’s knees. In one corner, the blackened remains of an amateur campfire, a few empty crisp packets and a dozen flattened cans that had once contained a brand of beer she’d never heard of. There was something familiar about the scene. The remnants of something.
‘Are you sad?’ Dan wanted to know. ‘You look sad.’ His face registered alarm. He wasn’t a fan of sadness.
Martha shook her head. ‘I’m tired,’ she said.
‘It’s been a long day,’ Dan said, kicking a stone and watching it fly through the air, landing against a tin can. The noise it made was sharp. Martha looked at Dan. His face seemed empty, devoid of anything other than his eyes, his nose, his mouth. It was like looking at a stranger’s face.
‘You never say my name.’
‘What are you talking about?’
‘When you’re talking to me. We’ve been married for four months and you never say Martha. I don’t think you’ve ever said it.’
Dan looked confused. ‘Why would I say it?’
‘When’s my birthday?’
‘Why are you—?’
‘The date. What is it?’
‘It’s ... the twelfth of something, isn’t it? The twelfth of March, that’s it! Isn’t it?’
‘No. And I don’t know yours.’
‘Why do we need to know that stuff? That’s not important.’
‘What is important?’
‘You’re upset. Let’s go home. We can open a bottle of wine and—’
‘Tell me. I need to know. What’s impor
tant to you?’
Dan rubbed his eyes. ‘I think you need some sleep. I think that’s important.’
‘We’re stuck, Dan. You and me. We’re stuck.’
‘And some food. When was the last time you ate? Come on.’ He tried to put his arm around her shoulder but she shrugged him away, moved towards the hedge that separated the field from the sandy path that led to the beach.
‘I bought this field for you, Martha Wilder.’ He was behind her now. She felt the heat of his breath on her neck. ‘I will ring a builder tomorrow. And an architect. And ... I don’t know ... a plumber maybe. Plumbers are fairly vital, I’d say. And I will build a house here for you, Martha Wilder. And I will say your name in every sentence I utter to you, from now until death does us part. OK? OK, Martha? Martha Wilder?’
She turned around, shook her head. Felt a rush of affection for him. ‘It’s not your fault, Dan.’
‘What’s not my fault?’ He had his hands in the pockets of his linen shorts now, was shifting from one foot to the other.
She knew he wanted to leave this place. Leave this conversation. Get back to the apartment. Open that bottle of wine. Part of her wanted that too. It would be easier than this sobering realisation.
The empty field.
The empty cans.
‘I’ve made a mess. I lost my job.’
‘You’ll get another one.’
‘You make it sound like it doesn’t matter.’
‘It doesn’t.’
‘I loved my job.’
‘You’ll love another job.’
‘I drink too much.’
‘So do I. We’re Irish – that’s what we do, remember?’
‘I lost my job because I was drunk.’
‘Yes, but you’re a YouTube sensation, don’t forget.’
‘It’s not funny.’
‘It is a bit, my love. I mean, Martha.’
‘And my dad ...’
‘He was a great man.’
‘He drank too much.’
‘So did Brendan Behan, and he turned out alright.’
‘He was always drunk. He died when he was forty-one years old.’
‘Could he have written Borstal Boy sober?’ Dan swiped at the screen of his phone, typed something. ‘And your birthday, Martha Wilder, happens to be next month. Is that why you mentioned it? You were worried I’d forget? What would you like? You can have anything you want.’
Martha looked towards the sea. To her left, Lambay Island. She’d heard there were deer there. And – strangely – wallabies. Cillian had told her that once, long ago, so she supposed it must be true. Now, in the failing light, it loomed like a dark shadow against the grey of the sky that threatened rain. She imagined it could be spectacular when the sun rose behind it, spilled her colours across it, at the beginning of a brand new day.
Martha looked at Cillian, her notebook in her hand. ‘I know I wasn’t exactly ... hospitable to you that day. I think I hated you a bit back then. You knew the truth about me before I did.’
‘I was just ... worried about you. Trying to, I don’t know, help, I suppose.’
Martha put the notebook on the table. ‘You did help,’ she said, her voice quiet.
‘How come I’m listed twice?’ Cillian nodded towards the notebook.
Martha shrugged and smiled. ‘I’m superstitious about lists, remember? They have to have an even number.’
Cillian nodded slowly, like this was a reasonable explanation. For a moment, they said nothing. Martha felt exhausted. She also felt full to the brim of an alarming kind of energy. She thought it had something to do with the truth. The telling of it. To Cillian. She picked up her mug. The last of her tea was still warm. When she glanced up, Cillian was looking at her as if he, too, had something to say. Some truth to reveal. The table between them seemed smaller than before. She felt closer to him. Close enough to see the small, almost-faded scar at his hairline – skateboarding accident, aged nine – the tiny flecks of green circling the pupils of his eyes and the dark shadow of stubble blooming above his wide, soft mouth.
She took it all in. Drank it in. It was intoxicating somehow. Like a shot. Several shots, one after the other. The silence between them was like an irresistible melody and it made her want to move. To lean towards him, put her mouth on his, spread her fingers along the smooth skin of his neck. She could spend the afternoon kissing him. The evening. The night.
And then his phone rang and Martha looked at the screen as he pulled the mobile from his pocket and saw the name of the person who was calling right there on the screen and it was Stella. ‘Sorry, I have to take this.’ Cillian said.
Martha examined her watch. ‘I need to go anyway,’ she said. She stood, and moved towards the door, as if everything were normal and ordinary and Tara was in London and Cillian was in Mount Muckeridge or Mount Charles or wherever the hell he was supposed to be and the door of the Pound pub was firmly closed. Locked. Boarded up.
She turned at the door. Cillian was talking on the phone now, not looking towards her. She felt the heat of her blood in her face again and she turned away, walked out of the cafe, and even when she was safely outside, her skin burned with the memory of her face as she sat in the cafe opposite him. The want in it. The ache. For all the things she could not have. And the useless knowledge that she had them once. And she had let them go.
Twenty Three
‘Roman?’ The voice seemed far away. Like an echo of a voice. He moved towards it. It felt like he was swimming. Up and up, towards a distant surface. He held his breath, could feel his lungs strain inside him. He broke the surface and breathed, could feel something warm against his skin and thought it might be the sun.
‘Roman?’ The voice was closer now and the warmth on his skin was a hand. He recognised it. It was Mama’s hand, on his forehead, running down the side of his face, resting on his shoulder. His mama’s hand. He thought he had never felt anything so soft. So warm.
‘Don’t cry, Roman, it’s OK now. Everything is OK now.’
He didn’t want her to see him crying but, now that he had begun, he couldn’t stop. His shoulders heaved with the force of his cries, tears stormed down his face, hung from his jaw before dropping onto his chest. Mama wiped them away with her hand. Her soft, warm hand.
‘I’m sorry, Mama,’ he said. ‘I let you down.’
Now she cupped his face with both of her hands. Shook her head. ‘No,’ she said. She smiled at him then but her smile was edged with a kind of sadness. Roman could see it. He closed his eye. He didn’t want to see her sadness. He had done everything he could so that she would not be sad.
‘It is I who should be sorry, my Roman. You have never let me down,’ she said, bending low to him so he could feel her breath against his cheek.
He put his hand up to his face, felt the bandage covering his eye, the side of his face. ‘What is ...?’
‘You won’t lose your eye. They thought, at first, that you might but you won’t. Isn’t that good news?’
A nurse yanked at the curtains around his bed. ‘Oh, we’re awake, are we?’ she declared. She looked at Rosa. ‘Could you step outside for a few minutes, Mum, while we examine this young man.’ It was a statement rather than a request. It was the way most people spoke to his mother, Roman thought. The people in the Citizens’ Information Office, the tax office, the social welfare office. They barely glanced at her. They made assumptions based on forms she had filled in and the quiet way she stood, like she was waiting to be dismissed.
Rosa shook her head. ‘No,’ she said. Her voice was low but deliberate. ‘I will stay here with my son.’
Roman waited for the nurse to insist but she only sighed and shook her head before dragging her trolley towards the bed, picking up a thermometer and inserting the nozzle of it into Roman’s ear. His mother picked up the clipboard hanging at the end of the bed. Without asking the nurse’s permission. Scanned the notes on it. ‘What does this mean, here?’ Rosa asked the nurse, pointing at a line o
f what looked to Roman like scribbles across the page. The nurse, wrapping a black band around Roman’s arm, glanced at the clipboard. ‘It’s a note about the stitches,’ she said. ‘He’s had fourteen.’
‘Will they leave a scar?’ his mother asked. The nurse nodded.
‘Maybe,’ she said, ‘but it will fade in time.’
When the nurse left, Rosa pulled the curtains around the cubicle once more, sat on the chair beside his bed. ‘You have to talk to me,’ she said. ‘You have to tell me everything and then I can help you, OK?’
The need to tell her – tell her everything – swelled inside him. He thought if he opened his mouth, everything would spill out. The whole story. He pressed his lips together, shook his head.
‘I know it wasn’t you,’ Mama said. ‘Who shot Mr Hartmann.’
‘How do you know?’ She seemed so certain and, even though he couldn’t tell her the truth, it was something. To hear her say it. To hear her believe it.
‘I know you, Roman,’ she said. ‘You are a good boy.’ When Mama smiled, her face changed. ‘I know it was Jimmy and that you won’t say it was because you are afraid of what he might do to me. I was afraid too. But I’m not afraid anymore.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because I have you. It’s you and me. Remember? Against the world.’
‘Why do you never talk about my father?’ Roman hadn’t known he was going to ask that. But the words were out now. He couldn’t take them back.
‘Oh, Roman.’ She shook her head, lowered it.
‘I’m sorry, Mama.’ Roman reached his hand towards her. Touched her arm. ‘I didn’t mean to make you sad.’
Now she smiled. ‘You never make me sad, Roman. You’re the happiest thing about my life. The best thing.’
Roman didn’t know how he could be the best thing. All the trouble he’d caused.
‘Roman, I ... I know I should have told you about your father, but ... the truth is, I don’t know a lot about him and I didn’t want you to think ... He was stationed in Puck for two weeks while the boat he worked on was being repaired. I worked in the cafe then, down by the port. And one day, he came in and ordered a coffee and then he asked me out and said he wouldn’t leave until I said yes.’
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