Set in Stone

by Catherine Dunne

  In only a matter of weeks, Amy moves in with him, leaves everything behind for him. Danny still feels good about that: it makes a difference, that someone would love you that much. Not to ask, not to question. He tells her about his life, his family, even weeping when it comes to the bit about Emma. Amy fills in the gaps in his story for him, fills them with indignation on his behalf. She glows with righteous sympathy, with loyalty. He lets her.

  She is right, of course: she helps him to believe in his story, the one that he hasn’t been able to tell until now. It feels like a kind of liberation, leaving blame behind. At last, someone seems to understand what he has intended, not just what he has done.

  Amy’s sister doesn’t like him one bit and does not trouble to hide the fact. At first, the strength of Tina’s hostility amuses Danny. Then it angers him. He knows that he needs to pull Amy away from her, before she, too, becomes infected. He wants her to himself. At least until he is ready to let her go: not the other way round.

  Amy’s love for Danny reminds him of those bits from the Bible that Mr Lennon used to read out loud to them, back in first year of secondary school. Religious Knowledge, said the printed timetable on the cover of his school journal, but there was precious little knowledge. Not that he can remember. Lennon only read them the dirty bits. His big voice would boom around them, sometimes making the windows hum and shiver. He read while the back benches sniggered.

  ‘And so Adam and Eve cleaved unto one another,’ he’d intone. ‘Genesis, Chapter Two, verse 24. “Therefore a man leaves his father and his mother and cleaves to his wife, and they become one flesh. And the man and his wife were both naked, and were not ashamed.” ’

  Then Paddy McGrath would ask, all innocent, what ‘cleave’ meant. Lennon would frown and bark ‘ “One flesh”, boy,’ and hurry on to the next bit of the lesson. Paddy McGrath would make spit balls and fire them at Tom Joyce’s head, just at the part where the hair was all rubbed off, from some horrible disease that seemed to run in his family. Horrible and smelly.

  But like Eve, cleave to him she did, the lovely Amy.

  ‘I love you,’ she used to whisper to him, her voice the voice of a child in the dark. ‘I love you so much. Don’t ever leave me.’

  She can’t have known back then that that was the wrong thing to say to him – is always the wrong thing to say to him, if anybody still cares to know. A man needs freedom, great gulping breaths of it. A man mustn’t drown or be pinned down, or stopped in his tracks by others who can’t keep up. ‘You’re a man in a hurry,’ one of his bosses had once said to him, and scowled. Jealousy, Danny had put it down to. It had been time for him to move on. Danny knew that he could earn far more on the road as a salesman than he ever would stuck behind the counter of a bar.

  The flat grows too small for them, for him and Amy. It happens quickly, almost at once. Much more quickly than Danny would have imagined, had he been able to anticipate it. But you can’t foresee these things, living in the moment. It is not what he has intended; it is simply what has happened. And the present becomes the past, something he cannot change.

  His restlessness grows and keeps on growing until it fills all the spaces around them. Until, finally, there is no longer any room for him there. The flat becomes full of Amy, full of what has been, that winter, not what still is. A winter, followed by a spring of discontent, and no ‘glorious summer’ to follow. Danny has always liked that play, likes the ruthlessness of the king, although his teacher was horrified at his admiration. At his lack of moral centre, she called it. The king’s lack, that is, not his. Although, sometimes Danny has cause to wonder about that. About whether Miss Madden really had seen something in him for the future, something of significance that her other pupils did not have, could never have.

  There is some fighting, of course, between him and Amy. Perhaps more than he cares to remember now. It gets easier, the not remembering. It just leaves a bit of a hole, but one that can be filled by other things. Imagining. Storytelling. Old photographs. Miss Madden always said that he had a strong narrative sense. Anyway, it isn’t his fault, the fighting, the crying, any of it. The money just keeps on getting tighter, the spaces between the fights shorter.

  When Amy cries now, she loses that luminous look that has drawn Danny to her in the first place. She begins to look thin, rather than slender. And she is always tired, not up for fun any more. Her shy passion has turned to clinging. Danny feels, again, that he cannot breathe.

  In the end, he knows it is better to leave, better for both of them. Certainly better for Amy. After all, she can always go home, make like it has never happened. She has a home to go to. And a sister, who will no doubt take her in, forgive her, as long as Amy accepts the extent of her foolishness. Betraying Danny will be the cost of her finding her way home. Whereas he – well, best not to go there. Betrayal and home are always words in the same sentence, as far as Danny is concerned. A year and a half in a shitty flat on the northside is just about as much as he can take. London calls and Danny is more than ready to answer.

  He arrives at their flat on what he has decided will be his next-to-last evening. He’s earlier than usual, but he has things to do. He’ll need the next two nights to get all his ducks in a row. But when he steps into the narrow hallway, he is surprised at the emptiness. There is no TV blaring, no sound of pots rattling in the tiny kitchen. And it’s cold. Amy hates the cold. He walks into the sitting room and snaps on the light. He can feel the pulse beat beginning again, just above his right eye. The flat is clean; the kind of clean that is bare and silent. He makes his way to the bedroom, curious now. The bed is stripped, blankets folded neatly.

  Then he hears it, the key in the door. Despite himself, he is relieved. And then, his neck prickles with irritation. What has Amy been playing at? He’s the one leaving her, not the other way around.

  But it’s Tina who stands in the hallway, a rucksack in her hands. She is visibly startled to see him, but she recovers quickly. He’ll give her that. They look at each other for a moment and neither speaks. He decides to wait her out.

  ‘I’m here for the rest of Amy’s stuff,’ she says. But there is a rasp of uncertainty in her tone. She clutches the rucksack more firmly, like a comfort blanket.

  Still he doesn’t reply. She pushes past him and makes her way towards the bathroom. He knows she wants him to ask, can see it written all over her departing back. He doesn’t want to give her that power, but finally, he can’t help himself.

  ‘This is my place,’ he says. ‘Where do you think you’re going?’

  ‘I told you.’ Now she’s her usual sharp self. ‘I’ve come to get the rest of my sister’s things.’

  ‘Leave them,’ he says. He lights a cigarette, looking at her through the haze of bluish smoke. ‘If she wants anything else, tell her to come and get it herself.’

  Tina leaves the bathroom, comes back and stands in front of him. ‘You don’t tell me what to do,’ she says. And then: ‘You don’t get it, do you? She’s left you, walked out on you. She’s had enough of your bullying.’ Now her eyes are blazing.

  He feels a curious respect for her. She should fear him, but she doesn’t. Her feet are planted firmly beneath her. She looks up, meeting him eye to eye.

  ‘So, you got your way, did you?’ he says, drawing insolently on the cigarette, blowing the smoke into her face. ‘You finally got her to leave?’

  Tina slings the empty rucksack over one shoulder. ‘My way?’ she says. ‘It’s nothing to do with me. Sure, I didn’t like you from the first time I met you, but nothing would have made me happier than to see my sister with someone she loved. Someone who’d take care of her.’ She shoves both hands into her jacket pockets.

  He can see that she’s getting ready to leave. A small victory, keeping her from taking the rest of Amy from him, but nonetheless a victory.

  ‘You drove her out. You’ve broken her heart, left her no choice. It’s you who’ve got your way. You were never serious about her in the first pl
ace.’ Tina’s gaze is level. ‘Why else would you have nothing to do with her family?’

  He knows she’s right, recognizes what she says. Her words find some echo inside himself. ‘Are you finished?’ he asks, his voice cold.

  ‘Yeah,’ she says, ‘yeah, I’m finished here. And so is Amy. I figure she can live without her make-up. Keep it, with my compliments.’ And she’s out the door. She’s quick. He almost hasn’t noticed her edging her way back towards it. And now she’s gone, the door slammed hard behind her.

  He’s restless for the rest of the night. He wanders around the empty flat, not so much remembering as storing up memories, to be called on later.

  There’s nobody to be trusted. Nobody. First Pansy Robert and his Lady Lynda, kicking him out of his own home. And now Amy, leaving before he had his chance. He scribbles her name and address on a piece of paper, leaves it on the stained and scratched coffee table. He notices she has been careful to remove all traces of herself.

  Well, let the landlord chase her for the rent. See how she likes that. The time has come to shake the dust of this place off his feet. He’ll take the ferry to Holyhead tomorrow. No passport, no ID. He’ll disappear. He never wants to see any of them again.

  But that was then and this is now.

  Danny finishes his walk around the block. It’s good, seeing all the old haunts again. But strange, too, to see just how much the old neighbourhood has changed, how much more . . . upmarket it has become. Many of the large back gardens now sprout mews houses where kids once kicked footballs. Corners and green spaces are occupied by small blocks of apartments – ‘gated communities’ – copper-clad, exclusive, painfully fashionable in Danny’s view. Every available inch of space has been used – but tastefully, of course. Infill development, isn’t that what it’s called? The sort of thing that makes rich men out of guys like Robert. He’s done well for himself. Might be feeling a bit of a squeeze these days, but that’s all to the good. What goes round, comes round. And Danny reckons it’s his turn, now. This time, success is assured. He’s worked hard at putting all the bits of the jigsaw together.

  He’s glad he’s come back again. It’s time to reclaim something of what was stolen from him. He’s entitled to it. Life lately has involved a fair bit of ducking and diving. London and Liverpool are big places, but nonetheless they have felt smaller, more uncomfortable in the last couple of years. Things that he had thought long buried have started catching up with him again. Some relationship things, but mostly money things. It seems that the arm of the law is long when it comes to debt. Or creative borrowing, which is how he likes to think of it.

  It is, of course, a very gratifying irony that Lord Robert and Lady Lynda have unwittingly paid for this little venture. Danny had managed that thirty grand from three years ago very cunningly, using it only to further the Grand Plan. If his brother was so careless as to leave money like that lying around, well then . . . he’d got what he deserved.

  Six months back, Danny had been wondering if it would ever be possible to put any kind of a plan together again. After the last time, three years ago, he thought he’d blown it for good. And then, the astonishing coincidences that sometimes happen in the way that they do. They converge in a wholly satisfying way, knitting themselves together seamlessly. All of them producing opportunities that couldn’t be ignored, shouldn’t be ignored.

  First, the letter, then the meeting: a strangely easy one, given the difficult circumstances. And then all that flowed from that. Coming back to Dublin, just when he needed to leave stuff behind. Followed by the carefully arranged, but yet apparently random conversation with a man in a pub. Effortless, all of it; timely. He was able to feel the justice of it, the balancing of the scales, the rightness of grievances redressed.

  Things are moving along nicely now, and that is all that matters.

  4

  ‘MUM, IS IT OKAY again for tonight?’

  Lynda looked up, startled. Ciarán was standing in front of her. ‘Okay for what?’ she said.

  Ciarán threw his rucksack onto the kitchen floor and pulled a chair towards him. He sat noisily at the breakfast table. Lynda looked at him, her mind a blank. She wondered what was happening this evening that she had forgotten about already. Ever since the flat tyres on Tuesday, she knew that she had become jumpy, forgetful. And she also knew that Robert had been avoiding her.

  ‘I mean Jon. Can he stay with us again?’

  Lynda didn’t hesitate. ‘Sure. Katie’s room is already set up. Of course he can stay.’ Anything, she thought, anything to keep you happy. One less thing to worry about.

  ‘Great. Thanks, Mum.’ He stood up and lifted his rucksack from where he had just dropped it.

  ‘Aren’t you having breakfast?’ Lynda was surprised.

  ‘Nah,’ he said. ‘Meetin’ Jon.’ He turned to leave and then stopped. ‘Can I ask you somethin’?’ His question was sudden.

  His tone made Lynda look up quickly from the newspaper she had just pulled towards her again. ‘Yep. Fire ahead.’

  ‘It’s just that . . .’ he dragged his hand through his hair with that old, familiar gesture. ‘Jon’s having a really hard time right now.’

  Lynda nodded sympathetically. She remembered how Jon had described Ciarán as kind, a word that had surprised her. He was being kind now, it seemed. His expression was boyish, almost bashful, but his tone was gruff. As though he was trying to conceal the fact of his kindness.

  ‘I was just wondering if, like, he might be able to stay here for a bit, just until he gets his head sorted out? He needs to have a bit of space, away from home, like, for a while.’

  Lynda felt the need to be cautious: she didn’t want to offend anyone. ‘How would his parents feel about that?’ she asked. ‘I wouldn’t want us to cause any more upset for Jon – and they might not like it.’

  ‘His parents don’t care,’ Ciarán said, already growing impatient. ‘That’s the whole point. His dad has moved out and his mum’s never there.’

  ‘Is he an only child?’

  Ciarán looked at her. ‘I don’t know, do I? All I know is he hates going home to an empty house. Seems daft when there’s room here, and we’re friends.’

  Lynda nodded. ‘It’s not that I think it’s a bad idea – I’d just like to make sure his parents are okay with it. They may be very wrapped up in their own problems, Ciarán, but I doubt that they don’t care. It might just feel that way to Jon.’

  ‘Well, it’s the same thing to him in the end, then, isn’t it? When he goes home, he’s on his own.’ Ciarán eyed the clock and hoisted his rucksack onto one shoulder. ‘It’d be nice to be able to help him,’ he added.

  ‘I’ve no objection, if he clears it with his parents first. And you’ll have to talk to Katie about it. It’s her room, and I don’t know how she’d feel about a stranger moving in.’

  ‘He’s not a stranger, he’s my friend,’ said Ciarán. He was defensive now, almost aggressive.

  Lynda sighed. ‘I meant a stranger to Katie. Look, if you want to do this, then you need to take responsibility. Talk to Jon, by all means, but not before I’ve had a chance to speak to your dad.’

  ‘Will you talk to him this morning? Please?’

  ‘Yes, all right, I’ll talk to him this morning.’ If I can get him, she added to herself.

  ‘And text me afterwards? Straight away?’ He was edging towards the door.

  ‘Yes, yes, all right. But you’ve got to promise not to say anything to Jon until I get back to you. And even if it’s a “yes” from your dad, you still have to negotiate with Katie, do you hear? I’m not doing that for you.’

  Ciarán was walking quickly down the hallway, glancing back at her over his shoulder. ‘I’m not asking you to do anything – just talk to Dad. I’ll do nothing till I get your text.’ And he was gone, front door slamming shut behind him.

  ‘Why not?’ said Robert, later that morning. ‘I’ve no objection. It’ll probably mean more work for you, though. One young lad no
t picking up after himself is bad enough. You sure you want two?’ The mobile signal was patchy. Robert’s voice kept coming and going – but that reservation was loud and clear.

  ‘That’s a point,’ admitted Lynda. ‘But I think Jon’s actually more house-trained than Ciarán. Some of it might rub off.’

  Robert snorted. ‘That might be stretching things. But at least it’d be company for Ciarán, and he’s been much better for that, lately. I’ve no problem, Lynda – I’ll leave it up to you. Look, I have to run – I’ll talk to you in the morning. It’ll be late when I get home; don’t wait up.’

  ‘Robert – we have to talk.’

  She could hear the evasion in his reply. ‘About what? I’m really up to my ears here, Lynda. Can’t it wait?’

  ‘It’s about the other morning. The flat tyres.’ It sounded more blunt than she’d intended.

  Robert sighed. ‘Look, there was no real harm done. The tyres were just deflated. They could have been slashed. I don’t want to make a song and dance out of it.’

  ‘Don’t you think that that’s odd, in itself?’ she demanded. ‘Why would anyone go to that much trouble not to do any damage? It doesn’t make any sense.’ She waited. Please, she thought. Tell me about whatever it was in the package.

  ‘Kids are kids, Lynda, and I really don’t have time to talk about this now.’ He was impatient, his voice wavering down the line at her. ‘Stop letting your imagination run away with you.’

  ‘Fine,’ she said, angrily. ‘You can stick your head in the sand if you want. I know what’s going on.’

  The call ended abruptly. Lynda sighed. She’d give him the benefit of the doubt – bad signal as opposed to cutting her off. She’d just have to wait until he got home. She had started to compose a text to Ciarán when her mobile rang again.

  ‘Mum? It’s me. Did you talk to dad?’