Dancing to the End of Love

by White, Adrian

  Left on the desk next to the tray of tea are some toiletries – a packet of disposable razors, a can of shaving foam, deodorant, a pair of scissors and a pair of nail clippers, a toothbrush and paste, and a bottle of shampoo. Get the message, Brendan.

  I retreat to the bed to sit down. Cleanliness would be a start, but I’m not quite ready yet. I’m here and I’m safe – that’ll do, for now.

  I look in the bag on the floor across the room. I recognise what few clothes I possess and see my walking boots in there too. Not much else – none of my own toiletries, or my glasses or contact lenses. I take the toothbrush and paste from the desk into the bathroom. It’s going to take more than a single brushing to get my teeth clean. My gums hurt and there’s blood on the brush when I rinse it under the tap, but I persist in brushing thoroughly.

  I look in the mirror again, calmer this time than when I first saw Saddam Hussein looking back at me. It’s not too bad – my hair has grown more in some places than in others. I look at the patchy mess of growth that is my beard; it’s going to be a bastard to shave off. When I see the muck and grime engrained in my face, I decide to shower before I attempt the shave.

  I’m prepared for the shower to hurt, but it’s not too bad. Only the bruising on my knuckles is really painful; over the rest of my body, the relief from the hot water outweighs any soreness that remains. I let the water do its work as it rinses off the top layer of muck and I enjoy the warmth it gives my body. This really is a very good shower. I’m worried in case I black out, or knock my head on the soap dish, but I’m okay. My arms quickly tire from being raised above my head, but I can feel the matted tangles in my hair soften with the soap. It takes three shampoos before I feel anything close to clean, and still I stand there – enjoying the heat of the water on my body.

  I pat myself dry with the towel and step out on to the mat on the floor by the sink. I wipe the mist from the mirror and study my beard, trying to figure out the best way to approach this .The only thing to do, I guess, is to fire ahead and to see what happens – a few nicks and cuts will be a small price to pay. I fill the sink with hot water – as hot as I can stand – and lather the shaving foam into my beard. The blade snags and catches as I run it over my face. I know it’s not a perfect shave, but I’m not worried – it just feels so good. When I’m done, I repeat the whole thing with a second razor. It’s still not a perfect shave but it’s close. I reach behind my head and shave the hairs that are growing down my neck. I empty the water from the sink and repeatedly splash cold water across my face and neck.

  When I look up in the mirror, I’m more like myself than Saddam Hussein.

  Jack brings me some food again towards evening. Although the courtyard outside my window is in shade for most of the day, I can see how the daylight changes with the direction of the sun.

  “I’ve brought you some stew,” he says.

  I try to hide my response – after all, this is hardly going to be the same stew as I’ve lived on these past few weeks – but it’s hard. I shan’t be eating porridge again in a hurry, that’s for sure.

  “Is that okay?” Jack asks. “I thought it would be the type of food you could manage.”

  “Thank you – really. It’s hard to get used to, that’s all – being looked after.”

  “Well, don’t get too used to it. Tomorrow, I think, I shall show you around, how the house works, and all that. You can’t stay in this room forever.”

  I could, but I don’t say this to Jack.

  “And I’ve arranged for a doctor in town to give you the once-over, just to be sure there’s nothing we can’t see that’s been done to you.”

  I like the way he’s so matter of fact about what’s happened to me – he doesn’t skirt the issue but he asks no questions – the ideal jailor.

  “You look much better,” he says.

  “Cleaner, anyway.”

  “Until tomorrow then,” he says, and leaves me be.

  By the time Jack calls for me in the morning, I’m washed and dressed and waiting for him. I don’t want to put my boots on this fine carpet, and I’ve lost my sandals, so I sit on the bed and wait to be collected.

  “Bring them with you,” Jack says about the boots. “I’ll give you a brief tour of the place you’ll have an idea of the lie of the land.”

  I was right – it’s an example of what they call in Ireland a Big House, complete with outlying buildings in various states of disrepair. The kitchen seems to be the centre of the household and I’m introduced to a Mrs. Johnston, the housekeeper, who eerily reminds me of Mrs. Sullivan in Brighton. There are two residents sat at the kitchen table; Jack tells me their names but I don’t catch what he says.

  “You just help yourself to whatever you like during the day,” Jack says of the kitchen, “but we’ll have to insist that from now on you take your evening meals with the rest of the house.”

  We go outside and Jack points out various aspects and views from the house, but already my head is spinning. I sit on a low stone wall and listen, but Jack stops.

  “Take your time,” he says. “What I’m trying to say is: the place is here for you to use. If you want to stay in your room, by all means stay in your room, but as I say, I do need you to start joining us for the evening meal. Are you okay with that?”

  I don’t really feel inclined to socialize, but it’s not much to ask.

  “And the grounds,” he says. “It’d be a shame if you couldn’t use the grounds here to help you get better. All that you see is open to you – for walking, or swimming in the lake if you feel up to it, though the water’s bloody cold, believe me. And there’s a rowing boat you can take out, only we do ask you to wear a life jacket. There – enough for now. I’ll let you get some breakfast and then we’ll go into town for the doctor at eleven.”

  Mrs. Johnston gives me a rundown of where everything is kept in the kitchen and I help myself to some cereal. I return to my room and brush my teeth. I see other residents – at least I guess they’re residents – but nobody is much interested beyond saying hello.

  I go in search of Jack and find him in an office under the stairs.

  “Come in, come in,” he says. “Welcome to the engine room.” The office looks as though it’s too small to keep tidy. “Actually,” he says, “I just have to make one phone call, and I’ll be with you. Do you want to wait out the front? Two minutes, I promise.”

  I leave Jack and walk outside. I have a feeling this was the entrance I first came through in the dead of night – was it two, three nights ago? I look across the grounds, down to a huge lake and a hillside of tall trees beyond. It’s the same view as I’d seen before, from my bedroom doorway, only now there’s a greater expanse of landscape for me to see. I can’t focus on the distance, so I let the whole picture wash over me. It’s impossibly beautiful.

  “Not a bad sight, is it?” asks Jack from behind me. “Come on, I have the jeep around the back.”

  Jack seems equally comfortable with any silence between us as he does with the bursts of information he thinks of to pass on.

  “This doctor,” he says. “I’ve told him what to expect and he’s okay with it. He’ll ask you lots of questions, but don’t worry – he’s not interested in anything other than making sure you get well.”

  This tells me as much about Jack as it does about the doctor.

  “Where are we heading?”

  “The nearest town is Manorhamilton, or at least it’s the nearest for what we need today. Anything else you can think of – just let me know.”

  I tell Jack I could do with being tested for my eyesight. If I’m going to be up and about, I need to be able to see.

  “I’d say we could probably get that sorted today,” he says. “It’s a grand little town – a nice feel to it, I mean. Good vibes.”

  “I have money; I just have to figure out how to get hold of it.”

  Jack lifts his left hand off the steering wheel as if to dismiss the problem of money.

  “We c
an talk about that later,” he says, and I take it that he means at a later date. I haven’t really thought about this yet – my passport, credit cards and stuff – and I’m not too sure how I’m going to go about getting them back.

  Jack has arranged for me to see the doctor – a Dr. Wilson – out of surgery hours. After a few minutes I’m called through and Jack goes off to see about an optician.

  “Now, how’s it going, young man?” asks Dr. Wilson.

  “I don’t feel so young any more, that’s for sure.”

  “No, maybe not, maybe not, but let’s see what we can do for you, eh?”

  I strip down to my underwear and he walks around me, prodding gently, probing my rib cage and asking me to move my arms and breathe deeply while he listens to what’s going on inside me.

  “Do you feel as if anything is damaged?”

  “No bones,” I say. I tell him how worried I was when I was pissing blood, but that this seems to have stopped.

  “And what about these?” he asks, pointing to my knuckles.

  “I can move them, so I think they’ll be okay. They just look worse because they’re so recent. They stopped hitting me properly a while ago.”

  “I think you’re lucky they did.”

  “I don’t feel so lucky.”

  “No, well, now – maybe not. I’ll be giving you a thorough going over myself – only not quite in the same way, of course. I need samples of your blood and urine and the other stuff too, if that’s okay, and I’d like to send you for some x-rays to check for broken bones. I can’t do it here, but I have a dentist friend down the road who can help us out. He knows how to keep his mouth shut, if you know what I mean.”

  “Whatever it takes.”

  “I’m also going to prescribe a few things to toughen you up a little, but I think, more than anything, you need to eat well and take a lot of exercise; not too well and not too much exercise, but enough to get back on track.”

  He does what he needs to do. When he takes the samples of my blood, I have to sit down with my head between my knees for at least two minutes before I come round.

  I thank him and Jack takes me to the optician. I have a full eyesight test and a fitting for a pair of glasses. It’ll take a couple of days, but they say they can send the glasses up to the house when they’re ready. Jack takes me to the dentist who, as well as x-raying my knuckles and ribs, gives my teeth a good cleaning. I’ve never been so thoroughly examined. We stop off at the chemist on the way back to the jeep. While we wait for the prescription, I pick up a pair of tweezers. Jack raises his eyebrows, but after several weeks of neglect I have hairs growing out of my ears and my nose – everywhere but where I’d like my hair to grow. I could measure out my life in nasal hair.

  By the time we arrive back at the house, I’m both hungry and exhausted. I meet a few more residents in the kitchen, make myself a sandwich and retire to my room. I sleep for the afternoon. It’s hard to motivate myself to join the rest of the house for dinner, but I do, and it’s not so bad.

  I have a setback a few days later. I’m in the habit of walking in the mornings – no great distances, but I’m gradually increasing my range and with it the strength in my legs. The grounds are expansive and the walk back up from the lake is always a test for my legs. It’s not so steep, but coming at the end of a walk I always feel as if I may have overstretched myself. I stop by the gatepost and rest for a minute or two before moving on up to the house. There’s a small package waiting for me on the kitchen table. I panic slightly that anyone should know I’m here, but then I remember the opticians. There’s a little note inside suggesting I call next time I’m in town for a proper fitting. I search for Jack to thank him but he’s nowhere to be found. I decide to eat some lunch before I try on the glasses.

  Although it’s October, the weather is fine enough for sitting outside and this is how I pass most afternoons. There’s a terrace at the side of the house which catches the afternoon sun and is sheltered from the wind. It’s a nice spot. I take a book outside with me, but it remains unopened in my lap. I take out my new glasses and try them on. The difference is astonishing and I see for the first time just how stunning the view really is. I pick out individual trees on the far shore and a heron’s ungainly struggle to fly before rising powerfully above the lake. I feel as if I shall never need to leave this seat on the terrace.

  A car comes up the driveway and passes by in front of me. I half-expect it to be Jack, but it’s not his jeep. Most of the residents have their own cars that they keep around the back of the house, whereas this car parks on the gravel close to the terrace. I recognise the person getting out the car – it’s Juliette, the politico from Brighton! I’m about to call her over when I hesitate; I don’t know what her being here means. I stand up to slip away to my room, but the new vision unbalances me somewhat and I have to sit back down. By now, she’s seen me and is on her way across the lawn – the same strong stride and ponytail that I remember from the beach at Brighton.

  “Still wearing the shades, I see,” she says, and I stare up blankly at her. I take off the glasses and look at them properly for the first time; they have reactor lenses for the sunshine, just like my old pair.

  “I just got them today,” I say about the glasses, as though that explains everything.

  “I have something else for you too. This must be your lucky day.”

  She lays my passport and wallet on the table before me.

  “There now – what do you think of that?”

  I don’t know what to think of that, so I just say thank you.

  “You wouldn’t get far without those.”

  I pick them up and look in the wallet. There’s no money but my cards are there. I flip open the passport.

  “Is this still valid, do you think?” I ask.

  “There’s no reason why it shouldn’t be.”

  But there’s no reason for anything in my life right now, I think.

  “How did you get them?” I ask.

  “The police wanted to keep them, especially the passport, but we insisted and in the end they handed them over.”

  “Who’s ‘we’? Why are you here? How did you know I’d be here?”

  “Sorry – I thought Jack had explained.”

  “Jack’s not here.” What has he not told me?

  “About my father? Lord Fitzgerald,” she adds, when she sees the blank look on my face.

  “Your father is Lord Fitzgerald?”

  “Yes.”

  This doesn’t really help me much.

  “You’d better sit down,” I say.

  “I will. Just give me a few minutes, can you? It’s a long trip from Brighton.”

  “Yes.”

  “Jack’s not around, no?”

  “No,” I say, and she strides off like she owns the place – which, of course, in a way, she does.

  I leave my glasses down on the table and close my eyes. I don’t know what’s going on, but I’ve learnt to take my time. Everything will be illuminated.

  Juliette returns with a glass of water and sits down.

  “Does it feel good to be free?” she asks.

  “Am I free? I don’t know what I’m doing here.”

  “We thought this would be the best place to send you – to give you time to rest and to get over what they did to you. It’s a beautiful place, don’t you think?”

  “Again – who’s ‘we’?”

  “Well, me mainly, but I couldn’t have managed without the help of my father.”

  “I still don’t understand. Why would your father help me?”

  “Because I asked him to, silly.” She’s very well spoken, but this turn of phrase grates on me – and it shows.

  “Okay, why would you help me?”

  “Who wouldn’t help you, if they could?”

  “But why did you, or why could you?”

  She takes a sip from her water.

  “As soon as we realised you’d been taken –”

  “You and yo
ur father?”

  “No, the comrades in the branch – the ones you met that night of the meeting?”

  I give her another blank look. Juliette sees my confusion and tries again.

  “We knew the police had done a series of arrests throughout Brighton,” she says, “but we didn’t really know who’d been taken. It never occurred to me to think of you, until I started missing you each morning on my walk with Max.”

  “Your dog?”

  “My dog. So at the next branch meeting I asked that guy you knew in the bar of the pub if he’d seen you around and he said no, that with any luck you’d got what was coming to you. I thought he was your friend?”

  “I knew him. He wasn’t a friend.”

  “So anyway, I talked to the comrades and told them who you were and that I thought you might be –”

  “Who I am?”

  “Yes.”

  “And who am I?”

  “You’re Brendan Loughlin, the writer.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “I just know. So we started –”

  “Did you know all along who I was?”

  “No, I didn’t recognise you until I saw you without your glasses, that night in the pub. So, anyway, we started postering your picture up around town and that was when we were told you’d been taken.”

  “Told by who?”

  “By some of your neighbours, I guess. You lived over towards Hove, didn’t you?”

  “I did – briefly.” I remember my new neighbours from the morning I was taken – they were only too glad to have helped the police or the army or whoever the fuck it was that came to get me. “And what then?”

  “I told my father and at first he said he couldn’t do anything, but when I told him who you were and that it was obviously a mistake, he agreed to look into it for me.”

  “Do you know why I was taken? I mean, mistake or no mistake?”

  “It was all done as a build-up to the Labour Party Conference. Anybody they considered in the least bit suspicious, they either watched closely or arrested. I think you’d have been released earlier, only they waited for the conference to be over.”