by Oliver Sands
*****
They were back in Dunry, in the hospital, twenty-six years ago. She could clearly remember Margaret slumped in the bed at the end of the dimly-lit ward, the evening rain pelting the window beside her. Margaret had looked drained and haggard after the overdose, her stomach freshly pumped, her wrist freshly tagged, and her body shrouded in that hideous, revealing gown. Nora had raised a cup of orange cordial to her sister’s dry lips and had told her that of course she’d go over to the house and spend the night with eleven-year old Breeda. The worse-than-useless father had been back over in London on a building job for the past few weeks, so poor wee Breeda would be alone, no doubt scared witless at finding the house empty after school. Nora would hear not one word of apology from Margaret and had told her that her only concern was to focus on getting some rest. She had gently squeezed her sister’s hand, and they’d sat for a moment, silently listening to the rain. When she’d glanced at Margaret, she’d noticed a twist of embarrassment hanging on her face. She felt dreadful for her, but she was keenly aware that she was angry with Margaret too. This was her second attempt. She had a daughter to live for, and a husband – if you could call him that.
As Nora had sat there, she wondered to herself if the rumors about her own brother-in-law were true; that he was an unfaithful bastard, willing to throw his leg over anything with a pulse. The gossip was doing the rounds in Dunry, and no doubt Margaret herself had heard it. Wouldn’t that have driven anyone to the pills? Nora would choose her moment, but for now her sister’s recovery was her priority. She leaned in and delicately kissed Margaret’s cheek, then ran out of the hospital with her collar pulled up, skittering through the rain-slicked streets to the Looney house.
When she’d put the key in the Looney’s front door she’d found Breeda looking less than traumatized. The fire was blazing, the TV was blaring, and the girl was happily licking her knife, a plate of beans on toast half-demolished in front of her. Nora stepped in with a look of puzzlement on her face. She shook the raindrops off her jacket and closed the door behind her. Then she realised – Breeda wasn’t alone.
He was casually leaning against the kitchen door frame, watching her. His sleeves were rolled up and his shirt was open at the collar. He took a long sip from his tumbler. Over the rim of the glass she recognized the look on his face, the same expression she’d seen reflected back once from a gilt-edged mirror in a Soho pub many years before. Nora reached her fingers to her face and felt the ghost of his stubbled cheek once more.
‘Hello, Nora.’
He swirled the dregs of his whiskey. She watched from the door as his glass caught the reflection of the firelight and the ice cubes gave up their tipsy echo. He came towards her.
‘Let me take your coat …’
*****
Nora’s mobile chirruped loudly in her pocket and her heart jumped. A parishioner spun around on the pew and glared. Nora turned and hurried for the side door. It was just her alarm to remind her to call Myra for their midday chat. She exited into a blast of daylight, and walked quickly, keen to put distance between herself and the church. They needed a good storm. It was a muggy day, too humid for her navy tweed outfit, but she marched on nonetheless, trying to shake a feeling of being watched, of being chased through the streets of Carrickross by insistent memories.
By the time she arrived home she was hot and bothered, and Nora Cullen did not do hot and bothered. The air in the kitchen was lifeless and stale. She jiggled the key of the back door clumsily with her one good hand, and pulled the door wide open, desperate for some fresh air from the garden. As she turned back to the kitchen, she tugged impatiently at the top button of her white blouse. She flicked on the kettle and looked at the timer on the cooker hood – she had a couple of minutes. Myra Finch was a stickler for punctuality and could go into a sour mood if you didn’t call when you said you would. Nora plonked the teapot down and slammed the cutlery drawer shut. What she really wanted was to knock back a sleeping pill and lie under a cool sheet. But instead here she was, rushing to make a pot of tea with one good hand. Perhaps her blood sugar was dropping, in which case she’d better have a biscuit. She stood on her tiptoes and rifled through the jars and boxes on the shelf, and suddenly remembered Myra scoffing the last of the Jaffa Cakes the other day upstairs. She reached back further, wincing at the pain in her broken ribs, and swept the herbal teas out of the way. There had to be some emergency biscuits somewhere.
As she peered into the cupboard, a barely perceptible change came to the air, a scent both familiar and forgotten. It pulled at the recesses of her unconscious, like the opening bars of an old song. She stood still for a moment, dazed and distracted. In the background the boiling kettle clicked itself off and the bubbling water settled. Nora blinked herself back into the room.
There wasn’t one damn biscuit in the whole house.
The subtlest shifts in daylight moved over the kitchen floor – perhaps some rain was on its way after all. She stepped back and closed the cupboard door.
‘Hello, Nora.’
She stumbled back hard into the table. Her favourite teacup slid and shattered behind her.
‘Long time, no see.’
He was coming towards her, his knuckles tight, and she knew she could run no longer.
Chapter 39
Breeda begged her rusty Renault up the hill, and as she rounded the corner into Bayview Rise and came to a stop on her driveway, she felt her shoulders relax. Killing the engine, her smile froze, then slowly faded. The van was gone.
A movement on next door’s roof caught her eye and Breeda leaned forward to see Finbarr standing like a surefooted mountain goat on the slope of his tiled roof. He had a nail between his teeth and a hammer hanging through his belt. Breeda climbed out of the car and shielded her eyes against the glare.
‘Hey Finbarr. I don’t suppose you know where my Dad went off to, do you?’
Finbarr scratched the underside of his beard, removed the nail from between his lips and crouched down close to the guttering.
‘Sure I always thought your father was long dead, Miss Looney?’
‘Yeah, long story …’ A momentary silence hung between them and Breeda shifted her weight from one foot to the other, a niggling little disquiet stirring in her belly. ‘So, em, Finbarr …?’
‘Oh, right, sorry. I’d say he drove off about twenty minutes ago. Not long after you left.’
Breeda looked back over her shoulder in the direction of town.
‘Are you alright? Can I help—’
‘It’s fine. Ignore me.’ She turned back to him with a weak smile. ‘I think I’m just tired after the long drive yesterday. Thanks Finbarr. Nothing to worry about.’
Breeda let herself in the front door. Her denim jacket was hanging over the banister where she’d left it, and she reminded herself why she’d come home. She pulled her wallet out of the jacket pocket and turned to leave, but as she did so she caught her reflection in the hallway mirror. A trace of uncertainty had crept into her face and she stood for a moment before turning and climbing the stairs, forcing herself not to rush. She tapped lightly on the bedroom door and pushed it open. The bed was still made – with a military precision she had admired earlier – and she sat on the taut bedspread and bit her bottom lip.
Mal’s mug still stood on the bedside table, drained of its tea. Breeda’s gaze drifted over to the wardrobe, its door now closed. She walked slowly over to it and stared at the mahogany door. She knew his bag would still be in there. He’d just have gone to put a bet on the horses, that was all. She put her fingers on the handle.
Downstairs the front door opened. Breeda’s fingers jolted back from the wardrobe. He was back. She turned quickly, instantly ashamed at doubting Mal, and headed for the stairs. It was the pointy black leather shoes she saw first – shined to within an inch of their toe-crushing lives. Above them, a skinny pinstriped suit gave way to a familiar over-bleached Hollywood grin. Breeda felt her own smile evaporate.
Johnny Nesbitt, from O’Donoghue’s Real Estate, was stood in her front hall like lord of the manor, perusing his clipboard.
‘Johnny. I didn’t hear you knock.’
‘Ah, Breeda…’ He gave her the most cursory of glances, before squinting up the hallway. Out of his suit jacket he extracted a mini silver atomizer and sprayed a swift arc of apple-scented mist into the air.
‘Cats. Owners get used to the smell. But boy do they stink!’
Breeda felt her hand tightening on the banister. His smile flashed her way once more.
‘First viewing in a few minutes. You might want to …’ He walked two fingers across the front of his clipboard, ‘… skedaddle. Also, that front lawn needs a good trim. You should get that sorted, pronto.’
He turned to fuss with his little wireless speaker he’d placed on the hallway side table and Breeda imagined how nice it would be to smack her hand across the back of his head. But she had more important things to worry about, including this evening’s dinner for her guest of honour. Enya’s ‘Orinoco Flow’ filled the hallway and Johnny Nesbitt jabbed at the volume button.
‘I’m actually just on my way into town to pick up some groceries. So, I’ll get out of your way.’
He was checking himself in the hallway mirror now, and Breeda watched his attempts at smoothing down an errant spike of gelled hair.
‘I suppose I’m blocking you in?’
Breeda glanced outside to see his branded car straddling the driveway. She regarded her own rust bucket for a moment but knew that even if she could coax some life into it there would be zero chance of it making it back up the hill later.
‘No – you’re grand. I’ll take my bike. Oh, and Johnny? Lock up when you’re done.’
Breeda patted her coat pocket to make sure her wallet was in there, grabbed her bike from the side of the house, and set off up Bayview Rise. Finbarr’s dog Pepper hooned up the road alongside her bike until Breeda reached the corner. As she rounded the bend a stiff breeze whipped up her mother’s yellow coat into a flap behind her and she could feel the bite of the cold air on her cheeks. Down below on the harbor the kite surfer was long gone, and the waves had taken on a choppiness which hadn’t been there earlier. Breeda’s dark hair blew loose and wild as she freewheeled down towards the village, and she cast a glance at the bruised sky overhead, wondering if she’d make it home before the rain. She would just pay for the groceries and keep an eye out for his van. Then she could chuck the bike in the back and Mal could drive them both home for a pot of tea. As Breeda rounded the corner onto Main Street she kept her eyes peeled for any sign of the white Looney & Sons van.
Across the road from Flynn’s supermarket she leaned her bicycle against a bollard and went into the bookies. A few flat screens dotted around the grubby walls were showing the same greyhound race. Two old fellas sat glued to the screens, but Breeda recognized neither of them. The place had a terrible air of desperation and wasted opportunities and she hated to think of Mal in here. Back outside she took in a deep breath and looked up Main Street in both directions. There was no sign of the van. She chewed distractedly at the inside of her left cheek and couldn’t help but think of the wardrobe door in her mother’s room which now lay closed.
A rapping noise caught Breeda’s attention, and she looked over to The Treasure Chest, where Myra Finch was beckoning like an eejit from the window. Breeda darted across the road between two cars and opened the door into the warmth of the gift shop. Myra had a crabby face on her. Nothing new there, thought Breeda. She bustled Breeda away from the door and flipped the Closed sign toward the street.
‘Have you seen Nora?’
‘No, why?’
Myra shook her head and walked back to the counter. She seemed more highly strung than normal, although it didn’t take much to get Myra Finch in a tizzy. Breeda crossed to the counter now too.
‘Myra, what’s up?’
The old lady looked at her with eyes that brought a little tight knot of dread to Breeda’s belly. Myra had picked up her mobile phone from the counter, but now she threw it back down impatiently.
‘She’s not answering. Every Wednesday, after she does the flowers, she calls me for a chat. At midday. Without fail.’ Myra slapped the counter to make her point. ‘I’m worried something’s happened to her. A blood clot. Or another fall …’
Breeda felt the not-so-subtle dig and saw the harsh judgement flash in Myra’s eyes.
‘I’m sure it’s nothing, Myra. She’s probably just taking longer at the church due to her arm.’ Breeda heard a flatness in her own voice and wondered at the lack of conviction in her words. She looked out the window. People on the street were pulling on raincoats and zipping up jackets. Across the road a mini whirlwind of crisp packets and lolly wrappers was being whipped into a frenzy.
She knew what Myra was waiting on. She was waiting on Breeda to say of course she’d cycle straight over to the church, and of course she’d check on Nora and report straight back like a good little girl. But Breeda held her tongue and kept her eye on the whirling dervish of litter across the street. Whatever mini drama Nora was caught up in now was of her own making. The apron strings were well and truly cut and Breeda wouldn’t be reattaching them. Besides, she had her groceries to sort out next door.
‘I’ll tell you what, Myra – if I see her I’ll text you. Alright?’
Myra Finch opened her mouth, but Breeda didn’t wait for whatever disappointment was about to leave her lips. She flipped the Open sign back towards the street and let herself out. When Breeda reached Flynn’s, though, she stood on the far side of the automatic door, suddenly unable to go inside. She needed to think. A damp strand of hair had whipped across her forehead, and as she smoothed it back she tried to ignore the sense of apprehension, now clinging to her like a shadow.
‘Twice in one day, Bree?’
The black Range Rover was parked with its hazard lights blinking and Aidan was hefting a bag of compost onto a flattened cardboard box in the back. He wiped his muddy hands down the front of his jeans and slammed the boot shut.
‘So, I’ve been thinking – about this evening – if the invite still stands I’d love to come for dinner. Bree—’
But Breeda was looking beyond him, to a point a kilometer or so up the road, where the proud spire of Saint Colmcille’s pierced the dark and broody sky. The first fat drops of rain landed in splotches at their feet and Aidan popped up his jacket collar.
‘Breeda? What’s wrong?’
She focused back on Aidan’s face and found the familiarity of the Looney eyes – the same eyes as her father’s – suddenly jarring.
‘It’s probably nothing. I’m just being silly …’
He reached a hand to her arm.
‘Tell me.’
Beside them the front window of the car buzzed down.
‘Aidan, we need to go.’
Breeda nodded a distracted smile to Dervil and got the slightest nod of the head in response. At the same moment the skies opened above them. Breeda heard a familiar whooping and turned to see Oona bounding down the pavement with a folded newspaper over her head.
Aidan grabbed the passenger door and ushered Breeda out of the downpour and into the car, then jumped in the back himself. Breeda slid onto the cushioned leather seat. Beside her, Dervil was checking her watch and drumming her manicured nails on the steering wheel. A few seconds later Oona reached the car, her wet jeans already clinging to her legs. Aidan slid over in the back seat to make room for her.
‘Get in for a sec, Oona. It will blow over soon.’
‘Thanks a mill, Aidan. Christ, where did that come from? Hi Dervil. Hiya Bree.’
The rain was drumming on the car roof now and Dervil flicked on the wipers. Through the windscreen Breeda could just about make out the spire of Saint Colmcille’s against the churning gloom of the sky. She turned to look over her shoulder at her bike, abandoned outside the bookies, and wondered how quickly she could cycle to the church.
‘Bree, you OK?’ Oona was blowing on her hands to warm them up.
‘Hmmm?’
In the rear-view mirror Oona’s blonde hair was dark where it was wet. Breeda noticed the concern on her friend’s face, no doubt mirroring her own.
‘I was just asking is everything OK?’
Breeda turned to find both Oona and Aidan studying her, and she forced a smile their way. This was silly. It was just her paranoia, desperate to hook onto something and spoil a perfectly good day. She sensed Dervil turn to look at her now too and the color rose in Breeda’s cheeks. The last thing she wanted to do was create a scene, and here she was with a captive audience. The car suddenly felt cramped and stifling, and Breeda felt a trickle of moisture – rain or sweat – run down the nape of her neck. Above them, the sky flashed brilliant and seconds later a low grumble rolled overhead. Breeda turned to Dervil.
‘I’m sorry to ask, Dervil. But is there any chance you could drop me at Saint Colmcille’s? It’s on your way if you’re heading home…’
Dervil said nothing, but she checked her side mirror and pulled smoothly out onto the road, the option of moving evidently preferable to the alternative of sitting there twiddling her thumbs.
‘Thanks, Dervil.’
Breeda could imagine Oona and Aidan nudging each other behind her, but she busied herself with wiping the condensation from the screen of her phone. Nora’s mobile rang through to voice mail. Breeda swiped to her home number, but that too went to the answering machine.
She would be at Saint Colmcille’s, waiting out the rain. That was all.
Up ahead, a few tourists had been caught unawares by the downpour. They were dashing up the pavement, drenched, but laughing. One of them stepped out onto the road and Breeda leaned across and pounded on the horn. Dervil swerved and looked at Aidan in the rear-view mirror.
