by Tara Heavey
Fantastic.
‘All rise.’ The court registrar entered the room, followed by the district judge – who, true to type, looked like a grumpy old bollix.
Even more fantastic.
I rushed to find myself a seat, and squeezed in at the end of the table beside a bulky, red-headed man. The judge sat down and so did everybody else. He surveyed the courtroom from his elevated throne – all the better for abusing you from a great height, my dears.
The redhead leaned over and whispered into my ear, ‘Are you Tyrone’s new solicitor?’
I nodded. ‘Lainey Malone.’
‘Brendan Ryan, the local competition.’ I vaguely remembered Tyrone mentioning him. He was the only other solicitor based in Ballyknock. Judging by his friendly smile, he didn’t seem too fazed by the idea of a competing firm.
He really was an odd-looking man. Did I mention his hair was red? Well, it was positively on fire. It was the type of ginger that little kids sometimes have but usually grow out of. It occurred to me that perhaps it was dyed – but no, surely nobody would dye his hair that colour on purpose? I also guessed it hadn’t met with a comb in the last forty-eight hours. He hadn’t grown out of his freckles, either. They were scattered all over his face and his hands; they were on his lips, on his eyelids and practically up his nose. He looked like a join-the-dots picture. He was wearing a chunky orange cardigan, buttoned up the wrong way. His wife must have knitted it for him; there could be no other explanation. The ensemble was completed by a tweed jacket that had seen better days. If he hadn’t been such a hulking man, he would have been in imminent danger of being mistaken for a leprechaun.
‘DPP v. Paddy Murphy,’ called the registrar. That was one of mine; I had to plead guilty to a traffic offence. I jumped to my feet and rattled off my spiel, trying to sound sincere in my apology on behalf of my client. As I sat down, Brendan Ryan rose to his feet beside me.
‘And I’d like to welcome Ms Lainey Malone to Ballyknock on behalf of the Kilkenny Solicitors’ Association. I’m sure we’re all looking forward to working with her.’
Oh, no. Tyrone had warned me about the country tradition of welcoming new solicitors on their first day in court. I’d thought I might be able to get away without it, but obviously not.
Brendan Ryan sat down and a senior-looking police officer stood up. ‘And I’d like to welcome Ms Malone on behalf of the Kilkenny gardaí. We hope she’ll be very happy here.’
I nodded my thanks.
And then the judge spoke. ‘Yes, Miss Malone, you’re very welcome. We’ve already heard a lot about you. I understand you’re going to keep us safe from all the vermin in the town.’ The judge flashed me a sarcastic smile, and explosive sniggering broke out from the garda benches. I looked quickly around the table and saw that most of my so-called colleagues were either laughing or trying not to. Even Brendan was suppressing a smile. Well, wasn’t this just fan-bloody-tastic?
Welcome to Ballyfuck.
By the time I finally escaped from that damn courtroom, it was well after three. I heaved open the ugly wooden doors of the courthouse and breathed in the fresh air as if I were a lifer being released from prison. What a criminal waste of a day. At least I didn’t have far to travel back to the office.
I pushed open the door of Tyrone Power & Co. and did a double take. The office seemed to have been converted into a crèche. There were children everywhere – horrible, snotty-nosed little kids tampering with the equipment. I let out an angry roar – which I didn’t have to fake.
‘What’s going on here?’
All the little tykes (there were five of them) stopped what they were doing and turned to look at me, eyes wide with fear.
‘Get out now, all of you. This is a solicitor’s office. Adults only!’ My voice rose several decibels. One of the little girls looked as if she was going to cry.
‘Lainey! I didn’t hear you come in. Were you stuck in court all this time, poor lamb?’ Patricia emerged from my office bearing several reams of photocopying paper. ‘Have you met my kids? Well, they’re not all mine, I’m minding the two girls for a neighbour, but the boys are mine – Tommy, Christy and Mikey.’
Ah yes, Mikey. He of Coco Pops fame.
‘Say hello to the nice lady.’
Silence. Patricia shoved her boys in the back and they reluctantly greeted me. It was obvious that they weren’t convinced that I was a nice lady.
‘I’m sorry for shouting at them, Patricia. It’s just that when I came in I saw all these kids running around the office, and I didn’t see you, and I thought – well, I don’t know what I thought.’
‘That’s quite all right. I suppose it must have been a bit of a shock. The kids are doing some photocopying for their school project. I hope you don’t mind.’
‘No, that’s just fine.’ Frankly, my dear, I don’t give a shit. I headed unenthusiastically into my inner office, feet dragging considerably.
‘You take the weight off, and I’ll bring you in a nice cup of coffee and one of those scones I promised you.’
‘That would be heaven, Patricia. Thank you.’
She smiled and closed the door. I slumped into my chair, folded my arms on the desk and sank my head down into them, like a child taking a nap.
I’m tired, my head hurts and I want to go home – partnership or no partnership, Jack Power or no Jack Power (I’ve frightened him off anyhow). I missed my flat, I missed my friends, I missed my old office. I missed Paul’s moaning. And now I’d just yelled at a bunch of little kids. God, just get me out of this godforsaken shit-hole.
I jumped and sat up straight as the door opened. Patricia placed a coffee and a scone in front of me. The scone was spread liberally with red jam.
‘I hope you like raspberry jam.’
‘I love it, thanks.’
I waited for her to leave, but she continued to hover expectantly at the door. I realised I was meant to sample the fare before she left. I took a bite.
‘Mmm. This is just delicious.’ I didn’t have to lie. ‘Did you make the jam too?’
‘Yes. It won first prize at the Mivik show, you know.’
‘Congratulations. It’s lovely.’
Patricia continued to hover. Now what?
‘Have you tried any of Bridie Power’s jam yet?’ she asked casually.
‘Yes, she gave me a pot of strawberry.’
‘So she didn’t give you any of her raspberry, then?’
‘No.’
‘Hmph. Didn’t think so. She only came third in the raspberry.’ Patricia smiled triumphantly and left the room with a flourish. Good Lord! Get me back to Dublin, where nobody cared about prize-winning jam. What was next? Giant-marrow competitions? Quick-draw knitting-needles at dawn? I wasn’t able for this. I was going to ring Tyrone and tell him I couldn’t cut it. First thing in the morning.
I was still in a fouler when I got in that night. If I’d had a cat or a dog, I would have kicked it. Instead, I had to be content with kicking off my shoes and slumping onto the couch with a heavy sigh. And then I screamed. For there, sitting on the rodent-deterrent – you know, the thing that was meant to repel rodents – looking right at me, bold as brass, was a little grey mouse.
‘I don’t fucking believe this!’ I drew my feet up onto the couch, lest a little furry creature run across them, and rooted around in my bag for my mobile. I was all for communing with nature, but this was bloody ridiculous.
‘Hello. Seamus Murphy Pest Control.’
‘Oh, hello. This is Elena Malone; I’m calling from Power’s Cottage.’
‘Ah, yes. Nice to talk to you, love. How are things?’
‘Not good. I’m sitting here looking at a mouse.’
‘Are you sure it’s a mouse and not a rat?’
‘Perfectly sure.’ Jesus Christ!
‘Well, that’s great.’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘You see, love, if you’ve got mice, that means the rats have gone.’
‘And I�
�m meant to be pleased with that, am I?’ I could feel the fury building up in my chest and getting ready to explode out of me like an alien in one of those sci-fi films. Just to annoy me even further, Seamus Murphy laughed good-naturedly.
‘Don’t worry. I’ll come up first thing tomorrow morning and fill in a few holes for you, love, no extra charge. But do you know what I’d really recommend?’
‘Surprise me.’
‘A nice ferret.’
He wanted me to get a ferret! A glorified rat with extra-sharp teeth. I thought wildly about a programme I’d seen years ago, about old men in an English village competing to see which one of them could get the most live ferrets up the legs of his trousers. They would tie the ends of their trouser-legs with bits of twine so that the ferrets couldn’t escape. I wanted no truck with such animals.
‘I know a man who breeds them. I could get you a really good price on one.’
‘I don’t want a ferret. I’d rather have mice.’ My eyes were fairly bulging out of my head at this point.
‘Well, a cat, then.’
‘Do you really think so?’ The anger drained out of me, leaving only despair. Just then, the biggest spider I had ever seen in my entire life ran across the floor in front of me like a disembodied hand.
‘Yes. You leave it with me, love. I’ll have you sorted with a grand cat in no time.’
‘Thanks.’ I hated cats.
I hung up and sat staring into space. My eyes filled with tears of frustration. I screamed again, this time out of irritation rather than fear, and hurled my mobile across the room, where it collided with the rough plastered wall and landed with a clatter on the slate tiles. That was effective. Not only did I have mice, I now had a busted mobile too.
And I had no hope of getting any sleep tonight, either.
And it was still only bleeding Tuesday.
Roll on Friday.
Chapter Nine
The rest of the week crawled by at a snail’s pace. I didn’t hear a peep out of Seamus Murphy, rat-catcher extraordinaire. I didn’t see hide nor hair of Jack Power, either. Looked like I’d blown that one.
I could barely contain my excitement as the train pulled into Dublin’s Heuston Station that Friday evening. I was practically jumping up and down in my seat, as if I were suffering from a severe kidney problem. I was the first passenger out of her seat; I was standing at the carriage door about five minutes before the train drew to a halt.
Paul had arranged to pick me up from the station. I couldn’t believe how much I was looking forward to seeing him – although I supposed that, at this point, it would be a treat for me to see any of my Dublin friends. With delight, I stepped onto the platform and walked rapidly towards the exit.
There he was.
My heart melted at the sight of him. He was standing at the end of the platform, a lone figure wearing the long black coat I had bought him for his last birthday. He didn’t wear it all that much; I think he secretly disliked it. He was self-consciously clutching a bunch of white flowers. Now this was remarkable. Paul didn’t do flowers. He thought they were impractical. Why spend all that money on a bunch of weeds that were going to be dead within a fortnight? On the few occasions I had received flowers from him, he had sent them via Interflora so that he wouldn’t have to go through the mortification of being seen carrying them. As I got closer, I realised they were lilies – my favourite. As I got closer still, I could see his big soppy grin.
‘Hey, you.’ I reached up and hugged him close, squishing the flowers in the process. I leaned back and smiled up at him. ‘Who’s the lucky girl?’ I asked, nodding at the bouquet.
‘These are for you.’ He thrust the lilies awkwardly towards me, as if I were a royal princess and he were the shy four-year-old girl who had been nominated to present them to her.
‘They’re gorgeous. How did you know that lilies were my favourite?’
‘Is that what they are? I didn’t know.’
Typical Paul, spoiling the moment with honesty. He couldn’t lie to save his own life. Still, the effort had been made.
‘Mmm.’ I stuck my nose deep into the lilies and took a deep sniff. Of course, they had no scent. (What is it with flowers nowadays? They never have any smell. In my day....)
‘They smell heavenly.’ I, on the other hand, had no problem lying when I felt the occasion merited it.
‘Do they really? I couldn’t get any scent from them.’
‘You must be getting a cold.’
‘Do you think so?’
‘Definitely. You should take a Lemsip before you go to bed tonight.’ I could go on lying all night if necessary. It was no hardship.
‘Will you make it for me?’ He smiled, almost shyly.
‘We’ll see.’
We started to walk towards the car park. Paul had wrapped his arm around my waist, and I could feel him looking down fondly at the top of my head. I turned and smiled happily at him. His smile turned to laughter as we moved into a more brightly lit area.
‘You have pollen all over your nose.’
I stopped and swiped ineffectually at my proboscis.
‘Here, let me.’ Paul removed a handkerchief from the top pocket of his suit jacket. It was clearly spotless and neatly pressed and folded. Anybody else would have thought that he got ‘a woman’ in to do his laundry for him. I, however, knew that he had done it himself.
Paul carefully folded the handkerchief into a small triangle and set about wiping the pollen off my nose. I tried not to laugh at the look of intense concentration on his face. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see passers-by staring at us. Let them stare. Paul, who usually cared so much about the opinions of others – including complete strangers – seemed oblivious.
He caught my eye and saw that I was laughing at him; he stopped rubbing my nose and looked all self-conscious and vulnerable. I couldn’t resist reaching up and kissing him lightly on the mouth. He stared down at me for what seemed like the longest time. Then he cupped my face in his hands and brought his lips down on top of mine – not hard, just sweetly insistent. The barest flicker of tongue ghosted between my parted lips, causing a particular tingle that I hadn’t felt in an age.
He stopped, at last appearing to remember where he was. Quite frankly, I was amazed that he had forgotten himself for so long. Usually Paul only indulged in public displays of affection when he was drunk. And I hadn’t tasted alcohol on his mouth, only mint. I was further amazed at how nice this was. It was almost like one of our early dates – only better, because now I knew him.
‘Is it gone?’
‘Is what gone?’
‘The pollen off my nose, silly.’
‘Yes, all gone.’ He stuffed the hanky into his coat pocket (it wouldn’t do to replace a dirty, crumpled handkerchief in the top pocket of his suit jacket) and put his hand on my shoulder, propelling me towards the car park more quickly this time.
Paul had secured a late booking in The Paddy Field, my favourite Chinese restaurant – no mean feat on a Friday night. No doubt he had used the name of his firm to secure special privileges. The owners were clients.
The host was all smiles. ‘Smoking or nonsmoking?’
‘Smoking,’ I said.
‘Non-smoking,’ said Paul, at exactly the same moment.
We turned and looked at each other. The host looked away. I could see Paul weighing me up. Then, with an audible sigh, he turned back to the host.
‘Smoking it is.’
I made sure he didn’t see my triumphant smirk as I marched ahead of him towards our table. I had been prepared to stage a fake tantrum. I felt entitled. I’d had a hard week.
I settled my happy bum into my chair as Paul took off his coat.
‘Jesus Christ!’ he exclaimed.
‘What is it?’ Had he changed his mind about the smoking already?
‘There’s pollen everywhere.’
Sure enough, Paul’s black coat was streaked with bright-orange pollen, and so was his suit jacket. He
took out his trusty handkerchief and started to rub at it, which only made the stains worse. He cursed under his breath.
‘Don’t worry, you can get them dry-cleaned.’
‘I’ve just got it dry-cleaned. I only put this outfit on clean today.’
This outfit. Excuse me.
‘Well, we’ll try to do a job on it when we go home, then.’
‘It must have happened when you hugged me.’ He flashed me a testy look.
‘I see – so it’s my fault, is it?’
‘I didn’t mean that.’
Yeah, right.
‘It’s just that – Jesus, I’ll never get this crap out. That’s the last time I’m getting you flowers.’
Charming!
‘Oh, for God’s sake, Paul. Sit down and stop making a show of yourself. Everybody’s looking at you.’ That usually worked. Paul looked around worriedly and sat down at last. And things had been going so well.... The honeymoon was over already.
‘Let’s order. I’m starved,’ I said, eager to change the subject. I had that familiar heavy, weary feeling that I’d been experiencing all too often, of late, in Paul’s company. Why did we keep on having such stupid rows over nothing? It was as if we were at cross-purposes all the time. I had hoped that tonight would prove an exception – but apparently it wasn’t to be.
I perused the menu as if it were a legal document. Of course, it was much more important than that. Paul looked amused (thank God).
‘Surely you know that menu off by heart at this stage. You always order the same thing anyway.’
‘Well, maybe I fancy a change. And don’t call me Shirley.’
Good humour restored. For now.
‘Shall we order a bottle of wine?’
‘I can’t drink, I’m driving.’
‘Oh, come on, Paul, let’s get hammered. I’m really in the mood. Leave the car in town tonight. We can get a taxi, and you can collect it tomorrow.’
