A Savage Hunger (Paula Maguire 4)

by Claire McGowan

  She went up. Rapped on the bathroom door. Silence. ‘What?’

  ‘I’m going to bed now, I have to be up early. Can you let me get in?’

  ‘Just a minute.’

  Why was he shaving at one a.m., for God’ sake? She listened to him splash around, irked. The door opened. There he was, stripped to the waist, his jeans dark with water. ‘You took your time.’

  ‘I thought you’d be out still.’ He looked at her, and she couldn’t tell if anything was wrong. ‘Relax, will you. Is this going to set the tone for our married life?’

  ‘If you hog the bathroom it might.’ She looked behind him. ‘Can I go in now?’

  ‘It’s all yours.’ He stretched, the muscles in his chest shifting. She couldn’t imagine a time when she wouldn’t want to touch him, run her hands over his skin just for the sheer pleasure of it. ‘Like what you see?’ He did a mock body-building pose.

  ‘Just checking out what I’ll be stuck with.’

  ‘Stuck with, she says! Listen, I’ll go in Mags’s room, then I’ll head out early before you’re up. Preserve that sense of mystery, or whatever the bollocks reason was that I had to stay at Dave’s.’

  ‘I think so we can hoodwink God into thinking there’s been no extra-marital badness.’

  ‘Let’s hope the priest doesn’t notice Herself, then.’ He leaned in and kissed her on the cheek, chastely. ‘Sleep well, Maguire. Cos tomorrow’s gonna be a long one.’ He went into Maggie’s room and shut the door. Paula found herself looking around for his T-shirt. Usually Aidan would leave it in his wake, but there was no sign of it in the bathroom or on the landing. She went in, and saw the smear of drying red on the underside of the basin.

  She regarded it for a while, but she’d come across enough blood in her time to know it when she saw it. He’d cut himself shaving, maybe. In a hurry, with her hassling him. She tore off some toilet paper and wiped it, flushed; all gone. In the mirror her face looked pale and worried. Paula took a deep breath. She could not do this. Could not suspect her husband all the time, of terrible crimes, of lies, just because she spent her life unpicking other people’s. Just because her mother had kept secrets, and was gone, it didn’t mean everyone had. And just because her mother had left a man, and a daughter, left them alone in this very house – by choice or not, there was no way to tell – it didn’t mean Paula would. It didn’t mean she and Aidan couldn’t manage this. Of course it didn’t. And so she was going to do it, and give it her very best shot, because that was all anyone had to offer.

  Paula was very good at opening Maggie’s door without making a sound. She peered in at Aidan, already curled up and asleep on the bed. His hand was thrown back, and in the street light Paula could see the cuts and scrapes on his knuckles.

  Paula was woken in the morning by Maggie, her red hair in bendy rollers, but still in her Peppa Pig pyjamas, bursting through the door and jumping on the bed. ‘Oof! What are you doing here?’

  ‘Granny brung me.’

  ‘Brought me.’ Maggie ignored her, burrowing under the covers. She was developing a real Ballyterrin accent, which had come as something of a shock to Paula. If she’d thought of it at all, she’d imagined her future children would grow up in England, with polite little Southern accents.

  ‘Where’s Daddy?’ Maggie had found no one else in the bed, just her mother in an old vest top and pyjama bottoms. Where was Daddy? A good question. Paula had lain awake for hours, hearing every car up and down the main road, listening for sounds next door, but she must have fallen asleep by the time he left.

  ‘He’s at Auntie Saoirse’s house, getting ready.’

  Maggie was worrying at Paula’s plait. She liked to lay it alongside her own, to see the matching colour, pretend she had long hair. ‘Auntie Saoirse’s here, Mummy.’

  ‘Is she?’ Paula could indeed hear voices downstairs, Pat and Saoirse, and the make-up girl, and she was still not even showered. ‘Mummy better get up then.’

  ‘Yes, get up, Mummy.’

  ‘OK, OK. You go on down then. Be careful on those stairs.’ In the bathroom, she confronted her own pale face, the shadows under her eyes almost green with exhaustion. Hungover and tired, and worried sick about the groom – exactly as a bride should be. She sighed. Aidan was right, it was going to be a long day.

  Afterwards, it had all somehow blurred into one. Several hours went by of people sticking clips in her hair and running hairdryers and curling her eyelashes and jabbing at her cheeks with sponges. The make-up girl had foundation three inches thick herself, and Paula kept saying, ‘Please, not too much, I honestly don’t wear a lot.’ Saoirse was there, her hair already done but wearing her glasses and a checked shirt over jeans. Flowers were being put in water by PJ. White roses in bud. Paula thought of Yvonne, carrying her blooms up the road, and she wished they’d chosen any other flower for the bouquets. Pat was buzzing about steaming her hat, and putting on mascara, and fretting over when the cars were arriving. Maggie had an unaccountable tantrum over her beaded headband and Paula had to scoop her onto her knee, smudging her make-up and causing exclamations all around. Finally Saoirse was helping her put the dress over her head, the world momentarily muffled in all that silk and lace.

  ‘Ah, look. You’re beautiful.’ Saoirse stepped back.

  ‘You better not cry, Glocko,’ said Paula sternly. ‘There are things worth crying about, and me stuffed into a dress made in a Chinese sweatshop isn’t one of them.’

  ‘OK.’ Saoirse dabbed her eyes. Paula regarded herself in the mirror of her parents’ old room. The dress, for all it was cheap, sparkled with beads and lace. She’d insisted on a halter neck, not having the chest for strapless. The dress clung to her down to her knees, then the heavy silk pooled round her feet. Her hair was up, strikingly red against her pale skin and dress. ‘Hmm. Could be worse, I suppose.’

  Saoirse was gathering the folds of her own lilac dress. ‘I’ll tell them you’re ready.’

  ‘Just – yeah. I just need a minute.’

  Alone, for the last time in a long while, she drew in her breath. The room was quiet, the clothes hanging in the wardrobe, the blinds casting shadows. It had been her and Aidan’s for two years now, but Paula could still feel her mother there. Feel the secrets she must have been hiding that day in October almost twenty years ago. Imagine how things would be if her mother hadn’t gone, if everything was still in its proper place. Maybe she’d still be marrying Aidan, never having left Ballyterrin. Or maybe she’d have gone with her parents’ blessing, married some English fella, or no one at all.

  It didn’t matter, in the end. This was the life she’d ended up with. There was no other. She took a deep breath. It was time.

  In the car, squashed in beside her suddenly silent father in his grey morning suit, Paula convinced herself Aidan wouldn’t be there. That’s what last night was about. He’d probably done a runner and she’d get some message saying he was already on a ferry to England . . . she fumbled in her clutch bag for her phone, which was blank of messages.

  ‘All right?’ asked PJ.

  ‘Yes, just . . . um. Bit nervous.’

  PJ said nothing for a moment. ‘Don’t be worrying. He’s been down there this ages.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘You know who. I got your man Dave to text me, just in case. He’s there all right. Don’t you worry.’

  Her hand snaked over the folds of silk, found her dad’s. She wasn’t going to say anything maudlin about wishing her mother could see her, and neither was he. They were just going to get on with things and try to be happy. Because when it came down to it, that was all you ever could do.

  Now they were at the church. Everyone inside. The photographer snapping away. Saoirse with Maggie by the hand, ready to go in first. PJ asking was she ready, taking her arm to guide her up the steps. She was trying to breathe. Then they were in the porch, and she could see rows and rows of heads through the glass of the doors.

  Was that him, up at the front? Dark hair, a sui
t. She couldn’t see his face properly. The light in the church was dusty, opaque. Her legs under the stupid, itchy dress were heavy and she held her breath. There was the team, Avril in a little hat, hair and lips glossy. Gerard beside her, red and scrubbed in a suit. Fiacra, some look of sadness on his face, making him very old and very young all at once. Dave all spruced up too – a reminder that she’d missed his and Saoirse’s wedding, how unforgivable. Pat in her ‘mother of the bride and groom too, it’s awkward, let’s not mention it’ outfit of old gold. She was pleased to see Bob had come with Linda, his wife. Someone must be minding Ian, their disabled son. Her father had gone in too, stumping to his seat with one last squeeze of her arm. She’d asked not to be given away, thinking it old-fashioned, sexist even, but as she stood in the porch she wished there was someone to propel her forward, show her the way. She heard Maggie’s voice rise above the hubbub – Mummy – and the sound went up, light as a balloon. They didn’t know she’d arrived yet, and so she got to watch her own wedding for a moment, in the church where they’d held her mother’s memorial, the smell of damp hymnals and rubber hassocks, the heavy weight of gilt – and guilt, for that matter. Oh God. She was frozen. She didn’t think she could actually take a step forward on her own. Where was Aidan? Why couldn’t she see him properly? God help him, if he was late for this . . .

  ‘Paula.’

  Him. What was he . . . ? At first she thought he’d come to give her away, walk her down the aisle – and she was almost grateful for a second. Later, she would not forgive herself for that small moment, that slip, of being pleased to see him.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ Had she invited him? No, of course she hadn’t.

  ‘I’m sorry.’ He stepped into the church porch in his navy suit, his eyes finding hers. ‘I’m so sorry to do this today, believe me, I . . .’

  Paula was suffocated under the veil. She threw it back. ‘Do what?’ Outside there was a white car. Blue markings. She understood it was a police car, same as she saw every day, but her brain couldn’t work out what it was doing here, parked outside the church. On her wedding day. Then she saw the uniformed officers, and realised she’d let her bouquet fall to the ground, the white roses landing with a damp flump.

  Guy was coming towards her, talking rapidly, quietly. As if time was running out. ‘It’s Sean Conlon – he’s been murdered.’

  Again, her first thought was odd – some kind of regret. What if he’d known something? They’d never be sure now.

  He was still moving, speaking fast and low. The officers were at the door. ‘It’s Aidan. He was the last person to see Conlon. They had a fight. Last night. Everyone in the pub saw. Now Conlon’s dead. I’m sorry to come here but I thought it might be easier if it was me – they wouldn’t wait – I’m sorry.’

  Aidan was coming down the aisle. That was the wrong way round. She was meant to go to him. She had a moment to see his face – pale under the dark hair – his grey wedding suit – the single white rose in his buttonhole.

  Then, too late, she finally understood.

  Alice

  When I was little – shortly before they packed me off to boarding school and moved to Africa – Tony and Rebecca took me to a circus. I was almost sick with excitement. I remember the popcorn, the smell of elephant poo, the way the steel poles of the tent dug down into the mud. The red and blue dome overhead, the man in the top hat and whip.

  The thing I remember most is the magician. He had a sparkly red cape and a moustache, and a lady in a spangly swimsuit I thought must be his wife. He did tricks, pulled rabbits from his hat – and then he chopped his wife into pieces. It worked like this. She went into the giant box with stars painted on the side. Then the magician began pushing swords through it. When the first one went in, I screamed. Rebecca tutted and told me to be quiet. But Tony smiled at me, and a minute later I felt him take my sticky little hand in his big one, and I knew everything was OK.

  Then of course the box fell apart and the lady wasn’t there; she’d vanished and appeared at the top of the tent, on the platform for the trapeze artists, shining like a star. I clapped so hard my hands hurt. It was like a miracle. Later on, when it became clear I’d been taken to the circus to soften the blow of being sent away, I wondered what it would be like to actually be the magician’s wife. Never knowing when he might make you disappear, or when he might cut you to pieces.

  Part Three

  ‘If there’s no meaning in it,’ said the King, ‘that saves a world of trouble, you know, as we needn’t try to find any.’

  Lewis Carroll, Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland

  Ballyterrin, Northern Ireland,

  July 1981

  There were freedom fighters, in other countries, who strapped their bombs to their own bodies. Pulled a switch, went sky-high along with everyone else, straight to the afterlife in a blaze of glory. Died for the cause, and willingly.

  That was not the Republican way. If you got blown up with your own bomb it was because you’d made a hames of it. No, your way was to plant it, walk off, then pull the switch. Ring in a warning, if you were feeling nice about it. Stand back and watch it go up. Today, there had been no bomb. And yet the feeling as you drove away from Ballyterrin was the same. A sort of excitement, that made you tap your fingers on the wheel and fidget your feet on the pedals. Waiting for it to go up. It was lunchtime now. They’d find him soon, and then . . .

  He’d known you when you came to the door. Smile on his face. A chara. Friend. Come on in.

  Your hands convulsed at the memory. It had to be done, friend or no friend. It was your duty and you weren’t about to shirk it, not when those lads in the jail had given body and blood to the struggle. The least you could give was a bit of your soul.

  It was over quickly. The surprised look on his face, the light in the eyes going out, the slump down the hallway, a dark red stain sliding behind him. Nice wallpaper, with bobbly bits. Ruined now. Behind him, under the coatrack, a pair of child’s welly boots. Yellow. Duck’s faces on the front.

  But you weren’t going to think about that. You were driving fast, the radio playing. ‘Ghost Town’. That was nearly funny. You were passing the old church now, almost away from Ballyterrin. For a moment you imagined pulling up, going in, out of the heat in that cold stone, and gulping in the air, and saying your penance. But no. Better to get away. In the gate of the church a girl was standing, her eyes shaded against the sun. Yellow dress, yellow hair. Something in her hands – white roses? As you passed, the air from the car moulded her dress around the shape of her, and you noticed, and that was good. You’d feel OK again soon. You’d smile at pretty girls on summer days. You’d bring them roses. Everything would be grand. Soon.

  The radio. ‘In Belfast, another hunger striker lies on the brink of death . . .’ He would die now. Because of what you’d done. You did what you had to, for the struggle.

  But the smile on his face. Welcoming you in. Sean, he’d said. A chara. Come on in. You weren’t sure if you would ever forget that.

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  ‘But miss, you can’t—’

  Shaking, Paula rounded on the desk sergeant. ‘It’s Doctor. What’s your name? I’ve been working here nearly three years, for Christ’s sake. I’m entitled to go into the station if I want.’ She’d even brought her work pass to the church, among the cards in her wallet. God knows why.

  ‘But, you’re . . .’ He waved a hand at her dress with its stiff cream layers, the flowers falling down from her head.

  ‘That’s because it’s my wedding day, you eejit. Only you lot arrested the bloody groom.’ She’d watched Aidan being loaded into the police car – moving like a sleepwalker, not looking at her – and she’d collared some late-arriving guest, made them drive her up the road. She wasn’t even sure who, one of Aidan’s colleagues at the paper, maybe? A youngish fella. Rude to turn up late, anyway.

  The desk sergeant was gesturing helplessly. ‘But you can’t . . .’

  ‘All r
ight, let her in.’ Helen Corry appeared, clattering through reception in sky-high heels. Paula had a moment to think how well she looked, in an oyster-grey silk suit, a little hat on her fair hair. She must have come straight from the church. ‘You couldn’t have gone home to change?’ she asked Paula, not unkindly.

  ‘No! Aidan’s been arrested!’

  ‘I know, I know.’ She had buzzed them in, was directing Paula down a corridor. The station was as full as it always was on a Saturday, and she felt the curious looks from officers she knew and ones she didn’t. Flicking over her skin like little scratches. Corry opened a door and switched on a light. ‘In you go.’

  ‘An interview room? For God’s sake.’

  ‘The nice one, at least. Come on, you can’t be running round here like Runaway Bride.’

  Paula relented, sinking with shaking hands into the sofa. It was the place they took victims, or families, people in deep shock – that was her now, the family. Of the suspect.

  Corry stayed standing. ‘I rang around. I asked why in the name of God would they do this at your wedding – apparently there’s good evidence against him.’

  She was running it through in her head – Aidan at the house. The blood. ‘Sean Conlon.’ Her voice was muffled, like it was coming from far away. ‘He’s dead.’

  ‘Well, yes. He was drinking in Flanagan’s pub last night. The punters said Aidan came in about eleven, saw Conlon, started on him. Conlon went out back, Aidan followed. Neither came back in so the barman just thought they’d gone off home.’

  Paula knew the owner of Flanagan’s well. He’d stayed open all through the Troubles by turning so many blind eyes it was a wonder he could see at all. ‘And what then?’

  Slight pause. ‘Well, they found Conlon’s body this morning, in the car park. He’d been beaten to death – Paula, someone smashed his head off the tarmac.’