Orla.
He freezes. She didn’t. She couldn’t have. Not like this. Not without telling him. Not Orla. He doesn’t see the lights turn green, doesn’t hear the drivers behind him making their impatience known. He doesn’t hear anything except roaring in his ears. He has crumpled the letter into a ball and flung it at the windscreen. Now he is trying to reach it where it has fallen on the other side of the car. There’s a knock on the window. He looks up. A guy is signalling at him to roll it down. He does.
‘What the fuck are you up to?’
‘Sorry?’
‘The lights are green, man.’
‘Sorry, sorry.’
‘Just go, OK?’
Rory takes off, turns immediately left, into the hospital grounds where he throws the car up on a high kerb. He reaches for the note and flattens it out on his thigh. He reads it again, trying to take it in. His running, climbing, busy son. Gone. Dead. He should have stopped her. He should have tried harder. He should have done something. He was wrong about Orla. Wrong. ‘Please don’t contact me.’ The last thing he wants to do is contact her. He could quite easily kill her. He gets out of the car, slamming the door. He looks towards the hospital, then turns and walks in the opposite direction. He is glad when the heavens open and the rain that falls is torrential. He deserves every discomfort, every humiliation. He let his son die. He looks up at the clouds and says aloud, ‘Bring it on.’
He doesn’t know where he is going. Just walks. The rain stops. And later, starts again. He takes no shelter. Just trudges on. He finds himself in a church. At first it feels right, quiet, peaceful, a place of repentance. But then he’s haunted by flashbacks. First, his father’s coffin being lowered slowly into the ground, the sound of the earth being shovelled in. Second, his attacker, bearing down on him, syringe in hand. In need of air, he stumbles outside. He sits on the steps staring at his surroundings, taking an imprint of them to block out his demons.
And then he is walking again, and crying. When he finds himself back at his car, it has been clamped. He sits inside. Teeth chattering, knees shaking. He is soaked through. But he just sits, staring into the middle distance, doing nothing to get the clamp removed. When they come to tow him, he opens the window and produces a credit card. They explain that it’s too late; they have to tow him now – he could have avoided that if he’d called to have the clamp removed. He doesn’t argue, just gets out. They take one look at him, soaked and haunted, and ask for the credit card back.
‘Just this once,’ one of them says.
Rory doesn’t thank them. He doesn’t care.
He drives home. Climbs into a hot shower and slowly peels off his clothes. He stays under until the water goes cold, then dries himself roughly and dresses. Overtaken by exhaustion, he lies on the bed. In less than a minute he is asleep.
He wakes to the bleep of a text message. It’s from the hospital. A third. Groggily, he reads all three. Then rings the ward with an excuse, an apology and some instructions. He’ll be in early in the morning, he promises.
He hauls himself off the bed, splashes water on his face. Drinks coffee to revive himself. He has a nagging feeling that there’s somewhere he’s meant to be, dealing with a commitment he’d mildly dreaded, which is why he remembers it at all. What was it? He checks the calendar on his phone. His mother’s financial affairs, something Owen had wanted to handle, but something Siofra didn’t trust him to. She’d volunteered Rory who hadn’t really wanted to get involved in that side of things. The only reason he agreed was to keep the peace and because he knew his mother needed help. Now, he considers cancelling. But the thought of sorting through bills, accounts and statements is preferable to being alone in the apartment with only one thing to think about.
‘Sorry I’m late,’ he says, when she answers the door.
‘I’m not going anywhere.’ She pastes on a smile.
Which reminds him to do the same.
‘Better get started,’ he says, as soon as they’re inside. If they start to talk, he’s afraid of what he might say.
She shows him to his father’s lock-up desk, traditionally forbidden territory and consequently a source of intrigue. He sits a moment, closing his eyes and inhaling its familiar smell as he remembers his father, hunched over it. Rory’s eyes smart and when his mother offers him tea, he opens the desk to avoid having to look at her.
How neat everything is. Bundles of official looking papers held together with elastic bands. Lodgement slips, filed receipts, cheque stubs and cash withdrawal slips. Statements in their navy plastic folder. Sellotape, stapler, envelopes, notepaper, all neatly arranged. A place for everything. He starts to go through the accounts. They are as basic as they could be. No credit cards. No overdraft. No paper trails. No missing statements. Everything balancing, tying up. Rory regrets that it’s not more complex. He had hoped that maybe there might be a side to his father he hadn’t seen, a careless side that made mistakes.
The tea arrives in his World’s Best Rugby Player mug, another silent rebellion against the man who believed that people should drink from cups. He smiles at his mother. She always did understand.
She sits in a nearby armchair, pretending to read an old newspaper. The silence between them is companionable. Finally, Rory finishes up. She expresses surprise at how little time it took.
He shrugs. ‘It was all in order.’
She looks proud. ‘He always made sure of that.’
‘Yeah.’
She gets up and goes to him. As he tidies everything away, she peers over his shoulder. ‘Do you think I could handle it now?’ she asks.
‘There’s no need to worry about that yet.’
‘Rory. He’s gone. I have to learn to cope without him. You all have your lives. I want to be able to stand on my own two feet.’
He nods.
‘So let’s start.’
‘Now?’
‘Unless you’re too tired.’
‘No. It’s fine. OK, let’s do it now.’
He goes to the kitchen and gets her a chair, which he settles down beside him. It’s no job. His mother picks it up very quickly. Nothing has to be gone over twice. He always believed she was brighter than his father gave her credit for, just never got the chance to show it. She quit her job in the bank when she married, as was the custom of the time.
‘Sure, there’s no mystery to that,’ she says, which makes Rory suspect that his father probably had her believe there was.
‘I’ll buy you a calculator.’
‘Rory, I worked in a bank. If there’s one thing I can do it’s add and subtract.’ The achievement of grasping it all seems to have given her confidence, cheered her up.
He closes the desk and they get up. He returns her chair to the kitchen, planning to leave. He could do with a drink. Could have done with one hours ago. He pops his head in the door to say goodbye.
She is holding a photo of him as a baby. ‘I remember when you were born,’ she says, smiling.
Curious, he comes in.
She looks up from the photo. ‘Your father was terrified of anything happening to you. He wouldn’t hold you. He wouldn’t let the others hold you, either.’
‘Was he like that with all of us?’
She nods. Remembering.
He’s disappointed. He’d thought for one brief moment that maybe he was special.
‘He always worried about you. I don’t think he could help it.’
Rory remembers the drowning. Is that what she’s trying to say? That he was nervous, afraid for them and that’s what drove him?
‘He was hard on you, but that doesn’t mean he didn’t love you. He didn’t want you growing up soft. It was the way he was brought up.’
Something doesn’t sit right about that and Rory knows what it is. ‘But Tom had the same parents and he wasn’t like that.’
‘No. Tom was more easygoing, that’s true. But Tom didn’t have children. At the end of the day, you weren’t his responsibility. You could have fun
together and he could hand you back. I know your father worried too much and I’m not saying his ways were right, but he believed them to be. And he did love you. He just wasn’t brought up to express it.’
After a lifetime of believing he wasn’t loved by him, this is difficult for Rory to accept.
‘I was thinking of giving you all a little something when everything’s sorted with the will. There’s not a whole lot but…’
‘Mum. We’re fine.’ He thinks of Owen. What has he said to her?
‘Sure, what would I do with the money?’ she asks. ‘You don’t have an apartment. Siofra’s mortgage is crippling. Owen’s trying to buy a house and has two families to support.’
‘That’s called life, Mum. We’re fine. Everyone’s fine. And, anyway, the money Dad left isn’t enough to make a difference, so you might as well make the most of it. Do something you’ve never done. Go on a holiday, treat yourself.’ Start living your own life, he thinks but doesn’t say.
‘I could sell the house.’
He’s suspicious. ‘Where did you come up with that idea?’
‘Siofra asked me to live with them.’
‘Do you want to?’
‘No.’
‘Then why would you sell the house?’
‘If I moved into a bungalow that would give me a little nest egg, wouldn’t it?’
‘Why do you want a nest egg?’
‘To share amongst you. I’m sick of seeing the three of you struggling. You’re all I’ve left. I want to do this.’
And he wants her to take advantage of the fact that for the first time since she married she’s free to do whatever she wants. ‘No one’s struggling. And anyway, a bungalow will cost as much as the house. It’s crazy out there.’
Her face falls.
‘If you want to move to a bungalow for yourself, because it’s easier, then by all means, I’ll help you find one. But if you’re doing it because you think you’ll have money left over, you won’t.’
She is twisting the string of, probably costume, pearls on her neck.
‘Mum, please. For once in your life, will you look after yourself? This is your neighbourhood. This is where you know, where the shop is, the church, your friends. If you’re happy here, then stay.’
She mulls it over. ‘Well, then, I’ll just give you all a little something from the will,’ she says.
And although Rory shakes his head, it occurs to him that this might be the solution. There’s no way Owen would contest the will after this gesture. ‘Why don’t you give a bit extra to Owen? He could probably do with it most.’ That would definitely shut him up, Rory thinks, realizing that he will have to explain it to Siofra.
‘I love you all equally,’ his mother says, ‘and I will share it equally.’
‘You’ll be OK, Mum,’ he tries to reassure her.
‘Of course I will.’ Her slight irritation comforts him.
Back in the car, he sees the crumpled letter and everything comes stampeding back. The shock. The sense of betrayal. A letter! Didn’t he deserve at least to be told in person? He’ll never forgive her. In the space of weeks, he has lost a father and a son before he could have a meaningful relationship with either.
That night, his dreams are of dismembered dolls. They moan and call out as if for help. And for the first time in his life he gets up in the middle of the night to get drunk.
33
Rory was mistaken about Johnny. His mate’s approach to life is entirely sensible: live a no-strings life, have a bloody good time and a very short memory. Rory used to think Johnny sad when in reality it was he who was sad, a nice guy, a fool. No one listens to nice guys. Nice guys get walked on. Well, enough Mr Nice Guy. Rory hooks up with Johnny and the gang with a vengeance, out, three, four times a week, recovering in between. He drinks fastest, laughs loudest, leaves first with the best-looking woman in tow. Rory becomes the alpha male, everyone, including Johnny, deferring to him. Not that he gives a shit.
He’s never had so much female attention. It’s all very simple. Don’t give a fuck. And they do. The more irreverent you are, the more they like it. He feels no remorse slipping from beds in the middle of the night. Takes pleasure in leaving phone numbers behind in waste paper baskets. The only thing he cares about is using a condom. He’s not making that mistake twice. On the radio, he hears a woman criticize men like him. Did it ever occur to her that women are the reason men like him exist?
Whenever he sees a baby, he turns away. A boy holding a father’s hand churns his stomach. So he avoids families. Barry and Dee. Siofra and Tony. Owen, who is going to be a father. Rory even avoids Jason. Especially Jason, who reminds him, more than anyone, of how his son might have turned out. He doesn’t care whether or not people believe the excuses he gives for having to bow out time and again. Let them make their own assumptions.
Work is the only place he can truly block everything out. Work and the pub. He doesn’t want to talk about it. What’s the point? Nothing anyone can say will make him feel better. He doesn’t want to feel better. So he works hard and plays harder. And tries to forget.
Time passes. Jenna calls him from the residential programme. If he’d known it was her, he’d never have picked up. He stands, phone in one hand, can of beer in the other. He’d been getting ready to go out.
‘I did need to be here,’ she says. ‘You were right. I did have a problem.’
He doesn’t care.
‘I hated it at first. I was so angry. But I’ve met wonderful people.’
Her voice is irritating him. Would she ever just piss off?
‘People who’re so bright and had so much going for them, but who ruined it with drink.’
He takes a giant slug of beer.
‘People who’ve missed years of their lives. Older people. Important people.’
Now he knows what it must have been like for Louise when he came back from the course. Was he this high on life?
‘I understand about Dad. And that it’s OK to be angry with him, to stop blaming myself and Mum. Blame him instead.’
Does this mean you’re going to stop being so egocentric? he wants to ask.
‘You’re not saying much,’ she says.
‘I’m listening.’
‘Oh, right.’ She pauses. ‘I’m really happy, Rory.’ He wonders how happy she’d be if she knew that she’d caused an abortion. ‘When I go back to school, it’ll be to my old school, not that stuck up one where the only way to survive is to become a bitch.’
There’s a pause.
‘Good,’ he says, to fill it.
‘How’s Mum?’ she asks.
Oh, like now she gives a fuck? ‘I don’t know. I haven’t seen her for a while.’
‘I miss her.’ Jenna’s voice wobbles. ‘She’s such a good person. Sometimes I forget that, you know?’
Oh, please.
‘You’re very quiet,’ she says.
‘Just thinking about work. I’ve to go back in. Bit of an emergency.’
‘Oh, God, sorry. You should have said.’
‘It’s OK.’ He feels guilty now. She’s just a messed-up kid. It’s not her fault. ‘You take care of yourself, OK?’ he says.
‘I am.’
‘Good.’ And despite everything that’s happened, he means it.
Before he can leave the apartment, the phone rings again. He allows it to go to the answering machine, but when he hears Naomi’s voice, he is so surprised, he thinks that something must be wrong. She has never called him before, never would. He picks up.
‘Oh, I thought no one was there,’ she says.
‘Shower.’
‘Oh.’ A brief silence, then, ‘Jason’s going to be nine on Saturday. I’m having a party for him. He’d really like if you could come.’
He feels guilty, knowing they must be wondering what’s happened to him. He wants to say, yes. But the thought of being surrounded by a roomful of boys seems too much.
‘I’m not sure I’ll be free.’ That sounds
as if he doesn’t care. Which is not true. ‘When is it?’ he asks, to give the impression that he’s going to try to make it.
‘Tomorrow week. Jase’s never had a party before.’ She hesitates. ‘My fault.’ Another brief silence follows. But when she speaks again, her voice is upbeat. ‘He’s real excited. He’d love if you could come.’ Shyly, she adds, ‘We both would. We haven’t seen you for a while.’
And now he’s really guilty. ‘Saturday, next week?’ he asks, stalling for time.
‘Yeah.’
He remembers what it was like to have birthdays pass without celebration. ‘Let me just check.’ He appreciates the effort it took for her to ring. ‘You know what? I think I am free Saturday. What time?’
‘Two. At the flat. There’ll be football outside. And chips and stuff.’
Something inside him softens. She is trying so hard. For her boy. ‘I’ll be there.’
It’s the first time he has stepped inside Naomi’s front door. The place is spotless. Brightly coloured balloons are tied in bunches and a Happy Birthday banner stretches across one wall. Rory swallows and blocks the thoughts that have already started to come. He concentrates on all the effort that Naomi has put in. Rice Krispie buns with Smarties on top, cocktail sausages, popcorn. It reminds him of friends’ parties when he was a kid, not that he got invited to many, because he could never ask them back. Despite the decorations and party atmosphere though, Naomi hasn’t been able to completely hide the grimness of the flat, the stained Formica surfaces, the worn kitchen appliances and the linoleum floor ripped in places. He looks at her, busy rushing around. What he feels is admiration. It would have been so easy to slip back, and give in.
‘Rory! I haven’t seen you in ages,’ Jason shouts when he sees him. He hurries over. ‘Where were you?’
Rory’s taken aback. ‘I was really busy at work, Jason, I’m sorry. But it’s great to see you. How’re you doing? Happy Birthday.’ He hands him the gift he carefully selected and wrapped.
Do You Want What I Want? Page 25
