Lyrebird

by Cecelia Ahern

  There are three places to go. Through an archway into the labyrinth; manicured hedging that they used to get up to mischief in, the beach.

  ‘He wouldn’t bring her in there,’ Cara says. She looks across the road to the beach, then back to the garden. By now Solomon’s heart is racing.

  ‘Up here,’ Cara says, and they leave the manicured garden behind and climb the rugged wild land beside. No man’s land. They weren’t allowed to go there as children. Everyone knew about the children that were taken by the old witch woman who lived there, who couldn’t have children of her own – Marie’s own version of the Bogie man. It worked to a point. It wasn’t until their teens that they started hanging out there. Cormac and Donal had taken the fourteen-year-old Irish college students there for drinking sessions during the night while they were away from their Dublin homes for three weeks in the summer to learn Irish. It was fairly tame stuff, drinking and smoking, kissing and whatever body parts they were lucky enough to get their hands on, but one night Donal had broken his ankle, gone over it on a rock, so they had to alert their parents, and it was game over. The students’ disappointed parents had come to collect them and, crying, the girls had shamefully returned to Dublin, the talk of the school year, the shame of the school, the stuff of legend. While Cormac and Donal spent the summer grounded, Marie had learned not to allow Irish college students to stay in her house until the children were older.

  Solomon and Cara pick their way across the dark land, Cara leading the way.

  ‘There you are,’ she announces suddenly, and Solomon catches up.

  Laura and Rory are sitting on a smooth flat rock, hidden from view of the house, with a perfect view of the beach. The moon is lighting the way, the sea crashes to the shore. Rory’s arm is around Laura’s shoulder. Solomon can’t even speak, he feels his heart in his throat.

  ‘She’s cold,’ Rory says, with a cheeky smile.

  It was always Rory who had the ability to wind him up. Solomon never had much problem with the others – and when he did they were physical fights – but Rory always managed to get inside his head. Not being able to pronounce Rory’s name had made him agitated with his youngest brother from the beginning, ever since he was born. He was bullied by the others for not being able to say it, and Rory used it to his advantage, trying to get under Solomon’s skin in any way he could.

  ‘It is cold out,’ Cara says. ‘No cuckoos around, though. Bit too late for that, isn’t it?’

  Rory bites his lip but it doesn’t stop his smile. He looks from brother to sister, knowing he has agitated them both and enjoying the feeling. Or he’s agitated one, and the other has come to his defence. He seems proud of himself.

  ‘What are you two doing out here?’ Rory asks.

  ‘Taking photos,’ Cara says.

  ‘You don’t have a camera.’

  ‘Nope.’ She holds her stare with her brother, annoyed with him too.

  Rory shakes his head and laughs. ‘Right, Laura, I think we should go inside. Turner and Hooch are worried about you.’

  ‘Okay,’ Laura says, looking at the three of them, worried by what she’s seeing and making Solomon feel awful for causing her to feel that way.

  ‘Any time you need me, when this fool is boring you, just call,’ he grins and starts to make his way across the rocks to the house. Cara follows him.

  ‘Are you okay?’ Solomon asks, finally finding his voice.

  ‘Yes.’ She smiles, then she looks down. ‘You were worried about me.’

  ‘Yes,’ he says awkwardly, embarrassed.

  They’re so close she feels his warm breath reach her skin through the cool air. She smells beer. It’s dark but his face is half-lit by the lights of the house. Strong jaw, perfect nose. She wants to undo the topknot, run her hands through his hair. She wants to know what it feels like, see how it moves. She sees his Adam’s apple move as he swallows.

  ‘You didn’t need to worry about me.’

  She means that she has no interest in his brother, nothing like the way he makes her feel by merely being in his company, but she knows it has come out wrong. He looks hurt. As if he has understood her to mean that she doesn’t want him to worry, because she doesn’t want him. Her heart pounds. She wants to take it back immediately, explain it properly.

  ‘Watch out on the rocks,’ he says gently, turning to make his way to the house.

  16

  The following morning the house that’s filled to the brim with people, every bedroom full, every couch being slept on despite Marie’s planning, is completely silent. It was six a.m. when the party finally ended, and though Laura went to bed after her discussion with Solomon, so annoyed with herself for saying what she’d said, and him embarrassed for trying to be her knight in shining armour, he had stayed up for a few more hours, watching Rory, watching the stairs to make sure she was safe. Rory had given Solomon a wide berth – physically but not mentally, Rory never could avoid that. Whenever they would catch eyes he’d wink or give him a cheeky grin that was enough to send Solomon spiralling into a silent jealous rage. He’d gone to his room around two a.m. and then been kept awake by the singing and shouting downstairs, and by Donal, who collapsed on him somewhere around five a.m., snoring as soon as his head hit the pillow.

  Solomon could quite gladly have stayed in bed all day, or taken off somewhere quiet with his guitar to play or to write: he feels something stirring in him. The feelings of inspiration are rare these days, but he knows he won’t settle. He reckons Laura will more than likely rise early, and he doesn’t want Rory to take her off anywhere again. He isn’t planning to act like her bodyguard the entire time, but he certainly isn’t about to let it be his baby brother who gets his paws on her.

  He showers quickly and goes downstairs. Every single window of the house is open to air the stench of stale smoke and drink. Marie is sitting at the kitchen table in her dressing gown, with her neighbours, drinking Bloody Marys.

  ‘Will you have a fry?’ she asks, her voice tired. The festivities have taken it out of her.

  ‘I’m grand, thanks, Mam. Have you lads not been home yet?’ Solomon jokes, pouring milk into his cereal.

  ‘Yes, but we came around again for round two, ding ding!’ their neighbour Jim laughs, lifting his Bloody Mary. ‘Sláinte.’ Despite his cheer, the mood is calm as they dissect the goings on of the night. ‘Your Lyrebird is a real treasure,’ he says.

  ‘How did you know she’s called Lyrebird?’

  ‘She told us. Said you’d named her that. Not familiar myself, but sounds like a fascinating bird. Nowhere near as fascinating as the girl, though. My word, that’s some set of organs on her.’

  ‘A great set of organs all right,’ Rory says suddenly, shuffling into the kitchen sleepily and scratching his head.

  ‘She went across to the beach,’ Marie says, watching Solomon closely, trying to hide her knowing smile as he suddenly throws heaped spoons of cereal into his mouth in an effort to finish quickly and get outside to Laura.

  ‘Mind if I—’ He stands up and dumps the cereal bowl in the sink.

  ‘Go.’ She smiles. ‘But don’t forget you promised your dad you’d go shooting today.’

  Laura is standing at the water’s edge in another of her interesting fashion concoctions. It looks like she’s wearing a man’s shirt, probably Tom’s, but using her alteration skills she has adjusted it to fit as a dress, added clashing fabric of another shirt along the bottom for length, with a leather belt knotted around her waist, a pair of black Doc Martens with woollen socks pulled up to below her knee, which work on her long lean legs, and a denim jacket. Solomon doesn’t know much about fashion, but he knows she’s certainly not following any trends. Even so, she looks cool. She looks like the kind of woman he’d chat up in a bar, the kind of woman who’d turn his head. The kind of woman who could turn his heart.

  Laura feels like she could stand at the water’s edge for ever; it has been years since she has been near the sea, since her last family holi
day with Gaga and Mum in Dingle. She could easily stay standing here, but that was the problem with Laura, she could stay anywhere she set her mind to, for ever. Full days spent in the forest, leaning against a tree trunk, gazing up through the leaves at the sky. An entire day, lost in her mind, in her memory, in her daydreams. But not any more; she has to stop this, she needs to change with the change, prepare for a new direction.

  She closes her eyes and listens to the water lapping gently, she almost starts to sway with the relaxation. The seagulls sing overhead and she relishes the beauty and perfection of the moment. It’s made even more perfect with the arrival of him. She smells him before she hears him.

  ‘Hi, Solomon,’ she says before he says anything, before she even turns around.

  ‘Hi.’ He laughs. ‘Are you psychic too?’

  ‘That would mean I know what’s going to happen in the future,’ she says, turning to look at him. ‘I wish I knew that.’ He’s wearing a blue long-sleeved cotton top, with buttons open at the top. A few dark hairs on his chest peep out. The sides of his head are shaved short and tight, but the rest of his black waves and curls are tied up in a high ponytail. She’s never seen a man with a ponytail before, but she likes it. He’s still masculine, like a warrior, and it shows off his features, his high cheekbones, his strong jaw that is always covered in stubble. She wants to run her hands over it as he does when he’s thinking, looking lost and intense.

  ‘What was that?’ he frowns.

  ‘What?’ she asks.

  ‘That noise.’

  She wasn’t even aware she’d made one, but she’d been thinking of one. The sound of his fingers brushing his stubble, the motion he makes when he’s thinking. She likes that sound.

  ‘Would you really like to know what happens in the future?’ he asks, standing beside her, looking out to sea.

  ‘Sometimes I’m more interested in what happened in the past,’ she admits. ‘I think about conversations I’ve had, or have overheard, or even things that I haven’t. I think them through, imagine how they could have gone, would have gone.’

  ‘Like …?’

  ‘Like my mum and Tom. How they had this secret love affair, I imagine it – not, you know, all of it, but …’

  ‘I know what you mean,’ he says, eager for her to continue.

  ‘I think that was probably my flaw. Why I never left the mountain. I was so busy thinking about the past, I forgot to plan for my future.’

  She feels his eyes searing into her and she looks away; she can’t take their heat.

  ‘What about you?’ she asks.

  ‘What about me? I’ve forgotten what we were talking about.’ He’s not joking. He’s nervous.

  ‘Future thinker or past thinker?’

  ‘Future,’ he says, certain. ‘Since I was a kid, I lived in my head. I wanted to be a rock star, I always thought about my future, being older, leaving school, conquering the world with my music.’

  She laughs. ‘Was that your flaw?’

  ‘No.’ He looks at her again and her stomach flips. ‘I think we have the same one.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Not thinking about the present.’

  As soon as he says it, everything feels so now. Like a spell has been cast between them, her body tingles from head to toe, feeling so alive yet faint. She has never felt this way around anyone before, in her rare experiences with people; even she knows this isn’t normal. It’s something special.

  He looks away and breaks the spell. She tries to hide her disappointment.

  ‘Everybody loved you last night,’ he says, almost businesslike, matter-of-fact. She’s lost him again, to whatever goes on inside his head when he gets that intense distant look. ‘They think you’ve landed here from another planet. They’ve never seen such a gift.’

  She smiles her thanks. ‘It is your mother who is gifted.’ She thinks of Marie, sitting at the harp, sitting so beautifully straight at the harp, and she hears the song before she realises she’s making the sound again.

  ‘Did you like being on stage?’ he asks her, captivated.

  She can tell he has something on his mind. Like last night when he was angry with her because he found her with his brother. She has never met someone like him who seems to have so much going on in their head that isn’t spoken. It’s all in his eyes and his forehead. The thoughts seem to take shape and move around in his brow, knots of thoughts. She wishes they’d break free of his skin so she could see what they are for herself. She wants to place her hands on his forehead and say Stop. Smooth it down, give him peace. Better yet, touch her lips to his frown. He’s uncomfortable now, something has shifted in him so quickly, going from being relaxed to tense in a matter of a few seconds.

  He rubs his jaw. She mimics the sound. She loves that sound. Suddenly the bubbling thoughts are gone and the beautiful straight teeth are grinning at her instead. That’s better.

  ‘That’s what that sound was you made earlier,’ he says, happy to have placed it, perhaps happy that it’s his sound.

  Laura would make that sound all day if it meant he’d smile at her like that all the time. But it wouldn’t work, he’d grow tired of the sound, the spark would eventually wear off, she would have to keep finding new ones and this new world was ripe with new sounds for her. Sometimes too many; it was starting to give her a headache trying to process them all. She was eager at first to hear them, understand them, but then as they moved from Macroom to Galway the sounds intensified. Particularly last night. She felt exhausted by the interaction and she looks forward to returning to Cork. Wherever it is she’ll be staying, at least she’ll be spending time on the mountain, surrounded by familiar sounds.

  Though no matter how many times people had sung their songs last night, the spark had never seemed to wear off them. She was hearing them for the first time and it was as though they were performing for the first time. Especially Solomon’s performance. He had brought the room alive. Laura’s heart had been in her throat the entire time at the sound of his singing voice, of the twenty things that made him so happy at seventeen.

  Solomon’s concern has returned and she senses something. ‘The reason I ask whether you enjoyed performing last night is because Bo called me last night.’

  Bo coming into their conversation has altered everything, the space widens between them. Who made that happen, her or him? She looks down at the sand, sees that her feet have moved from her footprints, as have his. They both have stepped away from each other.

  ‘She had a change of plan,’ he says, sounding strained, forced.

  Laura’s heart thuds, hoping Bo won’t pull the plug on the documentary. She doesn’t care in the slightest about it, but she needs it. It’s the only bridge off her island. If she doesn’t have them, she doesn’t know what will become of her life.

  ‘She wants us to go to Dublin tonight. She’s lined up some interviews for the documentary there.’

  Laura feels such relief that it’s still going ahead that she doesn’t care about not returning to her home. She tries to fight the grin from her face.

  ‘And she has a friend’ – his face darkens and his forehead bubbles – ‘who has a TV talent show, StarrQuest. They would like you to go on the show.’

  He seems so conflicted, she’s unsure. The signal to understanding him is coming and going. He keeps talking while she tries to figure him out.

  ‘Bo showed footage of you to these TV people. Remember the coffee machine at breakfast yesterday?’

  Laura makes the sound instantly as she recalls it.

  ‘Yeah, that one.’ His smile is tight.

  ‘They like that sound?’ She makes the sound again, listening to herself more carefully to see what was so special about it.

  ‘It’s unique, Laura. Nobody else makes that sound. Nothing other than … the coffee machine.’

  ‘Then that coffee machine would have a big chance of winning,’ she says, trying to ease his discomfort.

  He laughs loudly and he
r joke seems to do what was intended.

  ‘I’ve heard about StarrQuest,’ she says. ‘I’ve read enough magazines to know who the winners are of every single reality TV show going, and heard about them and their songs on the radio. What do you think of me doing it?’

  ‘I’ll be honest …’ He puts his hands to his face.

  She makes the stubble rubbing sound and he stops, stuffs his hands in the pockets of his jeans.

  ‘When Bo told me about it last night, I was not happy. I thought it was a bad idea. But then I saw you perform, I saw the looks on people’s faces. They were captivated. Maybe it’s wrong to deprive people of that experience, this experience of you that I’m having. Maybe I didn’t want to share you. But the documentary would have done that anyway. Maybe it’s wrong to deprive you of that experience, of that adulation, that celebration of your skills.’

  She feels her cheeks glow pink because of his words. He didn’t want to share her. But she’s confused. ‘My skills?’

  He’s not sure how to broach the sounds that she makes. He’s not even sure if she’s aware she makes them half the time.

  ‘Like what you did last night at the party. Did you enjoy it?’

  She thinks of the serenity she felt in his parents’ home. The calm as she recalled the harp strings, the shared energy in the atmosphere. The explosive reaction gave her a fright, but she wasn’t expecting it. She felt alone, which she likes, but as though she was sharing being alone with others.

  ‘Yes,’ she says. ‘I did like it.’

  He takes this in. He seems surprised by the reaction, perhaps disappointed. She’s confused. He’s not making this easy for her. He’s asking her to do something that she’s not entirely sure he wants her to do.

  ‘Why would you want me to do this show, exactly?’ she asks.

  ‘It’s not my idea,’ he says quickly. ‘It’s Bo’s idea. Her reasoning is that it would be good for the documentary. If you have a profile, then it will help the success of the documentary.’