by Laura Elliot
‘Mammy…’ she whispers.
Her mother looks up and there are tears all over her face and dripping off her chin. Joy forgets the pain in her face, and Polar too, and can think of nothing except how much she loves her mother.
‘I’m sorry, Joy. I’m so so sorry.’ Her mother holds out her arms and Joy runs into them. She almost knocks her mother to the ground because she’s still kneeling, her blue dress wet from the grass and the dead flowers.
‘Don’t put my name in the Judgement Book,’ Joy cries. ‘I don’t want Holy God to know I said “fuck”.’
‘I won’t tell him.’ Mammy is still sobbing and, in between, whispering, ‘You must never come here again…it’s dangerous…Hug me…kiss me…love me.’
They bury Polar in the flower bed under the kitchen window. Her mother sings ‘Nearer My God To Thee’ and says, ‘He was a good and faithful bear. May be rest forever in peace.’
In the summer she will plant a rose bush over his grave and Joy will remember him every time a rose blooms.
Joy has no time to be really sad because Mitch Moran drives down the lane the next day with something very special in his car for her.
‘He’s weaned from his mother,’ he says. ‘And he’s yours if you want him. Miriam tells me you’ve had a sad funeral for Polar.’
The pup lies in a basket in the back seat. When he sees Joy he jumps against the window and scrabbles his paws on the glass. He’s black and tiny, like a little splotch. And that’s what Joy will call him.
‘Can I have him, Mammy? Can I?’ she shouts.
She nods and opens the back door. Joy is surprised at how really pretty her mother looks when she smiles.
Chapter Thirty-Four
Carla
The new Millennium came and went. Despite the dire predictions, no planes fell from the sky. Toasters did not burst into flames. Nor did computers crash and bring about a global economic collapse. A pool of calm had settled around Carla and she clung to its order, rising at the same time every morning and working in her apartment until lunchtime. In the afternoon, she spent an hour catching up on emails, checking details with the person whose memoir she was ghost-writing, and speaking on the phone to Frank. She worked on her laptop for a further two hours then went to the gym where she exercised and swam with the same discipline.
Her apartment was surrounded by office blocks. Glass bee-hives of activity. From her balcony she watched men and women at their desks. She envied their camaraderie yet knew she would hate the enforced closeness, the closed gossip of the water cooler, the tedium of waiting for five o’clock. But was she any better in her self-imposed isolation, ghost-writing the lives of other people?
Frank’s ambition was to publish the uncomfortable books, the memoirs that no one else wanted to handle. At the start of each new commission, as Carla became familiar with the author and the manuscript, she was gripped by fear. The stories she encountered were so ragged, so personal, how could she possibly do justice to them? Then gradually, so gradually she was aware of it happening, she slipped inside the other person’s skin. It was a comfortable place to be. For months she soaked up their emotions, their thoughts, saw the world through their eyes. With each book she felt a little more of herself slipping away. She had become a true ghost-writer, ephemeral, insubstantial. When once the books were written, proofread, and sent to the printers, when it was too late to change a word or a comma, she emerged slowly and reluctantly into her own reality.
She awoke one morning after she had spent the night with Lizzy Carr and tried to grasp back that reality. But with the phone ringing and reverberating through her head, it was already too late.
‘Carla, can I ask you a personal question?’ Janet demanded.
‘If I can find my head, I’ll be able to answer you.’ Carla groaned but Janet was in no mood for jokes, nor was she offering sympathy.
‘What exactly are you doing with your life?’ she asked.
‘Minding my own business.’
‘Not when your face is plastered all over the papers. Your father is horrified by that photo. And not, I might add, for the first time either.’
‘What are you talking about?’
‘Have you seen the papers this morning?’
‘Hardly. I was fast asleep until you rang.’
‘I’m amazed you got to bed at all. Why do you insist on attracting the most unsavoury publicity every time you appear in public?’
‘I wouldn’t worry too much about it, Mother. I discovered long ago that today’s news makes an excellent bin liner for tomorrow.’
‘You won’t be pleased when you see this one,’ Janet warned. ‘And I sincerely hope Frank Staunton is not lying beside you listening to our conversation.’
‘What?’
‘You heard.’
‘I haven’t a clue what you’re talking about.’
‘Then I suggest you get to the nearest newsagent and clue yourself in.’
Anticipation model Carla Kelly and radical publisher Frank Staunton enjoy an intimate moment in Kim’s Cave.
Back in her apartment, dark glasses discarded, Carla moaned and dragged herself back to bed. She stared at the ceiling and tried to project last night onto the white surface. She had no memory of being photographed. But that was not her main concern. Frank Staunton, she shuddered, and pulled the duvet over her head. He was the last person she would have expected to see in a nightclub. Now that she remembered, he had seemed equally surprised to see her. He was accompanied by an author. Carla tried to recall her name, something American, Samantha…no…Savannah, that was it, an American author named Savannah, who was promoting her book in Ireland. She talked a lot about post-modernism and Carla had been just as eloquent, considering she had had absolutely no idea what they were discussing. Wine and tequila had turned her into a literary bore, moaned Lizzy Carr, and she had dragged Frank up to dance.
He had danced stiffly, only his shoulders moving, and Carla could remember quite clearly how his expression moved from mild embarrassment to alarm as Lizzy’s dancing became more exuberant. Savannah continued to talk about objectivity, nihilism and deconstruction. She agreed with Carla that Robert Gardner was the ultimate post-modern shit to give birth to a son – well, he didn’t give birth, that would be too post-modern, said Carla. It was that bitch Sharon who had had his baby and was, right at that moment, drinking champagne, well, probably not at that precise moment because they were on the other side of the world, but that didn’t change the fact that all men were shits, untrustworthy post-modern bastards, except Frank, who was a darling and good in bed, said Carla, just to see Savannah’s face, and when he came back to the table, Savannah said, ‘I believe you’re a stud in bed, Frank, five stars from Carla here,’ and Frank bent down to say in his precise, polite voice, ‘I think I’d better take you home, Carla.’
Carla remembered the taxi ride and dropping Savannah off at the Westbury Hotel and walking with Frank, well, maybe not walking, she remembered Frank supporting her into the elevator, and the elevator doors sliding closed, just like her mind slid closed on the same instant. This morning she was looking down into a black pit of amnesia. How many brain cells had she killed last night? Billions, probably.
She emerged from under the duvet when the phone rang again.
Lizzy assured her she had done nothing wrong like dancing on tables or flinging her shoes at the DJ.
‘But what about Frank?’ wailed Carla. ‘What did I do to him?’
‘Frank the stud, you mean. The five-star guy?’
‘Tell me.’
‘Well, after he dropped Cassandra—’
‘Savannah.’
‘Whatever. After he dropped her off at the Westbury and me at my apartment, you said, “Home, James, and don’t spare the horses. I fancy a good ride tonight.”’
‘You bitch! I didn’t.’
‘Would I lie to you?’
‘Oh, God. Lizzy, I’m going to be sick. I’ll talk to you later.’
A
fter Carla emerged from the bathroom, she prowled around her apartment, terrified she would find a tie or an odd sock or two wine glasses sitting intimately on the draining board. She checked the bed, relieved when the second pillow looked smooth enough to suggest it had not supported her boss’s head throughout the night.
Her five-star boss. She slumped to the edge of the bed and buried her face in her hands.
Frank Staunton, who had treated her with kid gloves. Never by word or deed had he implied that he thought of her as anything other than an efficient and reliable ghost-writer. And she had kept him at the same distance, until now…Could she really have called him a stud? Yes, she had. She remembered every word of that free-whirling conversation, as if her mind was flying loose, scattering words at random. But her conversation with Robert was just a jagged memory, retaining only one fact. A son.
He was weeping when he told her, and she had wept too, her voice too choked to do more than wish him well. Lizzy had phoned shortly afterwards and had insisted a night on the town was in order. Lizzy was funny. She made Carla laugh. And that felt good. Almost as good as not caring. And better, infinitely much better, than living in limbo.
‘Just remember,’ said Lizzy when Carla rang her back. ‘A hangover is occasionally necessary to make us appreciate sobriety. I wouldn’t worry about your boss. From the look on his face last night, I’ve a strong suspicion he’d be more than happy to prove you were right when you called him a five-star stud.’
That evening, driving back from dinner with Gina and Leo she recognised Anita’s distinctive walk. The young girl turned when Carla drew up beside her and peered suspiciously into the car.
‘Ah, jeez,’ she said. ‘I thought ya were me first punter for the night. Bugger off, Carla. You’re ruinin’ me chances.’
‘Why don’t you take a break?’ Carla leaned over and opened the passenger door. ‘Fancy a bite in Naffy’s?’
‘Might as well.’ Anita shrugged. ‘Business is shite anyway.’
‘How’s life treating you?’ Carla asked after Naffy had brought the coffee, and placed a plate of chips for Anita on the table.
‘I need me own gaff.’ Anita stirred four spoons of sugar into her coffee but made no attempt to drink it. ‘The Celtic Tiger is givin’ them punters notions. They want clean sheets an’ all, now.’ She tossed her head back and laughed so loudly that heads turned in their direction.
Since their first meeting, the young girl had flitted in and out of Carla’s life. Some nights she worked the canal, sometimes the docks, or, if she had enough money, she took the night off and spent it with friends. Usually, when she came back to the canal and Carla coaxed her to Naffy’s for a meal, she was bruised and wasted, withdrawing into herself if Carla asked too many questions.
‘I saw ya in the paper.’ Anita tilted her head to one side and stared at Carla. ‘Me friend says you’d a child stole on you.’
‘I did. A little girl called Isobel.’
‘Jeez…that’s rough. Them cops are fuckin’ useless.’
‘They did their best. I’ll find her some day.’
‘Wha’ age is she now?’
‘She’s six and a half years old.’
‘Me sister is tha’ age.’
‘Have you many sisters and brothers?’
‘Five, last time I counted. Could be more now. Me Ma pops ’em like peas.’
‘How long since you’ve seen her?’
‘Mind yer own effin’ bisness.’
Carla shrugged. Every time they met she was treated to the same sudden mood swings and had discovered the only way to pacify Anita was to change the subject.
‘Anita, I made an absolute arse of myself last night.’ ‘Wouldn’t be the first time. Hangin’ off tha’ fuckin’ bridge—’
‘That was then. This is now. I called my boss a stud to his face.’
‘An’ is he?’
‘I haven’t a clue. That’s the problem.’
‘Is tha’ the geezer with the beard in the pitcher?’
‘That’s him.’
‘He’ll be warmin’ yer feet soon.’
‘Oh, really?’
‘Yeah, really. Ya can always tell by their bleedin’ eyes. Everytin’ else they can hide but not the eyes.’
Anita was growing restless. Her hand shook when she lifted the mug of coffee. The effort seemed too much and she placed it back untouched on the table. Robert would have mingled with young people like her, gained their confidence, elicited information on the network of suppliers ringing their lives. Carla’s only aim was to rehabilitate her. Unwittingly, she had helped Dylan Rae at a crossroads in his life but Anita scoffed at the idea of a rehabilitation centre and grew angry every time Carla mentioned the social services. She had been through them all and had no interest in going back.
‘You didn’t make that meeting I set up with the counsellor?’ Carla kept her tone neutral but Anita instantly picked up on the rebuke.
‘Fuck off.’ She pulled her mobile phone from her pocket and spoke to someone, her back turned to Carla.
‘See ya then,’ she said and clicked out of the call.
‘It’s me mate.’ She looked at Carla, her gaze unflinching. ‘He wants ta meet me now.’
‘Are you all right?’
‘Bleedin’ great.’
‘Don’t go, Anita.’ Carla leaned across the table and gripped her hand, held tight when Anita tried to wriggle free. ‘I can help if you’ll let me. You don’t have to live like this—’
‘Yeah…yeah…that’s what they all say. Tanks for the coffee.’ She walked towards the door then turned and came back to the table. ‘Must be shite to have a child stole. I’m real sorry for ya.’
Chapter Thirty-Five
An early-morning haze hung over the canal and a barge, making slow progress through the water, flitted in and out of view in the gauzy air. Carla poured coffee from the cafetière and carried the mug to the balcony. A siren sounded, then another. Looking down to the street, she became aware that other Garda cars were parked nearby. The peak-hour traffic, always heavy, was being diverted and further along the bank of the canal yellow tape fluttered.
By the time she reached the cordoned-off area, a group of people had already gathered. She recognised Bev, an older prostitute, who always kept an eye out for Anita. Four days previously she had stopped Carla when she was leaving her apartment and asked if Anita had been in touch with her.
‘I saw you and her in Naffy’s the other night,’ said Bev. ‘I’ve checked all her usual haunts but no one’s seen sight nor sign of her since.’
Carla had gone with Bev to the local Garda station to report Anita’s disappearance. The guard who took the details believed it was too soon to start a full-scale search, considering Anita’s usual pattern of behaviour.
Now, as Carla hurried towards the canal, she recognised Bev’s distinctive red hair among the crowd.
‘Is it Anita?’ she asked, knowing it was a rhetorical question. One look at Bev’s raddled face had given her the answer. The crowd were already being dispersed by the guards. As they were herded back from the scene, Carla noticed a television van parked nearby.
‘Let’s go to Naffy’s,’ she said.
Bev nodded and they pushed free from the onlookers. As they walked swiftly along the canal bank, they passed the statue of Patrick Kavanagh. The poet’s arms were crossed in his reflective pose, his wish granted. No tomb…just a seat where he could stare forever into still waters, mouthing splendid words into the green morning. Carla thought back to the night she had first met Anita and how the young prostitute had crossed her arms in the same way. She had clasped her thoughts deep into her skinny body, a pied piper, leading Carla towards Naffy’s and sanity.
‘It wasn’t the cops that found her,’ said Bev. ‘It was a woman out with her dog. The dog found the shoe, you know the red pair she loved, and brought it back to the woman. Then she found Anita…half in and half out of the water, she was. Been there since Sunday night, I reck
on. A knife he used, the bastard, and all because she owed him money.’ Tears puddled Bev’s eyes, streaked her cheeks with mascara. ‘They’ll probably want to talk to you, the cops, I mean. Looks like you were the last one to see her alive.’
Bev was right. The guard who had originally taken the details interviewed Carla that afternoon. She was unable to add anything further to her original statement. The only time she had seen anyone else with Anita was the first night they met.
‘He was outside the café,’ she told the guard. ‘I wouldn’t be able to identity him. But a man rang her on her mobile on Sunday night. I don’t know if he was the same person.’
‘Was she a close friend of yours?’ The guard made no attempt to hide his curiosity.
‘She was a friend when I needed one. I wanted to help her too. But I couldn’t. I let her walk to her death and did nothing to stop her.’
‘From what I can gather, she was too far gone for help.’
‘No, she wasn’t,’ Carla replied. ‘She was lost. But as long as she was alive, there was hope.’
She had examined the identity files without success and left the Garda station. A group of photographers and journalists were waiting outside. She recoiled from the flash of cameras, the shouted questions.
‘Carla, how did you know Anita Wilson?’
‘Did you realise she was a prostitute?’
‘Did you know she was a drug addict?’
‘Why were you with her on Sunday night?’
‘Do you know many prostitutes?’
‘Do you know her supplier?’
‘What information did you give to the police?’
‘Do you still believe your child is alive?’
The questions hit her like bullets and her anger had a velocity that forced her through the milling journalists towards her car. When a photographer ran alongside her, she screamed and lashed out at him.
