by Karen Perry
She stopped what she was doing, looked down at the T-shirt in her hand. ‘For a long time,’ she said quietly, putting it into her bag.
‘From when we first met?’
‘From before. I sought you out …’
‘You sought me out?’
Her eyes were gentle and full of pity. ‘Yes, Nick. My mom told me something of what had happened … I became so curious about her other life, her life in Africa, her husband here, my sisters, that I asked more questions,’ she said, speaking faster now, her voice low but urgent, as if she were reliving an exciting episode in her life. ‘But the answers only fuelled my desire to know more. Instead of satisfying my curiosity, what my mom told me only fed it. Even before she heard of her husband’s death here, I’d planned to come to Kenya, to study, to visit his house and see his grave …’
‘Unlike Amy?’
‘Amy never wanted to return. She prefers to leave things in the past. She’s married to a dentist in Ohio, has two children, and that’s her life … Funny how things work out.’
‘And me? How did you know I was living in Nairobi?’
‘Father Murphy told me. He told my mother her husband had died, so when I arrived in Kenya, I came to him and gradually he told me about you, your brother and your parents,’ she says. She’s taking her time, choosing her words carefully. ‘And knowing that you were living in the same city only made me curious. Murphy told me you were a musician – he even told me what club you played in.’
Her eyes light up and she smiles, but then the seriousness returns to her features. ‘And when we talked, I still couldn’t believe that you were the person I had been told about … I didn’t know that I would fall for you, Nick. I didn’t want to, but it happened.’
I thought of a night, not long after we’d met, that we’d spent lying together in each other’s arms, the night air bearing down heavily, how I’d felt so utterly at peace with this woman, as if for the first time in my life I could be myself without apology or pretence. And even though I had known her only a few weeks, already I was sure that what I felt for her – the love that had blown up inside me – would last my whole life.
I remember thinking that there was no way I could tell her what had happened back then. So I kept it secret.
When I told her about myself, living here as a youngster, returning to Ireland, then travelling and coming back, I remember how still she was in my arms, as if she was holding her breath.
I thought at the time that it was the attentive awe of new love.
Little did I know it was because of what she knew about me. How dangerous that must have felt to her … how utterly strange to be held by the hands that had done that terrible thing.
‘So why didn’t you tell me? Why didn’t you say something?’
‘I was afraid,’ she said, sitting down on the bed now, knowing it couldn’t be avoided any longer.
‘Of what?’
Her brow furrowed with consternation, and I saw her struggle, for a moment, with her thoughts.
‘I felt so strongly about you. Even then, I knew you’d had something to do with Cora’s death. And to know this thing about you – that you were there when Cora was killed – it was so huge, so difficult to fathom. And I didn’t want to believe it – I really didn’t,’ she said. ‘I knew it was true but I persuaded myself that it didn’t matter. That what happened was in the past – that you were only a boy then, too young to know or be motivated by any real malice.’ She steadied herself. ‘I told myself it had happened so long ago – before I was even born – that what’s done is done. I made a decision that I was going to try not to let the past get between us.’
I nodded and remained standing, but inside I was starting to collapse.
‘It’s late,’ she said then. ‘I’d better go.’
I watched her get to her feet, pull her bag to her and zip it closed. Something in me rose against her leaving and I had to stop myself barricading the door, refusing to let her go. But I knew she had moved on and I couldn’t blame her.
She leaned in and kissed me briefly on the cheek – not the mouth – and it seemed dismissive, somehow final. Then she passed me, and before she reached the stairs, she stopped at the piano, touched the lid. ‘It’s closed,’ she said. ‘Aren’t you playing?’
‘No.’
‘But why not?’
How to explain it? That my hands no longer worked – that I no longer trusted them? That since they had been the conduit of the memory in the river that day, they had seemed filled with brackish water, lifeless. Sometimes I caught myself looking down at them as if they were not my own. The hands that had taken the life of a young girl.
But I didn’t say any of that to Lauren, although I think somehow she understood.
‘Take care of yourself, Nick,’ she said, then descended the stairs and left.
Karl finishes his coffee and places the cup on the table:
‘Let’s go out tonight,’ he says, looking at his watch. ‘I have to go now, but I’ll stop by at, say, seven thirty. It’ll be good to get out.’
It’s not a question and, despite my reluctance, I know he’ll insist.
‘Goodbye, my friend,’ I say.
He grins at me. ‘See you later.’
It was Karl who finally tracked Murphy down to a small hospice outside the city, during those first weeks when I was barely holding it together.
‘How did you find him?’ I asked Karl.
‘Persistence,’ he replied.
I took down the address from Karl, fired up the motorbike and drove to where the graffiti spreads like wildfire.
‘Father,’ I said, entering the small yellow-tinted, acrid-smelling ward.
He was lying on a narrow bed, his head propped on a pillow, a thin white sheet covering his shrunken, skeletal frame. His eyes were half open, sunk deep into his skull. ‘Nick,’ he said. ‘Nick, you came.’
‘You didn’t make it easy,’ I said, sitting down on the wicker chair next to the bed.
‘I’m so sorry, Nick. I didn’t want to cause anyone any more trouble.’
‘No trouble, Father.’
‘There’s not long for me now, Nick,’ he said, in a frail whisper.
‘I want to thank you,’ I said.
Instead of answering, he waved a hand.
‘You saved my life, Father. By the river. I thought he was going to pull the trigger.’
‘I think you called me an iconoclast once.’
‘But not an arms-carrying one.’
He smiled faintly. ‘Funny the things you do. Things you never expect of yourself. Perhaps God has a sense of humour after all.’
‘Perhaps.’
‘It was something a friend gave me after the office was broken into one time. A small pistol for security reasons. For show, really. I never kept the thing loaded,’ he said, breathing heavily. ‘I’m not even sure why I took it with me to the Masai Mara. But that day something told me I should.’
‘You had no idea you would have to use it?’
‘No,’ he croaked.
I remembered his hand trembling, the pistol wavering as he took aim and told Mack to put his own gun down.
‘My fear was that I would have to pull the trigger …’
‘But you didn’t.’
‘It was enough to have the gun,’ he said, looking past me. ‘It turned him away.’
‘Enough to scare him, yes,’ I said. ‘It was a brave thing to do, Father.’
‘Call me Jim.’
‘I’m very grateful, Jim.’
My mind turned again to that day, and the moment when Mack looked at Murphy, the pistol held tightly in his shaking hand, the slow spread of a smile crossing Mack’s face – the sight of a priest with a gun ridiculous to him. He gave a hollow laugh, and realized, perhaps, that he could never exact his revenge, because I was not Sally. I was just a substitute – a poor one at that – and killing me would not satisfy his desire for justice. He lowered the shotgun and turned away from
us, the rain coming down heavily, hitting the trees and the surface of the river, pelting the land and all who stood there. I saw the defeated slump in his shoulders, the fight gone out of him. One last look back at us, water streaming over his face, before he disappeared into the trees. I never saw him again.
Murphy coughed and reached for a glass of water.
‘Let me,’ I said. I picked up the glass and offered it to his parched lips. He sipped a little water, some of which dribbled onto his chin.
I took a napkin from his bedside table and wiped his mouth gently. He breathed in deeply and sank further into the bed.
‘I don’t have much energy,’ he said.
I took his hand in mine and we sat there for a time, neither of us saying anything, the ceiling fan turning in steady revolutions as the traffic streamed by outside.
‘May I ask for your forgiveness, Nicholas?’ he asked.
‘What for, Jim?’
‘For any pain I’ve caused you over the years.’
I didn’t need to say anything. Murphy’s eyes closed, and when he had fallen asleep, I left. It was later that night when I got the call to say he had passed away.
Another funeral. This time in a cemetery next to the hospice: me and Karl, dozens of locals from Kianda, clergy and aid workers gathered with the hospice staff to say farewell to Father Murphy.
In the months that follow, life falls into a pattern. I go to the office every day, sifting through documents, trying to understand the accounting nightmare, negotiating with the banks, attempting to bring calm and order to the situation. It does not come naturally to me, this line of business, but I can dig my heels in and be diligent when I have to, and something deep within me is driving me to do this.
When I am alone in the office, and the street outside has fallen quiet, I sometimes catch myself engrossed in these lists of figures, and it comes as such a surprise to me, that I wonder what my father would make of me now. Dad, the prudent accountant, and me, his renegade son. I can’t even call myself a musician any more. The piano lid remains closed.
I find that, as the days go on, a sense of nervous excitement builds within me in the hope that Lauren might call. And she does – every so often. Our relationship has changed and there is a maturity to it, in the sense that we are no longer wide-eyed innocents. But, still, I have to be realistic. Lauren is back in America. A reconciliation is unlikely, and I wish her well, though I find it hard to let go.
One day shortly before the start of the rainy season, Julia rings. It’s been a long time since I heard her voice, but I recognize it. The Dublin accent, the mellow tones.
‘It’s good to hear you,’ I say.
‘And you.’ Her voice is quieter, calmer than before, suggesting she has accepted Luke’s death and is in the process of moving on. ‘I thought you’d like to know,’ she says, ‘that the house – your parents’ home – is finally going to be demolished.’
‘Oh.’ The news takes me by surprise.
‘The builder went bust, as you know,’ she explains. ‘The bank has sold it on to another developer.’
‘When?’
‘I understand that the sale has already gone through and planning permission has been applied for. The word is that the bulldozers will be in before the summer.’
‘I’ll have to come over,’ I say instinctively.
I hear her draw breath in surprise, and the truth is, I’ve surprised myself.
‘Are you sure you want to?’ she asks gently. ‘That house holds so many memories – good and bad.’
‘I think I need to, Julia.’
And so I make the arrangements, book the flights, and find myself, once again, in the chill climate that is Dublin.
Everything is familiar. And everything is different. I feel older returning. I know I am, but this time I feel much older. As if my youth has passed me by. I may not be middle-aged, but my youth is gone. It’s not just the lines about my eyes, or the way the clothes hang on my body, it’s the slight stiffness that has grown into my joints, the weariness of my movements.
Before I go to the house, there is someone I must meet.
At a café on Dawson Street, she is waiting for me. I see her at the back, her chin resting on her hand, the ghost of a smile on her face as she watches me negotiating tables and waiters wearing long linen aprons. When I finally reach her, she gets to her feet and, without saying anything, I hold my arms open for her and feel her come into my embrace. For a moment, I just hold her there, my eyes closed, thinking: This is what it feels like to come home.
She pulls back to look at me. ‘Nick,’ she says happily.
‘It’s good to see you, Kay.’
As I take my seat opposite, my eyes pass over her and notice the changes. She seems stronger somehow, as if she’s been working out, making herself fit. The shadows under her eyes have faded and youth has come back to her face. She’s cut her hair short, a cropped bob that skims the line of her jaw, and its sharpness suits her, sitting well with the crisp white shirt she wears, the minimal jewellery. I take in these changes, and wonder if there’s a new love in her life. But I don’t ask.
Instead we talk about the house that’s to be demolished, and when I skirt around her questions as to how I feel about it, she takes the hint and backs off.
‘Where are you staying?’
‘I’m at Julia’s,’ I say, and watch her eyebrows shoot up in surprise. ‘I know, I know, but what can I say? She offered, and I’m broke after the flights, so …’ She laughs, and I go on, serious now: ‘Besides, it felt like the right thing to do.’
‘And how is Julia?’
‘She’s okay. Still upset obviously, but better than I expected.’
In fact, Julia has been something of a revelation. She has surprised everyone with the way she has taken on Luke’s business debts, tackling his arrears, battling tooth and nail against repossession.
‘So what about you?’ I ask. ‘What about your shining career?’
She rolls her eyes and looks down at her cup. It’s coffee today – not a whiff of alcohol between us – and judging by Katie’s fresh-faced appearance, my guess is that lately she’s cleaned up her life. Not once in the hour we spend together does she duck outside for a smoke.
‘It’s fine,’ she says, and heaves a dramatic sigh. Then, flashing me a smile, she says: ‘I’m working on a – a little sideline.’
‘Oh?’
‘A book about the financial crisis.’
‘Really?’
She shrugs, then grins. ‘Everyone else is doing it. I figured I’d throw my hat into the ring.’
She says it casually, but I can tell that she’s excited about her book, enlivened by it.
For the rest of the time, we talk around the edges of what happened – I tell her about Murphy, about the work in Kianda, what I’m doing now.
‘And Mackenzie?’ she asks.
‘There’s neither sight nor sound of him. Perhaps he’s gone back to his own village.’
She considers what I have said, looks at me with concern and says, ‘But aren’t you afraid he’ll come back and seek you out?’
I think back to those fearful eyes, the hesitant retreat of the man, his pride broken, his anger misdirected, his disappointment evident in the way he carried himself away from us that day … how he skulked off into the wilderness. And so I say, with little reservation: ‘No, I don’t think Mackenzie will be coming back.’
It seems that neither of us can bring ourselves to discuss what actually happened by the river. Nonetheless, an understanding has crept into our conversation – the sense that we have forgiven each other, even if we aren’t all the way to forgiving ourselves.
As the hour draws to a close, and Katie looks at her watch, I realize I probably won’t see her again – not for a very long time – and despite the joy I have felt in her company during this brief visit, or maybe because of it, I can’t help the wave of sadness that surges over me as she prepares to leave.
‘Have
you heard from Lauren?’ she asks.
It’s a question I’ve been waiting for. Only the other day, Lauren had rung me and there was a nervous urgency to her words. She wanted to know how I’d feel about her coming back to Nairobi. She said where she was just didn’t seem like home. What did I think? Was it a crazy idea?
I had tried to remain calm. I had tried not to read too much into what she might have been suggesting. So what I told her was this: ‘I don’t think it’s a crazy idea, Lauren. Not at all.’
But I’m not ready to discuss the possibility of a reconciliation between Lauren and me, not with Katie, not yet.
‘We’ve been in touch from time to time,’ I say. ‘We’re still talking …’ I leave it at that and my tone suggests, I think, that that’s as far as I want to go with it.
Her phone buzzes and she reads the incoming text. ‘I’ve got to go,’ she says. ‘I’d love to stay longer, but someone’s waiting for me.’ Her eyes go to her phone. The tenderness she cannot hide confirms my suspicions. A man.
We hug, but I sense the hurry within her now, the desire not to linger, and I remember that, like me, she was never one for goodbyes.
This place has large windows running the length of one wall, and as I wait to pay the bill, I see Katie walk past, her arm looped through a man’s. He’s older – and from the way he is leaning in towards her, I can tell he is listening intently to what she is saying. As they disappear from view, I briefly wonder about him, about what she’s telling him, about what words they whisper when they turn to each other at dead of night.
Another taxi then, another journey home, through Dundrum, up Ballinteer, to Ticknock, Three Rock, and further on up the Dublin mountains and into Wicklow. The place names reel off like a prayer of sorts.
The greenness is electrifying. It seeps from the fields into my vision. I have known another kind of landscape, ever changing, with dust-bowls and savannahs, wildebeest and lions, paupers and kings, but here I am again in the docile port of Dublin, and the question I have asked myself many times since that day in Nairobi is: how do you rub out an event like that from your life – or how did I?
