Connor was stunned. It surprised him that no one had seen fit to pass on this information. ‘Really?’
‘Yeah.’ Tim swiped one hand dismissively. ‘We were never that serious.’
Connor felt as if he had been punched in the stomach. Not serious?
‘Well, it was serious enough for you to walk away from a sixteen-year relationship.’ The atmosphere in the room had suddenly turned glacial.
Tim stood.
‘Oh, Connor. Let’s not have this conversation now. Come on. Let’s grab some brunch. Don’t overreact.’
‘No. No I’m not very hungry. Thanks for the invitation.’ He knew he sounded like a sullen teenager, but he didn’t care. He had been dumped for a fling. Connor had no intention of letting Tim off easily.
‘Fine.’ Clearly exasperated, Tim bent down and picked his keys off the coffee table. ‘Don’t have brunch.’ At the door he turned. ‘Speak to your parents.’ And then he was gone.
Late that afternoon Connor found himself standing outside Sobar once more. With Tim’s abrupt departure he had neglected to leave Finbarr’s phone number, so heading downtown to find his nephew seemed like Connor’s easiest option. Showered and shaved he felt a little more in control after a day spent pinballing between anger, fear and regret.
He was furious with Tim. Initially it was because of Carl and how easily he had pushed Connor out of their life, but then, as the hours passed, he redirected his ire towards the way Tim had walked so casually into the apartment that morning and unearthed his buried feelings. He remembered sobbing in Tim’s arms, and he felt so foolish. A stray dog too keen to believe that it had been re-homed. The upside of his fury was that Connor had indulged in a bout of angry cleaning, so the apartment was now spotless.
Later, when he had felt calmer, he allowed himself to pick over the carcass of his relationship once more. He had to admit that there had been problems that had nothing to do with Carl. Tensions and imbalances that neither of them had ever had the appetite to deal with. They had both used Carl to make things easier. He was an excuse for Tim, and for Connor someone to blame. The sad truth was that Tim just wanted out and a year later Connor was beginning to understand why. Yes, he had felt safe and settled but somewhere along the way he had forgotten about himself. Who was he and what did his life look like? He had just been a passenger and clearly Tim wanted more than that. He thought about the last twelve months and realised what a missed opportunity it had been. He was such an idiot. Here he was living rent free in New York, with money in the bank, and all he had done was wallow in self-pity with one eye out for someone to come along and rescue him. No more.
Talking to Finbarr again would be the beginning of change. He pushed open the door and stepped up into the bar. Judson and the same tattooed barman were behind the bar. Three or four figures were perched on stools, but the place was practically empty. He went to the end of the bar where he had sat that drunken night a few weeks earlier. Judson spotted him and smiled.
‘You’re a regular!’
‘Not quite.’
‘What can I get you?’
‘Bit early for me,’ Connor said, throwing a glance at the serious drinkers getting a head start on the night.
‘Don’t be a pussy!’
Was this the guy’s attempt at flirting or just a hard-sell barman, Connor wondered.
‘Oh, all right then. Give me a beer. A Bud.’
The other barman gave a lazy wave from where he was lounging next to the till. ‘Hi.’
Connor acknowledged him with a nod and a smile.
‘Bud.’ The bottle and a glass were placed in front of him.
‘Thanks. I was hoping to see Finbarr. He around?’
‘Gone.’
‘Gone?’
‘Yeah. Gone gone. Left last night. Some family drama.’
Connor immediately assumed this was something to do with him. He must have told Ellen and Martin that he had found him in New York. Who knew what sort of reaction the news had provoked?
‘Did he leave a number?’
‘Franco, you got the contact deets for Irish?’ Judson called down the bar.
‘Sure.’ Franco took a ledger from a pile of papers shoved down the side of the till and approached Connor. ‘Here you go.’ He opened the large book and pointed to some writing. ‘There’s no cell number. He’s not using his US number. He said he’d let us know when he got a new number sorted.’
Connor looked at the address. It was for an apartment in Monkstown.
‘But this is Dublin.’
Franco shrugged. ‘There’s an email too. Want a pen?’
‘Yes please. That would be great.’ He scribbled the details on an empty envelope that Franco had provided.
Connor thought for a moment. ‘What was the emergency? A bereavement?’
‘I don’t think so. He was out of here so fast. He got the message and then a couple of hours later he was heading to the airport.’
‘Did he seem upset?’
These questions were starting to make Franco uneasy. He suspected that his answers could get Finbarr into trouble in some way. He picked up the ledger. ‘No. A bit stressed maybe but that’s all. Something to do with his father, I think.’
Franco turned and walked away, leaving Connor with his unwanted beer.
X.
‘You’re not to be cross.’
Ellen felt physically sick. What had her mother done?
‘Why would I be cross, Mammy?’ She spoke carefully, making sure not to raise her voice.
‘I phoned Finbarr.’
‘What?’ Despite her best intentions, the volume of her voice had increased.
‘Finbarr. I gave him a ring.’
‘Why? Why did you do that, Mammy?’
‘He has a right to know that his own father is missing.’
Ellen was speechless. Of course her mother had been bombarding her with messages and advice for the last four days, but this was something else. She had crossed a line. This was more than mere meddling.
‘Mammy! I can’t believe you. Why would you ruin his holiday? Why would you give him worry when there’s nothing he can do? He’s my son. My son.’ Ellen was quivering with frustrated rage.
‘I knew you’d be cross.’
‘And yet that didn’t stop you!’ Angry tears filled her eyes.
‘He was very glad I told him. He’s coming home.’ Chrissie delivered the latter piece of news with a flourish: Ellen would have to agree she had done the right thing after all.
This was not how her daughter felt.
‘What? Why? Why is he coming home? What did you tell him? Does he think we’re out beating bushes looking for his father? What use is him being here?’
‘He’ll be a comfort to you. I know where I’d like my son to be.’ Chrissie’s voice cracked and gave a muffled squeak.
Ellen sighed. Now she was angry and guilty. Her mother had played her trump card. Ellen could relate to what her mother had been through, especially with what she now knew. She had lost count of the number of times she had nearly relented and told Chrissie the truth about the crash and where Connor was living, but the thought of her mother’s reaction had strengthened her resolve. This was not the time. ‘All right, Mammy. Don’t upset yourself. I’ll call him now. Bye bye.’
‘Love you, pet. Try not to worry.’
After Ellen ended the call, she looked down at her phone and repeated under her breath, ‘Try not to worry.’ The last four days had been nothing but a series of new and constantly surprising worries. When her debit card had failed to work for a second time on the Wednesday afternoon, she rang her bank. After what seemed like an eternity listening to instrumental versions of jazz standards, an eager young man informed her that there was nothing wrong with the card, it had merely exceeded the limit for cash withdrawals that day. Martin must still be alive then. Ellen wondered where the card had been used. The young man at first refused to tell her, but after she explained that it was a joint account a
nd that surely she had a right to know where the card had been used in case of fraudulent activity, he reluctantly revealed it had taken cash from an ATM in Rathmines.
‘Does that sound right?’ he asked.
Ellen had no idea, but assumed that it must be Martin.
‘Yes. Yes, that could be right.’
‘Try your card again after midnight and you should have access to your funds again.’ The man sounded even more cheerful at the prospect of ending the call. ‘Anything else I can help you with today?’
The great list of things that Ellen needed help with unfurled inside her head.
‘No. That’s great. Thanks.’
On the Thursday morning she walked to the bank in the square to use the machine in the wall. Her card was denied once more. She stared at the screen, wondering what to do next, until a loud cough reminded her that someone was waiting. She stepped aside. The door to the bank itself was open. She hesitated. It would be quicker to wait at the counter than call up, but then more people would know her business. What did it matter? The whole town was no doubt already talking about the runaway doctor.
Ellen didn’t know the thin young woman she spoke to at the counter. She barely looked old enough to have a Saturday job, never mind to sit behind a glass screen in a bank. Ellen explained her problem and, the name badge said Marion, told her that yet again the card had already been maxed out. No, not in Rathmines, it was Blanchardstown, to the north of the city. Marion suggested that Ellen cash a cheque, so she did. She felt calmer with a wedge of notes in her handbag. It gave her a sliver of control, rather than just waiting for things to happen to her.
She crossed the square to see her parents. Her mother, still in her dressing gown, looked stricken when her daughter appeared at the top of the stairs.
‘What is it?’ The question clearly expected an answer involving a body being dragged from the sea, or a wrecked car discovered in a ditch. All Ellen had volunteered thus far was that she and Martin had had a big fight, no further details offered or asked for, and that she had spent the night in the old bungalow, before Martin had vanished.
‘It’s all right, Mammy. There’s no news.’
Her father, always the calmer of her parents, suggested that she should go to the guards. It was four days now. Ellen confessed about the debit card transactions. Her mother’s face lit up.
‘But that’s wonderful, pet. They can find him in no time with that.’
Ellen nodded. She knew her mother was right, but it also struck her that Martin wasn’t even bothering to hide. He was just gone. She could hardly report a missing person if she knew where he’d been at seven that morning.
‘I’ll go,’ she said, giving the impression she was heading to the Garda barracks. In reality, when she left the pub, she slowly walked back to her house. What was Martin doing? Was he alone? How was he spending the money? Did he have plans?
She knew so little about Martin and his life. She never had, but now she was being forced to care. A deep weariness sat heavily on her shoulders. Ellen carried it home and took it back to bed.
Before long, Finbarr would be coming home, demanding answers, picking at secrets, and doubtless letting slip that he had found Connor. She was scrolling through her call log trying to find Finbarr’s American number when the phone began to trill and vibrate in her hand. It was Aisling. Ellen had ignored a call from her the night before. What was she going to tell her daughter? No one wanted to know that their parents had lost control. She glanced heavenwards and pressed the green symbol.
‘Hello.’ Crisp, even, unconcerned. Ellen was proud of her self-control.
‘Mammy! What’s going on? Where’s Daddy?’
Ellen swore silently.
‘Have you been talking to your granny?’
‘What? No! Finbarr called me. He’s coming home. He said that Daddy has gone missing. Why didn’t you tell me? I can’t believe no one told me!’
Ellen rolled her eyes. It hadn’t taken long for this family drama to somehow be about Aisling.
‘Calm down. Your granny has got it all wrong and called Finbarr. Your father isn’t missing. He’s just gone away for a bit.’
A pause and then, ‘Gone away? Is he OK?’
The truth was, of course, that Ellen had no idea how Martin was, but he was capable of spending money still, so that must mean something.
‘Yes. Yes, he’s fine. He just needed some time by himself, that’s all. There’s nothing to worry about.’
Another pause to consider how this might affect her and then, ‘Has he had some sort of breakdown?’ Aisling sounded more repulsed by this idea than worried.
‘He’s fine. Don’t worry yourself. I’ll tell him you called, and I’ll let you know when he’s home.’
‘Do you need me to come back? I’m supposed to be doing a charity fashion show, but my friend Sinead is the one organising it. I’m sure she’d understand.’
How had Ellen managed to raise a daughter who had not only agreed to take part in a charity fashion show but seemed to actually want to? She blamed Martin. He had denied his daughter nothing, while he inflated her expectations of what life might provide. Obviously, it was important to be supportive of your children and their dreams, but it didn’t hurt to remind them that you had to work for things. What was the point of anything if it wasn’t earned? Ellen bristled when she heard parents talking about unconditional love. Is that what she had for Aisling? She feared that it wasn’t, but then how could she? She would have defended Aisling to the death, done anything for her, but she had to admit that most of the time, the girl felt like a stranger. She made an effort now to sound sweet and understanding.
‘Don’t be silly. Do your fashion show.’
‘But Finbarr is coming home …’
‘That’s because your granny got the wrong end of the stick and, well, I feel awful he’s cut his trip short. Everything is fine. Fine.’ She repeated the word for emphasis.
2013
I.
This was his favourite time of year on the island. Most of the houses remained shuttered and small deer picked their way along the boardwalks unperturbed. Connor was wrapped in one of the navy pool towels and sipping a mug of coffee laced with a shot of Baileys.
‘There’s some heat in that sun today.’ Tim stepped through the patio doors holding his own steaming mug. ‘Might risk a swim later.’
‘Madman.’ Connor was gazing at the ocean where it pressed against the sky.
Tim sat with a small involuntary grunt.
A shared silence, both men utterly comfortable in the moment. A small sandpiper was picking its way along the side of the pool. The rope on the flagpole clanked in the light breeze. They had spent this day together so many times before. Connor wanted to ask questions but feared that he might spoil the mood. Besides, he already knew that none of the answers would be what he wanted to hear.
After the visit to the apartment in September, Tim had kept up a steady stream of texts and emails. He had regretted the way he’d spoken about Carl and hurt Connor’s feelings. He just hadn’t been thinking properly. Tim had forgotten that the ending he had written for their story had relied so heavily on Carl. He had apologised. They met for a drink. Dinner. More drinks. Tim’s apartment. They had indulged in a half-hearted drunken fumble on the couch before Tim had left Connor snoring and headed to bed alone.
Mostly they talked. Conversations that were years overdue. What had gone wrong between them? Why hadn’t they been honest with each other? But whether sober, tipsy or drunken, the thread always came back to Connor and the accident. Tim asked again and again why Connor had never told him, as if the answers made no sense. Why had he never gone back to Ireland? How could he just leave his family in the dark? As Connor tried to explain, his logic fell apart. Voicing all of his fears out loud for what seemed like the first time rendered them groundless. Listening to himself speaking he could hear the echo of the boy he had been all those years ago. The more Tim pushed him to explain, the mor
e foolish he felt. Over the years he had debated the arguments of his teenage self, and that boy had always won. Even as he described comments his mother had made watching television, or the way his father had reacted to an occasional tourist, sounded weak and unfair. Tim’s refrain became ‘You must go home’ and reluctantly Connor was forced to agree. He was a grown man with a life lived away from his family. He no longer knew them, and they couldn’t guess at who he had become. They owed each other this second chance.
A few old photographs of them together had reappeared on the shelves of Tim’s apartment. Sometimes Tim looked at their younger selves, and wondered, not why they had broken up, but how they had lasted as a couple for so long. Talking to Connor now, he realised that what had doomed their relationship was so much more than an age gap. Connor was like an emotional time capsule, forever trapped in his own adolescence. Listening to him trying to justify his self-inflicted banishment broke Tim’s heart. He tried to reason with him, but he could never come right out with it and tell him the truth. It wasn’t his place to play amateur psychiatrist, but the way Connor still blamed his parents and his fear of their reaction or acceptance was textbook. How many gay young men had made the same excuses, when in reality it was all about their own self-loathing? They were the ones who believed that they were lesser beings, not worthy of love. Running away meant never having to put their families or friends to the test. Although Tim hadn’t met Dan and Chrissie, hearing Connor speak about them, it was so obvious to Tim that they would love their son no matter what. It was only Connor who couldn’t see the truth.
Sitting with his ex-boyfriend he should have felt like a friend or maybe an enemy, but the truth was that he felt like more of a father than anything else. It wasn’t sexy. The fumble on the couch had been a combination of alcohol and laziness, but it was never going to be the start of a rekindled romance. In the morning as they sat opposite each other nursing mugs of coffee and aching heads, they both seemed to understand that. It was early days, but things seemed to have shifted beyond their break-up into calmer, though as yet uncharted waters.
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