Junkie. He was a junkie? What kind of junkie? Play it cool. Play it cool.
“He’s clean now and he misses Mia,” she ventured.
“So?” Leland said.
“I think he wants her back,” Penny said, as though she knew what she was talking about.
Leland laughed. “Forget it. He’ll never get her back. He had four years to do the right thing. He blew it.”
“You’re so sure?” Oh, my God, this is gold!
“Listen, honey, I know you’re from some small town in some small country and he’s your neighbour and your friend and you’re trying to help ’cause you think you know this guy but you don’t. Nobody knows him. Not Mia, not me and certainly not you.”
“So he was a coke addict. All he wants is another chance.” She needed to confirm what kind of junkie he was so she made a guess, knowing she was about to be hung up on.
“Coke.” He laughed. “Is that what he told you?”
“Yeah, and I have no reason to doubt him,” she said, injecting enough hurt into her voice to elicit the truth.
“Ha! Try heroin. The guy’s a loser and my advice to you is to stay clear.”
“So you’re telling me that Mia Johnson had a long-term relationship with a heroin addict?” she said, with glee.
“Excuse me?” he said, clearly alarmed by the change in her tone.
“You’re right – I am from a small town in a small country, but it looks like I’m going to be the one to break Mia’s sordid love story. Maybe you could pass on my number just in case she wants to comment. After all, these revelations can have a life of their own. If he was a junkie, maybe she was too. Maybe she drove him to drugs – or was she the angel who saved him?”
“You’re swimming out of your depth,” Leland warned.
“But I’m not the one sinking,” she said, and hung up. She poured herself a glass of vodka with a shaking hand and pondered as to whether or not she would hear from the lady herself.
The sun was out and Sam had taken to playing his guitar in the back garden. He had woken with the idea for a melody that refused to go away so instead of fighting it he spent the morning working out the chords and, like the Pointer Sisters many years before, losing himself in music.
Mary popped up from behind the wall, scaring the crap out of him. “Nice song,” she said. “What is it?”
“Nothing.”
“‘Nothing’. I like it. It has a nice ring to it.”
He laughed her off.
“Are you ready?” she asked. “For my surprise trip?”
He put the guitar down. “I’ll meet you out front.”
Once in the car they drove across the bridge and eight kilometres down a narrow, winding road. When they got out, they had to walk through a rain-soaked field of grazing cows. She refused to give him any indication of where they were or what they were doing until they reached what could only be described as the burned-out shell of a stone hut that housed two donkeys.
She stopped and took a photo.
“Well?” he said.
“This was your granny’s family home.” She smiled.
“You’re kidding me?” he said, his voice laced with awe.
“Of course, it’s buggered now, but I found an old map in the library and this article about the fire. I’m sorry about that.” She nudged the map into his hand.
He was still staring at the remnants of his grandmother’s house. “How did you know where to look?” he asked.
“You mentioned your granny’s maiden name to Ivan who mentioned it to me. I spoke to my dad, who spoke to Jerry Letter, whose ancient ex-neighbour Dick Dogs had known your grandmother’s brother David. I researched the rest in the local library.”
“I didn’t think there would be anything left,” he said.
“I was pretty surprised myself,” she admitted. “And look over here!” She walked towards a stand of tall trees.
He followed, wide-eyed.
“Someone thought to put up a plaque. It must have been your grand-uncle Tim, seeing as he was the only one to survive.”
Sam read it.
AT THIS PLACE CALLED HOME SIOBHÁN AND COLM BRESLIN, MOTHER AND FATHER TO FIVE, REST WITH THEIR SONS VINCENT, JACKIE AND DAVID. THEY WILL BE FOR EVER MISSED BY TIM AND LENA.
A lot of text followed but it was in Gaelic.
“Lena was my grandmother’s name,” he said. “Can you translate?”
“I can. I had to look it up. I was always rubbish at Irish.” She read the transcription: “‘May God grant you always a sunbeam to warm you…’”
He joined in: “‘… a moonbeam to charm you, a sheltering angel so nothing can harm you, laughter to cheer you, faithful friends near you. And whenever you pray, Heaven to hear you.’” He smiled. “It was a blessing my grandmother’s father used to whisper to her each night before she fell asleep.”
“A family blessing. That makes sense.” She nodded as though something had clicked into place. “It’s a bit of a weird prayer for the dead.” She snapped a photograph.
“I can’t believe you did this,” he said, touched by all the trouble she’d gone to.
“Me neither. Usually I’m pretty lazy.”
Later, walking to the car, he told her the story of how his great-grandparents and their three eldest sons had perished in a fire a year after his grandmother’s father had waved goodbye to her. Tim had returned from a dance to find his family dead and his home destroyed. He’d left the town within weeks of the funerals. It was only when he’d died of pneumonia and his wife, a Cavan woman, had written to his grandmother that she had discovered the truth about the rest of her family. It turned out that for the six years after his parents’ and brothers’ deaths Tim had written to her in their names pretending all was well.
“My God,” Mary had said, a little overwhelmed. “Why?”
“My grandmother used to say that her brother had thought it best to carry the pain of two.”
When they got to the car, she said, “Let’s open a bottle of wine when we get home.”
“You celebrating?”
“No, but I think it’s only fair to raise a glass to Tim.”
“I’d like that.”
17. I hate to say I told you so
Ivan went straight home as Sienna had promised she’d call in at the end of her shift. The place was a mess and he wanted to clear up before she arrived. He did it using the hiding and stuffing system he had perfected as a teenager. As long as Sienna didn’t open any cupboard, she’d believe him to be a neater, and therefore better, soul than he was. He spent a maximum of two minutes dusting and banged the large rug against the back wall rather than hoovering. Mrs O’Connor of the O’Connor Murphys would be annoyed by his shoddy efforts to maintain her high standard of cleanliness in her two-week absence. Although she would chastise him, much as his mother had done many years before, he was most definitely looking forward to her return.
He was sitting by the window, reading the paper and listening to Dave Fanning debate the hundred greatest rock stars on 2FM. A hot tea, an interesting article and ACDC’s “Thunderstruck” suggested that a good night lay ahead. The phone rang as Brian Johnson was beginning the second verse. Ah, Christ!
He was surprised to hear his ex-wife on the line. Her tone was decidedly frost-free.
“Do you have a minute?”
“Of course,” he said, a little alarmed – perhaps she was about to discuss his budding relationship with Sienna and, if so, a part of him prepared to be annoyed. After all, what right had she to talk to him about his relationships?
“The kids had such a good time this Easter,” she said.
Here we go. But her voice sounded more relaxed than it had in months. She almost sounded like his wife.
“Justy’s cheeks are still rosy. I’d forgotten what that looked like.”
He found himself smiling. “She ate me out of house and home.”
“She’d live on your mother’s brown bread alone,” she said, with warmt
h. “And Chris can’t stop talking about that salmon he caught with you.”
“It was a big one.”
“I’m glad you’ve met someone,” she said.
“Thanks,” he replied.
“I’m really sorry about everything.”
“Right,” he said, which was stupid but he’d been unprepared for kindness.
She laughed, knowing him well. “I wish you both the best.”
“Thanks,” he said, but something in her tone made him consider asking if anything was wrong.
“I have to go,” she said suddenly.
“Are you OK?” he asked, but she was gone.
It was a minute before he replaced the receiver. The conversation resonated as it was the first light one he’d had with his wife since she’d walked out on him, but he’d found it a little disturbing. What the hell is going on over there?
Sienna arrived a little after nine. They settled together on the sofa.
“What’s on?” she asked.
“Me.”
“I was talking about TV,” she said, and blew her nose.
“I was talking about me.”
“Will you still want to be with me when the first thing you don’t want to do is jump me?”
“I can’t see that happening.”
Sienna punched him playfully. “It will.”
“And I will,” he said, which was a smoother response than she had anticipated.
His pants were around his ankles when the phone rang again.
The plane landed in Gatwick just after eight a.m. Ivan was up and out of his seat before the seatbelt light flickered off. Sienna grabbed his hand and squeezed it. “It’s going to be fine,” she said, trying to soothe him but instead tears of anger sprang to his eyes. He held them back with a giant effort of will and went about retrieving their hand luggage. He was exhausted – he hadn’t slept a wink since that call. Sienna insisted on driving the hire car and he relented simply because he didn’t have time to argue.
He called his daughter from the passenger seat. “Justy, are you all right, love?”
“I’m OK, Dad.”
“Where’s your brother?”
“Beside me.”
“Put him on the phone, love.”
“Hi, Dad.”
“Hi, son. Are you all right?”
“We’re fine.”
“Your mother?”
“They said she’s sleeping. I haven’t seen her but I think it’s bad, Dad.” His voice broke.
“I’m on my way, Chris. I’m nearly there.”
“OK, Dad.”
He cancelled the call and looked at Sienna. “How could this happen?”
She didn’t have the answer. Instead she told him to open the map so that they could take the right exit and get to the hospital as quickly as possible.
A momentary smile crossed his lips. He liked her no-nonsense approach to an emergency and would be for ever grateful for her help – he wasn’t sure he would have coped as well alone.
They arrived at the hospital just over an hour later. Justine and Chris were in the family room, to which the nurse directed him. Sienna told him she’d get coffee and left him to go in alone. When he entered the small room Justine was lying across the couch, asleep. Chris had his back to him, staring at something in the middle distance.
“Chris!” he whispered, and his little boy turned to him, tears streaming down his cheeks.
“I’m here, son,” he said, hugging him tightly. “I’m here now.”
Justine woke. “Dad!” she said, rubbing her eyes.
“There she is!” he said, his voice light.
She smiled and Chris moved over so that she could share in their father’s warmth. “I missed you, Dad. I really missed you.”
“That’s all over now,” he replied, stroking her hair.
They were interrupted by a policeman who’d been assigned to the case. Ivan told his children to stay put and left the room to stand in the corridor and discuss his ex-wife’s domestic disturbance. “What’s happening?” he asked.
“By the time we got there your ex-wife had been badly beaten and, as you know, she was unconscious. Her boyfriend was gone, but with information provided to us by your son we tracked him down to his local pub. He’s in custody. Obviously we can’t hold him unless your ex-wife is willing to press charges.”
“She’s still my wife,” Ivan mumbled.
“OK.” The man nodded.
“Have you spoken to her?” Ivan asked.
“So far she’s pretty uncommunicative. She’s sleeping now but when she wakes maybe you could have a word.”
Ivan doubted that anything he could say would assist but he promised to give it a try. The policeman walked away.
He spotted Sienna sitting in a chair, drinking coffee and reading the newspaper. He waved at her and she smiled, then shooed him away. He went back into the family room to his two hungry kids. They were in the canteen with Sienna, eating chips, sausages and beans, when the doctor tracked them down. Again, Ivan went into the corridor to talk to him.
“She’s got three broken ribs, a broken arm and a cracked skull.”
“Jesus Christ!”
“She’s lucky to be alive.”
“Can I see her?”
“She’s very upset,” the doctor warned.
“I’m sure she is. I’m only here to help.”
“OK. Follow me.”
Despite being apprised of her injuries, Ivan wasn’t prepared for the reality. His wife’s face was reminiscent of a deflating purple balloon. Her left eye was swollen shut and her lower lip was bloody and stitched. Her arm wasn’t in a cast: it was bandaged, with metal bars piercing her skin.
His hands went to his mouth. “Oh, Norma!”
His ex-wife’s right eye started to leak and he wasn’t sure if it was tears or blood. She tried to talk.
“Don’t speak,” he said. “You don’t have to say anything.”
She shook her head slightly. He pulled over a chair and sat close to her bed. He held her hand. “Mary warned me. I should have come to see you for myself. I was too busy with…”
Norma raised her good hand and placed a finger over her damaged lips.
“I’ll murder him,” he promised.
“He never laid a hand on the kids,” she said, her words resonating with pain, both physical and mental.
“I know.”
“I’m sorry,” she whispered.
“I’m sorry too, love.”
He stayed with her until she slept.
Ivan woke from a broken sleep at dawn. Sienna was sleeping soundly so he got up and moved across the room as quietly as he could. He managed to make it as far as the dressing-table and then he stubbed his toe – the yell was muted and he hopped just once.
“I’m awake,” she said, eyes closed and a grin on her face.
“Sorry,” he said, sitting down on the bed with his foot in his hand. “That feckin’ hurt.”
Sienna stretched, luxuriating in it like a comfortable cat. “The bed’s hard,” she noted and Ivan agreed. “Have you checked on the kids?”
He confirmed that he’d looked in on them next door a number of times during the night.
“They’ll be OK,” she told him, hugging his waist.
“I know,” he agreed, although anxiety was etched into his face. “I’ll have to take them home.”
“I know.”
“I mean them all. Norma too.”
“I know,” she repeated.
“She can’t stay here. She’s got nothing here,” he said, by way of explanation, but Sienna pressed a finger to his lips, much as his wife had to hers the previous evening.
“You don’t have to explain.”
“I don’t love her any more,” he said.
“Good.” She glowed.
“Good,” he said happily.
She lifted the covers. “Now get in here,” she said, pointing, “and then get in here.” Ivan, despite all his problems, was onl
y too happy to oblige.
Sienna took Ivan’s shell-shocked kids to the cinema so that Ivan could visit their mother. She seemed a little better than the previous day. Her lip was less swollen and her speech clearer. She wasn’t in as much pain as the morphine had fully kicked in. Her mental state had improved too. She didn’t appear to be constantly on the verge of tears. She’d even smiled at him, or so it appeared, but with the swelling and the stitches it was hard to tell. She told him how many times she had been beaten and why she hadn’t confided in him. He didn’t understand any of the reasons she gave but he didn’t say so because it was unnecessary and Ivan was never one to enter into an unnecessary argument. She reiterated that her boyfriend had never laid a hand on the kids. Ivan had soothed her when she became distressed while she was recounting her latest and most brutal ordeal. Later he brought in two coffees. He helped her to drink hers by holding it to the less damaged side of her mouth as her broken ribs and fractured arm prevented her doing it for herself. She gave up after a few sips.
“The doctor here says you’ll be fit to travel in a week’s time. I talked to Dr Macken and he said he can get you into the Regional in Cork for any follow-up appointments for your arm –”
She put up the good one to halt him. “Dr Macken? Ivan, I’m not going back to Ireland.”
The shock on his face was clear to see.
“What made you think I’d go back to Kenmare?” she asked.
“I don’t understand.” He scratched invisible sea salt from his hair.
“Ivan, I won’t be going back to that house, but we’re staying in the UK.” She tried to meet his eyes.
“Well, where will you live?” he asked, exasperated.
“That’s my problem,” she said.
“What?” he all but roared.
“We’ll be fine,” she said sternly.
“No, Norma, you won’t be fine. You’re in bits. You’ve nowhere to live. You’ve got some lunatic trying to kill you and you’ve got my kids.” He was trying to be calm but his face had flushed.
“I’m tired,” she said, when he sat down. “Please leave.”
He got up. “This isn’t over, Norma,” he promised, and left her to her insane thoughts.
No Way to Say Goodbye Page 18
