Mary had called Adam from the road. “I need to see you.”
“OK.”
“Where?”
“The Gingerbread House.”
“I’ll be there in an hour. Twelve.”
“I’ll be waiting.”
Adam was indeed waiting. He stood up to greet her. They hugged and sat down opposite each other. “I just got some coffee,” he said, indicating the large cafetière in front of him. “It’s still hot – I knew you of all people wouldn’t be late!” He poured her a cup.
She drank some gratefully.
“It’s good to see you.”
“You too,” she replied, taking his hand in hers. “How’ve you been?” She was concerned about her friend, whose grey face belied his carefully constructed happy-go-lucky façade.
“I’m fine.” He was obviously lying.
“I’ve had enough crap for one day. Tell me the truth.”
“Alina hates me. She’s so angry all the time. I think she’s planning on punishing me for the rest of my life.” He dropped his head to hide his face. He took a series of deep breaths and Mary gave him the room he required to compose himself. “What about Penny?” he asked, after a few minutes.
“Not good,” she disclosed, through gritted teeth.
“Drinking?”
“Heavily.”
“She’ll cut back – she always does.”
“I think it’s time we all faced the fact that Penny has a real problem.”
“Jesus,” he shook his head, “everything’s such a fucking mess.”
For a moment Mary looked as if she was about to cry.
“You know there’s nothing we can do,” he said, with resignation that came from a childhood spent watching his mother caretake an alcoholic grandfather.
“Right now I wonder if I even care,” Mary admitted.
“I read the article. Whatever’s going on, I know she didn’t do it to hurt you.”
“But she did,” Mary said, welling up.
“It’s my fault.”
“You certainly didn’t help.”
“Good old Mary. I can always count on the truth from you. I should have been a better man. Your new friend isn’t the only one to have made terrible mistakes.”
“We all make mistakes,” she whispered to herself.
“Do you think I should call her?” he asked, knowing it was the wrong thing to do.
“No,” Mary advised, “it would only make things worse and I’ve already done that.” She sighed.
“You made it worse?” He snorted. “I think we both know that any third-party responsibility for Penny’s drinking is mine, not yours.”
Mary shook her head. “I was hurt and said some things. I’m not sure there’s a road back for us.”
“Of course there is. She won’t want to lose you.”
“You think? If it comes down to me or booze, will I win?”
He looked into his cup and sighed. “Has it really got that bad?”
“I think it has,” she said.
He put his hand to his forehead and rubbed it as though he was trying to erase this new information. “If things are that bad there’s nothing any one of us can do. It’s up to her now.”
“She’s too far gone.”
“Then it’s only a matter of time.”
“Until?”
“Until she hits rock bottom,” he said, biting his lower lip.
Later, over lunch, they realized they were more depressing than a Dickens novel. Adam attempted to lighten the mood. “So you’ll forgive the American his omission?”
“Pretty big omission,” she said lightly. Adam could always make the worst situations seem perfectly normal.
“You’re telling me!” He laughed. “Half the town was on the phone about it before nine this morning.”
“That’s comforting.” She attempted a joke.
“Mia Johnson!”
“I was thinking about the heroin!” She laughed a little.
“Why would anyone turn to drugs with a girlfriend like Mia Johnson?”
“Do you want a slap?” she couldn’t help but ask.
He laughed. “You’ll forgive him.”
“You’re probably right,” she admitted, a little disgusted with herself.
“He’s definitely given up all that crap?”
“Yeah,” she answered. She’d spent pretty much day and night with him for several weeks, and he wouldn’t have been able to hide that particular addiction. “When he was staying with me I found a stash of his painkillers under the mattress. He was in agony but he wouldn’t take the pills. I thought it was weird but I suppose it makes sense now.”
“Did you say anything to him?”
“No. I ignored them for a while and then one day, just before he left, I had the impulse to bin them so I did. I didn’t say anything and he didn’t ask.”
“How does he feel about you?” Adam was happy to concentrate on someone else’s pathetic love life so that, for a while, he could escape his own.
“I don’t know. I’m hardly Mia Shagging Johnson, am I?”
“No, you’re not, but I guess he wasn’t looking for Mia Shagging Johnson.” He raised an eyebrow. “The lunatic!”
She said nothing.
“Do you trust him?” he asked, after a moment or two had passed.
“I know he’s hiding something,” she answered, avoiding the question.
“You mean other than being a junkie?” Adam asked, intrigued: he was well aware that Mary was more intuitive than most.
“Why would a man who has the music world at his feet, millions in the bank and a rock star in his bed turn to heroin?” She swished the wine at the bottom of her glass.
“Well, I don’t know, Hetty Wainthropp. What is it they say about rock-’n’-roll excess?”
“Cocaine is excess, heroin is desperation. But, then, what do I know? I’m just a country bumpkin with voice like a crow and a flat arse.”
Adam remembered the rap-music video he’d seen a few days ago in which Mia Johnson had revealed her fabulously curvaceous arse in a tiny pink bikini. Jesus, Mary, I love you but she’s a hard act to follow.
20. Facing up to those who would look down
Sam woke after eight. His sleep had been broken and a familiar weight had resumed its seat at the centre of his chest. Before he had turned in for the night he had watched Mary’s house with the staying power of a stalker, but she had not come home. Earlier that evening he had wondered if Mr Monkels was OK. When he jumped the wall he found the dog asleep by the kitchen window, his bowls full of water and food. He was fine. Good. He had long ago forgiven the dog for his back injury – anyway, it had introduced him properly to his neighbour. Without it they might still have been passing acquaintances. Please don’t hate me.
By midday he was desperate for food and, having imprisoned himself for one entire day, he felt it was time to face his public. He showered and changed, then paced a little and finally opened his front door. He met Mossy coming out of his house.
“Well, well,” Mossy said, shaking his head, “you are a dark horse.”
Sam didn’t know what to say so he just stood there, nodding uncomfortably.
“Mia Johnson,” Mossy was still shaking his head, “I wouldn’t be able for you.” He laughed. “Ha!” he called, as though to himself. “Mia Johnson and a side order of smack.” He laughed again. “Jesus, boy, that stuff would kill you!” He nudged Sam and gave a little wink, then walked on, giggling to himself.
OK. That was weird. But it was Mossy. Still, if everyone was as easy as Mossy… It might be OK. He took his time walking towards town. It was well after one when he entered the bar. It seemed to be buzzing with a little more energy than usual. However, as he materialized, the buzz subsided to a lull, which in turn descended into stark silence. All faces turned to him and it was difficult to ignore the collective inquisitive stare. His destination – a table on its own at the end of the room and near the toilets – seemed a mill
ion miles away but he couldn’t turn back, not while the pack lay in wait. He sat down and took up his menu, which he quickly employed as a shield. Mary was nowhere to be seen, and neither was Jack nor Ivan. Where the hell is everyone?
Jessie emerged from the back and, pen and notebook in hand, strode over to take his order – as pleasant as always. “What do you want?”
“World peace!” he said, attempting an ice-breaking joke but she wasn’t about to thaw.
“In the event that I cannot deliver on that order, is there something you’d like off the menu?” she asked, without cracking a smile.
“I’ll have coffee, and a ham, cheese and onion toasted sandwich to go.” His weary tone conceded defeat.
“We don’t do ‘to go’,” she replied haughtily.
“To stay then.” He sighed.
“Fine,” she agreed, and strode back to base in the same military manner as she’d come over to him.
Now that she’d gone he realized that all eyes were averted and the buzz, although hushed, was returning. He wasn’t close enough to hear his fellow diners’ muted conversations but neither was he blind to the occasional eye cast upon him before a mouth was cupped and a head bent towards a companion.
Mary’s father emerged from the kitchen with his coffee and sandwich. He took the chair opposite. “I thought you could stand to see a friendly face,” he said, with a smile.
“Thanks, Jack. I appreciate that.”
“You have the whole town talking,” Jack said, absent-mindedly wiping the table.
“I get that.”
“Ah, what harm?” He grinned widely enough to reveal a gold tooth. “Sure wouldn’t it be worse if they weren’t talking?”
“Not really. No.”
“I suppose not. Still, it’s something to pass the day and, after all, it’s only talk and not the end of the world, now, is it?”
“I guess not,” Sam conceded, trying hard not to sound like a teenager.
Jack nodded and got up.
“So Mary’s not in today?” Sam said, hoping that any anxiety he felt was undetectable in his voice.
“She took a few days off.”
Jack had demanded she get some rest, having been informed of his daughter’s near-breakdown in Gemma Gibney’s beauty shop.
“Oh. OK.” Sam nodded. “Thanks.”
“Son?”
“Yeah?”
“She comes across as tough as old boots but she’s not. She’s had it hard enough.”
“Yes, sir,” he heard himself say.
Jack left him to his coffee and unwanted toasted sandwich. Luckily lunchtime for the workers was approaching an end and the place was emptying out. He was sipping his coffee when he felt someone stand over him. He turned to see a woman whose face and name he recognized but with whom he had previously had no contact. Bridget the Bike.
“Hi, I’m Bridget Browne.” She held out her hand and he took it. They shook. “Look, I just wanted to say that soon it will be somebody else’s turn.”
“You’re so sure?” He almost laughed.
“I was the previous occupant of those boots you’ve just stepped into.”
“Ah.” He was enjoying her turn of phrase despite the circumstances.
“So, thanks for that.” She smiled.
“You’re welcome.”
“It’ll be OK. It always is.”
At home that evening he attempted to watch a show from season two of The West Wing. Mary had presented him with the DVD box set on the day she’d helped him shop for a TV. He was finding it difficult to concentrate. Josh had just explained the super-string theory to Leo, and Toby seemed to be losing it with CJ but none of it was filtering through the haze that separated his visual cortex from his brainstem. The West Wing demanded the kind of attention that Sam couldn’t commit to it so he switched it off and went into the garden. He sat on a plastic chair and took some deep breaths, focusing on the wall that separated his garden from his neighbour’s.
He must have fallen asleep because the next thing he knew he was cold, had a crick in his neck and his watch revealed it was after ten. Mary must have returned because Mr Monkels was in the back sniffing a bucket.
He went and knocked on her door but there was no response. He also peered through the window and called her name. He hoped she wasn’t hiding from him but feared she might be.
He decided to go for a walk to clear his head. He found her sitting on the bench by the pier, looking out over the water and seemingly mesmerized by a bobbing red buoy. He sat down beside her. She remained still for a few moments, but then she switched off her Walkman and removed her earphones. “How does it feel to be the talk of the town?” she asked, without looking at him.
“I’m guessing you know.”
“They’ll get tired of it and soon enough the town spotlight will descend on somebody else,” she said evenly.
“Bridget Browne was kind enough to tip me off.”
“Well, she’s certainly qualified to know,” she said.
“She was kind,” he muttered, and she faced him.
“Well, that’s the thing about small towns. Everybody knows everybody else’s business so sniggering and judgement usually follow, but when it’s important all that fades away and what’s left is solidarity. Maybe if you’d known that, you could have trusted us.”
“I shouldn’t have lied.”
“Everybody lies,” Mary replied, a little sadly.
“I should have told you about my past.”
“So why didn’t you?”
“I was afraid. I hadn’t been a decent person for such a long time.”
His eyes were dark and the melancholy she had seen in them that first night had returned. “And you’re a better man now?” she asked.
“I’m trying to be,” he said quietly, his eyes cast down.
“And your girlfriend?” she said, after a moment.
His eyes locked with hers and they shared a terrible sadness. “I didn’t love her.”
She turned back to the water.
After a few minutes she faced him again. “I need some space,” she said.
“Because of my past?”
“No, because of mine. When I’m around you I feel like I’m falling. I need to stop before I smash into the ground.”
“Are you always so honest?”
“No. Mostly I’m a liar like you.”
“I don’t want to lose you.”
“But you won’t be staying here.”
“You don’t know that,” he mumbled.
“Yeah, I do,” she said sadly, and stood up.
He grabbed her hand and held it until she pulled it away. Desolate now, he nodded. This was the first time either had shown their true feelings – and all at once it was over.
“I just need some time,” she said, and left him with the bobbing red buoy for company.
She knows. She knows I’m not worth it.
On the day that the article was published about Mia Johnson, Penny began a week of self-induced oblivion. She’d requested a two-week leave of absence and because she rarely took holidays, her editor – the traitor – was happy to agree. She’d stocked up on booze and snacks in Killarney and, on returning home, she’d parked her car in her garage. Once inside she’d pulled out the plug on her home phone, switched off her mobile, locked the doors, closed the curtains and opened the first of many bottles, thus beginning a long descent to a place that Dante had termed The Inferno.
A few days had passed when she heard knocking. She wasn’t sure how long Ivan had stayed there, interspersing the banging with calling her name, because she had drifted off to sleep in the middle. It might have been seconds or hours. Just go away. The second time she’d woken, all was quiet. The vodka bottle was nearly empty. She got up and went into the kitchen, opened the fridge and placed the near-empty bottle beside a fresh one, which was close to some eggs that she considered frying. Her stomach turned. She closed the fridge, then reconsidered. She opened the fridge again,
took out the near-empty bottle and put it into the freezer. She switched on the oven timer for ten minutes, then sat on the floor and watched the countdown.
When the buzzer sounded, she opened the freezer, took out the bottle, downed the contents and spluttered. This is the life.
Four days into her binge, she had decided to open her laptop and write down why she felt she was a drunk. Even though she had drunk two bottles of vodka before midday she felt surprisingly lucid and it seemed a tremendous idea. She entitled the Word document “Why?” She took a drink from a fresh bottle of vodka, with a dash of lime. Nice. After a moment or two, with her muse coursing down her throat, she was ready to begin. She flexed her fingers and wiped the residual spittle from her lips.
She decided to title each paragraph and her diatribe went as follows:
Why?
Parents
My mother was on the pill, ergo my conception was as a result of a nasty case of the trots. Apparently my unlucky parents had decided against having children, even considering abortion, but then Catholic guilt set in and the fear of an angry God ensured that I would survive gestation to emerge into a world that didn’t give a fuck. Were my parents cruel? Certainly not intentionally – but being cruel requires giving attention, which is something neither could afford. Do I wish I was aborted? Yes. It would have been kinder. Did my parents love me? How could they? I was fed and clothed. I was educated and then nothing. They don’t even know me. I don’t know them. Aren’t parents supposed to know their kids? Aren’t they supposed to care? So I wasn’t abused. But was I neglected? Doesn’t it mean something when you feel closer to your best friend’s dad than you do to your own? Why didn’t they care? Was it me? Why was it that when I was born the change that occurs in everyone else’s parents didn’t occur in mine? Where was my unconditional love? How is it that I could be so alone from such a young age? Why didn’t they love me? Why didn’t they love me? Why?
Adam
He was my world. He promised me he would wait. He told me he loved me and I believed him. I believed him because he did love me. It was real, it just wasn’t enough. He picked his wife over me. He picked his kids over me. Funny how the man I love and who loves me would choose his children and misery over me, and my father would choose his stupid job. Is it me? It must be. There is an emptiness in me that is noticeable. I couldn’t make Adam happy. Just like his wife, I would be a letdown. That’s why he left: deep down he knows there is nothing to me. How could there be? That night when we danced in the garden and when he said goodbye, I wanted to die. I desperately wanted to die. Why? What is wrong with me? Why can’t I get over him? Why can’t I just feel normal? Why won’t he choose me? Why won’t he choose me? Why?
No Way to Say Goodbye Page 21
