Ebb and Flow

by Mary O'Sullivan

  Sharon stood and began to smooth down her robe. Jason narrowed his eyes in suspicion. She seemed a bit edgy, a tad guilty.

  “Actually, I’ve moved the things I think you’re looking for,” she said and there was a definite tremor in her voice.

  In an instant Jason was standing in front of her, catching her by the arms, shaking her.

  “The envelopes! You’ve moved them? Where to? Why?”

  “I-I won’t answer un-unless you take your hands off m-me,” Sharon said, her voice rattling in time to the violent shaking her husband was giving her.

  Jason dropped his hands. He had Maxine Doran and others for that type of treatment. Not his wife. Not usually. But his papers! His videos! They were his life-blood. Sharon had flopped onto the edge of the bed again now and was rubbing her arms and grimacing in pain. Tears filled her beautiful violet eyes.

  “I told you about the work needed on the cellar, didn’t I? It’s starting next week. I had to clear everything out.”

  “Why clear out the safe? Surely to Christ they’re not dry-lining that too?”

  “Jason, that cellar is going to be full of strangers next week. Did you really want me to leave my jewellery and your business papers there where somebody determined enough could access them?”

  “Jesus! Who are you getting to fix the bloody basement? A gang of safe-breakers?”

  “Use your head. Anyone seeing that big safe would know it must be worth breaking into. I’ve taken my jewellery out and your papers too until the work on the basement is finished. You should be grateful to me. I was only looking out for your interests.”

  “So where did you put them?”

  “In a secure place.”

  Jason grabbed her again and this time he felt no compunction about hurting her. She had committed the unforgivable sin. His thick fingers slid around her slender throat. He felt her pulse flutter under his hands. He squeezed and heard her gasp of fear.

  “Tell me, you bitch! Tell me where you put my property!”

  “In the bank. Our Swiss bank. Stop! You’re ch-choking me! Stop!”

  Suddenly they heard a knocking on the bedroom door. Jason’s fingers loosened their grasp. Sharon’s hands flew to her bruised throat.

  The knocking on the door got more insistent.

  “Answer it,” Jason ordered.

  Pulling the collar of her robe up to cover her neck, Sharon stumbled over to the door and opened it.

  Frau Henner stood there, solid and solemn. Her eyes went to Sharon’s hands which clutched the lapels of her silk robe tightly around her throat. She raised one dark eyebrow.

  “Yes, Frau Henner?” Sharon asked.

  “Will you want breakfast in bed or will I serve it downstairs?”

  “Downstairs, please. We’ll be there in ten minutes.”

  Frau Henner nodded and turned away but not before she had caught the look of gratitude in Sharon’s eyes. There was no need for gratitude. Frau Henner would have gone to the ends of the earth to protect Sharon against her gross husband.

  Sharon closed the door and faced Jason. “You heard that. Breakfast in ten minutes.”

  Sharon made the bathroom before Jason could speak to her or touch her again. She dashed inside, locked the door and stood with her back to it while he pounded on the solid timber. He must have hurt his fist, or thought of another plan or just got fed up with thumping a closed door. For whatever reason the banging stopped but Sharon knew she was living on borrowed time. She, too, must think of another plan. Urgently.

  * * *

  Confusion was the first feeling to greet Ella when she woke. The room was strange. An unfamiliar dressing table stood opposite the foot of the bed and oak-veneered built-in wardrobes lined the wall to her right. Even the light was different. Whiter, more piercing than what she was used to. As she lay there, suspended between a state of sleep and wakefulness her attention was caught by a low growling rhythmic sound. It rolled towards her and then whispered away. Her mind engaged. The sea! Cuanowen!

  Jumping up, she threw back the covers and ran over to the window. When the curtains were pulled back she was faced with the sight of the Atlantic swelling and receding just one hundred yards from where she stood. The water was grey and windblown. She opened the window and took in a deep breath of the sea-air. It swirled into her lungs, her blood stream, her very soul. Throwing back her head she allowed the damp, salty wind to toss her hair and caress her face.

  Feeling clean and refreshed, she closed the window again and looked around the room. It was small. Clean. Adequate. A perfect little bolthole for a woman spending a weekend alone. A woman whose husband was most likely waking up at this very minute and turning towards his mistress to kiss her good morning.

  Ella glanced out the window again and watched as white-capped waves rushed powerfully towards the shore only to peter out in creamy puddles on the beach, energy spent, majesty diminished. Her eyes were drawn towards the horizon where big swells of water were beginning to curl and shape themselves into onrushing waves. The ceaseless dance of ebb and flow hypnotised her. Some perceived wisp of wisdom filtered through the salty spray. She couldn’t quite grasp it, couldn’t fit the ethereal idea into a straitjacket of words. It was something about permanence, about perpetuity, about rushing towards goals only to start all over again, leaving a little of yourself behind each time.

  Ella turned her back to the window and began to get ready for the day ahead. Breakfast in Seaview Hotel was served between eight thirty and ten. It was already nine o’clock and her appointment to view the bungalow was for ten. A quick shower later, she followed the smell of rashers and sausages. There were only four other people seated in the dining room on this low-season morning – a middle-aged couple and two men sitting at separate tables. They all muttered good morning and then got back to the serious business of eating a full Irish breakfast. Ella ate quickly and then went back to her room to collect her jacket.

  The estate agent’s office was in the village of Cuanowen, five kilometres away. As she drove the coast road, Ella remembered all the times she had walked along here. Her steps had been shorter then. And lighter. The protected only child of Helen and Jim Deasy had nothing to fear from life, nothing to weigh her down. The road dipped towards the village and as Ella began the descent she held her breath. At the foot of this hill, just at the entrance to the village, stood her parents’ house. What used to be her parents’ house. Her home. There had been so many alterations made that Ella recognised her childhood home now only by its location. It had been extended, re-roofed, dormer windows and a conservatory added. She slowed down when passing and peered into the house, admiring the way the present owners had blended the old with the new. There would be a view of the sea from the dormer windows. For an instant she regretted selling but it had been the right thing to do at the time. The money had been a significant factor in getting Ford Auctioneers off the ground. Her parents would have liked that.

  The village looked neat and tidy. A contender for Tidy Towns. Flowerbeds, shrubs and litterbins had been placed along the length of the main and only street, the shops looked freshly painted. A picture postcard village. Glancing around for a parking space, Ella was glad to see that at least one thing had not changed. Everybody still parked their cars on double yellow lines. She followed suit and found a space just outside the estate agent’s office. Stopping to look at the window display on the way in, she was surprised at the range of properties on the books from farms to holiday homes. And at the prices. Cuanowen had become an exclusive area to live.

  The estate agent was waiting inside to greet her, all efficiency and politeness. Ella smiled to herself as he reeled off all the usual patter she knew so well. He was following guidelines. Be informative but not pushy, friendly but not familiar. The system worked well until he recognised Ella.

  “You’re Jim Deasy’s daughter,” he said in a tone which was far more colloquial than the one he had been using. It was almost an accusation.

  “That
’s right,” Ella admitted, looking closely at him, trying to peel back the years from his face. He was fair-haired, stocky, beginning to bald. “Pebbles Shorten! It is, isn’t it?”

  A slight blush spread up from underneath his collar. “Well, sort of,” he said uncomfortably. “Nobody calls me that any more.”

  “Of course not. Sorry,” Ella muttered, desperately trying to remember his Christian name. How could she have forgotten? Maybe she never knew it. She must have seen it recently on his web page or over the door. He had always been known as Pebbles because of his penchant for collecting piles of little stones. He used to spend hours combing the beach for specimens he thought special. His pockets used to rattle when he walked. Pebbles Shorten had been the first boy ever to kiss her. It had been a fumbling, awkward clash of noses, ending in the barest touching of lips.

  “My name is Gavin,” he announced.

  Ella nodded, remembering now, embarrassed that she had not been able to recall it. It was just that the innocence and freedom of her childhood and teenage years seemed to belong to another era. There were no parallels in the pressurised life she lived today, no space for remembering exploratory kisses on the beach.

  “I believe you’re in this business yourself, Ella. In a big way.”

  “We’ve been lucky. The city is booming.”

  Gavin, who used to be known as Pebbles, shuffled from one foot to the other, suddenly looking anxious. “Actually, I’m thinking of making the move myself,” he said. “I’ve a good little business here but it’s hardly cutting edge.”

  “It’s cutthroat in the city. I’d think carefully about it if I were you, Gavin.”

  He gave her a look which said that he didn’t trust her. He thought she was trying to stave off opposition. The city would swallow him up and spit him out. The pace was so different. The environment so competitive. She had warned him. Let him think whatever he liked.

  “Can we see the bungalow now, Gavin?”

  He locked up his office and then they both got into his car to drive the two miles to the property. They left the village behind and began the climb up the hills on the south side of Cuanowen. The gradient was steep and the road narrowed as they rose. When they had almost reached the summit, Gavin turned left and manoeuvred the car up a neat laneway bordered by stone walls. Brambles, bare and leafless now, poked up from the other side of the ditches. Ella imagined the summer, lush berries on the brambles, honeysuckle, wild roses. This laneway would be an oasis of colour and scent in the warm season.

  The laneway came to an abrupt end and without warning widened into a tarmac driveway. The landscaped gardens on either side were wet and windblown but still attractive. Ella’s eyes skimmed over the shrubs and miniature trees, the water feature. Her attention was drawn inexorably to the house itself. It sat at the end of the driveway, solid yet somehow ethereal, the solar panels and glass frontage giving it a light and very modern appearance. She jumped out of the car almost before it stopped. Turning her back to the house, Ella looked downwards over the fields, right down to the cliffs and beyond to the sea. Every direction she turned she was met by views of the restless ocean, rolling, heaving, finding an answering rhythm somewhere deep within her. She felt at one with the motion, humbled by the power, warmed by the sense of belonging. Ella knew then that no matter what Andrew said, she wanted to buy a house in Cuanowen. Probably not this bungalow. Definitely not. It was more clever architecture than a home. But she would have, she must have, a safe haven by the sea.

  Chapter 19

  Jason had always felt uncomfortable in Salzburg but now the fact that his wife and her housekeeper were conversing in German, or whichever guttural language they were babbling, made him even more edgy. He pushed his breakfast away from him. Sharon was really playing him for a fool. Nobody did that to Jason Laide.

  “What the fuck are ye gassing on about?” he shouted.

  His coarse voice echoed around the elegant dining room of the Junkergasse house. Both women stopped talking and stared at him. There was disdain in Sharon’s violet gaze and an intense flash of hatred in Frau Henner’s beady little eyes.

  “Frau Henner was just reminding me that I had arranged to go hill-walking with some friends today. They’ll be here shortly. Would you like to join us?”

  “‘Would you like to join us?’” Jason mimicked in a cruel impression of Sharon’s husky voice. His temper was reaching meltdown. “Get her out of here,” he ordered, nodding in the direction of the housekeeper.

  Sharon turned and said something to Frau Henner in the language that Jason did not understand.

  “Talk English,” he snapped.

  Frau Henner just nodded to Sharon, turned her back on Jason and walked out the door. He spluttered, specks of saliva spraying over his lips and onto the remains of his breakfast on the table.

  “I pay that bitch’s wages. Yours too. How dare you treat me like that! What in the fuck are you up to?”

  “What do you mean?” Sharon asked, trying to infuse her quavering voice with an innocence which did not deceive Jason for a second.

  Getting up he walked around the huge oval oak table to sit beside his wife. He knew his physical proximity was a threat to her. Her delicate frame seemed to shrink more as he pushed his bulk even closer to her. He could smell her perfume, feel the touch of her breath on his face, see the minute beads of moisture that clung to her hairline. He could almost reach out and touch her fear. One part of him, the part which wanted to protect this woman, shrank back from the confrontation. But that was the lesser part of Jason Laide. She was playing some game. He could not allow that. He grabbed her wrist and squeezed his fingers around the narrow span.

  “I want my private papers. They’re what set up my business and keep it going. They’re the reason you live in fucking luxury. You’ll go back to that poncy Swiss bank on Monday and get my property. Then you’ll personally deliver it to me in Ireland. Or else . . .”

  Jason’s grip on her wrist loosened and let go. She rubbed her skin and watched as he bowed his head and closed his eyes. She noticed that his hair was thinning. The colour was fading. It was not as flame red as it used to be. His face and body were more bloated. And yet this violent man could be gentle too, loving, generous. He had an animal attraction that she had never experienced with any other man. Not that there had been any other men. Maybe she should tell him the truth. Her hand went to her throat which still burned with the imprint of his fingers. He would kill her. She had left it too long. And he had changed too little.

  The front doorbell rang. In the silence they heard the soft patter of Frau Henner’s feet as she went to answer the door.

  They heard her greet people and laughter filled the hall as they all shared some joke. Sharon tried to play for time.

  “Here are my friends now. Why don’t you come on the hill walk with us?”

  Jason narrowed his ice-blue eyes and stared at her. Then just when she thought her gamble had not paid off, he smiled at her.

  “You’re nothing without me, Sharon. Just another high-class whore and the world is full of them. I’ll meet your friends. Go walking on the fucking hills, yodelling and wearing leather breeches if that’s what you want. But don’t think for a minute you can fool me. I’ll have my papers back and then I’ll decide what to do about you.”

  Sharon nodded slowly. She had always known this day would come but she had thought it would be at a time of her choosing. She was not really ready now. And she still had not decided how much she would tell him. Then she remembered the reason why she had kept secrets. A smile lifted the corners of her mouth and touched her eyes. She reached her hand out to her husband.

  “Deal,” she said.

  He took her hand and for a moment they smiled at each other. Then fear shadowed her eyes and suspicion his.

  Jason went to the bedroom before they left for their walk. His call to Gussie just took a few minutes. By the time Jason was struggling up the snowy hills, Gus had already booked O’Shaughnessy on
the early Monday morning flight to Salzburg. He would, of course, have his camera with him.

  * * *

  Maxine was surrounded by stacks of clothes and make-up. They were piled all over her dressing-table and bed. Daywear, casual, formal, eveningwear, matching shoes, toners, blushers, mascaras. The tools of her trade. But the therapy wasn’t working. Usually a spring clean of her apartment filled her with renewed energy. Decluttering her living space also freed up calm space in her mind. Or it used to. No matter how much she sorted and discarded now, her thoughts returned again and again to Manor House, Jason Laide and Andrew Ford. At least Andrew seemed to have got the message. He had not tried to contact her at all today.

  She looked at her silent phone and wished it to ring. Maybe she should talk to Andrew. Explain that their relationship had no future. After all, he was married and Maxine herself was . . . she was Marie Murphy, tramp and slut, and had earned every other derogatory term that could be thrown at her. She had sold her right to a decent relationship the first time she had performed for Jason Laide.

  Images flashed across her mind. Maxine threw herself onto her bed, not caring that she was squashing and creasing garments which were worth more per item than a month’s pay for the average worker. What did the hand-painted silks and woven linens matter when the body they were designed to clothe was used and cheap? She squeezed her eyes shut but like a newsreel the images flickered past. Marie Murphy, fifteen years old, tall, pretty, eaten up by the ambition to escape from her family, from Mountain View Terrace. Jason Laide, with his flame-red hair, stocky and strong, already a powerful presence in the area. Jason with his haulage business, his sharp suits and his coterie of respectful followers in tow. How could she have been so naïve? She had been an intelligent child, always near the top of her class in school. How could she have believed Jason when he said he had contacts in the film world? What had she been thinking when she allowed him to film her? Escape? Fame? Money? And he had reeled her in so cleverly. Just some innocent pictures at first, taken with his home-movie camera in the front room of his house. The three-bedroomed semi-detached that Maxine – Marie – had thought at the time to be the height of elegance and sophistication. When he said the film director needed some shots of her in her underwear to help him make a decision, she had peeled off her clothes. It was just like wearing a bikini and she might be cast in a movie where there were beach shots.