Mrs Foley turned and held the headless corpse upside down. The red juice steamed as it trickled noisily into a waiting bucket.
‘Oh, there you are!’ she said by way of greeting.
‘Yes.’ Patricia wondered if she had been meant to witness this gruesome scene. As if to reassure her Mrs Foley raised her free hand and absent-mindedly licked the blood that was dripping from it. Something shifted in Patricia’s stomach.
‘That’s Sunday lunch sorted,’ Mrs Foley said, holding the bird aloft with a smile, but all Patricia could see was the smear of blood across her teeth.
Back in the house Mrs Foley disappeared with the dead chicken and when she re-emerged began checking pots, poking their contents with a well-worn wooden spoon. Patricia was standing by the back door, unsure if she should sit down or not.
‘I was saying to Teddy, dinner’s going to be a while, so maybe he’d like to take you down to Carey’s for a drink. I don’t keep drink in the house. Myself and Teddy would never have one. Christmas maybe. The odd sherry. I was telling him it would be nice to take you out. Show you around the place. It’s a nice little pub, with a lounge bar as well. Quiet enough. You’d never get any trouble in there. Not like a city pub. I suppose you’d never go to the pub in Buncarragh, would you?’ Patricia shook her head, knowing better than to try and interrupt Catherine Foley’s monologue, but her hostess persisted with her enquiries. ‘Do you have a lot of friends back home?’ The pause for breath suggested that an answer was in fact required.
‘No. Not really. I couldn’t get out much looking after my mother.’
‘Of course, of course. But you have your family, don’t you? How’s your brother keeping? They’re all well?’
‘Yes, thank you. All fine.’ Patricia felt like a fraud mentioning Jerry and Gillian as if they were one big happy family.
Mrs Foley had stopped mid-stir and was staring at Patricia. It seemed she required a fuller response.
‘We aren’t really that close. There have been some disagreements about our mother’s will,’ she confessed.
The old woman nodded sympathetically. ‘Isn’t that sad. Often the way of course. Often the way.’
When Edward returned from the milking, he was sporting a fresh shirt and jumper and his hair was slicked back off his face. Before he could speak his mother launched into an explanation of how she had told Patricia all about the trip to the pub and the two young people were ushered to the door.
Once outside they braced themselves against the wind.
‘Is it a walk?’ Patricia asked, sincerely hoping that it wasn’t.
‘A bit far, I’d say. We’ll take the car.’
As they sat side by side in the darkness with the tight beams of the headlights making a glowing tunnel along the road ahead, Patricia felt better. It was just the two of them. She looked at Edward. His profile, lit by the instruments on the dashboard, looked strong and handsome. She liked the lines around his eyes from all the years of squinting through the winter storms and summer sun. The stubble of his chin meeting the soft pink of his lip made her shift in her seat, almost embarrassed.
‘I’m glad I came back.’
‘So am I.’
A short silence but then it was Edward who continued. ‘Sorry about my mother. I think she is just so glad to have someone to talk to.’
‘She’s grand. It was nice of her to suggest we do this.’
‘Yes.’
Patricia quickly lost all sense of direction as the car twisted its way through the narrow roads. They had turned right out of the gates of Castle House, away from the causeway that crossed the marsh, but after that they had turned inland into a maze of identical-looking hedgerows and ditches. Before long the car slowed down as it approached a crossroads and there was the unexpected sight of a small stone-clad building that housed the pub. The lights from the two large windows on either side of the door spilled out onto a gravel forecourt revealing a lone petrol pump and a couple of parked cars.
Inside, the room was split in two. On one side a long bar with stools led down to a brick fireplace, while on the other side low tables and small padded seats were pressed against a long dark-green vinyl-covered banquette. A barman just past the point of being referred to as young was stooped over a newspaper and two old men, wearing flat caps and nursing pints of stout, were perched at the end of the bar nearest to the half-hearted fire. All three looked up to examine the newcomers.
‘Teddy boy,’ the barman called in greeting and stepped back from the counter, ready to serve.
‘Andy. You’re well?’
‘I am. Bad enough old night.’
‘It is. It is.’
‘What can I get you?’
Patricia felt four pairs of eyes staring at her. She rarely, if ever, went into pubs, even the ones that boasted a lounge bar, and she certainly had no idea what to drink. She felt a small seed of panic beginning to grow.
‘A pint of Murphy’s,’ Edward ordered and then looked back at Patricia. Her eyes darted around the bar. She tried to remember the names of drinks. ‘I’ll have a …’ she said, trying to give off the air of a woman deciding which of the many drinks she enjoyed she would be choosing this evening. Just then she noticed the poster behind the bar with the little deer. The advertisement was on television. ‘A Babycham please!’
Edward looked at her a little uncertainly. ‘And a Babycham please.’
The barman looked behind his head at the picture of the small deer dancing on stars. ‘A Babycham, is it? Well, I’ll have a look.’
Patricia heard the old men chuckling and muttering the word ‘Babycham’. She felt suddenly indignant. The poster was on the wall and they talked about it on TV. It wasn’t as if she had ordered a cup of tea, which was in fact what she would have preferred.
Edward led Patricia to the low tables and pulling one of them away from the seating, invited her to sit down. As she sat her weight forced some air out of a hole somewhere in the vinyl. A long high-pitched farting sound filled the room. Edward pretended not to have heard it but the two old boys at the bar were shaking so hard it seemed likely one or both of them would fall off their stools. Patricia smoothed out her skirt.
The barman reappeared and plonked on the table a small bottle and glass that bore the Babycham logo.
‘For the lady.’
‘Thank you.’ Her voice was barely a whisper.
‘The Murphy’s will be a minute.’
‘Grand. Grand. Take your time.’
Left alone, the silence of the bar seemed to engulf them. Somewhere a clock was ticking.
‘Don’t wait,’ Edward said, indicating the bottle on the table before her.
‘Thanks,’ she said, pouring the fizzing liquid into the glass. ‘I’ve never actually tasted this stuff,’ she confessed. ‘I panicked!’ She giggled and he gave her an easy smile that once more made her glad to be there with him.
‘And a pint.’ The barman placed the drink in front of Edward.
Bringing it up to his lips he said ‘Sláinte’ to no one in particular.
Picking up her Babycham, Patricia echoed him. ‘Sláinte!’ She dared to hope this might turn out to be fun. They both took a sip and smiled at each other.
‘Nice?’ he asked.
‘Sweet. It’s good though,’ she assured him.
Edward took another sip of his pint and looked around the bar. Patricia could feel them slipping back into silence. What did people on dates talk about? What could all those half-wit girls from school think of to say to men that she couldn’t? A piece of turf shifted in the hearth.
Abandoned on the banquette next to her, Patricia spotted a copy of Titbits magazine. She was vaguely aware that it wasn’t the sort of publication you should admit to looking at but Rosemary often brought her a copy from the salon and they enjoyed reading each other their horoscopes. Hoping that it might restart their conversation she picked up the magazine and held it out to Edward.
‘Read me out my horoscope!’
> ‘What?’ He looked confused.
‘My star sign. See what it says.’ She felt slightly flirtatious. Maybe there would be a mention of a new romance.
‘Sure, you can read it yourself there, can’t you?’
‘It’s more fun if you read it and then I read out yours.’ These were the simple rules that served herself and Rosemary well. She fanned the magazine in front of him temptingly.
Behind them, the barman had begun putting out beer mats on the other tables.
‘Ah, don’t be teasing Teddy.’
Patricia wasn’t sure what he had said.
‘Sorry? What?’
‘Reading wouldn’t be Teddy’s thing.’
Edward’s face had turned the colour of blood and he glared at the floor.
Patricia looked at him and then back at the smirking face of the barman.
‘Edward, what does he mean?’ Her voice was low, the question almost hissed.
‘Sure, Teddy here can’t read and write, can you, Teddy?’ the barman laughed and slapped Edward’s back. An echo of laughter came from the old men across the room.
Edward jerked his head towards the barman and snapped, ‘Just leave us be. We’re having a drink.’
‘Sorry I spoke.’ The barman gave an exaggerated look of apology and sauntered back towards the bar.
Patricia was frozen. Questions filled her head like small birds trapped in a net. Edward was holding onto the edge of the table and breathing heavily. She daren’t look at him. Finally she spoke.
‘Is it true?’
The question hung in the air. It was agony and made worse because they both understood that this was the final moment before they would both have to face the truth. Edward swallowed hard.
‘Yes.’
Patricia felt her stomach drop. She thought of herself standing in the hall of Convent Hill, ripping open envelopes. The things he’d said. The private things. The things who had said? Of course, she knew the answer to that question, the unthinkable truth. Suddenly she couldn’t bear to look at Edward for a moment longer. He just seemed like a great big man-baby sitting in front of her. She struggled to her feet and rushed out of the door. She had no idea where she was going but every footstep she took into the black night meant she was closer to home. The door slammed shut behind her. She could hear Edward’s voice calling her name and then the loud unfettered roars of laughter.
NOW
It had always been Elliot’s shortcut to victory when they fought. He would accuse her of being a control freak. Elizabeth had thought it unfair but now as she sat in her parked rental car she wondered if he had been right all along because this was the deepest pit of hell. She had no control whatsoever. Multiple messages had been left on various phones with no replies and she was thousands of miles away. She held on to the steering wheel and tried to remember the breathing techniques from the solitary yoga class she had ever attended. Calm. She was powerless and she must accept that fact, there was nothing to be gained from being hysterical. Bad things happened to daughters. Boys were strong. Boys were tough.
A moment later she was shaking the steering wheel and sobbing aloud, ‘Where the fuck are you, Zach?’ She let out a long, low howl and it felt good. Wiping away her tears Elizabeth considered her next move. Dublin Airport. She could drive straight there. Her passport and credit cards were all she really needed and she had them with her. No need to head back to Buncarragh. The keys to her New York apartment. Would she need them? No, she could just fly direct to San Francisco. The thought of Noelle and Gillian with their faux concern made her feel nauseous. She couldn’t control her husband and now had failed to look after her son. Neither a wife nor a mother. Their judgement and pity would hang thick as cigar smoke in the air.
A peal of electronic bells. Her phone announced that Elliot was calling. She pounced on it and held it to her ear.
‘Elliot! Thank God. Have you heard anything?’
‘Calm down, Elizabeth. I’m sure he’s fine.’ The smooth, even tone of his voice made her want to smash something. How could any father sound like this when his son was missing?
‘Have you any news? Did you contact his friends?’
‘Well, I left him a voicemail, explaining that we had rumbled him, so I expect he’ll be calling one of us shortly.’
She rolled her eyes and tightened her grip on the phone. The man was useless.
‘I’m coming back.’
‘Why? What good can you do?’
‘Why? My son, our son,’ she corrected herself, ‘is missing. He’s only seventeen. I think it is my job as his parent to do whatever I can do to find him.’
‘Elizabeth, think about it. Don’t rush into anything. You saw his ticket, right?’
‘An e-ticket, yes. I think it was the real thing, but who knows? I got emails from you! Emails saying how pleased you were he was coming to stay!’
‘Elizabeth, I never sent anything. Please believe me, I knew nothing about this plan of his.’
‘I know, I know. I was a fool. You emailed to give me your “new” email address and it never crossed my mind that Zach would do something this stupid, this dangerous!’
‘Well, say the ticket is real, then he is in the Bay Area somewhere. There is no point you coming all the way out here.’
‘I’m coming!’
‘From Ireland? It’ll cost you a fortune.’
This gave Elizabeth pause.
‘When were you planning to come back to New York?’ Elliot continued.
‘In five days.’
‘Look, by then I’ll have found our runaway and I’ll send him back for you to knock some sense into.’
‘I don’t know. I feel weird being this far away.’
‘Elizabeth, we might never have found out he’d done this. He has been fairly unlucky – it’s not like we speak on a daily basis!’
She grinned despite herself.
‘That’s true enough. He must be shitting himself, now that he knows we know.’ She heard Elliot chuckling at the other end of the line.
‘Do what you need to do. I’ll let you know the second I hear anything. He’ll be fine. Zach is a smart kid. Surviving in New York prepares you for most things.’
‘He flew cross-country alone, without telling anyone!’ She could feel her hysteria returning.
‘Elizabeth,’ Elliot said in a soothing voice, ‘everything is going to be OK. I’ll stay in touch. He knows we are going to be pissed at him, but he’ll call. You’ll see. Try not to worry.’
The sort of thing only a man could say. How could she possibly not worry?
‘OK. Thanks. Call me. I’ll call you.’
‘We’ll talk. Goodbye.’
‘Bye.’
Elizabeth imagined Elliot rolling his eyes across the room at, what was the latest one called? Andrew? Barry? Maybe Will? There had been so many.
Outside the car the street lights had come on and a thin mist of rain had given the streets an oily sheen. She had to admit that Elliot was right. She might as well get on with things. Putting the car into gear she eased her way into the afternoon traffic. Buncarragh. She resolved to tell her family nothing about her maternal failings.
Back in the familiar streets of her home town she reluctantly headed for the shop. Paul was behind the counter on the phone and greeted her with a wave. From behind an elegant tower of stainless steel bowls Noelle emerged and when she saw Elizabeth her face took on an expression of such deep dismay and sympathy that Elizabeth wondered how on earth she could have heard about Zach. Arms outstretched, her cousin lunged at her.
‘Rats! I was nearly sick when Paul told me, and you up there all alone the whole night. They could have eaten the face off you!’
‘It was only one rat, Noelle. I don’t think I was in that much danger.’
‘Young Dermot is after killing four of the monsters and it’s only been a few hours.’
Elizabeth felt the blood draining from her face.
‘Really?’
‘
Four of them, the size of kittens. Come up to the flat and Gillian will make us some tea.’
The two women made their way up the stairs.
‘We weren’t expecting you tonight. Paul said you’d stay over in Kilkenny.’
‘It didn’t take as long as I was expecting.’
‘Everything all right?’ Noelle asked with a studied air of nonchalance.
‘Oh, fine.’ Elizabeth wondered briefly if she should mention the house in Cork, but decided against it. The less these people knew the better. ‘Just technical stuff about tax.’
‘Oh.’ Noelle’s face couldn’t hide her disappointment.
Sitting around the kitchen table with her aunt and uncle, the main topic of conversation was rats and what a narrow escape Elizabeth had experienced. Everyone seemed to have a story of someone getting their throat ripped out or innocent calves being murdered while they slept. The overall impression was that rats were to Ireland what sharks were to Australia. While not exactly enjoying the conversation, Elizabeth had to admit that it felt nice to have something to take her mind off Zach and his whereabouts.
She liked hearing her relatives telling stories. It was something she missed with her American friends. They were all so articulate but somehow lacked the skills to simply spin a yarn. Of course, ask them about their feelings and they became conversational virtuosos. When she had first arrived in New York that had thrilled her. Naming every emotional scar, exploring the cartography of relationships. It was all so new and refreshing, but now she found a nostalgia for a tale well told. Stories swapped across a cup-filled table, like serves being returned in tennis.
‘Oh, I nearly forgot!’ her Aunt Gillian exclaimed apropos of nothing obvious. ‘Remember we were talking about your father earlier?’
A Keeper Page 8
