Eamonn stared at him for some time. ‘That makes no sense. Why would she do that? Where’s the other chicken?’
Esteban shrugged. ‘Best not ask.’
‘Christ, Esteban. Don’t ever become a detective.’
‘Look, you ask me if I see anyone. Anything suspicious. The answer is no. Are there any burglaries? No – OK, OK, this chicken – but that’s not theft. Any car robberies? No. Any red paint all over buildings? No.’
‘Right.’
‘Promise me one thing, Eamonn.’
‘What?’
‘Keep away from this part. It’s dangerous. A builder – he died at Lomaverde. These places are not for your exploring.’
Back in the flat Eamonn ate a sandwich and sat down in front of his computer. That morning, before setting off on a walk with Jean and David, Dermot had given him a little job-hunting pep talk.
‘You’ve never been out of work. You’re a bright lad. They’ll be queuing up to offer you jobs.’
Even he hadn’t looked terribly convinced by this, but Eamonn appreciated the effort. He spent a while staring at an empty Google search box before deciding to write a mail to Laura instead.
It had come as a surprise to him to learn that he was an optimist. He would have laid money against it. But hope, it seemed, clung on tenaciously, like the most insidious of weeds. He spent his waking hours hunting down its tendrils and subjecting them to ruthless dousings of cold facts, but still they returned – a fresh web of low-lying rhizomes each day.
She couldn’t maintain the silence for ever. At some point she would surface. At some point her mysterious and secretive ruminations would be concluded and a verdict delivered. Even if she made up her mind to leave him there were still a thousand loose ends to be tied up – bank accounts, insurance policies, book collections. And knowing that he would speak to her again meant he found it hard to believe in the permanence of their separation. There was another conversation still to come, another chance. He had tried to prepare himself for the worst. To really believe that he had lost her and that the rest of his life would be spent without her but, in his more rational moments, he would admit to himself that it didn’t feel entirely honest. He recognized the lure of pathos. After speaking to her every day for eight years, the idea that they would really part felt like a thought experiment. He found it hard to imagine that it wasn’t the same for her. They still loved each other, he was sure of that.
He opened a bottle of Fanta Limón and performed the familiar ritual of checking his various in-boxes and portals. He found no voice or text messages on his phone that had somehow escaped his notice. No new mails of any description in his Thunderbird account. Finally he signed into Facebook, though Laura had rarely used it when they were together and not at all since she had left. He looked only to see if any of her friends had posted messages, any clues about her whereabouts or state of mind. He was startled to see a new profile picture. Laura sitting outdoors somewhere. He felt a kind of obliterating grief creeping over him as he failed to recognize the setting, or the occasion. She had updated her status. ‘Lovely to catch up with everyone at the weekend. Good to be home.’
He lost track of time as he stared at the words, breathing faintly, something unravelling slowly somewhere deep in his chest. He jumped when he heard his father’s voice, apparently returned and standing beside him. Eamonn stood up too quickly, feeling light-headed and strange.
‘What? What is it? What happened?’
‘Nothing’s happened. I was just saying we should be on our way to this barbecue thing.’
Eamonn nodded. ‘Right. Yes. I’m ready.’
38
It wasn’t much of a party when they arrived late afternoon. A bunch of people standing around muttering and looking awkward. Dermot had the idea that no one really wanted to be there. The hostess, Becca, had a kind of wild look in her eyes, talking nineteen to the dozen, laughing so loudly it set everyone on edge.
‘Look!’ she shouted to the assembled guests. ‘Here he is, the man of the hour! I think you’ve all met Dermot – Eamonn’s dad. He’s come all the way from Ireland …’
‘Birmingham,’ Dermot said quietly.
‘… And I want us all to show him that we know how to have the craic!’
People smiled politely, evidently puzzled by this, and then Simon shouted: ‘Crack? Well, I didn’t know it was that kind of party!’
Raimund laughed and said, ‘Will you be handing out the pipes, Rebecca?’
‘Hahahaha – “pipes”!’ said Becca, then shook her head, laughing crazily and repeated just the word: ‘Pipes!’
Dermot smiled and said to Eamonn under his breath: ‘I’ve no idea what’s going on here at all’ – but Eamonn was heading away towards the drinks.
To Dermot’s relief Jean and David came over and rescued him. While he chatted with them about their walk earlier in the day, his eyes wandered to the group around him. An inevitable consequence of working on the buses was a certain knowledge of human behaviour. Ninety per cent of the time he’d guess a passenger’s destination before a word was spoken. As his bus approached a stop he’d already know who among the queue was the type to cause trouble, and who the type to stand and talk the ears off him for the next forty minutes. It wasn’t a talent he particularly wanted. Most of the time he wished to God somebody would do something to surprise him, say something different just for once, but that wasn’t the way it was. Most drivers were the same, reluctant possessors of a tired kind of sixth sense.
The affluent-looking French couple stood nearby, quite clearly discussing everyone else at the party. A few yards away, Roger was casting glances at the Frenchman and Dermot sensed some issue between them. Rosemary was keeping a close and furtive eye on what Gill drank and Becca was whispering furiously at Ian about something he had failed to do. Simon and Raimund were on the other side of the pool laughing with Cheryl. Dermot thought he’d detected a hint of Geordie in Simon’s voice the other day. It was an accent he liked. He associated it with a driver he’d worked alongside in the 70s called Joey who was prone to quoting poetry at abusive passengers. It made them no less abusive apparently but it gave Joey a tremendous sense of satisfaction and Dermot thought it a shame more people didn’t respond to provocation in a similarly inventive manner. He looked around for Eamonn and finally saw him leaning against the wall on the far side of the terrace, his face a mask, a full glass of wine in one hand, the rest of the bottle gripped tightly in the other.
As the afternoon wore on, others arrived and introduced themselves. He found it a little tiring, the faces and names hard to remember, the range of topics at times bewildering. The music was loud and people were shouting to be heard. Esteban had now joined the party and so had Inga. He saw her chatting to Rosemary by the pool. He caught her eye and raised a hand in salutation.
He was trapped in a corner with Henri, Danielle and Raimund all enthusing about a sausage, or possibly a beach, he couldn’t quite understand the Frenchwoman’s accent and hadn’t liked to ask her for clarification. He looked across the terrace again and saw Eamonn. He seemed highly animated now, his facial expressions exaggerated, his laughter false. He stood talking to Simon. At a pause in the music, his voice rang out loud above the others: ‘For example I never shaved my scrotum and maybe that might have made a difference. Would you recommend it?’
‘Jesus, Mary and Joseph,’ muttered Dermot, he started to head in Eamonn’s direction, but his exit was blocked by Roger.
‘Henry, could I have a quick word?’
Henri gave an unconvincing smile. ‘Of course.’
‘It’s a polite request.’
‘Please go ahead.’
‘I was wondering if there was any chance of you giving up the nocturnal joy rides?’
‘I’m sorry? What are “joy rides”?’
‘The little drives you take in the middle of the night.’
‘Drives?’ He looked at his wife, who in turn shrugged. ‘I’m sorry, I don’t know …
’
Roger smiled and shook his head. ‘Look, we all know you have a big, manly BMW 4x4 and I’m sure we’re all very impressed by it, but I for one would prefer it if you didn’t drive it around in the wee small hours, because it’s a noisy bugger and it wakes me up.’
‘My car?’
‘Yes. Your car.’ He raised his hands in a mime of driving. ‘Brum, brum, in the night.’
Henri laughed. ‘What a strange accusation.’ He looked at Dermot and Raimund. ‘Maybe it is a joke? I don’t know what it is you think you hear in the night, but it is not me. Or my car.’
‘Look, I’m sorry if this is getting you into trouble with your wife, but wherever you’re going to or coming from, if you could just do it more quietly.’
‘What has this got to do with my wife?’
‘You tell me.’
‘What? This is making no sense.’
‘I’m just telling you to pack it in.’
Henri’s face changed. ‘I’m not sure if you are deaf or stupid, but I will say it again: I’m not doing anything. And, excuse me, you’re “telling” me? You? Are you the mayor? I don’t remember you being elected.’
Dermot had heard enough. He excused himself as the two men continued to squabble and went looking once more for Eamonn. Throughout the evening he had caught glimpses of him. At one point he seemed to have taken command of the music, which was a relief at first, but Dermot noticed later that it was just the same song he kept playing over and over. Later still he’d seen him talking to Jean, and Dermot had got the distinct impression that Jean had been trying to get away from him. Another time he’d heard him shouting in the distance. Each time Dermot had tried to get to him but Eamonn had either slipped away or Dermot had been pulled aside by someone else wanting to know how he was enjoying his stay in Lomaverde. Now that he was free there was no trace of Eamonn at all. Instead he found Inga sitting on her own by the pool. She pointed to the chair next to her:
‘Hello.’
He sat and closed his eyes for a moment.
‘Are you as drunk as everyone else seems to be?’
He opened his eyes. ‘I don’t think I am, no. I was just listening to an argument about engine noise which made me think I’ve not nearly had enough to drink.’
She laughed. ‘Oh yes, Roger. He is a funny man. He is always very cross with me because I feed the cats.’
‘I think I heard him mention that.’
‘I’m sure you did. I told him this evening that he should be happy, as they seem to be leaving.’
‘Is that right?’
‘There’s nothing for them here, the few scraps I give them aren’t enough to stop them starving. I told him I’d noticed their numbers declining. I thought he’d be delighted but it just seemed to offend him. He said: “Bloody charming. Like rats leaving a sinking ship!” He was so hurt by their disloyalty.’
Dermot smiled. ‘So, are you enjoying the do?’
She nodded. ‘I didn’t really expect to, but it’s nice. I don’t speak to my neighbours much. With some’ – she looked over at Roger – ‘that’s maybe a little intentional, but with others, well, it’s strange to say in such a small place, but our paths don’t really cross so often and it’s pleasant to speak to them properly and remember that there are good people here.’ She looked at him. ‘How are you finding being the centre of attention?’
‘Is that what I am?’
‘Of course. A new face. Fresh blood. A new audience for the old stories.’
‘Oh, there was I, thinking I was charming company, but I just have novelty value.’
She smiled. ‘Oh dear, I’ve said the wrong thing.’
‘No. I think you have it right …’ He stood up suddenly, his gaze directed at the far side of the terrace. Eamonn was slumped on the floor, his head buried in his hands. Dermot turned to Inga: ‘I’m sorry, can you excuse me?’
He knew then that he should have taken him home hours ago. He didn’t know what had set him off. He’d been fine that morning when he left him and then seemed a changed man when he returned. He hadn’t been right from the moment they’d arrived at the barbecue, and God knows how much he’d had to drink since then. Dermot walked over and crouched down, as best as he could, beside him.
‘Eamonn?’
Nothing.
‘Eamonn, get up, you can’t stay here like this.’
A long sniff.
‘Eamonn, come on, son, people are looking.’
A muffled response.
‘What? I can’t hear you.’
‘Please go.’
‘Come on, son, let’s get you home.’
Suddenly Eamonn shouted: ‘It’s not my fucking home!’
The terrace fell silent. Dermot felt everyone’s eyes upon them. He turned and tried to smile. ‘I think he’s had a bit too much to drink.’ He turned back and spoke quietly. ‘Come on. You’re causing a scene now. Get up.’ He braced his back and reached out to try to lift Eamonn off the ground, but Eamonn hunkered down.
‘Dad, please, just leave me alone.’
Becca laid a gentle hand on Dermot’s arm. ‘Don’t worry, Dermot, happens to everyone sometimes. Roger! Ian! Come and give Eamonn a hand.’ Dermot was well able to lift his son by himself, but he deferred to the younger men, thinking Eamonn might be persuaded by them.
As they approached though he started shouting louder than before: ‘Don’t fucking touch me! I’m not going back there.’
They ignored him and tried to grab an arm each.
‘Get off me!’
‘Eamonn, don’t be a prick.’
‘Ow! He hit me!’
Ungainly tussling and slapping broke out with all three men at varying stages of drunkenness; a bottle was dropped and smashed on the stone tiles and then a voice rang out.
‘Get your hands off him!’ Cheryl appeared, the setting sun igniting the colours in her tropical-print maxi dress, her pearlized eye make-up shimmering. Ian and Roger stepped back obediently and she stood over Eamonn.
‘Eamonn. What are they doing to you, sweetheart?’
He looked up at her with ceramic-puppy eyes. ‘Cheryl. Help me.’
‘It’s OK, honey, I’m here.’ She turned to Dermot. ‘I’ll take him back to ours for a bit, give him some coffee and a shoulder to cry on. He’ll be fine.’
Dermot hesitated. ‘If that’s what he wants.’
‘Come on, Eamonn, let’s go next door.’
He struggled to his feet, resisting the assistance of Roger and Ian. As Cheryl linked her arm through his to steady him, she turned and whispered something to Roger.
Dermot watched her lead his son away. He wished he’d carried him home when he’d had the chance.
39
He was sitting on a bed in a dimly lit room. He was waiting for someone to return, he was pretty sure of that. He couldn’t remember who they were or where they’d gone but he thought it was OK.
It was nice in the room, dark and soft. Everything was good in there. Apart from the music. Something awful was piping through from somewhere. A terrible noise. A constipated saxophone, trying over and over again to void its bowels. He was in danger of sobering up. Unpleasant shards of memory were starting to jab at him.
He needed another drink. He hoped that’s what he was waiting for, that any minute now someone would enter the room with something tall, cool, refreshing and alcoholic. Not calimocho though, he felt quite strongly about that. There had been some indefinite period of time spent in a bathroom, cold tiles on his face, someone holding his head, comforting him as he vomited the filthy combination of red wine and coke. ‘Fizzy sick’ – he remembered thinking it important that he repeated those words over and over again, turning around, trying to speak between retches, as if the person gently holding his head needed to know, as if the words might help with some diagnosis.
Sparse, asynchronous glimpses of the evening now started to flash in his mind. Jean and Rosemary practising some dance steps. Someone trying to convince him of t
he benefits of Reiki. Lionel Richie’s voice. Roger’s hand on Becca’s leg. ‘Everyone you meet, they’re dancing in the street.’ Somebody sobbing. His father’s voice. Gill threatening to do a handstand. Endless Lionel. David dancing on his own. ‘All Night Long’. Shovelling gambas into his mouth. His father’s face in the crowd.
The saxophone had stopped. Now there were synthesized pan pipes playing the song, the inevitable song. He sang quietly: ‘I’d rather be a hammer than a nail.’ He lay and pondered. Would he? It was quite a conundrum. It was a song he had previously loathed, played on an instrument he detested, but now he reconsidered. The sound was soothing, the lyrics challenging, maybe even profound. Hammer or nail? Who could say? He’d wasted so much of his life sneering. Maybe this was the start of his re-education. Pan pipes. Synthesized pan pipes. What the hell was wrong with them? Why couldn’t things be easy and nice? ‘El Cóndor Pasa’. There was so much he could learn from the condor. What exactly were the virtues of difficulty and cynicism and just constantly …
The door opened and Cheryl walked in. He smiled.
‘How are you, sweetheart?’
‘I like your music.’
‘Oh. Thank you.’
‘Can I borrow it?’
‘Ask Roger, he has it wired up to come into all the rooms; I think it’s just random tracks from his computer.’
‘Amazing.’
‘You look better anyway. Here.’ She handed him a drink.
His worst suspicions were confirmed with the first sip. Iced water. He put it down on the side table. ‘Thanks.’
She looked at him. ‘Oh, Eamonn, what are we going to do with you?’
He had an image in his mind of Cheryl doing something with him while Roger watched in the background. ‘What do you mean?’
‘I just mean, how can we help you?’
‘Oh, right.’
She sat next to him on the bed. He could smell her perfume, something heavy and sweet. He looked at her legs stretched out beside him. Her feet looked soft and delicate, imprisoned in the cage of her high-heeled sandals.
Mr Lynch’s Holiday Page 19
