The Living

by Léan Cullinan

  ‘I give up every New Year. Lasted nearly eight months this time round.’

  ‘Well,’ I said, ‘keep at it.’

  ‘We all have our vices,’ said Val. She leaned in closer. ‘Isn’t that right, Cate?’

  I wondered what she was getting at.

  ‘What’s yours? Go on, mine are obvious.’

  I took a drink and looked into my glass, swirling the dark stout around, dissolving the foam patterns that clung to the sides. I thought about my inability to draw boundaries, the way my defences seemed so very breachable, my foundations so unsure. ‘Impossible men, I suppose,’ I said, and hoped Val wouldn’t ask me to say any more.

  ‘Is that all?’ Val said. ‘Well, that’s easily cured.’ She stood up and patted my arm as she edged past en route to her nicotine hit outside.

  MATTHEW AND I were in Bewley’s, drinking tea and being awkward with each other. He seemed preoccupied, and I wasn’t up to pressing him. I looked out the window at the rainy Saturday afternoon that was already beginning to darken. We’d been to the cinema, to see an all-too-forgettable romantic comedy, and we’d sat too close to the front. My neck was still stiff; the film had not been worth it.

  I was trapped in the cycle of unanswerable questions – about him, about how much he liked me, about who he was, really, underneath it all. I so badly wanted to find out.

  ‘Penny for them,’ he said suddenly.

  I looked down at the table and came to a little decision I’d been mulling over. ‘I found something you might be interested in,’ I said.

  ‘Oh, yes?’

  ‘It’s in the MacDevitt book.’

  Matthew picked up his teaspoon and slowly stirred his half-empty mug. ‘Go on.’

  With some effort, I set aside my qualms about George and his obsession with confidentiality. I wanted to help Matthew. ‘You know the way you’re researching that train ticket that went to Blackpool instead of Preston?’ I looked up to see him staring at me. ‘Well, there’s a description in Eddie’s book of a meeting with a British official, in Blackpool.’

  ‘Really?’ His eyes were wide, his expression open and soft.

  ‘Yeah. He doesn’t actually name the guy, but it could be … maybe?’

  Matthew reached over and gripped my hand. ‘Cate, I’m not joking, you have to get me a copy of that manuscript. Can you e-mail it to me?’

  ‘Ooh, look at you and your academic fervour.’

  ‘Tip of the iceberg, my dear. But seriously, can you e-mail me the file?’

  I shook my head. ‘George would kill me if he found out.’

  ‘How would he find out?’

  I wished I’d said nothing. ‘Listen, it’ll be published in a few months. You can see it then.’

  ‘Oh come on, Cate, now that you’ve told me, I have to know what’s there. I’ve been hunting for almost a year, and I haven’t found a thing. This could be completely central to my thesis. Look, I’m not going to talk to any journalists, for goodness’ sake.’

  ‘I know you’re not.’

  ‘Just a little e-mail? For me?’ He was hamming it up, batting his eyelashes, inclining his head like a supplicant puppy.

  ‘Listen, George is so careful about this book that he gets me to use his computer to work on it. He’d never let me e-mail it. I’ll ask him if I can print out that section and show it to you before the book comes out.’

  ‘No, no, no, it’s so simple, you just copy and paste the description of the meeting into an e-mail to me, and click Send. Thirty seconds. Job done.’

  ‘Matthew, I’ve told you, I can’t. You’ll just have to wait.’

  ‘Oh, have it your own way,’ he said. He still looked happy.

  We finished our tea and made our way out on to Westmoreland Street. Matthew put his arm across my shoulders – I felt the heat of his palm through the fabric of my red coat. Outside in the yellow-grey dusk, a fine freezing drizzle fell; it clearly had no intention of letting up.

  ‘I’m sick of this,’ Matthew said, peering dolefully up at the sky. ‘I want to move to Florida.’

  ‘With the hurricanes and the crocodiles?’

  ‘Alligators, I think you’ll find.’

  ‘Actually, you big pedant, I think you’ll find there are both crocodiles and alligators in Florida.’ I poked him in the chest. ‘So, what next? Are you going home?’

  ‘Yes, home,’ Matthew said, with a note of regret. ‘I’ve got loads of reading to do.’

  ‘I’ll drive you,’ I said suddenly, and stood by to study his reaction.

  His eyebrows rose; his fingers came up to pinch the tip of his nose.

  ‘Come on, it’s raining,’ I pressed. ‘You don’t want to catch your death. Honestly. It’s no bother.’

  He glanced up at the sky again. ‘That would be really great,’ he said. ‘Thanks.’

  We crowded in under my umbrella and splashed our way to the car.

  Matthew was quiet on the way out to Kilmacud. He fiddled with the radio, choosing the classical music station, which was playing a Baroque organ piece that fluted and spiralled very soothingly. My attention strayed a little as we glided down the dual carriageway, lulled by the swishing of tyres, the squeak of windscreen wipers, the kaleidoscope of headlights, tail-lights, streetlights, remembering the feeling I always used to get being driven through dark and rain by my parents – a sense of calm within chaos, of passing safely through.

  ‘That was our turn,’ Matthew said. ‘Sorry, I should have warned you earlier. You can take the next one.’

  We crawled up through Stillorgan and on to Kilmacud. Matthew directed me into an estate whose streets were paved in ridged sections of corrugated concrete. We made two or three turns – enough for me to wonder how easily I’d find my way out again – and finally pulled up outside a two-storey house with a pebble-dashed front and a bushy laurel hedge. The bright green leaves looked fake.

  ‘So this is Castle Matthew.’ I spoke just a little too loudly. ‘Are you upstairs or downstairs?’

  ‘Up.’

  ‘Like me.’

  There was a pause, during which Matthew looked out at the house and made no move to go.

  ‘You left your light on,’ I said. I put my hand to the back of his neck, gently scratched at the soft nest of hair that grew there. He allowed himself to be drawn, leaned over and kissed me.

  When he drew back he unbuckled his seatbelt and said, ‘I’d better let you go.’

  ‘Oh, I have time for a cup of tea,’ I said, and immediately realized I shouldn’t have. The sinking feeling in my stomach was almost painful.

  Matthew took a swift breath, held it, then said, ‘Look, Cate, I’m sorry, but I’m afraid I really don’t. I’ve got so much to do. I’d better make a start.’

  I nodded, closing my eyes in acquiescence.

  ‘I’ll see you tomorrow, OK? When I’ve squared my conscience by doing some work for a change.’ Matthew reached over for another kiss, his fingers on my cheek. He seemed genuinely regretful, at least. He squeezed my hand, opened the car door and hurried towards the shelter of the porch. He waved, and I pulled away from the kerb. I wanted to wait until I could see him in the lighted room, but I knew I mustn’t. I made a three-point turn and rolled slowly back towards the mouth of the estate.

  ON TUESDAY, GEORGE brought me along to a meeting to take minutes. He was bidding for work on a new series of excavation reports from the National Museum, and he wanted to support their belief that Bell Books was a bigger outfit than it was. He drove us into the city centre.

  ‘I wish Paula wasn’t away,’ he said. ‘I’m nervous leaving the office empty. I saw that young fella snooping around again over the weekend.’

  I nodded.

  ‘By the way, I’ve told this crowd you’re my PA – is that all right?’ He said Pee Yay carefully, as though it were a foreign word.

  ‘That’s fine, George,’ I said. We were both uncomfortable. George looked as though he’d slept in the suit he was wearing. I was in the one Mum had
bought me to celebrate the end of my Finals.

  ‘I want you to make a note of everything I say, OK?’ George went on. ‘I think they’re going to give us the work all right, but they’ll try and squeeze us on the schedule, and there’s a few points I want to make clear.’

  He found a parking space on the south side of Stephen’s Green, and we walked through the departing garden, dead leaves rasping around our ankles and a stony sky above. My suit was lightweight, and the skirt exposed my stockinged legs to the slicing wind.

  The meeting was uneventful. I tapped away on the laptop, committing all that was said to its pearly screen. We left just before noon and made our way back to George’s car. It had started to drizzle. George held my umbrella over the two of us, and we hurried along, keen to end the uncomfortable intimacy necessitated by this arrangement.

  Through the park again. It was raining more earnestly now. I began to suspect that there was a hole in my shoe. The laptop was heavy, and I was leaning awkwardly to stay underneath the umbrella. Despite the chill and the rain, I was sweating.

  George was fussing about our schedule, trying to see how we’d fit in this new work if we got it. ‘How’s that fisheries thing coming along?’

  ‘Fine, but I’m still chasing McCarthy.’

  ‘She hasn’t sent it back yet?’

  ‘She keeps pushing it out another few days. I think she’s waiting for some updated numbers from the Department. And Jackman has sent me three revised versions so far.’

  ‘Bloody authors! Our job’d be much easier without them.’

  I gave a dutiful laugh.

  We emerged through the black iron gates of the park on to the broad granite footpath, and I happened to glance to my left at a dark car parked a few spaces down from George’s. Two men sat in it, one with glasses just like Dad’s. I started and stumbled, checking as I straightened up – and sure enough, there was the Chichester Psalms registration. The back of my mouth tightened, and a shot of fear suffused my gut – even as I swore inwardly at myself for being so ridiculous.

  ‘All right, there, Cate?’

  ‘Fine – sorry.’ I drew back, brushed my hair from my face.

  We made it to the car. George zapped the locks, and we huddled in out of the wet. He frowned at me.

  ‘I’m fine,’ I said. ‘I’ll be fine.’ My heart pounded. I told myself not to be so silly, that there was nothing to worry about, but I couldn’t make myself listen.

  ‘You’re as white as a sheet, Cate, if you don’t mind my saying,’ George said. ‘If you’d like to tell me what the matter is, I’m happy to help.’ He gave me his sideways look.

  I stayed quiet.

  ‘Fair enough, so,’ said George, gently. He started the engine and eased out into a gap in the traffic.

  ‘I’m imagining things,’ I said. My breath caught. ‘It’s stupid, but I keep seeing this car around the place, in all sorts of different places …’ I trailed off. It sounded even stupider out loud than in my head.

  ‘So you’re wondering if you’re being followed?’

  ‘Well, wondering is too strong a word.’ I felt myself blush, turned my head away. We pulled up at the lights. The wipers squealed across the windscreen.

  ‘Who’d have a reason to follow you?’ George’s tone surprised me. It seemed that he was actually considering the idea.

  ‘I don’t know. It’s a crazy notion. It can’t be true.’ I wished I hadn’t allowed the conversation to take this turn.

  ‘You never know,’ said George. ‘Are you sure it’s the same car?’

  I explained about the number, the tune.

  George chuckled. ‘Lord above, that’s a new one on me. I guarantee you they won’t have thought of that one.’

  ‘It’s just a silly coincidence,’ I said, still trying to keep my voice steady. ‘I feel stupid even telling you about it.’

  ‘Well, there are worse things than feeling stupid.’

  We drove a little way in silence.

  ‘So you have no idea who it might be?’

  I looked across at him; he turned his head briefly and caught my eye. He seemed about to speak again, but he waited for me instead.

  ‘My choir has a gig up North next month.’ I told him about the list of names we’d had to send in, the extreme formality attending the whole affair. Oddly, telling the story made me start to relax.

  ‘And have you seen whether it’s the same people, or different?’ George was interested.

  ‘I think I’ve seen one of them in a few places.’

  ‘Two men, is it?’

  ‘I think so.’

  ‘Irish?’

  ‘They look it, I suppose.’

  ‘Well,’ said George, rubbing his chin, ‘I suppose … there’s an outside chance it could be paramilitaries – our side or theirs – but they’d have got you by now if they wanted you. It’s more than likely our crowd, keeping an eye out.’ He snorted. ‘With their usual finesse.’

  I sat quiet, contemplating the ease with which George had spoken of my being wanted by paramilitaries.

  ‘Or, you know, it could have nothing at all to do with your concert in Belfast, and everything to do with Eddie’s book.’

  ‘You think so?’

  George looked across at me. ‘Have you come to the part about your uncle yet?’

  ‘No … what about him?’

  ‘Oh, it’s not much, now, but I’d say our friends in the dark-coloured car know very well that there’s a connection between Eddie and Fintan. They might think you’re a good bet to tell them where Eddie’s living.’

  ‘But I have no idea where Eddie’s living.’

  ‘Exactly.’ George looked smug. ‘And you won’t, either. Don’t worry. It’s like a little graduation, Cate. Congratulations, you have your very own Special Branch man. Take good care of him, and he’ll give you years of faithful service.’

  I laughed in spite of myself. ‘What are you on about?’

  ‘Oh, there’s stories I could tell,’ he said. ‘Ah, it’s all a bit of nonsense, honestly. You’re in no danger from them. Don’t worry about it.’

  I yawned carefully. ‘I’ll try not to,’ I said. ‘It’s probably just routine.’

  We were stopped at a red light. George gave me another searching look. ‘It probably is,’ he said.

  As we drove on, the subject closed, I turned over in my mind that phrase George had used: ‘our side or theirs’. Our side. Or theirs. It was at once so familiar and so strange.

  GEORGE DROPPED ME back to the office and headed straight out again for a lunch meeting. I allowed myself a little interval of uselessness before opening my notes from this morning. I began to read through them, editing here and there to make sure they’d be comprehensible to George.

  The doorbell rang, and I picked up the intercom handset. ‘Bell Books?’ I said – so practised now.

  ‘Hello, Cate.’

  I hesitated. ‘Matthew?’

  ‘That’s right.’ After a pause, he said, ‘Can I come in?’

  ‘Uh … yeah … come on up. Top floor.’ Any professional tone I might have aspired to was gone now. I buzzed him in. A few moments later I heard his steps on the stairs and opened the door to welcome him.

  He was grinning his most captivating grin, against which there could be no defence. I allowed him to enfold me in a ridiculous embrace. What was he doing here? I broke gently away from him and closed the office door. ‘Social call?’ I said.

  He had the grace to look a tiny bit embarrassed. ‘Sort of,’ he said, and looked down at my feet.

  ‘You’re here about the Blackpool thing, aren’t you?’

  He closed his eyes, screwed up his face and said, ‘Yes.’

  ‘You complete nerd! I can’t believe you couldn’t wait.’

  ‘Sorry.’ He smiled, like a timid animal. ‘So … is there any chance I could …?’

  I was transfixed by the solidity of him, his physical presence, the sheer unlikeliness of something so beautiful existing
in a place of work. It was like that first night in my flat, when he had seemed more real, somehow, than his surroundings.

  He pinched the tip of his nose and looked at me.

  ‘OK, look,’ I said, ‘five minutes, and you never mention this to anybody.’

  ‘Cate,’ he said, ‘you are a dazzling star in the firmament of scholarly research. You are … a blue giant, or something.’

  ‘Thank you, nerd boy,’ I said. I led him into George’s office, feeling like a cat burglar. I may actually have tiptoed.

  George’s computer woke up with the MacDevitt file on screen. I’d been at his desk working on it before we left this morning. I searched for ‘Blackpool’ and highlighted the first paragraph of the short passage I’d told Matthew about.

  ‘Here you go.’ I vacated the chair, and Matthew sat down.

  ‘Bullseye,’ he breathed.

  There was silence for a minute or two while he read the text. I looked out of George’s window at the tree in the front garden. A scattering of obstinate leaves clung on here and there.

  ‘Fantastic,’ murmured Matthew behind me. I turned to see that he’d clicked away from the MacDevitt file and plugged a memory stick into the side of the keyboard. As I came back to the desk he dragged the file across to the memory stick’s icon and let go. The computer went doink.

  ‘Wait – did you just take a copy of the whole thing?’

  He looked round at me, face serene. ‘Yes. It’s much quicker.’ At my shocked expression he went on, ‘What? You want me to create a new file, copy across just those few paragraphs, save the file, put it on the memory stick, then go back and delete my file from the hard drive, then go in and delete it from the Trash?’

  ‘I suppose,’ I said, frowning. I had no logical argument to counter with. And I needed him out of this office, right now.

  He ejected the memory stick and put it in his pocket. ‘Come for lunch?’

  I was breathing hard. I put my hands on his chest and pushed him towards the door. ‘Matthew, I need you to realize, if George found out what you’d just done, he’d fire me. He’d genuinely fire me.’

  Matthew put a hand on my arm. ‘Relax, he’s not going to find out.’

  ‘You have to promise me. You can’t tell anyone about this.’